The Reluctant Baker (The Greek Village Collection Book 10) (16 page)

On
the corner of the lane she now calls home is an old-fashioned red telephone box. It must be one of a very few left in the country and even more unusual is that it has not been vandalised. Originally, she thought that the majority of the street mustn’t have phones, mobile or otherwise, judging by the amount of use it gets, but when she went to use it herself one day, she found that the coin mechanism had been tampered with, meaning that it is possible to make calls from it for free.

Marcus liked that when she told him. He likes all the slightly anarchic aspects of the village. His first real enthusiasm for Lotherton came just after they moved in, when he noticed that the place seemed to attract people who did not want to live in the modern world. Proof of this, he said, was that there were neither satellite dishes nor aerials on any of the roofs, if you didn’t count the old couple at the top corner, who have both. A good sign, he insisted, although Ellie had her doubts. She felt that her lack of being part of the world growing up denied her so much useful knowledge. But Marcus was sure it was a positive thing, and so his television remained without an aerial. He did, however, install broadband for his laptop.

Even though the rain has stopped, the cobbles are awash, and the water nearly tops the narrow stone-flagged pavement. There are lights on in almost every house, glowing warm in the bracing wind which now whistles down from the moors, the smoke from each chimney blown flat.

The village seems to have a communal liking for hanging baskets, too. Each door has at least one swinging in the gusts. Those with wooden porches have two, one either side of the door. Window boxes are also a strong feature and in the eerie, white, stormy light, the street is peppered with riots of colour flowers.

The one house that is dark is hers. She pictures the house inside, the warm, earthy colour that they picked for the walls, the plain brick-red throw over the sagging sofa and the piles of cushions on the floor by the open fire. Marcus’ abstract art works on the walls, the colours lifting the room, and the rug they found in the attic that covers most of the sitting room floor.

The old metal gate has dropped on its hinges and needs lifting in order to open it. The solid wooden door yields to a kick at the bottom once she has turned the latchkey. It is not that warm inside, which makes Ellie wonder why Marcus has not stoked the Aga. The solid metal wood-burning cooking stove that also heats the water for the central heating is almost cold. Lifting open the stoking door shows that there are only embers in the bottom of the grate. This is unusual. Marcus likes to be warm. Maybe he forgot this morning and has been out all day. Although, judging by the level and the glow of the ashes, it looks as if it wasn’t stoked yesterday either.

There is no wood stacked by the stove. Ellie opens the back door, bracing herself for the wind. The small yard at the back opens directly onto the moors. When the wind is really cold in the winter, the sheep press against the house walls, seeking shelter. The gusts take her breath, enter her ears and whip the door out of her hands as she opens it. An armful of wood from under the tarpaulin is enough for now and when she returns inside, the last of the heat has left the one room and she battles, using her whole body, to shut the door. It is not often this windy in the summer, although the rain comes at any time.

The dry wood catches quickly and Ellie opens the vents to give it plenty of air, help it to burn hot. They tend to burn coal on the open fire so once the wood is alight in the Aga, she will use the tongs to take a piece or two over to the fireplace to set some coals smouldering. Once the Aga door is closed, she finally puts down her rucksack, but it is too cold to take off her coat. Instead, she puts the kettle on. She is glad her mother made this contribution to the house. Marcus only wanted to use the wood stove. The water pops and cracks as it heats.

The sink is full of washing up, no surprises there, and the bin is overflowing with beer bottles and pizza boxes. That is not like Marcus. He brews his own beer, is very keen on recycling glass, and very rarely do they have a takeaway pizza. There is wet washing in the washing machine and the drying rack above the Aga is still hung with the clothes she put on to dry before she left. It is odd that she never thought of Marcus as a slob, but maybe she has been too busy trying to be the perfect, newly married wife to find out.

On the wooden kitchen table are flowers she put in one of Marcus’ ceramic vases before she left. They have wilted and died and there is a plate with toast crumbs beside them.

The split logs in the Aga are now firmly alight so using the tongs, she takes first one and then a second piece to the fireplace. The chimney draws hard on them and the flames lick up the soot-stained backplate. Careful positioning of the coals ensures they will catch quickly. She also adds more wood to the Aga. It is still not warm enough yet to take her coat off.

