The Honey Farm on the Hill: Escape to sunny Greece in this perfect summer read!

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Please, have some water,’ Maria implores. My hair is tied back with a bandana, one of Demi’s cast-offs from the big bin liner of stuff she gave me to take to the charity shop before she left. It’s hot, even in the barn, and I feel myself dip and sway. A hand shoots out and catches me by the elbow, supporting me and guiding me away from the shelves. Usually I’d shake it off, unused to help, but today I’m grateful. My body sags. I’ve cried and cried, and there’s nothing left in me.

  ‘Come up to the terrace,’ Maria says. ‘Have something to eat and drink.’ She guides me outside and back up to the shade of the table and chairs where the cats are in their usual place, lying in the cool. I rub my dirty hands over my face and peel my vest top from my sweaty back. Everything aches, but the physical pain feels good; it distracts me from the anguish I’m feeling. Is it the shock of learning that Stelios is dead that’s made me so upset? Or sadness for what might have been? Or the memories I’ve raked up for his family? My mind is spinning.

  ‘It was quite a day for you yesterday, from what Georgios said. You ran off so quickly from the restaurant.’ Maria tops up my glass.

  I sip the water and stare down the valley, in between the mountains to the coast, as if watching my past drift out to sea. Maria sits beside me in the shade of the covered terrace.

  ‘Oof,’ she says as her bottom lands on the bench. She hardly ever sits down. She’s always working.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset anyone,’ I find myself stammering.

  ‘So, you and Stelios . . . you were close?’ Maria asks, filling her own glass with water. ‘I don’t get to the crocheting circle much, as you can see. I didn’t know there was any talk in the town about you being here until Agatha, from the tablecloth shop . . . well, she thought she remembered, but her memory is a little hazy these days without her mountain tea. “The red-headed girl from the UK,” she said. “Stelios’s last love.”’

  I feel my heart swell at that. ‘Yes.’ I swallow. ‘I spent the summer working in the resort down there.’ I nod.

  ‘So how does it feel coming back?’ She smiles gently.

  I look at her, and then back to the sea again. ‘In some ways it hasn’t changed at all,’ I say. ‘But then again, in lots of ways it has, if that makes any sense.’

  She nods. ‘The town . . . it’s dying. A bit like its population.’ She laughs, and I do too, in surprise at her black humour. ‘No one wants to make the effort to go into the mountains any more. The tourists stay in their resorts down by the coast where they have everything they need. All their food, their drinks. When Stelios died, it was like the town died with him. We couldn’t even go back up the mountain if we wanted to now, not until whatever is going on up there stops and the people keeping us away leave.’

  I think about Georgios, knowing what’s going on up there, and feel my shoulders stiffen. The injustice of it all weighs on me.

  ‘Since Stelios died, Yannis has tried to make the restaurant work, but there are no visitors. I think before long he will have to close. I don’t think his heart is in it. All the other young people, his friends, moved away a long time ago. And if we can’t get the bees to come, and the honey to flow again, then I guess we’ll have to move to the city too.’ She looks around. ‘This is the only thing we have ever known. But without the tourists, without the businesses . . . Vounoplagia, the town, the mountain, it will die.’

  We both sip at our water at the same time, lost in our own thoughts. I think of Stelios and how ashamed he would be if he knew what Georgios was doing, ruining his family’s livelihood by helping out the gang in the mountains, whoever they might be, creating fear and worry for poor people like Maria and Kostas who don’t deserve it.

  Maria gets to her feet. ‘Would you walk with me down the hill?’ She pauses, then says, ‘I would like to show you Stelios’s shrine, on the roadside, if you’d care to see it.’

  I look up at her kind round face as she stands next to me. I feel I have made a real friend here.

  ‘I’d . . . like that very much.’ My voice cracks.

