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On the beautiful island of Santaniki, close to Crete, it’s not all white sands and sunshine. When retired bookseller Ariadne Blunt suggests the residents form a choir, there are groans of resistance. After a little persuasion, the group gather in Ariadne’s olive garden to rehearse for a seasonal concert, but each member of this choir has their own struggles and secrets.
Ariadne’s partner, Hebe, is in failing health. Clive struggles to accept the loss of his wife, while Della, the Pilates teacher, drinks too much. Then there is Mel, the real songbird amongst them, English wife of a taverna owner who hides her talent until the choir inspires her to raise her voice once more.
In this tiny community, the choir brings the residents together like never before in a bittersweet tale of love and loss – and how life can begin again when you let go of the past.
Welcome Page
About The Olive Garden Choir
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Acknowledgements
About Leah Fleming
Also by Leah Fleming
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
To Brenda T with love and thanks for
all those happy days in the sun.
From The Escape to Paradise Guide to the Greek Islands:
Santaniki, Christmas Island
Off the coast of Crete lies the beautiful island of Santaniki, with its harbour, fishing villages and white sands. The main town is Ayios Nikolaos, known as St Nick’s. It is a haven for honeymooners and birdwatchers. The ancient chapel of St Nicholas (patron saint of sailors and all things Christmas) is cut into the mountain rock, with fine frescos inside.
There are exclusive villas to rent in the outlying villages, with a lively British community in residence. The coastal scenery is breathtaking. In spring the central rocky plateau is full of meadow flowers, orchids, poppies and other beautiful species. In summer there are courses in writing, poetry, art and ceramics in the former home of the famous British romantic novelist, Elodie Durrante. A perfect holiday venue for any who are creative in the arts or seeking a quiet retreat from the bustle of city life.
There are regular flights from the UK to Crete in season. A short ferry ride from the lively ports of Chania and Rethymnon will bring you to this charming destination.
Ariadne Blunt swept up the bougainvillaea leaves from the veranda of her villa on the island of Santaniki, then stopped to admire the view down the rocky slope of olive trees to the sparkling sea, where the faint outline of the big island glinted in the late September sunshine. Now the summer visitors were returning for school terms in Britain, local activities would start again.
Tonight at the first book-club meeting of the season members would provide a summary of their summer reading or single out a book for discussion, and she wanted them to sit on the veranda in the warmth of sunset.
Looking up, she saw the fledgling swallows peeking out of their nest in the corner. It was always a relief when Hick and Hetty returned to raise two broods before their long flight back to Africa. Their safe arrival each year heralded spring, but it was always a sad moment when the young flew off. Their mess was contained in a bucket, but she’d clean it in case some eagle-eyed member thought it unsightly or unhygienic.
The group consisted of a motley assortment of women, mostly middle-aged and retired, but there was a sprinkling of younger ones, who could be relied on to vary the usual selection of middle-brow literature. As a former bookseller, Ariadne assumed leadership to check any snide comments on choices, but tonight she had something important to say.
It had all started when she’d seen a family coming off the ferry, dressed in tunics and jeans, the women in hijabs, reminding her of the drownings off the coasts of Libya and Turkey. Some eastern islands were swamped with refugees but Crete was too far away for that. Most of the survivors had nothing but what the aid agencies had found for them. Here on Santaniki, she hoped they would be found temporary accommodation and seasonal work, and wondered what she could do to help.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her friend and housemate, Hebe Wilson. ‘Shall I set the cups out? It is this evening, isn’t it?’
‘Yes – I told you so this morning. No apologies yet, so we’ll need seven or eight chairs. I thought we might have some wine as it’s the first gathering.’
‘Isn’t the garden looking good?’ Hebe nodded in the direction of the path where the oleander borders were still in late blossom. ‘Shall I cut some flowers?’
‘If you like, but try not to make a trail of dust. I’ve just swept.’
