Staying Out for the Summer

by Mandy Baggot

  Gavin gave a good long sniff, dipping his nose into the cup. And then his eyes rolled into the back of his head like he was about to be overcome by fumes.

  ‘Please,’ the woman said, taking a cup off the tray and holding it out to Lucie. ‘It is tradition.’

  ‘What is it?’ Gavin asked her, holding the cup by his fingertips now.

  ‘It is traditional,’ the woman replied. ‘You drink, you have good holiday in the village.’

  ‘And, if we don’t drink?’ Lucie asked, still not accepting the cup.

  ‘It can’t be wee,’ Gavin whispered. ‘Can it?’ He took another sniff and his expression seemed to give off the impression he was settling himself with the idea that it might be something that hadn’t come out of someone’s urethra.

  ‘Local delicacy,’ the woman said, nodding rather excessively and trying to press the cup in between Lucie’s fingers.

  ‘How bad can it be?’ Gavin asked Lucie, already looking like he was bracing himself. ‘It will be something like raki. Remember that raki night we had with Sharon?’

  ‘I do,’ Lucie answered. ‘The taste was so bad we were both voluntarily licking her “lucky” cactus plant to take away the taste.’

  Lucie watched Gavin take an almighty breath and then he put the rim of the cup to his lips and tipped it down his throat in one slick action. He let out an accomplished gasp and put the beaker back on the tray. ‘Done.’

  ‘Na stamatísei! Stop!’

  Lucie turned her head at the deep command and saw a man striding towards their group. Dark hair, short but not too short, sunglasses covering a good portion of his olive-skinned face and dressed in a plain white T-shirt and faded denim jeans. In his hands was a takeout cup of something brown with ice cubes. Quickly the man put his drink down on the long table and snatched the cup of might-be-wee out of the space between Lucie and the woman trying to press it on her.

  He looked somewhere between angry and agitated, as if he hadn’t quite decided which way to go. Lucie could smell a hint of aftershave that wasn’t at all unpleasant and was, in fact, a whole lot better than the aroma of the ‘welcome’ drink. Next to her she could feel Gavin rippling with interest as the new arrival began to speak quickly in what she assumed was Greek. She couldn’t understand a word, but she could understand that this man was unhappy with this lining up and drinking procedure. She was quite impressed with the fact he was wearing jeans when she was currently melting like a cheap candle in her thin white cotton trousers.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Gavin said with a bit of a throat clear. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing is going on,’ the woman said quickly. ‘We are welcoming you to Sortilas in our customary way.’

  The man pulled off his sunglasses then and looked directly at Lucie. ‘My apologies. You did not take a drink, right?’

  ‘No,’ Lucie answered. He had the most deliciously dark eyes. She should definitely say more than one word if she wanted to keep him looking at her.

  ‘I did!’ Gavin exclaimed. ‘I drank one of those traditional drinks. What was it? Should I gag?’

  Gavin already had his tongue out in the air making a noise like he might be a three-year-old with a handful of Lego stuck in his throat.

  ‘Mrs Hatzi!’ the man exclaimed. ‘You cannot make tourists drink goat urine.’

  Gavin bent double then, starting to make a horrendous retching sound. Lucie put a hand on his back and patted in a half-hearted attempt at consolation. There was time for ‘I told you so’ later.

  ‘It is a natural deterrent!’ the woman called Mrs Hatzi insisted. ‘We have done much research. The urine of the goats has many benefits. Including aiding with respiratory disorders.’

  The man was shaking his head now and seemed to be chewing on his bottom lip. It was a nice bottom lip, pink and plump, bare when compared to the layer of beard on the rest of his face. Lucie had almost blanked out the fact that next to her Gavin was still trying to draw out the goat piss from his stomach.

  ‘This is craziness. And dangerous,’ the man warned. ‘These people are here for Greek hospitality, not being force-fed the by-products of our animals. I cannot let you continue with this.’

  ‘Lucie! Help me get this stuff out of me! Argh! Ugh! Where’s the nearest cactus?’

  ‘You don’t need a cactus,’ Lucie told him. ‘It’s only a bit of wee.’ If anything it might dilute the Aperol high Gavin had been floating on since they landed.

