The Olive Tree (3 page)

Ahead of her, Helena could see the lights of the village. She slowed down as the road began to narrow and the chalky gravel crunched under the tyres. Buildings began to appear, fashioned from
creamy Cyprus stone, finally forming a continuous wall on either side of them.

‘Look, there’s the church, just up ahead.’ Helena indicated the building that had been the heartbeat of the small community of Kathikas. As they passed, she saw some youths
hanging around a bench in the courtyard outside, their attention focused on the two dark-eyed young girls lolling idly on it. ‘This is the centre of the village.’

‘A veritable hotspot, obviously.’

‘Apparently, a couple of very good tavernas have opened up here in the past few years. And look, there’s the shop. They’ve extended it into the next house. They sell absolutely
everything you could ever want.’

‘I’ll pop in to collect the latest
All American Rejects
CD, shall I?’

‘Oh Alex!’ Helena’s patience snapped. ‘I know you don’t want to be here, but for goodness’ sake, you haven’t even seen Pandora yet. At least give it a
chance, for me, if not for yourself!’

‘Okay. Sorry, Mum, sorry.’

‘The village used to be very picturesque and from what I can see, it doesn’t seem to have changed that much,’ Helena said with relief. ‘But we can explore
tomorrow.’

‘We’re going out of the village now, Mum,’ commented Alex nervously.

‘Yes. You can’t see it now, but on either side of you there are acres of grapevines. The pharaohs once used to ship wine from here to Egypt because it was so good. We turn here,
I’m sure we do. Hold on tight. This road is pretty bouncy.’

As the rough gravel track wound down and through the vines, Helena changed down to first gear and switched the headlights to full beam to negotiate the treacherous pot-holes.

‘You biked up here every day?’ said Alex in surprise. ‘Wow! I’m amazed you didn’t end up in the grapes.’

‘I did sometimes, but you get to know where the worst patches are.’ Helena was strangely comforted by the fact that the potholes were just as bad as she remembered them. She’d
been dreading tarmac.

‘Are we nearly there, Mummy?’ A sleepy voice came from the back seat. ‘It’s very bumpy.’

‘Yes, we are, darling. A few more seconds, literally.’

Yes, we are . . .

A mixture of excitement and trepidation coursed through her as they turned down a narrower track and the dark, solid silhouette of Pandora came into view. She drove the car through the rusting
wrought-iron gates, eternally open all those years ago, and by now almost certainly incapable of movement.

She brought the car to a halt and switched off the engine.

‘We’re here.’

There was no response from her two children. Glancing round, she saw Immy had fallen asleep again. Alex sat next to her, staring straight ahead.

‘We’ll leave Immy to sleep while we find the key,’ Helena suggested as she opened the door and a blast of warm night air assaulted her. Climbing out, she stood and breathed in
the half-remembered potent smell of olive, grape and dust – a world away from tarmac roads and neon palm trees. Smell really
was
the most powerful of all the senses, she thought. It
evoked a particular moment, an atmosphere, with pinpoint accuracy.

She refrained from asking Alex what he thought of the house, because there was nothing
to
think yet and she couldn’t bear a negative response. They were standing in the deep
blackness at the back of Pandora, its shuttered windows closed and locked up like a garrison.

‘It’s awfully dark, Mum.’

‘I’ll put the headlights back on. Angelina said she’d leave the back door open.’ Helena reached inside the car and switched on the beam. Then she walked across the gravel
to the door, Alex following closely behind her. The brass handle turned easily and she pushed the door open to fumble for a light switch. Finding it, she held her breath as she pressed it. The back
hall was suddenly awash with light.

‘Thank goodness,’ she mumbled, opening another door and flicking a switch. ‘This is the kitchen.’

‘Yes, I can see that.’ Alex ambled through the large, airless room, which contained a sink unit, an ancient oven, a large wooden table and a Welsh dresser that filled an entire wall.
‘It’s pretty basic.’

‘Angus rarely came in here. His housekeeper did all the domestic stuff. I don’t think he cooked a meal in his entire life. This was very much a workstation, not the comfort zone that
kitchens are these days.’

‘Where did he eat, then?’

‘Outside on the terrace, of course. Everyone does here.’ Helena turned on the tap. A dribble of water sputtered out reluctantly, then turned into a torrent.