When they first moved into the cottage, the whole trip back in time aspect thrilled her. It still does, even though she’s cold. But whilst she has been away, it seems something has changed. Something inside her. It is not that she likes Lotherton any the less, rather that she likes the village in Greece more. But no doubt that will fade with time. Already being back in a familiar environment has made the people of the Greek village seem unreal.

The kettle boils, so she makes herself a coffee and wonders what time Marcus will be back. If she is going to make this work, she needs to do it wholeheartedly, forget about Greece. Maybe she should cook. That’s a good idea. Wash up, cook, change the linen on their bed. It needed changing before she went away, and it seems unlikely Marcus will have thought about it, if the evidence in the kitchen is anything to go on.

She could also roll the rug back and sweep and wash the flagged floor. Opening the back door always brings bracken and heather dust, bits of bark from the wood pile, and general dirt. If she has time, she will also polish Marcus’ mother’s brasses that he has lined up on the hearth, which, as usual, is covered in ash. Personally, she hates them but if she keeps them polished, she could use that as a sign that she is on track, thinking straight, making an effort.

‘Oh, Loukas.’ She stands in the middle of the room and clutches at her chest as if she is having a heart attack. She might as well be, for the pain. She waits for the initial shock of her own outburst to subside and then she rips her coat off and runs upstairs and puts on her warmest jumper, ignoring for the moment the unmade bed. She rolls up her sleeves and heads back downstairs to do the washing up.

There
is a great satisfaction to seeing the house so clean and tidy. The brasses shining, the floor washed. The smell of clean linen drying on the rack above the Aga mingles with the smell of the chicken pieces she took from the freezer and made into a pie that is now in the oven. The house is warming and the bed has been stripped, remade with sweet-smelling sheets, and the washing machine rumbles.

She hung her rucksack on one of the hooks on the back door when she first returned, and there it has remained. She should have put her dresses and underwear in with the sheets, but, like the dirt that collects on the floor and the washing up that grows in the sink, there will always be more laundry.

The sandals come out first along with a trickle of sand that falls to the newly swept floor. It lays golden against the light grey flags. The romance of the sun against the romance of the stark moors. How out of place Loukas would seem here. How inconceivable it is to think of Marcus over there. She puts her sandals alongside the mud-clogged walking boots in the chest by the back door.

Her t-shirt dresses seem unfeasibly thin and flimsy. She wouldn’t even wear them to bed in the summer over here. No, that’s an exaggeration. She is saying that because of the rain lashing at the windows. In a cloudless moment at the height of summer when the sun has been shining for a day or two and the heather and the peat have soaked up the warmth, there are pockets of sheep-shorn grass between the brackens that trap the heat. She could lay in one of those in these little dresses, smelling the warmth in the undergrowth, listening to the grouse burring and cawing. Invisible from the world. Loukas could lay there too.

Pine needles fall from one of the dresses to join the sand. Burying her face in it, she breathes in its scent, sun cream and pine sap, cotton and Kyria Poppy’s shop.

This is not going to make her marriage happen. The underwear in the bottom of the rucksack gets piled into the wicker clothes basket, but the dress she stuffs unwashed into a plastic bag and this, along with the rucksack, is hung on a hook in the cupboard under the stairs in the darkest corner. She needs to forget them, but she cannot wash them, lose the smells, forget the memories. Not yet.

There, she is done. The house is tidy, she is unpacked, the washing is on, the bed has clean sheets and the dinner is in the oven. Now what? What time is it? Surely Marcus should be home by now? The light over the moors, visible through the small window above the deep, chipped butler sink, is fading. The sheep are silhouetted as they come over the rise to the sheltered lee. Maybe Marcus has been staying over at Brian’s whilst she was away. But that does not account for the beer bottles and the pizza boxes. He must have been here, and possibly with company.

She could idle her time away on the Internet. His laptop is in its cover down the side of the sofa. It is tempting, but the last time she was on it, she was looking at pictures of Greece and emailing Stella. It will only serve to remind her. She could call Brian, see if Marcus is there, tell him she is home. What is the sensible, responsible thing to do?

