Sammia Began was feeling restless. It was the farmer’s wife, Toula, who suggested she might try the taverna for work. ‘Melodia is British. She would be glad to help you with conversation, in return for some light cleaning. Shall I talk to Irini?’
‘I’m not sure. I must speak first with Youssef,’ she replied, knowing that, with a baby on the way, they would need to buy a buggy and clothes.
That was how she’d come to be working in the kitchen of the taverna with the British wife. Maryam was not happy to be left alone all day, but two women in their small living room was never easy. There was plenty of fruit-gathering she could do, when she took Karim for his daily walk in the hills, and it would need preserving too. There was a little nursery he might attend for a small fee. He should mix with other children and learn Greek. As there were apparently no other Muslim women on the island, Maryam also needed to improve her English.
Sammia was a little afraid of the mother-in-law, Irini. She might be small and tubby, with fierce dark eyes, but she missed nothing, eyeing her at first with suspicion and barking orders, just as Mama Began had done to her daughters-in-law.
Some mornings, at the end of her shift, Melodia would bring out a plastic box of cheese pies filled with creamy mizithra and mint.
‘I can’t.’ Sammia hesitated. ‘You mean kindly but…’
‘No buts. We bake each day fresh and I don’t like waste.’ Melodia shoved the box into her hand. ‘I’m sure you can find a use for them.’
Sammia had a penchant for gooey sweet things and longed to sink her teeth into the syrupy delights. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t show them to Irini. This is between me and you. You need fattening up for the baby. Has Youssef got work? Spiro has, when there’s a big job on the go.’
‘Youssef was an office man but he will turn his hand to anything. He is busy cleaning pools at the moment and chopping wood for the winter stoves.’ It was strange making a living from their hands not their heads, standing instead of sitting.
Sammia returned, weary but grateful, to earn a little for the things they needed: a thick rug for the earthen floor, lacy curtains for the windows, and a large tub in which to strip-wash rather than relying on dips in the sea. There was a small rent to pay and bills for food. It was a hand-to-mouth existence but they were surviving.
Talking in English to Melodia made her feel on level ground. The young woman had promised to help her with understanding the Greek alphabet and basic Greek phrases. The more she saw of her, the more she felt she was becoming a friend.
In Damascus they had had many European colleagues who came to supper. The Begans were not strict observers of their faith, but more cosmopolitan in their beliefs. On Santaniki she might look like a peasant living on subsistence, but talking in English lifted her spirits. Living in exile, being beholden to others wasn’t easy, but Sammia knew her parents would have been proud that they had survived and found a purpose, however humble. From now on the only way was up.