“We go see what Angelos is doing, eh? It’s just a little walk over there,” she said, pointing to the other field.
Angelos was in the middle of a thick copse of olive trees, his maroon flatbed truck parked nearby, near a stout metal gate. He had a pile of olive tree branches he’d cut and cleaned up that day and was stacking them on to the truck to take away to store for later in the year, when they’d be sold for winter fuel. He was dressed in old torn jeans and a T-shirt that was sticking to his chest with sweat from his efforts. Myrto brought him a fresh bottle of water and some biscuits, which he wolfed down.
I remembered then that I’d promised Myrto once that I would help in the field one day, gathering branches, clearing up. It was repayment for her keeping Zeffy in the beginning, but she’d never insisted on the work and I felt relieved. When I saw how Angelos was toiling over the land I knew I’d be useless. I was sure it had been one of Myrto’s little wind-ups.
I had only ever seen Angelos fleetingly, as he was always in one or other of the fields, harvesting, pruning trees, clearing the ground or shifting rocks and rubble. He seemed to enjoy the work. He was a good-looking young man, very similar to Leonidas, with black wavy hair. Not as curly as his uncle’s, but it was one of his better features, as well as his fine dark eyes. He seemed to be good-natured as well, much like Leonidas. A bit younger and he could easily have passed for his son.
Myrto and he had a conversation in Greek, in which she seemed to be directing him about other jobs to be done. At one point she became quite animated and I couldn’t tell whether they were having a small disagreement or not. He turned to me and winked, as if to emphasise he had the measure of Myrto and knew how to handle her. But in some ways, she was charmed by him and I saw her hand Angelos the bag of darned socks, which he put in the back of his truck.
“I go back to my house, Bronte, but you stay and chatter with Angelos. He’s nearly finished here now. We talk later,” she said, rubbing my arm sweetly before marching back to her farm.
“Have a seat, Bronte. I apologise that it’s very basic, though,” Angelos said, pointing to a kind of bench he’d fashioned out of a long plank of wood set over two rocks. It was very rustic.
“Your English is very good,” I said.
“I used my English a lot when I was in advertising in Athens. I don’t use it so much now I’m working here, but it’s nice to keep it in practice,” he said, sounding slightly earnest, in the way that Leonidas had done when I first met him. It made me smile.
I wondered what he thought of my relationship with his uncle. There was no hiding anything in Greece, especially not in a rural village, and everyone in Marathousa knew about us, as we often went together to the taverna, the kafeneio and sometimes to services at the church of the Anastasi beside the plateia.
“How do you like living in this village?” he asked.
“I like it a lot. I’m loving my time in Greece, actually. And my father lives here too, as you will know. I can keep my eye on him.”
“And what about you? How do you like working here,” I asked him. “It must be quite a change from Athens?”
He leaned against his truck and laughed. “Yes, it sure is, but Athens is difficult now with the crisis. Many problems there. I love Athens but right now I’d rather be here,” he said, his eyes trailing towards Mount Kalathio, the closest peak of the Taygetos to Kalamata, with its small village at the top and a severe zigzag road leading up, which locals called the Traumatic Road. But there was no hardship in the view, at least.
“How do you get on with Myrto?” I asked.
“She’s a funny lady, isn’t she? Has a temper sometimes, panayia mou! But she’s helped me a lot to understand harvesting the olives, the trees. No-one knows the trees like Myrto: which ones are too old, too new, too weak. How to prune, when not to prune. It’s interesting. I may not be a farmer forever but right now it’s nice healthy work.”
“I hear that lots of people are coming back to the villages because of the crisis.”
“Yes, like Thekla, my great-aunt. How do you manage with her?” he asked, with a knowing grin.
“Oh, very well, though I don’t see her much.” Thank God!
“She’s a good person, but she likes to interfere with things. Just ignore her if she gets too …” he started reeling off a few Greek words, searching for the English equivalent.
“Bossy,” I offered.
