How Greek Is Your Love

by Marjory McGinn

  “I wasn’t worried about her going to Scotland but I certainly didn’t ask or expect her to carry on with the book, even though we were close to a copy deadline back then. But Scotland must have inspired her to write and she penned the last chapters.”

  While Eve was telling me this, I realised finally why the style of writing in Eve’s books seemed slightly old-fashioned to me, despite a slew of raunchy characters. It was because they reflected Grace’s own conservative style.

  “Perhaps Grace had some presentment of her own death and wanted to finish the book for you while she was away,” I offered.

  “Possibly. And it’s the kind of unselfish thing Grace would do,” Eve said, with a pensive look. “Anyway, I was away when she returned to London. She called me but didn’t say anything about the book. Perhaps it was to be a surprise. She would have wanted to transfer the work to her computer document first and in the meantime stored the final chapters away without telling me. She rarely wrote longhand. She worked on the computer and kept copies on storage discs in her desk and duplicates in the safe, as I discovered after she died. She had backed up the latest book, apart from those last chapters.”

  We were silent a moment and all I could think of was how impeccably careful and kind Grace had been. But her one oversight was not mentioning the safe – for whatever reason. And Eve might not have discovered the key taped secretly inside the drawer for months and months, if ever!

  “So now you can finish your book,” I said.

  Eve’s expression became wistful. “Well, it’s not quite mine, is it? But I can write up the last part of it, and hand it over to the publisher, finally. And that’s the end of my writing career.”

  I drank my wine. We were silent for a while, lost in our own thoughts. I wondered how such a capable woman as Eve could ever have embroiled herself in this long deception. It seemed shabby and yet once you knew all the facts you realised how cunning a plan it had been. It gave purpose and a healthy income to two very different, independent women. What did it matter in the end, and who did it hurt? No-one really, not even the readers, who were at least oblivious, and entertained. But I could see why she would never want the deception to become known.

  “I expect your publisher won’t be thrilled when you tell him you’re not penning any more bestsellers.”

  “Oh, we have a shaky relationship, as I’ve told you. I’ll just tell him the creative spring has dried up and I need a long break. I was due to sign another contract for future books, but that won’t go ahead.”

  “What about all your fans? They’ll be gutted.”

  She shrugged majestically. “I’ll tell everyone the same story – a break from writing and that I may go back to acting for a while.”

  “Are you?”

  “Well, that’s my final bit of news. I’ve been offered a role in a historical TV drama set in Sussex after the Second World War. I play the sexy, flighty wife of an ex-army officer, living in an aristocratic pile. Sounds like me, doesn’t it?”

  “The sexy and flighty bits are spot-on,” I said, sarcastically.

  She laughed. “Anyway, it’s a great role. And you’ll never guess how I caught the eye of the casting director, hmm?” she said, flicking up her well-shaped eyebrows. “It was because of the article you wrote about Douglas Markham. As you know, The Daily Messenger added loads of pictures to the article, including me in early TV roles, and it jogged the casting director’s memory when he happened to read the piece. So, I’m very grateful for all that.

  “The years I spent ‘writing’,” she added, winking, “were rather fun and lucrative, but they took me away from having the kind of profile you need as an actress. Even if you’re selling millions of books, you’re not in the public eye much. You’re just seen as a batty woman who scribbles romances and gets mentioned in review pages now and then. Your article reminded people I’d been a bit more glam once.”

  “That’s all fabulous news, Eve. Everything has dovetailed nicely.” I could see now how easy it was to ditch the toy boy when there were glitzier things to focus on.

  “So here’s to you, Bronte. And if you ever need any contacts in the film and TV world for freelance features, I can get them for you. It’s the least I can do.”

  I had to hand it to Eve: she was born lucky. To have pulled off her literary deception for so long, and to have sailed onward to new, vibrant escapades, was remarkable. I didn’t doubt she’d been depressed when I first met her – over the loss of her good friend Grace – but as for the rest of it? People describe depression as the ‘black dog’, something that tails you and pulls you down. But for the entertaining and essentially self-regarding Eve Peregrine, her depression would have been akin to being smothered by a clutch of well-coiffed, yapping toy poodles.

  Chapter 28

  Thekla’s Confession

  Thekla was standing on the doorstep. For once, she wasn’t holding a plastic bag. No last foray then through the wild plantings of Villa Ambelia before she left for Athens. Her hair seemed freshly done, reaching its typically dizzy heights – a personal peculiarity I would never forget. She was wearing a black tailored dress and smart shoes, as if she’d just been to church, which is how she nearly always looked.

  “I’ve heard the news about you and Leonidas. I am disappointed to be the last person to be told, it seems,” she huffed, looking past me into the house.

  “Sorry. Would you like to come inside?”

  “No,” she said, sharply.

  Good, I thought.

  “Are you busy?” She looked me up and down, at my shorts and T-shirt, my battered sandals.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “I thought you might like to come to my house. I have something to say to you there.”

  “You can say it here. Leonidas is in Kalamata.”

  “It’s better at my house. Come over in 10 minutes. I won’t keep you very long.”

