The Reluctant Baker (The Greek Village Collection Book 10) Read online

  The truth was, after a couple of days, she had actually forgotten about the holiday. Not completely, just the dates, the reality of its existence. So when she read the email reminder two days before departure, it dried her mouth, made her head spin and caused her to shake ever so slightly. Obviously it was too late to cancel by then and it wasn’t something she could discuss with Marcus, so after a couple of hours of consideration, she decided that her only option was to consider it money lost, nothing more. It wasn’t as if she had ever believed that she was really going to go.

  She lets her arm drop and follows the flight of the seagull as it heads out to sea. It joins other birds and she tries to keep following the one with her eyes, but there are too many. It becomes lost.

  The whole day of travelling passed without reality, as if she was not really there but instead was watching someone else. She had not really packed, just grabbed her favourite book, as she had not really believed she was going to go through with the whole thing. The first bus she might have taken anyway, as it went into town. The one to the airport was just to try it out, try and imagine what it would feel like if she was really doing it, with her passport in her back pocket but with no luggage. It wasn’t real. Then, suddenly, she was there, looking at a flight information board, the woman on the check-in desk asking for nothing more than her passport to issue her boarding pass. Even that had allowed reality to only return a little. But after the three-hour flight in which she had more than enough time to reflect, she began to panic. At first, she thought it was motion sickness and the air hostess brought her a plastic-lined paper bag, but when she began to feel dizzy, the feelings became all too familiar. Since being caught with Marcus, panic and stress have been her daily companions. She realised she didn’t even have the address of the hotel or any idea how to get there. When the plane landed, she moved reluctantly, responding to the physical pressure of the other people around her herding her through passport control, and before she was ready, she emerged into the vast, shiny terminal building. The heat hit her like a layer of silk. The feeling was so amazing that just for a moment, she forgot to panic and part of her believed nothing bad could possibly happen in such a place.

  The man said her name with an accent so thick, she did not recognise it as her own. As her name was repeated, it sounded like a chant and she took it up in her mind as a rhythm. It was the waving of a piece of white card with her name on it in hesitant capitals that finally caught her attention. Of course, she booked the meet and greet option, a final twist of her credit card knife into the absent ribs of Marcus. Her relief came out as words, chatter, mindless details of the journey, and it was only after noticing that the driver nodded to all her comments whether good or bad that it began to dawn on her that he spoke no English.

  ‘Is it far?’ she asked, and he nodded and smiled.

  ‘Will it take long?’ Another nod.

  ‘Are we there yet?’ Another nod and more smiles.

  After this exchange, she sat silent, wishing she had brought the sick bag from the plane with her as she rested her head against the window. After a while, sleep came over her.

  The woman at reception, who introduced herself as Sarah, turned out to be English. She chatted away so easily, so warmly, as if they had known each other for years, allowing some of Ellie’s tension and fear to quell. But the normality of their conversation also gave Ellie a reality check on the enormity of what she had done. What on earth would Marcus say? Could she keep this from her parents? But the thought of ringing Marcus that night was more than she could cope with, and sleep again came to her rescue.

  The blue of the sea is even more intense than it appeared on the hotel’s website, the sands more golden. The sparkling sea hypnotizes her, draining away all her cares until, from nowhere, a dark thought passes through her. She must get in touch with Marcus immediately, let him know she is safe.

  She groans. ‘Stupid,’ she mutters to herself. It would have been so much easier to have left a note. Why on earth had she not done that? He is bound to be cross. No, not cross. He would never be cross. He’ll be concerned about why she has done this, perhaps. He will want to understand, be explained to, analyse, and no doubt help her. She half hopes he is cross. At least that would show a bit of passion.

  Reluctantly leaving the balcony, she finds the phone by the bed and dials the number. If it connects, he will be able to find out where she has rung from. Does she want that? She replaces the receiver. But won’t she tell him anyway? She dials again. It seems to ring for ages. Saturday. The clock on the wall says it is eleven o’clock. What time will it be in England? Maybe he is at Brian’s, but surely after she didn’t come home last night…

  ‘Hello?’ He sounds too calm, and so near. He could be in the next room.

  ‘Marcus?’

  ‘Hey. Where are you then?’ He sounds cheerful.

  ‘Um, well, not at home.’

  ‘No. I can see that. Oh, and sorry I didn’t make it home again last night, but I did say it might happen this week. Got a bit carried away with re-landscaping around Brian’s trains, you know. Plus one too many beers in the process.’ He chuckles. ‘I know it’s not far and I could have walked, but it seemed a long way last night. I would have rung but by the time I thought about it, you would’ve been asleep. What’s for lunch?’