  As we walk down the hill, I think of how I wobbled and swerved my way down here that first day riding the moped. We stop on the sharp bend. There is a tree clinging to the mountain edge as if for dear life, and I step forward, putting my hand on its trunk, and look over the edge. A few loose stones fall over the edge and tumble, accelerating into the bushy green depths below. Maria grabs hold of my elbow. ‘Be careful,’ she warns.

  Above us I can just see Maria and Kostas’s farm and the field of Cretan cows, Georgios’s above that, and then the mountaintop where the cave is. I look back at Maria. She is holding her hand out towards the beautiful little wooden house right on the bend. So this is Stelios’s shrine. I have passed it so many times driving into town, trying to search him out.

  ‘It is made from the wood of the olive trees,’ she tells me, ‘by hand.’ She opens the front of the beautifully carved shrine and holds out a candle to me, and a wick to light it. I take them from her. Tears fill my eyes again, but this time they stay there; they don’t gush like earlier.

  The lit wick flicks and flacks in the wind, and Maria holds her hands around it, smiling as I try and light the candle. Finally the little blue flame takes and I place the candle in the box, next to the small picture of Stelios, just as I remember him. I smile at it.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper to Maria. She nods and smiles.

  ‘So, you will stay on?’ she asks quietly.

  I feel so connected to Stelios here. I want to talk about my daughter, tell Maria how much she looks like him. But right now I can barely speak.

  ‘Yes, I’ll stay,’ I manage. There’s no question in my mind. I have to finish what I’ve started. My eyes sting with unshed tears. Maria wipes them with a hanky she’s pulled from the front of her apron. I look down and see she is still wearing her slippers, and it makes me smile.

  ‘I want to help,’ I say, but what I really mean is that I want to make sure Georgios is stopped.

  ‘We just need the honey to come back to the mountains. Then the town will find happiness again.’

  I nod with her, and we gaze down at Vounoplagia below us. I can see the supermarket, the twisting high street, the old school and, if I’m not mistaken, Georgios’s truck in the car park. As I watch, he climbs out, his slight limp just evident, and walks towards another car, from which a man gets out to greet him. They shake hands, and then, looking around him warily, Georgios reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. He hands it to the man, who sniffs it and nods. He shakes Georgios’s hand, and then both men get back in their cars and drive off in different directions. As if I needed any more convincing that he was up to no good! A sense of injustice stirs within me crossly. Something has to be done.

  Later that evening there are gunshots from the mountain again. Rounds and rounds fired off. We all look at each other as we sit around the table, but no one speaks.

  Just before we say our goodnights, there’s a gentle knock at the farmhouse door. I go to stand to open it, but Mitera is up like Usain Bolt from her chair, sprinting across the room, slipping her teeth in as she goes. It’s as if she’s expecting someone. She throws back the door and sticks her head out, craning to look left and right. But there’s no one there, just a small bundle of dittany tied with a crocheted ribbon. Her shoulders dip with disappointment. Who is this person who leaves the dittany? Why do we never see them? I wonder how long this has been going on. Spitting her teeth back out and putting them in her overall pocket, Mitera hands the bundle to Maria and shuffles off to bed.

  I have no idea how, but I mean to put a stop to the goings-on up on the mountain, and I can’t leave until it’s done, I think, as another round of shots goes off in the distance. I need to find out exactly what Georgios is up to.

  The next morning I get up early again and pull on a warm hoodie. It’s been another d
readful night where I dreamed of Demi and this time Stelios as well. We were at the burning factory, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t reach them to save them. Their outstretched hands were just out of my reach before slipping away. I try and shake off the memory and push myself out into the early-morning mist, low and thick, the greenery covered in heavy dew. I pull back my hair and stuff it into my baseball cap, and slap on sun cream. It may feel cold out here now, but by mid-morning the mist will have burned off and the sun will beat down, despite the north-westerly wind.

