The Reluctant Baker (The Greek Village Collection Book 10) (19 page)

‘Yes!’ She stands, slips her hand in her pocket, and pulls out the one thing that makes her feel a bit more secure, the one thing that gives her hope, the one thing she knows she cannot do without. Her passport.

As
he leaves the narrow bar, Loukas has a vague intention of finding Vlassis. Maybe if he talks to him some more, this feeling that something that he said has a bearing with his future will firm up, become more obvious. Something to do with Stella not giving them the bread order. No, something to do with if the old woman had the hotel’s bread order, this would open up his future. But he is thinking with too much ouzo and brandy in his system and the clarity of his thoughts comes and goes with every step.

Saros is spilt into three parts. There is the new town, with new houses, new businesses, and sprawling international dealerships on the fringes of the municipality. Then there is the area that used to be thought as the poor area. Those who could not afford to live in the small, historic old town with its stone-built Venetian mansions. The poor area has recently become sought after. The people who live here form a community, and that alone is desirable these days. The families who live here are no longer poor.

But Loukas, as he staggers, is in the old town, which has lost so much of its sense of community as it is now made up of expensive holiday homes, hotels, and shops. The old town is pedestrianised—many of the streets here are too narrow for cars, and some are no more than cobbled lanes with steps at odd intervals, but the occasional motorbike flaunts the rules, weaving between the people. The area has become so desirable that there are very few shops offering life’s staples. Somehow, the old town seems to have remained immune to the economic crisis gripping the rest of the country and the rents are too high to be afforded by those who peddle such mundane things as vegetables and fruits. But tucked away on one of the back streets, amongst fashionable boutiques and high-end jewellery shops, is one honest business that has continued to thrive. It is so successful it now owns the building, and there is no rent to pay for this institution—the Old Town Bakery.

The lights are out. The baker will be asleep. Loukas knows the bread from this shop is good but many times, he has heard it said that it is not as good as his. Here they also make biscuits and that he cannot compete with; he does not have the manpower. The Old Town Bakery also makes a good living on a Sunday when the people who come to their holiday homes for the weekends, as well as those fortunate enough to still live in these coveted dwellings, will bring a
tapsi
of meat and vegetables to be roasted in the big ovens. It is the traditional Greek way, from a time before electric ovens were common, and those with money and the stress of chasing after it hanker for these past times. It is also a good way to create a feeling of community now that every space has turned to profit-making in the old town. In the village, there is no such need: community is the one thing they have in abundance and the rural wives are still thrilled with their counter-top mini ovens. His bakery takes less and less to roast at the weekend and the old woman grumbles that their business is further affected by Stella and her chicken dinners.

Overall, The Old Town Bakery is far in advance of his humble village
fournos
. This is the business that supplies the bread to Stella’s hotel.

He looks up at the three-storey stone-built building. The shutters are all newly painted, the ornamental brickwork edging the roof tiles all maintained and neatly pointed. He has no idea how many people are employed here on a daily basis, but he seriously doubts that they are really in need of Stella’s hotel order. It will be a drop in the ocean for them. But for him, for the old man and old woman, it would increase their income substantially, if any of them were prepared to get out of bed an hour or two earlier to fulfil such an order.

There it is again. That feeling that the solution to his future is just in sight. It is probably just the ouzo giving him false hopes. More work is not the answer.

Where was he going? He was going to find someone. Who?

He passes the bakery’s front door and catches the name of the owner on the hand-painted sign above the door. It is the same surname as Mitsos’. Everybody is related to everybody in these backwaters. That is the problem, interbreeding and nepotism. The whole of Greece is run on nepotism; no wonder the economy is in such a mess. If he thought he had a chance of a job, he would return to Athens. Any traces of hope for his future fade.

Few lights peep through closed shutters now and the narrow streets exclude the moon. Loukas plods on.

He seems to be going in circles.

Where was he heading?

‘Hey Loukas.’ Someone is shaking him. ‘Loukas, come on friend, time to go home.’

