The Wedding Dress Maker
Daughter of the Tide
In the Heart of the Garden
The Olive Garden Choir
First published in the UK in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Leah Fleming, 2020
The moral right of Leah Fleming to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781788548700
ISBN (XTPB): 9781788548717
ISBN (E): 9781788548694
Images: © Shutterstock
Cover design: headdesign.co.uk
Author Photo: MKI Photography
Head of Zeus Ltd
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Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
June
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Midsummer
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
July
Chapter 9
August
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
September
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
December
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
February
Chapter 20
March
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Easter
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
July
Chapter 25
August
Chapter 26
September
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
October
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
December
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Christmas
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Three months later
Recipe
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
With thanks to those who shelter and protect
all creatures great and small.
Off the coast of Crete lies the beautiful island of Santaniki, sanctuary for wild flowers, ancient chapels, quaint villages set in a turquoise sea. This summer the Elodie Durrante Foundation Trust is offering a variety of courses. This is your chance to meet other artists and poets, and attend workshops and one-to-one sessions to share your work. There will be evenings to discuss your work and guest speakers to inspire you with their readings in the sunshine.
What better way to study than in the spacious villa, home of the late, best-selling romance writer, Elodie Durrante, set among olive groves overlooking Sunset Bay, plus plenty of time to enjoy the island culture and dance under the stars.
Don’t miss this chance to make your passion happen. We can organise the whole package for you; flights from the UK and other European destinations, the short ferry crossing from the lively ports of Chania and Rethymno. Places are limited so book now.
Sara Loveday sat looking out of the plane window, seeing the island of Crete laid out before her like a map. She felt suddenly lighter, as if floating in a dream. The past week had been an unreal nightmare of confusion; a cocktail of disbelief, disappointment, shock that was turning into an all-consuming fury.
She had drowned her feelings in vodka on that first night alone in the flat until she had passed out into oblivion, waking up next morning with a pounding head and a tongue like cork matting. Everything was a blur but she knew what she must do.
The dress was still where she had flung it off, staring up at her as if to say, What have you done? Missed the last chance of happiness? It could have worked but you never gave him a chance to explain. She was not staying a moment longer in Sheffield now that she had booked a last-minute break online, to a tiny Greek island where she could lick her wounded pride.
At least she had left her mark on the once pristine loft apartment with its chrome and white starkness. In the cold light of day, she could see the result of last night’s mayhem where she had flung red wine over the walls. The decor was not her choice, serve him right. Why had it taken her so long to realise the place was as empty a shell as the man himself? She couldn’t bring herself to say his name.
Sara was due a break but not quite the one they had planned. Her assistant, Karen, was capable of taking care of the events and conference business. She had three weeks ahead of her to sort out her future. If only her mind could rid herself of those images.
Sara’s ears hummed as they began the descent into Souda Bay, turning onto the flat airstrip as the plane screeched into landing. She collected her baggage and then out into the arrivals hall where the rep from Paradise Tours was waiting, holding up a flag. She guided a few passengers onto a minivan heading for the port. Sara smiled at the bustle of tourists around her, knowing she had sunshine and sea, wonderful salads and fruits to enjoy. It was far away from Yorkshire grey skies and all the humiliation of the past week. She felt the heat on her arms. This was what she needed, and for the first time she felt herself relax.
They arrived at the ferry just in time for the late afternoon crossing to Santaniki. The water was turquoise and choppy but there was a breeze cooling them. Sara sat staring out over the sea as each nautical mile was taking her far from the past.
A middle-aged man was trying to retch over the side, his face grey with seasickness.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, seeing his discomfort.
‘It gets me every time.’ He tried to smile. ‘I should know better.’
‘I’ll get the rep, she may have some wristbands to settle you. You know the island then?’
‘I’m the bad penny that rolls up every season; love the light and the food.’
‘You’re an artist?’ Sara was curious.
‘A writer… Don Ford. I take summer courses at the retreat house.’
She recognised that name. ‘You’re the crime writer? My dad is a great fan, wow…’
‘For my sins, but I was a friend of Elodie Durrante, the novelist who left her house as a retreat for artists and new writers. They run summer courses each year. Some of these passengers, I guess, will be my clients, all wanting to know how to write a bestseller. And you?’
‘Annual holiday,’ she replied, not wanting to explain further.
‘You are in for a treat; the beaches, the food, the tavernas. It’s a very sociable island. You’ll see me most nights in Taverna Irini on the market square with my students. Do join us, there’s a band of sorts on Fridays.’
