The November moon was high above Chloë’s house, and now that the olive harvest was in full swing, there was no time for choir rehearsals. Black nets were layered on the ground to catch the drupes and the two young Syrians, Youssef and Amir, were busy raking the branches until the green olives fell. They were then scooped into sacks, ready to go to the olive press in the old mill. It was a yearly tradition that involved all of Chloë’s friends.
Chloë couldn’t concentrate, though. Her mind was on that abortive visit to London and on the hurt she felt to be kept at arm’s length by her daughter. They had texted briefly, but when she’d rung Alexa’s apartment there was no answer. It was as if no one was willing to pick up.
‘What can I do?’ she complained to Simon, in the middle of the night, over yet another cup of camomile tea.
‘Just leave her to come to you when she’s ready. Don’t push any more. Alexa’s a big girl and very capable.’
‘It’s all very well for you to say that, but a mother knows when her child needs help.’
‘Alexa will find help when she’s ready. Go to sleep now, or you won’t be fit for harvesting.’
‘I’ll make a list of groceries for the harvest supper.’
‘You do that… and then try to relax.’ Simon turned onto his side.
The supper was a big thank-you to all the friends and locals who had helped them bring in the harvest. There would be bottles of olive oil for them all, in due course. Their olive groves were terraced up a hillside, blessed by sun and rain in turn. Chloë was hoping for a decent quality with an intensity of flavour and colour. Bread dipped in olive oil was a meal in itself, the very staff of life. With a ripe tomato the size of a tennis ball and a little feta cheese, who could ask for more? Tonight would be a feast.
Half of the choir would be coming, and Simon had invited the couple from the Bunker Much to his surprise Gary had come to their last rehearsal and helped with the harvesting, but not his wife. No doubt she would join in the celebrations.
It was always a relief when the olives had been gathered and pressed. It was a milestone on the way to Christmas, and who knew when the rains would come and spoil their outdoor living? The catering was mostly farmed out. Irini would send a great vat of bean stew and lamb ribs roasted in rosemary oil. Natalie was making galaktoboureko, a sort of Greek custard pie, and baklavas. There would be decent Cretan wine, as well as lemonade made from their own lemons.
Tired as they all were, this was a good evening – if only Chloë felt more cheerful. There was just time for a shower before she dressed up, as was the custom. The guests arrived promptly, appetites whetted by hard labour. The night was mild and citronella candles twinkled in glass vases along the trestle table, which was covered with a white cloth and decorated with the last of the garden flowers.
The Blunt sisters, as she called them, were always early, wearing their usual bright tops and linen trousers. Most of the men came in chinos and coloured shirts but there was a nip in the air so jumpers were at hand too. Natalie, dressed in her usual grey and black, slipped into the kitchen as Pippa and Duke arrived, bringing homemade raki. Phil and his partner Greg appeared with Della, who wore a wonderful ethnic caftan encrusted with beadwork. Last to arrive were Gary and Kelly Partridge.
What was there to say about her get-up? A low-cut skinny top showing cleavage, ripped white jeans, and all two sizes too tight. There was enough gold jewellery to set up a stall in a souk. Why did some expats wear so much gold? Greek key necklaces, jangly bracelets and gaudy rings, but worst of all were chains round thick ankles, and toenails in horrendous colours.
Chloë smiled, imagining her Home Counties mother sniffing with superiority: ‘Common as muck. In my day those anklets were worn by ladies of the night standing in the doorway after closing time.’ Styles changed, so she mustn’t be too snooty. Kelly just hadn’t the height or the figure to pull off the ensemble. ‘Stop it,’ she murmured, feeling sorry for the girl, who looked so tanned you could hardly see her features. She’d pay for that later. The Greek sun took no prisoners.
Chloë was more of a pearls girl. Pearls saw you through any occasion, from weddings to funerals. They were discreet and classy, but not good with sun cream and the conditions here. A young designer from Athens lived outside Agios Nikolaos and made exquisite little pieces, earrings, torques, using natural stones, polished and set in gold or silver. Tonight Chloë was wearing a rainbow necklace of stones linked by a gold chain over an asymmetric white linen tunic and matching trousers.
