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

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Put your foot on mine, I will guide you,’ he says evenly, and I do as he says, without question. ‘You are undoubtedly one of the most infuriating women I have ever met. Why would you put yourself in such danger?’

  I can’t reply.

  ‘Who else is going to give me the runaround, drive me insane with her mad ideas about bringing the dittany down to the farm, if you slip and fall?’ he chides, and he lifts my foot with his and I don’t resist, letting him guide it to a rock just a little further to the left. As it comes to rest, I move my hands back on to the rocks they were slipping from. I’m waiting for my racing heart to subside, but it doesn’t. He’s still there, his body covering mine and his breath on my neck.

  ‘Thank you,’ I manage, and it comes out as a sort of croak. ‘I think I’ll be OK from here.’

  ‘Up there,’ he nods to a ledge, ‘keep going up. You’ll be safe.’

  ‘No, I think I should just go back.’ I shake my head, all my confidence ebbing away. I feel like a child stuck halfway up the ladder of the big slide, too scared to go up or down.

  ‘Keep moving up, it will be safer. Just reach there and catch your breath. Get your strength back.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I can. I’d be better going back.’

  ‘It is never a good idea to go back,’ he says clearly in my ear, despite the wind whipping round us.

  I turn slowly to look at him, his face close to mine. I can see the old George under his hat, under his unshaven cheeks, and that scar is so much clearer now. I want to ask him how he got it. What happened to him? What changed him from the friendly, outgoing George I used to know? I feel as if all my strength has gone, like someone let the air out of the balloon. I turn back from him to look at the ledge, but as I do, I catch sight of the deep valley below me and I feel sick. Tears begin to sting and spill from my eyes, sliding down my cheeks.

  ‘Go up, keep going forward,’ he says, his forest-green eyes staring into mine, so close I can see the gold flecks and black circles around them. How can I tell him? I can’t go forward, just as I haven’t been able to move forward since I left this place where Stelios and I parted. I’m completely stuck.

  ‘Let me guide you,’ Georgios says in my ear as we both lean against the rock face. I try not to think about how high up we are, or that Georgios is covering my body with his, because I’ll freeze with fear. ‘Just a bit further and you’ll be there.’ He nods to a ledge above, but still I’m stuck to the spot. ‘Here, this hand here.’ He puts his hand over mine. It’s big and rough. Not like Mike’s, I find myself thinking. He had small, smooth hands, as if he hadn’t done a day’s manual work ever.

  Georgios grips my hand and tugs at it, but I’m not letting go of the rock. He tugs again, firmer this time

  ‘No, gerroff,’ I hear myself muttering petulantly, until he finally prises my hand from the rock it’s clinging to. Despite my protestations, he reaches for my other hand and does the same. I am useless. Like a newborn baby. He lifts my foot with his, his body pressing against mine, protecting me from the prospect of falling, but still I can’t move, despite my gung-ho confidence earlier. I’m tongue-tied, but all over my body. I can’t move or string a sentence together, fear gripping me like a python. Only it’s not a python coiled around me, it’s Georgios, his breath on my neck, his lips next to my ear.

  He starts to move my useless body up the rock wall. He leads, I follow.

  ‘Now here . . . we’re nearly there, just reach out . . .’ We move towards the ledge. ‘I can’t help you on this bit. You need to pull yourself up on your own,’ he says, firmly but the harshness all but gone from his voice.

  I shake my head.

  ‘You can do it. You got yourself out here. Remember how it felt before you felt the fear. Remember it and use it. Think of something that means everything to you and use it.’

  ‘Only an idiot would put their life on the line like this . . .’ I mutter.

  ‘You must have been told. Dittany only grows in the most inaccessible places. Men have died trying to bring it to their loved ones. That’s why it’s the biggest show of love a man can make for his woman. To risk everything for this . . . it is true love.’

  ‘That’s why I wanted to take some back to the farm. To cultivate and grow it so the bees will come where they’re needed.’

  ‘Sadly,’ Georgios takes a deep breath, ‘the dittany will not be tamed. Many people have tried to cultivate it, but it does not have the same medicinal properties when grown in towns or farms; only in the wild, up high.’

