Game Of Scones. Samantha Tonge
now I noticed that two looked quite derelict, with worn “for sale” signs out the front. Smiling at an old woman, wearing a black dress and headscarf, I took in the wooded pine forests, either side. As perspiration glistened on my skin, I inhaled. Mmm. What a fabulous combination of cedar wood and salt.
Some things hadn’t changed one iota – like the gentle island breeze and chirp of cicadas. Memories once again came back: Niko pointing out a glimmering shoal of sardines, as we sneakily snorkelled, instead of helping out with the melon harvest; the two of us munching on honey pastries in his parents’ taverna, sipping crafty sips of the grown-ups’ ouzo, whilst guests circle-danced. A grin spread over my face, as I realised just how much I was looking forward to seeing my former partner in crime.
‘Pippa!’ called a voice from the distance.
Uh oh, Henrik must have expected me to stay longer. Despite the early afternoon heat, I sped up, wishing I’d worn sun cream as well as my shades and hat. Eventually the wooded area thinned, and the dusty road forked into three smaller, paved-over pedestrianised avenues, which I knew all led to the small port and postcard-perfect sea. Behind me a bus pulled up, at the last stop. No vehicles ran up and down the streets of Taxos. The only transport from hereon was cyclists and donkeys. The latter’s dung gave the village a distinct odour when the weather became really scorching.
I gazed down the left fork, trying to remember the exact lay-out of the village. Let’s see… Down there would be the supermarket, post office and school, with great views of mountains in the distance, towards the south of the island. Then I turned my head to the right and far away spotted the blue dome of the church. That road led to a pottery workshop and gift store, run by Demetrios who now, ooh, had to be in his late thirties. He’d given up a bank job in the city to follow his artistic dreams, and with his last generous bonus had bought the premises and the equipment he needed. He’d let me and Niko make small pots and paint them. I narrowed my eyes at a maze of further avenues, lined with small whitewashed houses with blue painted doors and window shutters.
Even quicker now, I made my way down the central walkway ahead, past houses and a cake shop run by Pandora – a friendly, fashionable woman. It still had the gilt painted window sills, and colourful potted plants outside, plus the sign swinging in the breeze, bearing a delicious looking drawing of chocolate cake. Then I past the Fish House and Olive Tree restaurants… Moving on, I glanced into the cycle shop owned by middle-aged Cosmo, whose back faced me. I remembered his skinny build and penchant for his mouth harmonica. I could just see him, through the dusty window and frames of bicycles leant up outside. The walls of his shop looked grubby and chipped.
Right at the end, nearest to the boats and the water’s edge, stood Taxos Taverna, belonging to Niko’s family. My heart lurched at the cracked windowsills and door frame and decidedly weatherbeaten blue and white paintwork. The place looked empty inside, despite it being lunch time – in fact, the far half of it, the other side of its kitchens, looked completely closed down. I swallowed. The Olive Tree and Fish House had been the same – not buzzing with catchy Greek string music, nor pre-dinner smells of garlic and oregano. How tranquil it was for a Saturday.
Just before reaching its front door, I stopped and stood in the shade of a nearby palm tree, a must thanks to my pale skin, smattering of freckles and red-tinted hair. I picked up one of the large, fallen leaves and fanned my face. It had been so long since I’d enjoyed a foreign summer break. I’d forgotten how sensitive I was to the Mediterranean rays. Niko used to tease me for living in a cap and long-sleeved blouse. Our complexions couldn’t have been more different, with his caramel skin and curly black hair.
Feeling slightly queasy, despite my hat, I decided to visit Georgios and Sophia when I felt on better form. So I headed straight to the port and as soon as I could, left the concrete path and jumped down onto the beach. I approached the breaking waves, stepping across spiky sand lilies. Impatiently, I slipped off my ridiculously impractical high heels. Phew. I felt so much better, once I’d sat down and cool water lapped over my toes. Fishing boats bobbed gently nearby, now all tied up due to the heat sending everyone indoors. The local fisherman always used to head out first thing. The beach was empty, as was Caretta Cove, an inward curve of sand down to the left, named after the endangered species of turtle that used to nest there – the loggerhead turtle, to you and me.
Taxos residents knew better than to sit out at midday. As the breeze lifted my fringe, a tightness inside me loosened up. It was good to be away from the stresses and strains of London life: my computer; the musty train journey to work; the artificial lighting in my office block. When was the last time I’d kicked back and relaxed without a phone or pen in my hand? I lay down, pulled my sunhat over my face and closed my eyes, revelling in the sound of lapping waves.
‘Oi!’ shouted an irritated voice from behind, ‘Me sinhorite!’ which I vaguely remembered meant “excuse me”. Really? The beach was deserted. Why would anyone need me to move? I kept my eyes firmly closed and pretended to sleep.
‘Woman! Move yourself, please. Now…’ said a man’s voice, in what could only be called Greeklish, pronouncing the consonants very strongly, with a slight roll on the Rs.
Opening my eyes to roll them, I sat up and turned around. From behind my big glasses, I spied four men, heaving a small boat. Oops. I now realised I’d been lying directly on a path leading from a boatshed to the nearby ramshackle jetty. I jumped up and grabbed my shoes as they puffed past and was just about to say sorry when a young man at the back muttered “vlakas”.
My cheeks felt hot and I folded my arms. Idiot? Me? How dare… Ooh, now my head started to throb and my mouth felt as if last night I’d drunk a litre of ouzo. I caught his eye as he stood knee-deep in water, the bottom half of his face hidden by a small mast. Feeling a bit weird, and not at all like myself, I held up my palm, fingers spread out (a milder equivalent of giving someone the finger in England).
Without waiting to see his reaction, I spun around, just a bit too fast. The beach swayed, as if I really had drunk a bottle of that aniseed liquor. Bile shot up my throat. This has happened to me once before when I’d actually been sick and spent a day in bed with the headache from hell.
‘Oi! Not so polite, huh? But you, woman, were in the way.’ A man loomed into view. My vision was kind of blurred but, phooey, even I could see he was one hot stud! Perhaps he was a mirage. Just a bit taller than me, he stood, mocha eyes fiery, yet a hint of a smile on his lips. Plus a tight vest top that showed… well… You could tell he did physical work for a living. He was earthy, kind of ruffled – the opposite to well-groomed Henrik. I had a sudden urge to squeeze his neatly formed biceps, but instead pulled down my sunhat, worried my tongue might be hanging out like a puppy dog’s.
‘I’m not usually so rude, but you called me an idiot!’ I muttered.
‘Sorry, but I was struggling with half a ton of wood. Of all places to sunbathe, why you choose the runway between the–’
‘I didn’t realise…’ I said. ‘It was an easy mistake. And I wasn’t sunbathing.’
‘You no looked as if you were about to budge.’
‘Budge? Good word,’ I muttered.
He chuckled. ‘Okay, all is forgiven.’
‘You forgive me?’ I shook my head, feeling too icky to remonstrate further, plus, oh God, any minute, this sun was once again going to make me throw up. If he didn’t get out the way, revenge for his vlakas comment really might be sweet – or rather sickly, and all down his shirt.
The stranger stared at me and then, with a surprised tone, muttered something in Greek. With one swift movement, he leant forward to remove my glasses and hat.
‘It is you!’ He gasped. ‘I recognise that feisty tone anywhere – yet you have no idea who I am.’
But I was hardly listening and in reply promptly vomited over his leather sandals, before everything went black.