Out on the terrace, guests mingled, sitting down to enjoy their first taste of this season’s oil. Chloë insisted Natalie leave the kitchen to take an empty chair next to Clive Podmore. She reckoned two lonely people ought to be able to make conversation together. On the opposite side sat Arthur, the old colonel, invited every year to make sure he got a decent meal and some company. Chloë could listen to him for hours, just as she had done to her own father in his latter years. She was relieved to see everyone eating and drinking, chatting and enjoying themselves.
‘Hey, what are we singing next?’ chipped Duke to Ariadne. ‘Reckon we could do a rehearsal here and now. I’ve brought my guitar.’
‘Young man, I’ve not decided, but something nautical for St Nick’s Day, which isn’t far off. He’s the patron saint of the island.’’
‘And prostitutes…’ someone whispered.
Ariadne didn’t hear and continued, ‘“I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In”?’
‘“What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor”?’ Della shouted, now well into her cups.
‘“Sailing”… I love Rod Stewart.’ Kelly was equally inebriated and laughed.
‘It’s not a carol, love.’ Gary nudged his wife but she was in full flow.
‘Who wants to sing boring old carols? What about them songs from Sister Sledge or Boney M? Anything but dirges.’
The table pretended not to hear. Gary looked embarrassed. ‘Drink some water, Kelly.’
‘Some girls don’t know when to stop,’ remarked Dorinda Thorner, within Kelly’s hearing, and her husband, Norris, nodded in support.
‘Who’re you calling a drunk, you old bag?’ Kelly stood up and knocked into the table, sending wineglasses crashing onto the floor.
‘Now look what you’ve done. I’m taking you home.’ Gary pulled her away. ‘My apologies. I’ll replace the glasses.’
Chloë was quick to reassure him: ‘They’re from the pound shop in Chania, easy come easy go.’
‘How can such a nice young man get stuck with such a slut?’ Dorinda continued. Although Norris and Dorinda Thorner were stalwarts of the English chapel, they were a surly pair. Norris objected to Ariadne’s choir, saying Advent was a time for preparation, not singing. Carols should not be sung only before Christmas Day. His wife defied him, not wanting to miss out on anything going on in their community.
‘If you can’t say anything nice, then shut up,’ Della replied.
The atmosphere was turning hostile to the Thorners. Chloë shot up to smooth things over. ‘Simon and I are so grateful for all your help today, and to Youssef and Amir, without whom we would both be on crutches. So let’s toast them. Lift your glasses to Youssef and Amir Began. Epharisto poli, thank you both.’
The men were sitting politely at the top of the table drinking lemonade, while the guests stood to toast them. It was getting late and the oldies looked tired. Phil and Greg volunteered to escort the colonel home, Della offered to do some washing up and Natalie darted round collecting leftovers. ‘Do you mind if I put these in a box for the lady who rescues dogs?’ she asked.
‘I’ll help you,’ Clive offered. ‘Julie does a great job rescuing strays.’
That set off Dorinda again. ‘There are far too many flea-bitten dogs and cats on this island,’ she said, preparing to launch forth about lack of spaying and how puppies were dumped in the rubbish bins at the side of the road.
Chloë was in no mood for another of her rants. ‘Take what you want, Natalie. Dorrie, can you bring in the water jugs?’
When they had all gone, she sat surveying the empty table with Simon. ‘We could have done without Kelly and Dorrie.’ She sighed.
‘Poor Gary didn’t know where to put himself. All is not well in the Bunker,’ he mused.
‘Don’t ask me to do marriage guidance,’ Chloë said.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, but she’s not a happy bunny. Looks a bit lost to me.’
‘You always see the best in people.’ Chloë clutched his arm. ‘It’s getting cold, let’s go in. Katarina can clear the kitchen when she comes tomorrow. I’m past it.’
‘What’s a good party without a bust-up?’ Simon said. ‘If we’d been Greek, guns and knives would have been out by now.’
‘Thank goodness we British know how to behave.’ Chloë yawned.
‘Now there’s a loaded comment. We can be as bad as anyone else in the world when our boots are filled with Satan’s brew. Remember, I was once a good teetotal Methodist with parents in the Band of Hope. Drink was the ruin of many a man and woman.’
‘And now we’re singing in the chorale of chaos. Ariadne has her work cut out to make us a jolly band of Christmas cheer.’
‘Up the stairs, woman, before you fall asleep on your feet.’
Chloë kicked off her glittery sandals with relief, knowing everything could wait until tomorrow. She wished she could feel more enthusiastic about the choir, but it was Alexa who kept her tossing and turning all night.