by Mandy Baggot
‘I’m going to order some food,’ she stated, flipping open the brown plastic book on the table.
‘Good idea,’ Harry said. ‘Let’s see what they have.’
There weren’t just words but pictures. Photos that made her mouth water and her stomach start begging. Platters of meze stared back at her. Shiny black and green olives slick with oil, nestled next to fat hunks of feta and halloumi, fleshy, scarlet tomatoes and thick chunks of cucumber. An earthenware pot of meats and vegetables was labelled stifado and she could almost taste it.
‘I’m going to have some souvlaki,’ Harry announced. ‘The chicken on skewers. Like the woman said at the airport, we can easily do that in our restaurant, can’t we? What did you say we should squeeze on it?’
‘Lime,’ Imogen answered.
She looked to the sea. It was idyllic. The trees at the water’s edge, the white stones and soft sand, the blue, gently shifting sea, the hyacinth sky and the mountain backdrop all made for one picture-postcard view. She watched two swimmers bobbing up and down in the water a few metres out before a black, expensive-looking car parked up outside the restaurant and blocked out everything. She sat forward. putting the menu back on the table. ‘I’ll have the stifado.’
She watched as the driver got out and immediately moved around to the passenger side. Tall, slim, black hair swept back from his face, he was dressed in business trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Imogen watched as the man opened the passenger door and a tiny older woman in a bright orange dress got out and batted the man on the arm, speaking quickly and loudly in Greek.
‘Uh-oh. Looks like a domestic,’ Harry said, turning to look. ‘When Janie looks at me like that I know I’m in trouble.’
‘Sshh!’ Imogen hissed, still watching. As the pair made their way up the steps into the restaurant, Imogen turned away, making a grab for her wine glass and knocking it clean off the table, where it fell to the tiles with a smash.
At the sound and the debris in front of them, the man and the little woman stopped walking and with heated cheeks Imogen dropped to the floor and began picking up the larger pieces of glass.
‘What are you doing? Are you out of your mind?’
The deep, Greek-accented voice was close to her ear and she felt the heat from his breath before she noticed the glass shard puncture the skin of her palm. Now it hurt and blood was starting to trickle down her hand.
‘Yiayia,’ he addressed the small woman. ‘Ask Tomas to get something to clear this up.’ He stood up, taking her hand with him. ‘And the first aid kit.’
‘Are you alright, Immy?’ Harry was out of his chair and standing next to her but all Imogen could focus on was the man holding her hand. He had olive skin, the darkest of brown eyes and a strong jawline specked with stubble. It wasn’t the need for food that was kicking her insides into action now.
‘I’m fine,’ she said to Harry. She kept her eyes on the man with his fingers touching hers and then addressed him. ‘Honestly, I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.’
He snorted. ‘If it were fine I would not have asked for the first aid kit.’
She wasn’t sure she liked his tone. ‘I can manage,’ she stated firmly. ‘I don’t need a first aid kit, just a serviette.’ She turned her head to her brother. ‘Harry, pass me a napkin.’
The man shook his head. ‘Why are you English so stubborn?’
‘Why are you Greeks so sure you know how to manage everything?’ She let out an irritated sigh. ‘I’m sure that’s at the crux of the financial crisis.’
Imogen’s face instantly flamed in shame. Why had she said that? It was completely uncalled for and she had no excuse apart from being unused to and a little uneasy about someone trying to tell her what to do.
For a brief moment, as the man’s eyes darkened further still, she thought he was going to smash another glass in fury at her comment. But then he smiled and let go of her hand.
‘I apologise,’ he said, taking a step back. ‘I will leave you to your stiff upper lip and constant clock-watching.’
She swallowed. The very first local she’d spoken to and she’d insulted him. When he was trying to help her.
‘Immy, let me have a look at it,’ Harry suggested.
She watched the man turn his back on her and she took a step forward.
‘Excuse me,’ she called.
He turned back to her enquiringly.
‘Thank you, for trying to help.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry I was rude. It’s my first day here and to be really honest, the drive from the airport has exhausted me more than a trek across the Andes.’