Ariadne liked everything to look tidy for their guests but Hebe had a knack of spreading clutter, forgetting to wipe up and leaving her gardening tools on the tables. It was only a small villa, among a row of grander ones, of which some were only half finished because of the recession. She sighed. The building trade had collapsed and the glory days of foreigners buying second homes were over. Houses were getting harder to sell. She shook herself. Stop wool-gathering, for heaven’s sake! Go and get smartened up, before the early birds appear…
*
One by one they arrived, clutching book bags. Chloë Bartlett was always the first. in her linen jumpsuit and fancy beads. Nor did she come empty-handed: she was carrying a posy of fresh blooms from her beautiful landscaped garden on a hillside outside the town.
Then freckled Della Fitzpatrick staggered up the path, wearing skinny jeans and a jazzy top, and behind her little Natalie Fletcher was dressed in black, her thin arms covered with a crocheted shawl.
Dorinda Thorner wore the usual flowery tent, accompanied by a waft of expensive perfume. She would demand the most comfortable chair, on account of her bad back.
Last but not least, and always late, young Mel Papadaki, English wife of Spiro, son of a local taverna owner, would probably get them going. ‘I’ve just read Elodie Durrante’s novel, Under the Cretan Sun.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’ Ariadne asked. Once Elodie had been the island’s most famous resident and it felt right to honour her with a reading of her novel.
Before Mel could reply, Dorinda butted in. ‘I thought it a terrible choice.’ She sniffed. ‘The sort of torrid romantic nonsense I’m not used to reading.’
‘Well, I thought it was brilliant,’ Mel replied. ‘I’d never got round to reading her before. She writes good sex, doesn’t she?’
The others fell silent until Della giggled. ‘Trust you to pick that book. She was quite a woman, I’m told. Maybe she’d had a lot of experience in that department. Ariadne, you knew her…’
‘I did, and a more generous soul would be hard to find. Her later books were not her best. I think she ran out of steam, but I’m glad you enjoyed it, Mel.’ Ariadne didn’t want her put down for choosing something light and relaxing. Mel had her work cut out, what with two small boys and a mother-in-law like Irini Papadaki, plus the taverna to help run, when Spiro was away finding work. The taverna was on the square and a popular venue for parties. Ariadne was amazed that Mel had time to read anything. Then she saw that Natalie was hanging back, too nervous to offer her opinion. ‘How about you, Natalie? Did you enjoy Elodie’s novel?’
Natalie blushed. ‘Actually, I’ve not had much time to read. I’ve been catering for a house party, but they’ve gone now. I’ll try to keep up with the reading list.’
Ariadne doubted she would ever relax enough to sit down and read anything. She came to book-club meetings for the company, as she did to the Pilates class, which Della ran. At least she always brought a little something with her. This time it was a plate of delicious-looking lemon polenta squares.
‘Did you like it, Della?’ Ariadne asked.
‘Yes, in parts, It’s a relaxing read, though I did fall asleep towards the end.’
There were some approving nods, but Dorinda Thorner folded her arms in disagreement.
‘We should be reading uplifting fiction that stretches our minds,’ she said. ‘I don’t come here to read smut.’ And so it went on, everyone arguing the toss.
‘It would make a good film,’ Mel put in. ‘A real Romeo and Juliet story, don’t you think?’
‘No one would want to film here,’ Dorinda replied. ‘Think of the expense, and it might stir up old feuds between the locals.’
‘What do you mean?’ Della asked.
‘All that stuff about Greeks fighting Turks.’
‘Elodie handled it with sensitivity,’ Ariadne argued. ‘She did her research well.’
‘I think it showed up too much,’ Chloë said. ‘If you want a good book on the subject read Freedom and Death by Kazantzakis. It’s long but accurate.’
‘Reading’s hard when the pressure’s on,’ Ariadne said, aware that Hebe was half dozing in the corner. Hebe was another who found it hard to concentrate on a book for long, drifting off as the book slid onto the floor.