‘There doesn’t seem to be a fridge,’ said Alex.

‘It’s in the pantry. Angus entertained here so often, and it was such a long drive to Paphos, he installed a cooling system inside the pantry itself too. And no, before you ask,
there wasn’t a freezer here in those days. The door is just to your left. Go and check the fridge is still there, will you? Angelina did say she’d leave us some milk and
bread.’

‘Sure.’

Alex wandered off and Helena, switching lights on as she went, found herself in the main hall at the front of the house. The worn stone floor, laid out in a chequerboard pattern, echoed beneath
her feet. She looked up to the main staircase, the heavy curving banister built by skilled craftsmen from oak, which she remembered Angus had shipped over especially from England. Behind her stood
a grandfather clock, sentry-like, but no longer ticking.

Time has stopped here
, she mused to herself as she opened the door to the drawing room.

The blue damask sofas were covered in dust-sheets. She pulled one off and sank into downy softness. The fabric, though still immaculate and unstained, felt fragile beneath her fingers, as if its
substance, but not its presence, had been gently worn away. Standing up, she walked across to one of the two sets of French windows that led outside to the front of the house. She drew back the
wooden shutters that protected the room from the sun, unlocked the stiff iron handle and went out onto the terrace.

Alex found her a few seconds later, leaning on the balustrade at the edge of the terrace. ‘The fridge sounds like it’s got a bad attack of asthma,’ he said, ‘but
there’s milk and eggs and bread in it. And we’ve definitely got enough of this, that’s for sure.’ He waggled a huge pink salami at her. Helena didn’t answer. He leant
next to her. ‘Nice view,’ he added.

‘It’s spectacular, isn’t it?’ She smiled, pleased he liked it.

‘Are those tiny lights down there the coast?’

‘Yes. In the morning, you’ll be able to see the sea beyond it. And the olive groves and vineyards falling away below us into the valley, with the mountains on either side.
There’s a gorgeous olive tree in the garden over there which, legend has it, is over four hundred years old.’

‘“Old” . . . like everything seems to be here.’ Alex looked down, then to his left and right. ‘It’s very, um, by itself, this place, isn’t it? I
can’t see any other houses.’

‘I thought it might have become built up round here, like it has down along the coast, but it hasn’t.’ Helena turned to him. ‘Give me a hug, darling.’ She put her
arms around him. ‘I’m so glad we’re here.’

‘Good. I’m glad you’re glad. Would you mind if we got Immy in now? I’m worried she’ll wake up, get frightened and wander off. And I’m starving.’

‘Let’s run upstairs and find a bedroom to put her in first. Then perhaps you could give me a hand carrying her upstairs.’

Helena led Alex back across the terrace, pausing under the vine-covered pergola that provided welcome shelter from the midday sun. The long, cast-iron table, its white paint flaking, the bulk of
it covered with mouldering leaves shed from the vine above it, still stood forlornly beneath it.

‘This is where we ate every lunchtime and evening. And we all had to dress properly, too. No swimsuits or wet trunks allowed at Angus’ table, no matter how hot it was,’ she
added.

‘You won’t make us lot do that, will you, Mum?’

Helena ruffled her son’s thick blond hair and kissed the top of his head. ‘I shall count myself lucky if I manage to
get
all of you to the table, never mind what you’re
wearing. How times have changed,’ she sighed, then held out her hand to him. ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs and explore.’

It was almost midnight by the time Helena finally sat out on the small balcony that led from Angus’ bedroom. Immy was sleeping soundly on the vast mahogany bed inside.
Helena had decided she’d move her tomorrow into one of the twin rooms, once she’d discovered where all the bedding was kept. Alex was along the corridor, lying on a bare mattress.
He’d locked all the shutters to protect himself from mosquitoes, even though the resulting heat in his room was sauna-like in its intensity. Tonight, there wasn’t a whisper of wind.

Helena reached into her handbag, drew out her mobile and a battered packet of cigarettes. She put both on her lap and stared down at them. A cigarette first, she decided. She didn’t want
the spell to be broken just yet. She knew William, her husband, wouldn’t
mean
to say anything that would jerk her back to reality, but the chances were that he would. And it
wouldn’t be his fault either, because it made perfect sense to tell her whether the man had been in to fix the dishwasher and ask where she had hidden the bin bags because the garbage needed
to go out for the bin collection tomorrow. He’d assume she’d be glad to hear he had everything under control.

