by Jo Thomas
Having cleaned myself up and practised the plate stacking a few more times without much success, I hear the crunch of tyres on the stony road outside and the grinding of a handbrake being yanked on. A minibus has pulled up outside the restaurant. It’s silver with a yellow sun and Henderson’s Holidays down the side. This is it. They’re here. I breathe out through my mouth, feeling like a Greek opera singer in an amphitheatre preparing to perform. All I have to do is not drop the plates. Hopefully by the end of this lunch I’ll know exactly where Stelios is and how to find him. I smooth down the apron Yannis has given me, lift my head and wait by the gates.
‘Yassou!’ I say with gusto as they arrive, practically scaring the group half to death. ‘Sorry, that’s all my Greek; we’ll have to revert to English now,’ I say, gesturing to the restaurant by way of a welcome.
A woman with a blonde bun on top of her head, wearing a tight yellow dress and high heels and clearly struggling with her suck-it-all-in magic pants in the heat, looks me up and down guardedly and does the same to the restaurant as she steps into the courtyard. I find myself bristling slightly. This place is beautiful. She must be able to see that. She’s followed by a man in a smart cool suit who says ‘Yassou,’ back to me in perfect Greek and hands me his jacket, revealing a tight-fitting shirt, open at the neck. Another woman and a man follow them, nodding to me and looking around, their eyes drawn upwards as they step into the courtyard, obviously appreciating its beauty but talking in low tones. Lastly a tall man, blond, pushing his wraparound shades up on top of his head.
‘Hi.’ He gives me a friendly smile. ‘This place is great.’ He looks around appreciatively, and I find myself smiling back, my nerves dissolving.
I begin to hand round menus and take drink orders, not necessarily in an organised way. I’m all fingers and thumbs, like I’m at a job interview, juggling my notepad and pen and the menus and dropping the pen into the lap of the lady with the yellow dress. As I apologise and clumsily retrieve it, I wonder what on earth I’m doing here. I was eighteen when I last did this! A lifetime ago!
‘Full of rustic charm,’ the tall blond man says cheerily, giving me another warm smile, and once again I feel my confidence returning. You are thirty-six, for God’s sake, Nell, I think. You have brought up a child and delivered more meals to the kitchen table than you can count. I hand round the rest of the menus and then fetch a large jug of iced water and the rest of the drinks from the bar. I’m feeling a lot more in control when Yannis appears from the kitchen, wiping his hands with a clean tea towel.
‘Welcome to the Wild Thyme, my family’s restaurant,’ he says, and I’m suddenly reminded why I’m here. I’m not really trying to get a job. He explains the daily specials. ‘Everything is grown here, local and in season. Simple ingredients made special by our wonderful mountain herbs. We have lamb tsigariasto, cooked long and slow. This dish used to be made from the wild mountain goats, the kri-kri, but these are now a protected species. This is served with wild horta steamed with olive oil, from our own groves here in Vounoplagia and picked fresh this morning by your waitress here, Nell, on the slopes of the mountain.’ I find myself blushing.
‘Brilliant,’ says the blond man. ‘So . . . rustic!’ He uses the word again. ‘Real old-world charm about this place.’ And I’m hoping it’s still a compliment.
The woman in the yellow dress doesn’t look convinced and takes a sip of water, eyeing her glass suspiciously.
‘We also have soutzoukakia, spicy pork meatballs in garlic, local red wine and tomatoes from my mother’s garden. There is home-made moussaka made to my grandmother’s recipe with aubergine, lamb and local cheese; stuffed peppers; and choclioi.’
‘What’s that?’ the woman in the yellow dress asks.
‘Snails, picked by my father!’ Yannis beams, and the woman grimaces and takes another sip of water.
The blond man orders for everybody, suggesting they’d like to try all the specials. Yannis prepares them a large bowl of Greek salad, with home-made bread, dolmades – vine-wrapped parcels of rice – olives, a cheese dip, tyrokafterí, and tzatziki, a yogurt one. The garlic-and-rosemary sautéed snails are followed by steaming bowls of spicy pork meatballs and slow-cooked lamb, the wild greens glistening with olive oil and lemon. The guests talk between themselves as they eat, encouraged by the tall blond man to try each dish.
