One Cretan Evening and Other Stories (4 page)

The penultimate week before Christmas went by, following a pattern of events that was as fixed as the date of Christmas itself. There were the drinks parties at other people’s houses and when all of those had come to an end, it was time for Jennifer and Philip’s own ‘At Home’.

One of the advantages of holding a drinks party this close to Christmas was that she could be assured of upstaging all the other hostesses. Her party was the finale. This year her
flaming, bite-sized Christmas puddings left her guests literally speechless as their teeth closed in on the moist fruits that had been marinaded for five days in Armagnac. The neighbourhood was literally agog, not just with the excellence of the food and the decor, but with the flawlessness of the hostess in her long velvet dress and matching manicure.

One year she had employed the boys and some of their friends as waiters. This had seemed a fashionable thing to do and a way of having her children present whilst giving them a function. It had been a disaster. Wine had been slopped over party frocks, canapés had slid to the floor from carelessly carried trays and guests had gone home with the wrong coats. ‘Never again,’ she had vowed. This year it was back to the usual girls from ‘Creative Catering, Professional Parties’. Jennifer would be able to relax. There would be no spillages with these trained waitresses who had a sixth sense for a half-empty glass that needed refilling and a discreet way of gliding about the room with her elegant platters of food.

Her party was a triumph, even though she hardly had a moment to speak to her guests and by the end of it her feet were blistered from patrolling between the kitchen and the drawing room as she anxiously policed the flow of food and champagne. Meanwhile, she glimpsed Philip having the time of his life, smiling and laughing as he entertained his friends with City anecdotes. ‘Why,’ she asked herself, ‘does he never bother to dress up for parties?’ His old cords and checked shirt were somehow too homely for a host in her opinion, but when she looked about her most of the men were similarly attired while some of their wives were almost irritatingly overdressed. There was the odd bow tie, but generally the
men had dressed down, while their wives had dressed ‘up’. The chilled champagne almost ran out as guests quenched their thirsts, sweltering in the over-heated house.

At five o’clock on Christmas Eve, the whole family, including two reluctant teenagers, trooped out to church. When carols had been sung, they drank the obligatory mulled wine by the lych gate and Jennifer was mildly annoyed that strong winds and a light drizzle messed up her newly streaked blonde hair. They had sung ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’, but the landscape it described seemed remote. Far from being hard as iron, the moist earth allowed an early glimpse of daffodil tips.

Back home, a log fire glowed in the hearth and above it the perfectly aligned Christmas cards flapped, disturbed by the gusts that came down the chimney. Boughs of the tree twitched, loose ends of gift ribbon flickered almost imperceptibly.

That night Jennifer lay in bed, tossing and turning, going through lists of lists of lists in her head (juliennes of carrots, purée of parsnips, braised red cabbage, Brussels sprouts, chestnut stuffing, cranberry stuffing, sausages wrapped in bacon, brandy and Cointreau butter, malt whisky cream, mince pies, star-shaped shortbread for morning coffee), hoping that nothing had been omitted from her preparations.

The parents-in-law were scheduled to arrive at eleven in the morning along with Philip’s sister and her husband (both teachers), three girls (only the eldest not in hand-me-downs) and their rescue dog, a mongrel called Bonny. They were never given the chance to return the lavish hospitality that was heaped upon them. Christmas was Jennifer’s ‘thing’ and
there was an unspoken understanding, even if it was mildly resented, that Philip and Jennifer would not budge from their elegant, mock-Georgian home during the festive season. Everyone had to go to The Pines if they wished to be together.

And each year, the hostess had to exceed expectations. Or at least that’s what she aimed for. This year’s big surprise was the bird. Or rather, birds. For the first time, she would be producing a pigeon within a pheasant within a goose within a turkey. Many times she had pictured the perfect cross-sections of meat, each layer a different but complementary colour. It would be magnificent and she glowed in anticipation of her mother-in-law’s exclamation of surprise.

