The Reluctant Baker (The Greek Village Collection Book 10) (3 page)

She picks up the room service menu card, which has a smooth beach stone on it to stop it blowing away, and fans herself. She should get dressed.

With the indecision surrounding her departure, she has nothing but her jeans to pull on, which immediately make her feel too hot. Her long-sleeved t-shirt is also too warm. She will have to go shopping, today, immediately.

Sweat gathers behind her knees before she even reaches the door. With her hand on the knob, she hesitates. The breakfast room could be uncomfortable. She knows her fear is irrational, but she dreads that people might stare. It won’t be because they know anything. That is ridiculous; how could they? The pictures in the papers were nearly a year ago, and they didn’t even look like her. But they might stare just because she is on her own. She’s had enough of people staring and pointing and gossiping.

Turing back into the room, she checks out the hospitality tray. Two oat crunchy biscuits and two fingers of shortcake in tartan wrappers. Tartan in Greece! Well wrapped in plaid or not, they will not be enough to hold her until lunch.

The view from her window distracts her again. The sky really is so blue, she could lose herself in it. Blue end to end, not a single cloud anywhere.

Nothing but good is going to happen whilst she is here, she can feel it. This place is going to let her soar!

‘You
can’t blame yourself, Mitsos.’ Stella splits a chicken open with a cleaver and puts it on the well-blackened grill. The sun fingers its way through the open doors and touches everything. The rays reflect off the chilled drinks cabinet, showing smears and finger marks, and highlight the dust-covered layer of grease on the grill hood, adding to yesterday’s lingering heat in the small eatery. The sausages sizzle; there is the smell of roasting and fresh lemons. The radio, its knobs and dials covered in plastic wrap, discretely plays
rebetika
music.

‘Hey Stella, are you not down at your swanky hotel today?’ A man in baggy trousers and white shirt, sleeves rolled up, comes in out of the morning’s heat, a lazy smile twitching at his lips.

‘I am only here for a second today, Iason.’ She smiles at him and shows no sense of haste. He mops his weather-browned forehead with the back of his arm before ducking out of the grill room. One stride takes him through a small door into a relatively dark room with tables and chairs for those who do not want take-away food. A group of farmers look up from where they are huddled around one of the tables and greet him warmly.

‘
Yeia sou
.’

‘
Ella
.’

A chair scrapes. Stella hears him sigh deeply, and contentedly, as he sits down.

‘Beer Iason?’ She shouts the question through to him.

‘
Nai
, and chicken and chips today please, Stella.’

‘Is your son coming in?’ she asks, hovering over the grill with extra sausages.

‘Not today,’ Iason replies. Stella puts the sausages back into their paper packet. ‘He is going for a job today in Saros. God, I hope they take him. He is driving me nuts.’

‘I hear he runs your home like an army camp since he did his service,’ quips one of the other farmers.

‘Do you have to stand to attention by your bed?’ Another continues the joke.

‘It’s no joke, my friends. He is running in the hills before any decent man is dressed. He will not drink ouzo with me in the evening because it is unhealthy, and he tells me my cigarettes will kill me!’ Iason sighs heavily again.

Wiping her hands down her apron, Stella takes a beer from the fridge. It’s early for lunch but some of these farmers have been up since four or five, shooting rabbits for their wives to skin. She cracks off the bottle top with the opener which hangs on a worn bit of string attached to the fridge handle, and takes the bottle through.

‘Here you go, Iason. Drown your worries. Shall I open this door?’ This room was an independent shop once and has its own door to the street. Stella gives Iason the bottle and then winds her way between the tables. The six farmers could have taken two tables, three if they wanted to spread out but, as is their way, they are crowded around one, chairs pulled over, leaving the other tables marooned, islands, equally spaced across the smooth, brushed and mopped concrete floor.

