Chapter 12 #2
‘No, you’re not. You’re supposed to be making coffee for me. Come here. Put those down.’
Fran’s face flushed but she didn’t move. Cleo felt a flutter of pride.
Something in Lesley, clearly unused to any resistance, snapped.
‘Fine! Stay there!’ she shouted. ‘But don’t expect me to make you any tea later!’
Cleo watched Fran blink, but she didn’t crumble. Instead, a strange, tentative defiance appeared.
‘I-I don’t need tea,’ she said.
Cleo felt like cheering.
For a moment, Lesley stood there, flummoxed, then she turned on her heel and stormed off.
‘Good for you,’ Cleo murmured to Fran.
Fran blushed, but something warm and hopeful flickered across her face.
‘I-I just thought they needed help.’
‘They did,’ Cleo replied.
After that, she went to help, too, and soon the water was neatly stacked again. Back at her post serving coffee, Fran looked a little taller. When Cleo spotted Lesley later, however, she looked as if she’d sucked a lemon and found a pip.
After saying goodbye to Fran, Cleo picked up two slices of cheese and a bread roll and nibbled on a corner while she strolled to the triage area.
Two of the three nurses from the night before were still there, and one was treating a small boy with a wound on his knee. The accident had nothing to do with the earthquake or flooding, apparently. He’d cut himself on a tent peg this morning when he was horsing round with his brothers.
Both nurses looked worn out and Cleo insisted on taking over. The third nurse would be back soon, along with the doctor.
‘I can manage on my own for a while. It’s not busy.’
The nurses seemed extremely grateful.
‘Thank you,’ one of them said. ‘It’s been a long night.’
‘You can say that again,’ Cleo agreed.
Once she’d finished treating the small boy, she settled down to enjoy her meagre breakfast, which tasted surprisingly good on an empty stomach.
There were no other patients as yet and she felt a sense of calm, watching the sun rise higher as the rest of the camp began to wake up.
The sky was bright blue, and the sound of roaring water below had faded to a faint gurgle. With luck, the floods were already starting to retreat and she decided it was going to be a beautiful day.
‘Good morning!’
Glancing up, she saw Achilles in front of her with the sun behind him, its golden light catching the edges of his dark hair and turning it to burnished bronze.
He was wearing the same white T-shirt as the one she had on, and the skin on his arms and face were deep-toned and warm as polished teak.
The sunlight seemed to cling to him, outlining the strong lines of his cheekbones and the curve of his powerful shoulders. His eyes, half in shadow, seemed to glint with quiet amusement, or perhaps it was something less readable.
Solid and sunlit at once, he carried his own gravity yet looked as if he might dissolve into the brilliance behind him.
‘I… I was just eating a bread roll,’ Cleo stuttered, immediately feeling foolish for stating the obvious.
‘I can see,’ Achilles replied. ‘How long have you been up?’
‘An hour or so. I had a wonderful shower. God, I needed it.’
He ran a hand through his coal-black hair, flecked with just a few strands of silver-grey, and laughed. ‘Me too. I was covered in dust and dirt. I felt disgusting.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I… um…’ He seemed a little nervous suddenly and she wondered what was coming next.
‘A group of us are going down to the village later to assess the damage and start the clean-up. Do you want to come?’
‘Is that the date we never had?’ She giggled, taken aback by her own cheek. She didn’t know what had come over her!
His tension vanished and his face broke into a wide smile.
‘Of course! I’m sorry it’s not a candlelit dinner, but you know…’ He shrugged. ‘You have to make do with what you have.’
‘Your English is amazing!’ she commented with a laugh. She was full of admiration. He gave a modest, jokey bow.
‘I’ll have to check with the team when they come back,’ she added. ‘But they should be able to spare me for a few hours. Hopefully see you later.’
Not long after, Mark popped by to check on her, and Cleo borrowed his phone to text Danny. She was sure Erica would have passed on the message she was OK, but she wanted her son to know she was thinking of him, too.