  ‘What?’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You mean it’s all been for nothing? It won’t grow if I take it down to the farm?’

  ‘It will grow, but not the in same way. It will not have the same health benefits if we cultivate it.’

  ‘Why didn’t someone . . . why didn’t you tell me?’ Angry, frustrated tears prickle my eyes.

  ‘Would you have listened if I had? I tried to stop you.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ I could kick myself, if it were physically possible.

  ‘The bees will come in their own time, when they start to thrive here. I put the hives up on the plateau when I discovered wild hives in the trees. I moved the bees into them to help them breed. When they get crowded, they will look for new homes close by, hopefully at Maria and Kostas’s honey farm. They will find the dittany for themselves, seek it out. And if the bees do their job well, the dittany will flower and thrive too and hopefully start to work its way down the mountain. So . . . listen to me. Think and focus. Think of something or someone that means everything to you.’

  He’s right. I got myself into this mess. And him! I have to try and get us out of it. Shaking, but this time remembering not to look down, pushing away the images that keep trying to muscle in and make my head swim – the drop below me, the river at the bottom of the gorge like a snail’s trail – I take a huge breath and think of Demi. My daughter, who I love. And in seeing her face, I see Stelios, as I do every day when I look at her. What would she think if she saw me like this? What if I wasn’t there to protect her? My nightmares swirl in amongst my thoughts. She only has me! What if she needed me and I wasn’t there for her . . . dead on a mountainside because of my own stubbornness? Suddenly I feel a surge of . . . something, I don’t know what: maternal protectiveness maybe? I need to get to safety to be there for her. I can feel the urge building inside me as I look up and focus on the ledge above me. Throwing myself forward with more force than I thought possible, grabbing at rocks and tufts, scrambling, running, I launch myself up and over the ledge.

  ‘Yes!’ But as I stand and roar in triumph, I hear rocks falling in my wake and suddenly a shout and a tumble. And my euphoria evaporates like mist from a windscreen, and my blood runs cold.

  I throw myself to the dusty ground and peer over the edge to see Georgios lying on the narrow stony ledge below, blood seeping from a cut above his eye, under the rim of his hat. Rocks are still falling all around him from the little landslide I created.

  ‘Georgios!’ I shout, but he doesn’t respond, slumped against the rock face.

  ‘Georgios!’ I shout again. ‘Wake up! You have to wake up!’ The sun beats down on my neck, burning, punishing me. I wriggle forward on my tummy until my chest is resting on the ledge. Just don’t look down! I tell myself. But how can I not?

  ‘Georgios!’ I shout again, but he doesn’t reply. It’s no good; there is only one thing for it. I’m going to have to go back down. I swing my legs round and sit on the ledge, my vision dipping and diving as I look down at the valley below and the rocks still tumbling down the mountainside, picking up more and more companions on the way.

  I take a deep breath and begin to slide down on my bottom, but this just makes more loose rocks fall. I stop, turn around and start to descend slowly backwards. Finally I reach out a hand and can grab hold of G
eorgios’s.

  ‘Come on, Georgios, come on.’ I tug at him but he doesn’t move. How the hell am I going to get him off this mountainside, and even then what am I going to do with him? An air ambulance will never be able to land in this place. I look back up the slope. I have to think how to get him up there. I put my arm round his middle and try to pull him, but I’m terrified that if I pull too hard we’ll both fall backwards and follow the stones I sent tumbling.

  ‘Georgios, wake up. You’re in the gorge. The secret one with the dittany. I . . . you helped me. But now I have to get you up to that ledge,’ I say urgently, hoping he’ll snap into life, but although he murmurs something in response, he’s still drowsy. Blood is trickling over his eye and down his cheek. I dab at it with my sleeve. I wonder if I could leave to get help. But anything could happen while I’m away. This is Stelios’s best friend lying here injured. I have to try and put right the mess I’ve caused, and there is only one way I’m going to be able to do that. I have to remember the things he said to me.

