Woman and cargo made it almost three quarters of the way before finally remembering to drive on the right side of the road. How lucky for me that they were quiet and that my phrasebook-assisted grasp of the Greek language didn’t include profanities.
‘You drive on the right hand side of the road, I get it. How hard can it be?’
Pulling up for the second time that day at Chris’s gate and seeing the door to Villa Miranda closed, I rummaged in my pockets to find the combination number for the lock and the apartment key he had given me earlier. He’d be out for his daily kayak session no doubt, whatever one of those was. Although it was early evening, the sun still burned hot on my back, making the effort of pulling my luggage and carrier bag from the moped up the path of jaggy, loose gravel – which kept jamming the wheels of the case – all the more difficult. Hot, bothered and tired, no sooner was my key in the lock of the door than I’d thrown aside my bag, parked my case, pulled back the bed covers and flung myself onto the bed.
Something coarse and wet was rhythmically sweeping my foot.
‘Don’t!’ My voice echoed in the lonely room.
Wait a minute, I’m in a lonely room! Sitting bolt upright and flinging the surprisingly heavy duvet off me, there was a loud, ‘MIAOW’ as the cat whose sleep I’d just rudely interrupted with an unscheduled flight on said duvet, landed safely on its feet and bolted out of the half-open door. But it wasn’t the sight of the low-flying kitty that made me scream like a banshee. It was the goat at the foot of my bed munching the sheets – something it forgot to stop doing as it first looked startled, then ran out of the door to get away from the mad, wailing woman, trailing the sheet behind it. Before I could run after it, I heard the squeaking of a gate outside and footsteps crunching up the gravel.
‘Oh shit!’
Jumping to my feet, I peeped out of the door in time to see Chris, face aghast, staring at a different goat which was standing on the roof of his car, bleating loudly as if in protest at his audacity. What’s more, at least ten or eleven other goats, besides the one I’d just encountered – which now stood by the patio table still chewing my bed sheet – were scattered across the gardens, munching away at trees, flowers, bushes and even a curtain from my patio. Grabbing my carrier bag, I made my way over towards Chris, scattering goats in my wake.
‘I’m so, so sorry! I was really tired and . . .’
I held out the bottle of wine, bought to say thanks for his letting me use the apartment, and finished with a feeble (and obvious) ‘I forgot to lock the gate.’
‘I was only gone . . . an hour . . .?’
Before Chris could say any more, the sound of hurried footsteps made us turn around, to see Mita and a younger woman appear, one carrying brooms, the other, a crockpot.
‘Oh dear, my Cristos, what has happened!’ The younger woman cried, handing him the crockpot which was wrapped in a towel. ‘Stifado for you,’ she said, pausing to swoon at him, until, tugging at her skirts, Mita brought her back to her senses. The pair were soon rushing around shooing the goats from the property, with help from me and my carrier bag. Within minutes, all the goats were bleating and scuttling down the lane followed by the two women waving brooms at their behinds.
We perused the damage. Broken plants and flowers lay all over the garden, Chris’s car had scratches all over the roof and the privacy curtain that had been around my patio was now a marquee between two oleander bushes. Looking at his stunned face, I said, ‘The hotel might give me back my room.’
Oh God, whatever I’ve done in the past, he must really hate me now. But to my relief, I saw him break out into a huge smile. Seconds later, he erupted into fits of raucous laughter.
‘Then I’d never find out what you do for an encore!’
‘Oh Chris, your beautiful garden,’ I said, wondering if he was delirious or something. Still chuckling, he bent down to pick up some of the wreckage, still carrying the Stifado. I put aside the bag containing the bottle of wine, and pulling the crockpot from him in a feeble attempt to help, knocked off the towel, wrapped around it to stop anyone burning themselves
with it . . . and burned myself with it. With a howl of pain, I threw the dish and its contents to the floor . . . right at his feet. My face burned almost as much as my hands. Chris, whose sailing shoes were now covered in hot, thick gravy, looked down at the mess before him and burst out laughing again. Okay, now I knew he was delirious.
