1 The Assassins' Village (22 page)

‘I want your promise, that you’ll marry me as soon as you can. I don’t want to wait another five years like before,’ she said quite calmly.

For the first time in his life Leslie was besotted. Maybe it was because she had held him off for so long. He found he wanted Sonja as he had no other, and was left with no choice. His hormones were ruling his head.

Within months Beth sued for divorce. There were floods of tears, threats from her aged father, and in the middle of it all, two bewildered children. Leslie and Sonja became engaged, and eventually there was an acrimonious divorce back in England. Leslie claimed limited means when it came to support his ex-wife and children. The courts looked at the bitter estranged couple and made a ruling over Leslie’s army pay. They decided what was fair and just.

And so, Leslie and Sonja were married. They say that a leopard doesn’t change his spots. Despite a heavy restraining hand from Sonja, his lustful, lascivious eye was already roving. In later years his devotion to sex would be called an illness; an addiction.

The years passed.

Chapter 30.

O, treachery! Fly, … fly, fly, fly!

Macbeth. Act 3 Scene 3.

The last remaining Army truck finally rumbled out of Agios Mamas. As it changed down a gear to chug up the steep hill, Antigone watched half-hidden behind a dry-stone wall. Leaning back against the wall she closed her eyes. She had felt numb inside ever since she panicked and fled from Leslie.

After her brother’s savage attack, she had locked herself in her bedroom. Curling up for comfort, her body ached from the cuts and bruises. She lay in the gloom, clutching at the coverlet her mother had made for her when she was a small child. She stroked the soft cotton, sensing the cool touch of her mother’s hands on her sweaty brow, telling her to forget this episode, get on with her life.

Later, she prayed to her little icon above her bed. Neither of the men had come home after the soldiers had finally gone from their village; father and son were probably rejoicing in a bar.

She knew
now
that Leslie had taken her for a little fool, never cared for her. He was worse than the village boys, with all their clumsy fumbling approaches. At least they were honest. They did not cover up their lusting with pseudo courtship.

The evening darkened around her the blackness falling like a soft cocoon. Her trembling subsided.

Taking the little icon from the wall, Antigone held it reverently in her hands. She made a vow, never to be deceived again. Not by a silver-tongued Englishman, or a brother that was more beast than man. Indeed, she would not be fooled by
any
man. She would never marry. The thought of lying close to a man every night until she died made her flesh crawl and want to vomit. Even the thought of her own father and brother filled her with repugnance. What could she do?

As she lay through the dark hours listening to the night sounds, a solution presented itself. Her mother had left her a small house, on the outskirts of the village. It consisted of only one room for living and sleeping, but it included a yard ideal for cooking on the primus stove or in the kleftiko oven. The outside privy had its own cesspit, and she could keep animals; a few goats, chickens and her donkey in the lean-to shed. There was no electricity but she could manage with paraffin lamps.

She would live there on her own. Oh, what a thrill not to be under the hand of her father and brother. She knew they would complain and try to prevent her going; after all who would cook and clean for them? Well, she would do the minimum; an evening meal and maybe some washing. There were plenty of other women around.

Antigone would feed herself by making and selling cheese. Her thoughts were in an excited spin. She could rear chickens for eggs and meat; in the cooler months she would grow a few vegetables. From time spent with her goats as they browsed the bushes, she’d gained invaluable knowledge of the wild herbs and greens that grew in profusion. She would not starve.

To throw off her misery she made plans for her future independence. She could foresee family rows; Cypriot women usually did as they were told in the 1970s. Gradually, she would withdraw from village society to a solitary life.

She wrapped her arms around herself, wincing as she again felt her bruised and battered body. At last, as the thin grey-light slipped over the rim of the hills Antigone fell into an exhausted slumber.

Chapter 31.
              Summer turns to autumn and winter.

But now I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d, bound in to saucy doubts and fears.

Macbeth. Act 3 Scene 4.

The fierce summer heat that year took a harsh toll on the people of Cyprus. With temperatures soaring to record levels, the ground baked as hard as rock. Leaves on the vines withered and died before the autumn. The villagers picked their crop weeks early, lest the grapes shrivelled in the relentless sun.

Dam building on the island had begun in the early 1900s, but despite these deep life-saving reservoirs, the lack of winter rain now found them almost dry. The mountain rivers were reduced to a trickle, leaving smooth, rounded bottom boulders standing proud. The seasonal late summer breeze failed to materialise and the shimmering air was still and thick.

In late October the temperatures began to fall. White cumulus gathered above Mount Olympus enveloping and shrouding the mountain. The air felt even heavier. A zephyr of wind drifted over the mountain summit. It teased the cedar and pine trees, causing the lesser boughs to tremble and quiver. A cloying breeze followed, sweeping down into the hills and along the valleys. Dirty-coloured cloud replaced the fluffy white to hang in great drifts of menacing steely-grey. A jagged flash of lightning rent the sky, followed by an almighty crack of thunder which echoed among the peaks.

Large, oily drops plopped into the dust, leaving a print as large as an old English penny. With the wind freshening, the rain fell in great slanting sheets.  It beat a deafening tattoo on the corrugated iron roofs covering the meaner of dwellings. Within minutes, water poured down the streets, bringing with it seven months of accumulated dust, rubbish and grime. Rivulets appeared in between the cobbles. They grew into gushing torrents of tumbling filthy water, full of leaves, twigs and all the collective waste and litter deposited in the long dry months of summer.

