Chapter 9
Mark returned from the villa, clutching a big pile of blankets and some torches, which he distributed round the group.
Not long after, a shadowy figure appeared in the distance.
As it grew closer, Cleo realised it was the old housekeeper, Katerina, with a thick shawl round her shoulders.
Her white-grey hair was in two plaits, pinned to either side of her head.
Cleo sprang to her feet and hurried to Katerina’s side to check on her. She brushed off questions about her well-being impatiently, however, and told Cleo to expect many visitors.
‘Spread the word. The villagers are making their way here,’ she said. ‘It’s the safest, most habitable place.’
There wasn’t time to ask the old woman how she knew because soon the first villagers arrived, the quickest to make it up the mountain in their nightclothes. Their eyes were wide, and they were talking sharply and urgently in Greek.
Fortunately, Katerina was able to translate.
Roofs were partially submerged, it seemed, small boats trapped on former streets and paths washed away. Panic threaded through the air but there was also a sense of quiet, determined courage.
‘We came ahead, to tell you to expect us,’ one man explained. He was young – probably in his late twenties. Cleo thought he might have been one of the waiters from the restaurant last night.
‘Some people are very old and too weak to walk the whole way. They are being carried. It will take some time to get them here,’ he went on. ‘Also, many of the children are frightened and crying.’
Maya cleared her throat.
‘Right,’ she said firmly. ‘Mark and I will assemble a small team to go back to the villa to fetch more blankets, duvets, whatever we can lay our hands on. Also food – biscuits, milk, juice, that sort of thing.
‘I suggest everyone else stays here to welcome the arrivals and help with the children and elderly especially.’
‘Are you sure?’ Cleo asked anxiously. ‘I don’t think anyone should go back inside the building.’
Henrietta, who’d joined them, agreed, but Maya reassured them both.
‘Mark’s turned off the power now so there’s no risk of an explosion. It won’t take us long and we’ll be very careful.’
Soon, the rest of the villagers started turning up in dribs and drabs, some with children on their backs, others with their arms round loved ones.
Some had nasty injuries while most had only minor ones, but they were shivering and many were in shock, having watched the raging waters rise up suddenly and claim their businesses and homes.
Those from the original retreat group immediately offered their blankets. Lesley seemed reluctant to part with hers, but was shamed into doing so when Fran surrendered her own.
Cleo noticed Tash had risen now and was hugging a small boy and an even smaller girl. After a few moments, she took them both by the hand and led them to a patch of grass where they sat down. Their mother followed with a baby in her arms.
Among the last to arrive was an elderly fisherman with a broken leg. He’d half hopped, half been carried up the mountain by his family.
Cleo got to work immediately, kneeling beside the injured man whose leg was twisted at an odd angle. It had been hastily splinted with driftwood and string.
She murmured soft words, cutting away the makeshift bandage and cleaning the wound.
The man groaned and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but she kept her tone steady and coaxed him to breathe slowly.
While she worked, she noticed Tash, who was now sitting nearby, beside a different little girl who wouldn’t stop crying. Tash began telling a story about a brave princess and a talking donkey. It was quite an exciting tale and Cleo’s ears pricked as she tried to listen in.
Within minutes, the child was giggling, hiccupping through her tears. Tash smiled and wiped the corner of the child’s cheek with her sleeve.
A warm glow spread through Cleo’s body. She was proud of her friend for rising above her own very real fears to give comfort to someone who needed it even more than her.
When she’d finished treating the fisherman, she looked up and saw an extremely old man approaching. He was being carried by two younger men who’d interlocked arms to form a sort of human chair.
Behind them came Marina, the artist, Anthea, the hairdresser and masseuse, and a younger woman who looked very like her. Cleo thought this was probably Anthea’s daughter.
‘Thank you so much,’ Marina said, when the young men set the old man down. ‘My father couldn’t have made it on his own.’
The old man was extremely tall, wrinkled and scrawny and Cleo wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anyone quite so old. He was able to stand unaided, though, and even managed a rather charming, rakish smile.
Cleo explained she was a nurse and would check him over.
‘Someone’s bringing more blankets and, hopefully, food and water.’
‘At your service!’
A male voice behind made her start.