Loukas blinks and sits up slowly. It is too much effort to have both eyes open so he opens just one. There is an unfinished glass of ouzo in front of him. He is in a bar in Saros. That much he does remember, but which one?

The pudgy barman puts his hand out to take the glass away and Loukas makes a move to stop him, but on second thought, he lets go. He has an almighty headache. Water would be a better choice.

‘Come on
file—
friend,’ the barman says again. The man in the framed poster on the wall above his head smiles down at him. Loukas does not remember returning here. The bottle of Metaxa in the photograph makes Loukas’ stomach turn. He’d better leave quickly.

There are no taxis at the stand. Loukas looks at his watch. It is not surprising, considering the time. He will wait on the bench until one turns up. There is bound to be at least one on duty.

‘Hey, mister.’

Is he doomed never to get any rest?

‘Hey, do you know if there are taxis at this time of night?’ The accent is Athenian. The speaker and his girl are smartly dressed. The man is holding the woman’s shoes.

Loukas looks around to orientate himself, checks his watch, and then notices the orange glow on the horizon. He shrugs his shoulders in reply and looks blankly at the man. He cannot speak; it is too much effort. The man looks pointedly at the bench and Loukas swings his legs down off it so the couple can sit. Loukas staggers off towards the sea.

‘Sea air,’ he says to himself. ‘That will restore me.’

With the sun just rising, the sea is on fire, the orange mingling with the silver and pale blue. Each step sobers him just a little and before he is halfway to the village, he is in a pleasant state where he is still just slightly drunk but his headache has almost gone. A bottle of water would be very welcome.

The path is of packed earth, trodden bare by many feet, and the cicadas are beginning to rasp their love calls as the sun lights up the top of the oleander bushes by the way. The colour of the flowers is beautiful, uplifting even his black mood.

Someone is behind him. Why would anyone else use this path so early? The footfall is fast but regular. Are they trying to catch up with him? It is a good reason to stop, turn round, see who it is. Turning carefully so his head does not fall off proves to be a more difficult manoeuvre than just keeping one foot in front of the other.

‘
Kalimera
.’ The morning greeting is full of life and energy, and although Loukas does not immediately recognise his features, the running shorts, shoes, and vest tell him this can only be Fillipos, old Iason’s son. ‘Fillipos, I haven’t seen you since you came back from your military service.’ Loukas doesn’t know Fillipos well—Fillipos began his national service soon after Loukas moved back to the village.

‘Are you well, my friend?’ The runner comes to a standstill, hands on hips, breathing heavily.

‘Ach!’ There is no other way Loukas can express his whole pointless existence succinctly.

‘How come you are not making bread today?’

That is the last thing Loukas wants to talk about. He produced no bread yesterday, and, unless the old woman and old man are up, there will be no bread again today. That’s all it will take, just a day or two, for the people of the village to find another source and the
fournos
will struggle. Then there will be no reason for any of them to get up. He rolls his eyes as an answer.

‘Such a great job; you are so lucky,’ Fillipos enthuses. Loukas chuckles and frowns. The man has a strange sense of humour. ‘No, I am serious,’ Fillipos defends.

‘Why on earth would you think such a job was good? It takes away your sleeping hours in the morning and kills any social life you could have in the evening.’ Loukas starts to walk again but not with any speed, just strolling as the sun brings with it the heat as the day unfolds. Fillipos wipes his forehead on a sweatband around his wrist.

‘Just that!’ he replies. He pulls at his sweat-drenched t-shirt and flaps it, getting the air to circulate. ‘I cannot understand anyone who would not want to be awake, alive right now!’ He looks across the sparkling bay to the purple mountains beyond. ‘Look at the colours, look at the light, feel the air, listen to the birds!’

Loukas struggles to do any of these things. He needs some water and a coffee. No, what he really needs is sleep. A really good night’s, worry free, sleep.

‘There are no colours, or light, or birds inside the bakery at this time.’ Loukas shakes his head.

