by Jo Thomas
From high up on the mountain a round of what sounds like gunshots rings out. I look at Maria and Kostas for an explanation; they look at each other.
‘It happens, there’s nothing to worry about,’ Maria says. ‘It’s way up on the mountaintop. Please, don’t be scared off like the tourists have been. No one has been hurt. You are safe, I promise.’ She looks at me earnestly, worried that I’m going to pack up and leave, no doubt. I smile.
‘Where I live, on a Saturday night at pub closing, it’s like the Wild West!’ I joke.
Kostas tops up my wine glass and Maria offers me the platter of fruit, looking relieved. I gaze back up at the mountain, appalled that some sort of gang is keeping people – honest people who have lived here all their lives – from making a living. Well, I intend to do the best I can whilst I’m here.
When the sun sets, it gets dark, really dark, like someone’s thrown a blanket over the world, and the stars look like bright crystals decorating a deep velvet sky. As I make my way to my bedroom, though, I can still make out the shape of the mountain, standing over us. I don’t know if it’s protecting us or intimidating us, but it’s always there.
I pull my case out from under my bed and take out the photographs I’ve brought with me. Then, feeling ridiculous but unable to stop myself, I find Hamish, Demi’s little teddy bear, and hold him to me, like I’m holding her close. It feels so strange to be back here, and to be without Demi. Now that I’ve seen the town again, though, confronted by all those memories, I need answers. Yet I can’t just go straight down there and find Stelios and ask how he’s doing. I need to make sure I don’t give myself away too soon, keep my head down.
In the distance I hear the gunshots again and a dog barking. What on earth is going on? We really are in the middle of nowhere here. I shiver again and make a mental note to leave the bathroom light on, just to keep out the dark and whatever might be lurking out there.
There’s a thick mist rolling round the farm the following morning like a cloak. I wake to the sound of bleating goats in the field outside my window. After a bowl of creamy, tart yoghurt with a drizzle of the honey Maria insists I have from the last of their limited supplies, I want to get stuck in to my chores straight away. Filling a bucket with soapy water, I drop a scrubbing brush into the bubbles with a splosh. Sleeves rolled up on my checked shirt, hair tied on top of my head with a red spotted bandana, looking like a fifties housewife, I’m ready to head towards the sad, empty honey factory.
Just before I head down the path, past where Maria is milking the goats and Kostas is rotavating and planting herbs, I take a moment to look up to the peak of the mountain, then back the other way to the distant sea, where the sun is starting to sparkle on the water like someone’s dropped a pot of glitter there. The only sounds are the bleating of the goats, the hush of the breeze in the pine trees, and the gentle mooing of the beautiful brown-eyed Cretan cows, who watch us from their field on the slope above the farm.
This is so far from my life back home. On a normal day I’d be getting up, shooing Demi off to school, cutting it fine as usual, then rushing out the door to the factory, promising myself I’d tidy up as soon as I got in and be more organised tomorrow. In the evening, if I wasn’t seeing Mike, I’d sit down with one of my favourite DVDs, knowing the next day would be just the same. My only pleasure came from the world I escaped to on the screen. And now here I am, as if I’m in one of those films!
Pulling back the doors of the honey factory is like opening up the decaying mansion and finding Miss Havisham in her wedding dress. Nothing has been touched for over ten years, Maria told me, perhaps more. I look around at the enormity of the task. There are piles of dusty jars covered in cobwebs. A huge vat with a turning handle on top that looks rusted up. Another tank that needs cleaning inside and out. There are shelves covered in dust, cupboards and boxes full of jars, lids and labels. I take a deep breath and decide to start by pulling out the ferns from the stone walls, cutting back the fig tree growing there too and then dropping to all fours to start scrubbing off the moss. If we are going to make and store honey here, it needs to be spick and span.
By the end of my first morning, I ache so much I can barely straighten myself up, let alone walk anywhere. Kostas comes across from the workshop to help me close up for lunch. We are walking together back up the track, discussing the design of his beehives, when suddenly he stops and stands stock still. His eyes widen in a mixture of excitement and fear and his cheeks start to quiver.