Spinning round, she was taken aback to see none other than Achilles, with that lopsided grin on his face, brandishing a large duvet. When had he got here? She hadn’t seen him arrive.
Marina stepped forward to take the duvet and wrap it round her father’s bony shoulders.
Meanwhile, Cleo felt heat rise to her cheeks. Achilles’s hair was tousled and he’d clearly thrown on the first clothes he could find – a creased white shirt, rolled-up jeans and leather sandals.
He couldn’t have had time to do the shirt up properly before leaving the village, as it gaped open, revealing his tanned, taut chest.
‘I-um…’ she stuttered, feeling stupid.
Anthea gave a nervous giggle and Maya arched an eyebrow.
‘Another volunteer?’ she asked.
‘Volunteer, yes, and occasional entertainer,’ Achilles replied, shrugging. ‘And unofficial morale-boosting officer. I managed to rescue my guitar. It’s over there.’
He pointed to two small boys a little way off, squatting beside the instrument with torches in their hands, taking it in turns to strum.
He beckoned to the boys to bring the guitar over and played a few chords, as if to prove his point.
‘You’ve got a strange sense of timing,’ Cleo said, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
‘Fear makes people musical, or something like that,’ Achilles replied, casually slinging the guitar over his shoulder. ‘Did you get my text last night? I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone that drink.’ His smile widened and his brown eyes seemed to drag her in.
For a moment, nothing else seemed to matter. The quake, the flood, the chaos, it all seemed inconsequential. Here they were, victims of a real-life disaster, yet somehow, in that instant, Cleo felt the stirrings of life return once more to her chest.
It was a surprise to realise she still wanted him, even in the midst of such confusion. And for the first time in months, she thought perhaps she could survive all this. Not just the quake but the unravelling of her own life that had begun long before she set foot on this island.
Throughout the rest of the night, Cleo moved swiftly. Her hands were steadier now as she assessed cuts, bruises and shock among the villagers. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she wrapped bandages, offered sips of water and quietly directed those who offered to help.
Maya, having found a pen and pad from somewhere, had already started taking stock – sorting out what they’d need in terms of temporary supplies, equipment and volunteers.
Her usually sharp features were softened by exhaustion, yet she remained precise and determined. Every now and again her gaze flicked to Cleo, as if to remind herself the human element mattered just as much as the logistics.
She was obviously used to being in control and solving problems, Cleo thought. No wonder she’d found her redundancy so hard to bear. She’d been brittle ever since, struggling to find purpose. Now, her need to lead and be useful was burning brightly again.
Meanwhile, every now and again Cleo spotted Tash strolling among the children, offering reassurance, telling stories and creating small games from sticks and debris.
The children’s laughter was enough to convince Cleo her friend had managed to set aside her fear – for the time being at least. She was doing a sterling job of keeping up the kids’ spirits.
Achilles seemed to be everywhere, too, chatting, comforting and offering water, juice and biscuits, with his guitar slung across his back.
When he wasn’t working, he played his music.
His rich, deep voice carried across the garden, winding round the exhausted, frightened people and coaxing out small smiles.
At one point, Cleo caught sight of him crouched beside the very elderly gentleman, straining without success to lift him up from the ground where he was sitting.
There were no more urgent cases for her to deal with right now, and she thought she could do with a break and a chance to stretch her legs.
‘Need a hand?’ she asked, getting up from her knees and approaching Achilles. She’d told her other patients to wait, she’d be back soon.
‘I was about to ask you the same thing,’ Achilles said with a smile. ‘I don’t know much about first aid, though.’
The old man, whose long, thin legs were stretched out on the grass in front of him, told Cleo his name was Konstantin Makris.
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he said, with a polite flourish of his arm. Then he took her hand and pressed it theatrically to his lips.
Such old-fashioned chivalry seemed absurdly out of place amid the chaos surrounding them, but Cleo was rather charmed and it made her giggle.
Together, she and Achilles managed to get the old man to his feet and help him totter across the lawn to some bushes. They looked the other way while he had a pee, and a knowing glance passed between them.
Cleo’s stomach fluttered and her heart thumped. To her, that glance seemed to represent not just an acknowledgement of their effort but the presence of something strange and special between them – something fragile yet electric.