‘But you can get up half an hour earlier, run under the stars, and still have the peace of this time to look forward to as you work.’ There is no putting Fillipos off.

‘I heard that you were not an evening person,’ Loukas says.

‘I never understood sitting in a smoke-filled bar, shouting to be heard. I can’t see the fun in that. When we lose the light, we are designed to sleep. It is natural, is it not?’ His voice is too full of enthusiasm.

Loukas tries not to chuckle.

‘Don’t you think?’ Fillipos seems to need his agreement.

‘Perhaps some people are for the morning and some are for the evening.’

‘It seems there are not so many like me.’ Fillipos chuckles good-naturedly. ‘I am finding it hard to get a job that does not run into the evening.’ Fillipos’ energy subsides with his words. ‘Stella offered me the bar job, you know? I might have to take it if nothing else comes up.’

‘I didn’t know.’ But Loukas is not surprised. ‘It’s a good job,’ he encourages, but he follows these words with a sigh.

Sitting under the fairy-light-covered tree, Stella watches Mitsos sitting across in the
kafeneio,
ignoring her.

She shouldn’t have snapped at him. But he is just going on and on about the legality of the hotel as if she can do something about it. Was it not enough that she has just come back from Saros town hall this morning? And Sarah! She never imagined Sarah would not support her. Well, that’s not strictly fair, it is not as if Sarah is not supporting her, but surely she could manage a few more hours each day at reception. Everyone is expecting her to do everything by herself and the longer the hotel is open, more and more is being piled on her plate.

Kyria Poppy has started to make lace, and so she will have to find a bigger cabinet to display this in the lobby along with the carved olive wood bowls. She has had posters printed to tell customers that the garage in the village has a car that can be hired by the day, although maybe they should have bought something a little newer. But never mind, she will still support them. She will support anything that is positive for the village. The conversion of one of the storage cupboards into a beauty salon is going well and that will be opened next week by a girl from the village who does everybody’s nails. Now the barber’s daughter has asked if there is room for a hairdressing salon in the hotel somewhere. If only there was some support offered in return!

How can she be on reception half the day, man the beach bar at night, do the administration, manage the staff, organise the deliveries,
and
try to fight the planning department to stop them closing her if she does not get her paperwork sorted out? It seems the whole village is benefiting and taking all they can from the hotel but not stopping to offer help.

She slams her frappe glass down on the table with her eyes fixed on Mitsos, who looks so relaxed. He knows that in half an hour, the eatery will start filling with farmers and then she will be stuck and there will be no one on reception at the hotel when Sarah goes off to take out her goats.

‘
Panayia
!’ Stella utters a silent prayer to the mother of her god, crosses herself, and kisses the crucifix around her neck. Mitsos sits with his legs outstretched as Theo serves him coffee in a small cup and yes, that’s an ouzo glass alongside it! Ouzo, during the day! The luxury! Well, two can play at that game.

Stella goes inside and round the back of the grill for a glass. There is washing up piled in the sink. If she wants an ouzo, she will have to wash a glass. She slings on an apron.

Half an hour later, the washing up is done. Several split chickens are on the grill cooking, and there is pile of sausages sizzling. Now she pours a good measure of ouzo and returns outside to stand beside the fairy light tree. Mitsos has not moved, still lazing in the
kafeneio
at the top of the square. She raises her glass to him, but he’s not looking so she sneers and drinks.

The reception at the hotel will now be unmanned. He knows exactly what he is doing to walk out at such a time. So what if she is being unreasonable; who wouldn’t be in her position?

‘
Yeia sou
Stella.’ Iason pulls up on his moped, takes a handkerchief from his pocket, and wipes his bald head.

‘Your son going to take the bar job?’ Stella snaps with no introduction.

‘
Kalimera
to you too.’ Iason smiles and banters.

Stella cannot return with anything jovial. With a last withering look at Mitsos, she pivots on her heel and goes inside. She will serve Iason and then go to the hotel. If other hungry farmers come, it’s too bad today.