I’m helping the medical team. Lots of injuries, most not serious, thank God. No idea when I’ll be back but I’ll keep you posted. Hope all good your end. Miss you. Much love xxx
At about 2 p.m. after a quick lunch of bread and a vegetable stew, which the kitchen volunteers had managed to rustle up from tins of lentils, beans, tomatoes and sweetcorn, she joined the large group heading for the village.
All the men who were young and fit enough were there, and a fair number of women. Some, of course, had to stay behind to look after children and the elderly.
Maya and Achilles took charge and stood on crates to address the gathering. Maya spoke first in English, then Achilles followed in Greek.
‘It’s going to be treacherous down there,’ she warned. ‘There’ll be lots of crumbling rocks, submerged objects and unsafe buildings and the water will be dirty and probably contaminated with sewage.
‘Don’t try any heroics. Check for foundation cracks or sagging roofs before entering any properties and if in doubt, stay out.
‘Remember this is mainly a fact-finding mission. The real clean-up will begin when the water’s fully retreated.’
Soon, they began the trek down the mountain. Some people were clutching shovels and other useful tools which Mark had managed to retrieve from the villa.
The air smelled of crushed thyme and dust and the insects had started their metallic droning again. Every few hundred metres, they passed new cracks in the earth, jagged like scars. Sometimes they heard a distant rumble – rockfall somewhere higher up – and froze till it stopped.
Maya led the way, her stride businesslike, though sweat darkened her white T-shirt. Cleo, Achilles and Tash walked side by side behind her.
The sea below shimmered brownish-green, littered with debris that bobbed in and out of the current.
About halfway down they met a shepherd, guiding his goats upward.
‘Careful,’ he told them in halting English. His face was tanned and weathered, his eyes, kind. ‘The bridge by the fig tree – gone.’
He pointed to a gully where the path dipped sharply.
‘Thank you,’ said Cleo. ‘Is the village very bad?’
He pulled a grim face. ‘Many houses broken but people escape to mountains. Alive. You good people, yes?’
‘We’re trying,’ Maya replied and he nodded, as though that were enough.
They continued picking their way carefully. At the broken bridge, they had to clamber across a heap of rocks and roots, helping each other one by one.
Cleo noticed Tash’s legs were shaking as she scrambled down, but Maya’s steady hand pulled her up the other side.
‘Nearly there,’ Cleo said, breathless but smiling. ‘See? Piece of cake.’
‘More like stale bread,’ Tash muttered, but she managed a small smile in return.
When they reached the steep stone steps leading to the harbour, they started to descend slowly, holding tight to the handrail as the ground was very slippery.
On the last section, Cleo stopped short.
‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed, staring at the murky water lapping round her toes.
‘Be very careful,’ Maya barked, before turning to address the folk behind them.
‘It looks as if the water’s still deep in places. Watch out for submerged objects and keep in pairs or better still, small groups. Don’t go wandering off on your own.’
No one had rubber boots or any other suitable clothing. Cleo watched Maya and Achilles step tentatively into the torrent, which was soon up to their thighs.
She was about to enter herself when Achilles turned, braced his arm and offered it to her to hold on to. She took it gratefully.
She wobbled for a moment in the current but his fist was clenched, his arm rock solid and she soon steadied herself and found her feet. Then she waited while he returned to do the same for Tash.
As they waded slowly through the harbour and up what was once the high street, Cleo stared left and right, emitting involuntary little gasps.
An eery silence filled the atmosphere and everywhere there was the smell of filthy water and mud – thick, earthy and sour, as well as something sharper, like metal or salt.
All along what was once the water’s edge, the deluge had done its worst and restaurant terraces had collapsed.
Bits of wood, tables and chairs bobbed about in the current or were jammed together in ugly heaps, seemingly clinging to one or other of the few still upright posts.
On the right, a fishing boat was marooned absurdly in the middle of what was once the opening to a narrow lane.
