Mel stood on the roadside, watching the procession of schoolchildren waving their blue and white flags and dressed in the national colours. It was a bit of a raggle-taggle affair for Oxi Day: the celebration of the Greek Prime Minister Metaxas’s refusal in 1940 to kowtow to the demands of Benito Mussolini and the outbreak of war on the mainland. Today in Greece it seemed more like a day of protest marches against the government, taxes and the general discontent that filled the newspapers, but in the village elderly veterans and the council still considered it a proud affair. She watched Yannis, the mayor, and members of the council marching proudly.
Irini turned her back on the parade. ‘What is there to celebrate?’ she said.
Mel was missing Spiro. He had valuable building work on the mainland, but it meant three weeks without him – three weeks with only the boys and Irini for company. At least Sammia was a breath of fresh air as she chatted away about little Karim’s antics and Maryam. Soon it would be All Saints Day, when they must picnic at the tomb of the Papadakis family and pay their respects to all the other relatives interred there. Shortage of space meant every so often relatives’ bones were removed to the ossuary, to make way for the next generation.
Mel was glad that her own mother lay undisturbed in a peaceful churchyard outside Sheffield. She missed Italian-born Maria, who had come to England as a post-war bride and borne her husband nine children. By the time it came to Mel’s arrival, Maria was worn out and nearly fifty. They had also run out of names, so she’d got the daft one: Melody, not Melanie, as most of her friends thought.
Antonio, Paula, Dino, Rosaria, Teresa, Graham, Fred, Julia and then Melody. What a line-up for mass each Sunday. There was little money but love in abundance. A good convent-school education had given Mel a love of learning and music, but it was from Maria that she’d got her voice. Singing opened doors to a university scholarship, but leaving home was agony. She had refused further voice training.
Now she was creating a family of her own. The boys were her joy and she spoilt them rotten. She and Spiro were sticking to two for the moment. She wanted the best for them. Mel’s mother used to say a granny should keep her mouth shut and her purse open, but Irini liked to interfere, especially over bedtime.
When Mel was little she’d gone to bed at eight o’clock and stayed there. Here, children went out to eat or visit, often until ten o’clock at night. School was early because of the heat, but Mel wanted them upstairs by eight so she could have some time out of the taverna with Spiro. That was not the Greek way.
As she swept away last night’s cigarette stubs and crumbs, the last thing on her mind was tomorrow’s rehearsal, so when she saw Ariadne striding towards her, there was nowhere to duck. Was Ariadne going to tell her off for being late? She reminded Mel of Sister Mary Luke, who had taken them for hockey in her size-nine boots: kindly but quick to check any rebels in the ranks.
‘Kalimera, Mel.’ Ariadne smiled. ‘Can I have a word?
‘If it’s about last week… Afternoons aren’t easy.’ Mel was quick to reply.
‘Not at all – we’re lucky to have you. I could hear you singing. You’ve had training.’
Mel blushed. ‘Just a little from the nuns, nothing professional,’ she lied.
‘Never mind that… I want you to do some solo pieces. You’ll be a great asset to our sopranos. I’m afraid some of them are getting to the squeaky stage and will screech the higher notes. I have a few ideas for solo verses, nothing fancy, unless you’d like to sing something special for us?’
Mel was not up to confessing about all the concerts she’d performed in, or her fear of solos – her voice had sometimes let her down. ‘I’m not sure I’m up to anything fancy.’
‘Did you sing much in choirs?’
‘I enjoyed singing around Sheffield and the pubs, where they have their own versions of carols. I love Kate Rusby’s music. I might try to cover one of hers, if you like, but they’re not the usual carols.’
‘We need a variety to please all tastes perhaps even “White Christmas”.’
‘If only…’ Mel smiled. ‘I can’t get used to a Christmas Day where you sit on a beach having a barbecue. There’s been no snow here for years. I do miss a good northern winter with ice and snowflakes, but I don’t miss the rain.’
‘Melodia,’ a voice shouted from the kitchen. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’ll have to go. I’m fine singing in the group, but I’m out of practice, these days. Thanks for asking me, but I can’t promise to come to every rehearsal.’
‘Come when you can. I can always give you the schedule and sheet music.’ With that, Ariadne marched on up to the old colonel’s house with what looked like cooked sausages and mash on a plate. ‘Yassou!’
It was a pity so few of the expats spoke Greek, but it was not an easy language to master. Mel did her bit, giving lessons to those willing to try. Some lived in a kind of bubble of Britishness, complaining about the old country yet clinging to a sort of parody of English country living. Sometimes she felt she was caught between two worlds, Greece and Yorkshire. You can take the girl out of God’s own county, she mused, but you can’t take Yorkshire out of the girl.
‘Melodia!’ Irini was shrieking like a banshee, in a deep-throated accent.
‘Coming,’ Mel yelled, through gritted teeth. She knew Ariadne’s offer was kindly meant. At least she didn’t look on her as a dogsbody. Mel would love to sing solo again, but how would she find the time or the space to try pieces out?