The pink plastic flower in the blue glass bottle that was on their table has been moved to another, along with the napkin holder and a bottle of water. The ashtrays that have been collected for use at their hub are full. Stella opens the door onto the street and the light floods in, bringing village noises: a car passing, a dog barking, someone shouting at someone called Vasillis, demanding his attention, telling him to get in the house. Outside, on the pavement, a rather thin tree has been wrapped with fairy-lights—Stella’s idea to draw more customers. It didn’t really make any difference until she put some tables around it. Now, not only does she serve hungry farmers for long lunches, but their wives and children as well in the evenings. It has become the place to go for exhausted housewives, bored with their daily chore of cooking.

But, mid-morning, this outside seating stands empty.

A man passing on a moped parps his horn in greeting. Unmistakable in her sleeveless floral dresses, Stella’s thin arms and legs leave the impression that she is nothing more than a child from a distance. But she is far from being a child. Everyone in the village knows her. They know her life, how she has worked, how determined she has been to have all she has achieved and by and large, she is respected. But there are one or two who resent her, call her gypsy behind her back. No one would say it to her face. Stella lifts a hand of recognition to the motorcyclist as she re-enters her eatery.

Specks of dust, unsettled by the opening of the door, dance and swirl, highlighting the divide where sunlight meets cool shade, a diagonal cut across the room. The green walls pale in the light, turning grey where the shadows take over. A framed photograph of a donkey wearing a straw hat is bright in the sunlight, and opposite, a picture of a ship on the sea finds itself in a darkened storm.

The farmers laze, legs outstretched, ankles crossed. Later, they will go to the
kafeneio
and drink coffee, sitting in seats that their babas occupied before them and their grandfathers before that, and make the same conversation as their ancestors did about how the oranges and olives are growing, whether it is a good or bad year for grapes and what unforgivable things the politicians are doing to steal from them and how the men with power will create laws that will make their lives even harder. A game of
tavli—
backgammon—or two will be played, an ouzo drunk, the morning easing into the afternoon until it is time to return home for a nap in the hottest part of the day.

Back behind the grill, Mitsos picks up the conversation as if Stella had not left the room.

‘I don’t really blame myself but I was the one who suggested we give him a try. He knew that tonight is the official opening, didn’t he?’ Mitsos uses the metal tongs to turn the sausages. Stella rattles the basket of chips in the hot oil. ‘Although I still say that it is foolish to open officially before you have all the correct papers, Stella. You are asking for trouble.’

‘It will be fine, Mitsos. We will get the papers one way or another and of course he knew the opening was tonight. If all else fails, one of us will have to serve the drinks tonight.’ Looking across at Mitsos, one sleeve of his shirt pressed flat against his side, tucked into his trouser tops, she knows that it will have to be her. Mitsos couldn’t unscrew a bottle top without using either his teeth or holding the bottle with his knees, and that’s not going to go down well with customers. Not even for one night. Bless him. She smiles to herself. She rests her head momentarily against his remaining arm, which flexes as he turns the split chicken. She kisses his thin bicep as she pulls away.

‘Let’s use someone we know this time.’ Her voice is softer now. ‘Experience is one thing but I think if we had personally known this boy, he wouldn’t have just up and left without notice.’ She lifts the basket of chips out and gives it a shake before pouring the fizzing potatoes onto the waiting plates. ‘That chicken ready?’ Mitsos springs from his thoughts into action.

‘Any ideas?’ Stella asks, pouring lemon sauce over the meat.

‘Well, who do we know?’ Mitsos puts sausages on two of the plates. ‘Are you sure Iason’s son will not do it?’

‘Sure. You’ve heard he is a strange one. He doesn’t smoke or drink, he will not eat anything fried, and he likes to go to bed when it gets dark. He is not the man to run a bar.’ She turns her head one way then the other, looking for something.

‘Where’s the bread?’ she asks.

‘Oh, he’s not been yet.’ Mitsos scrapes black bits from the long-pronged grill fork into the bin with the sausage tongs.

‘Again! I guess it’s understandable that his heart is no longer into it, though,’ Stella comments and, as if he has heard them, out from the bakery across the road steps Loukas, a basket of bread in his outstretched arms, his weight leaning back as a counter-balance as he takes small steps across the road.

‘
Yeia sou
Stella. Mitsos.’ He takes his load down the side of the grill and lowers it to the floor.

‘
Yeia sou
.’ Stella and Mitsos speak together.