He laughed. “Yes, that’s the right word, I think.”
He swigged quickly from the bottle he was still holding, a small gush of water spilling onto his already soaked T-shirt.
“Is Leonidas coming to the village today, do you know? I haven’t seen him for a while.” Funny he should ask but I remembered that Angelos’s father had a small house closer to the village that he rarely used any more and he’d offered it to his son.
I shook my head at his question but said nothing, following the Greek habit. I think I even felt my brows twitching upwards, the ‘no comment’ gesture. But he must have read the disappointment there.
“Can I say something to you, Bronte, if you don’t mind?”
“Sure,” I said, surprised at his forthright manner.
“I love my uncle Leonidas. I also admire him greatly, but you mustn’t be … em disappointed sometimes that he might seem a little aloof, or too preoccupied with his work.”
“He has to be, he’s a doctor, and I do know something about the crisis and the medical pressures,” I said.
“Leo’s a great doctor, one of the best in Kalamata, but he can sometimes be so focused he might forget there is a world out there beyond medicine, and you can’t ignore it. Maybe that was the problem for his marriage. I mean, his former wife’s an actress and she’s …” he puffed out his lips and waved his arm windmill-style, which I took to mean the ex-wife was drop-dead gorgeous.
“Sorry, I am being too candid, if that’s the right word.” I nodded. “But you know what I mean. And I hope he doesn’t forget about you sometimes while the crisis is weighing him down. That would be a tragedy,” he said with a warm, appealing smile. “Be patient with him.”
“Oh, I am. And I also admire him very much. He’s a wonderful man.”
I stood up to go, feeling a bit strange talking about Leonidas to someone I didn’t know that well yet, as if that mattered in a Greek village, where everyone seemed to know everything about everyone. As Leonidas always said, “In Greece, the trees have ears.” Or as Elpida liked to say quite often, “The secret that two villagers share will be known by everyone.” Another one of those old village sayings.
Angelos seemed to sense my disquiet. As I said goodbye, he put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it gently, smiling at me.
“I can see how Leo has fallen in love with you, Bronte, and you must be strong. These are difficult times for all of us. Have faith and all will be very well.”
His words were touching towards a foreigner in their midst. While I mulled over his comment, a black shape caught my eye through the olive trees. It was Thekla, standing quite still on the stretch of road where she often took a daily walk. She was watching us, her hands on her hips and a squinty strange look on her face. Angelos saw my expression and turned towards her, but she quickly moved off. He pulled a face but said nothing.
“Thanks for the talk, Angelos. I must go now.”
I turned to walk away, then had a sudden thought.
“Are you going to Leo’s lunch for Easter Sunday?” I asked.
“I usually have the lunch with my father in Kalamata, but I can change my plan. Why not? Leo always has very nice lunches at his villa.”
Good, I thought. More people to offset the creeping antipathy of Thekla. And Angelos was so charming anyway.
As I left, Angelos went back to work, piling the last of the branches into the back of his truck. I thought again about his words. “Have faith”. Was he referring to Phaedra perhaps and her Lazarus-like return? Was he trying to boost my morale?
I planned t
o spend most of the Easter week working. On the Monday I finished writing the feature on Eve Peregrine and Douglas Markham and I was pleased at how revealing it had turned out. I filed it to the Messenger and it was due to run any day now. Easter gave me rich pickings for my latest column and I lingered over the national obsession with the daily church services that ran through the Holy Week, most of which I’d managed to attend, if not to the bitter end, as most lasted three hours. It was a solemn sequence that advanced the story of Christ’s capture to his crucifixion, and on Megalo Savato, Holy Saturday was the rousing climax, the resurrection service at midnight. These were all highly dramatic services which, despite the earnestness of priests and congregation, briefly went awry now and then with props misbehaving; sound systems failing; candles held too high, threatening festive decorations; psaltes, choristers, admonished for the odd lapse of attention over their ancient hymn books.