Was he making a pass at her? That was the last thing she wanted so she smiled and drifted away from him to scan the horizon as the island slowly came into view.
Her eyes were searching the layers of multicoloured houses with tiled roofs dotting the shoreline, the little ochre mountain peeking above the town. It hadn’t the blue and white sophistication of Santorini, much as she loved to visit there. It was more homely, uneven, higgledy-piggledy with boats bobbing in the harbour and fishing smacks beside a marina full of expensive yachts. She spied the white hotels by the water and the golden beach shimmering in the distance. It looked unspoilt.
As they chugged into the harbour, she spotted a crowd on the street, some with suitcases ready for their journey home. She stepped along the gangplank, dazzled by the sun, and fumbled for her sunglasses.
‘I’ve got a lift coming,’ Don Ford said humping his case behind her. ‘Do you know where you’re heading?’
‘I have a map… Ariadne Villa. I don’t think it’s far.’
‘It’s uphill on the way to the retreat. You are welcome to hitch a lift in the minibus. There’s Spiro, our taxi, plenty of room.’
‘I’m fine, thank you. The walk will do me good after all that sitting. Enjoy your courses, Mr Ford.’ Give him his due, he was persistent, but she was in no mood to make polite conversation with him or anyone else. As she trudged up the cobbled streets with her case rattling, trying to look cool, she began to regret her stubbornness. It was hot and the map she had was sketchy but if she kept to the shade of the stone houses, it wouldn’t be far. It had been an early start, a long flight and ferry ride but this was the last lap. Then she could collapse in Ariadne Villa and shut out the world for three whole weeks. Sara was not in the mood for boozy nights in a taverna with a load of wannabe writers or anyone else.
The fan in the taverna kitchen did nothing to cool tempers as Mel Papadaki was giving her husband Spiro an earful. ‘Do you call this clean? Look at those stains. Mama will have a fit to see such a mess in here… Can I not leave you five minutes to water the pavement…’
‘Enough, woman!’ Spiro threw off his apron. ‘If you can do better, I’m off. The ferry is due and I have passengers and wine to collect. We need more—’
‘So you can drink it?’ Mel yelled back. She could give as good as she got. The fiery Italian half of her could shout with the best of them. She was in no mood to compromise, with his mother Irini sick, no doubt listening into their arguments with glee. Spiro could do no wrong in her eyes.
She wiped the sweat off her brow as the hairnet scratched her forehead. The Santaniki heatwave was unbearable. Oh, to be cooling in Yorkshire drizzle than trying to cook and clean, up and down stairs at Irini’s command while Spiro swanned off to the harbour for a smoke. Yes, she knew he was back on the fags behind her back. It had been a tough winter with storms and little work for a builder. Times were tough for Greece. At least their own house was almost finished but cash was tight. He was at a loose end and touchy. Too many fry-ups thickening his waistline. Much as she loved the bones of him, he was letting himself go.
Mel stared at the pile of fresh tomatoes, peppers, courgettes and onions she had picked from their vegetable garden ready to make a cooling gazpacho. Irini came down to inspect the menus and threw out her suggestion with a wave of her hand. ‘That’s not Greek food. You cannot serve that.’
‘But English customers will love something cool and refreshing like this,’ Mel argued.
‘We are not serving that today,’ Irini muttered and that was that. A Sheffield girl married to a Cretan was never going to be easy but she would bloody well make a batch for her and the boys for lunch later. Loading the dishwasher, she heard her mobile ring. What did he want now? It was a garbled message about a booking but the signal was weak so she stepped outside in the square to catch the details.
There was a young woman trundling her suitcase uphill without a sun hat, pausing to look at her map. ‘Can I help?’ she shouted but the woman carried on, her eyes focused on her task, not hearing her. Ah well. Mel sighed. She was probably Scandinavian or Dutch with little English, she thought, turning back out of the sun, thinking no more about it. Then Spiro’s horn honked as his passengers spilled out of the taxi for a quick snack. There was Don Ford, twice as large and full of his usual sparkle.
‘Melodia, kalispera, it’s good to be back!’ He gave her a bear hug. ‘Just as beautiful as ever… and Irini? I hear she has been unwell…’
‘Come, sit down,’ Spiro ordered as the new contingent sat in the shade of the taverna. Now the season was in full swing, the tables full each night, Mel could relax a little. It was always tough but this was when their income was made. Their two boys would soon finish school until September and needed supervision, and she had only Katya to help and some students in the village to wait at tables if needed, but they would manage, they always did – if Spiro pulled his weight and kept his eyes on the job and not on the girls in skimpy shorts and tops.