His mouth shifted from a firm line into a half smile. This was better. She stuck out her hand – the injured one – and quickly took it back, extending the other one instead.
‘I’m Imogen Charlton,’ she said.
He regarded her left hand until finally he took it in his and gave it a firm shake.
‘Hello.’ Harry’s voice broke in. ‘I’m Harry Charlton.’ He offered his hand to the Greek. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
The man was still holding her hand, his eyes fixed on hers and she wasn’t sure he’d even heard Harry speak. She flexed her fingers and he released his hold, quickly moving his hand to grasp Harry’s.
‘Dimitriou,’ he said. ‘Panos Dimitriou.’ He shook Harry’s hand.
‘Do you live here? In Acharavi?’ Harry continued, as bright as ever.
The man shook his head. ‘No.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Harry said. ‘We’ve just moved here.’
Imogen jumped in. ‘For a few weeks…’
Harry looked at her defiantly. ‘For the summer.’
‘I have the first aid kit.’ The little woman was back with a white box bearing the Red Cross logo that looked as if it hadn’t been opened since the eighties.
‘Thank you,’ Imogen said. ‘But we’re OK now.’ She picked a napkin off the table and pressed it to her wound.
‘My name is Elpida,’ she said. ‘And this is Pano, my grandson.’
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ Imogen said.
‘I’ve just bought a restaurant,’ Harry announced.
‘Oh, my congratulations! That is wonderful for you!’ Elpida grabbed Harry into a fierce embrace that had him wobbling on his feet.
‘Thank you. We’re really looking forward to getting stuck in to the renovation work,’ Harry said, extricating himself. ‘We’re going to reopen in a week.’
‘What?!’ Imogen couldn’t help the word expelling from her mouth like a blast from a category five hurricane. ‘A week!’
Harry waved a hand in the air like he was trying to quieten her. It only served to irritate her more and she grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Harry… A week!’
‘I think that’s wonderful news,’ Elpida said, smiling.
‘Where is it?’ The question came from Panos. ‘In Acharavi?’
Harry nodded and pointed to the restaurant, the weeds gently moving in the breeze. ‘Yes, just next door actually. The property right there on the corner.’
Imogen heard the sharp intake of breath from the tall, dark-haired man but his expression gave away nothing.
A loud squeal from Elpida broke the air. ‘I do not believe it!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘You are the new owners of my old restaurant! This is amazing!’
‘What?’ Harry said, confused.
‘I sell this to you,’ Elpida said in simple terms. ‘This used to belong to my family.’
‘I… well… what a lovely coincidence,’ Harry said, all grins. ‘Isn’t it, Immy?’
Imogen was still looking at Panos, who was now scrutinising Harry like he was a noisy cicada he wanted to crush. Despite his rushing to her aid over the wine glass, this was not demeanour akin to the fine Greek hospitality she’d read about.
‘Well, it was a pleasure, but we should…’ Panos held out his arm, indicating the interior of the restaurant.
‘It was lovely to meet you both,’ Elpi
da said, taking a step closer to Imogen. ‘What is your name, my darling?’ She took Imogen’s uninjured hand.
‘Imogen.’
‘Well, Imogen, you need anything, anything at all, then you come and see me.’
She nodded. ‘I will.’
‘I am not far,’ Elpida added. ‘Just a few kilometres up there.’ She pointed to the sky. ‘Agios Martinos.’
‘OK,’ Imogen said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Yiayia,’ Panos said a little sharply.
‘Pfft! Anyone would think we are in a rush for something, Pano! Where are your manners?’
Imogen looked to Panos Dimitriou and his dark eyes met her gaze, holding it in what seemed like a challenge. Perhaps her stupid remarks about the economy hadn’t been repaired by her apology.
‘See you again, I hope,’ Harry said, waving a hand as the two natives departed. ‘You should come for dinner when we open!’
‘Harry,’ Imogen hissed. ‘Stop it.’
Panos and Elpida made their way into the restaurant and Imogen watched as the waiters hugged and kissed them both like great friends.