  It takes her a moment to think.

  ‘There’s a shepherd’s pie in the top of the freezer.’ She pauses to gain the courage to speak again. ‘Listen, it’s my turn. I might not get back tonight.’ She waits for his response. There is none. ‘Marcus, did you hear me?’ Silence. ‘Marcus?’ Maybe the connection is lost?

  ‘Yup, found it. Do I oven it or nuke it?’

  ‘Did you hear what I said? I said I might not be home tonight.’

  ‘Oh. Are you at your mum’s then? Best if you warn me of these things really, you know, just so we’re on the same page.’

  He’s so blasé, so infuriating.

  ‘No I’m not at Mum’s. I’m abroad.’

  ‘Yeah right, good one. So nuke or oven?’

  ‘Seriously. Look in the drawer.’

  The drawer under the telephone table is where they have keep their passports and their marriage certificate. She can hear the drawer open, things being moved about, the slowing of movements as he realises her passport isn’t there.

  ‘Where?’ There is no anger, no concern, just enquiry.

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘No, you’re right. Space and time are just a concept. Okay, let’s try why?’ That kind of talk, ‘space and time are just concepts’ used to impress her not so long ago, back a whole year before she left school. Part of her wishes it still did. Right now, all that impresses upon her is that nothing seems to rile him. Nothing seems to matter.

  ‘Well, I…’ is as far as she gets.

  ‘No, it’s okay, I get it. I get the "why". You need your space, you need to grow, find yourself, that’s why we are here, to experiment, expand, explore. So I guess you can’t answer the question of how long, either?’ His voice doesn’t even register interest.

  ‘Two weeks.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, I hope you find what you need.’

  ‘Is that it then?’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you really, isn’t it? What you do with your life. Who am I to demand things of you?’

  ‘My husband! It was you who demanded I marry you.’

  ‘That was different, and I didn’t demand. It seemed necessary, at the time.’ He speaks disjointedly.

  ‘Was it different, or did it just suit you better?’ As the words leave her mouth, her eyes fill with tears. Was that the truth? She puts the back of her hand to her mouth to stop the sob and holds the receiver at arm’s length.

  ‘Ellie?’

  Putting the phone back to her ear, she breathes deeply, focuses on the room key in her hand.

  ‘Look, it’s fine. You needed a break, you’ve taken one. Don’t cry, love. Come on, it’s fine.’ His voice is softer now.<
br />
  There is nothing she can think to say, nothing short and succinct anyway, nothing that won’t lead to a long discussion or her getting even more upset.

  Looking up from the key, the sun outside beckons her. She desires the warmth to touch on her face, melt away her knotted muscles that have returned so quickly.

  ‘Marcus, look, um… I’ll call you later, okay?’

  The phone replaces with a satisfying click.

  She rocks her head from side to side to release the tension. Now that he knows, there is no reason why she cannot enjoy being here. A shiver of anticipation runs down her spine. The view from the window is hers, all hers. Although it would have been nice if he had been just a little put out. He never shows the slightest sign of possessiveness; is that normal?

  The view is idyllic, a line of palm trees stretch up into the endless blue sky and beyond them, the sparkling sea in the bay cools the foothills of the mountains on the far shores.

  She could easily lose herself in this landscape. Two weeks will be enough time to filter her thoughts. When she returns, she will have a clear head and a settled heart. Everything will feel so much better.

  She stretches and yawns noisily. Just being here feels empowering. Her jaw slackens and her head rolls back on her shoulders as she lets the sun coat her face.

  The gentle lapping of the sea is just audible, as are the muted sounds of the few early risers talking to each other as they lounge on sunbeds down by the water’s edge.

  This year has just been one big emotional mess. She has been embarrassed, humiliated, and ridiculed, and things have happened that should never have happened. It will be a lot to mull over in two weeks.

  Focusing on the reflecting light on the water’s smooth surface, her eyes wash with tears. The beach seems to stretch forever in either direction towards unknown towns, alien places, and just for a second, the world seems a little too big and she forgets to breathe. Maybe that’s why Brian’s model railway world is so alluring to Marcus—the containment, the control, all so easy.

  ‘Bloody Brian and his railway,’ Ellie tells the breeze as she steps back out onto the balcony. Up in the attic, he has a whole world of little trees and sheep in fields by the line, and trains that go round and round. For a boy of eight, that would be fantastic, but for men in their thirties! Why could Marcus not appreciate it but just stick with the car share to work with Brian? Then at least he would be home in the evenings and she would not be alone.

  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!

  Chapter 3

  ‘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 rec
ognition 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.