The dull clonks of what Ellie can only presume to be animal bells drift from somewhere, not very far away, distracting her from analysing the phone call. There are many of them, each with a different pitch. The sound is thrilling, somewhere between being almost too perfect to be true and too exciting to take in. She looks for them beyond the hotel lawns, but nothing is visible.

A couple walk slowly hand in hand to the sun loungers on the beach. A seagull calls overhead as the woman lays down and the man sits on the same sun bed. He unscrews a bottle and pours sunscreen over her shoulders and massages it in, stopping every few seconds to kiss her turned head until finally the woman swivels around to sit up and, with her arms around his neck, they kiss with an intensity that makes Ellie look away. Her stomach grumbles again. She replaces the insubstantial biscuits on the hospitality tray; they are definitely not going to be enough. She needs to do something about breakfast.

There is a light tap on the door.

‘Just a minute.’ She pulls the bed cover straight and smooths her hair with her hand before opening the door.

‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’ It is Sarah, the woman from reception. Why is she here? Why is she knocking on her door?

Ellie struggles to swallow; her empty stomach turns. Has the hotel found out what happened back home, and do they want her to leave? No, that’s irrational. She is being paranoid. But then again, she justifies herself, that is hardly surprising.

‘I don’t start work for another half hour.’ Sarah’s countenance changes from serene to concerned as her eyes dart across Ellie’s face, reading her expression. ‘I haven’t had my breakfast yet. Do you want to…’ She leaves the end of the sentence trailing, her eyes still searching, a slight pucker between her eyebrows.

Ellie’s laugh of relief comes out half-snort, half-cough, and her shoulders drop. ‘Just a minute.’ She hastens to shut the balcony door and grabs the door key and her bag. ‘I wasn’t sure where breakfast was being served, but I am starving.’ In the daylight, she can see that Sarah is a lot older than she appeared last night, older even than Marcus. But there is also something youthful about her, a fluidity, a grace.

‘Well, when you arrived last night, I’ll be honest, you seemed a little nervous.’ Sarah has a hint of an Irish accent. ‘It made me think back to when I was first here in Greece alone. It was a bit daunting the first time I ate out on my own until I got to know people in the village.’

It all seems a little over friendly. Ellie can feel her natural reserves, her defences rising, but makes an effort to fight through them.

‘So, do you live here full time?’ Ellie asks, taking longer steps to keep up. Sarah’s strides are easy, her light, muslin dress flowing with her movement. The carpeted corridor muffles the sound of their feet.

‘Yes, I do.’ Sarah sounds excited by her own reply.

‘Is your family here?’ Ellie is intrigued.

‘No, I came with my husband, but now I am on my own. It’s a long story. Here we are.’ She steps to one side to let Ellie enter first.

They step into a courtyard in which there are white wooden chairs around white tables with linen tablecloths evenly spaced on the gravel. A circular pond with a small low-level fountain marks the centre of the courtyard, and the stone walls trail with jasmine, bougainvillea, and wisteria. Each table has its own square umbrella to shade it from the sun. Ellie has only seen such places in glossy magazines and television adverts.

‘This wasn’t on the website!’ She tries to remain calm, but her excitement is audible.

‘No,’ Sarah says, guiding Ellie to the buffet. ‘That was Stella’s idea. She feels that a surprise makes something more exciting.’ It takes a moment for Ellie to connect the name Stella with her welcoming email from the hotel’s owner. When she does, she nods in recognition.

The food is laid out either side of them, against the hotel wall, and Sarah takes a basket of bread and a bowl of yoghurt to one of the tables. Four of the tables are occupied. There are two couples, a family of four, and a single man.

‘Since I started here, there have been lots of surprises left behind the reception desk. Nothing big, but thoughtful, a bowl of figs, a crossword book in English, a novel that an English guest left behind. She’s very considerate.’

Ellie turns to the food. Laid out are honey, feta, fresh bread, dried figs, yoghurt, and wet slices of watermelon sitting alongside cereals and, at the end, toast on a warming plate. With a plate of figs, feta, and fresh warm bread, she sits opposite Sarah. A gecko runs up the wall behind Sarah’s head, but she pays it no attention. Ellie is fascinated by its flat, circular toes. It makes a loud clicking noise which seems odd for such a small creature. She wonders if they bite.