‘Why should I stop? Wouldn’t it be nice? To have our first customers be the people who used to own the restaurant?’ Harry picked up his beer glass and swilled down the contents.
‘I’m not sure it would,’ Imogen snapped. ‘And I’m definitely sure that that place is going to be nowhere near ready to open in a week! Mum and Janie think it’s the biggest mistake you’ve ever made and I think… Well, I know why you’re doing it but… I think maybe you’re taking on too much.’
‘Immy—’
‘No, Harry, don’t, please. I’m… I’m going for a walk.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘I’m going to try and find somewhere that sells milk and tea bags and then I guess I’ll meet you back at… Baghdad. There, how’s that for a name for the restaurant?’ She stopped talking, tears pricking her eyes.
13
Tomas’ Taverna, Acharavi Beachfront
The view from the taverna hadn’t changed at all. Even the old beach shelters were still there, their rattan a little weathered and faded from the winter rain but standing stoic. Panos watched Corfu life go by – mopeds, holidaymakers laden with beach bags, children in swimwear cleaning their sandy feet underneath the shower.
Tomas and his mother had embraced Panos like he was a long-lost relative. When he was small he had come here with his parents on Saturday nights to share meze. There had been friends, local families all sitting together enjoying traditional music, swapping stories, laughter, dancing. It all seemed like a century ago.
Now he was looking at the drinks menu but not really seeing anything. His brain was churning up the conversation with the English couple who had bought the restaurant, his restaurant. Who did they think they were? Taking his inheritance from under his nose, conning his grandmother into parting with it. He’d wanted to say something right there and then, get mad, tell them they were out of line, but something had told him to wait.
‘Pano, your cousin is here!’
Elpida’s voice sliced through his thoughts and he looked up to see his cousin, Risto, next to him.
There was the boy he had spent the whole of his childhood with. He was sure it had been less than a year since they had seen each other but Risto looked different somehow. His dark curly head of hair was just the same but he was thinner, his skin wan. Finally he slid the wood and rattan chair backwards and got to his feet.
‘Risto,’ he said, embracing him, both hands slapping his back.
‘Pano.’
Panos held his cousin away and regarded him again. Risto would always be the boy who had swung on the olive tree next to him. Then it struck him. Risto was wearing trousers and a smart white shirt not dissimilar to his, although obviously a poorer quality of cloth. Panos couldn’t remember Risto ever wearing anything but jeans or shorts unless there was a wedding.
‘You are going somewhere?’ Panos asked, pulling at the sleeve of his cousin’s shirt.
Risto shifted away, looking a little embarrassed. He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Pfft!’ Elpida said. ‘Why does there have to be a reason for Risto to wear something smart?’
‘Because before he was always covered in mud from working the fields,’ Panos remarked.
The faces around him sobered instantaneously. Panos’ eyes went from Risto to Elpida and back again before he eventually sank to his seat and reached for the jug of water on the table, pouring himself a glass. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
Risto moved to a chair next to Elpida and, as he sat down, Panos saw the woman pat her younger grandson’s hand.
‘Is anyone going to tell me?’ Panos asked impatiently.
‘We will order some strong drinks before we start talking,’ Elpida said, removing her packet of cigarettes from her handbag.
‘It wasn’t my fault, Pano,’ Risto began, his eyes dropping to the tablecloth.
‘Risto, wait,’ Elpida insisted. She put a cigarette into her mouth and lit it up, inhaling hard.
Panos shook his head. ‘What is this, yiayia? Some other shock to drop on me, like the restaurant you sold to an English couple?’
‘Aren’t they lovely?’ Elpida answered, blowing a cloud of smoke up into the air. ‘Very pretty girl, wasn’t she?’
Panos shook his head and wet his lips. The woman’s beauty hadn’t been lost on him but neither had her sharp reply to his offer of help. And she had his restaurant. She and her husband were going to develop it right in front of his eyes.
He cleared his throat and put a hand in the air, beckoning a waiter. ‘Spiros, some retsina here please?’