  “Okay, whatever you wish,” I said, with a heavy heart, wondering what the ‘something’ was and why it had to be done at her house. Was it easier to bury a body over there among the scorpions? Would it be a lecture on marrying into her family? I had a lecture of my own, if one were required.

  She turned and walked away with a backwards wave of her hand. I shut the door. It was tempting not to go. But I finished what I was doing on my laptop and changed into a fresh pair of trousers and blouse and brushed my hair. My stomach felt queasy. Get it over with, I said to myself, and then I’m shot of the old crone for good. I wanted to take Zeffy with me, for moral support, but Thekla would have had a strop. I gave his cockatoo crest a little tweak.

  “If I’m not back in half an hour, fetch the cavalry. You know the drill now,” I said. The dog gazed at me with his lovely big eyes. I didn’t doubt now he would.

  I ambled down the road towards her house and wondered why Thekla had to drag me out on a day of searing August heat, even so late in the afternoon. The gulf in the distance was glistening flat, ‘like oil’, as the Greeks say. The orchards were tinder dry but some fig trees bordering the road were hanging partially over it, their fat ripe fruits heavy on the boughs. Within days, everyone passing would have had their fill of these special figs the villagers told me were grown in the previous century from produce brought from the port city of Smyrna, in modern-day Turkey, after the 1922 Greco-Turkish war. For the descendants of Smyrna refugees, the unique strawberry jam goodness of these figs was prized not least because they were a succulent link back to their rich but beleaguered heritage.

  I ate quite a few figs on my way to Thekla’s to sweeten my visit, but I felt a bit queasy when I arrived at her sturdy house, with its faux Mani tower and solid wooden door. I had a curious desire to see just how she lived. I rapped at the brass knocker, shaped like a hand, and waited. She ushered me inside. It was cool, airy and elegantly furnished with folksy Greek pieces but also some expensive modern additions like a three-seater embroidered sofa. It reminded me that although Thekla acted like a villager a lot of the tim
e, she must have been quite wealthy from her previous business venture. I guessed her Athens apartment would be stylish and comfortable.

  She led me to the sofa and wandered off to the kitchen to fix some cold drinks. She put them on the coffee table, then retrieved something from a heavy sideboard, sitting in a chair opposite me.

  “This is an engagement present for you,” she said, unsmiling. She placed a small gift-wrapped package on to the table. I was surprised, confused. I had heard that engagement presents weren’t the usual thing with Greeks. Perhaps this was a personal wedding gift because she hadn’t planned to be at the event. I fumbled nervously with the wrapping and came to a velvet box. Inside was a necklace. There were alternating amber-like stones and quartz with the inclusion of several intricately carved gold beads. It was surprisingly beautiful and looked expensive.

  Her hands were clasped tightly on her knees. “This belonged to my mother and since I have no daughters I have decided to give it to you. I see you are set on marrying my nephew, so …” It was said in a begrudging fashion, devoid of warmth.

  “The orange stones are carnelian. It has been in my family a long time. It’s something very Greek and traditional. So, now it is yours. Kaloriziki, as we say. May it bring you joy in the wearing of it,” she said, with a twitch of a smile, but very fleeting, like rain settling on a hot pavement.

  I was shocked at this unexpected offering.

  “It’s very beautiful, Thekla. Thank you. Are you sure you want to part with it?”

  “Of course. Would I give it to you if I wasn’t?” she said, brushing keenly at her knees, as if removing imaginary crumbs.

  “Perhaps I will wear it for my wedding,” I said, even though the arrangements were still sketchy. “You will come, of course,” I said, out of politeness.

  “Of course, my husband and I will come. Why would we not? Leonidas is very dear to us.”

  “That’s great,” I said, flatly. I couldn’t do warmth with Thekla. Not yet. I placed the necklace back in the box. I drank my lemonade. It fizzed as it hit my stomach, like a bout of heartburn. Strange woman, I thought. At least we’d part for now with no bad feelings.

  “Are you well after your recent scorpion bite?” I asked her.

  “Yes, thank you. And I have no desire to repeat the experience.”

  “You’ll be pleased then to go back to Athens.”

  She brushed at the phantom crumbs again. “I won’t miss the scorpions, no. But … I … as the time grows close to leaving the village, I begin to remember the things about Athens I did not like: the riots in Syntagma Square, the migrants, the summer heat.” Good God, would she be happy anywhere?

  We sat in silence. I glanced at an old-fashioned clock on her sideboard. It ticked loudly, like the beating of an anxious heart. I wondered how soon I could leave without causing offence. She noticed my eyes on the clock.

  “Bronte, can I say … I know we have not been friends. I am a difficult old woman in your eyes perhaps. You were angry I brought Phaedra to the lunch, yes?”

  I nodded. “I didn’t understand why you did that, Thekla. It caused a lot of discomfort for everyone.” There, I’d said it.

  She pursed her lips. “I apologise then. You see, I have always liked Phaedra. I admire her and her family. I thought she was a good match for Leonidas. In some ways I still think it.” Her dark eyes looked brazen, with no sense of apology. I glanced at the clock again.