It was also curious to me that services during this week appeared to be a cue for village women to refresh their looks, for reasons I couldn’t fathom. I noted one villager who hitherto had black straight hair now had a gingery mop of curls, which didn’t suit her at all. Another sported a short back and sides where her hair had once been luxurious. Thekla’s hair had, if that were possible, gone even bigger to the point of being nesty, even though her black outfits were severe. It was all unexpectedly intriguing.
Angus refused to come to these services, saying if he had to get up and down for three hours every time the priest came out of the sanctuary (which was often) he’d wreck a knee cartilage. Easter gave me much to write about.
I thought about Peregrine during those days and wondered – now that she was back in her villa and all was well, according to her much-relieved agent anyway – why she never had the merest curiosity about village life, and Easter especially. I wondered if she’d dam-busted her writing blockage yet and how she spent her lonely evenings, if in fact she was alone. Even so, I felt just a bit sorry for her, and that, combined with gratitude for her candidness over the Markham piece, prompted me to contact her at the end of the week to invite her to Leo’s Sunday lunch.
When I called her mobile, she answered right away and seemed pleased to hear from me. Had she seen the feature, I asked her, which had now run in the paper?
“My agent sent me a link. What can I say? I’m not a great fan of press exposés, but it’s fine. I’ve had a few requests through my agent for more interviews about Markham, which you may be pleased to know I haven’t taken up. I’ve had quite a few emails too: people from the past, wondering why I’m hiding away in Greece scribbling books when I was once a TV star. Ho, hum! If only I were scribbling, Bronte!” she said, with a tired edge to her voice. However, the invitation to Leo’s Sunday lunch seemed to lift her mood.
“Ah, the Greek doctor. I’m curious to meet him,” she said, with girlish enthusiasm.
“The rest will be locals: Greeks, no expats.”
“That’s a relief,” she said. “I won’t have to sign autographs then. I’m very touched that you’ve asked me, Bronte. It’s kind of you to want a cantankerous old trout like me along, especially after I seem to have worried you all to death with my flight to Vathia.”
I laughed. Well, the cantankerous was spot on. I was relieved there was a bit more levity between us.
“Tell me, what’s the dress code for this Easter lunch?”
“It’s just a barbecue, but it can be whatever you want really. The older folk will be in their Sunday best.”
“What are you wearing?” she asked.
“I don’t know. A sundress perhaps. It will be warm on Sunday. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that I have far too many clothes here and some wonderful dresses I never wear. I’ve put on weight. All the olive oil, I expect. I just thought you might like to have one of my dresses. They’re all practically new and you’re about the size I was a month ago. It’s my gift to you for putting up with my gruff behaviour at Vathia and also for having to chase me around the Mani when you thought I’d been murdered by unknown assailants,” she said, with a hint of sarcasm.
“I don’t think I really believed you’d been murdered, but it’s kind of you to offer a dress,” I said, taken aback by her generosity.
I did panic a bit over what kind of dress she had in mind but I was curious to have another glimpse into her secretive life. I promised to come over to her villa in the late afternoon.
“Wonderful. We’ll have a glass of wine as well. I have something too that I want to discuss with you.”
“Oh, that sounds intriguing.”
“That’s one way to describe it,” she said, with a laugh that rang hollow down the phone.
Just when I thought she was in a better mood than previously, getting on top of her writer’s block, here was another drama perhaps. But would it send her rushing off to a Maniot tower again?
Chapter 15
All about Eve
When Eve answered the door that Friday afternoon, I couldn’t see any evidence of fresh pandemonium in her life. She looked radiant, fiery even, with the bright afternoon light streaming in from the balcony, catching the tendrils of her strawberry blonde hair. She was dressed in loose white trousers and a flattering pale pink T-shirt.
“First things first. Let’s check out those dresses.”
Eve led the way into her bedroom and opened a large built-in wardrobe to reveal a row of dresses in eye-catching designs and colours.
