‘Come and have a drink. What would you like?’ She led me like I was a child round the side of the reception to the bar.
‘Yassou, Stavros.’ I managed to lift my cheeks into a kind of smile.
‘Yassou. How are you? I’m sorry for your grandparents.’ Stavros held my hands across the solid wooden bar with no thought, only care. It was always going to be a long and painful day. He was Jenny’s husband, a stocky man who stood eye level with me but was twice as broad. His soft brown eyes were warm and comforting. Tentatively I let go of his hands and pushed my hair behind my ears as some kind of emotional distraction. I went for an orange juice; my stomach was still churning from the days of ouzo, and it wasn’t best pleased.
Almost forty minutes went by filled with moaning about the pandemic, chatting about the economy, the “new world” which mostly seemed pretty old, and generally putting it all to rights. I had managed to remove my sunglasses and I appreciated the smell of gyros meat and cooking chips. Jenny had to go back to her receptionist duties and I stayed for a salad. When it came, I had to smile. Placed down on the glass table top with a clang, it was huge: peppers, feta, olives, onions, cucumber – everything. Mama and I would always say we could split one at lunch, but we never did. We’d have both wanted all the feta and olives to ourselves. I was almost full at the halfway point, but I had to keep going; I’d got to be a little scrawny during the pandemic and had to buy new summer clothes, all size eight to ten. That’s a little thin when you’re five foot eight, or at least it was in my opinion. Not enough to make me shapeless, just thinner than I’d once been by a good ten pounds.
After the delicious delights of my salad, me and my food-baby belly made our way precariously to the beach. I wondered how my grandparents made it down there in their early eighties. It was steep and narrow, a concrete slide with grit and sand that occasionally liked to act as little roller skates for your flip-flops. In quite recent times, part of the walk down to the beach had been decked, but to be honest I sometimes found that portion even more dicey. My eyes were firmly on my feet until I made it to the bottom, the whole time trying not to gain speed for fear of never stopping. I knew that when I was eventually able to look up, it’d be there: the glistening Mediterranean Sea, and the sound of lapping water across the soft yet coarse golden sand. It must have been some time around two o’clock because the sand was scorching. Luckily, my body had already started to adjust over the past few days, including my skin, which was turning a nice golden brown. I started walking across the almost flaming sand down towards the relief of the sea. I hadn’t brought any swimwear that day, just lotion, sunglasses, a shawl and a smattering of random make-up items, all in my petite beach bag. I put my feet in the water and watched the tourists. They were mostly middle-aged couples reading books or taking a refreshing dip in the turquoise water. There were a couple of young families interspersed with children giggling and running through the puddles left by the sea. A slice of Greek heaven. I decided to walk along, feet in the water, holding my flip-flops in one hand and the bottom of my dress in the other. Occasionally the breeze would brush locks of my shoulder-length hair across my face. It looked like an idyllic moment. The fact was, this image was completely scuppered each time I had to remove my hair from my face. It was not an elegant sight, trying to use either my flip-flop hand, which felt like someone was trying to kick me in the face, or trying to use my dress hand without showing the world my knickers. I felt my cheeks burn, and told myself it was the sun. I made a sharp dash left, off the beach, past a restaurant called Waves and up onto the road. At least then I could put my shoes back on and feel less on show.
Ambling upwards along the road didn’t cause too much interruption from cars. It left space for my mind to wander too. During the previous days my brain had mostly gone between three things: work, my grandparents and the pair from the airport. His sharp jawline and muscular build. Her inquisitive but knowing looks, and their matching deep green eyes. They made me feel rather bland. My hair and eyes were both naturally pale hazel-brown; nothing as striking as a deep emerald shade. That’s not to say I hadn’t had my fair share of compliments over the years. My doll eyes were usually the site of compliments. I liked to emphasise their bushbaby look with layers of mascara even on the lower lashes.