‘I think it’s good to have a variety of genres on the to-read list,’ Chloë said. ‘This wasn’t really my cup of tea, but I do have a few books to lend.’ She pulled out a pile of paperbacks by prize-winning literary authors, spread them on the table and reviewed each one at length. When Chloë got into her stride there was no stopping her.
Ariadne’s eyes glazed over. Chloë liked to take over every meeting, even though no one showed much enthusiasm for her choice, unless it was Kate Atkinson’s latest. Time to change the subject. ‘Have you finished pulling Elodie’s last novel to pieces?’ she asked. ‘Hands up for wine.’ Everyone raised a hand.
‘I’ll do it,’ whispered Hebe, then retreated into the kitchen, where the glasses were already set out beside Natalie’s lemon polenta cake.
‘It’s not village wine, is it?’ said Dorinda. ‘It gives me a headache.’
You’re the headache in this group, thought Ariadne, always criticising, but she smiled politely. ‘We had enough of that when Elodie was still alive. I never slept a wink after one of her parties.’
‘No, it’s Durakis’s best,’ Della chipped in. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with village wine? We have to support local enterprise.’ Her support for the local taverna was well known.
‘Poor Elodie, we’ve not been fair. This was her last book, not her best. Still, she was a bestseller and the island owes much to her generosity.’ Ariadne wanted the last word. Elodie’s magnificent villa was now an arts and crafts retreat centre. She had bequeathed it to the island under the auspices of the Elodie Durrante Arts Foundation. Pilgrim tourists climbed the dusty track to view the small museum devoted to her life and work.
‘Do we vote on it, then?’
‘No.’ Hebe suddenly came to life. ‘She was our friend, Ariadne, not marks out of ten, please.’ She jumped up and went into the kitchen.
Ariadne smiled. ‘We understand, but it is our custom.’
Natalie shook her head. ‘Let’s leave it as it is. I can’t vote because I didn’t read it.’
‘Now,’ Ariadne said, ‘I have an announcement to make in a little while but, first, thank you, Natalie, for your delicious contribution.’
She followed Hebe into the kitchen to open the bottles. Hebe was sitting in a chair. The kettle was boiling. She started. ‘Sorry, I was day-dreaming,’ she said.
Ariadne took a deep breath. Hebe had been so absent-minded lately. Still, there had been a good discussion tonight. Poor Elodie would be turning in her grave at the criticisms of her style: she had always made sure Hebe and Ariadne were aware of her status in the bestseller charts. But her style was old-fashioned, and too raunchy for the older members’ modern taste. Perhaps they needed shaking up.
She was pleased to see such a good turnout, now that most of the seasonal visitors were departing. They had their island to themselves once more.
She loved the change of seasons, when the nights drew in early, the air was cooler and even rainy at times. Soon they would change the lacy summer curtains for winter velvets, bring out the woven rugs to warm the stone floors, and gather in the dry olive wood, ready for the nightly fire. Besides all of this, she had plenty of plans for the winter and now was the time to strike.
While everyone’s mouths were full of cake, she announced her intentions. ‘I’ve been thinking we should form a proper choir for our Christmas appeal for the refugees, followed by a grand carol concert for the whole district. What do you think?”
‘Come on,’ said Chloë. ‘We’ll hardly be the Military Wives Choir.’
‘Of course not,’ Ariadne replied. ‘I was thinking more of a community choir. We’ve got enough voices to put on a decent show and I have plenty of music.’
‘I’ve not sung since the sixth form, when I got excluded for changing the words of the song we were learning to rude ones. Perhaps we’re too old to make a decent sound,’ Della said.
‘Speak for yourself,’ Mel snapped. ‘I’m only thirty and I know other younger people who might join in – the couple who run the retreat house, for a start.’
‘We need men,’ said Chloë. ‘Tenors and basses to add depth and tone. We’d sound like a cats’ chorus on our own, but it would be good to do something for charity at Christmas.’
‘Something jazzy and rock, not just old-fashioned carols,’ Della added.