  I step around him, and this time it’s me that guides him up the rock wall. He may not be making much sense, but he is responding to my instructions as I guide him to his feet, gently and slowly, talking to him all the time, trying to keep him from falling back into unconsciousness. I look again at his familiar face, and at the scar that travels up from his neck to his cheek under the stubble. ‘Left foot up,’ I tell him. I take a deep breath and lift his foot, and he lets me guide him, but from the expression on his face, his leg is paining him. All the anger of earlier has gone. Now we’re fighting for survival, and my heart is beating in terror. But I’ve been scared so many times before, as a parent, on my own, not knowing what to do for the best, sometimes getting it right, sometimes getting it really wrong. And I just had to keep trying. I was all Demi had, and right now, I’m all Georgios has got, whether either of us likes it or not.

  ‘Come on, Georgios, stay awake,’ I say, watching his head starting to nod again. ‘Just a few more moves.’ I’m puffing as we reach the ledge, my muscles aching. I get him to the lip, then I reach round him and pull myself up, gently this time so as not to disturb any more rocks. Lying on my tummy, I grab hold of the old olive tree, which creaks and groans and cracks, and reach down to drag him up, heaving and calling to him.

  In fairness he makes every effort to help me, and finally we do it. Out of breath and exhausted, dusty and hot, but we do it. He’s lying on the rocky outreach. I look around. Now what? I wonder.

  ‘There’s shelter,’ he says weakly, as if reading my thoughts. ‘A cave. There . . .’ He vaguely rolls his head upwards. A second cave here inside the secret valley, I realise.

  ‘OK, let’s get you to your feet.’ I scramble up and, using the groaning olive tree for support again, help him to stand, slinging his arm round my neck and putting mine around his waist for support. I can smell him as he leans on me, dusty yet pine fresh, like the conifers further down the mountain, around the cows. I think that will be one of my all-time favourite smells when I leave here. I look around. We are so high up now, I think I might actually be knocking on heaven’s door. I realise how far away I am from Kostas and Maria’s farm, the town, the coast road and home. A very long way indeed.

  The wind blows the rocky dust around, lifting the ends of my hair, filling my head with the lemony smell of the dittany and the fragrance of other herbs – thyme, oregano, marjoram, like a heady cocktail.

  ‘Over there.’ He manages to point, and I narrow my eyes to see the opening of another cave a little way above us. I push off from the olive tree, which gives one last groan and actually keels over behind me, hitting the ground with a swish of dried leaves, and turn towards the cave, shivering with fear and exhaustion. Georgios is limping, practically dragging his leg, but together, arm in arm, we make it to the dark opening. I wish there was a light switch. I will never take electricity for granted again, I vow to whoever might be listening, if I can just get out of this alive. And I will never go up another mountain again either. We step inside the cave and I lean Georgios against the wall, where he slumps and slides down. I’m not quite sure what to do now. But if this was Demi or one of her friends, and not someone I was running away from only an hour or so ago, I’d do this . . .

  I reach out tentatively and untie the scarf from around his neck, then gently pull it off, revealing his scar. I lift off his hat and put it beside him, then dab at the cut over his eye with the scarf. I wonder if there’s any water around here. I stand up and look out from the cave mouth. There’s a stream, clear water tumbling over the rocks, through the greenery, fast and furious. Not like the trickle back down at the farm. I run the scarf under it and wring it out. Then I get my water bottle from my bag and fill that up too. Putting my cupped hands back into the flow, I take a drink and then splash icy water over my face. Maybe I’m hoping it’ll wake me up from this nightmare, where I’m stuck up a mountain, a really high one, with a man who can’t stand the sight of me.

  I take a deep, restorative breath of the heady air around me and go back into the cave. Georgios is leaning against the wall, his hat by his side. I hold the damp scarf to the cut above his eye, which is now swollen as well as bleeding, and hope it will stem the blood. Because if it doesn’t, I have no idea what to do. I unscrew the lid of my water bottle and hold it to his dry and dusty lips. Some goes into his mouth, but most of it trickles down his chin, through the dark stubble and around the scar. If I could just find a cup to help him drink from . . . I wonder if there’s anything useful in here, like in the other cave. Maybe a fire I could light. Some raki wouldn’t go amiss right now either.