  After watering the herbs and checking the still-empty hives, I start to make my way back up the hill to the other side of the valley that runs right through the heart of the farm, past the stream, where I fill up my water bottle, and then into the cows’ enclosure, where I can cut through to the road above. Georgios’s small farm is to the right and the mountain path straight ahead. The cows watch me and start to make their way towards me in a line through the pine trees, nudging and nuzzling me with their soft noses for the dried carob pods that they know I carry.

  I smile, and pay special attention to a cow with a boisterous calf at her heels, making sure they both get some of the carob, rubbing them between the ears. The mother looks at me with her big brown eyes as the youngster barges around her back legs.

  ‘None of these little ones come with a handbook!’ I tell her, and find myself smiling.

  Once my pockets are empty, I push on up to the wire fencing at the top of the field, the wind picking up the orange grit from the dusty road, making it swirl and my eyes sting. I hold my arm over my face. I know now why Georgios wears that scarf. The very thought of him makes my mood darken and my hackles rise.

  I undo the string holding the wire panels together and let myself out of the field, retying it tightly. As I look to the right, I notice that Georgios’s truck is missing. A sudden thought strikes me. If I want to find out what he’s up to, this could be my chance. I could just look around his farm while he’s away and – I can’t believe I’m thinking it – maybe even his house! My heart jumps into my mouth and a big bass drum starts beating loudly in the space where it used to be. There’s no one here but me. If he is one of the men up there with guns, warning people away, there’s bound to be some proof of it in his house.

  Instead of heading up the worn steps of the mountain path straight ahead, I do one more quick look around, then, with a sudden rush of impetuousness and no further thought, change direction, towards Georgios’s house. The big bass drum accompanies me with every step I take.

  I pass his goats and sheep in their enclosure – a temporary-looking fence, presumably so they can be moved from spot to spot on the mountainside to take in new grazing. Who’d’ve thought I’d be getting hands-on with goats and cows instead of reindeer with light-up noses? The place is completely deserted and quiet, and I feel like I’m the only person alive. Which is good, seeing as I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. The only sound comes from the eagles circling the mountain peaks and the rustle of the wind in the trees. I take a picture and send it to Gracie and Angelica, and then to Demi. As I do, one of the goats comes inquisitively up to the fence, bleating at me, breaking the silence, probably wondering if I’m going to feed her. Then the sheep on either side of her join in.

  ‘Oh God! No! Ssh!’ I say, my heart thundering. I wave my hands at them. ‘Please, shush!’ I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. I thrust my hand into my hoodie pocket and fish out the carob crumbs, throwing them into the pen. Then, as the animals turn away from me and start snaffling the dried scraps, I turn and run, heart still thundering, into the shadows of the small stone house.

  In front of the low wooden door, I stop and listen. The house is small but looks to be on two levels. I give a gentle knock and listen again. Hearing nothing, I call, ‘Hello?’ then put my sweating hand on the wrought-iron handle and give the door a gentle push. It swings open. This is so unlike me, snooping – breaking in, a voice in my head says sternly – around someone else’s house. But I need to know more. There must be some kind of proof in here that it is Georgios stopping us getting on to the mountain, stopping me from finding and cultivating the dittany plant that could save the honey factory. I know this is madness; I shouldn’t be doing it. But the town is suffering. They need help. I can’t just stand by and do nothing.

  I step down into the dark room and my eyes adjust almost immediately. Inside it’s just one room, with a fireplace built into the corner and a small black wood burner. The walls are whitewashed and uneven; it looks like it was once a barn or an animal shelter. There are varnished wooden beams across the ceiling. At the far end is a huge picture window with double doors facing out over the valley and the mountains beyond, which are covered in patches of firs, olive trees and shrubs. A small hand-crafted wooden balcony stretches out over the edge of the mountainside. There’s a wrought-iron table and two chairs, and a stone fire pit with a well-used griddle lying over it and burnt-out embers in its belly. It’s like a postcard, and for a moment I forget that I’m snooping around somebody else’s house – or breaking in, as the stern voice reminds me again.