Loukas washes his face in the sea, lying face down on the village jetty. How can Fillipos choose to get up and run in such weather! After their talk this morning, he watched him run ahead and disappear into the village whilst he was still a good fifteen minutes’ walk away.

He stands and shakes his head, the water spinning off him. He needs a shave but he cannot face going to the bakery. Mostly he needs to sleep but again, he does not want to even see the old woman. The only alternative is to wake himself up with coffee. Even that idea holds no motivation. Wake himself up for what?

He can see the hotel from here, a little way along the beach, with its colourful umbrellas and the outline of his beach bar.

‘But it is not your beach bar, is it?’ he mutters to himself. Pictures of Ellie swim through his mind. Ellie in her little dress. Ellie lying in the grass. Ellie under the plane tree drinking coffee in Saros. Ellie crying.

‘Ellie.’ He says her name out loud to tempt her image out of his head, but instead she sinks into his chest. He does not want her there; he will not give her that power. What she did was cold and cruel and unforgivable. There is part of him that is glad he will never see her again, but another part that would like to meet her to somehow make her suffer as he has done. He is glad he didn’t see her to say goodbye; he wouldn’t have been able to control himself, the words he would have spat! It would have taken more than a priest’s blessing to forgive him!

‘
Poutana
.’ He mutters the disparagement very quietly, his heart not totally behind his words. Lying on the jetty, he allows his thoughts to drift, he knows not for how long, in and out of dreams and nightmares. Ellie walking up the aisle in the village church to marry his old maths teacher, Loukas the ring bearer, walking behind them holding their marriage crowns. Making bread and talking to the old woman to slowly realise that he is now the old man with no future. But the sun is too bright to allow real sleep, nothing that refreshes him, and soon he gives up hoping for oblivion. Coffee, he needs coffee.

Instinctively, he returns to the track that leads directly to the village but once there, he hesitates before continuing on his way. If he wants caffeine, then it is the
kafeneio
he must head for. But how many of the men there will be complaining about their wives because they in turn are complaining about there being no bread? How many will complain directly because they have no bread with their meals?

‘One word from anyone,’ Loukas threatens the world as he walks.

The square is dozing in the sun. The village is unchanged. Loukas is surprised to see the bakery doors open, but there is no bread on the shelves. He knows it would not have all sold by now unless the old man got up late and only made a small batch. The positive side is that maybe no one will complain in the
kafeneio
.

The three steps into the café, even though they are concrete, are worn and dip in the middle. A testimony of a thousand footfalls, all male. That is as it has always been. A sanctuary.

There are several groups of men around different tables. A pair near the window are engaged in an energetic game of tavli and, to Loukas’ surprise, there is Mitsos sitting on his own at a table in the corner at the end of the serving counter. That is where he would have chosen to sit. It is obscured by the flue pipe of the pot-bellied stove that heats the place in winter. The table is tucked away and privacy is implied. The men who frequent the
kafeneio
understand this and leave you alone if you sit there.

With reluctance, he pulls a chair from the table next to Mitsos’. The scowl on his face will tell people to let him alone.

Theo brings coffee and slowly the caffeine takes its effect, dissolving the mist of Loukas’ hangover, but it does little to improve his mood.

A while later, Mitsos beckons Theo, who comes out from behind his counter and sidles past Loukas. Muttered words are exchanged and Theo bounces away and returns after a few minutes with two coffees. He serves one to Mitsos, but places the second one on Loukas’ table, beside the coffee he has already drunk. With a twist of his hand, no words necessary, Loukas asks the question. Theo nods his head towards Mitsos.

‘I am thinking you are both in trouble with the women in your life.’ Theo nods gravely. ‘This is what a
kafeneio
is for, to sort things out without the women interfering,’ he says with no hint of humour. The bounce in his step is absent as he retreats. There is some irony to this last comment—Theo’s own woman toys with him and has done so for years. And in his case, no
kafeneio
is likely to change the state of the relationship. ‘Women from Athens are different,’ he has remarked to Mitsos on more than one occasion. ‘They do not respect the man’s authority. But what can I do? I love her, even if she drives me crazy.’