‘Oh, but some are so beautiful,’ Hebe said. ‘I love “Silent Night” and “The Boar’s Head Carol”. John Rutter’s written some excellent tunes.’
‘All right, Hebe,’ Ariadne interrupted. ’We’ll have to make it appeal to everyone in St Nick’s, and of course we’ll want to show our Greek friends a true English Christmas.’
‘They have their own customs. Will they be interested in English carols? Perhaps American classics would be better – “White Christmas” or “Deck the Halls”, or even some songs from the musicals,’ Chloë suggested, noticing heads shaking.
‘We won’t know if we don’t try, Chloë. Christmas means a lot when you’re far from home,’ Ariadne replied. She wouldn’t be defeated by negative talk.
‘Simon and I will be visiting Alexa and her family back in the UK, so you can count us out,’ Chloë told her.
‘Well, there’s St Nicholas’s Day on December the sixth. You’ll still be here then,’ Ariadne said. Chloë always like to set the tone for the group. Ariadne found her a little patronising and negative at times. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘think about it. We can rehearse here, in the olive garden.’
‘It’ll soon be too dark,’ murmured Hebe.
‘Not in the afternoon. We can use the drawing room when it’s wet. October and November can be so unpredictable. I’m relying on you all to chip in and invite your friends – cast the net wide.’
Ariadne sensed hesitation. She’d sprung it on them without warning, but this would be something new. The tavernas hosted karaoke or jazz evenings, but a choir would include people of all ages and abilities. It could form the core of a festive concert, with tickets sold, a raffle, tombola, all the usual money-spinners for a good cause.
When nights were long and daylight shortened, residents withdrew into themselves. This might bring the community together, although Ariadne could tell she had a challenge on her hands, if she was to make her idea anything more than wishful thinking.
Natalie’s Lemon Polenta Slices
160ml extra virgin olive oil
200g caster sugar
200g ground almonds
100g instant polenta
1½ teaspoons baking powder
3 large eggs
Zest and juice of 2 large lemons
200g icing sugar
Grease a tin and line it with greaseproof paper. Set the oven to 180°C. Whisk together the olive oil and sugar until pale and frothy.
In another bowl mix the ground almonds, polenta and baking powder. Pour about a third of the dry mixture into the olive oil, add an egg, beaten, and stir well. Then add another third of the dry mixture with another beaten egg and stir again. Add the rest of the dry mixture with the third egg, also beaten, and the lemon zest, then stir thoroughly. Pour the batter into the prepared tin and bake for 35–40 minutes. Test with a skewer: when it comes out dry, the cake is done.
Make a syrup with half of the lemon juice and 50g of the icing sugar: heat them together in a small saucepan until the sugar has dissolved. Prick the top of the cake all over, then pour over the warm syrup and leave it to cool.
Make the topping: mix the remaining icing sugar with the rest of the lemon juice and smooth it over the top of the cooled cake. Leave it to rest, then cut into slices.
Sammia Began shook off her headscarf and stared around the stone house with dismay. Maryam, her sister-in-law, had left the room untouched again. In such a small space they must keep things tidy. It was not what they were used to, but it was a roof over their heads. The spacious apartments with high ceilings and balcony windows in Damascus were now just rubble, since the civil war and the bombings had taken their toll.
Thanks to the kindness of strangers, there was just enough space for two families, a recess bench, with a mattress of sorts, and a bedroom for Maryam, Amir and little Karim. There was also an open fire, a well and a sink. The farmer, Yannis, who was also the mayor of Santaniki, had offered them this shepherd’s hut in return for Sammia’s husband, Youssef, and Amir helping with the vegetable garden by picking tomatoes, aubergines, anything that could be sold at the weekly market. Sammia helped his wife, Toula, with the housework and preparing meals. It was a relief to be occupied, away from Maryam’s tears of frustration and grief.
