The Priest's Well (The Greek Village Collection Book 12) (2 page)

‘But I think you will find the daughter keeps everything well now,’ the bishop assured him.

‘When you say my predecessor gave them the house, you mean he let them use it or…’ But his question hung unfinished as the driver pulled up to what was indeed a very fine-looking house with an open vista next to a rather small and uncared-for cottage tucked behind the church. Between the two stood an old-fashioned well with boards covering it and flowers in olive oil tin pots displayed on top. Someone had painted the tins in bright colours.

That was a couple of hours ago. The bishop rapped on the door of the grand house until it opened a crack, closed again and reopened, and something was handed over. The old man adjusted his
kalimavkion
,
which a slight breeze was trying to pluck from his head, as he made his way back to the car.

‘Nefeli apologises. She cannot come out to greet you as she is just feeding her mama, but she assures me that the house has been prepared and the larder stocked.’ With a gracious movement, the bishop opened the car door and invited him out. ‘I think perhaps it is really her shyness that has kept her indoors.’ This last sentence was said with a wisp of a smile, as if offering some joviality into a situation that was clearly, through Savvas’ eyes, far from amusing.

He had never before stood in front of any building so basic with the intention of entering. The tool shed behind his old church in America was just a breeze block affair, but even that had a sense of purpose. This greying squat cottage looked very much like it had grown, beginning life, perhaps, as a wall, then a second wall added at an angle to become a sheep enclosure, maybe. It would be easy to imagine that a roof was added to turn it into a donkey shed but how, from that, anyone had had the vision to make it a house is beyond imagination! Words stuck in his throat. He was rendered speechless. As he stumbled to untangle the priority of his feelings, the bishop used the pause to put the keys in his hand and, more quickly than he could have ever anticipated, the old man wished him well and jumped back in the car, leaving him standing there in the dusk, alone.

His dinner is beginning to burn. He can smell it. He has always had a very delicate sense of smell. If he was a proud man, which of course he isn’t, he would be proud of his sense of smell.

The stuffed tomato tops are browned but not blackened, the skins softened and collapsing like old feather pillows. The tray of food is hot and he is not about to use the edge of his new outer cassock, which he still has not removed, to take the tomatoes out of the heat. Looking around the room reveals nothing useful. From previous exploration, he knows that one side of the lower cupboard of the kitchen crockery cabinet is stacked with plates and jugs to keep them dust free, and the other side is stocked with basic dried foodstuffs. The tomatoes were in the fridge with other basics. At least the housekeeper seems to know her job.

But right now he needs a towel or a cloth, and she’s overlooked that.

A narrow door next to the china cabinet opens into a small wet room. This has been built onto the older stone house with breeze blocks, their outlines still visible under a thin coat of white paint. With a shudder at the thought of showering there, he snatches the towel from the rail and returns to save his dinner. The towel smells of damp.

The flavours are good, the rice perhaps a little dry, but the tomato shells themselves are exquisite with the butter, especially if he scoops into each mouthful a good quantity of pine nuts. He swills this eagerly anticipated food down with two more glasses of wine, puts the empty plate on the floor, and lays back in his chair, his hand across his extended stomach.

This is the moment in the day he most looks forward to. Work done, a good meal inside him, the door to the outside world shut. True, there is much to do, both on the small scale of unpacking his bags and boxes and also on the larger scale of sorting out where he will live long term. But right now, he is content.

Well, almost content. Lurching to his feet, he shuffles to the fridge. Yes, he thought so, a tub of
rizogalo
, sweet rice pudding, and if he was not mistaken, yes, a carton of condensed milk. The two are soon combined into one bowl with a few spoonfuls of soft brown sugar and he returns to his seat with what is left of the bottle of wine.

As he spoons the sweet, creamy contents into his mouth, his already-full stomach feels like it is about to burst. Licking his lips, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. There is a small irritation in the moment when he spies his wine glass on the kitchen table, far too far away to reach at this point in time. Instead, he grabs the wine bottle by its neck and swings it to his lips, drinking the last of the red nectar straight from the bottle. Then his grip loosens and the bottle clatters into his now-empty bowl on the floor and he stretches back for a second time, utterly relaxed. So full now that he is unable to move.

He spends his first night sleeping in the chair, barely able to move.

It is not a noise that wakes him. She is quiet as the proverbial church mouse. Nor is it the morning sun. She must have slipped in, hardly opening the door at all. It is her smell that rouses him. In his dream, he is sleeping, lying on his back on a church pew, and the majestic church ceiling changes colour, becomes green and turns into grass. With it comes the sweet smell of the outdoors, a trace of jasmine, a hint of ozone, a pinch of pine. He twitches, the dream fades. Surfacing slowly, he rubs his nose, opens one eye and, unaware of her presence, stumbles to his feet, hands outstretched to feel his way to the bathroom where he urinates and relieves the pressure of the gases that have built up in his gut overnight. It makes him groan with relief and, tucking himself back in, he returns to the main room, lowering his cassock.

