Under a Greek Spell Page 6

  I scuttle out of their way, grabbing my book. When I open the balcony doors, I’m hit with a wall of heat. The sun is belting down and there’s not much shade. It’s a wonderful suntrap but there’s no way that I can sit out here for more than ten minutes. I start reading my new book In the Meantime recommended by my friend Stella. She said it helped her move on with her life after her divorce. The back-cover blurb starts off promising enough: ‘The windows of our hearts and minds are streaked with past hurts, memories and disappointments. The windows are so clouded by fear, self-doubt and inaccurate information that the light of love cannot shine through. What we must do is clean.’ Um I’m starting to have second thoughts about this book. Cleaning isn’t really my forte. ‘We must mop and sweep…’

  I glance up from the book and notice my milk waiter clearing the tables from breakfast over in the restaurant. I’m getting butterflies in my stomach again just thinking about him…

  My thoughts are broken into by the sound of one of the men tapping on the balcony glass. He opens the door. ‘We finish now.’

  ‘Okay, thank you.’

  It’s definitely too hot on the balcony for me. I suppose I could wander around the town. I feel a bit nervous about venturing off on my own, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. I need to learn to do things on my own again, and I’ve got a purpose – Helen needs some local information and photos for the brochure. I might as well make some inroads into that.

  I step into the lovely air-conditioned room. As much as I like my dress, it doesn’t go with my walking sandals so I quickly change into some shorts and a black T-shirt with pink hearts on it that says, ‘Love Is in the Air’. I throw my sunglasses, sun cream, water and purse into my bag and set off on my first solo adventure.

  Chapter 9

  Stephanie

  Right, I’m doing this the tourist way so I’m going to ask the reception staff for some information on the best way to get to town and also about any points of interest that are worthy of a visit that Helen might have missed.

  The receptionist Nikos greets me with a warm smile and a pleasant, ‘How can I help?’ That will get a tick. But the questionnaire is having a rest until later – if and when I can be bothered with it. I explain my wish to explore the town and Nikos gets out a map from under the desk and unfolds it. It’s so large that it takes over the whole desk. He very kindly starts with the really important information, like where the hotel actually is.

  He explains that there’s a complimentary shuttle bus that leaves the hotel on the hour, and town on the half hour. ‘I am very sorry but actually you have just missed it. There is a local bus service, if you like, which will take about half an hour. Or I could call a taxi for you.’

  ‘No, the bus will be fine.’

  ‘Okay, so the buses are every half hour and they leave on the opposite side to the hotel track. They are one euro and fifty cents.’

  Nikos circles places of interest on the map. I now know where the bus stops in town, where there are cafes if I fancy a drink or snack and also where the churches are; they seem to be in abundance. The harbour is self-explanatory, and there are some windmills as well.

  ‘Oh yes, the windmills. My sister mentioned those. She wants some photos of them.’

  ‘Your sister, she is not going with you?’ Nikos asks, glancing around the reception area.

  ‘Er, no, she’s … working.’

  ‘Oh, this is a shame. Anyway, after the windmills, there is the Little Venice area.’

  I’m keeping quiet. I thought Venice was in Italy but I don’t want to pull him up on minor details like where Venice is or isn’t.

  Nikos assumes correctly that I want to wander round the shops. ‘There are shops all down this street, and this street. In fact, there are shops everywhere. It is easy to be lost but just ask the locals. Is there anything else that I can help you with?’

  ‘No, this is great. Thanks.’ I’m ready to set off with my map that I can no longer read as it’s covered in Nikos’s places-of-interest scribbles.

  And so my adventure begins. Now, I turn right … no, left. It’s obviously left or else I’d be walking off the edge of a cliff and free-falling down into the sea.

