The Housekeeper (The Greek Island Series) Read online

  The Housekeeper

  Sara Alexi

  oneiro

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Oneiro Press

  The Housekeeper

  Copyright © 2017 by Sara Alexi

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Also by Sara Alexi

  Chapter 1

  She's forgotten to put her shoes on again. The heels of her slippers betray their presence, whispering shushhhh with every step as they drag across the village square. At least they are her black slippers and are still reasonably new. Her old purple ones, now matted with hair from the cats curling up on them over the years, squashing them out of shape and clawing them beyond recognition, are still the more comfortable of her two pairs. But right now, she would rather have the stiff discomfort these cause because, in passing, they can almost be mistaken for backless shoes worn to match her black skirt and her faded black blouse.

  Shushhh, shush, shush. She tries to pick her feet up to stop the noise as she passes the kiosk.

  'Morning, Poppy.' Vasso peers out above the pile of newspapers she is organising inside the serving hatch of her small wooden emporium.

  'Morning.' Poppy's throat is dry and the word comes out cracked.

  She coughs and tries again. 'Morning.'

  This time the word is intelligible. A chat with Vasso will give her a moment to rest her legs. Maybe she will buy a bottle of water to lubricate her throat. But Vasso is no longer visible, hidden behind her growing stack of papers, obscured from view. So Poppy keeps up her steady tread, across the square. The kafenio to her left abuts the blank wall of the cheese factory. She will head up that way, walk in the limited shade it offers, a hand on the featureless wall for support.

  Poppy glances up and down the road, hesitant to cross. Cars and bikes come so quickly these days, faster than she can move.

  'Morning.' Theo passes in front of her on his little motorbike and pulls up outside the kafenio. He takes a shopping bag from the handle of his bike and trots with ease up the three steps into his masculine haven.

  When she first came to the village, way back when she was only a child, it was Theo’s grandfather running the kafenio – a tall man with a mass of black hair except for a shock of white that flopped over one eye. She found him frightening back then. In fact, the kafenio itself, a place where men went to hide from their wives and put the world straight with tireless talk about politics in a fog of cigarette smoke, was generally unsettling. Without a father figure in her life, men were a mystery to Poppy.

  'Fools, every one of them,' she mutters to herself, and she catches in the establishment’s well-polished windows the reflection of her own white fluffy crown of hair framing her wrinkled face. Quickening her pace across the tarmac, she pauses at the other side, takes a breath, her supporting hand feeling the years of the whitewashed plaster of the wall of the cheese factory.

  It’s been a while since she has headed in this direction. Not that she is so very far from her house and the shop – it’s just that she seldom has any reason to come across to this side of the square and use this particular road.

  Feeling a little rested, her feet shuffle forward again. Her hips are less stiff now; the rest must have done them good as it is becoming easier with every step.

  'You need to oil your joints!' she tells herself, and she chuckles at her own humour.

  'Where are you going, then?' A light step reaches her. It is Thanasis, and with him comes the smell of the donkeys he breeds and the hay he feeds them. It’s a comforting smell.

  'That’s for me to know and no business of yours,' she snaps, but a little smile creases her lips. Over the years she has come to feel that Thanasis is not like the other men – he keeps himself to himself and doesn't ask questions. Well, usually he doesn’t.

  'That’s true enough.' His tone of voice tells her that he is not offended by her sharp retort. 'Well, you have a rather hot day for it, whatever it is you’re up to.'

  He has not fallen into step with her; his pace remains brisk and he is pulling away, but as he goes he turns to look back at her. He may be an old man, but his eyes still dance and there is life in his limbs – no aching hips for him! That’s what an active life will do for you.

  'Have yourself a good day.' Poppy’s wish is heartfelt.

  'And you have yourself a fine day too.' And off he strides.

  'A nice man,' Poppy says and, unbidden, her heart twists at the memory of two young people, and the day she had to watch them walk away from her. Her age seems to be doing this to her these days – dragging her back to relive times she would rather forget, forcing her to dwell on memories that are best left buried.

  'How tiny they were.' She can vividly recall the backs of the little ones walking away from her in a memory so etched into her soul that it twists her nerves and makes her eyes water every time.

  They were only three years old, each holding their father’s hand, their heads twisting to look back at her, startled eyes growing wider as the distance between her and them became greater. She wanted to call out, run to them, wrench their hands free and hug them to her breast and challenge that man who should have had no command over them. She wanted to snap her teeth at him and growl like an animal. It would have felt like the natural thing to do, even though the whole situation was so very far from normal. But she hadn't, she couldn't, she had no rights. So she watched their shocked faces change to fear as they boarded the boat without her. They twisted to free their little hands, called out to her and then screamed and cried. She had run, then – run to protect them, to save them. But their father, who was holding their little hands, appealed to her, stopped her in her tracks.

  'Poppy, please, do not make this harder than it already is for them.'