Jolyon de Grifford, warden manager of the Elodie Durrante Arts Foundation retreat house, was busy trying to sort the blockage in the bathroom of one of the guests. Greek plumbing had a will of its own, with narrow pipework that forbade any flushing of paper or wipes. This was written in large letters over the bowl, and he asked guests to be careful, but the Brits were not used to this at first, some complaining about such primitive arrangements until they got used to obeying the order. Some never did.
Griff sighed, holding his breath, getting used to this task on a weekly basis. He was just clearing up when he heard a shout through the open window. Peering out, he saw a bald-headed man floundering in the pool. Dropping everything, he raced downstairs and out to the poolside, jumping in fully clothed to grab the drowning swimmer while one of the other guests flung the lifebelt to him.
Griff pulled the man to the shallow end where they could both stand up. ‘Don, how many times have I told you not to drink, stuff yourself with chips and then try to swim?’ Don Ford may be a famous crime writer but he was rotund, unfit and almost a non-swimmer.
‘Sorry, Griff, but it was so hot I just wanted to cool off.’
‘You should be in your room in this heat. It’s siesta time so have a cold shower. I thought you were having a heart attack. Please don’t go out of your depth and keep off the sauce at midday. It’s water for you from now on, especially in this heat,’ Griff ordered, his shorts dripping, clinging to his legs.
Tragedy averted, Griff returned to his fetid task. Talk about eyes in the back of your head in this job. Warden was a good name for his constant vigilance. What was it with artists, writers, poets – did they live on another planet? Most of them acted like big kids when they weren’t closeted away in the shade working on their creations. Nevertheless, this lot were a great bunch and formed a gang.
He was living a world away from his former work in the City with its routines of gym, dinner parties and business meetings. Santaniki was an escape from his past life, thank God. He had his bike and his gardening to get away from bad memories. The courses were usually two weeks long but some stayed for a month, like Don. He was a regular on the lecture circuits and spent most of the summer writing in Elodie’s old study.
‘I write away from my desk,’ he explained. ‘It must be the light here, the slow pace, but it just gets my juices flowing.’ Griff knew him well enough to guess that the juices flowing through Don’s veins were a lethal combination of village wine and raki, sold on the markets with an unknown level of alcohol. Still, Don was a great raconteur when in or out of his cups and a loyal customer in the tavernas around the harbour and the square.
Griff had been here nearly a year and liked having the winter to repair, decorate and join in village life. The London high life was no longer an option for him but even now rage came over him. He would hike up into the hills to cool off his bad temper. He liked being his own boss here and couldn’t believe the happenstance that brought him to this tiny island sanctuary – all because his old school friend Felix MacLeod had a new partner, Alexa Bartlett, whose parents were residents here.
Knowing how down Griff could get, Felix invited him to a small gathering to meet Alexa’s mother and father. Simon was a retired editor and Chloë a doting grandmother to Olympia, the child of Alexa’s first marriage to Felix and Griff’s old school friend, Hugh. It was just a throwaway remark that the retreat house was looking for a new warden as the previous family were returning for their children’s education. An impromptu visit to the island for a long weekend clinched his decision. Griff fell in love with the limestone rocks, the trails amongst the hills and the food. Perhaps this was the challenge he needed.
Griff had stood on the terrace of the retreat house looking out over the turquoise bay and up at the peaks, the ochre rocks and silvery foliage, inhaling the scent of herbs, and thought perhaps… just perhaps.
On returning to London he made plans. His stay on Santaniki would just be a sabbatical to soothe his wounded pride and sense of failure. He loved ferries and slow journeys so he would travel leisurely towards this new venture on bike, packing everything into panniers. He was determined to travel light through Europe, cycling over the Alps to Italy, overland to Venice, sailing across to Patras and on to Athens to take the night ferry to Chania. It was a challenge but he felt free of everything for the first time in months. Crossing to the smaller island by ferry, he arrived in time for the annual olive harvest in November where he joined in the olive stripping, enjoying this initiation into Cretan life.
As Griff now sat watching the sun descend over the sea like a ball of flame, he felt the island wrapping itself round all his senses; the slower pace, the heat, the light. His guests were living it up at Irini’s taverna and he could hear the noise rising and the music of their jazz ensemble floating up to him in the dusk. Griff smiled, turning to Elodie Durrante’s book he had promised to read: Under the Cretan Sun was set during the Greek and Turkish wars; a Romeo and Juliet sort of tale.
