Arthur’s funeral was a village affair. The local veterans of the Cretan Resistance came out to honour him. The mayor and half of Santaniki stood outside the little Anglican church, saluting him, as they made their way slowly to the cemetery. Father Dennis gave a good eulogy, Simon read a lesson and they sang again his favourite ‘Silent Night’, with hardly a dry eye.
At the end of the ceremonies, they retired to Irini’s taverna for a spread of cakes and pastries, washed down with a case of champagne Gary had been saving for a future party. ‘I’m glad we didn’t go away for Christmas,’ he said. ‘We’d have missed all the drama.’
Ariadne was pleased that they were becoming part of the community. ‘Without you, we’d not have had a home to go back to. You’re a real asset to the village.’ She gave him a kiss. ‘I wish you both the best for the New Year.’
‘I’ve nearly got the complete memoir online for you to check,’ he said. ‘Miss Durrante was quite a goer, wasn’t she? What a life she lived, and so much of it here on the island. I’m sure the book will sell well. How’s the appeal doing so far?’
‘Not enough to buy a property, but enough to rent somewhere,’ Ariadne said.
It was at this point that the vicar slipped in to join them. ‘Ariadne, I have something to show you. Please excuse us, Gary. I just need a word in private.’
Ariadne stepped out onto the covered veranda. The snow was melting fast, but it was still cold. Father Dennis pulled out an envelope. ‘Read this,’ he said.
Ariadne recognised Arthur’s spidery handwriting.
Dear Dennis,
I am writing to inform you that I have notified my attorney in Crete and given them a copy of my will, just in case the good Lord calls me home sometime soon. It can’t be a long wait.
As I have no family, there will be no dispute about its contents: a donation to Help the Heroes and something for Maria. I have been aware of the Christmas appeal to raise funds to shelter homeless families and refugees, so it seems sensible for me to donate my house here on Santaniki for just such a worthy cause. I have known what it is like to have no roof over my head, to be at the mercy of cruel elements and beholden to others for refuge. It must be at the disposal of the village council to use as they see fit, not as a holiday rental but to house any family in need.
I would like the first tenants to be our own local refugees, Mr Began and his charming wife, Sammia.
‘The dear, dear man! How generous, and how typical of him.’ Ariadne was choked by this welcome news.
News had spread quickly of the Christmas baby’s arrival, and gifts arrived daily for the family. Kelly had made little cardigans and caps. There were toys, blankets and offers of a crib and buggy. His birth was bringing people together, but Arthur’s gift was beyond anyone’s expectation.
Ariadne now observed the Thorners, recently returned from England, having missed the wonder of their concert, the drama of a white Christmas and the coming together of so much love. She sensed them standing on the sidelines, not knowing what to say.
She could forgive their ignorant prejudice against her and Hebe. Every village had its oddballs, dissidents with cold hearts. She felt sorry for them, missing all the fun, not having been part of their little choir. Singing together was such a leveller. The choir was a team built by practice and the love of music. Singing was good for the soul. Together they were bigger than the sum of their parts.