How Greek Is Your Love

by Marjory McGinn

  “No, not pregnant then. It’s only been six weeks or so in the making,” I said, tapping my stomach.

  He smiled vibrantly and sat close to me on the sofa, taking my hands in his. “And are you feeling well? There are no problems?”

  “No, I’m very well.”

  “I will send you to the best gynaecologist in Kalamata. Do not worry.”

  He reached for his mobile, flicking through names and numbers already.

  “I’m not worried, Leo. And you don’t have to do that now,” I said, pulling the phone out of his hands. “Chill!”

  And so he did. They say that women glow when they’re pregnant but Leonidas seemed to glow by proxy. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever seen him look more handsome. His eyes glistened with joy and that lustrous black curl that I loved was falling over one eyebrow. I felt it caress my forehead when he gave me a long, lingering kiss.

  “Oh, Bronte, I am so happy for us. This past year in Greece has been the worst, but this …,” he said, rubbing his hand lightly over my stomach, “is a gift. And I think we owe this to St Dimitrios as well. I think it was the night of our engagement, yes?”

  I calculated back and thought he was probably right. And it had a wonderful symmetry to it, since this saint had been so fundamental in Kieran’s story in a curious way and in bringing Leo and me together, and also in healing my once-difficult relationship with Angus.

  “Was it the engagement ring, do you think, tied up with the tamata on his icon? Is this the answer to an unspoken prayer?” I asked him, looking down at my still-flat stomach.

  Leonidas considered the point, then offered a slightly lascivious smile.

  “Perhaps, agapi mou, but I think it was what happened later, after the dinner, in Villa Ambelia,” he said, winking.

  “Possibly a surer kind of magic, don’t you think, agapi mou,” I said, copying the assured way he always said ‘my love’.

  We both laughed merrily. I didn’t think it was possible to feel any happier than I did at that moment. I felt I should do the ftou, ftou, ftou pretend spit that Greeks often employ to ward off any passing troll, but thought better of it.

  Angus was speechless when I told him the news later. Not a circumstance I’d seen often with my father. And then he hugged me and became teary.

  “Och, look at me, I’ll be greetin like a bairn soon,” he said. Crying like a baby was also something I hadn’t seen Angus do too much. But he was thrilled. First the engagement he wasn’t sure would eventuate – now this. He took my hand and his hazel eyes had a lovely softness to them and I knew what he was thinking, that apart from the joy over the pregnancy, something else had blossomed. Out of the thorny relationship we’d had the previous year that seemed hard to heal we now had a relationship that was precious to us both.

  I knew I would enjoy the next couple of hectic months helping to arrange our wedding and it was agreed it would have to be in early October. I decided to keep the pregnancy a secret for a while yet, before the whole village knew about it. Some might suspect, of course, almost by osmosis. Like Elpida, the Oracle of Marathousa.

  The next time I was in the kafeneio, she sat beside me and we chatted about the wedding and other village gossip. When it came to the news of Thekla staying on, it only inspired the Greek no-comment thing: eyebrows flicking upwards, the holding out her arms, and even a tut. After we dispensed with gossip, she leaned over the table, dropping her voice.

  “Bronte. My stomach is twitching, and now this time I am feeling that so is yours.” Then she laughed heartily. “I have the strange feeling you are going to have a baby. Correct?”

  I was stunned but said nothing. She gave me a knowing smile. “You have that look, Bronte. Calm, like a mother cat, and secretive. I see it many times. You are looking … what is the word ..?”

  “Radiant?” I offered with a smile.

  “Yes, I think so. And now you tell me.”

  I shook my head. “No, Elpida. I’ve just caught some sun on my face, that’s all. Nothing else I’m aware of, unless you know something I don’t.”

  She gave me an ironic look. Damn it but her instincts, as always, were good! She knew I was lying but I couldn’t tell her the truth. If I did the whole of the Peloponnese would know it within days. There would be time enough for the big revelation.

  It was now September. I had been in Greece a year and it had been a time of challenges, leavened with humour at least, and incomparable love. However, I well remembered that at the Easter lunch, I had posed a question to Eve Peregrine: “Can you learn to love the country and the culture as much as the man?” Many times in that year, I’d felt that conundrum acutely. I’d had many doubts about what I was doing in Greece. Despite my deep love for Leonidas, the greatest love of my life, I had secretly shed tears over how I would ever fit into this ravishingly interesting but alien world that I still knew so little about, whose people and culture bewitched and frustrated me by turns. I had often doubted my sanity in giving up my life in Scotland, my career and family, to chart this new life in a country in one of the darkest periods of its history. Now I was on the threshold of marriage and motherhood. It had been a short and startling trajectory.