In the flight from Syria, Maryam had miscarried her second child and Karim screamed each time he saw the sea. The ferry trip from the big island to Santaniki had been a nightmare. Distant relatives in Crete had offered them a temporary stay in Chania where Sammia had found comfort in the bustling city and open markets – normality, after so much trauma. The few dollars she had hidden in her brassière had not been looted so she could buy underwear for herself and Maryam. Now at least they had some dignity, beneath the clothing the aid agency had provided. It was hard to be beholden to charity.
A kindly priest had suggested they move to the small island where there would be more work for the men. The tension of the past months had exacted a price from the women – Maryam could not bear to look at Sammia’s swelling belly. Inside her, the little one kicked and squirmed, unaware of the dangers he had faced during their escape. At least Maryam had Karim to watch over and distract her. They took him into the hills to play among the rocks and caves and pick scented herbs on the little mountain that rose from the middle of the island. They could sit in the shade, or pick the wild almonds and carobs that grew there. In the hut, they had a sack of dried beans and lentils, with a garden full of vegetables, for stews, and made lemonade from the trees in the grove that Yannis’s forebears had planted aeons ago.
Understanding Greek was hard. Sammia wanted to practise her English. She missed her school teaching post, just as Youssef missed his accountancy office. It was hard to feel like a professional person in that humble dwelling. But at least they had life, where others did not.
Her eye fell on the torn wedding photograph, the only one that had survived the border searches. Its silver frame had been looted. She studied the happy faces of her parents before they had been killed in a bombing raid. Their cousin, Hussein, had been arrested and had disappeared. Amir was a journalist and had known his days were numbered when he had spoken out against the war.
Sammia flung open the wooden door to sunshine, blue skies and silence: no guns, hooting horns or sirens screaming, just the whirring of cicadas in the late-summer heat. Here was peace, but for how long? This was not their homeland and she feared they were tolerated rather than welcome. She patted her stomach and smiled. Her child would be born here, God willing. It was the only joy that stopped her weeping for all that was lost.
Natalie Fletcher made her way gingerly to the house the locals called ‘The Bunker’. It had been built on lottery winnings, it was rumoured, by a young couple called the Partridges. She was carrying a cake, ordered for a party they were giving, and she wanted to get it to them in one piece.
There was talk among the expats about the prospect of the choir and, as in all small villages, word had spread to Irini’s taverna in the square. There, husbands hung out while their wives went to evening classes. Natalie thought it only fair to tell the couple about Ariadne’s idea and invite them to join in.
‘How daft can you get?’ Kelly Partridge sneered. ‘It’s a stupid idea. You can’t make a proper Christmas here without snow and lights, like on Oxford Street. The woman’s off her rocker if she thinks I’d join her tinpot choir. We’ll be going home for Christmas, won’t we, Gary?’
Gary said nothing – he was deep in a computer game.
‘I think it’ll be rather nice,’ Natalie said. ‘Not all of us can get back to the UK and I, for one, will be joining.’
‘Suit yourself. I prefer the talent shows on TV. That’s what I call real singing. How much do I owe you? Can you make us a Christmas cake? My mum isn’t too good at baking. I’ll take it home with me.’
‘I’ll be doing a few. They need to rest for weeks to mature so I bought all the ingredients when I was last in Chania. It’s amazing what you can get there now,’ Natalie said.
‘Really?’ Kelly sniffed. ‘I can’t stand the place, too busy and noisy.’
But you’re both Londoners, Natalie thought, as she walked back to her own small villa. Kelly and her husband were a mystery: they had turned up three years ago, having built this strange cube-like house, on the edge of the rocks that jutted out into the sea. They didn’t associate much with the other expats, instead importing friends from London for parties and holidays. They disappeared from Santaniki for weeks at a time. Natalie was grateful for their custom, though.
