The Reluctant Baker (The Greek Village Collection Book 10) (4 page)

On leaving the hotel, Ellie passes across the lawns towards the beach. It is not a long walk to the village and there are several ways she can go, according to Sarah, who recommended either taking the paved road or the path by the sea and then up a dirt track.

‘There is a lovely way to walk through the orange and olive groves,’ Sarah enthused, ‘but you might get lost that way, especially starting from the hotel. You’ll find it easily enough on the way back though.’ She will try to find it on her return.

The sea is nothing like the briny expanse Ellie has seen in England. Here it is alive with reflections of the sun. When she is close to its edge, looking down through the smooth surface, she can see the sandy bottom quite a long way out, the water is so clear.

Marcus inherited his mother’s house, which is by the sea in England, in Blackpool. That’s where they went for their weekend honeymoon. At the time, the anticipation of the holiday brought back memories of when she and Mum used to go by bus to Blackpool once a year for a week’s break, the week that Father would go to his annual clerical conferences.

Marcus drove them down, hung over and increasingly sniffing and sneezing as they approached. When they arrived at his mother’s small and rather drab house, he took himself off to bed, leaving her alone. She was disappointed, of course she was disappointed, but also oddly relieved. Wrapping up warm, she left him asleep and set out on the path to the beach. But when she got there, the tide was out and the beach stretched out as far as the eye could see. She couldn’t see the sea, just a huge expanse of wet sand. Her new husband stayed in his bed for the weekend, using box after box of tissues and groaning to himself. So she walked round the town and up and down the promenade in the drizzle by herself. It was not as she imagined a honeymoon would be. The sun came out for a brief hour or two but even then, the sea was still grey and cold looking. It sparkled a bit, but not like it does here.

Looking up from the water near her toes to the far horizon, the blue is staggering, almost unbelievable.

Sinking to sit in the soft sand makes it easier to pull and roll at the bottom of her tight jeans, inching them upward, and once they are halfway to her knees, she kicks off her sandals, slings them over her shoulder, and leaps to her feet again. Walking along with her toes in the water, which is surprisingly warm, a sense of freedom begins to seep into her, a connection to nature and a casting off of the world she usually lives in.

Why has she not come abroad before? Why has she had to wait until now to experience this? All those wet weeks in England, the mist and the cold, when there is this. She stops to look out to sea. She cannot see that this is going to be any part of her future, though. They hardly manage on Marcus’ teachers wage as it is and she dare not eat into her university fund again, just in case things change and it does become possible for her to continue her studies, sit her A levels at the least.

Besides, Marcus’ idea of a holiday is a weekend pottery workshop. They have been to two already. Originally, the idea excited her; meeting his friends, being part of his life, but the most fun she had at that first weekend was the raku party, which was hardly a party, sitting around drinking homemade wine and stoking a hand-built kiln. There was a bit of excitement when the glowing hot pots were brought out of the kiln with long metal tongs and immersed in sawdust that leapt into flame, or quenched in water that sizzled and hissed, giving off huge clouds of steam. But the thrill of being with older people, being one of them, wore off pretty quickly. All they seemed to do was laze around the fire and chat, drink small amounts of specialist beer, make jokes she could not understand, and fall asleep before midnight. Even Marcus was snoring before she finished brushing her teeth. The second weekend workshop was no better, just more uncomfortable that time.

But this! With her arms stretched above her head, she pirouettes on her tiptoes, which sink into the wet sand. This is perfect. She makes a conscious effort to impress it onto her mind, etch it into her memory in detail, hang on to it.

It is easy to see how Sarah came here and stayed. Came here with her husband and stayed alone. That is a bit more difficult to see. Well, Sarah is a different person. She has not come here for that, rather to make sense of everything, put it all together. But how exactly is she planning to do that? Did she just picture herself tanning by a pool and that this change would remarkably happen by itself? It doesn’t sound very probable even if it is possible.