‘Kostas? What’s the matter?’ I ask, looking round to see what’s caught his attention.
He doesn’t reply; just looks this way and that and then turns and starts to stumble across the field, tripping over rocks in his haste and pointing up at the sky.
‘B . . . b . . . b . . . !’ I hear it first – a buzzing noise, getting louder and closer – and then I see it. A moving black cloud, shifting shape in the sky, heading towards us. I’m no expert but I’m guessing this is a swarm of bees; an angry swarm of bees. I freeze, backing into the corner of the open-sided shed, and stand flattened against the corrugated wall. I feel my heart start to race and my palms sweat, because those bees don’t look like they are popping in for a friendly chat. I hold my breath, and to my relief they fly straight over the shed.
I turn to look at Kostas, halfway up the side of the valley, to see him beaming from ear to ear.
‘Now all we have to do is get them to come and live here!’ he says with crazed excitement. He holds his arms out wide. ‘If we build it, they will come!’
Back at the farmhouse, after our close encounter with the flying squad, Maria ladles a soup of fat white beans, chunky carrots and celery, tomato and paprika into large round bowls.
‘Fasolada,’ she tells me.
We carry the bowls and basket of fresh warm bread out to the shaded table. ‘Delicious,’ I tell Maria, finishing my bowl and accepting seconds from the big pot. As we finish, I stand to help clear away.
‘Leave those, I can do them. It’s the afternoon; your time off. Why not go and explore? You can take my moped; it’s easy,’ she says, smiling mischievously.
I nod confidently, though never having ridden a moped before, I have no idea if I can do it, particularly when my muscles are so sore after a long morning scrubbing the walls in the honey factory. But if I’m going to find out if Stelios is still here, it seems to be the only way of getting around.
‘Are there any jobs I can do for you while I’m out?’
‘Well, you could deliver the goat’s milk to the cheese factory just on the other side of town.’ Maria smiles.
‘Of course, no problem!’ I tell her, wiping my hands down my shorts, wondering how I’m going to ride a moped carrying a bucket of milk.
This is it! I’m actually going to do it. I’m going to drive into town, retrace those steps from my past that I’ve dreamed about so often. Maria hands me her open-faced helmet from a hook on the back of the kitchen door.
‘Wear this,’ she says, looking at my shaking hands. ‘You’ll be fine as long as you take care. The moped may be easy to ride but the roads are . . . well, less easy. And the tourists don’t always take the care they should,’ she adds with solemnity.
I take the helmet and put it on, doing up the strap under my chin. Then I pick up the milk and head outside.
And as I straddle the moped, my back and legs ache and I realise I might actually be about to see Stelios again, face to face, And I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to say or do.
The little moped roars into life, louder than I was expecting; like Georgios’s terrier, small but with a loud bark and plenty of attitude. Maria steps away, having shown me how to start it, and I give myself a pat on the back. I’ve managed to get the key in and pressed the ignition button. It’s a start. Now all I have to do is work out how to actually steer and ride it. Can’t be that different fr
om a bicycle. Suddenly the engine erupts, belches and farts, scaring the life out of me.
‘It does that!’ Maria waves a tea towel and grins madly from where she’s standing with Mitera by the front door. ‘Don’t worry!’ Kostas is watching too, looking very worried. They are like proud parents witnessing their child take a first bike ride without stabilisers, full of trepidation and faith.
I focus really hard on the handles I’m gripping. I just have to open the throttle and . . . whooaaa! The bike shoots forward like a racer snake. I stick my legs out either side and lift them as it wobbles violently from side to side. It’s not like a bike! And it doesn’t slow down when I try and put my feet on the floor to get some control over the damn thing. Instead it snakes around this way and that, chucking up a cloud of orange dust. Lots of it, making me cough. I take my hand off the throttle to wave away the dust and stop suddenly.
I try it a few more times: stop, start, stop, start. Maria comes forward with the stainless-steel milk churn and slides it on to the footplate in front of me.