  ‘Here. Give him this.’

  The man was holding out his plastic cup from the table, now devoid of its lid and straw.

  ‘What animal did this come from?’ Lucie asked him, half-serious, half not. It was brown after all…

  ‘Cow,’ the man answered without flinching a muscle.

  It took Lucie a second to realise exactly what he meant and she smiled. ‘Milk?’

  ‘And coffee,’ he said, returning the smile. ‘Frappe.’

  ‘Give it to me!’ Gavin hollered, reaching out a hand and snatching it away from Lucie.

  She went to say something else to the rather hot guy but saw he had turned his attention back to the woman.

  ‘Mrs Hatzi, no more of this,’ he warned. ‘You know where the people stay. And, if there are any problems, I am in the village. No more goat urine.’

  Lucie watched him put his sunglasses back on before turning around and heading across the square. He stopped at a bench next to a really pretty young woman with amazing buns in her hair. Together they looked like a poster couple for Brand Perfect Marriage. Just her luck. Not that she was really seriously looking. This break was about relaxation, putting the ugly past behind her and trying to get back to somewhere near normal. That stability had to come first before anything else. It would be a tip-toe into the adventure arena if anything, not a full-on face-plant.

  ‘Can we go now?’ Gavin groaned. ‘I think I need to lie down.’

  ‘One moment,’ the woman said. ‘First we check temperatures.’

  Lucie shook her head, trying to pull Gavin into an upright position. ‘Let’s hope they’re not using any part of a goat for that.’

  Ten

  Villa Psomi, Sortilas

  The view was phenomenal. There was no other word for it. Lucie was standing – case at her feet – under a wooden pergola, its roof strung with lush vines that were bursting with grapes. There were so many bunches of muted green and vibrant purple fruits tumbling and twisting down from the canopy, all providing welcome shade. But all she could really do was gaze, and gaze some more, at the panoramic view of the sea. It was below their position here on the side of the mountain but looked close enough to reach out and touch… or perhaps dive into. Lucie could almost feel the coolness of the water on her shoulders, gently flowing over the skin and removing all that built-up tension she tended to carry at the back of her neck. This was what she needed but hadn’t quite accepted she needed. This sense of complete tranquillity. How fortunate was she to be on holiday in a new country? How lucky was she to be here at all? Her thoughts turned to all those families she had witnessed – sometimes only over FaceTime – in the midst of grief when they had lost a loved one to Coronavirus. Sometimes it had been so quick, the change between someone needing a little help with their breathing to being admitted to intensive care. Other times it had been a long, drawn out debilitation until the end. Nothing changed the goodbye though. Be it by the bedside or over Zoom, everyone had been given the chance to say a final farewell. Lucie swallowed as her thoughts drifted back over the years, halting inside the confused mind of her two-year-old self, being told Mummy had had to go away. That last goodbye was something she’d never been able to have…

  ‘Argh! Get it off me! Get it off me!’

  Lucie’s thoughts were interrupted by Gavin running onto the terrace, all flapping arms and hysteria, straight away shattering the stillness.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘It’s a praying mantis! It’s huge! It’s going to get in my throat! Don�
��t let it get in my throat!’ Gavin clapped a hand over his mouth, turning the panic internal at least.

  ‘Where is it?’ Lucie asked. She didn’t have an aversion to critters. She’d spent a large portion of her childhood making homes for worms while Meg dug earth for mini-allotments in planters in their back garden. She hadn’t taken much in about the growing of vegetables, but she did know the difference between a red admiral and a cabbage white in the butterfly world. Meg had also made sure she knew the difference between sweets and slug pellets.

  ‘Left breast! Left breast!’ Gavin was practically hyperventilating now. His hand was still close to his mouth and now he had closed his eyes. He was still pumping his legs up and down though, like he was taking part in PE with Joe.

  Lucie couldn’t see a thing on his T-shirt except a hint of perspiration – or perhaps it was a dribble of goat wee from the welcoming committee.

  Gavin opened one eye. ‘It’s not there. Where’s it gone? Where’s it gone?’

  ‘It probably couldn’t stand the noise,’ Lucie told him with a smile.