It was then he thought he felt someone over his shoulder and turned but no one was there. He smiled again, thinking the wine had gone to his head, but no, there was a presence, a scent of attar, of roses, his late mother’s favourite perfume. She used to love her roses and it reminded him of racing round the garden to find her on her knees, deadheading her precious blooms. His love of gardening came from her. First though, he must clear that border patch at Ariadne Villa, giving the shrubs a chance to breathe and water to refresh their roots, and later take Don Ford on a hike into the hills. He was a heart attack waiting to happen. It would make a change from unblocking sewage.
Sara found Ariadne Villa down a side lane. It was well furnished, clean, but had that empty feeling; someone’s home let out but not many bookings, she suspected.
There was a complimentary basket of basic groceries waiting for her: olive oil, eggs, milk, bread, feta cheese, a jar of Cretan honey, coffee and tea bags and instructions for use of the appliances. The beds were made up and stone floors mopped with a pungent cleaner. It was a simple two-bedroom house, shower upstairs with one big kitchen and living room downstairs, brightly furnished. She wondered who had once lived there.
Sara opened the shutters, delighting in a veranda draped with purple bougainvillea with a view to the bay, but surveyed the garden with dismay. The olive trees had been carefully pruned, but the oleander bushes were straying over the path and the last fruits of the sweet orange bush were in need of picking. The borders were overgrown but there was a sun-drenched stone patio that looked out over the garden on a slope facing the bay. This was paradise indeed. She unpacked her case into the spare room, decluttered the kitchen and found out how the cooker worked. After that, she felt she had earned her rest.
There was just enough time to get out the sunlounger and soak up some sun.
Lying half asleep, topless, she heard the side door open. Someone had not used the front doorbell but was slipping in; someone familiar with the layout. She quickly tied her sarong over her bare boobs and stood up to see a man standing in the shadows. Was he coming to rob the place?
‘Who are you?’ Sara’s heart was thumping; she was face to face with a tall stranger.
‘I thought this house was empty,’ he replied.
‘Did you now?’ Sara stood her ground when she saw he had implements in his hand; she was trying not to tremble, aware of being half naked. ‘If you’re after rich pickings, I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment. There is nothing of value here.’
‘Sorry?’ He looked nonplussed. ‘You think I’m a thief?’ He laughed. ‘I’m Jolyon Grifford, here to keep Ariadne’s garden in some shape.’ He was wearing a floppy sun hat with frayed edges, khaki shorts on long tanned legs in sandals. ‘So… who are you?’ he asked, eyeing her disarray with amusement.
‘I’ve booked the villa for three weeks but I didn’t expect visitors… Sara Loveday.’ She tossed back her blonde curls, dismissing him, refusing to give him any further explanation. ‘If you don’t mind, I was reading,’ she lied. ‘And I prefer to do the garden myself, thank you. If I need any help, I’ll ask, but I like it as it is…’ she said, pointing to the gate. ‘In future, if you call, please use the front doorbell.’ He was dismissed but not before he had the last word. Turning to her seat in the sun, he paused, smiling, looking to the lounger.
‘I wouldn’t sit there too long – mosquitos like new flesh and I hope you have the coils burning in the house and outside.’
‘Thank you, I do, and cream.’
‘Better to buy local stuff here, it’s stronger. Do cover up at night or they’ll get your ankles and you don’t want to get dirty bites.’
‘Are you a doctor?’ She was curious now.
‘No, just warden of the retreat house,’ he replied in his upper crust accent.
‘Oh, that… I met someone on the ferry who teaches there. I gather it’s a place for writers and artists to come on courses or stay to develop their projects.’
‘You are well informed,’ he replied.
‘Well thank you, Mr Grifford.’
‘Everyone here calls me Griff, but I’ll leave you in peace. Pleased to meet you, sorry for the intrusion. I won’t bother you again.’ With that he made his exit leaving Sara embarrassed. What right had she to stop him working here if he was responsible for the garden? It was not her house. She was just a guest. Perhaps she ought to have offered him some tea or something but entertaining was not on her agenda. She just wanted to lie in the sun and sulk. This was an idyllic escape and she desperately wanted to make the most of it before she went back to Sheffield.