Call Brian. Definitely to call Brian and see if Marcus is there.

One glance out of the front window at the water collecting and gushing down the cobbles, the rain pelting against the windows and the wind rattling the gate convinces her she is not going down to the telephone box! She will wait. If he does not come home today, he will come home tomorrow and if he doesn’t turn up tomorrow, she will go and call on Brian. He is bound to be there, playing with the trains.

The sofa sinks deeply as she sits. She watches the changing direction of the rain at the window, listens to the wind across the chimney top. The wind chime over the back door is quiet; it must have become tangled.

She spots a letter on the mantelpiece, addressed to her, in Mum’s writing. Mum has taken to sending her notes since she moved. She says it is because they have no phone. Ellie suspects it is more a result of her being lonely. They never say anything, these letters, they just ramble, cataloguing what Mum bought at the supermarket, things that have happened in the news that need commenting on, the topic of Father’s latest sermon. Ellie usually skim-reads them, burns them and, instead of answering them, goes to the phone box and calls. This letter is typical and carries little real news, except Mum mentions that they have taken in a lodger to make use of her old room. This news has an unexpected effect on her. She doesn’t mean to, but she starts to cry. It is not so much that she wants to go back there—God knows she doesn’t. God knows she never wants to have a Sunday lunch there again as long as she lives, but on the other hand, it would have been nice if Mum had asked if she minded that her old room was to be let out. Not that it is really her room now, but somehow it feels sort of final, as if the choice has been taken away from her, as if she can never go back even if she really needs to. A closed door.

She lets the crying run its course. The initial impact subsides. What has happened fits and feels like a natural continuation of their general disinterest in her. It is probably for the best. Going back would never be a good thing under any circumstances. She flings the letter in the flames and watches it burn.

After a while, she adds coal to the fire, takes the pie from the oven. It is a perfect golden-brown but she is not hungry. The emptiness in her stomach is somehow comforting, friendly, as if Loukas is there with her.

‘Stop it, Ellie!’ she demands of herself, out loud. Maybe she should clean Marcus’ mother’s brasses again. Maybe she is just bored. Maybe she should just go to bed.

Next morning, it is as if yesterday’s bad weather was just a passing outburst. The sun is out, the clouds are few and fluffy white. The wind has dropped and the world is drying out. The flowers in the window box have lifted their heads and touch the bottom of the window frame with colour. What a difference the sun makes. Opening the back door brings in a smell of warming heath. The tangled wind chime is the only testament to the night before.

She will walk on the moors today. Climb up to the stone circle, past the old reservoir. Or maybe she could sort out the backyard, arrange the wood more carefully, take a load inside and stack it next to the chimney breast. If she sweeps all the bark up, scrubs the winter green off the few flags that nestle by the back door competing with the moors, maybe she could think about putting some sort of seat out there.

No, the moors it will be. She ties the arms of a waterproof jacket around her waist, stuffs a hat in her jeans pocket, wraps a piece of chicken pie in cling film and carefully puts it in the pocket of the jacket and sets out. Maybe she can find a warm spot to read.

These are the sort of days she loves. No thoughts, few clouds, no pressure on her time. She steps lightly over the cushions of heather until she gains a sheep track. She startles one or two of the woolly animals that are chewing noisily nearby, and the way they dart away reminds her of Sarah and her goats.

Ellie consciously tries to concentrate on something else: the bees in the heather, the new shoots amongst the bracken. It works very briefly, but each new focus reminds her of the track on the hillside above the Greek village where she laid, watching beetles scuttle and crickets jump, Loukas by her side.

Her eyes are drawn up to the horizon, but this only serves to bring the old quarry on the edge of the moors into her line of sight. The quarry that is only visible because of the tell-tale line of pine trees around its top edge. She can almost smell them, recall the heat, the touch of Loukas.

‘No,’ she tells herself and looks back to the path.