  It’s quite hot for me – at least twenty-five degrees, I reckon. It takes me only a couple of minutes to reach the bus stop. Luckily, there’s a little bit of shade from a tree nearby so I stand under it. A coach goes by on the opposite side of the road; I watch it disappear. It’s now eleven thirty and almost the hottest part of the day. I put my map to good use and wave it in front of me like a fan. I know some would argue this makes you hotter but all the same I’ll carry on fanning… Now, I bet that’s never been a Carry On film… My thoughts are interrupted by a little silver Fiat that’s shot past me and screeched to a halt at the side of the road. It’s reversing, kicking up a load of dust that engulfs me and frightens me half to death.

  The driver jumps out. ‘Sorry, I did not mean to cover you with dust.’

  The dust clears. Oh my God, it’s the milk waiter!

  ‘You want lift to town?’ he asks in his broken English and his Greek accent, which I’m finding rather seductive.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m waiting for the bus.’

  ‘You know, bus for town is over there and it just went that way.’ He’s pointing in the opposite direction to which I’m planning on going. ‘It go past here then turn round and go to town. The driver should have stop. Maybe the bus was full.’

  ‘Oh,’ is all I can say. I’m bloody hopeless. I’ve fallen at the first hurdle. Nikos did mention the other side of the road…

  ‘Listen, it is a bit hot to be waiting for next bus. I live in town and drop you off. Please get in, it is no trouble.’

  He’s now got the door open and is gesturing me in. I’m really not sure about this. I scan the road to see if another bus is on the horizon, which course it isn’t. ‘Only if you’re sure it isn’t out of your way.’

  ‘Please, I insist, it is no trouble.’

  I hop in, shut the door and fasten my seat belt. The milk waiter jumps in beside me. I can feel something under my sandal and reach down to pick it up. It’s a name badge. It says ‘Costas Christopoulos’.

  ‘Oops, sorry, this was under my sandal. I hope I’ve not damaged it.’

  ‘I have been looking everywhere for that. It must have dropped down there this morning. I could not see it in the dark.’

  ‘Gosh, you start work early then?’

  ‘Yes, I was here at six thirty.’ He fixes the badge on to his waistcoat.

  There’s still no sign of a bus as we set off. I now have my mother’s words from when I was five reverberating around in my head: ‘Never get into a stranger’s car.’ But surely he must be okay if he’s a waiter at my hotel.

  He breaks into my ridiculous thoughts. ‘Do I detect an English accent?’

  I nod and smile. He continues with all the other questions that I normally get from taxi drivers. It’s like a comic script that they’ve made up for tourists.

  ‘So, where in England do you live?’

  ‘I live in a town called Chapel-en-le-Frith, not far from Manchester.’ I always reply ‘near Manchester’ because no one has ever heard of Chapel-en-le-Frith and then I get ‘Are you a Manchester City or Manchester United supporter?’ Then there’s the topic of our hideous weather and non-existent summers. Of course, he isn’t a taxi driver and he’s being very polite and making an effort so I join in the banter.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asks quite innocently, as you would.

  Without thinking, I’m suddenly replying, ‘Shirley Valentine.’

  If he’s a Costas, then I quite like the idea of being Shirley Valentine just for a laugh. I’m pretty sure ‘Costas’ was the name of the guy Shirley had a fling with in Shirley Valentine. I wish I’d not fallen asleep when I was watching it on the plane; I never even watched
it properly when the girls from work bought it for me as a gift. We were too busy quaffing wine and chatting to be paying attention to some 80s film about a woman having a midlife crisis. But I might as well make the most of being a Valentine; I’ll be back to Collins when the divorce goes through.

  I smile, expecting him to suss me out. But he doesn’t even take his eyes off the road. It’s no bloody wonder. I reckon he’s a couple of years younger than me and I was only six when Shirley Valentine came out. Well, this is another fine mess I’ve got myself into!

  ‘So, Shirley, why you go to town? I thought you were relaxing today?’

  Before I engage my brain, I reply, ‘To buy a new dress.’ The sun must be affecting me. The other dress will be okay once it’s washed, and I’ve got others anyway, but I just can’t help myself.

  Costas is quick to reply. ‘I know a shop to buy a dress just like yours.’

  I’m sorry now because he’s so lovely and is trying to help while I’m just taking advantage of him and winding him up. ‘I’m not buying a dress, I’m sightseeing.’ I catch his eye and he gets it.