  “Perhaps I saw her as a daughter, the one I never had. That was a mistake. I admit I have made mistakes and I am sure you will never forgive me for them. But now I will tell you something I never usually speak of. We Greeks do not like to talk of the dead. We struggle with that. We are superstitious, sentimental. Everyone knows I do not talk about my son, Philippos. He was my only child. He died in a car accident when he was 21. He was so handsome, clever. I thought he would make a wonderful life for himself. Everything on his side. Then the accident. I could not forget it. My husband and I worked hard at our business, day and night, but without Philippos there was no joy there. I poured my hopes and dreams into the rest of my family, but nothing has replaced my son,” she said, with a single tear coursing down one cheek, which she dabbed at with a white handkerchief.

  This story had come like a small punch in the guts. Why hadn’t Leonidas told me this? Another secret. Why hadn’t he told me lots of things? Why hadn’t the local gossips? Why had I been led to think that Thekla was a she-devil when in fact what I saw now was a broken, embittered woman who had lost the best thing in her life?

  “I’m so sorry, Thekla. I wish I’d known before.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t talk about it. Everyone knows that. I only tell you of this because it’s better you know and I don’t want to bring Leonidas any pain. He is special to me. In a small way he reminds me a lot of Philippos, in his character at least. I hope you will look after him and make him happy.”

  “Of course I will,” I said, dismayed she thought I might not.

  We sat in painful silence again. She squeezed the fingers of each hand in turn, nervously. She looked tormented and it pricked my conscience. I had no control over what I said next, as if my mind had lost its edit button.

  “Why don’t you stay in the village, Thekla? Why go back to Athens when you don’t have to and you don’t really like it there? You love Marathousa really.”

  It was out. I could never take it back. What was I thinking?

  Her gaze was cool and unflinching. “Do you think so? Well … I don’t like the scorpions or the rural demons who seem to have crept in during the crisis, like the monster who took you to the farangi, the gorge.”

  “Well, aren’t there creeps in Athens too?”

  “Yes, more than we can bear.”

  “You haven’t given yourself enough time to adjust to living here full-time.”

  Something flickered in her eyes. It looked like hope, as if I’d just thrown her a kind of lifeline.

  “I will consider it. Perhaps,” she said in a wistful voice.

  I walked home, clutching my present, my head reeling. Thekla’s story partly explained her contrary behaviour. But what was I doing, encouraging her to stay? Had she worked some kind of spell on me? I wondered too what kind of gritty stuff Greek women were made of that they could live their lives and repress something as life-changing as the loss of a beloved son. Leo told me once that Greek women were like the Parthenon. They weathered a bit but they could withstand almost anything. Yet I didn’t think that applied to Thekla. She may have been granite on the outside, with big hair, but now I saw the pitiful inner core. She was a damaged soul who would probably never heal.

  Chapter 29

  The magic of Marathousa

  On the following Friday, when Leonidas was back in Villa Ambelia, I brought out the necklace to show him.

  “Thekla gave you this?” he said, his big dark eyes full of amazement. “I knew she had this. It’s been in the family for years, but to give it to you now is a big honour, Bronte. Deep down I think she must like you a lot.”

  “You didn’t tell me about her son – about him dying.”

  “She told you that as well? Po, po, po!” he said, shaking his head.

  I gave him a quick report of everything Thekla had said.

  “All right, I should have told you. I thought about it when I guessed you were having problems with her, but she was right when she said we Greeks have strong ideas when it comes to death. Thekla told us years ago never to speak of Philippos. Ever. To let him be. So no-one does. Some people in the village won’t even be able to remember she had a son, but every year she goes quietly to a graveyard in Kalamata on the anniversary of his death. He died in the city. She wanted him to be buried there. I always thought she never came back to this region so much because it reminded her of her son. In fact, I was surprised when she said she would move here more or less permanently. But perhaps she is finally making peace with his death – just when she wants to go back to Athens,” he said, looking p
uzzled.

  “Ah, but it seems she’s no longer sure about leaving the village and … I told her she should stay. Now I know the truth, I feel bad that we didn’t get on.” I felt even worse that I’d helped wind Angus up to the scorpion attack.

  “That was kind of you to accept Thekla, despite her faults. And now you know why she sometimes acts as she does, you’ll never have a problem with her again. She might prove to be one of your greatest allies.”

  “Leo, if you knew why Thekla behaved so oddly at times, why didn’t you explain everything to me in the beginning? It would have made things easier, just like the Phaedra business.”

  He shook his head. “Ach, Bronte! Greek ways – even we don’t understand them sometimes. There are rituals, customs, things that aren’t easy to explain. You’ll see. It will all make sense in time, I promise, agapi mou.”

  I laughed. “Well, no need perhaps to worry about what I know and don’t know about Greek ways. I’m about to be immersed big time anyway.”

  He gave me a quizzical look. “You mean with our marriage?”

  I stroked his cheek lightly. “Yes that, but more importantly … I’m going to have a baby.”

  His eyes widened with surprise, and then he looked a bit annoyed.

  “You don’t like my news?” I said, feeling panicky.

  He shook his head. “Of course, I like it. I am thrilled, my love, but I am angry at that creep Dionysos. To think he put you through that ordeal that day and you were probably pregnant then, yes?”