Clive woke on St Lucy’s Day remembering their wedding all those years ago, but there was no time to be morbid. There were trestle tables to be raised for the Christmas charity bazaar in the marketplace and he had promised to give Simon a hand. Since the storm had abated, everyone was clearing up the mess in the streets, seeing to their flooded buildings and, as if to compensate, the day dawned like a summer morning with blue skies and warmth that meant the stalls could be set out in the plateia. It would be like a Christmas market, with decorated stalls and the smell of glühwein in the air.
The vicar was going to dress up as St Nicholas for the children, in a little tent, with Alison’s children as elves. Artists from the surrounding villages were bringing their crafts to sell. Proceeds from renting out stalls would help to raise funds for their refugee appeal.
There were so many creative residents across the island – wood turners, sculptors, artists, jewellery, while local people made cosmetics and salves from mountain herbs and honey. The few winter visitors who had survived the storm flocked around the square looking for Christmas presents and souvenirs. It was always a lively day and it helped Clive to forget when Lucy once had a stall selling framed pictures made from sand and shells. She had created seahorses, fish and landscapes from the things she scavenged along the shore. She’d also sold frames covered with tiny shells, which were very popular. Clive’s pathetic artistic attempts were not fit to sell, no matter what his art teacher said.
Chloë was preparing the photography stall, selling cards and framed landscapes, while Hebe drifted round, talking to friends. Taverna Irini was open for business, selling souvlaki on a grill. There was a bustle of chair stacking for the local band concert, cars arriving with boots full of crafts. I hope you’re watching, Lucy. It was your idea to set up this event all those years ago. Happy anniversary. Then he saw Natalie struggling with a tray of bakes and went to help. He had made no gestures in her direction since the night of the party. He was embarrassed that he had misread her interest, but that wouldn’t stop him being neighbourly.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t want to drop anything. The festive baklavas are straight from the oven.’ The delicious aroma was overwhelming.
‘I’ll have to buy one of your pasties before they’re snapped up,’ he said.
‘I’ll save you one,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it looking festive? Did you put all this together?’
‘Only with Simon, Phil and Greg’s help. Those two always come down and give us a hand,’ he added. It seemed natural to scatter the praise around.
‘Could you give Della a hand with the glühwein?’ she whispered. ‘Otherwise most of it will find its way down her throat and not into the cups… Sorry, I know that sounds mean.’
Clive chuckled, nodding. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep her sober. She’s so generous. When Lucy was ill, she came to do her feet and sat with her to give me a break. You don’t forget those kindnesses, do you?’
They stood together, staring out over the market. ‘Of course, it’s St Lucy’s Day,’ she said. ‘It must be hard.’
‘You get used to it,’ he replied, not looking at her. ‘You must know how it feels.’
‘My marriage was not like yours. It got complicated towards the end.’ She gave him a sideways glance. ‘I’m afraid it left a bad legacy.’
‘We’re all left with feelings hard to explain to others, regrets, missed opportunities.’ Clive didn’t want to pry. It was good she was sharing this with him.
‘You made Lucy happy… Rick and I…’ She paused. ‘For us it was different… Oh, look, there’s Father Christmas!’
Clive made his way to Della’s tent. There was a vat of decent village wine, scented with cloves and cinnamon, oranges floating on the top, a pile of plastic cups and a cashbox.
‘God! How I hate these Christmas jollies,’ Della muttered. ‘Christmas in Dingley Dell it is not. Why are we pretending we’re still in Yorkshire?’
‘Because it reminds us of home and church bazaars.’
‘I have no desire to remember my home in Hunslet, thank you very much. Our Christmases were a farce: the Sunday-school party, flicking jelly on the spoon with paper hats and crackers, Mum and Dad fighting. It was a bleak few days for us kids, and our only presents came from the Sally Army. They meant well, but there was never a toy I really wanted, a Cindy or a toy sewing-machine or a trip to the pantomime at the Grand. God, I sound like a miserable git. Sorry.’ Clive could see her cheeks reddening. ‘I need a drink…’
‘I’ll get you a coffee, then,’ Clive offered.
‘Thanks. It’s just this season. It’s not a good one for me, but we have to do our bit, or Ariadne will be cracking the whip. I wish I had her energy and she’s years older than me. Hebe’s not looking so good, though. She seems to have shrunk.’
Clive hadn’t noticed anything about Hebe, except that she dithered a lot more than before. Still, they were all getting on a bit. He made his way to Irini’s bar, where Mel was turning over the chicken souvlaki sticks. She shouted to her mother-in-law, ‘Greek coffee,’ then asked Clive, ‘Skieto, medrio or glyka?’
‘Not sure. It’s for Della.’
‘Definitely strong, then.’ Mel winked. ‘Or she’ll be capurtled by lunchtime, poor sod. She’s such a good Pilates teacher. I don’t know why she drinks so much.’
‘Perhaps she’s lonely,’ Clive offered, knowing how the whisky bottle tempted him on a bad day.
‘She’s never out of the bar and there’s plenty of Greek men who give her the eye. She ignores them. You don’t fancy her, do you? She needs sorting out.’
Clive was shocked. ‘Not my type.’ He laughed.
‘I know who is, though.’ Mel winked.
‘Cheeky beggar!’
‘That’s a Sheffield lass for you. Tells it how it is.’
Clive scuttled back to Della with the coffee, smiling. Whatever did Mel mean?