‘Oh my God, who the? How the?’ First, his gaze is fixed on her, her extraordinary colouring, then he looks to the front door, which he is certain he locked last night.

She continues to dry the pots she must have washed whilst he was asleep. Heat stings his cheeks; he flushes to his forehead, aware of his performance in the bathroom only seconds before.

‘Must you do that now?’ It is all he can think to say. He wants to be alone, wake up slowly, come to terms with where he is. He looks around the small room to remind himself of his new situation. In the grim light of morning, it all looks worse, if that were possible. He will almost certainly need to spend the day composing a letter to explain why this is not the ideal situation for him. Athens, after all, is huge. There must be a position there, even if it is in a poor area. He can do that, work with the deprived.

The girl drying the pots doesn’t answer but under her long fringe, he can see her pupils have grown wider, her movements have frozen, like a startled rabbit. Her eyes are strange. She is what he has always considered to be a Greek throwback. From when he was a small boy, he has heard the rumours that the Greeks were all blonde before the Arabs made their way across the water. Her hair is not blond exactly, rather a light brown, a dirty blond perhaps, but her eyes are such a pale brown, they are almost green and it is not clear to him if she is wearing makeup or the lashes around her eyes are just dense and dark. And there’s that smell again. It was not a dream. It is her.

She puts down the cloth she is using to dry his dishes and with a bowed head and light feet, she is at the door.

‘Sorry, no, that was rude of me.’ Savvas controls himself. ‘Please do not go. You are doing a fine job.’ That’s better. He is not a savage and probably has more manners than this whole village put together. She stops, motionless, fingers entwined in front of her, head bowed a little and her fringe all but hiding her face. Her eyes dart this way and that, unsure of what she should do next.

‘I think you were dealing with your mama when I arrived yesterday; we were not introduced. Your name is?’ He holds out his hand, ready to shake hers. She turns to face him, which stirs the air, the smell of her, fresh linen, jasmine, and sweetness growing stronger for a second. Her hand extends and he takes it to shake but almost draws his own back when his palm chafes against her callused skin.

‘Nefeli,’ she says. Her voice is neither loud nor soft, but somehow it has a still quality. Her pale eyes are set on his left ear, not making eye contact. She seems not to want to let him in. After a second, it is her hand that is the first to retract and he realises that perhaps he has fallen into a stare and held on too long. Then she bends her knee and is crouched by his feet. This action is completely out of his range of experience. Is she bowing to him? Does she want to kiss his hand like he is the patriarch or something? Should he ask her to rise? It is very flattering, such uncompromising subjection, but now that she is at his feet, he is not sure what to do. Her head goes lower. Surely she is not expecting to kiss his feet?

‘Please, arise,’ are all the words he can find to say. At this point, her arm stretches out by the side of his foot and it is only when she stands with the empty wine bottle in her hand that he realises his mistake. It must have rolled half under the chair when he was sleeping. She wasn’t genuflecting; she was tidying up his mess.

Face to face again, her eyes dart at him under her dirty blond curtain.

‘Do you want me to cook?’ she asks.

Again, she has confused him. It is first thing in the morning. A coffee would be nice, and a slice of cake perhaps but, oh yes, of course, she must mean later.

‘Actually, I like to cook, myself. But if I have a very busy schedule, you could ready me a light lunch mid-afternoon: some cold meats, a salad, something of a dessert, that sort of thing.’

‘Busy?’ At least, that is what he thinks she says. She glances around the room, picks up the wet towel she was drying the pots with and, wine bottle in her other hand, she lets herself out.

Two, maybe three minutes is all the conversation has taken. He stares blankly at the back of the door. It didn’t go as he envisaged his first meeting with his housekeeper. He intended to talk about the grand house, find out if her living there with her mama was just a casual solution that was given to them in the moment by his predecessor, or whether it was something more formal. He also needs more information as to the running of things. What days will she do his laundry, for example, and does she have a day off in the month or not? If not, he could bestow one on her. That would be a good beginning. Also, he could have found out a little about his congregation from her. Are they all farmers here or is there another source of work? In the village square, they passed a
kafeneio
, a corner shop, a bakery, an eatery. Is there more tucked behind on the side streets?

But instead of using the situation to his own advantage, he stood there and shook her hand and stared. And why on earth did he imagine that she was curtseying to him?

It isn’t often he is glad his mama is not around but right now, he is very relieved that she is not there to witness his crassness.

It was the girl’s eyes, the darkness around them as if she hadn’t washed, the lightness of the irises, and her smell.

Somewhere in the village, a cockerel crows and a second one, further away, fainter, competes. It serves to remind him how far he is from civilisation. There is a chance, but he does not hold much hope with this thought, that this parochial cluster of inhabitance will look better under the powerful spring sun than it did in the dusk of the night before. Which reminds him he must tell Nefeli that one of her duties will be to open the shutters around this cottage each morning, just until the mix-up with the grand house is sorted out. Coffee by eight o’clock and breakfast by nine. Best to keep her busy. Mama taught him well on that premise, and he was never allowed to be idle.

