Chloë and Simon Bartlett sat on the terrace at sunset sipping G and T and gazing over the immaculate garden that sloped down towards their sea view. The house was one of the oldest villas in the village, bought as a ruin and carefully restored stone by stone, extended at the back and fitted with all the features that reminded them of the original design: ceilings with cypress-wood beams, stone archways into the great drawing room with its fireplace, marble floors and rough-woven Cretan rugs scattered liberally across them. There was a grand piano in the corner, adding grace, but it was rarely played, and a gallery of artwork on the walls.
‘Dear old Ariadne she does have strange ideas.’ Chloë laughed. ‘A choir of oldies trying to re-create their youth singing carols? I really don’t want to be party to it but I suppose I should put in an appearance. It is for charity and one must contribute…’
‘Hang on! She’s about the same age as us so not so much of the “oldies”. And you still have a lovely voice,’ Simon remonstrated.
‘You too, deep bass.’ She touched his hand. ‘Remember when we sang in the Bach Choir? I couldn’t bear to make a fool of ourselves singing to the Greeks. Coals to Newcastle. What will they make of us?’ Chloë smiled, recalling the camaraderie of performances in the Royal Albert Hall.
‘We have to listen to their music often enough with weddings and baptisms that go on till dawn and tannoys blasting forth. It will do them good to hear us. I’ll join, if you like.’
‘Would you? Then there’ll be at least one male voice,’ she said.
‘We could ask Clive Podmore. He might like to come. Have you seen him lately? He looks so lost. We ought to have him for supper again.’
‘It must be nearly two years since Lucy died but he still looks shell-shocked, poor man. I don’t know why he won’t go home.’
‘Because she’s buried here and he can’t leave her. They were so devoted. I see him on the headland heading into the hills. He does his daily walk with the dog but I can’t even get him to spend an evening with us in the taverna,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps if I ask him to join the choir, he’ll go for it. That’ll make two men and then there’s old Colonel Templeton Brown. I’ve heard him in church but it’ll take more than three men to balance you women.’
‘Is Arthur still writing his memoirs? He must be over ninety now.’ Chloë smiled. ‘He was always full of war stories.’
‘And as fit as a butcher’s dog. He’s a military man through and through, but lonely since Caro died.’
‘We need youngsters like Mel. She’s trying to drum up some of the mothers,’ said Chloë.
‘We? Be careful, Chloë. This is Ariadne’s shout, her baby.’
‘But if it’s going to happen it’s got to be done properly, regular rehearsals, a balanced programme of old and new music and special outfits.’ Chloë could see the women in black dresses with bright scarves, red or green edged with tinsel, and the men in dinner jackets.
‘Darling, hold back. You know how you can take over…’
‘What do you mean? I’m only making suggestions. Look how Gareth Malone got all those communities singing.’
‘This is a one-off and we probably won’t be here for the concert. Have you heard from Alexa and Hugh?’
‘Not a word, but I’ll be with her in London at half-term for Christmas shopping. It’ll be good to get off the island. It’s like living in a bubble, such narrow lives some of them lead.’
‘Don’t be smug, Chloë. They’re here for a reason. They all have their stories.’
‘And when you try to get them to open up they clam shut, all running away from something, no doubt, or someone…’
‘Or running to this beautiful island. Don’t be judgemental,’ Simon said.
‘I’m not. How can you say such a thing?’ Chloë snapped. She was only remarking on what she had noticed. ‘Anyway, I just want to help get this thing off the ground..’
‘I’m sure you do—’
‘I don’t interfere. I only make suggestions to improve things.’ Chloë was on the defensive now. If something was worth doing it must be done well and she wasn’t sure that Ariadne and Hebe were capable of organising a choir professionally. ‘Do you think I should have a word with Ariadne before the first rehearsal?’
‘No, I don’t. And now let’s go in. I can hear mozzies in search of my blood. What’s for supper?’