The Reluctant Baker (The Greek Village Collection Book 10) (15 page)

The thought of staying is intolerable. He called her a liar and a slut. Not in so many words, but near enough. She feels like a slut.

Sarah passes her another tissue. She blows her nose loudly and wonders how the body produces so much mucus so quickly. She wipes back and forth and throws the used paper in the bin Stella has provided.

Maybe the people back home were right. Maybe that is just who she is. A tramp! Maybe she should resign herself to it? Hasn’t she always felt different; haven’t her classmates always treated her as different? Maybe it’s true, maybe it is something genetic. If Father knows, that would explain his sermons to her, trying to keep her on the right track.

‘Oh God.’ She is not sure if she is calling on a deity or blaspheming but really, why should she care? If she is a slut then she might as well be a blasphemer, too. She is already condemned.

‘I am a slut,’ she mumbles. Stella looks at Sarah for a translation.

‘Er, I think…
Poutana
,’ Sarah whispers in a low voice.

‘Oh no Ellie. No, you must not say this.’

‘Ellie, you have met someone who you feel something for. This is not a crime,’ Sarah says.

‘It is a crime if you are already married,’ Ellie mutters. Sarah and Stella do not answer this and fresh tears roll down her face.

‘I am thinking that you are who you want to be, at all times,’ Stella says. This does nothing to make Ellie feel better, but Stella continues. ‘No, you see, we do what is true to our hearts, so if we want to be different, we must change our hearts. I am thinking your heart has changed since you met Loukas, so now you become someone different. This does not make you a
poutana
. Maybe you have just changed.’

‘I kind of understand what Stella is saying. It’s how you deal with that change that matters now, Ellie.’ Sarah rubs Ellie’s back, and she lifts her head. She has only been half-listening. If Father gets to know what has happened, part of him will be delighted to be proved right, at the chance for more lectures, pushing her to give in totally to his beliefs, become his puppet. Well, she will not give him the satisfaction. She will not give all those people at school or the press the satisfaction of being proved right. If she goes home now, they need never know about Loukas. There is no one to tell them. It can be as if it never happened and then there will be no ammunition to call her a slut again.

‘You make vows when you get married,’ Ellie sniffs. ‘For better, for worse. That means that no matter what, you stick with your vows, and to do anything else is what makes you a slut.’

‘I am not sure that is the whole picture,’ Sarah says tentatively after a silence.

‘I know it is.’ Ellie is emphatic. If she has been born different, if she has been born with this tendency, then she will fight it. This is not about Loukas, it is about deciding who she is willing to be. It is no different than studying to pass exams, giving up smoking, or maybe learning to play an instrument. It will take effort and perseverance and determination, but born that way or not, she will determine who she is.

‘I have made up my mind. I need to go home immediately.’ Ellie dries her eyes and wipes her nose, sniffs hard and sits up, composed.

‘For
the record, I am not sure that I think it is a good idea,’ Sarah says and Stella nods in agreement. ‘If you go without seeing him again, without talking this through, working it out, you may never know if you did the right thing. Do you love your husband?’

Ellie shakes her head. She is quite sure now that she does not, nor ever did she, really, but that is not the point. It is the way she behaves that determines who she is, what she gives into and what she fights. She can see some of Father’s sermons now in a different light. She can almost understand them. Not that she wants him to be right; that is not what’s important. But whether she loves Marcus or not, she will do the right thing and no one will have the right to call her a tramp.

‘You know in your heart when something cannot be saved,’ Sarah says. ‘It took for my boys to grow and for me to endure years and years of loneliness and an eye-opening holiday here for me to realise. I just wish I had done it earlier.’

‘And I will not even “go there”, as you British say.’ Stella’s smile is genuine but sad.

‘But I have made a vow. I must stick with my promise.’ Ellie’s voice is clear and strong.

‘Being afraid to break my promise put me in misery for years,’ Stella says.