Buildings were no match for the angry torrent either and water had flooded into the shops and restaurants, wrenching off doors and windows and stealing away precious stock.
A cry from behind made Cleo spin round, and she saw one woman desperately trying to gather together a large pile of sodden clothing which she presumably recognised from her store.
She tried to lift the pile up but it was too heavy and anyway, the situation was hopeless. The clothing was ruined and along with it, her precious business.
It was the same all along the street: shop windows smashed, restaurant interiors knee-deep in stinking water, overturned tables, fragments of fishing nets, the occasional child’s toy and out to sea, boats overturned and drifting, anchorless, on the wrathful tide.
The air buzzed with flies and Tash kept close to Cleo, grabbing her shoulder once when she stumbled.
‘Where on earth do we begin?’ Cleo muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
‘It’s chaos, I know,’ Achilles replied, rubbing his beard. ‘But it’ll be easier once the water subsides. Then we can start to clear away the mess and rebuild.’
Just as he spoke, a lone seagull swooped above their heads before landing on an upturned fish display counter.
Cleo remembered walking past what she thought was the very same display on the night she met Achilles. It had been filled with tasty-looking sea bream, sea bass, red mullet, squid, prawns and mahi-mahi, all freshly prepared and ready for the barbecue.
Now, those same dead fish were probably floating far out to sea, if they hadn’t been swallowed up, along with the poor restaurant owner’s profits.
Perching elegantly, the seagull fixed on Cleo and the others with its sharp little eyes, its head tipped inquisitively to one side, before flying off again with a loud squawk, in a flurry of white feathers and pointy black talons.
Cleo fancied nature itself had sent the bird ahead to test whether it was safe to begin again. Soon, perhaps, its friends would return, filling the air once more with their plaintive cries.
They came to a gap between two tavernas where a steep alleyway led up to some narrow, winding paths dotted with whitewashed houses. The water here had already retreated, leaving mounds of squelchy clay and mud.
One of the houses belonged to Marina’s elderly father, Konstantin, who owned the leather shop on the high street.
After some discussion, it was agreed today’s group would begin work on his place, as he was the oldest and one of the most vulnerable in the village, as well as some of the buildings close by.
Soon, Maya, Tash and Cleo, with sleeves rolled up, were working with villagers to clear the muck by the front door and inside the dwelling, using whatever equipment they could find.
Cleo discovered an old broom and didn’t ask what she should do, she simply started sweeping, pushing aside clumps of mud and twigs. She found the rhythmic motion strangely steadying.
For a long time, no one spoke, there was just the sound of work: scraping, sloshing, the occasional creak as wood shifted back into place.
Every so often a villager would pass by with a wheelbarrow piled high with debris – ruined furniture, broken tiles and silt-soaked clothes.
When Cleo’s eyes met theirs, they’d smile at each other and nod. The strain and worry showed on their faces, yet there was something unspoken binding them together – a shared determination, perhaps, or the simple knowledge that survival had made them kin.
Achilles was there too, with his T-shirt clinging to his shoulders, his jogging bottoms streaked with clay. At one point he looked up from where he was hauling a plank clear of a doorway.
‘Cleo,’ he said, his voice hoarse but warm. ‘You shouldn’t be doing that without gloves.’
‘Nor should you,’ she replied. ‘But we’ll live.’
He stepped closer, his eyes flicking over her muddy hands, the hair stuck to her cheeks.
‘You look—’ he hesitated, then shrugged ‘—like you’ve been in a war zone.’
‘Feels about right,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Can someone give me a hand?’
Maya’s voice was brisk but not unfriendly.
Cleo walked towards her, her steps squelching in the muck. The smell of wet plaster and seaweed filled the air.
Maya’s dark hair was tied back and her hands were red from scrubbing.
‘I’ve found the kitchen door under all this,’ she said, meaning the mound of sludge she’d been clearing, ‘or what’s left of it.’
Together, they lifted the door off the ground and set it against the wall.
Now, all they needed was a handy villager to repair it and hang it once more in its rightful place.