Her walk becomes a march and her legs move mechanically and without grace. Her feet stomp and her breathing grows quick. She increases her speed until she stops dead in sight of the stone circle. The ancient rocks stand as tall as a man, some erect, some leaning, only two fallen over. These two lay in the grass, side by side. Like she did with Loukas.

‘Oh holy moly, this is not working!’ Ellie stops walking and she sits with a thump in the heather, just vaguely aware, but not caring, that she has squashed her chicken pie. What she needs is to stop being in this vacuum. She needs to see Marcus, get back into her old life. As long as she has not seen him, her heart will still be with Loukas. Once she has seen Marcus, it will all be easier. She should find him as soon as he has finished work and suggest that they go to the Shepherd’s Arms tonight, even if it isn’t Saturday. Maybe at the weekend they can find a ceramics workshop. Perhaps she can broach the idea again about her going to night school to complete her A levels.

The pie has disintegrated into pieces.

‘Well, a least the pastry is crumbly.’ She forces the optimism and stands to set off back home, scattering the pie pieces for the birds.

Clearing out the backyard keeps her thoughts mostly away from focusing on Loukas for a couple of hours, and when the clock creeps around to the time Marcus usually comes home, she brushes her hair and applies a little makeup. Not much; it is not really her thing. Just enough to give her a glow, a sparkle.

The hands of the clock move so slowly. Marcus does not come. He must be at Brian’s.

‘Right.’ Ellie stands, takes out the remains of the chicken pie that is warming in the oven, and covers it with a towel, pulls on her jacket, bangs the mud off her boots outside the back door and puts them on by the front door, and sets off to Brian’s.

Will he be pleased to see her? Or will he be as unruffled as ever? She must think long-term, like the old woman of whom Sarah spoke. If she tries, and keeps trying, love will come. She must picture herself and Marcus as an old married couple with the years behind them, holding hands, loving, close.

Septic Cyril is in the telephone box. He has a bottle of window cleaner and a roll of kitchen paper in there with him and he is cleaning the windows. Ellie is glad the door is shut. Apparently it is not only his house that smells bad. As she passes, Cyril knocks on the glass and grins, peering through his small, round, thick, wire-rimmed glasses. Ellie gives him a little wave and he mists the window he is looking out of with a spray of window cleaner.

She could grow to like the eccentricity of the people here. At least they are not dull.

Halfway down the hill, an old white van coughs and splutters as it begins the climb towards her. In the driver’s seat is King Nev, apparently unconcerned by the vehicle’s slow progress and worrying noises. By his side is his queen, who waves at Ellie to her surprise, mouthing hello. Queen Helen then speaks to King Nev who smiles broadly at Ellie so she waves at him, too. He waves back.

So after living here for nearly a year, the locals are finally being friendly. About time!

But then, when has she ever been friendly to them? In fact, when has she ever seen them? The first two or three months, she never even went out of her front door, only out the back straight onto the moors. After that, she saw Helen twice, both times in the patisserie, which was the only place she ever went. Both times, Helen quietly said hello, but other than that, when has she even been out to meet any of them? Marcus takes her to do the shopping in his car, and for one hour a week, they sit in a dark corner at the Shepherd’s Arms in the next village. Marcus has so impressed on her the need for her to keep a low profile after all that happened that she might have overdone it a bit, perhaps. How different her life would be if she got to know her neighbours, made some friends. Helen and Nev look very nice, smiley, fun. It could be good here.

So, rule one of being back: Go out, use any excuse to go out to places she may bump into people, or they—she and Marcus—could have a party. A housewarming party. Invite the whole street and meet them all. Yes, she will suggest it to him. If he doesn’t like the idea, maybe she can do some sort of coffee morning to meet the women like her grandmother used to do in the olden days. She could bake cakes and that sort of thing.

There is a bounce in her step as she heads out of her house, out of her lane and down the hill. The railway line at the bottom marks the official boundary to the next village. Brian’s road is the first on the left on the other side of the tracks, defined by a bright yellow front door, on the end of a row mill cottages. There is an alley down the side, which she knows Brian always uses to enter his house by the back door, so she does the same. His handkerchief garden is shaded from wind and weather and faces south. It is a real heat trap and his back door is wide open.