It was not only thoughts of the big lunch and worries over whether she had made enough Christmas crackers that kept her awake. A wind had begun to howl around the house. Doors banged, rafters creaked. While the rest of the family slept soundly (the boys were now far too old to be lying in wait for Father Christmas) Jennifer had to wait until five before she finally fell into a fitful doze.

Only a few hours later, as the light began to peep through the narrow slit between thick brocade curtains, she woke with a start and threw back the duvet. It was nearly eight o’clock and she had intended to be up at seven. The alarm had failed to go off.

In spite of the intense preparations that had gone on for so many weeks, her first thought was for all the things that remained to be done.

She stumbled, eyes half-shut, on to the landing and flicked the light switch. ‘Damn,’ she thought, ‘of all the days for a bulb to go.’ Almost tripping over the silk sash of her dressing
gown in her haste to get downstairs, she discovered that none of the lights were working in the hallway either.

By the time she reached the kitchen, she knew that something was not quite as it should be. Without the hum of the fridge, there was a deathly silence, and the absence of the familiar glow of the boiler light confirmed her worse fears. The entire house appeared to have fused.

‘Philip!’ she screamed out. ‘Philip! Help! Help!’

He was woken from a deep sleep by her cries. In his somnolent state he pictured her wrestling with a violent intruder. He had read earlier that week that the early hours of Christmas morning were a popular time for burglaries, given that beneath the average tree nestled several thousand pounds of mint-condition electrical goods. He took the stairs two at a time and found Jennifer safe, alone and brandishing the large torch from under the sink.

‘The electrics . . .’ she gasped. ‘Something has gone wrong with the electrics.’

Philip’s efforts in the fuse cupboard were fruitless and soon they discovered why. It transpired that the violent storm of the previous night had brought down a major power line and there was a widespread cut. When they braved the lashing rain and went out into the road they could see that every house in the village was in darkness. A recorded message from the regional electricity board was not encouraging. Power would be resumed ‘in due course’. A forty minute wait on the line to speak to an operator only revealed worse news. There was little chance of the fault being corrected until after the Christmas break.

For Jennifer, news that the end of the world was nigh
could not have been more devastating. At least for that her mother-in-law would probably stay away. Philip’s efforts to calm her down did not go down well.

‘You just don’t understand,’ she shrieked at him. ‘This is not like any other day! It’s not just any other meal!’

‘Mum, Dad does realise that,’ interceded George, anxious that his long-suffering father shouldn’t take the blame.

‘We’ll find some way round this,’ bumbled Philip.

The two boys and their father stood, while Jennifer sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands.

Philip had opened the back door and now stood on the terrace looking down the garden. The sun had broken through the clouds. He glanced back at Jennifer.

‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said. ‘Come out and help me, boys.’

Barefoot, still in their pyjamas, they dutifully followed him across the soggy lawn. Jennifer stood at the window and watched them. It was a sweet sight. The three of them looked like sleep walkers.

For ten minutes they disappeared and while they were gone she went upstairs to get dressed, not in the new dress she had bought for the day. It seemed pointless now. When she came downstairs again, she saw that the barbecue had been wheeled on to the terrace and further down the garden a bonfire was being built with dry wood from the log store. Philip returned to the kitchen, smiling, his hands black, pyjama trousers soaked to the knee. He went to the fridge, took out a bottle of champagne, popped the cork and clumsily filled two glasses allowing their froth to spume on to the work surface. ‘Let’s have a look at that bird,’ he said, taking a slurp.

‘Birds . . .’ said Jennifer.

‘Oh yes, birds,’ replied Philip.

Jennifer went to the fridge and removed the magnificent creation, placing it lovingly on the granite work top.

‘This is what I propose,’ he said. ‘That we slice into this thing, marinade it in something or other and barbecue it in strips.’

‘Strips?’

This was a man who had no idea how to switch on the oven but could do wonders with charcoal.