Then, he appeared – as though I’d called upon him and he had manifested. I stopped in the dust at the side of the road among discarded cigarette butts and insects. He was much more impressive than I had remembered. Exceptionally tall with a rugged refinement, hair softly set in place but a face ready for action, fierce striking bones. Suddenly his working frown erupted into a laugh with an exchange from a passer-by. In essence though, he was just there, just unloading something from a van at one of my favourite restaurants, Fantasea. Skin glistening, presumably sweat from his labours, to me he just looked perfectly, almost intentionally, oiled. I’d never seen anyone quite like him and I was in awe. The restaurant name felt painfully and ridiculously apt in that moment.
His black-brown hair was being ruffled by the breeze and his tan was deeper than before. My heart was pounding in my throat as I spun around on my heels. I didn’t want to be noticed so I just stood looking over towards the sea. I’d made the walk high enough up the road that the view looking down at the bay was incredible. So, fortunately for me, staring across was completely credible. I was clutching my bag tightly, so tightly that it dug in and hurt a little. My mind was racing: What do I do? Do I say something? Do I carry on walking? Likely he wouldn’t recognise me anyway. I’d been wearing a mask when he saw me last and although I like my doe eyes, I doubt them to be as memorable as his.
I started to grope aggressively in my bag for my compact. Found! Then a quick sneaky glance to check my mascara hadn’t migrated away from where I put it, and that my pale coral lipstick had made it through lunch. Check! Then to carefully use said mirror to look behind me. There was nothing. I spun around to see the little van making its way down the hill. All I could think was how is any of this possible? Firstly, that he was here in the first place – there were dozens of beautiful beach resorts in Corfu. It wasn’t the biggest Greek island, but it was nowhere near the smallest. Did I just imagine him? Perhaps the months and months of being alone combined with the heat had made me hallucinate. Maybe I’d been too hopelessly focused on them and now my brain was adding him into random places when it was bored.
Then I was walking, fast. Likely too fast. My feet were rushing down the slope, so much so that I was running the risk of losing one of my tatty little flip-flops. The van was there, stopped outside one of the little supermarkets helping Demetris with some oranges. What was I doing? Why was I stalking him? I couldn’t sensibly answer that, not even now. At least he hadn’t been some strange manifestation, he was real after all. Thankfully he didn’t have the girl with him to give me another soul inspection. No, I was wrong again. That’s when I saw her reflection in the wing mirror of his van. Sitting in the passenger seat singing along to whatever was playing. I spun around again to face the other way. I frantically fanned my face as the sweat clung to my skin. Had I travelled through time to be a fourteen-year-old girl again? Staying away from people for such an expanse of time, and I had forgotten how to behave. I could hear footsteps rushing towards me, slapping against the pavement. Was it her? Had she seen me? What should I do?
‘There you are!’ a familiar voice and arms suddenly around me from behind… Maria. It was Maria, Jenny and Stavro’s daughter. Five years my junior and five inches shorter than me, so, significantly taller than her mother. Her arms were holding me tightly from behind pinning me to the spot with her cool cheek pressed into my back. ‘I’ve been looking for you! Mum said you were here!’ She squealed and squeezed even tighter.
‘Hi Maria.’ I sounded hoarse from the lack of air in my lungs. She swung me round to face her, or to look down at her. Instead I was looking over her head. The van was off once more and I was none the wiser. Perhaps
that was a good thing.
‘I’m so sorry about Pip and Pete,’ she continued. ‘We’ll raise a glass or six to them tonight, yes?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ I said. Brought back to her with the sound of my grandparents names.
In our younger years we had spent a good few nights out drinking together and persuading local boys and tourists to buy us cocktails, or bottles of ouzo from the little supermarkets to drink on the beach. Mostly, it’s an older demographic for a resort, but we made it our own. We were chalk and cheese to look at in many ways. She had inherited Jenny’s blonde hair, but brighter, slight hips and busty frame. I was tall, lean with an almost, but not quite, hourglass shape. Pretty much as slim as back when we’d met, without my mama to feed me up. When she was seventeen, I was twenty-two and we thought we ruled Agios Stefanos that summer; it’s her fault I like ouzo so much. We played cards on the beach and drank until late most nights.