The villagers ran outside, shrieking with delight at the coming of the seasonal rain. It always came eventually. Some years were wetter than others, but there was always enough for those living in Agios Mamas. The surrounding hills had many aquifers full of drinking water. The daily prayers that the village
Papas
had commanded once again paid off. Late, but nevertheless the rain was here now.

Antigone rushed around ensuring her livestock were safely penned in for the night. Flashes of lightning illuminated her simple home. The tin cans of geraniums and basil plants were soon overflowing, the excess joining the monumental rush down the hillside to the river below. Laughing, she dashed back into the house, wet through.

After drying her face on a towel she went through a curtain to the tiny alcove that served as her bedroom. She rummaged in a box stored beneath her bed to find dry clothes.

The past few months had been hard. Antigone’s father and brother were awkward about her moving out. In anger and disbelief they asked ‘Why
?’
what possible reason was there for her to live in a tiny, cramped house? ‘What
?
’ they demanded. ‘Would she do all day long with no men folk to look after?’

Antigone held her tongue. How could she tell them she didn’t
want
to look after them? There was no love or companionship. She was a glorified skivvy.

After listening to their expletives she explained. ‘I want to start a small business making cheese.’ Kristiakis and her father looked at each other in confusion.

‘You’re not being a good daughter!’ her father thundered, smashing his fist down onto the kitchen table.

‘Mama would understand my wanting a place of my own. Maybe it is a little early, but I feel ready for the change,’ she stuttered.

Her father declared it was all a childish whim. ‘You’ll soon come running back. I don’t care, so long as you are there every day to make my evening meal.’ After a moment’s pause he added. ‘Oh, and the laundry won’t do itself either.’ In a foul temper he left the house, slamming the door behind him.

Kristiakis lounging in a wicker chair, arms crossed, legs sprawled out in front of him, took a while to think before speaking. Glowering at Antigone, he studied her with a deep intensity.

‘I suppose this is all to do with the Britisher,’ he said spitting the last word out with contempt.

‘No.’

‘Rubbish! Still you lie!’ he hissed at her in disbelief. ‘Have you not learned anything? Do you want another taste of this?’ He half sat up resting one large meaty hand on his leather belt.

Antigone flinched. He was a heartless, cruel bully and she loathed him. But she knew her limits.

‘Please, it’s nothing to do with him. I want to try this. I make good cheese. You’ve said so many times. I can’t do it here, there’s no room. Besides in my own house I will be right next to the goats. Please let me try, even for a little while. If I fail I can come back,’ she pleaded.

‘He’s not coming back! You can forget about entertaining him there.’ His lip curled disdainfully.

‘I know. I don’t want him,’ she whispered, her face as white as chalk.

‘Did you know that he’s married?’ he sneered.

Antigone became still as she listened to his taunting. Something twisted in her heart. She had not known. Did he have children too? A tremor went through her. She gave herself a shake. Damn him to Hell!

Gathering herself up, she looked him in the eye. ‘It doesn’t matter now. It was all a bad mistake that I want to forget. I was a silly foolish girl. Now I’ve changed, you’ll see. This is the reason I want my independence. I want to prove to you that I have grown up.’

He gave a snort of disbelief and stood up, bored with it all. ‘As father has taken the easy way out as usual, I’ll have to go along with it.  But remember. Just one mistake and you’ll pay.’ He crossed to the doorway, heading in the direction his father had taken when something made him stop.

He turned his head to look at the young girl standing proudly before him and he saw a look of their mother in her face. It could have been a young Eleni standing in front of his father as she implored him not to beat her yet again. He felt a prickle, as the hairs stood up along the back of his neck. Something clicked in his hard heart. He heard himself gruffly saying he would let her try for a month or two. But her duty towards her father came first.

Antigone wanted to jump for joy. Freedom! As soon as he left the house she did a little dance around the room. She could make plans! But as they all said in
Kypros
:
Siga, siga
, slowly, slowly.

~~~

December swept in. The relentless winter rain brought cold days and colder nights. Antigone’s narrow bed was heaped with blankets and old linen stolen from her father’s house.  After closing the wooden shutters and door on the outside world as soon as it grew dark, Antigone lit a single oil lamp which threw a soft light around the room.

Taking a match, she lit the fire and the dry kindling crackled and flared into life. The roaring log fire gradually took the chill from the room. In the rosy glow of the lamp, some of the shabbiness of her home became lost in the shadows. The wind rattled the shutters and blew down the chimney, sending little eddies of smoke curling out of the hearth and into the house.  Shivering, Antigone sat as near to the fire as possible. Her eyes slid over the room. Despite its size and simplicity it suited Antigone. Leaning back in her chair, she slipped off her boots; her icy-cold toes wiggling towards the welcome fire. 

Her cheese-making business had made a good start. The village shop took her produce and the locals became her regular customers. It was hard work, tending the animals and helping her father and brother. She was spending as little time as possible in her old home and neither man noticed the odd spot of dust in the corners or that their clothes were washed less often. Her father, Alexandros, was particularly slovenly, and Kristiakis only smartened himself up when he wanted to impress a lady.

She sank lower in her chair, feeling warm and relaxed. A log moved in the hearth sending a flurry of sparks up the chimney. Humming to herself, she picked up the piece of crotchet she was working on. It was a tiny garment. Laying it down on her lap and fingering the soft white wool, she placed it gently over her stomach; over the little bump and lovingly stroked it.

She needed nobody else now. She had her
own
precious being growing inside. She would pretend the growing child was the result of a passionate affair. That her lover was detained elsewhere, against his wishes, and she had to carry on a life without him.