‘I . . . well . . . your dinner . . . your car,’ was all I could say.
He stopped laughing and his face softened, probably because I looked like I was about to burst into tears. I felt awful.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s a very old car and I’m the poor English bachelor everyone wants to mother. They’re Mita’s goats. She’ll be back with a gaggle of local women in about half an hour and they’ll no doubt clear everything up. There isn’t much damage done really. Relax!’
I thought of the adoring looks Mita and her friend had given to Chris earlier. ‘They’d like to do more than mother you.’
Chris grinned. ‘Who wouldn’t?’ he said. ‘I’m surrounded by unmarried Greek ladies who’d all like to be the lady of my manor.’ Putting a friendly arm around me, he led me back up to the villa. Despite my mortification at the chaos I’d caused, I fought a peculiar urge to sink into his friendly embrace. It was wonderful to be with someone who knew how bad things were for me right now, but crying on Chris’s shoulder might not be the right thing for me to do. He was David’s best friend – not mine.
‘I’m quite the catch you know – check my swanky new gravy shoes,’ he continued, squeezing my shoulders some more. ‘Come on, let’s open this bottle and eat together. I’ve already got a dinner big enough for two stewing in the slow cooker anyway.’
As the sun began to set that evening, we enjoyed a fantastic meal (which I ate hungrily while he shared some wonderful stories of life on the island with me) without drinking any of my sparkling wine – which had rounded the afternoon off perfectly by exploding like a cannon all over the table. Sparkling wine, it transpired, tended to be eager to get out after a bumpy moped ride and some vigorous goat-shooing work. I wondered at Chris’s calm nature; taking mishap after mishap in his stride. Greece had certainly relaxed him. I wanted so much to ask him why we’d stopped talking to each other, but it was such an awkward thing to bring up at a time like this. In any event, it was lovely to have an evening unspoiled by thoughts of a bitter past life.
‘Laughter,’ he said, pouring us our umpteenth glass of wine, ‘is not only the best medicine but the best way to keep a healthy perspective in life. Everyone should have the ability to laugh at themselves.’
‘Everyone seems to have the ability to laugh at me,’ I said. ‘Do you know, my father used to call me Calamity Jane.’
‘Ah well,’ he joked. ‘He had a point there.’
We clinked glasses in a toast to my incessant clumsiness and watched the sun sink down to the cricking of an island-wide cricket’s chorus. I was so chilled out I even sank back in the chair instead of perching on the edge, sucking my stomach in. Then, just as I found myself really beginning to relax in Chris’s company, the spell was broken.
‘Look, Bernice, I really don’t want to pry,’ he said. ‘But are you going to tell me anything about what happened with you and David? Because, I have to admit – and I apologise, but he is my friend after all – I tried to call him this afternoon.’
‘You did?’
He looked at me seriously. ‘Not to tell him you’re here. I don’t want to interfere of course, so I wasn’t going to say anything. You are, and will always be my friend too, providing you didn’t do anything . . . and, well, I don’t believe you would . . .’
‘No, I didn’t. It wasn’t that.’ I cut in.
‘That’s fine; you don’t need to tell me everything. I just wanted to check he was alright.’
I had to ask.
‘And was he?’
‘I should imagine that
he isn’t right now, but he didn’t answer. Is there at least a part of this you can tell me to help me understand?’
As I struggled for the right words, the goat bell sounded out, saving me. Chris put down his wine glass and leaned over the balcony to see who was there.
‘Oh, it looks like Ginger. I’d . . . er . . . forgotten she was coming,’ he said.
‘You have visitors? At this hour?’ The clock on the wall showed it was coming up for ten o’clock. ‘Maybe I’ll just get off and . . .’
‘No, no. It’s Mrs Persson. You remember, from the painting class? Edvard and Ginger? I better go see what she wants. Wait there.’
Recalling the Nordic-looking couple from the class, I said, ‘Her name is Ginger Persson?’ But Chris had already taken off down the steps without hearing me. Five minutes later they were climbing the steps together.
‘You remember my friend Bernice?’ Chris said, leading her onto the balcony.
