Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
My shift passes quickly and uneventfully, apart from, later in the day, having to keep an eye on a middle-aged guy who clearly had a lot to drink before he dived into the large, kidney-shaped pool that is surrounded by lush palm trees.
He was singing at the top of his voice to a song being played over the loudspeaker, and I found myself hoping his high colouring wasn’t down to several visits to the bar.
His singing seemed to get louder, but thankfully, he soon ran out of steam, and having hauled himself somewhat ungracefully out of the pool by flopping onto the tiles, he spent the next couple of hours beneath a parasol asleep on his sun lounger.
‘Hi, Erin. How are you?’ Summer slides into the seat next to me at the outside table near the bar.
‘Good thanks. I am feeling happy and relaxed. These early morning swims are delightful.’
‘I would join you if I was up early enough,’ Summer says, ‘but it’s usually a quick shower fifteen minutes before my shift. Too many late-night FaceTime calls with some of my theatre pals.’
‘Well, I’m thinking I might just be up for the sunrise yoga on Monday morning, so if you do wake early, you could come.’
‘Possibly. Although sunset would probably be more my thing,’ she tells me.
‘I have gotten used to being more of a night owl, which is just as well given my line of work in entertainment,’ she chatters away.
‘And truthfully, I am not very good at yoga. It requires being silent for too long.’ She giggles.
She has a point.
‘Do you have any plans later?’ she asks.
‘Not particularly. I think I might go for another forest walk though; join me if you like?’ I offer.
‘Sounds good, but I have just agreed to cover the bar for someone who has come down with food poisoning.’
‘Oh gosh.’ I pull a face. ‘I bet Zeta wants to keep that quiet.’
‘It seems it wasn’t from here. If it’s true at all. I saw Amy knocking back ouzos with a hen party after her bar shift last night.’
‘Oh dear. Zeta is no fool though. If she suspects that is the case, I wouldn’t like to be in Amy’s shoes.’
‘Agreed.’
Right on cue, Zeta strides across the pool area, heads towards us and greets us.
‘Kalimera.’
Today she is wearing a white cotton dress, her red nails matching the colour of her lipstick, her sunglasses pushed up on her head. She manages to look impossibly glamorous day or night.
‘Thank you for stepping in,’ she addresses Summer.
‘I give one chance for sickness, unless a doctor can prove otherwise. There is no time for any tebelis here. I think the English word is “slacker”.’ She frowns.
‘I know I do not have to worry about you ladies though.’ She stands between us and places a hand on each of our shoulders, making sure we get the message loud and clear.
‘Of course not.’ Summer smiles and I nod in agreement.
‘Best not get in her bad books,’ she says as Zeta walks off, her floral perfume still hanging in the air.
Later that afternoon I head out for a walk as the sun drops lower in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the greenery. From the elevated position of the hotel, I glimpse the distant sea that is already darkening, its brilliant turquoise slowly turning a darker shade of blue.
Presently, I arrive at the lemon grove, gently pushing open the unlocked gate.
Beyond the building, rows of lemon trees spread out across the land as bees drift between the flowers of the blossoming lemons, the scene captivating me at once.
The stillness is so soothing that I can already feel my body beginning to relax.
Another glance inside seems to confirm to me that the building appears structurally sound.
Windows and doors would need replacing and some landscaping outside, but I am certain it could be a little gem given its gorgeous location. A few tables outside would give diners a stunning view of the sea down below.
As I look around, my hand running over an outside windowsill, once more I feel as though someone is watching me. When I glance around though, there is definitely no one there.
Feeling ever so slightly spooked, despite a family walking a dog, just outside the gates, I turn to head back, when a woman, dressed in widow’s black, seems to appear out of nowhere.
It is so quiet here, I am surprised I never heard her come through the gates, but then I had been daydreaming, I suppose.
The woman watches me carefully, before she speaks.
‘I see you here before,’ she tells me in her strong Greek accent. ‘Usually the gates are locked. Sometimes I forget,’ she says as she eyes me suspiciously.
‘So the lemon grove belongs to you?’