The bread tastes as good as it smells, the warmth of it slightly melting the slices of feta cheese. She cannot remember when she savoured anything quite so wonderful.

‘The bread’s good, isn’t it?’ Sarah remarks. ‘But this is bread from Saros. Stella orders it with everything else for the kitchen. Wait till you try the bread from the village. That is to die for.’ Sarah takes her bread and scoops up some yoghurt with the stiff crust. The cheese is creamy, with the slightest tang, and Ellie can taste the olive oil in the bread; she cannot imagine it can be improved upon. Only when her plate is half-empty does she stop to talk.

‘I suppose you speak fluent Greek?’ she asks, curious to know how someone could make the jump from one country to another.

‘My Greek’s appalling,’ Sarah laughs, and a thousand tiny creases by her eyes appear, suggesting that she smiles a lot. ‘So how come you are out here on your own? It’s quite unusual for someone of your age.’ She puts her coffee cup to her lips.

For some reason, this comment pricks tears into Ellie’s eyes. They do not blink away so she tries to use a napkin, pretending it is for her mouth but whisking it across her eyes.

‘Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’ Sarah is quick. She reaches across the table and squeezes Ellie’s hand in a caring, almost motherly gesture.

‘No, no, it’s alright.’ Ellie wipes her eyes. ‘It’s been a bit of a year for me. Last year, I was taking my A levels. Now I am married and I am not sure what I am supposed to be doing. I feel caught up in a whirlwind. So, I guess I thought that this break would help me make sense of it all.’

‘How sensible,’ Sarah says, pouring them both more coffee.

It doesn’t feel sensible. It feels irresponsible and a bit silly. What does she really think she can achieve, coming here?

‘I don’t think I was that responsible at your age. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Sarah continues.

‘Nineteen.’ Ellie’s reply is automatic. If she wanted to get away, why didn’t she just go to a youth hostel or a bed and breakfast a bus drive away? Why this big, dramatic show?

‘Yes, well, at nineteen, the furthest I had got away from home was the Isle of Man,’ Sarah chuckles, sounding very Irish. ‘And I sure as heck was not on my own.’

‘Until coming here, the furthest I had been away from home was Bradford, on the bus,’ Ellie replies.

‘Wow! So this really is a big deal for you then?’ Sarah’s voice is soft.

‘I think I have made a mistake coming, actually.’

‘Ah, you don’t know that. Not yet. Anyway, you’re here now. Best thing is to have your breakfast, allow yourself to acclimatise a little…’

‘Buy some cooler clothes,’ Ellie interrupts.

‘Buy some new clothes. Good idea!’ Sarah grins.

‘Are there any shops near here for that kind of thing?’

‘You could go into Saros town. That is only a short taxi ride from here.’ Sarah leans forward and tears off another hunk of bread and wipes the last of the yoghurt off her plate. ‘Or you could go into the village. That’s only a short walk, but the only shop for clothes is Kyria Poppy’s, and she sells an odd assortment.’ Sarah dabs at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and then produces a lipstick. ‘Right, I’d better get to work, if you can call it that.’ She picks up her plate. ‘Go explore; it’s fantastic. And if there is anything I can help you with, let me know.’ Ellie watches the empty doorway for a minute or two after Sarah has gone before she becomes aware of the other people eating breakfast. None of them are looking at her. The children are blowing bubbles through straws into their fresh orange juice. The single man is hidden behind an English tabloid newspaper. How she hated those newspapers.

Past headlines flash through Ellie’s mind. Some of them blamed her as much as Marcus. The spiralling down of her emotions is a familiar, well-worn trail that drags at the corners of her mouth. At least no one knows her history here. She battles with tears. She has it almost to an art form now: breathe and focus, they will dry up in a second. None of it is happening now. Breathe and focus. She is here in Greece and today she will explore the village and buy new clothes.

She is not sure if it is excitement or nerves that
drys
dries
her tears as she stands to leave.