  Gavin took a nervous breath and spread his fingers over his T-shirt, brushing down tentatively but thoroughly. ‘The nature element of the house was the only drawback, I have to admit.’

  ‘But look at the view,’ Lucie said, sighing with contentment as she linked her arm with Gavin’s and turned him ever so slightly towards the fantastic outlook.

  ‘I knew you’d like the view. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?’

  ‘Completely gorgeous.’ She took a breath. ‘I think it’s the most gorgeous view I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Well,’ Gavin said, giving her a squeeze. ‘Wait until you see the inside of the house. I think we’re going to have to draw straws for the “oven” bedroom.’

  ‘Oven bedroom?’ Lucie queried. She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. It sounded stifling rather than optimised for sleep.

  ‘I love that you haven’t seen any of the photos. The absolute power!’ Gavin said, grinning. He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on. Come and meet Villa Bread.’

  ‘What?’ That didn’t sound like any kind of relaxing holiday retreat. ‘Villa Bread?’

  ‘Villa Psomi. Psomi means “bread” in Greek. It’s called that because part of it used to be a bakery. Getting the whole oven bedroom thing now?’

  This place had history, roots, a story. She shouldn’t have assumed Gavin wasn’t capable of booking more than a studio apartment with a view of a pool and its resident flamingo floaty. Yes, the centre of the village might have had the maddest people wanting to probe and assess, but they were all a short walk away. This place was isolated in the very best of ways.

  ‘Ta da!’ Gavin said, throwing his arms out and waving excitedly like the best game show presenter revealing a grand prize.

  Lucie gulped. The house, exactly like the view, was something special too. It was every kind of strong and traditional, yet there was a deep warmth coming from the stone and cement, rendered in that perfect rustic way travelogues rave about. There were glass blocks in the shape of a cross on one wall, other windows half-covered with wooden shutters brightly painted white. A grey stone paved area led to the large front door and across this courtyard was another separate building. More living accommodation? Lucie was starting to worry that Gavin had invited other people… or was this going to be communal space? Or perhaps it was a guest house to share?

  ‘You love it, right? Tell me you love it!’ Gavin said, taking her case from her.

  ‘Are there other people staying here?’ Lucie asked. She tried to keep the disappointment out of her tone, because they were on a budget. It was a little bit optimistic to think the few hundred pounds she had parted with for this trip was going to buy them a huge mansion house with panoramic sea views all to themselves.

  Gavin looked over his shoulder suddenly. ‘Shit, there’s no one else here, is there? Don’t tell me I arsed up the dates!’

  ‘No,’ Lucie said. ‘I can’t see anyone. But, you know, this house, it’s so big. Have we got a room each and use of a kitchen or…’

  ‘Oh, Luce,’ Gavin said, all smiles again. ‘It’s all ours. The whole thing. And there’s three bedrooms in the main house, plus this building here is a separate studio.’ He pointed to the stone structure opposite, which did look like a whole small house on its own. ‘Plenty of space to spread out and enjoy. Plus there’s a pool, tucked down over there.’ He pointed over the tumbling greenery and Lucie caught sight of a couple of white parasols rippling in the breeze, the glimmer of turquoise water…

  Now she wanted to happy-cry. This was perfect. This was so much more than the tiny balcony and twin beds in one room she had been envisaging. Not that sharing with Gavin wouldn’t have been OK, provided she kept him well away from shaving equipment. But to be in this serene location, in an entire, vast property, Lucie suddenly felt like she’d won life’s lottery. Nothing but gratitude flowed through her veins.

  ‘You’re not going to cry on me, are you?’ Gavin asked her, dropping his head a little into her space like he had on so many occasions when Lucie had almost lost it during a long, hard night shift at the hospital. Times when she had almost wanted to give up…

  ‘No,’ she said firmly, determined that her chin was not going to give out a tell-tale wobble. ‘Show me this oven bedroom I’m going to be sleeping in.’

  ‘Ah!’ Gavin exclaimed. ‘I think I said we would draw straws, girlfriend!’

  Lucie smiled and put her hand on her case. Somehow, through the madness of the ride in the fruit van and the ingestion of the wee of goats, she was finally relaxing into the idea of this Greek getaway.