She left her sunbed to check the time. It was nearly wine o’clock and there was nothing in the house. Time to walk up to the square and the minimarket to top up her supplies. Conscious of her white legs and arms, she fished out a thin dress. It would be good to stretch her legs and find her bearings.
The minimarket was disappointing except for a box of sticky sweet baklava that took her fancy. It was still hot and she sought shade in the taverna, sinking down with relief as her new expensive sandals were chafing her heels.
‘What can I get you?’ A dark-haired woman smiled at her.
‘Something cold but not beer,’ Sara replied.
‘Would you like to try Irini’s home-made lemon cordial? It’s refreshing and very popular.’
Sara looked up in surprise. ‘You’re not Greek, are you?’
‘A Yorkshire tyke from Sheffield,’ came the reply.
‘So am I… how strange. It’s a small world.’ They both laughed.
‘Do I know you? I saw you arriving and you reminded me of someone from school.’
‘I doubt it, they say we all have a doppelganger.’ Sara felt a stab of alarm but she didn’t recall recognising this woman, even if she was about her own age.
‘Mel Duckworth, as was, Papadaki now. How is the old place? I’ve not been back for years. Once you own a place in the sun, everyone wants to come out here. This your first visit?’
‘I’ve been to Greece many times but not here. It was a last-minute booking, spur of the moment.’ That much Sara was happy to reveal but she didn’t want to be reminded of Sheffield. ‘I’m Sara… Sara Loveday.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Just down the road… Ariadne Villa.’
‘Ah, it belongs to Ariadne Blunt but she’s been in England for over a year. It makes sense to let it out, I suppose. We miss her. How do you like her garden?’
‘Funny you should say that but I had a visit from a guy I thought was a burglar. I gave him short shrift.’
‘That must be Griff. Did he explain, he does some garden work but he’s the warden at the big house up the hill.’
‘So I gather, but the garden will do for now. What’s it like living here all year?’
‘Very Greek, lots of tourists but the winter is quieter. There’s enough expats to make a community. You’ll see them around in the evenings along with the crowd from the arts courses. Come and join us on Friday. There’s an open mic and a few of us make music; you will be very welcome. But let me get your drink.’ Mel dashed off into the back.
It was a typical taverna, wooden chairs with cane seats, blue and white tablecloths, the walls festooned with sepia pictures, geraniums in terracotta pots and a bar at the end by the kitchen from where scents of spicy cooking wafted into the air. Mel came back with a jug of cordial and a plate of cinnamon biscuits.
‘You’ve got yourself a fine place here.’
‘Oh, it’s not ours, my mother-in-law Irini owns the business. She’s not been well lately. Spiro, my husband, helps where he can. We have two little lads so I am rushed off my feet at the moment.’
There was a man sitting in the corner staring at them, trying to catch their conversation, a scruffy bloke twirling his amber beads. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s part of the furniture, I’m afraid. He comes in for a coffee and would stay all day if we let him. You’d think he had better things to do… a farmer from the tops,’ Mel whispered. ‘He gives me the creeps. He could do with a good wash. I disinfect his chair in case he leaves fleas. You get all sorts in here but it’s not my job to chuck him out. That’s right, Stavros, I’m talking about you,’ she shouted.
Sara sat ignoring the old man, savouring the biscuits and the lemon squash until her legs were sticking to the chair with the heat. ‘I’d better be off and those biscuits were delicious. Thanks.’
‘Do come on Friday, it’ll be a good night and you’ll meet the crowd. Are you sure we haven’t met before? I feel I should know you,’ Mel added.
Sara nodded and sped down the road, unnerved by Mel’s insistence that she knew her. She had come to Santaniki to be anonymous and yet the first person she met was from her home city. What a strange, unsettling coincidence.
*
In the cool of the late afternoon, he roused the tutor from his usual lie-in and insisted they went for a walk while it was still light. Don groaned, ‘Do I have to?’
Griff was in no mood after a sharp encounter with the new occupant of Ariadne Villa and did not mince his words. ‘If you’re going to be here through the summer, we need to get some of that flab off you. I don’t want any more incidents in the pool.’ Griff was already packed and ready for the off. He insisted Don wore shorts, a sun hat and decent trainers. He would not overdo the first trek as Don was so unfit but he needed to stretch him a little and the view from the plateau was worth the effort.
Don puffed and panted, wiped the sweat off his brow and demanded to sit down under a carob tree. ‘Easy does it, old chap. Give me five minutes to enjoy the view.’
‘It’ll be better when we get to the top, I promise. It’s not far and then we can have a drink.’