The front door catches on a floor tile that is lifted at one corner. He rocks it flat with his toe and the door swings open easily. He dips his head under the door’s crossbeam so as not to hit his tall black
kalimavkion
. Unlike his last one, this new one is a perfect fit, so it is worth taking a bit of care. All of a sudden, there is a smell of sheep and someone, not too far away, is cooking: tomatoes, onions, and oregano.

The grey blank wall of the church is not a welcoming sight. He looks longingly to the proper house alongside him, the sun’s rays bathing it in light. The whitewashed stonework could do with being freshened up, but the shutters have been recently painted. The first floor balcony basks in glorious sunshine. How much easier it is to praise God when you live in wonderful surroundings. He will breakfast on that balcony. The girl and her mama are bound to be happier in the cottage, playing out their own small lives, and each morning, with such a place to have coffee and cake, he will praise God indeed.

He looks around for the garage, but there does not appear to be one. How is he expected to get in and out of the village, go to Saros, attend church meetings in Athens if they have not allocated him a car?

As he steps out from the end of the church wall, the sun falls on his face. Closing his eyes, he reminds himself to be thankful for the little pleasures such as this. Around the front of the church is a large paved area on which, despite the early hour, three boys are kicking around a ball. With the sun’s heat warming his face, the boys calling for the ball, and a smell of home cooking, the overall effect is very seductive.

No, he is not ready for that yet. There will be time enough to get involved with the people of the village, to relax. First, he must deal with business and at the top of the agenda is securing a car. Unless he is mistaken, he spotted a bureau in the bedroom last night. He must make a list of repairs that need doing, improvements required in the bathroom if he is to stay here, things that the cottage is short of, and then he will take the morning to write the appropriate letters. He will also jot down a few notes for his Sunday reflections that seem to go down well after the service. He turns to go back to his cottage.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ a voice calls to him. Opposite the church, a woman is sweeping the road in front of her house. It is much like his own cottage but hers looks happier somehow. Geraniums burst out of pots propped on the wall; a cat is rubbing its face against her gate post. A bougainvillea climbs up a post and across some supports, framing her front door which is wide open, releasing the smells of cooking. His mama was the same. She never got out of the habit of cooking their main meal first thing in the morning, leaving it to keep warm all day in the oven. When he was old enough to be curious and asked why, she replied it was just how she did things ‘back home.’ ‘Cook before it gets too hot to move,’ she explained.

The woman brushing the street seems to expect nothing in return for her calls of welcome. Her onions smell like they could be burning. The cat by her gate jumps on the wall and weaves its way between the pots towards her as she sweeps the dust of the road away from her patch. Even this early in the morning, the sun is already strong, penetrating his cassock. He must take his outer cassock off before he starts to sweat.

On the balcony of the grand house, the girl, Nefeli, is hanging washing. The structural arch frames her like a picture and her hair is gold in the sun, all traces of the dirty colour gone. Her lean arms stretch up to hang something white, her gold mane cascading down her back. Each movement is one of strength but she moves with such smooth liquidity that it is possible to imagine she does not disturb the air around her.

‘Nefeli.’ The voice is right beside him. She leans on her broom, the cat at her ankles. ‘Your housekeeper, have you not been introduced yet?’

‘Briefly.’ Savvas breaks his stare.

‘Such a shame.’ The woman head rocks from side to side. ‘She was lovely when she was tiny but then she had that fall, banged her head. They say it is the scar on her forehead that makes her shy. But I am not fooled by those sly looks of hers. There is no shyness! There is cunning and manipulation. If you value your life at all, do not trust her.’ Savvas turns abruptly, unable to believe what he is hearing. The woman does not look mad or vindictive. She smiles warmly at him. ‘Losing her baba affected her badly.’

Savvas hesitates. It is not a conversation that he wants to enter. It is one thing to learn about his congregation and quite another to idly gossip, especially when what is being said is so inflammatory. His duty is to diffuse the situation. Yes, that is his duty.

‘I know what it is to lose your baba.’ He tries to remain aloof and dignified.

‘Girls like her should be married,’ the woman continues. ‘Giving her sultry looks to all and sundry. Your poor predecessor, how could he manage? But who would have her as a wife? She hardly speaks, a crippled mother, and that house has no land you know, not like the cottage. Anyway, I mustn’t keep you from all your work. If you need anything Papa, I am Maria. I live there.’ She points and then bends her knees, another person at his feet! But she stands, holding the cat.

‘Kalimera,’ she wishes him and, clutching the cat, the brush held out like a baton in front of her, marches back inside her house.

Nefeli is gone from the balcony. The white washing hangs limply on the line. A football comes flying towards him and only a quick side-step saves his cassock from a dusty imprint.

‘Here, Papa, kick it here,’ one boy shouts.

‘No, over here, Papa.’

He has no intention of kicking the ball anywhere, and he senses the boys are surprised that he is not joining in, which makes him wonder about his predecessor. With a last glance at the balcony, he returns to the cottage.