Mel was humming ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ to herself as she prepared their evening meal. Word had gone round the expats about Dorinda’s defection. What a fuss about nothing. If they didn’t want to sing, so be it, she thought. Those who were left could make a decent stab at it. Sure, the oldies were a bit stiff, preferring traditional carols, but she was enjoying singing again and sensed her nerve coming back as a soloist. She was hanging out washing on the first dry day for a week when Ariadne appeared, looking worried.
‘I’m sorry for the debacle on Tuesday. I should have labelled the chairs, but what’s done is done. I just wish we could get a group feel to our concert,’ she said.
‘I know what you mean. We need to loosen up a bit and get a party atmosphere to some of the numbers.’
‘Mel, you just gave me a brilliant idea. Why don’t we have a bit of a do, a social, a glendi, as the Greeks call it, get everyone relaxing together, talking, mixing? Would Irini agree?’
‘Leave her to me. I could teach you some of those pub carols I told you about.’
‘Pub carols?’ Ariadne had forgotten this.
‘You know, I told you – around Sheffield they like to sing their own versions of carols to special tunes, with a pint around a pub fire. It happens every year. Get a few bevvies inside them and you’ll be surprised. We could put on village sausages and mash, with a fruit pie or two.’
‘Sounds delicious, thank you. It’s such a relief to have a young person’s view on things,’ Ariadne said.
‘Hang on, I’m not that young!’ Mel laughed ‘If we’re going to sing, we’ll do better if there is a sense that we’re united.’
‘My thoughts exactly, but what shall I do about Dorrie and company? I don’t want to cause offence. We’re such a small community.’
‘Forget about them and their small minds. Let’s make them green with envy at our success.’ Mel had no time for Dorinda Thorner. She was a first-class complainer, critical of everyone, a gossip – in fact a total sleazeball. Her cronies were not much better. They never dined at the taverna, preferring the smart Italian restaurant up the hill, Fabrizio’s, with its linen tablecloths and napkins. Irini and Spiro hadn’t had a good word to say about Fabrizio’s attempts at Greek cuisine. When he’d tried them on the menu, her spies had said they were neither one thing nor another.
‘Irini will be pleased to have the gathering.’ Once Ariadne had rushed off, Mel slipped into the kitchen to let her mother-in-law know they had a booking. ‘It’ll be a real knees-up.’
‘Then we must book Giorgos, the lyre player. I will do boureki and chicken souvlaki with lamb ribs.’
‘Would you mind if we cooked British? I was thinking more of village sausages, potato mash and gravy for a change,’ Mel suggested.
‘What do you mean “for a change”? This is a taverna, not a chip shop. They will have what I cook, or nothing.’
‘I was going to do it myself with a little help.’ Mel felt the first stirrings of an earthquake.
‘Who owns this restaurant? I am not in my grave yet. You will have to wait many years to get your hands on my kitchen, young lady.’ Irini’s voice thundered through the door and along the street. ‘It’s bad enough half the village being taken over by foreigners wanting their own dishes, turning their noses up at good Cretan cuisine. We are famous for our Mediterranean diet. We live long on baked vegetables, olive oil, oranges and lemons, and now my only nifi chooses to insult me. Maybe we are now a poor country with all the taxes… Look at this!’ She shoved a bill in Mel’s face.’ How can we pay it? No one has money for dining. No one takes their pickups from the plateia for lack of petrol, cigarettes. Everything costs, but your lot up the hill have money.’
‘But I didn’t mean—’ Mel interrupted her flow to no avail.
‘It was a bad day when my son brought a stranger into our family, a girl who can only cook chips.’ Irini was now erupting like lava overflowing.
Mel knew she had blundered. The direct approach had been a mistake. She should have slid the suggestion in sideways, so Irini felt she was making all the decisions herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could say.
When Spiro came home that evening, he arrived into a stand-off. There was an awkward silence in the house. Mel spilt out her side of the argument to him while Irini was simmering in the kitchen. The poor guy was stuck in the middle, like a UN peacekeeper ‘At least there are no plates smashed,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Mama has a point, Melodia. This is her business.’
She knew it was difficult for him to take sides when he wanted to please them both, but now she needed his support. She pulled him out into the street. ‘I only asked for village sausages, not a wedding feast. Honestly, I’m trapped between a rock and a hard place. I don’t want to cause offence – and I thought she’d be glad of the custom. Without the foreign friends, we’d have no business at all.’
‘It’s not that bad, is it?’ Spiro smiled, ruffling her hair.
Mel couldn’t resist his boyish charm but this time she poked his chest with frustration. ‘Have you seen the books? The cost of goods off the ferry, the tax we have to pay now. When did we last take a penny from the business?’
Spiro flung his head back and sat down pulling out his worry beads and twirling them round, trying to make his point. ‘But we live off our land, not the taverna. No one has much, these days. We have our health, our children, a roof over our heads. Not like some refugees.’
‘They come of their own wish. We did not invite them. It is none of our business.’ Irini had joined them, overhearing the argument, standing close to her son, who could do no wrong in her eyes.
So much for the Greek love of strangers, zenophilos, Mel thought, but said nothing. She stalked off. Sons and mothers, what could she do? ‘Will I ever be good enough?’ she said later to Spiro, as she stoked up the log fire. ‘Irini won’t let us hold a glendi here in British style.’
Spiro listened to her frustration. ‘You gave her grandsons. You are part of this family now. She misses Papa. Find another place for your party, the community hall or one of your choir members’ houses. Some of their villas can host a big party. Come here, don’t be upset. Mama is proud of our cuisine, that’s all. ’
‘I never thought I was offending her. I don’t understand. Why it is such a big deal?’ Mel sank down on their sofa, leaning on his chest. ‘Pubs in England are always hosting parties.’
‘This is Santaniki, not Sheffield. We do things in our own way.’
‘So I gather.’ Mel sighed. ‘I’ll see Ariadne and explain the idea is off.’
‘Not off, just needing another venue.’ He plonked himself beside her and kissed her. ‘Let Mama simmer for a little while. You never know, she may change her mind.’
‘Pigs might fly,’ Mel muttered to herself, but this storm at least was over.
‘What you say?’ Spiro looked puzzled.
‘Nothing. Just a storm in a teacup and it’ll pass.’ When would she ever understand the internal dynamics of this family?