‘Go!’ She waves and smiles. ‘Go and explore! Go and see the island!’
I don’t wave back for fear of what will happen if I take my hands off the handlebars. But I do slowly open up the throttle, focusing on going in a straight line. I lift my feet and balance them either side of the cold milk churn, wedging it into place, and I’m off! Heading down the little dirt track to the road, hand on the brake, squeezing it and squeezing it, and then quickly trying to remember which side of the road to drive on. It’s not the actual driving of the moped that’s the hard part, I discover as I quickly get my balance; it’s the steep incline that’s the problem. I keep my hand on the brake, discovering that if I do lots of little squeezes it slows me down more than one long one, despite the jerky stop-starting of the bike.
But I’m out on the road, on my way. The wind in my face, the milk churn balancing between my feet, and in the background I can just about hear Mitera, Maria and Kostas laughing over the high-pitched whine of my brakes. This will give me something to talk to Demi about if she Skypes tonight.
At a sharp bend in the road, I stop the bike and stand with my feet either side of the footplate next to one of the ornate little houses with a lit candle in it. I remember this place from my drive up here with Georgios. On one side of the road is a sheer rock face; on the other, the ground drops away sharply to a deep gorge filled with twisted, wind-blown olive trees and tall green firs. I can smell the pines like someone has waved smelling salts under my nose, reviving me. There are needles all over the road, and the odd cone too. I bend down to pick one up and hold it to my lips. Then I stretch my neck to try and see the bottom of the gorge, but my head spins just looking at the drop, so I pull back. From a safe distance, it’s one of the most beautiful views I have ever seen.
I set off again, feeling like Thelma and Louise on a road trip. Following the twists and turns in the road, I stop and start all the way down, getting the occasional rush of confidence before panicking that the bike is out of control and practically braking to a stop. It would have been quicker to walk at this rate! I finally manage a comfortable speed, relaxing enough to start leaning slightly with the movement of the bike; not easy with a milk churn balanced on the footplate. I swing round a corner confidently and smoothly, feeling pleased with myself, and am about to straighten up when almost immediately I have to swerve round a pile of rocks that have slid on to the road from the mountain on my right. Once again I catch a glimpse of the drop below. I glance down to adjust the milk churn, which has slipped, and look back up just as I hit a pothole, which nearly unseats both me and the churn. I wobble violently this way and that before catching the churn between my feet and righting myself.
Oh God, I hope Demi isn’t out doing something as stupid as riding one of these. But I know one thing. If I can ride this bike on these roads, whilst balancing a milk churn, then I’m pretty sure I can get that honey factory up and running again.
As I arrive in the outskirts of Vounoplagia, rows of square two-storey houses start to pop up, nestled into the gentle slopes. The road widens enough for two cars to pass comfortably. I drive slowly towards town, the hot sun beating down on the road, throwing up the smell of melting tarmac. But at least it is a tarmac road and not the stony dirt-covered track up to the farm. I start to enjoy the feeling of the little tyres trundling me along as I approach the square white church with the big brass bell over the door.
All the shops are open, displaying their wares, and the restaurants have blackboards outside and orange charcoal glowing in the barbecues awaiting grill orders. But still no one is browsing, eating or shopping. As I pass, my red hair poking out from the back of my helmet giving away my foreign roots, my moped farting and belching, the locals stop and stare. So much for keeping a low profile.
I follow Maria’s directions to the farm on the other side of town, where the local cheesemaker has his factory, and deliver the milk, unspilled, to the elderly man there with a nod and a few basic words of Greek that I manage to draw up from the depths of my memory. Then I take the empty churn and head back towards town, the road’s familiar twists and turns drawing me in.
I stop at the supermarket, a little smarter and bigger since the last time I was here, but emptier too by the looks of it. I park the bike, my thighs still vibrating, and look around. Stelios could be anywhere. I glance back towards the shop, and my heart quickens as I turn and head for the doors. When I push them open, I’m hit by that familiar smell of strong cheese and the sound of whirring fridges and freezers working their hardest. It’s cool on the tiled floor, and I pull off my helmet and shake out my hair.
