Ariadne woke early to make her annual pilgrimage up the rocky path to Agios Nicolaos chapel to light a candle for Elodie Durrante’s birthday. She left Hebe snoring in bed, exhausted by last night’s gathering. Now Ariadne needed time to sit and think.
The old chapel smelt of damp walls, candle wax and incense. There were the usual tamata – silver plaques of feet, faces, arms hanging before the icons in gratitude for some miracle of healing or in pleas for recovery. The frescos were still bright in the semi-darkness, Our Lord always placed in the centre, with his mother and Nikolaos on either side, as depicted in a Cretan-style icon.
Kelly Partridge’s drunken jibes had hit home. Was she being unrealistic? Would her choir come together in harmony or just make a series of amateurish attempts to stay in tune and time? Then there was Norris Thorner, denouncing any carol singing before Christmas Day. He disapproved of Father Dennis joining in, but Dorinda was coming though. She liked to have her voice heard.
The last rehearsal had been promising, but time was running out for learning new stuff. Better to keep things simple.
Young Gary had a good tenor voice and seemed pleased to be in the group. Simon was keeping him company. It must be hard living with a discontented woman, who had everything and yet nothing. She thought of how Hebe and she muddled along financially and yet were happy with their own company, even though Hebe was always tired, these days, and not so steady on their walks.
They had first met at a boarding school nearly forty years ago. Hebe had taught classics and sport, while Ariadne was head of English, with music thrown in. Both had Greek first names, which amused them, and loved music. Their friendship gradually evolved into a deepening love for each other. Ariadne’s father was glad she had found a soulmate. He saw nothing wrong in their relationship, but Hebe’s parents wanted nothing to do with Ariadne, threatening to inform the governors that this unholy alliance was a bad example to vulnerable girls. Ariadne had had no choice but to give in her notice and move elsewhere.
Now they shared a small house. People in the street assumed they were relatives and only the postman knew otherwise. Theirs was a loving relationship, as good as any marriage, she thought. Now all these things were possible, civil partnerships, marriage, with provision for pensions. Ariadne had made sure Hebe was included in her will and Hebe had done the same so their futures would be secure. They were happy to stay as they were, without signalling their special relationship to all and sundry.
Yet Hebe’s mind was wandering again. There was always a niggle at the back of Ariadne’s that Hebe was not herself but she did love the choir and she could accompany the singing flawlessly. It was worth all the effort to see her smiling and joining in.
Once this day was honoured and little prayers of gratitude offered, it was time to head down to Elodie’s retreat house to collect clothes from her neighbours for the refugees appeal. Alison and Peter, the young couple who managed the house, were both in the choir and offered some baby clothes. It seemed appropriate to visit them on Elodie’s birthday. Without the author’s help and generosity, Ariadne and Hebe would never have settled so well, and Elodie’s presence still seemed to permeate the house. A large oil painting of her hung in the entrance hall. She looked every inch the matriarch with a chest full of pearl ropes, alert, critical and imperious, a latter-day Queen Mary.
There had been a few men in her life who had come and gone, no doubt inspiring those daring intimate scenes of sexual variety. Years ago they had been shocking, if always relevant to the developing story. Now they must seem quite tame. Elodie had known how things stood between Hebe and Ariadne, but she was cosmopolitan enough not to care. They provided inspiration for her writing.
Ariadne loved Elodie’s studio, set in the garden, surrounded by roses, white jasmine and plumbago, red, white and blue. It still held a tang of tobacco, and Elodie’s favourite heavy Guerlain perfume clung to its walls even after all these years. There was a desk piled with pens, for everything had been handwritten, an old Imperial typewriter, a clutter of notebooks, and photos in silver frames. There were red and black Cretan rugs on the floor and a large office chair for her generous rump. Elodie used to laugh about her derrière: ‘Writers’ bums are prone to expanding into soup bowls not teacups,’ she would say.
Ariadne could see her now, sitting there, smoking, trying to figure out her next idea. A shelf of first editions lined the wall and there was a hint of damp that worried her. The room needed regular airing and heating in the winter, or everything would become foxed, perhaps even worse. Now Elodie’s house was filled with artists and craftspeople. The kitchen had a communal dining area, and the large cypress-beamed drawing room was a comfortable place for discussions and readings. Peter and Alison were there on a year’s contract. Their children were in the village school, alongside Mel’s boys. They lived in the service apartment with its own courtyard and pool.
All of this was a far cry from Elodie’s humble origins as Gladys Pickvance from Ashton-under-Lyne, the daughter of mill workers, but with a canny knack of telling stories to anyone who would listen. Those yarns had turned into paid clips in magazines and the rest was history. Of her pen name she’d said that ‘Elodie’ had come from a gravestone, and the surname from the music-hall artist, Jimmy “The Schnoz” Durante, whom her parents loved. How she raised herself from such circumstances was a mystery, but pictures of her in youth showed a startling woman, with a figure that would have attracted attention.
Her success was due to her dedication to writing and to her performance as a diva on stage when being interviewed. Gladys had ceased to exist, and in her place came Elodie, with no family ties, no children. Books were her children. Stories were set in exotic locations full of drama, romance and dazzling heroes. Her life was her writing and the occasional man, who lightened her life until the next book was due.
Elodie exuded glamour and in her latter years nothing was stinted. She invited guests from the literary world for holidays. Ariadne once glimpsed a very good-looking man, who, the old colonel whispered, was Patrick Leigh Fermor, responsible for the capture of the German commander of forces in Crete during the war. He had once walked from France to Constantinople as a boy and had written travelogues in wonderful prose. They read all his books but never saw him again.
How she furnished a home in the grand style was the talk of the village, as donkeys laden with antiques climbed the hill out of town. Most of the valuable items had now been auctioned to equip the Foundation Trust, although Elodie seemed still to hover over all of the proceedings. A pool and an outside bar beside canopied loungers gave guests a luxurious rest after a hard day’s creation.
Alison and Peter were sorting out materials for a workshop for the local children. ‘We’re making little boats for St Nicholas’s Day and some for the Christmas decorations. It’s the custom to place them on the table in honour of the saint.’ They were just simple shapes to be painted in the blue and white Greek colours but Alison was experimenting with some wall hangings, stencilling boats onto fabric.
It cheered Ariadne to know that young families were carrying on local traditions. ‘Can you make some Christmassy bits to sell at the charity bazaar?’ She was impressed by what she was seeing. ‘Good luck. Will you be coming to choir tomorrow?’
Pete smiled. ‘One of us will be there but the other will have to look after Katie and Archie. Afternoons aren’t brilliant for childcare.’
‘I know, but everyone seems to be so busy in the evenings, what with bridge, drama group, Greek lessons and entertaining,’ she explained. ‘I do need your young voices to give us some zing.’
It was like herding sheep, trying to get everyone in one place at the same time, but she had learned another trick from watching Gareth Malone. Perhaps it was time to split them up, let them rehearse in their own homes. Now it was getting dark early and chillier in the olive garden she would book the community centre to claim the date for their St Nick’s concert and the Christmas carol service. The Anglican church was only the size of a large garage, and with Norris on the warpath, she didn’t want to land the vicar, Father Dennis, with a dilemma. So much to do and so little time left, but she was more determined than ever to make this event a night to remember.