The track from the beach up to the village starts very straight but soon begins to wander, trailing through olive groves, at one point passing by an old barn made of mud bricks. Outside the doorless opening is a plank propped up on breeze blocks to make a bench. Moving closer, Ellie can see names carved into the wood: dates, love hearts, and notches as if someone has been counting off days. It seems strange to find such a display of life in what appears to be an empty barn. She looks inside. It smells cool and there are sacks of cement and builders sand. A new window frame stands against one wall and a thick wooden door is laid along another. It will make a beautiful cottage here amongst the trees. Someone, one day, will be lucky enough to call such a spot home.

Outside, the sunlight filters through the leaves and seems bright by comparison and Ellie squints as she makes her way to where the rough path joins a tarmac road that is cracked with weeds growing down its centre. Here she stops to put her sandals back on and watches a line of ants crossing the road and back. How many are killed every time a car passes? And where are they, all those dead ants? Do they take their dead back to their nest? Everything seems fascinating here. She loves to walk on the moors back home. Trail across the heather and bracken, stay out all day if she could, but the cold usually keeps her moving. It is a rare summer’s day indeed that allows her to slow down, lay on the warm peat, and watch the tiny English ants. Here, presumably, there is never a need to hurry to keep out the cold. She can take time to stand still, notice the small things.

Soon the lane joins a main road, just wide enough for two vehicles to pass. Up ahead are one or two low cottages, whitewashed with tiled roofs and plants in painted pots outside. A woman in black wishes her
‘kalimera’
and stops to lean on her broom to say things in her foreign tongue.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ Ellie explains to the woman.

‘
Den birazi, ola kala
.’ The woman states and continues to brush off the road outside her front gate.

‘Bye.’ Ellie trails.

‘
Yeia sou
,’ the woman replies and waves.

‘Ya sue,’ Ellie tries.

She is in the village now, and an old man tips his cap to her as he goes into a shop at the corner of what appears to be the main square.

‘
Yeia
sou
,’ he says.

‘Ya sue,’ Ellie responds. She likes this.

A boy on a moped, who cannot be more than ten years old, zips past, nearly running over her toes. He looks back and grins at her. A donkey being led by a bent old lady is sedately clopping up the main road into the square as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is, here.

Now that she is in the centre of the village, there is so much to take in, she forgets the discomfort of her jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt. A mass of bougainvillaea trails along one wall; a bright coloured canary sings in a cage outside a whitewashed cottage; a dark-haired boy runs along in nothing but shorts, his bare feet slapping on the road’s surface. An Asian-looking man lies on a bench at the far side of the square, one foot dangling on the ground, one arm across his eyes.

A palm tree soars from the paved centre, casting a dappled shade over a fountain, and there is a kiosk that gives the appearance that it has burst. On the pavement around it are drinks fridges sprawling away; a freezer, offering ice creams, that reaches towards the road; magazine racks vibrant with colour beckoning the onlooker, and stacks of crates, some empty, some full of bottles, blocking easy passage.

On one side of the small, lifeless fountain, tables and chairs have been arranged, opposite a rather stark-looking café on the other side of the road on the square’s top edge. Sarah mentioned this café in her directions. She called it
kafeneio
, a place for coffee and ouzo. Ellie says the word under her breath and treasures it. It was her first Greek word. Now she also knows
Yeia Sou
, which means hello, or perhaps goodbye, or both. She is not sure.

The
kafeneio
is alive, but only with men. They are sitting, standing, laughing, shouting. It reminds her of the ants, but hopefully none of these farmers will be squashed by cars as they pass to go to the kiosk or to sit on the wooden chairs outside on the paved area.

A truck that looks too corroded with rust to be safe on a public road chutters into the square and pulls up. The back is piled with watermelons, and hanging from a metal framework over the tailgate is a large set of scales. The driver climbs out and shouts to the men in the café. One or two stand, hitch sagging trousers, say a last word to their companions, and head toward the purveyor. From the arterial streets that join the square, three or four woman appear, colourful house coats wrapped around expanded waistlines. Some wear headscarves, some have lacquered hair, some wear curlers, two sport slippers.