*
The income from her little catering business was more than useful. It paid the rent and gave her a reason to get up in the morning. She loved the aroma of cakes in the oven, of bread and pastry. They soothed her anxious spirit. She couldn’t get into the kitchen and start on a batch of bread. While she was kneading dough, her hands could bash out all her frustrations. Coming to the island had saved her sanity. She had always loved Greece in the good old days, when the children were little, watching them racing into the turquoise sea, making castles on the white sands. They had been happy then, but Craig and Candice had grown up into the sort of adults who kept their distance, never phoning much or texting, even.
Don’t go there. Think about all those rehearsals and the company in the evenings. She tried to be sociable but preferred providing food for the interminable dinner-party circuit that swung into action once the season came to an end. There was always a dessert to be made. Fortunately she’d taken the Jane Asher cake-decorating course and her little marzipan figurines were in demand. She had an idea for a Christmas nativity scene made with flour paste hardened into sculptures. Would Ariadne find it acceptable for the charity stall they always held a few weeks before Christmas? This year they were raising funds for refugees. She would make mini Christmas cakes and puddings, biscuits, gingerbread men and dozens of mince pies. It would keep her busy for weeks.
She was also giving Mel, from the tavern, lessons in baking and pie-making. Poor Mel could do nothing right for Irini Papadaki. As a university student, Mel’s diet had been Pot Noodles and pizza. Her love for Spiro must be under strain when she got only criticism from his mother for being useless in the kitchen.
Greek cuisine was not for the faint-hearted. There were so many vegetable dishes to learn, plus stews, cakes and special pastry, using ingredients poor Mel had never heard of, never mind cooked, but she was a quick learner and a hard worker. Those first years of marriage were special when all you wanted was to please your husband and make a home for babies. They didn’t last, though. Tears were dropping into Natalie’s dough. How could hers have gone so wrong?
Chloë and Simon Bartlett sat on the terrace at sunset sipping G and T and gazing over the immaculate garden that sloped down towards their sea view. The house was one of the oldest villas in the village, bought as a ruin and carefully restored stone by stone, extended at the back and fitted with all the features that reminded them of the original design: ceilings with cypress-wood beams, stone archways into the great drawing room with its fireplace, marble floors and rough-woven Cretan rugs scattered liberally across them. There was a grand piano in the corner, adding grace, but it was rarely played, and a gallery of artwork on the walls.
‘Dear old Ariadne she does have strange ideas.’ Chloë laughed. ‘A choir of oldies trying to re-create their youth singing carols? I really don’t want to be party to it but I suppose I should put in an appearance. It is for charity and one must contribute…’
‘Hang on! She’s about the same age as us so not so much of the “oldies”. And you still have a lovely voice,’ Simon remonstrated.
‘You too, deep bass.’ She touched his hand. ‘Remember when we sang in the Bach Choir? I couldn’t bear to make a fool of ourselves singing to the Greeks. Coals to Newcastle. What will they make of us?’ Chloë smiled, recalling the camaraderie of performances in the Royal Albert Hall.
‘We have to listen to their music often enough with weddings and baptisms that go on till dawn and tannoys blasting forth. It will do them good to hear us. I’ll join, if you like.’
‘Would you? Then there’ll be at least one male voice,’ she said.
‘We could ask Clive Podmore. He might like to come. Have you seen him lately? He looks so lost. We ought to have him for supper again.’
‘It must be nearly two years since Lucy died but he still looks shell-shocked, poor man. I don’t know why he won’t go home.’
‘Because she’s buried here and he can’t leave her. They were so devoted. I see him on the headland heading into the hills. He does his daily walk with the dog but I can’t even get him to spend an evening with us in the taverna,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps if I ask him to join the choir, he’ll go for it. That’ll make two men and then there’s old Colonel Templeton Brown. I’ve heard him in church but it’ll take more than three men to balance you women.’
‘Is Arthur still writing his memoirs? He must be over ninety now.’ Chloë smiled. ‘He was always full of war stories.’
‘And as fit as a butcher’s dog. He’s a military man through and through, but lonely since Caro died.’
‘We need youngsters like Mel. She’s trying to drum up some of the mothers,’ said Chloë.