  ‘You English are so funny. I like your sense of humour. But I show you the town – it is where I grow up. I show you things that are not on map or guide.’

  I giggle to myself. I’m sure he can show me plenty of things that aren’t on the map or in the guide, but somehow I think he’s got a totally innocent itinerary in his head. More’s the pity.

  ‘Okay, Costas, you can be my guide for the day. I’m all yours.’

  I feel more at ease now. I wind my window down and the breeze blows through my hair as we whizz along. There are fields on either side of the road, with the odd goat here and there, and there are pretty spring flowers dotted about and a beautiful blue sky up above. Nearly every building is white and most have blue shutters. It’s a sharp contrast to all our stone and brickwork houses at home. I did think the island would be greener, but the flowers provide colour, especially the dark pink and red bougainvillea plants that are cascading down most of the buildings. The whole place is intoxicating. I think back to this morning and the milk accident and wonder if this is fate…

  Costas breaks into my train of thought. ‘First I go home and change clothes and we leave car,’ he says, smiling.

  Okay, I’m panicking slightly again. But I don’t have to go in with him, I can wait outside. After all, he’s got to change. I can hardly expect him to wander round dressed as a waiter all afternoon – although it would be quite amusing. I could spend the day clicking my fingers and saying ‘Waiter!’ at every opportunity.

  We turn off the road on to a dusty single track with the sea on our left. The bushes scrape the side of the car and the odd insect falls in. I quickly wind up my window. I don’t want another insect drama, especially with Costas next to me.

  After a couple of minutes of bumping along on the track, we pull in at a small, quaint hotel. Just like most other buildings here, it’s got whitewashed walls and blue shutters.

  ‘Okay, Shirley, we here. Come meet my parents while I change. It is after ten thirty so my papa make you coffee.’

  ‘Oh yes, thank you, that will be lovely.’ I can’t believe, after all the fiasco of this morning, that he remembers I like coffee after half ten.

  We get out of the car and he shouts something in Greek. A couple appear at the door and he introduces us. ‘Mama, Papa, this is Shirley, a guest from hotel who I show about town. Shirley, my parents, Stavros and Xena.’

  They each extend a hand to be shaken and then Costas asks them to fix me up with a coffee. He says something to them in Greek. The only words that I can distinguish are ‘Shirley Valentine’ and ‘Costas’. His mum smiles and shakes her head and shows me to a table with a view of the sea. I sit on a blue-painted wooden chair.

  Stavros asks what kind of coffee I’d like and I try my luck with a request for a cappuccino.

  ‘Oh, you just make his day,’ laughs Xena. ‘He can try out the new coffee machine.’

  As I’m waiting, I can hear the machine shake into life in the bar. There’s lots of screeching and swooshing and finally a banging noise.

  Xena brings my coffee over and smiles. ‘See, he even try his shapes.’

  Stavros has shaken chocolate on the foam in the shape of a heart. Xena leaves me with the coffee and I soak up the lovely atmosphere.

  The restaurant is in the style of a little taverna. There are vines growing everywhere, and olive and palm trees provide some welcome shade and dapple the light on to my table. The restaurant is built on wooden decking. There’s an abundance of pretty flowers around: bright red geraniums and yellow and purple pansies are dotted about everywhere in terracotta and brightly coloured ceramic pots. My favourite is the bright pink bougainvillea bush cascading down one of the corner posts. A black and white cat is lying in the shade, without a care in the world. The hotel itself is situated on a golden sandy beach; there are a few people sunbathing under straw parasols. It’s a bit of a mystery to me why Costas works at another hotel when he lives at one, but I’m sure he’ll enlighten me.

  Speak of the devil. He’s heading my way looking even more irresistible than before. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt with sunglasses perched on his head. He shouts something in Greek to his parents and waves.

  ‘So, Shirley, are you ready for your tour of town with the best expert guide? You better wear this, just in case.’ He hands me a crash helmet and gestures towards a little orange moped with a shark motif on the back.