‘Yes, sure. Hi.’ She was smiling, but there was something behind the smile that made me sense she wasn’t altogether pleased to find me there. Chris disappeared into his kitchen, inviting her to sit beside me, which she almost did, choosing to balance on the arm of the chair instead. There were a few moments of awkward silence, so I took the conversational plunge.
‘So, where are you from if you don’t mind my asking?’
Her annoyed look revealed that she did. ‘I’m Swedish.’
My reply revealed I’d drunk rather a lot of wine.
‘Ah, I’m partial to a bit of that myself. Great in vegetable soup.’
I was joking of course, but the ensuing silence helped me wake up to one, tiny, minor detail. I was talking absolute bollocks. That’s it, funny farm time. I half-laughed and leant forward to top up my wine glass, deciding awkward moments like this required nothing more than immediate, additional drunkenness. Ginger stared over towards the kitchen without saying another word, looking keen for Chris to come back and save her from the stupid woman. Which he did.
‘Here it is,’ he said, walking towards us with a piece of card in his outstretched hand. ‘This is my painting of the harbour where you came in. I knew there was a spare print somewhere.’
Ginger faltered for a second, seeming confused.
‘Ah, erm . . .yes, that’s the one,’ she said, taking it from him and tucking it into her bag. ‘Well, I er, won’t keep you any longer.’ She threw me a stiff, sideways glance and I thought perhaps her vegetables weren’t so nice after all.
Chris, on the other hand, was his usual, good-natured self. ‘Good, well please take it with my compliments.’
It seemed he was almost dismissing her. Feeling awkward, I asked ‘So, where is Mr Persson this evening?’
Visibly flustered, she got up from her seat, saying, ‘Oh, he wanted to have an early night. I shall see you again soon, Binnie.’ Chris took her arm and they walked down the stairway towards the path. I couldn’t resist a little peek over the balcony, and saw they were deep in conversation at the gate. Ginger touched Chris’s arm before turning to look back up towards the balcony – sending me diving down to my knees out of sight – then I heard the gate close behind her, the sound of a car pulling away and the crunch of Chris’s footsteps on gravel, as he made his way back up to me.
Chapter Seven
Cooking chilli today. Not the country.
At exactly ten to ten on day two of The New Bernice Plan the following morning, tongue in cheek, Facebook update posted, I arrived twenty minutes late to the glorious outdoor kitchen of Taverna Antipodes in the village square for the next item on the tour group itinerary: a Greek cookery lesson.
Our instructor for the day was Michaela, a tall, slender, flame-haired young woman who continued with her talk as I hustled in. The rest of the group had already arrived and I spied Linda, who beckoned me to stand beside her. Edging past Ginger and Edvard, I nodded a ‘Hi’ to which I received a curt ‘Hello’ from Ginger – who had a definite flush to her cheeks on seeing me; similar to the one Chris had had when I’d made my excuses to go back down to my apartment the previous evening, following her departure. If she’d really gone to the villa alone just to collect a print from him, I’d eat my oversized, floppy, pink sun hat. I’d always thought of Chris as a complete gentleman. If my suspicions were right, this new life in Greece not only suited him, it had changed him.
As I made my way to the space beside Linda, a familiar ‘How’re ye doing lassie?’ at my ear and a pinch of my waist told me Hughie had followed behind me.
‘Greek food is a fusion of cultural influences,’ Michaela was explaining. ‘Tzatziki, for instance, is from the Turkish cacik.’
‘And isn’t hummus an Arabic word?’ Linda asked.
‘It is indeed. I’m sorry, what is your name?’ Michaela said.
‘Linda.’
‘Well, Linda – nice to meet you – it is widely assumed that hummus is of Greek origin. However, it is a Middle Eastern dish. It is only because of its regular inclusion in the menus of many restaurants throughout Greece that hummus is considered to be Greek.’
‘So ye willnae be teaching us tae make that the day then?’ Greta piped up.
‘No,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Our first course of the day will be saganaki.’
‘Great,’ Hughie whispered, so that only Linda, Greta and I could hear. ‘Cos me an’ Greta are saggy and knackered.’