‘I just think going back would be the responsible thing to do.’ Ellie looks from one woman to the next. They raise their eyebrows and nod slightly but not convincingly.

‘Why?’ Stella asks.

‘Because the way I behave says who I am. Because I am far from home and it is easy to think that this can all be a daily reality, because I don’t really know Loukas. Because you just can’t up and leave one country and go and live in another.’ Ellie starts confidently but her voice wavers as she finishes speaking.

Sarah purses her lips.

‘Can and do,’ she says.

‘Because I am nineteen.’

‘That is closer to the truth perhaps,’ Stella says.

‘What do you mean?’ Ellie’s eyes widen, alert. Stella and Sarah take a seat around the conference room table. Ellie sits up and faces them.

‘How much have you done in your nineteen years?’ Stella asks.

Ellie shrugs. She has done nothing. Been to school, taken holidays to Morecambe, but other than that, she has never really left her hometown.

‘So how big does this step feel?’ Sarah’s voice is soft, kind.

‘Huge. Too big.’ Ellie holds a tissue expectantly to her eyes, but she is not crying now.

‘So that is why you feel you must be responsible and grown up. The other way is just too…’

‘Scary,’ Ellie says, wide-eyed.

Stella wants to hug her, tell her it will all be fine, make everything unpleasant go away, and coo and cluck like a hen, bask in taking care of the girl. The feeling is so strong, she firmly closes her mouth and turns her wedding ring on her finger, thinking of Mitsos and the care he needs. But her urges will not be suppressed so she allows them to manifest by nipping out of the room to get Ellie some water.

Before the door has swung closed, she is back with a bottle of water, wiping the condensation off on her skirt. Ellie takes it gratefully and drinks deeply. Sarah reaches for the air conditioning remote on the table and clicks it on.

‘It’s just too scary,’ Ellie repeats, having drunk half the bottle.

‘And the alternative?’ Stella asks.

‘Go home. Face where I am, see if I can make a go of it, like that friend of yours, Sarah, the old, old woman who had the arranged marriage.’

‘Well, I guess you know best,’ Sarah replies, convincing no one.

‘Only you can decide, Ellie, but if you go, remember that you can always come back,’ Stella says.

‘Ellie, you are stronger than you think. You will work this out. We have both done it.’ Sarah makes eye contact with Stella. ‘And we, or at least I, was nowhere near as confident as you are now, nor as smart. You are part of the new generation. You can do homework with your iPod in your ears whilst watching television.’ Ellie manages a giggle. ‘You have so much clicking in your head that I have no doubt, if you slow down and breathe, you will find your true course.’

‘We are all here for you, Ellie,’ Stella says, not trusting herself to say any more. There are tears in her eyes.

‘I must go, Stella. You have been wonderful, both of you, and I am not ungrateful. It’s just that I didn’t expect to meet someone like Loukas. I will go, I have to. But I will keep in touch.’

‘With me too, please,’ Sarah requests.

‘Yeah!’ Ellie smiles, ‘With both of you.’ She looks from one to the other.

‘So when do you want to go?’ Stella asks.

‘Today, tomorrow, as soon as I can. It breaks my heart to be here now without him, and I cannot risk seeing him again.’

‘Shall I arrange that then, Stella?’ Sarah asks and Stella nods.

‘But,’ Stella says as the door closes after Sarah, ‘I insist that you come back in a years’ time.’

Ellie agrees. But leaving feels as unreal as staying.

Both of which feel as unreal as returning in a year’s time.

Stella leans back in her chair in her office.

‘Why is life never easy?’ she asks the chart on the wall. Her heart is with Ellie but her eyes trace the various delivery dates for the things that keep the hotel running smoothly. The people who do the deliveries offer a very comprehensive service. They have a brother who has a laundry so her sheets are in with the deal too, as is the daily bread that comes from a bakery in Saros, run by a distant cousin of Mitsos. It was he who recommended the service in the first place. In truth, Mitsos’ cousin’s bread is good, but it is not as good as Loukas’. But it was part of the deal, so it is as it is. Anyway, it is a total package and it took away much of the worry in the first tentative weeks of opening the hotel’s doors. In the long run, she needs to break that package apart and find cheaper sources for everything.