Don was having none of it, getting out his cigarettes. ‘Here I stay, enough for one session.’ He lay back with his hat over his face.
‘Watch out… there may be snakes or scorpions waiting to pounce on you,’ Griff laughed and Don shot up.
‘I’m not going any further. You go on, you slave driver.’ It was then they heard a strange sound, a mewing. ‘What’s that?’
Griff looked round but found nothing. There was a louder whimper. ‘It’s a sheep or lamb somewhere, I expect. I’ll take a look.’
‘I’m coming with you. It may need help.’ Don rose slowly as Griff climbed ahead.
‘Over here!’ Griff shouted by the rock. Don puffed his way to join him. ‘Look at that!’ Griff pointed to a little creature huddled under the shade of the rock, a matted, unrecognisable animal like a tiny lamb, but it was not a lamb but a dog, mangey, hairless, bone-thin, that gazed up at them. It looked close to death. ‘My God, the poor thing.’ Griff could hardly speak. ‘It’s trying to wag its tail. Fetch the water. There’s a towel in the bottom of the bag.’
Don watched as Griff dribbled water onto its lips and it drank. ‘We must wrap it in the towel and lift it. It may be too late but I’ll not have it die alone in this state.’ The dog offered no resistance and looked up at them in gratitude through crusted eyes.
They carried it in turn close to their chests, wondering if it would survive the journey. ‘How on earth did it land up here? Was it dumped?’ Griff said.
‘No idea. What can you do?’ Don replied. ‘Is there a vet on the island?’
‘Not that I know of. I’ll take him to Dr Makaris. If it’s too late he will know what to do. This animal has suffered enough. If it survives the night, I’ll take him over to the mainland for treatment. Just look at the state of him.’
‘It was a good job I sat down for a breather, otherwise…’ Don shook his head.
Griff turned to him and smiled. ‘If there’s a spark of life left in it, don’t worry, you will take the credit, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’ They walked down the path in silence while Griff prayed the warmth of his body would keep the little creature alive.
*
Mel was late as usual for the book club meeting in Dorrie Thorner’s house. Membership was thin at the moment as many residents were away. Dorrie would take it as a personal insult if there were only a few in attendance. Mel had not done her homework either and that would be noted and held against her. It wasn’t her fault. Irini needed more help, Markos was playing up, Spiro was late and she’d given him an earful. ‘I don’t often get a night off, even if it is only to listen to Dorrie Thorner waxing lyrical about her latest literary sensation, but I do like meeting up and chatting in English all night.’
She stomped off in a bad mood and almost turned back. Meetings weren’t the same without their founder member, Ariadne Blunt. She arrived in time to hear the latest gossip about the new arrival in St Nick’s.
‘Who’s the poor victim this time?’ she joked.
‘The woman in Ariadne’s villa. Have you met her? Is she staying long?’
‘Only briefly,’ Mel replied. ‘And she’s from Yorkshire so you can’t get better than that.’
‘She’s on her own then?’ Dorrie was prying as usual. ‘I was told she arrived on that Don Ford’s arm. Perhaps he’s brought some company with him to keep him in check.’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Chloë Bartlett who was trying not to look interested.
‘Give the poor girl a chance, ladies. I’ve not seen her with the writing group or Don Ford in the taverna yet. I think it’s only a short holiday let.’
‘Do you think she would be good book club material? We could do with more temporary guests in the season. They have lots of paperbacks to share.’ Trust Dorrie to see a chance.
‘Most don’t have the sort of books you read, surely.’ Mel couldn’t help herself. Just because someone was single, there was no need to make assumptions, but she bit her tongue. ‘Hadn’t we better start?’
‘We were waiting for you.’ Dorrie looked at the wall clock. ‘I hope you’ve all read my choice.’ She was looking in Mel’s direction.
‘Sorry, I meant to, but every time I picked it up in bed, I fell asleep.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ Chloë added. ‘I’m afraid the subject matter didn’t hold my interest. You know I only give a book seventy pages but after that… sorry.’
Dorrie shook her lacquered bob with a sigh. ‘I see… Am I the only one to have read it then?’
No one spoke. ‘Then it’s a good job I made some notes.’
Mel sat back in the cane chair resigned to at least a twenty-minute lecture, her eyes drooping in the heat. It had been a long, tiring day and she hoped to be rewarded with some decent wine and a slice of Victoria sponge but, knowing Dorrie, it would be something undrinkable and sensible Cretan biscuits.