* * *
Thirty minutes or so later the retsina had coated his throat with its sap-like qualities and he was ready to about turn and head back to the airport. This was not what he had come for. He had come to get back the restaurant and make plans to purchase every other eatery along the sand he could get his hands on.
‘Say something, Panos, please,’ Risto begged.
He toyed with his glass, running his finger around the rim, eyes fixed on the honey-coloured liquid inside. He didn’t know what to say. He thought the Greek crisis was something that had only really affected the mainland, Athens. To think that it was touching this island – his own family – that Risto hadn’t worked for almost a year. He could feel two sets of eyes burning holes into the top of his head. Why had Elpida not given him a head’s up about this on the phone?
‘The boy needs our help.’
‘Well, yiayia, the first question I have is, why isn’t he your gardener?’
He regarded them both. His grandmother puffing on her second cigarette, his cousin looking lost.
‘We tried this. Risto does not know the difference between plants and weeds,’ Elpida stated.
Panos shook his head. ‘Bar work?’
‘I try this, Pano,’ Risto replied forlornly. ‘The last person in is always the first person out when business slides again.’
‘Well, we all know I had to leave the island to find success.’
‘Pfft! We are not talking about success, Pano. We are just talking about earning enough money to live!’
Her words kicked him. Here he was in his tailored suit, opposite his cousin who, he was told, had barely two Euro to rub together.
‘I am trying to do the same for Risto as I did for you,’ Elpida stated firmly. ‘I gave you everything I could spare to start your new life.’
His fingers reached for the serviette close to hand and he pulled it into his fist, clenching it up.
‘Risto lost his job on the farm when the crisis hit. He’s been out of work ever since. I wanted to tell you this before but Risto would not let me.’
He watched Elpida sit forward and stab her cigarette out in the ashtray. She pushed her glasses up her nose and sat a little further forward in her chair. ‘He needs guidance, Pano. Help from his cousin.’
‘It is OK. It does not matter. I should not have come.’
Risto got to his feet, his shirt untucking from his trousers as he moved.
‘Sit down, Risto!’ Elpida ordered.
‘You want me to guide him?! Guide him where? How?’ Panos asked, throwing the contents of his wine glass down his throat.
‘Yiayia thought you might be able to give me a job.’
This was why Elpida had berated him on the phone for not keeping better contact with the family. She was hinting at wanting him to give his cousin a way out of Corfu. His grandmother might have given him the airfare to escape but he owed the rest of his success to himself.
Risto’s dark curly head was hanging so far down it was almost touching the placemat on the table. What was he doing? What was there to think about? Risto was his family. He loved him. He hadn’t been there for him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said in low tones. ‘I just did not know any of this. It is a shock.’
‘Sit up straight, Risto,’ Elpida snapped. ‘And stop looking like you have no backbone.’
Risto snapped his head back up and adjusted his posture.
‘You are a Dimitriou,’ Elpida continued. ‘You are both Dimitrious and, as the surviving elder of this family, I want to bash your heads together.’
Panos remained quiet, looking to his cousin.
‘Now, we need to work something out together. Pano, there must be something within your organisation that Risto can do. Awful, bright, metallic bars he can advertise with flyers or posters, yes? Or phone calls he can make?’ She turned to Risto then. ‘You still have your moped, yes?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Elpida clapped her hands together. ‘Good. Pano?’
He nodded his head slowly as a plan began to formulate. Smiling, he replied. ‘OK, Risto, yes. I have something coming up that might be ideal.’
14
Acharavi Beachfront
The man who gave Imogen directions to the high street was called Spiros. As was the man who sold her a doughnut as she came off the beach. And the man who ran the first shop she came to on the main road. It had taken her fifteen minutes to stomp from the beachfront to the town centre, navigating potholes, a loose goat and a van full of fish. She thought they were all having some Greek joke with her about the name, until Spiros the shopkeeper told her it was tradition to call your firstborn son after the island’s saint, Spyridon. Spiros the shopkeeper had a dog she’d patted and had given her grocery essentials for free, despite her insistence otherwise, and a plaster for her hand.