The idea that Mitsos might be on bad terms with Stella does not sit well with Loukas. Mitsos is nothing but kindness and caring, and for all the initial anger he felt towards Stella with the Ellie episode has not remained in his heart, Stella is too dear to him for that. Without moving his chair, Loukas half-turns his body so he is side on to Mitsos, who is staring out of the window, down to the eatery.

‘You not serving chicken?’ Loukas asks.

‘You not making bread?’ Mitsos returns.

Loukas turns his chair slightly to face the older man.

‘Stella?’ Loukas asks quietly.

Mitsos turns to face him just a little.

‘The old woman?’ he asks in return and with a tiny movement of his finger, he points at the chair opposite him.

Loukas shifts across to Mitsos’ table, taking his coffee with him. They sit in silence, each nodding their head every few seconds as if agreeing with something that neither of them are saying. After five minutes, Mitsos clears his throat.

‘Sorry about the thing with Ellie,’ Mitsos says but makes no attempt at eye contact, his gaze fixed on a point down the square.

‘Women,’ Loukas replies with the same blank look out at the world.

Mitsos grunts his agreement. They fall into silence again.

As they watch out into the sunshine, Fillipos, no longer in shorts, strides across the square toward the corner shop.

‘He’s changed,’ Loukas reflects and points at him with a jut of his chin.

‘Yes.’

‘Loves mornings.’ Loukas says this as if it is beyond his understanding.

‘Needs a job.’ Mitsos takes a sip of his coffee.

‘He can have mine. Not that it is really a job. You’re supposed to get paid for doing a job.’ It is as close to humour as his mood will allow and neither of them laughs, but once he has said it, the idea plays on his mind. ‘You know…’ He pauses before finishing his sentence. ‘If it was possible for him to take my job, then I could do the bar job and everyone is happy.’

Mitsos lets out a breathy snort through his nose.

‘Until they close the hotel. Planning are really pressuring Stella.’

‘Is it that serious?’ Loukas asks. As Mitsos nods, there is that nagging feeling again. The one that came last night when he was talking with someone, who was it? Oh yes, what’s-his-name, the old woman’s nephew, Vlassis. He screws up his eyes to help his thoughts form.

‘You alright?’ Mitsos asks.

‘Yes, just something, something, if only I was not so hung over, I can almost see.’

‘See what? A fairy with a magic wind?’ Mitsos says but he doesn’t even smile. He is still watching the front of the eatery. Waiting to catch a glimpse of his beloved Stella, presumably.

‘Yeah, right!’ Loukas replies. He can think no more; if he is to talk, idle chit chat is easier. ‘Tell me something, what is your relation with the Old Town Bakery?’

The night on the floor in the airport chapel has to be one of the most exciting nights she had ever spent. Part of the appeal was because it was a chapel, where sleeping would have been an unthinkable sin as far as Father was concerned. Through his eyes, it would show a lack of reverence, no respect. He would have gone ballistic if he had been there. But to her, it was the nicest thing the church has ever done for her: provide her with a warm, safe, carpeted place to sleep whilst she waited for her flight. The best thing about it was that no one else came in to disturb her the whole night.

She woke well in time and felt just slightly smug to see how many people had slept on the cold vinyl floor in the main waiting area. Most of these were young people too, although there was one woman with long grey hair and a multi-coloured jacket under her head and a colourful chunky-knit woollen blanket wrapped around her. Everyone else was young and cool, and Ellie felt excited to be one of them.

She finds am ATM and draws out more cash from her dwindling university fund.

‘But this is going to be an education,’ she reasons. Ellie cannot hold her joy inside; the words come out loud and although the man behind her pretends he did not hear, she can feel his eyes watching her as she walks away.

The flight is due to leave in an hour. She will be in Greece in four, and in the village in five or six hours.

‘Oh Loukas.’ Ellie feels she may burst.