  One day, Angus and I decided to go to the Marathousa cemetery with flowers to pay our respects to Kieran, and find some closure over past events, for both of us.

  The graveyard was a small, walled enclosure overhung with trees. It scarcely had room for another grave. But last year the villagers had given us one of the few remaining plots to bury Kieran’s remains, which we had finally uncovered in a hidden location after a difficult search. In their eyes, he had been a hero, fighting with the allies, and many scores of local Greeks as well, to try to save southern Greece from the German occupation, even though the allied effort failed in the end.

  Kieran had a simple marble tomb with the headstone engraved: Kieran McKnight, 1941, filellinas, ‘Friend of Greece’.

  We placed the flowers on the grave and Angus and I stood side by side, my arm looped through his. I knew that Angus had been strangely emotional since I’d told him about my pregnancy. Although he had two grandchildren in Scotland from Shona, I sensed that this one might have a special place in his heart. At the graveside, I saw him brush away a tear with his hand.

  “I can’t tell you what I’m thinking, Bronte. There’s just so much ...” he trailed off and lapsed into silence.

  “You know what I’m thinking,” I said, eager to flesh out this moment. “I can’t get it out of my mind how Kieran’s tragic fate in this region of Greece 70-odd years ago will indirectly result – God willing – in his own great-grandchild being born in the same location, not that far from where he died. If Kieran could possibly be looking down on us right now, he would surely feel his war service in Greece had been worth all the suffering.”

  “Aye, Bronte, you’re right,” Angus said. “That’s an incredible thought but I think it’s all because of you that everything turned out the way it has. You came here last year when I summoned you and had the patience with an old man’s whim to finally solve this war mystery. On my own, I’d never have done it.”

  He turned and looked at me, his eyes swimming with tears. I gave him a long hug. I couldn’t have loved my father more than I did at that moment, and the symmetry of what we’d achieved was perfect.

  A thread had now been drawn between my family’s past and its present, and had connected Scotland with Greece and a time of war and suffering to a place of inspiration and new life. The past year had changed my life like no other, but when it came to my love for Greece itself, just how great was it now? Let’s just say that at the end of a tumultuous 2013, with an economic and social upheaval still impossible to predict, my love might teeter from time to time, and on into the future. But it would never need a major bailout. It would hold!

  Epilogue

  In October 2013, Leonidas Papachristou and I were married in the Church of the Anastasi, in Marathousa’s square, at a service attended by all our closes
t village friends and family, including Leo’s parents Grigoris and Eleni, and Thekla and her husband Kostas. (Thekla slowly adapted to village life and even enrolled in a scorpion-desensitisation programme, without much success). Adonis, the elder of the church, had a special role at the wedding: to guard Zeffy, just outside the church. With Zeffy still a village hero, it would have been a crime not to invite him. He was smartly groomed and wore a white satin bow around his neck. He was the first dog in the village to have been officially invited to a wedding, though walking down the aisle wasn’t an option. Times are changing – but not that much!

  Eve was also there, accompanied by a suave, middle-aged man she described as the Athenian owner of a certain Mani tower. There was a story there that I would have to tease out of her one day. My mother Marcella had flown in from Scotland with her second husband, a little overwhelmed by this immersion into Greek life, and finding that Angus was not quite the man who’d once left Scotland. She said he was like a modern-day Odysseus with his 10-year wanderings. But unlike Odysseus he never did go home again. He simply became Greek.

  Phaedra was demonstrably not there! Navigating dark and dreary root canals no doubt, or cementing her relationship with the new contentious love of her life. Po, po, po!

  In the following months, now that Polly had swapped Bondi for the Big Fat Greek Crisis, and was once more a motivating influence in Angus’s life, he finally finished his book and was taken on by a Scottish agent. Eve’s book, set in Scotland, was due out the following spring, a dubious romance titled The Glen of Sorrow, which seemed appropriate given the saga that preceded publication.