  Off and over the kitchen in the corner is a rustic wooden staircase with hand-crafted rails like the ones outside. On the whitewashed walls of the kitchen area there are shelves made from tree branches, whittled and polished. There’s a small cooker, and a red coffee pot on top of the stove. I walk around the table, made from wood to match the shelves, olive wood like the walls of Stelios’s shrine . . . Stelios’s shrine. I still can’t believe he’s dead. All this time I thought he had a new life, a wife maybe, children, a business. Whilst I have been plodding on, getting on with everyday life, he never even made it out of the starting blocks. The cloak of sadness wraps itself tightly around me again.

  By the fire is a little stool, with curls of wood shavings and sawdust around its feet, and an abandoned branch and sandpaper. But that’s it. There is nothing else here. I’m going to have to go higher.

  I walk over to the staircase and put a foot on the bottom rung. With the fear and trepidation of a trainee tightrope walker, I tentatively climb the next step, and the next, until I can peer up into the big loft room above. There’s a bed, a skylight overhead, and, at the end of the room, another picture window and an even more amazing view.

  But there’s nothing here to tell me what’s going on; no clue as to what the gang are up to. I turn back down the steps, and that’s when I spot it, on the kitchen worktop. A bird scarer. I’ve seen one once before, when I spent a summer strawberry picking on a farm in Kent with my nan. It looks like K9 from Doctor Who. A box, on legs, with a long tube that fires cartridges intermittently on a timer, making a big bang. On the floor is the gas bottle attached to it. ‘Yesss!’ leaks out of my lips, and my elbow and clenched fist pull back into my ribs with triumph. This is what I needed to find.

  There are no guns frightening people off the mountain. And if I’m right, there is no gang up there either. It’s just a bird scarer, backed up by rumours, making it sound like there are armed gunmen on the mountain. It’s all a lot of noise, but no teeth! It’s Georgios!

  Closing the front door quietly behind me, I pull my hat down and, without looking back, march along the wide track behind Georgios’s house that leads up the mountain. I’ve got to find out exactly what he is hiding in that cave where we sheltered from the storm. What was it hanging up in there? What drugs? Cannabis? Or something stronger? As I start to climb, I hear the rumbling of a vehicle out on the road, and I quicken my pace to match the quickening of my heart, hoping it’s brave tourists and not Georgios returning.

  The path gets steeper, and my boots scatter small stones as I march on purposefully. The early-morning mist is starting to blow off the mountaintop, taking the overnight chill with it, and despite the ever-present wind, the heat of the day is beginning to push through, making my skin tingle. I take off my hoodie, tie it around my waist and take a sip of
water. One foot resting on a rock, I pull on Demi’s sunglasses and dare myself to look around. I am hundreds of feet up, gazing down at the dark green vegetation at the foot of the mountain. My vision blurs and I turn away quickly, trying to shut out the fear that is telling me to go back down. That it’s too high, I could fall. But despite the terror gripping me, I keep moving on. I have to make my way back to that cave. I’m pretty sure it will provide the key to exactly what’s going on here. Because if it’s not a drugs gang, or poachers, or badass bandits, if it is just Georgios, what on earth is he up to? It’s what Stelios would have wanted, I tell myself, and my heart twists at the thought of him.

  There’s a barrier at the end of the wide path, secured with a padlock. I duck under it and start clambering up and over the rocks. The sun is fiercely hot now and the wind has picked up on this side of the mountain. In the distance I can hear the faint sound of the bells calling people to church. But the higher I climb, the fainter they get, and the wind seems to be whistling its own tune up here.

  I grab at the little shrubs in between the rocks to pull myself up, sometimes wobbling and reaching out for the trunk of the occasional small olive tree. I pray that I’m going in the right direction. I’m beginning to pant, and stop to sip some more water. Mid-swig, I hear it . . . buzzing. I’m on the other side of the plateau to when I was last here, but I’m absolutely going in the right direction. If I remember rightly, the cave is just above me, on the far side of the hives.