  I pull out my phone and turn on the torch, shining the light up and around and then to the back of the cave. A scream catches in my throat at the image staring back at me from the shadows. The sound brings Georgios round, his eyes suddenly wide, looking from side to side, bewildered.

  ‘What the hell is this place?’ I say.

  He slowly takes the scarf away from his head and seems to come round more fully, sitting up straight as if he’s been woken from a deep sleep to discover he’s in a completely foreign land. Then he sees what I’m staring at and, realising there’s no immediate danger, slumps back against the rough stone wall, returning the scarf to his bleeding head.

  ‘Georgios . . . what the hell is this?’ I repeat, looking back up at the pictures staring down at me. One of Stelios smiling, and next to it, one of Georgios. Lying in front of them, a little bunch of dittany, tied with the crocheted ribbon that I’ve come to recognise. There’s a cluster of candles, too. At the back of the cave there is an even bigger pile of dried dittany.

  ‘I think you’d better tell me what is actually going on!’

  But as I turn back to Georgios, I see that he has slumped down again and seems to have slipped back into unconsciousness.

  Telling myself not to panic, I check the screen of my phone.

  ‘What are the chances of me getting help?’ I say out loud, not really knowing who to call. Maria maybe? She’d know what to do. Maria is one of life’s copers. I hold the phone up as high as I can and wait for the appearance of just one little triangular bar.

  As I thought: up here . . . no signal. I slap the cover shut and for a moment wonder what I’ll do if Demi is trying to ring, but as her phone calls, texts and Skype calls have become as rare as hen’s teeth, I probably don’t have to worry on that front. She’s doing her thing, she’s happy. Whereas I . . . I need help and I don’t know how to get it. I’m not a trained nurse. I’m not even the first aider on the factory floor . . . that’s Angelica. I’m just a mum who works in a factory and has developed a knack for picking greens and cleaning. I rely on my phone for everything these days. And now I have no idea what to do.

  I take the scarf and go back to the stream, rinsing it and wringing it out again. I look up to see two eagles circling, so close it feels like I could reach out and touc
h them. Huge birds, with massive wingspans, managing something that looks like it should be impossible, flying around the rocky peak, casting shadows over the rocks below. Gritting my teeth, determined not to give up, I go back to the cave. The water from the stream is ice cold. With shaking fingers, I crouch down and hold the scarf over Georgios’s eye again. Just then, a gust of wind whips into the mouth of the cave, bringing with it the strong smell of wild thyme and dittany, wrapping itself around me in one of its reassuring hugs, and I breathe in deeply, taking strength from it. I can do this, I tell myself.

  I have to get us warm, make a fire and boil up some of the dittany from that big pile. I’ll put some on the wound above his eye and make some tea too. Everyone’s always telling me how restorative it is, a cure-all. Let’s hope they’re right.

  I look around. There are matches on the stone shelf by the pictures. I pick them up and strike one, putting the flame to the candles there. The orange light illuminates the faces in the pictures, and I catch my breath again. It all feels very surreal, like I’m standing in front of a shrine. I look up at Stelios’s smiling face, just as I remember it, and next to it, Georgios. But if this is a shrine, why is there a picture of Georgios? Georgios isn’t dead. I glance round at him slumped against the cave wall, holding his scarf to his head, then back at the pictures, and wonder whether to just snuff the candles out, but I need the light, I tell myself sensibly, and quickly turn away from the pictures and start searching.

  I find a cup and a billy can – well, I’m guessing that’s what it is: a tin pot with a handle. It’s on a stone shelf next to the drying dittany. Someone obviously comes up here a lot. It’s smaller and more homely than the other cave, I find myself thinking, and then realise how doolally I’m sounding, comparing caves like I’m browsing through Rightmove on my computer. I go out to the stream to fill the billy can with water. This cave has an outside waterfall, I hear myself saying, as if I’m an estate agent. The mountain air is sending me round the bend! Or maybe it’s just my way of dealing with the situation: up a very high mountain, on the edge of a gorge, with a wounded man and no idea how long we’ll have to stay here.