‘How’ve you been girl? You look thin. Why didn’t you message me to say you were coming? Why aren’t you staying at Vicky’s?’ She was walking me along arm in arm back down the slope, back the way I came. Through the smell of tomatoey Greek stews and cooking meat from the restaurants, and fresh vegetables in the supermarkets. All quietly getting ready for the evening rush.
‘I couldn’t face it. I’m not staying too far away. An Airbnb in Astrakeri right on the beach. It has three bedrooms; you should visit me for a change!’ I said, and nudged her lightly in the ribs with the arm she was still clinging to.
‘I’m offended!’
‘No you’re not.’
‘I could be.’ She paused long enough for me to see it again, the van. No sign of people though. ‘I’ll take you up on that, how long are you here?’ She was still talking but my eyes were fixed and my breath had stopped. Where had they gone? Were they nearby?
‘Melo! Are you listening?’ Maria said, fingers pulsing on my arm.
‘Sorry, yes, a month.’ My voice came out in a very stunted whisper and my hands were sweating again. Why was I having such a strong reaction to these people? I was being outrageously ridiculous. Just keep walking, forget about them, I told myself. I did it. I walked past and didn’t even look back. I suppressed my intrigue like a grown-up. I still don’t know how. As we marched down the street, I realised this was truly the longest anyone had touched me in so long. I couldn’t remember how long it’d been. It felt equally familiar and alien.
‘It’ll just be us tonight, Harry is working.’ Maria was engaged to the lovely Harry. He had visited Agios Stefanos with his parents and fell for Maria within the week. She was twenty-three when they met, he was only twenty-one and straight from finishing a degree in business. He dropped all of his job opportunities to take a gap year and get bar work on the island. That was three years ago and he was still in Corfu, much to the horror and delight of his parents. He might not earn the money of London but they seemed damn happy to me.
‘I’ll have to do with just you then I guess.’
‘Sorry about that!’ She smiled out of the corner of her mouth and pushed her soft blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘I’ve taken so long to find you I’ll have to go back to work now.’
‘Well, we’re almost there, where do you want to meet? Do you want to have some dinner?’ I grinned, knowing this was a loaded question. She let out a small snort.
‘Let’s say Vicky’s around seven.’ We air kissed and she slipped into the jewellers where she worked part time. It’s funny, we would only see each other perhaps once a year or so, yet we had known each other for almost ten years. Some people feel like a puzzle piece of the sky, or the grass. They aren’t really the focus of the puzzle but you’d soon notice if it wasn’t there.
The first time we met was at Vicky’s one quiet evening. I’d sent my grandparents off for a romantic meal as an anniversary gift. It was our first trip to Agios Stefanos, so I just stayed at Vicky’s to enjoy the view before getting an early night. That was the plan until a little blonde madam stormed up to the bar buzzing away. I couldn’t work out if she was angry, telling a story or just liked waving her arms a lot. I had no clue but I remember just watching her with fascination. Unfortunately, or what turned out to be fortunately, she noticed my obvious stare.
‘Can I help you?’ Her tone was pleasant, her eyes were not. I choked on my drink as she took a step towards me. It didn’t matter that she was tiny and pretty, her personality could fill any concert hall. A tight red dress with matching fine lips and a wide, pointless black belt around her straight waist. Her hand was clutching the bar but she was steady.
‘No, sorry. I, I was just wishing I spoke Greek, I guess. I didn’t mean to intrude.’ Her face changed so quickly, the muscles in her jaw relaxed as she gave a little tut of the tongue. It was like being back at the airport, walking through the metal detector, as with a flash of false lashes she scanned me for issues.
‘Maria,’ she said, with a nod.
‘Melodie.’
‘Ha! I like that name, Melodie. Okay, Melodie, I was telling my father here, that I wanted to go to a party tonight, and he told me I should be studying. That’s what was going on. Which, by the way, means I’m going to a party. Wanna come with? You look pretty lonely.’