The smells are amazing and my stomach rumbles. The blond man laughs heartily.
‘Hope you get yours soon,’ he smiles, dipping bread into his bowl of sauce. ‘It’s very good. And all local and seasonal?’
‘Of course,’ I say, remembering how Yannis introduced the food.
When they have all finished eating, I start to clear the plates, my tongue poking out of the side of my mouth in concentration as I work.
‘Can I help?’ the blond man asks, watching me balance the plates on my hand like I practised earlier. They wobble precariously. I stick my tongue out further. The woman in yellow tuts. I grab the top plate before it falls and put everything back down on the table.
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I tell him, and decide to stack them just as I would have done had it been Demi and her mates eating supper at home. As I pick up the pile, I go to grab a sliding knife, but he gets to it first and puts it back on top.
‘Thank you,’ I say, blowing the hair from my hot face with my bottom lip.
‘Tell me . . . what’s it like around here?’ he asks. ‘What’s to love about this town?’
‘What’s to love?’ I turn and put the pile of dirty plates down on an empty table behind me, then wipe my hands on the apron tied around my middle, covering my cut-off shorts. ‘Well, just look at it.’ I hold up a hand in the direction of the mountain. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, meaning it. ‘The views, the clean air, the sunshine.’ I gather up glasses as I talk.
‘You obviously love it,’ he says, giving me a very white, shiny smile. His light baby-blue eyes smile too.
‘I do.’ I nod thoughtfully. ‘I have loved it here for a very long time.’
‘It’s very quiet,’ he comments, and smiles at me again, right at me. ‘Not too quiet for you?’ His eyes twinkle and my stomach does a little jump. Is he flirting with me? I blush.
‘You wouldn’t say that if you heard the racket on the mountain at night,’ I say without thinking, and immediately regret it. Some help I am! Maria and Kostas want tourists to come, not be scared away. Duh!
‘Oh?’ He tilts his head with interest.
‘Oh, y’know, kids,’ I say. ‘Just messing about, I expect . . . It’s a very quiet town. Almost nothing happens here,’ which is sort of true, I tell myself. ‘Very soon we’ll have our own honey factory up and running again on the mountain,’ I tell him. ‘The honey has magical health benefits. People will come for miles for it.’ I find myself gabbling and wish I could stop.
‘Really?’ he says with interest. ‘Well, you’ve certainly sold Vounoplagia to me. This is definitely the sort of place I’d like to bring more tourists from my holiday company.’ He looks at me. ‘Henderson’s Holidays. I’m Harry Henderson. Let me know about the honey factory when it opens,’ he says as he slips a business card into the front pocket of my apron.
‘I will,’ I say.
‘Or maybe we could meet for a drink and you could tell me more about this magical healthy honey, or anything else that might be of interest to tourists here.’ He smiles again as I nod and turn away, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face as I make my way back to the kitchen with a pile of dirty plates and a little spring in my step.
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ Yannis says as he finishes arranging a huge plate of fresh fruit for dessert.
‘I think I am,’ I say. I’ve managed to waitress again for the first time in years, and to flag up the honey factory to a big holiday company who want to bring their tourists to see it. And I�
��ve been asked out on what I think is a date! Maybe I’m not so washed up after all.’
The tip Harry Henderson leaves puts an even bigger smile on my face. I try to share it with Yannis, but he refuses, telling me I’ve earned it. I add it to my wages. It feels good to have some money in my pocket. I look around the restaurant, sad to see it so empty again. It would be great for the town if more people like the table today came out here.
Yannis hands me a glass of cold water and I lean against the bar. This is my opportunity. ‘So . . . it’s just you and your dad here usually?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘And my mother sometimes, but not often these days. My sister lives in the city with her husband and her kids. Then of course there’s my grandmother, Demetria, and believe me, you don’t want to run into her when she’s in a bad mood.’ He laughs, but I suddenly freeze.
‘Your grandmother is Demetria?’
‘Yes,’ he nods. ‘A formidable woman.’