‘We? Be careful, Chloë. This is Ariadne’s shout, her baby.’
‘But if it’s going to happen it’s got to be done properly, regular rehearsals, a balanced programme of old and new music and special outfits.’ Chloë could see the women in black dresses with bright scarves, red or green edged with tinsel, and the men in dinner jackets.
‘Darling, hold back. You know how you can take over…’
‘What do you mean? I’m only making suggestions. Look how Gareth Malone got all those communities singing.’
‘This is a one-off and we probably won’t be here for the concert. Have you heard from Alexa and Hugh?’
‘Not a word, but I’ll be with her in London at half-term for Christmas shopping. It’ll be good to get off the island. It’s like living in a bubble, such narrow lives some of them lead.’
‘Don’t be smug, Chloë. They’re here for a reason. They all have their stories.’
‘And when you try to get them to open up they clam shut, all running away from something, no doubt, or someone…’
‘Or running to this beautiful island. Don’t be judgemental,’ Simon said.
‘I’m not. How can you say such a thing?’ Chloë snapped. She was only remarking on what she had noticed. ‘Anyway, I just want to help get this thing off the ground..’
‘I’m sure you do—’
‘I don’t interfere. I only make suggestions to improve things.’ Chloë was on the defensive now. If something was worth doing it must be done well and she wasn’t sure that Ariadne and Hebe were capable of organising a choir professionally. ‘Do you think I should have a word with Ariadne before the first rehearsal?’
‘No, I don’t. And now let’s go in. I can hear mozzies in search of my blood. What’s for supper?’
Della Fitzpatrick had pulled out the mats, softballs and stretch bands for the Pilates class on the veranda of her villa, which had a glorious mountain view, but the turnout was thin. All of the usual suspects were either too lazy to come because of the heat, injured or busy elsewhere. Ariadne and Hebe were there, Natalie Fletcher, so thin in black leggings and T-shirt, and for once Kelly Partridge had made an appearance in a new Sweaty Betty outfit with jazzy leggings.
‘Got to get in shape for the party season,’ she said. ‘Too cold to swim in the sea now.’
‘The water’s warmer than ever this year. I had a swim this morning,’ Ariadne said. ‘So refreshing.’
Della began the usual warm-up. They exercised in the shade, looking out over the rooftops of the village towards the hills. Her clients were a mixed bunch fitness-wise, but Hebe worried her. Her coordination was clumsy and needed watching. Ariadne was lithe and fit for her age.
Della was feeling a bit wobbly. She hadn’t meant to hit the bottle last night but Chloë’s choice of book for the next meeting seemed very disjointed and she’d lost interest after fifty pages. It was one of those days when she got the glums. What was she doing stuck on a remote island with winter coming on? She dreaded the darkness, with just DVDs and the World Service during the night when she couldn’t sleep. And she must stop buying that cheap vodka.
On every trip to the mainland she ordered her supplies to be delivered discreetly in a box off the ferry. Only the twice-weekly Pilates class kept her sober enough to go through the moves, checking clients’ postures and positions. Della had come to Greece for the light, the brightness of its colours, and because it was as far away from Yorkshire, with its grey skies, cold, damp air, and memories, as she could get.
‘Right, let’s stand and stretch,’ she ordered, hoping that the alcohol on her breath was disguised by the peppermint mouthwash. ‘How’s this choir of yours coming on, Ariadne? Have we got a line-up yet?’
Ariadne was bending slowly as instructed into the dog position. ‘We’ve got three men so far and I’ll be twisting a few arms in the taverna. I’ve put a poster up in the village store and the first rehearsal is next Monday in our olive garden. You will come?’
Kelly Partridge laughed. ‘You won’t catch me there. I’ve sung in school assembly and then only when I bothered to turn up. Adele is more my cup of tea.’
‘I like Alfie Bowe and Russell Watson,’ Natalie said, but Kelly pulled a face.
‘I’m sure you’d like listening to carols,’ Ariadne offered.