Spiro Papadakis, Mel’s husband, stood watching the ferry boat chugging into the harbour. His pickup truck was waiting for the catering supplies and boxes of provisions for the coming wedding celebrations on Saturday. He took his cigarettes from the glove pocket for a sneaky fag out of Mel’s range. She was busy in the kitchen cooking ahead for the wedding feast. His mama was doing her best but struggling, bad tempered, snapping at his little boys, criticising poor Mel and demanding everything was done to family tradition.
Dr Makaris’s son, Ari, was marrying Father Mikhalis’s daughter, Elefteria, and the whole town was invited to the feast. The town didn’t have a wedding centre where hundreds of guests could be seated, but the community hall and its car park turned into overspill with tables and chairs sitting out in the open air and the music and dancing taking place on the square itself. Spiro had a rehearsal tonight to sharpen up the dances that his group would be performing. His white boots needed cleaning and his traditional costume airing. The young couple wanted as many guests to wear traditional outfits but the custom was dying out. The ladies would be adorned in glittery dresses and, when she had time, Mel was busy adding sequins to her long party dress.
Mel had introduced him to a girl renting Ariadne Villa who came from her home town. She had striking green eyes, a freckled nose and a mane of blonde hair with a smattering of tourist Greek but was not his type. He liked women to be full-bodied, like Grecian vases, not tall and skinny. Old man Stavros Metrakis was eyeing her with interest in her khaki shorts and top. He liked to ogle all the foreign girls and some were a sight for sore eyes. Some waddled round the shops as if they were still on the beach. In the old days such brazen outfits caused outrage, but now no one bothered.
Other restaurateurs were gathering by the ferry as the catering was being shared out so as not to cause offence; some would bake bread and rusks filled with tomatoes and cheese, others would make great vats of boureki, pastistio, lasagne, souvlaki, chicken, pilafi rice and chips. Everyone had their list of ingredients and the minimarket ordered from the cash-and-carry in Chania. Now it was all coming over on the ferry. He caught sight of young Ari Makaris striding off the boat. They hugged a greeting. ‘Well, young man… Ti kaneis?’ How are you?
Ari was a medical student in Heraklion, almost qualified. Ari and Ellie had been sweethearts for years and the wedding would be such a celebration here. Everyone wished them well. Tomorrow the women would go to the priest’s house to view all their wedding gifts and he was sure Irini would be first in the queue.
No time to be sentimental when there were boxes and crates to be loaded into the truck. It was thirsty work so Spiro fuelled himself with coffee, resisting the cake on view in the kafenion. He needed to fit into his dancing trousers which were still a little tight. His mother indulged him like a baby but it was Mel who ruled over his diet while his mother sniffed.
‘English eat like sparrows. A man needs a bellyful of good Greek food. It shows he has money in his purse. Have another slice,’ she would say.
He saw the tall, blond figure of Griff, the warden loading his boxes onto a trailer attached to his bike. No self-respecting Cretan would waste time pedalling uphill in this heat but Griff was an odd fellow; friendly, though he kept himself to himself, spoke decent Greek and was a regular customer at their taverna, encouraging his guests to dine with them and sometimes playing for Mel and her group on open mic nights in the season.
‘How’s the little pup you found? I hear he was lost in the bushes,’ Spiro said.
Griff paused in his packing. ‘Dumped, more like. He’s with the vet in Chania. It was touch and go but he’s tough and will survive. They are keeping him in isolation and building him up. Thanks for asking.’
‘Then what’ll happen – he’ll go into the pound?’
‘Not if I can help it. He’ll be coming back with me. He deserves a decent home after all the mistreatment he endured.’ Griff shook his head. ‘No one has recognised him yet.’
Spiro hadn’t much time for pets, especially dogs. Cats were useful enough but dogs were a nuisance, scavenging around bins and dumping fleas everywhere, but the Brits were soft when it came to homing them. It was none of his business and time to get on.
Once loaded up, Spiro made his way up the hill to the plateia, stopping to hang out the window to chat to men sitting in the cafés on the square while trying to let the smoke out of his driving seat.
His next building job after his siesta was to help Yannis the mayor put a new roof over the shepherd’s hut. It was a fit habitat for goats or chickens, not humans, but needs must and it needed replastering inside, a basic toilet and a sink to make a very primitive shelter for any itinerant workers. Spiro liked to keep busy. It had taken many months to finish the second storey of his own house but Mel was thrilled to have upstairs bedrooms, a bathroom and a balcony. Now they had private family space with a basement ready to receive his mama should the time come.