Stelios’s grandmother was called Demetria. Could it be? Is she really still alive? And if Demetria is Yannis’s grandmother . . . my brain slowly processes the information . . . that makes Yannis Stelios’s brother! His much younger brother! So he isn’t Stelios’s son after all.
My brain goes into overdrive. Where is Stelios? Could it be that he isn’t married with a family after all? And if not, why did he not come after me? A tiny, treacherous glimmer of hope rises up in me. I need to stay and find out more.
‘I could work some more shifts if you like,’ I say to Yannis. The palpitations start again. I could get found out at any moment. I feel like I’m spying, but I do need to know where Stelios is, and to speak to him. And when I do, what then? Will he be delighted I’ve gone to all this effort, or will I be a cuckoo in the nest?
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t pay you . . .’ Yannis shrugs and shakes his head.
‘It’s fine. I enjoyed it. I can work for tips if you like. Something is always better than nothing.’
‘You’d work for tips?’ He doesn’t seem able to believe his luck, and I can understand why. ‘Don’t you have your hands full working for Maria and Kostas?’ he asks.
‘Well, I have chores to do in the morning – watering the herbs on the farm and collecting the horta – but mostly I’ve been scrubbing out the honey factory, and that’s nearly ready. Kostas has worked really hard making new hives and planting out the herbs to bring the bees in. But until they come,’ it’s my turn to shrug, ‘we can’t make any honey. I’m free at lunchtimes and afternoons until the bees return.’ I smile.
‘Please,’ he says, gesturing towards the long bench filled with cushions. ‘Please, come and sit down.’ He looks serious, and I wonder if I’ve been found out already. I clutch my bag to me and follow him. He turns over a glass and fills it with white wine from a carafe in a small glass-fronted fridge by the kitchen entrance. ‘Please.’ He gestures again to the seat. ‘Sit. I’ll be back.’
He disappears to the kitchen and I take the time to look around the beautiful courtyard once again. Shaded from the glare of the hot afternoon sun, I lean into the cushions plumped behind my back, which, if I’m honest, is aching a bit. I’m not sure if it’s from picking the wild horta, scrubbing the honey factory, walking up the mountain or riding the moped down it. Should I really be doing this? But I can’t just come out with ‘Where’s your brother?’ without raising suspicion. I rub the back of my neck to smooth out the tension there.
At that moment my phone chirps into life with a text. It’s from Demi.
Will be working tonight, can’t talk. All fine. D x
She’s sent it with a picture of herself pulling a daft face and a thumbs-up. I sigh and smile wearily. This why I’m still here. I have to let her do her own thing and just be there if she needs me, I tell myself. I send her a couple of kisses back and then, knowing that no one is looking, put the phone to my lips, hoping that she realises how much I love her.
To distract myself I photograph the courtyard, pointing my phone upwards to get in the second level of seating with its white tablecloths and candles and the sun pouring in through the open roof, and text it to Angelica with a kiss for Gracie too. Angelica sends me back a photo of the factory, stripped bare and full of workmen.
I scroll through other images whilst I wait for Yannis, photos of Demi smiling, pouting, running along the beach on a day trip to Porthcawl, sandy bunches and a gap where her tooth had fallen out. I’ve never found the right time to tell her about Stelios. We were fine. Even after Nan died we were a tight little unit, Demi, me, Gracie and Angelica. She believed her father was just a holiday romance, and it seemed easier that way.
Just being here now, I feel close to him. Even though I still don’t know why he never came for me. I touch the pendant tucked inside my T-shirt. Was it because I wasn’t the only one? Did he give these necklaces to every girl he met? I sigh. Even if I wasn’t the love of his life, I have to tell him about our beautiful, independent, strong-willed daughter . . .
‘Everything OK?’ Yannis is standing in front of me, staring down at the phone.
‘Yes, fine.’ I blink a lot, hoping he won’t notice my watery eyes. He is standing with lots of little plates balanced on his hands and up his wrists, just like I attempted to do earlier and nowhere near as competently. He places them in front of me and then turns over another glass and sits down.