  His words halted her advance, made her assess the children’s needs, the situation, consider what she should do to make it bearable for them. The process anchored her to the spot. It took everything within her not to shout the children’s names, but it would only add fuel to the fire of their distress. From deep within her came the knowledge that to acquiesce to what was happening, to keep silent the screams of her heart, to stay still and to smile – yes, actually force a smile – was the best thing for the children. So she did; she forced a smile that said, 'Don't worry, my precious ones, blood of my heart, don't worry – all is well, everything will be fine.' And with that false smile plastered to her face, she watched them being led against their will up the gangplank, and, with a final hysterical scream from each of them, they were bustled into the shadows of the boat’s interior.

  That was the worst day of her life. It was the day that drew together the whole sequence of events that has led all the way to this very moment in time: this moment as she leans to catch her breath against the cheese shop wall on the road that will take her to the house that belongs to the one person in the village whom she does not know. A foreigner. That’s why she has chosen her; she is someone with experience wider than just life in the village, bigger even than all that Greece can offer. She will be able to see things from a cosmopolitan point of view and that is important … But maybe this foreigner is nothing like Poppy imagines. Maybe she is wrong, and this woman is not part of the solution. The thought heaves in her chest and she pauses in her tread again.

  Wiping away her tears, she takes her hand off the wall, and with her sobs coming in spasms she marches forward as her slippers continue to tell her to shush, shush.

  'Come on, you silly old woman.' She chastises herself for her rush of emotions as she takes the first turning on the l
eft that leads to a smaller square, a house facing inwards on each edge. She walks past all of these to the top corner, where a narrow road is bordered with brown, shrivelled weeds and gravel has been heaped in a line down its centre. This narrow lane is steep at first and it forces her to stop for breath again, outside a small cottage whose garden overflows with colourful blooms. The way is flat from here and with a final push she is at the end of the lane, which terminates with an arched gate.

  Peering between the bars, she tries to assess the foreign woman from the vantage point she has secured for herself. In front of an L-shaped cottage is a well-tended gravel forecourt. Down the side of the house, the garden is just visible, stretching away at the back. At the front of the house, beyond the gravel drive, is a large paved terrace with ample room for a table and chairs, a sagging white sofa and two canvas chairs that hang with rope from beams that form a pergola. It looks decidedly manicured for the village.

  Satisfied that everything is as she imagined it would be, Poppy pushes the gate open. The gate squeaks and a little cat runs out to greet her, winding around her ankles and threatening to trip her up. It is a persistent little creature and does not respond to a gentle push from Poppy’s toe, so the simplest solution is to bend, scoop up the black-and-white animal and walk with it to the terrace. Lying on the sofa, one hand dangling to the floor, eyes closed and every muscle relaxed, is a woman who has none of the Mediterranean features of the rest of the villagers. Her hair is blonde, touched with gold by the sun, and her skin is a soft caramel and remarkably unweathered. Her legs are up on the sofa, her ankles neatly crossed, her toenails painted, and her sandals are discarded on the floor next to her.

  'Er, hum.' Poppy coughs and then puts down the cat.

  'Umm.' The woman stretches her arms above her head, curling them over the arm of the sofa. With no warning, the cat jumps on the reclining woman’s stomach, which jerks her suddenly awake, eyes wide. Seeing Poppy, she is flustered and struggles to sit up, smooths her hair, then stands and stiffly holds out her hand.

  'Juliet?' Poppy says, taking the proffered hand. She waits a minute or two for Juliet to come to, before explaining the reason for her visit.

  Chapter 2

  'Ah, Kyria Poppy.' Juliet uses the polite form of address. 'So you fancy learning English?'

  She blinks a few times, trying to shake off the sleep and the dream she was having. It was a strong and good dream that demands to be remembered, but she pushes it to one side and forces herself to concentrate on Poppy.

  'Please take a seat.' She stands and offers the sofa up to the old woman. Of course, she has seen Poppy now and then in the four years since she made the village her home, but, strangely, their paths have never crossed sufficiently for them to even exchange a word. Close up, Poppy's face is stronger and harder than the soft halo of white hair surrounding it suggests from a distance.

  'Yes, I would like to have conversation lessons,' Poppy replies in English, with only a trace of a Greek accent.

  'Oh.' Juliet did not expect such fluency. 'Your English sounds pretty good …' She switches to her native tongue.

  'I can speak English but there is always room to improve in everything, isn’t there?'

  'Of course … Well, just to give me an idea, can you tell me what you did yesterday, and what you will do tomorrow? Let’s hear your tenses.' Juliet lowers herself into one of the hanging canvas chairs.

  'Yesterday I went to Saros, the month before I was in Athens and Piraeus for a day or two, today I am here, and tomorrow I will be in my shop. Next week, all I can hope is that God spares me and I will still be alive,' Poppy rattles off.

  If she is not mistaken, Juliet is sure she can hear a tetchiness to Poppy's voice – a lack of patience at being asked to prove her ability.

  'Conjecturing from your elegant response, it would be elementary to speculate that your excellent command of English needs no augmentation.'

  It is a petty reply and Juliet knows it. She could have just been straight and asked Poppy if she wanted to improve her vocabulary, but something about the way the old woman replied to her initial question did not ring true. There is more to her request for English lessons than she is revealing, and it annoys Juliet that the old woman is not being straight with her.