‘Kalispera,’ says the man sitting behind the counter watching the world go by. But it’s not him. It’s not Stelios. In fact, there’s no one else in the little supermarket, and my heart drops back down to its usual rhythm.
‘Kalispera,’ I attempt, and he nods and smiles. I grab a cold bottle of water from the full fridge and a postcard to send to Gracie, and pay for them both.
‘On holiday?’ he asks hopefully in stilted English.
I shake my head and take a much-needed swig from the water bottle. ‘Working, with Maria and Kostas, on their farm.’ I point up the mountain.
His face drops momentarily, but then he smiles again. ‘Well, welcome to Vounoplagia.’ He holds his arms out proudly, and I can’t help but smile back and thank him. ‘I am Samir. Here to help.’
I take another sip of water and wonder whether to ask about Stelios and his family. Are they still at the restaurant? Does he know Stelios? But I don’t want to go jumping in there with both feet. I don’t want to scare Stelios off, so I hang back.
‘Thank you. Efharisto,’ I say, and return to the moped.
As I finish my water, I stand and gaze out over the trees below. It’s not quite such a good view as the one from the farm, but it’s still amazing, and it hasn’t changed since I was here last. I look around. Two men standing on the pavement opposite are openly discussing my arrival in the town, and the woman outside the tablecloth shop leans on her stick and stares at me. Well, I’m here, I tell myself. I might as well go and look. See if the place is still there. I climb back on to the moped, my thighs feeling the vibrations all over again, and roll off, more smoothly this time.
Approaching a fork in the road, I slow down and instinctively stick my feet out before heading down a narrow cobbled street. Immediately I see a difference in the houses. These are older, bigger and have Venetian-style arches with wrought-iron fences and gates. There are orange trees in the front gardens and beautiful purple bougainvillea growing over terraces facing out on to the road and in the direction of the sea. Behind them the mountain sits looking dark and sulky, as if the houses have turned their backs on it, ignoring its glowering mood. On the left-hand side of the road, lower down the slope, the houses are smaller, whitewashed and built around the incline of the mountai
n. The streets that lead off this lane are not wide enough even for one car to pass. The cobbles are worn and rounded and the rusting metal handrails shiny from hundreds of years of use.
I slow to a stop to let a man with a billy goat and two female goats pass. He is wearing a thick woollen jacket and hat despite the heat of the day and carrying a long stick, though he doesn’t seem to need it. He looks at me as if I have two heads, his mouth falling open slightly, then misses his footing before righting himself and carrying on, still staring back at me. Honestly, you’d think I was some kind of celebrity, the way people keep gawping.
I take a deep breath and look down the narrow street. There in front of me are the wrought-iron gates of the restaurant, looking just as they did when I was here eighteen years ago.
I have to think about this. Am I really going to just walk in and say, ‘Hi, I’m back, remember me?’ I stand and stare for what seems a very long time. Then, from the restaurant, I hear voices – well, one voice. A man’s voice, raised as if in disagreement. I have no idea what I’m going to say or how I’m going to play this, and instinctively I turn the moped around and start it up again, suddenly panicking that I’m going to be seen. I just don’t feel ready. Not yet. I need to find out more about his life before I go strolling in and reintroduce myself. I have to work out how to do it, and today was just the start.
My days at Maria and Kostas’s very quickly fall into a pattern. I wake early and work in the field whilst it’s still cool, helping Kostas, watering and tending the herbs he’s planted there and helping to plant more. Then Kostas works on his beehives, bringing them out one by one as they’re finished and proudly putting them into position. Each day he checks the hives and I watch from a distance at the entrance to the honey factory, waiting for the thumbs-up. But every morning I get a shake of the head. No bees have come. He checks the skies, and as each day passes he gets more and more impatient. ‘Why do they not come?’ he wails. All I can do is sympathise and go back to scrubbing down the work surfaces in the factory.