He holds out a hand to the food. ‘Staff perks! Leftovers!’ he beams. The smells are delicious, making my stomach rumble again, even louder than before. I hold it, embarrassed, and he laughs. There are small dishes of spicy meatballs, smelling of cumin, cloves and cinnamon; olive-oil-soaked baked peppers, brimming with fluffy rice; artichokes and broad beans in chunky red sauce; glistening dark-green vine-wrapped parcels, and bubbling cheese-topped moussaka. ‘It’s the least I can do. Besides, you need to be able to tell the customers how each dish tastes if you’re going to help me here. And with my father out of action, you’ve saved the day.’
‘So you want me to help out?’
‘Absolutely.’ He smiles and holds up his glass. ‘I need help here, sure, but I also need to get customers into the restaurant. I need someone to be on the street, pointing them down here. I’ll pay you a percentage of all the bills from the customers you get in. How’s that?’
‘Deal!’ I confirm, and we clink glasses. I suddenly feel like I’m standing at the top of a black ski run, knowing it’s going to be a bumpy ride but that there’s no other way down. The more regularly I’m here, the sooner I’m going to come across Stelios. I have to do it. I have to know if Stelios ever thought of me . . . or of Demi.
‘Hurry up! Time to finish in here for the day!’ Maria is standing in the doorway of the honey factory, where I’ve been cleaning and scrubbing all morning. The surfaces, the honey spinner, the big settling tank and the jars, washed and rewashed to keep the dust at bay, are all ready for when the bees arrive.
She gasps. ‘You’ve done brilliantly!’ She looks around the scrubbed work surfaces and rows of clean jars. The honey spinner – or extractor, to use its proper name – takes centre stage in the middle of the room. ‘This is where we will bring the honeycomb from the hives,’ she explains. ‘We scrape off the wax that covers each hexagonal cell, and then we put the wooden frame from the hive in here and we spin.’ She turns the big handle on top of the circular metal bin that I’ve scrubbed to within an inch of its life. ‘After that, we strain it over there,’ she points, ‘and put it into the jars. And that’s it. Pure, natural wild herb honey.’ She claps her hands together. ‘We are ready!’
I pull my hands from the soap-sud-filled sink and peel off my rubber gloves. I have been here for just over four weeks and I have quite a routine going now. I get up early and water the herbs, then check the hives for signs of life – still none yet – before a breakfast of yoghurt with figs from the trees outside my bedroom. The sharpness of the yogh
urt awakes my senses. I eat out on the front terrace watching the sun start to fill the sky over the sea.
After breakfast, I go to the lower slopes to collect the wild horta, taking time to watch the golden eagles circling round the peak as I look out for signs of bees. As the day heats up, I head for the cool of the honey factory to continue cleaning. It’s been like the Forth Bridge. No sooner have I cleaned one area than another seems to need doing all over again, everything covered with the dry yellow dust that the wind blows in.
At lunchtime, I grab the makings of dakos: double-baked bread, tomatoes, crumbly white cheese and a few olives; or a bowl of Maria’s wonderful soup that seems to be ever constant on the stove, then head out to Vounoplagia on the moped, always keeping my eyes peeled for Stelios.
I feel for Yannis; he’s trying so hard to drum up regular trade. Each day we stand by the front gates, hoping to encourage people in with a small pile of flyers. But no one is passing. There hasn’t been another big group at the restaurant since the table from Henderson’s Holidays.
Earlier this week a group of four American tourists stopped to make a booking. They wanted to drive up to the mountain first, take in the views, maybe walk up. ‘My mother told me about the herbs on this mountain. The best in the whole region,’ said one of the women in the group.
‘Well . . .’ I started to tell them it might not be quite as they’d been told. Should I warn them not to go too high up, to stick to the lower slopes like the rest of us do?
‘We’ll go and have a look, and then we’ll be back.’
But no sooner had they reached the vantage point than I heard gunshots coming from the mountain, and minutes later, they were slewing their way back down through the town, leaving it twice as fast as they’d arrived, looks of horror and disgust on their pale faces.
This town is never going to recover until someone puts a stop to what is going on up there. Someone is terrorising the mountain and I have no idea why. I tap the flyers in my hand. I’ve tried to ask Yannis about what he thinks is going on, but like Kostas and Maria, he tells me that no one knows and everyone seems too nervous to find out.