‘You’re joking. That’s for kids. You should recruit from the school.’
‘I will if I need to, and teach the local children “Away in a Manger”,’ Ariadne said, not prepared to be put off.
‘There you go. A kiddie choir to bring all the parents in and no need for oldies to make fools of themselves,’ Kelly replied.
After that no one spoke. Della wanted to crown Kelly with one of the metal knee stretchers. She was such a common piece of work, with her hair extensions, body tanned tangerine and thighs full of cellulite. The girl was overweight and unfit, so there was always a chance she might want a personal trainer. Della knew they had a gym of sorts, a film room, an infinity pool and a view to die for. Such a pity that Kelly had a mean little mouth but a gob as big as the Mersey tunnel. Why they’d come to Santaniki was a mystery. Surely Ibiza was more their style.
You mustn’t be unkind, she thought. Who are you to judge anyone? They all know you’re no saint but are too polite to comment on your little weakness. Concentrate! They’re paying you for this. Della showed them some new positions and stretches. I’ll improve the fitness of these punters even if I’m ruining my own. She couldn’t wait for the class to finish so she could settle down in the sun with a large glass of wine. It was not as if she was an alcoholic or anything, but the comfort in a glass was the answer to everything just at this moment.
Clive Podmore took his morning walk up the steep cliff path to their favourite spot overlooking the bay where the outline of Crete shimmered in the sunshine. For September it was a fine day for a brisk walk up to the little Agios Nikolaos chapel, which was cut into the rock. There was a bench outside where the pilgrims could catch their breath before it was time to pray and light candles. Here he could chat to Lucy. It had been a favourite pausing point on their honeymoon all those years ago when they had fallen in love with the music of the birds and the crashing waves.
‘They’ve asked me to join a choir, Lucy. What do you think? Last time I sang was at your funeral. That hymn you chose just about choked me. I vowed then never to sing again, but Simon Bartlett called in and insisted I back him up in the bass department. Simon’s been such a brick dragging me out to things, but it’s not the same being among couples who give me that look. You know – the one that says, “Don’t remind me that one day I might be alone like you.” They mean kindly, inviting me to suppers and out for walks, but without you it’s not the same. How could it be after forty years? Jeremy wants me to come home for Christmas but I’m not leaving you here alone.’
Clive sat back smiling. He was sure she’d be listening out there somewhere. After nearly two years he still felt raw at her passing. Bloody cancer! It had been so sudden and inoperable. She’d faded before his eyes, his beautiful beloved wife.
The villa was empty without her, but seeing everything just as she’d left it was comforting. When he opened the front door, her coat was still on the hook, her dressing-table full of sun lotions and face creams, but the scent of her was fading. Laundry and cleaning lifted the fleeting smells that brought her back to him. It was hard to remove anything that reminded him of their life together. Last Christmas he had shut himself away to watch family videos and write Christmas cards from her list. He’d barely stepped out of the door, despite invitations for drinks and a picnic on the beach.
They had had plans for the garden and for trips all over Greece when they’d retired to St Nick’s ten years ago. He’d left his law practice early. Clive was still youngish and fit but now it was as if all the stuffing had been knocked out of him. He felt like an empty shell whose only purpose was living for Bella, his dog. He had thought of ending it all but sensed Lucy would call him a coward for taking the easy way out. In any case, Bella was always at his side. They must just carry on together.
A marriage didn’t end when one partner died. There was a great bank of memories to draw comfort from. He tried to keep busy by attending Greek lessons and ordering a good supply of non-fiction to read. There was even a local bereavement group, but he wasn’t going to sit down and share his feelings with anyone. His grief was a private matter.
As he walked past the cemetery set apart from the village, he paid his morning call to Lucy’s gravestone to check the flowers. He disliked the plastic ornaments that decorated the white catafalques, the family tombs with photographs enclosed in little shrines with candles burning. It was all very Greek. All he had put on the headstone was: Here lies Lucy Jane Podmore, who loved this place.