Gary stared in disbelief at the mess. Spiro Papadakis was already hard at work shovelling debris into a skip. Half of the village came to stare at the damage so Spiro asked them to give a hand while he, Simon, Clive and Youssef cleared away the remains of Ariadne’s kitchen. There were broken windows and smoke stains halfway up the stairs. The structure was sound, but the olive garden was strewn with rubbish and the smell of burning hung in the air. It would all have to go to the landfill site, as there was no collection from the mainland. Poor ladies, and just before Christmas, thought Gary, as he helped load a truck to carry away the white goods.
‘How can I thank you all?’ Ariadne said. ‘And how will we get this straight for Christmas?’
‘You won’t,’ said Mel, putting down mugs of strong coffee and a box of homemade biscuits to keep the troops fed and watered. They were sifting through what could be salvaged. ‘Nothing will be delivered in time, but thank God it’s stayed dry enough to board everything up. Spiro is gathering the locals into shifts and the Began boys are here to help.’
Gary had forgotten there was a group of refugees in town. He saw the women sometimes, with a little boy, walking back from the shops. They looked so thin and weary, but at least the child was settling. Youssef was a hard worker and came with Andreas, the mayor’s younger son, to drain and clean Gary’s pool when needed. He was polite, with good English, and seemed grateful for any work that came his way.
Someone said Youseff was once an accountant in Damascus but had fled after the troubles there erupted. There was a dignity about him that made Gary feel like a lazy slob, living off cash he had never earned. How different were their fortunes in life. He wondered where the group were living and if the locals resented their presence. Life was hard enough in this recession. Perhaps he would find some extra work for them, tidying up the garden for winter.
Kelly was a little brighter. The reflexology sessions seem to have lifted her bitter mood. She was making preparations for their Christmas, but without the usual London guests, it would be a quiet affair. There would be nothing to distract him from the heaviness he felt inside. If a Catholic priest was available he might find relief in confession. Gary couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he was a lazy fraud. They were too young to be retired, sitting around waiting for the English papers to arrive. There wasn’t even a golf course, just a little choir of oldies, who had all achieved success in their lives, earning a decent life out here. What had he done, except win a huge lottery pay-out? They were living every working man’s dream with everything money could buy, but the only thing they truly hoped for was a family.
If truth were told, he was bored, not with Santaniki or his newly made friends, but bored with having nothing useful to do. If only he could find a cause, a purpose here that might assuage the feeling that his life was over. Was this his punishment for cheating Gran?
There, he had said it, named the cause of his guilt, but even as it raised itself, he pushed it down again. Not now, not here. It can wait.
‘Gary!’ Spiro yelled. ‘Ela! Come and help me.’
At least he was raising a sweat as he lifted the kitchen fittings out of the house. He stared around the burnt-out kitchen with dismay. The two old ducks would be hard-pressed to replace it. He wished there was a way to help them find replacements, or at least make good the rest of the house. It was then that an idea struck him and he smiled to himself. Garfield Partridge, you’re a genius. Perhaps you have your uses after all.