‘Nai.’ She nods.
‘It’s beautiful. And yes, I walked here the other day.’ I smile. ‘I cut through here on a forest walk back towards the Apollo Hotel. I am working there over the summer.’
‘You look at the kafenion?’ She indicates the abandoned building. I know that this means ‘café’ in Greek.
‘I did. I was wondering what happened to it?’ I ask her.
Her eyes meet mine, and I notice a sadness behind them.
‘It was once mine. But it is too much now that I am elderly. I worked alongside my husband, but now he is gone.’ She catches her breath before she looks heavenward and crosses herself.
‘I am sorry for you loss,’ I say sincerely.
‘Efcharisto. It makes me so sad to see the kafenion this way. During the lemon harvest, the café was always so busy.’ She shakes her head slowly. ‘Now, the workers bring their own food and drink.’
‘I am right in thinking the harvest takes place over the winter months?’ I ask.
‘Nai. The workers would use the café when they pick the Maglino.’
‘Maglino?’
‘It is the type of lemon that grows in these parts. The tourists, they used to come in the summer months too.’ She sighs. ‘I made lemonade, jams and cakes to sell. But these hands are too old now.’
‘Did you never think of selling the kafenion?’ I ask.
‘I did not want to in the beginning,’ she tells me. ‘And when I did, the buyer, he change his mind. Now it is katastrofi.’
I squint, remembering my Greek history from school. I think she means catastrophe, often used to describe a ruin, although it is hardly that. At least not from the outside.
‘People want the cafés in the town. I have no energy to make it work anymore,’ she says resignedly. ‘So I lock the gates until the pickers come and harvest the lemons. At least most days.’ She manages a smile.
She speaks slowly, concentrating on every word as she speaks, although her English is quite fluent.
I consider her comments but feel that with a little vision and maybe a modern touch, it could be a beautiful kafenion in the prettiest of surroundings. A little sanctuary in the lemon grove that offer refreshments to weary walkers.
‘I imagine it was lovely. And could be again,’ I tell her.
‘Hmm. You want to buy?’ She looks at me through suspicious-looking brown eyes.
‘I never came here to buy a café,’ I tell her. ‘In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. But maybe the locals would love to see the café up and running again. Did it get busy?’ I find myself asking. I can hardly believe I am asking questions.
‘Some days yes. Other days quiet,’ she tells me honestly.
I think of all the lone travellers these days, especially young people, hoisting rucksacks on their backs and going off exploring.
A little sign could be erected near the main road directing people to the café.
A little marketing could bring the kafenion to people’s attention, I am certain of it.
And that watermelon guy might even profit from the footfall too.
‘I could have a go at some traditional Greek food,’ I tell her. ‘Although it would be more snacks, I imagine. I once worked at my aunt’s café.’
‘Well, if you needed any help with Greek recipes, I could help,’ she says kindly.
‘Thank you, I will bear that in mind.’
I try and imagine how it must have felt for her to abandon the café, unable to carry on without her husband, locked in her grief. Perhaps it was a cash flow problem too.
‘Many people have told me they would like to buy it,’ she tells me. ‘But they did not. And look now,’ she says wistfully as she glances at the neglected building. ‘My daughter is not interested. She has her own important job.’
I ask her to write her name and number and put it into my phone.
‘Thank you, Ireta, my name is Erin. I will be in touch, I promise,’ I find myself saying.
She grasps my hand in both of hers.
‘I would like the life to be breathed into the kafenion,’ she tells me. ‘It would be my wish to see customers come once more before I die.’ She once more raises her eyes to heaven.
When we say goodbye, I feel filled with something I cannot quite explain.
A compulsion maybe? A desire, a pull. Whatever it is, I can visualise the café in all its glory, with pots of colourful plants adorning the patio area, and a bright-blue painted door.
By the time I have finished my walk and arrived back at the hotel, I feel a tingle of excitement I haven’t felt in a long time.
I decide to make some enquiries about it and hope I don’t lose my nerve.
As strange as it sounds, I feel as if the little café has been waiting for me.