Once she has taken in everything visually, Ellie begins to notice more. There is a smell of fresh bread, grilled meat and, maybe, some sort of flower or incense.

A man outside the kiosk is shouting at whoever is inside, but after he has shouted, he laughs, the one emotion flowing into the other. How does anyone know who is angry and who isn’t? The same pitch of conversation is being had at the café, and they sound like they are arguing, but they are mostly smiling. A giggle escapes Ellie and her neck feels hot. The heat climbs to her cheeks. She is not sure why this behaviour embarrasses her. Maybe she considers emotion is a private thing? To have so much on display seems confusing—but also emancipating. She decides she likes it.

So, if she remembers correctly, at the square she is meant to turn right, then take the first right up behind the bakery. But she is not sure she is ready to leave the square yet and her footfall is slow. Down from the centre, on the left hand side, is another place with tables and chairs outside on the pavement. This one has a thin tree wrapped in fairy lights as its focal point. By the tree is an open door showing a dark interior and next to that are double doors, wide open, and inside, a counter is just visible. From here too voices can be heard, but not shouting, rather talking with animation, perhaps. This place is more inviting than the
kafeneio
and it intrigues her. Her decision to walk towards it isn’t one she is aware she has taken until she realises she has missed the right turn before the bakery. There is a small sandwich shop on her side of the road with its door open. On the window ledge is balanced a flat tray half in, half out, displaying croissants and other savoury and sugary items that Ellie does not recognise. She stops to stare.

The talking across the road becomes louder, so she turns. It cannot be possible but she seems to recognise the woman inside, who stops what she is doing and stares back. Then it dawns on her and, before she has thought, she says out loud, ‘Stella!’ It is the hotel’s owner, whose picture is on the website.

‘Yes?’ the woman replies in English.

She can stay where she is and shout across the road to her or she can take a step in her direction and speak more quietly. Really, she wished she had said nothing so she could continue on her way, but now she is stuck. Looking left and right, she crosses the road.

‘Hi, Stella, I am Ellie. I...’

‘Ah, Ellie, welcome, welcome, you journey okay? Your room alright? Did you sleep well? Do you need anything?’ With this introduction, Stella offers her hand to be shaken and then pulls Ellie towards her and kisses her first on one cheek and then on the other.

‘Fine. Good. Everything is beautiful.’

‘Oh good. Tonight we have the opening. You are coming, yes?’

There were notices up around the hotel telling of the official opening that night, but Ellie had not paid them much attention, and she is surprised at Stella’s invitation.

‘It will be very noisy until late,’ Stella continues. ‘So you have no choice to hear, but come to eat. I will make you a place at my table.’ Her manner is so warm, so friendly and relaxed, it catches Ellie off guard and her initial response is to back away, make her excuses. But before she has spoken, Stella takes her hand and leads her to the double open doors with the single word ‘Come’. Behind the grill counter, a man with a craggy face and very kind eyes looks up from his work. He is wearing an apron, and in one hand he holds blackened tongs. His other arm appears to be missing, his shirt sleeve ironed flat and tucked into his trousers.

‘This is my husband Mitsos.’ Stella sounds proud.

‘
Yeia sou
.’ The man waves his tongs at her.

‘Mitsos, this is Ellie, all the way from England, by herself! She will be joining us tonight.’

There is movement to the side of the counter and Ellie and Stella turn in unison. The man there is younger, much younger, about her age even, maybe a couple of years older. He has very short black hair and a dimple in just one cheek as he smiles. Something about him gives her a strange sense that she has met him somewhere before, which is impossible. Looking at him gives her a sense of relief that she is not alone! But that makes no sense. She returns his smile.