Jennifer took a long gulp of her champagne and felt it spread through her veins. She could feel her control of the situation slipping away. For the first time she could remember, she felt herself letting go of the reins. The sun shone on her back. It was like spring and she felt a sudden and unexpected surge of warmth for her husband. She watched as Philip clumsily hacked the precious meat into chunks and dropped them into a spicy marinade of his own recipe. The boys came in from the garden, marking the pristine floor with trails of mud. They set about wrapping two dozen potatoes individually in foil and buried them in the bonfire. By now Philip had rigged up an old metal ladder over the bonfire and the Christmas pudding began its long steaming process.

The family arrived on the dot of eleven. The mother-in-law, usually so nervous around Jennifer, seemed visibly to relax when she saw that her daughter-in-law was less tense than usual. The others were perfectly at home with the chaos and Philip’s sister enjoyed the change to the formality of the usual routine.

‘What can I do to help?’ she asked, rolling up her sleeves, an offer she would never have dared to make in the past.

The champagne bottle sat on the table in front of Jennifer and her sons went to and fro. It was warm enough to sit in the garden and drinks were carried outside. The dog chased the girls round and round. Though he did not know it, on a normal Christmas Day he would have been left sitting in the car.

As the light began to fade, Philip declared that the meat was cooked. They all sat snugly under rugs at the garden table. Every scrap of the succulent turkey, goose, pheasant and pigeon was devoured and by seven o’clock, a row of empty bottles stood in a line along the table, some of them holding candles and others now emptied of wine. There had never been a Christmas lunch quite like it. It was beyond perfection. Jennifer sat close to her husband, licked her fingers and smiled.

I
RINI HURRIED THROUGH
the quiet streets of Plaka and the sound of her heels resonated off the smooth marble paving slabs. The exposed metal tips clacking on the ancient paving slabs grated on her ear but she had no time to visit the cobbler now. Trainers had not been appropriate today and these were her only pair of smart shoes and the only footwear that went with her neat green coat.

In this old part of Athens, racks of dusty postcards had been optimistically set down on the pavement, carried outside each morning by the owners of the shops who seemed unbothered that the summer tourists had now gone home and that they were unlikely to sell more than a handful each day. They were still resolutely hanging out their Parthenon T-shirts, posters with quotes from Aristotle and maps of the islands, and knew their expensive copies of museum artefacts would be dusted but not sold.

Irini enjoyed walking through this city. To her it was still new and she loved to get lost in the narrow streets that would lead her to the centre of Athens and its long, wide avenues.

It was her godmother’s saint’s day and she was on her way to meet her at one of Athens’ smartest cafés, Zonars. ‘Don’t
forget to buy her some flowers,’ her mother had nagged down the telephone the previous night. ‘And don’t be late for her.’ Even from hundreds of kilometres away in Kilkis, Irini’s parents dictated the minutiae of her life and Irini, always dutiful, had done as instructed and carried an ornately wrapped arrangement of carnations.

The streets were quiet that morning and it was only when she saw several groups of police loitering, chatting, smoking and murmuring into walkie-talkies that she remembered why some of the main streets had been closed to traffic. There was to be a march that day.

The traffic had been diverted away from the centre in good time. It was uncannily peaceful. For once there was no impatient honking of car horns, no whining of scooters to break the silence and you could almost hear the paving stones breathe. The streets were rarely empty like this. Whether it was four in the afternoon or four in the morning, there would be queues of cars revving at the lights, impatient to get home. Only demonstrations could halt the Athens traffic.

By the time Irini reached her destination in Panepistimiou, one of the long avenues that led down to the main square of Syntagma, she could hear a low, distant rumble. She noticed the police stirring into action, stubbing out half-smoked cigarettes with the heel of a boot and picking up riot shields that had been leaning against shop windows. That almost imperceptible sound would soon turn into a roar.

Irini quickened her pace and soon the café was in sight. Pushing against the heavy glass door, she went inside. Oblivious to the ever-increasing noise in the street, well-heeled customers continued to drink their coffee, served by uniformed waiters.

Irini’s
nona
, Dimitra, was already seated at one of the tables by the window, elegant in her red suit, heavy gold earrings and freshly coiffed hair. She was delighted to see her goddaughter. ‘You look so well! So smart!’ she cried. ‘How is university? How are your parents? Are your grandparents well?’ One question tumbled out after another.