  'I think maybe this was a bad idea.' Poppy takes a firm hold of the arm of the sofa and rocks her weight forward to stand.

  'Did you understand what I said?' Juliet asks, also standing, shocked at the effect her answer has had.

  'Of course I did,' the old woman snaps.

  'Then why are you here?' Juliet asks again as Poppy makes to leave.

  'Like I said, maybe this was not a good idea. I wish you a good day.'

  With this, the old woman shuffles across the terrace. Juliet, taken aback, watches her go, noting Poppy’s slippers – black velour with a decorative buckle at the front. They flop at the back with every step and look quite uncomfortable. The exchange was equally uncomfortable, and the whole meeting has made no sense. Poppy's English is clearly very good, both technically and in terms of her rich vocabulary.

  Juliet wonders if she should call her back, be a bit kinder, try to understand what has just happened. Poppy is by the gate now, and it creaks as it opens. She shuffles down the lane without looking back and Juliet watches her grow smaller.

  'What was all that about?' Miltos comes from around the side of the house wiping his hands on a rag. He puts the rag on the table, sweeps his hair back off his forehead and hitches up his jeans.

  'Oh, did you catch that? I have no idea,' Juliet says.

  'Well, not exactly. I didn't really hear what was said.'

  'It was Poppy.'

  'Yes, I saw it was Poppy – what did she want?'

  'She said she wanted English lessons, but her English is really good and when I pressed her she got – oh, I don't know … a bit defensive, perhaps.'

  It was childish to have bombarded Poppy with those long words – cruel, even – and already Juliet regrets having done it. It is so annoying that she still does these sorts of things, even with all her conscious effort to be less … less what? Crotchety? Grumpy? Tetchy, maybe.

  'Yes, I was defensive and passive-aggressive.'

  'Passive-aggressive – that’s a new one on me, what does it mean?'

  'Oh, I like to read about psychology. Passive-aggressive is pretending to be nice but actually being mean. So, if you ask someone something and they say “fine, whatever”, or something like that. But they are obviously angry, and you know they don’t really mean that it’s fine at all. That’s passive-aggressive.'

  Juliet looks down the empty lane. 'In short, I should have been kinder.' Her head drops forward and she studies the gravel pieces that have made their way onto the terrace.

  'Hey.' Miltos steps towards her, lifting her chin with a finger. 'You have done nothing wrong.'

  His touch is still an unknown, and she lifts her chin from his hand.

  'How did you do with the vines?' Changing the subject, bringing up the reason he is here, feels safer.

  'No problem. I'll leave that ladder here, then if they come down again you can pin them back up.' He is still surveying her eyes, showing concern at her disquiet. So far, he has proved to be a kind man, patient, and their dates – because there can be no other word for their meals out and coffees in the nearby town of Saros – have been fun. But she is not in a rush.

  'Don't worry about Poppy,' he says. 'I get the impression that nothing much gets past her shell.'

  'No, take the ladder with you. I should buy one anyway. But you know, why would she come here for a lesson if she doesn’t need a lesson? … Do you want a frappe?'

  'Frappe, great, I thought you would never ask.'

  He crunches across the gravel and onto the terrace. It is now his turn to take over the sagging sofa as Juliet goes inside to make the coffee. She takes bottled water from the fridge. He has two sugars and plenty of milk; she has no milk and just half a teaspoon of sugar to make
the whipped coffee froth. The ice cubes jump out of the tray, two falling into each glass and one skipping onto the counter, sliding onto the floor and skidding under the fridge.

  Juliet watches it go and says to herself, 'It will melt and evaporate.'

  Outside again, sitting down, Miltos doesn't seem so tall. His height is all in his legs, and whilst he is leaning back on the low sofa they seem ridiculously long and awkward, as if he does not know what to do with them. He has his dark jeans on, and the white collarless shirt he said he bought in Cambodia. It still seems strange that he is so well travelled and yet living here in this tiny Greek village.

  'Here you go.' She hands him his glass, which is wet with condensation.

  'You know,’ he says, ‘thinking about Poppy, maybe it is a case where not everything is as literal as it sounds, perhaps?'

  'Oh, that sounds deep.' Juliet catches his eye to make sure he knows she is teasing. She settles into the canvas chair again, rocking on her heels to make it swing gently.

  'Well, we don't always ask directly for what we want, do we?' he says, narrowing his eyes, responding to her teasing.

  'And what is that supposed to mean?' She exaggerates her defensiveness. It has taken a while to get used to this little game – this back and forth to test the ground, establish control, relinquish ground, parry and dance, all in order to find out more about each other, how they fit together, and whether they agree and gel or not. It is always a delight to find that even when she has thought they are moving onto unsure ground, they have agreed and bonded even more closely. She is almost at the point of feeling that the relationship might go somewhere, but she is cautious – always cautious.

  ‘I seem to remember that soon after we first met … how long ago was that now? Three weeks, four? Anyway, rather than say “Can I meet you tomorrow for a coffee?” you asked me if I would help with your vines!'