‘Pretty or lonely?’ I smiled at her and she shrugged with a grin.
‘Just lonely,’ she said, and that was that really. I wasn’t going to dare to say no to her, if her own father didn’t manage to. So, I went along, we smoked cigarettes, drank too much, laughed at nothing, and danced more than I ever had before. It wasn’t until later that evening that I got the nickname “Melo”. It was my first time having jelly shots and I showed quite a taste for them. For a time there, I was “Melo-Jello”, which luckily didn’t have the staying power.
Walking away from the jewellers I felt lucky I’d met her. It was nice to have a link with someone here. I decided to go to a few bars and have the awkward “they died” talk with some of the owners and workers. Big smiles crumpled into frowns in seconds. The Greeks are so family oriented, so caring. I have no idea how they manage to remember so many people, stories, lives.
When it was done I started wandering the main road like a nomad again. Slower than ever, flip-flops scrapping along the tatty tarmac and hands back to clinging to my bag. Reminiscing about laughter and good times we’d had. A snowball was building in my gut with every thought, tight and cold.
Dreaming of the time when we had just got to within two metres of the restaurant Little Prince and a bird pooed all over Papa’s head. Mama and I cackled and winced, tears cooled our cheeks as we doubled over. It took another day for him to see the funny side though. His face was still, almost steamrollered at the whole thing, which just made us laugh more. Looking into Zorbas I could see both of them table tapping and whooping, as the staff set fire to pretty much anything and everything for our entertainment. Peering across the tables as I passed, I had to bite my cheek seeing the phallic-looking cacti on some of the tables, which I had always giggled at every time we were there.
Walking past Olympia and their giant pots, all the waiters waved to me. Then I was back in my mind, passing more tavernas and shops, letting people, cats and cars roam past me. I had started to make my way back up, up to the small church. I’d never actually been inside it before, only admiring it from afar. The building was a traditional white and pale blue with an archway to walk through to get to the door. As I passed beneath it, I took my cream, spotted shawl from my bag and placed it carefully about my shoulders.
The church was very small and busier than I’d expected. Not with people: with pictures, shrines and lots of gold. I didn’t really know what I had expected. The outside was so calm and quiet, the interior busy and vibrant. The only sounds were that of a grasshopper and the distant sea. I wanted to sit and clear my mind, but my mind was as busy as the walls. Every time I tried, I started to think about the beautiful tall man and Gaia, the
Greek Mother of all life, or just a twelve-year-old girl? Who knew? I didn’t. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell of wooden chairs that had all been perfectly set out in rows and melting candle wax was typical of churches the world over. The candles there to provide their warm glow to shine reassurance and comfort to all who enter.
I sat for some time on a hard wooden chair. At the top point of the front wall was a painting of an eye. Watching over the church. Watching over me. It sat inside its white triangle. Dark, aged paint made it almost menacing. With its weighted lid pressing downwards, perhaps puffy from tears.
I spent quite some time looking at the eye before I stood up to leave. Putting some change in a big wooden box I took a candle for myself and lit it. I could feel my abdomen tighten and I held my breath. My hand shook a little as I tried to light it. Loss is the biggest realisation that no one truly has control over anything. The pandemic had done that too, of course. The eye studied me as I took my last look across the room.
I slowly exited the church into the heat of the evening and the buzz of electricity and insects. Time was getting on, and I had to walk all the way back down the slope, following the road round to Vicky’s bar. I removed my shawl and took a leisurely pace, bag pressed to my side, arms folded across my chest. I had hoped to cleanse my mind fully of thought but it hadn’t worked.
I paused in the lay-by opposite Fantasea restaurant again, to absorb the irresistible view of the bay below. The sun was beginning to hang low in the sky to my side. It still sat within its bright blue bed, with a skimpy orange cloud as a blanket. I took a step to walk away but got my foot caught in some old fishing line. I hopped forward trying to free my foot, I stuttered along, then my bag dropped forwards taking me with it. I skidded along the dirt on my right knee then my palms.
The Little Blue Door Page 2