  Eleven

  The Andino apartment, Sortilas

  ‘What do you think?’

  Nyx’s mouth was slick with oil, her eyes bright and enthused like they always were unless she was channelling angry and annoyed. Michalis nodded his head while his taste buds worked themselves into a frenzy with every motion of his mouth. They were sitting together, with their father, Dimitri, at the family dining table, wedged onto the balcony above the butcher’s shop, under a canopy of faded and weary bamboo sticks that had been providing shade as long as Michalis had been alive. It was looking all the more dilapidated now though, and there were none of the pots filled with bright geraniums and bougainvillea or planters housing fresh thyme, rosemary and dill that his mother used to tend. From the moment she passed, seventeen years ago, the family home became slightly less cared for and cherished. Perhaps a little like them as people too.

  ‘Papa? What do you think?’ Nyx asked, louder, as if they were all deaf.

  Dimitri looked up from his plate, some of the food hanging from his fork. Michalis had noticed that not much sustenance had met his father’s mouth yet.

  ‘It is like nothing I have tasted before,’ Dimitri answered.

  Michalis’s eyes went to the sheep’s head that had been carefully presented on a silver platter and placed in the centre of their table. Nyx had even widened the mouth of the animal into some kind of manic grin. Although they always had lamb for Easter and ate most parts of it, Michalis wasn’t quite sure what parts were in the ball-shaped pieces his sister had served up from the skull onto each of their plates. But the food was actually surprisingly good.

  ‘So, I was looking at recipes on the internet and did you know that we Andinos are uninventive when it comes to lamb?’ Nyx reached forward and dug her fork into the skull, pulling out another crispy ball. ‘We put it on a spit, the same every time. So, today, I cooked the head for all of the day. Then I took out the brain, the cheek, the eyeballs and the tongue and I cut them into fine, tiny little pieces. Next, I added feta, mustard, peppers and gently massaged it all together to form perfect egg shapes, before I deep-fried them in olive oil.’ She laughed. ‘Then I serve them in the skull. Like balls for brains! Ha!’

  Michalis watched his father drop his fork to his plate and instead pick up his glass of ouzo and ice.

  ‘Are you fee
ling OK, Papa?’ Michalis asked him.

  Dimitri gave a shrug of non-commitment. ‘I would prefer fish.’

  Nyx gave a gasp like their father might have asked to invite the devil for dinner to meet with the priest. ‘Fish! I… cannot even speak! You are a butcher!’

  Michalis was a little surprised himself. Despite living on Corfu where seafood was plentiful and excellent, Dimitri had always been more of a meat lover. It stood to reason, it was his occupation and his father’s occupation before him and his grandfather’s and so on. It would have been Michalis’s occupation too if he hadn’t made a stand when he left school with good grades. Being a doctor had been on his mind from the moment he had time to really acknowledge his mother’s passing and Dimitri was smart enough to realise that trying to make him stay in the family business was only going to make Michalis more determined to fly the nest. Studying for a job in the medical profession was about so much more than being the first in his family to go to university, it was about understanding what had happened to his mum and trying to prevent something like that happening to another family.

  ‘Fish is good for you. I read about it,’ Dimitri answered.

  ‘Fish is thin,’ Nyx countered. ‘All fish are thin. Even the fat ones.’ She put another whole ball in her mouth and chowed down.

  ‘Fish is good for you,’ Michalis offered to them both. ‘But a varied diet is best.’ He looked at his father’s full glass of cloudy liquid. ‘Perhaps… a little less ouzo?’

  Dimitri took a hearty swig of his drink and smacked his lips in something like obstinance. ‘I read that a little alcohol every day has many health benefits.’

  ‘All this reading,’ Nyx remarked, shaking her head. ‘Nothing good can come from it.’

  ‘You are worried for your health?’ Michalis asked him. Perhaps there was something physically wrong with their father and he was keeping it from everyone. He had said very little since Michalis had arrived back. His father wasn’t the greatest of talkers at the best of times, but he hadn’t engaged at all. In fact, the only stories of village life – births (not many), deaths (even fewer) and marriages (somewhere in between) – had come from his sister.