“I’m a woman with a thing about dresses – not shoes. But I hardly wear them and don’t know why I keep bringing them on trips. Now I have this collection. Do you like 50s-style dresses – you know, little waist with belts and slightly full skirts?”
Before I could answer she’d pulled one out. It was just as she’d described, with a bold pattern in dazzling shades of blue and purple. I think I gasped.
“This was a hugely expensive designer label and I haven’t worn it. Pity!”
She pulled out a few more, in very much the same style. I was overwhelmed. She watched me, smiling, enjoying a rare girly moment.
“I don’t want you to think I’m a total recluse, Bronte. I do have a social life in London and I go to a lot of events. But here in Greece, it’s different. I do know a few people in Kalamata but mostly I seek solitude. But look, let’s have that drink and you can decide later about the dress.”
She led me into the sitting room and drew the curtains to block some of the light and heat from the balcony. We each sat on one of the comfortable cream sofas. She brought white wine in tall crystal glasses and a plate of small Greek appetisers.
“Tell me about this man of yours, if that’s not too nosey of me,” she said, popping a small stuffed vine leaf into her mouth.
“What can I say? He’s a GP in Kalamata, a lovely man, very kind, and amusing.”
“And sexy, I imagine.”
“I think so.”
Leonidas, I thought, was the kind of man who would appeal to her. While she had never married and appeared to live like a Carmelite nun these days, I knew from her talk about Douglas Markham that she had an appetite for men who were sexy and confident. But Leonidas was a different kind of sexy, to my mind; someone who seemed never to be conscious of it and who didn’t use it to manipulate the world around him.
I also told her how we’d met. About our search for my late grandfather Kieran. She was a good listener.
“How amazing, Bronte, and you say your father is writing a book about all this?”
“Trying to. He’s not a writer, so it’s going fairly slowly.”
“Yes, I can appreciate the problem exactly,” she said with a heavy sigh. “But Leonidas sounds divine.”
Then I couldn’t help telling her about Phaedra, and about her return. About how Angus had seen them together in the city. I didn’t think I was close enough to Eve to confess any of this. Yet I felt I needed another woman to bounce ideas off, especially with Polly away in Australia, although Polly had maternal qualities I felt Ev
e lacked.
“Oh,” she said, pouting. “I can see how that might alarm you, but she’s simply come back for the Easter holiday and, okay, they met. So what? He didn’t mention meeting her because he didn’t want to worry you because it meant nothing. Yes?”
“Maybe, but Kalamata is just like a big village, I think you’ll agree. Everyone knows everything and sees everything, and he must have known that sooner or later I’d find out.”
“Oh, my dear. It’s not worth worrying about, unless you get more proof he’s switched teams.” She popped another appetiser in her mouth and chewed delicately. We drank another glass of wine. It had been good to talk about the Phaedra situation but I felt I’d chattered too much.
“Is there no-one in your life right now?” I probed, since we were in a girly mood.
“There was someone recently. He’s an actor I used to work with about 16 years ago. I was mad about him then, but he was married. Now he’s divorced. We got together several months ago, met at a luvvie kind of function, but it didn’t last. You can’t reclaim the past easily. Some of the magic had gone. I’ll admit I’m not the easiest person to live with. I’m very egotistical, like most actors and writers …” she said, trailing off. The business of writing was like a running sore.
“Perhaps the disappointment over this romance has taken some of your motivation away in general,” I said, trying to be helpful.
“Well, I’ll admit, I was in a dark place for a while, but it was something else that happened around the same time that has overwhelmed everything, most especially the writing. It’s quite a story, to me anyway, if you want to hear it, because it’s the main reason I asked you to come today.”
Nothing grabs a journalist’s interest more than the words “quite a story”.
“Of course,” I said.
“Well, first of all, I don’t know why I feel I can be so candid with you, Bronte, no offence meant by that. It’s just I’ve never trusted journalists. But you feel more like a friend, and I feel you might be able to help in some way.”
How Greek Is Your Love Page 14