  After weeks of mulling over Eve’s book drama, I wasn’t sure any more if Eve had got it completely right about saintly and pernickety Grace. Or if Grace had somehow engineered a final slip-up, with her secretive behaviour over a certain key. It was an outrageous idea, cruel perhaps, but in her final days, when she may have sensed her own demise, did Grace want to set her prodigy a delicious challenge? Or worse, catapult Eve into a literary scandal, for reasons I would never know. I have my own suspicions but my lips, as the Greeks would say, are ‘zippered’. But in my mind, you see, this strange case will never be closed.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to the many friends in Kalamata and the Mani who inspired me to write both the prequel to this novel, A Saint For The Summer, and this one. Grateful thanks to the distinguished Kalamatan historian and writer Nikos I. Zervis (who sadly passed away in 2019 in his eighties) for generously agreeing to meet on several occasions to talk about the Battle of Kalamata, 1941. This battle was a narrative thread running through the prequel and to a minor extent was touched on in this sequel. Nikos was one of the few Greek writers to shine a light on this dark era of Greek war history.

  Many thanks to acclaimed author Peter Kerr for his unstinting support and wise counsel in literary matters.

  Thanks also to Athenian poet and teacher Margarita Nikolopoulou for her advice on Greek subjects, including language. Any errors are mine alone.

  Grateful thanks to my husband Jim for his enthusiasm and encouragement of all my projects and his excellent editorial guidance and formatting of this edition through www.ebooklover.co.uk.

  I am indebted to artist Tony Hannaford for yet another vibrant cover illustration.

  Thanks also to Joanne Meris and Sheila Endersby for an early reading of this book and their kind comments. Finally, I’m grateful to a certain Athenian historian for some Greek political pointers.

  Cornwall, England

  February 2020

  The prequel and Peloponnese series

  If you liked this novel, you may also like the prequel, A Saint For The Summer, and Marjory’s trilogy of Greek travel memoirs (The Peloponnese series), starting with Things Can Only Get Feta, which charts her four years living in the southern Peloponnese during the economic crisis. The sequels are Homer’s Where The Heart Is and A Scorpion In The Lemon Tree.

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  Did you enjoy this book?

  I love to hear from readers and feedback is always appreciated. You can contact me via my website info@bigfatgreekodyssey.com or through my books page on Facebook www.facebook.com/ThingsCanOnlyGetFeta.

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  Praise for Marjory McGinn

  A Saint For The Summer:

  “I absolutely love this book. The writing is spectacular. In my opinion, this is the author’s finest work.” Linda Fagioli Katsiotas, author of The Nifi

  “This story has humour, tragedy, mystery, history tradition religion and even a little romance. A compelling book.” Effie Kammenou, author of the Gift trilogy

  “Marjory McGinn is a skilful writer adept at creating characters that feel like your friends. This story will renew your faith in mankind. You are reminded that all relationships can heal, that we are all connected somehow.” Windy City Greek magazine, Chicago

  “I couldn’t put this book down. The author has made the challenging transition from non-fiction to fiction. It cleverly combines elements of fact with gifted storyteller – a rare combination of skills.” Peter Kerr, best-selling author of the Mallorcan series of novels

  Why readers love A Saint For The Summer:

  “McGinn has hit a home run! I couldn’t put this book down.”

  “An excellent book. I was hooked from the first page.”

  “When I read this author’s books, I walk the journeys, and with this book, I am Bronte.”

  “I loved the characters and found it all so moving.”

  “A brilliant read … there is closure, reconciliation and the hope of new life.”

  “Marjory is a wonderful author, very funny and entertaining.”

  Things Can Only Get Feta:

  “Delightful – Gerald Durrell meets Bill Bryson.” Goodreads reviewer.

  “A book to relax into, written with wonderment, admiration and wit.” Anne Zouroudi, author of the Greek Detective series.

  “This book might become a future reference source about life in ‘unspoilt’ Greece.” Stella Pierides, author and poet.

  “I loved the characters, including Wallace, the colour and life, and the enthusiasm that drives the narrative. It was most enjoyable.” Mark Douglas-Home, author of the Sea Detective novels.

  Homer’s Where The Heart Is:

  “Marjory takes us on an odyssey with mind, heart and great skill.” Pamela Jane Rogers, author of Greekscapes.

  “A fascinating and heart-warming memoir.” Valerie Poore, author of Watery Ways.

  “A book to make your heart sing.” Amazon customer.

  “Marjory is a great storyteller.” Amazon customer.

  A Scorpion In The Lemon Tree:

  “This book is rare within the travel genre. It cleverly combines a travel narrative with enlightened observations about Greece.” Peter Kerr, best-selling author of Snowball Oranges.

  “Her empathy with Greece and refusal to lapse into sentimentality makes this a witty and poignant book.” Richard Clark, author of the Greek Notebook series.

  “I could read this series forever.” Amazon reviewer.

 

 

 
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