  ‘No, Costas, I don’t think so! I’ll be terrified on the back of there.’

  But he’s already sitting on the contraption, ready to go. ‘You have no need to worry. We not go far or fast, and this is better for town. You will be fine. Just hold on to me tightly.’

  Now, there’s an offer I can’t refuse. I take off my hat, squash it into my bag and put on the rather awful helmet. I mount the moped awkwardly and thank goodness that I changed into shorts.

  We set off along the track with the dust blowing up. The beautiful clear blue sea is on our left, and I can see a church and some white windmills in the distance. Pretty wildflowers are dotted along the track. After a couple of minutes, Costas stops by a weather-beaten guy who has just cast a fishing line into the ocean. I laugh to myself because he’s wearing a sweater and I’m baking hot. I understand the first word of the conversation, which is kalimera, and after that I’m at a loss. As we set off again, Costas fills me in, although I can’t hear much as he’s facing forward. I glean ‘family friend … fishing for local restaurants,’ from the conversation. There’s now quite a strong cool breeze blowing. I wonder if maybe I do need a sweater after all.

  We haven’t travelled far before Costas stops again. This time, he gets off the moped and helps me off too. He chats to an elderly lady who’s wearing an electric blue jogging suit with a navy canvas hat. Once again, I’m at loss after kalimera, but I can see that she’s the town’s answer to the problem of feeding stray cats. She’s using a large bin lid as an improvised feeding tray. She puts it down and tips cat biscuits into it, along with some cat milk.

  ‘You like cats?’ Costas asks. He takes my hand and leads me behind the jogging-suit woman to show me some kittens playing in the shrubbery.

  ‘Oh, they’re adorable! I want to take them all home.’

  ‘Me too,’ he admits, ‘but I would be in a big trouble.’

  They’re about five weeks old. They pounce on each other and roll around.

  ‘I remember my sister once came across some kittens near my grandma’s house. We sneaked Grandma’s shopping basket out of the pantry and went to collect the kittens. We took them back to show her. She wasn’t very amused and made us take them back. I’ve longed for a kitten ever since that day and I’m still waiting.’

  ‘Maybe one day your wish will be granted and you will have a kitten like this one.’ Costas picks
up a white kitten with mottled brown markings and places it in my hands. It’s an adorable little thing. He teases it with his finger and I wonder about putting it in my bag, under my hat, just as he whisks it away and reunites it with its playmates.

  He leads me away from the moped, which he leaves with the old woman, and we wander over to a little church. I take a couple of photos on my phone and then I remember the camera that’s in my bag. Helen wants some good-quality photos for her brochure; this scene will make a picture-perfect image, with whitewashed walls, terracotta roofs, the deep blue sea and the sky behind. I retrieve the camera out of my bag and take a few shots. I used to love taking photos, and this is a good reason to get the camera clicking away again.

  It’s a simple little church with an archway and two Celtic crosses on either side of the door, which also has a little cross on it. Above the archway, there’s another arch with two bells, one on top of the other. The ropes are tied off down by the side of the door. I wonder how many people have untied them and given the bells a ring. Costas opens the door and we step inside. It’s slightly cooler in the little church, which is a welcome relief. There are no rows of pews, just a couple of long wooden benches at the sides. On the back wall, there’s a wooden panel and a silky white curtain.

  ‘The confessional seat is behind the curtain, if you need to confess about anything, Shirley.’

  ‘I’d need a full day, Costas. Maybe I’ll make a list and come back another time,’ I reply, laughing. I could start with lying about my name.

  The Greek national flag is also there above the wooden panel, tied up next to a picture of Jesus. I’m drawn to a couple of memorial plaques, which I assume are written in Greek. Costas comes to the rescue.

  ‘These plaques are in memory of my great-grandparents. My family has always come to this church. They take it in turn to attend the service every Sunday. Someone has to stay behind to look after the hotel. What about you – do you visit a church at home?’

  ‘Only christenings, weddings and funerals, I’m afraid. What about you?’