It would be all hands to the pump in the next few days if they were to cater for over two hundred and fifty guests. The women would see to the church flowers and table decorations, the men would set up everything else, including a platform for the performers after the feast.
On the big island of Crete there were catering companies who saw to all these arrangements but on Santaniki it was a do-it-yourself job, everybody mucking in, arguing, taking offence, storming off but coming back to get stuck in again. That was their way and Spiro liked it. Ari and Ellie deserved their special day. A wedding might only be for a few days but real marriage took much longer to bed down, as he well knew. He wouldn’t swop his Melodia for anyone else. She was his songbird, bearer of his sons. How could a man not be proud to have such a fine woman in his bed?
Irini was trying to create an intricate wedding wreath in bread dough but her fingers were not obeying her, even though she had woven it so many times before. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ she shouted in exasperation.
Mel was busy arranging flowers to decorate the community hall. ‘What is it now?’ She sighed. Irini shook her head but said nothing. There was so much to do and so little time. Irini was tired and fractious and lagging behind in their preparations. We need more hands, Mel thought. Spiro was up at Yannis’s farm preparing the lambs for the feast and he was no use arranging flowers anyway. Then she looked up to see Sara standing in the doorway.
‘Do you need a hand?’ Sara offered, sensing the atmosphere.
‘I’m no flower arranger. It all looks wonky to me and I have the table flowers to put in jars,’ Mel replied. ‘Are you enjoying your break? We’ve not seen much of you.’
‘Give it here, I’ve done a few of these in my time for parties and I gather there’s a big wedding tomorrow. Two weeks gone already. I can’t believe my time’s nearly over here.
‘You must watch,’ Irini interrupted. ‘Our traditional weddings are famous the world over. You must see how Cretans do it.’
‘Look, now I’m here, let me do the flowers and anything else you need help with. I need to stay in the shade. Look at my legs… like polka dots. I should have taken that warden’s advice and covered up.’ Sara lifted her tanned legs, covered in red blotches.
‘You met Griff?’
Sara reminded her of their encounter. ‘On the first day I arrived. He’s a bit of a know-all.’
‘He’s okay,’ Mel replied. ‘He takes his job seriously, a bit of an eco-warrior, widening the scope of the activities on offer up at the retreat with walking tours to see the wildflowers and birdwatching in season. He’s getting full occupancy. He likes his own company except when Don Ford comes over. He’s a best-selling crime writer.’ She paused and winked. ‘You have to admit he is a looker.’
‘Don Ford isn’t. I met him on the ferry and once here with his writing students. He likes the ladies though…’ Sara smiled, trying not to scratch her bites.
‘You will see them all again at the wedding feast. Everyone is invited. Do come.We’re doing a bit of a turn between courses and then there’ll be Cretan dancing and lyra musicians who will play until dawn. One of the English residents, Dorrie Thorner, has already complained about the noise to the mayor. You’ll meet her and her husband, Norris, the church warden and trustee. Norris is fine in small doses but she’s a pain in the bum and nosy so watch yourself if she starts pumping you. Give her half a chance and she’ll rant on about their own forthcoming wedding of the year. According to her, Daniel, their younger son, is marrying some Russian princess here soon. Not that we’re involved in any way, I gather.’
Together, they carried on with preparations. Irini’s bread wreath was coming slowly into shape and Sara stood admiring its intricate detail. ‘That’s beautiful,’ she said.
Irini beamed with pride. ‘My mama showed me many years ago. It is a tradition… bread and salt, we say, pleasure and sorrow, light and shade and friendships for ever. This young couple will be leaving us.’ Irini shook her head. ‘All our children leave the island but when Dr Makaris retires, who knows? Perhaps Ari will return to us with a quiver of children and fill the school. We must make it a special wedding.’
‘Now, you must join us for lunch,’ Mel insisted and they sat down to rusks soaked in olive oil and layered with feta, tomatoes and olives, washed down with a jug of village rosé. The taverna was busy with tourists so, without being asked, Sara washed her hands, put on one of the embroidered pinafores and served tables while Mel and Irini went into the kitchen to see to the gigantes – a butter bean stew – prepare mountain greens in oil and lemon juice and a salad of beetroot, garlic and walnuts. Spiro arrived with Yannis for a plate of village sausages, roasted vegetable salad with feta and delicious ice cream plus baklava.