And . . . she would be. Just not
now
. . .

Helena lit the cigarette, inhaled and wondered why there was something so sensual about smoking in the heat of a Mediterranean night. She’d taken her very first puff only yards away from
where she now sat. At the time, she had guiltily relished the illegality of it. Twenty-four years on, she sat feeling equally guilty, wishing it was a habit she could finally break. Then,
she’d been too young to smoke: now, at almost forty, she was too old. The thought made her smile. Her youth, encapsulated between the last time she had been in this house and smoked her first
cigarette, and tonight.

Then, there had been so many dreams, the prospect of adulthood laid out before her. Whom would she love? Where would she live? How far would her talent take her? Would she be happy . . . ?

And now, most of those questions had been answered.

‘Please, let this holiday be as perfect as it can be,’ she whispered to the house, the moon and the stars. For the past few weeks she’d had a strange feeling of impending doom
which, try as she might, she simply hadn’t been able to shake off. Perhaps it was the fact that she was fast approaching a milestone birthday – or simply because she’d known she
was returning
here
. . .

She could already feel Pandora’s magical atmosphere closing around her, as if the house was peeling away the protective layers and stripping her down to her very soul. Just as it had done
the last time.

Stubbing the half-smoked cigarette out then throwing it into the night, she picked up her mobile and dialled her home number in England. William answered on the second ring. ‘Hello,
darling, it’s me,’ she said.

‘You’ve arrived safely then?’ he asked, and Helena felt instantly comforted by the sound of his voice.

‘Yes. How are things at home?’

‘Fine. Yes, fine.’

‘How’s the three-year-old trainee terrorist?’ she asked with a smile.

‘Fred’s finally subsided, thank God. He’s very cross that you’ve all gone away and left him behind with his old dad.’

‘I miss him. Sort of.’ Helena gave a low chuckle. ‘But at least with only Alex and Immy here, I’ll have a chance to get the house organised before you two
arrive.’

‘Is it habitable?’

‘I think so, yes, but I’ll be able to see better in the morning. The kitchen’s very basic.’

‘Talking of kitchens, the dishwasher man came today.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes. It’s fixed, but we might as well have bought a new one instead for the amount it cost.’

‘Oh dear.’ Helena suppressed a smile. ‘The bin bags are in the second drawer down to the left of the sink.’

‘I was going to ask you where they were kept. The dustmen come tomorrow, as you know. Ring me in the morning?’

‘I will. Big kiss to Fred and to you. Bye, darling.’

‘Bye. Sleep well.’

Helena sat a while longer looking up at the exquisite night sky – awash with a myriad of stars that seemed to shine so much more brightly here – and felt the onset of exhaustion
replacing adrenaline. She slipped quietly inside and lay down on the bed next to Immy. And, for the first time in weeks, she fell asleep immediately.

11th July 2006

I hear him. Hovering somewhere above me in the dark, sharpening his teeth in preparation for his meal.

Which is me.

Do mosquitoes have teeth? They must do, because how else could they pierce the skin if they didn’t? Yet, when I achieve the ultimate, and manage to squash one of the little
buggers against the wall, there is no crunching sound, just a squelch of softness. No cracking of enamel, which is what I heard when I fell off the climbing frame at the age of four and broke my
front tooth.

Sometimes, they have the cheek to come and whine in your ear, alert you to the fact you’re about to be eaten. You lie there, arms swatting thin air, while they dance invisibly
above you, probably giggling hysterically at their hapless victim.

I pull Bee from my rucksack and place him under the sheet next to me. He will be fine because he doesn’t need to breathe. For the record, he is not actually a bee, he is a
stuffed rabbit, a rabbit as old as I am. He is called Bee because he is ‘B’ for Bunny. That’s what I named him when I was a toddler – Mum says it was one of my first words
– and it’s stuck.

She also said that ‘someone special’ gave him to me when I was born. I think she probably means my father. However sad and pathetic it is at the age of thirteen to still
be sharing one’s bed with an ancient toy bunny rabbit, I do not care. He – The Bee – is my talisman, my safety net and my friend. I tell him everything.