That’s if she can remain open. She and Mitsos had another argument over a troubling letter that came from Saros’ planning department. Mitsos immediately started to worry and told her, in unusually harsh terms, that she had taken too big a risk inviting the mayor and his friends to the big opening. She in return made him get his own coffee, which was not kind. She watched him struggle with his one arm and stood by mutely when he knocked over the coffee tin reaching for the matches to light the stove. That was unkind. But the mayor was her hope. That was why she invited him in the first place. She was so sure that he could help with the planning legalisation, oil the way somehow, and on the night of the party, he gave her the impression that he would. But the next day, there was the letter saying that there were irregularities that needed ironing out. It wasn’t signed by the mayor, but by some under-secretary. The reality amounted to the same thing.

She felt a bit at a loss for where to turn next. Maybe she should get the local lawyer, Babis, involved, but if she goes down a legal route and it does not go her way, then that is that. It’s over. Forever. If she sticks to the personal approach, maybe finds someone else more directly involved in planning, she could smooth the way herself. Didn’t Loukas say that his mother-in-law’s cousin works in that office? Maybe he could help?

The
rain streams horizontally across the oval window, the thick double layer of glass lending definition to the rivulets. As their speed reduces, the angle of the water steepens until the droplets gather more naturally and run down the glass vertically. Everything beyond the window is grey, the sky a sheet of cloud. The wet tarmac reflects back the runway lights even though it is only mid-afternoon. The tanned passengers, many still in flip-flops and shorts, radiate an air of despondency. The children on board are whining and a baby is crying. Ellie is in the middle seat and the woman in the window seat—two weeks on a beach on Aegina island; the service in the hotel was appalling; there were sea urchins that stopped her going in the water, and every time she ordered a coffee, it was cold—nudges her to start moving, to join the crowd in the aisle, fight to get her bag down from the overhead locker and begin the dash to the bottleneck at passport control.

Ellie would have been even more tired if Mitsos hadn’t driven her to the station at Corinth, where the train connects directly to Athens airport. He apologised all the way for letting slip she was married. His English was not very good, so he kept just saying bits in Greek followed by ‘sorry’. Ellie tried to reassure him that it was not his fault, that it was never a secret, but she is not sure he understood. Such a sweet, gentle man. Perhaps Loukas will be like him as he gets older. He has the same sort of character.

Mrs Cold-Coffee nudges her a second time just as the seat belt signs are switched off. There is a rush of general movement, so Ellie follows their lead and stands. There is nowhere to go; the aisle is blocked, and now that she is on her feet, there seems little point in standing and she sits again, in the aisle seat.

‘It’s no good sitting there, dear. It’ll be hell at passport control if you don’t move yourself. Come on; look lively.’ Mrs Cold Coffee’s accent is thick, but it is deep, gruff Northern English, not the easy enunciated lilt of Greek. It is a strong accent and familiar to Ellie’s ears.

Why do English people that age think they can speak in such an authoritative way to her, to people who look her age? Sarah and Stella didn’t. They treated her as an equal, with respect. So did the Greek people she met.

‘Lady, where is it you would like me to go? The aisle is blocked.’ Ellie decides that she is not going to put up with the condescending way older people speak to her any more.

‘Alright, no need to get an attitude,’ the woman is quick to retort.

‘I am not “getting an attitude”, I am merely pointing out a fact.’ Ellie remains calm.

The woman purses her lips and as Ellie looks back to the aisle, she hears, ‘Young people, think they own the world.’