‘You speak for yersel’,’ Greta chided.
When it was time to go to our places and make the saganaki, which I discovered to my disgust was an oily, deep fried cheese, I found a place beside Linda. Being a bit of a short-arse, I found the table-top hob out of my reach on the far edge of the bench and my chuntering complaint to Linda brought Michaela across to slide the hob - which wasn’t actually attached to anything - nearer to me. Linda chuckled and shook her head.
‘You make me look so great at everything, Binnie. Can you stand by me for every class?’
‘Oh, you sound just like my mother. Now, let me see. Will this particular piece of deep fried cheese be going to my muffin top or up here?’ I held up my spoon-wielding arm and flicked my wrist a couple of times to wave a bingo wing.
Linda laughed. ‘You are one crazy lady,’ she said.
Half an hour later we were all sitting at our tables eating fried cheese and salad for breakfast; not the most obvious choice for the first meal of the day but, after a sniff, I had a little taste and then wolfed it down. I liked it, in fact – it was wonderful – an oily, moist, splendiferous pleasure. We even broke some bread to scoop up the excess olive oil as Michaela brought out two enormous bottles of wine and began pouring glasses for everyone. Wine, here, was also for breakfast. I liked Michaela too.
‘Yammas!’ she said, handing me a glass.
Recalling the state I had been in the morning before, I wondered if I should give my poor, bursting-at-the-seams body a break. It was then that I spied Hughie licking olive oil from his lips and grinning at me.
‘Thanks,’ I said, clasping the huge glass of wine to my bosom, as if the opaque wine could hide it from him.
‘One for you too, Linda?’
‘For breakfast? Yes missy!’ she replied, throwing one end of her gorgeous pink silk scarf over her shoulder and grabbing a glass.
As we ate, Linda explained she’d come to the island, not only for a holiday, but to meet her girlfriend.
‘Eydis travels the world with a troupe of gay dancers,’ she explained. ‘She’s bringing them here for a show at the Mehrocca Lounge.’
‘Well, that’s lovely,’ I said. ‘So, when you say you came to meet her . . . ?’
‘We’ve never met before. I got to know her online, in a lesbian chat room. Modern, eh?’
‘Seriously?’ I said. ‘That must be difficult.’
She laughed. ‘Yep, real, real hard. I decided it was time to make a move, find out what a proper relationship would be like. Darlin’, I’ve lived on ma own for forty seven years.’
I couldn
’t comprehend being alone for forty seven days, never mind forty seven years.
As we sat watching the sea, she pointed to a young Greek lad, leaning against a tree and staring in our direction. Shining wet from a recent swim, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, he had the most beautiful body, wavy black shoulder-length hair and was a magnificent shade of sun-kissed bronze. Seeing me gawping – ‘Close your mouth, darlin’,’ Linda told me – he nodded in my direction.
‘Who’s he nodding at?’ I asked, spinning round and finding no-one else there. My face burned red.
‘You,’ said Linda.
‘No, he couldn’t be looking at me,’ I laughed, tugging the hem of my vest top down over my belly,. ‘I’m at least twice his age.’
Linda shook her head at me. ‘Hell, woman, enjoy it. Why would you think he wasn’t looking at you?’
Before I could reply, Ginger appeared beside us. She waved to the young man, who waved back at her, and said, ‘That’s Argos, our tour guide for the volcano walk this week. Lovely, isn’t he?’
I looked back to find him still staring and smiling my way. Perhaps I looked younger from a distance?
‘Some people seem to think so,’ said Linda, nudging me.
‘How do you know he’s our guide?’ I asked, tearing my eyes away from him at last.
‘He also does the parascending sessions. Edvard and I met him last week. So, you’re staying with the painter now?’ Ginger had added the question almost too sharply.
‘You are?’ Linda said, looking surprised.
‘Yes,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘In the apartment below his villa. Though, not with him. He’s an old and very dear friend.’
I turned again to look for Argos but he had disappeared. I felt oddly disappointed.
The New Mrs D Page 6