As it is, Ellie’s long stride, hurried by the comparative cold, makes her one of the first to passport control, which is absolutely empty but nevertheless corralled so travellers have to zig-zag back and forth across an empty room to make any progress down towards the exit booths. As if to annoy, Mrs Cold-Coffee is one step behind her, almost treading on her heels to push past. Ellie stops, lets her pass, and then ducks the ropes, one after the other to make a direct line to the nearest exit. The passport man checks her ID and waves her through and as she leaves, she can hear Cold-Coffee, who is still zig-zagging down the room, stating as loudly as she dare that the ropes are there for a reason and people shouldn’t think themselves so grand as to flaunt the rules. Looking back, she catches a young couple also ducking the ropes as the corral is filling with people behind the complaining woman, whose bag on wheels keeps tipping over to one side and each time, it seems to need more strength than she possesses to right it. It’s now her turn to be hassled by the people behind her.

Even this does not make Ellie smile. She may never smile again. She walks straight through baggage reclaim, as she has nothing but her small rucksack containing her t-shirt dresses, her sandals, and her underwear. The decor matches her mood as she passes from one sterile, blank air-conditioned area to another. She follows the signs to the bus station; it will be cheaper than the train. As she steps out of the terminal, the cold, bracing English air hits her. It is still raining. It’s always raining.

The bus shelter does little to stop the wind. Hunching in her thin jacket, Ellie reads the timetable. She’s just missed the bus, and it will be at least an hour’s wait for the next one. She is about to return indoors when a bus pulls up.

‘Sorry about the delay. The motorway is at a standstill with this rain.’ The driver greets her cheerfully. The inside of the bus is moist with the breath of the other passengers and the steaming of their wet clothes in the warmth. The windows are fogged with condensation and Ellie wipes a hole with the back of her hand to look out at the grey. Grey buildings, grey roads, grey trees, grey people.

The tarmac reflects orange street lights that have come on even though it is nowhere near evening. The sky is one expanse of bruised cloud. The rainwater under the bus wheels hisses and splashes, giving the impression that they are driving up a stream. They build up some speed onto the motorway, where they immediately slow down again. Without the protection of buildings on either side of them, they are even more exposed to the elements. The windscreen wipers thrash back and forth and the water runs incessantly down the glass in a sheet. The driver is hunched forward, peering out into the deluge.

To come back for this! England in the summer! Why? Her heart talks to her but her head is quick to silence it with platitudes about decency, respectability, and responsibility.

The bus continues its crawl through the onslaught. The driver turns up the radio enough for Ellie to hear the travel news. An accident is causing tail backs. There may be a delay of an hour or more, and drivers are advised to use alternative routes. A man at the back of the bus begins to snore loudly. The time passes imperceptibly and the bus slows to walking pace. Ellie almost gives up the will to live.

Hours later, just before they reach the depot where she will have to change to a local bus, the skies slowly clear. Ahead, it is less grim; the blanket above the world softens and lightens but there is still not a touch of blue sky anywhere to be seen.

The local bus is dominated by a party of women returning from a hen night yesterday evening in the city. They are shivering in bunny girl outfits, with orange-peel thighs blue with cold, misshapen acrylic cardigans pulled over their skimpy outfits to cover bosoms squeezing out of sagging cut-away tops and stomachs bulging and rolling as they laugh. There is no longer either will or energy to suck in, no longer a motivation to give the illusion of their bellies being flat. Their voices are loud and coarse. When they alight, the silence brings the focus back to the weather. It has started to rain again.

Ellie is the only person to get off at her stop, which is not surprising.

She passes the patisserie that supplies both the large village and the smaller one. It advertises home-baked bread and cakes, but Ellie suspects the goods in the window are mass produced in Bradford. The crusty bread on display brings a sharp stab of memory of Loukas.

Looking ahead, she purposefully avoids the lane along which Brian lives. Her steps hasten as the road drops into the valley where she crosses the railway line. The slight incline on the other side takes her up to Little Lotherton.

There is a break in the clouds and a patch of blue clears.