One Cretan Evening and Other Stories Read Free

competing sounds of a dozen different TV stations. Some evenings, driven demented by the relentless cacophony of blaring music and voices, she would shut the windows and, though the heat was stifling, at least she could then enjoy the silence.
    It was not the ex-pat life that her friends envisaged, of late nights and parties and daily visits to the beach, but she was strangely contented. She and Andreas saw each other at weekends and for now that had to suffice.
    That December day, she was standing outside the Christmas shop waiting for Andreas to pick her up. He was finally to take her for the much-anticipated visit to her prospective in-laws. In-law, to be precise. And she was nervous. Such an introduction carried more significance here than it would in Yorkshire.
    ‘I know she’ll like you,’ said Andreas attempting to reassure her. ‘But don’t be put off if she seems a bit unfriendly.’
    ‘Why should she be?’ asked Claire, with faux naivety, knowing already the reputation of Greek mothers.
    ‘It’s just the language barrier,’ he answered. ‘She won’t really be able to talk to you, that’s all.’
    As they drove up into the hills above Nicosia, they could see the faraway spaces of the part of the island occupied by Turkey. The division of the country was rarely mentioned by Andreas but, with the clear view of a Turkish flag provocatively carved into the hillside, Claire was reminded of this uneasy separation. Soon they reached his village and the streets narrowed. The buildings were warmly characterful and most of them had been home to several generations of the same family. Several of them seemed to be held up by thick boughs of bougainvillea and vine that were now inseparably entwined.
    ‘Look,’ he said, as they passed a blue door. ‘There it is.’
    An elderly woman, slim, with birdlike features, appeared at the entrance of one of the larger houses. She looked frail enough to be blown over in a breeze. Her arms were folded and her face expressionless. Until she caught a glimpse of her son. And then it was as though the sun had emerged from a rain cloud.
    Andreas parked his car in a dusty space at the top of thehill and they strolled back down towards his home. His mother waited on the doorstep, her smiling eyes now fixed on her son. Although she was as thin as a stick, Kyria Markides had the strength to embrace her son with bone-crushing warmth and effusive cries of ‘ Angele mou! My angel! Matia mou! My eyes!’ and all the while she looked over his shoulder at Claire and fixed her with a steely glare. In spite of the warmth of the day the young woman almost felt her heart freeze.
    They went inside the house and gradually her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. They sat awkwardly at the table for some time as the elderly creature in widow’s weeds bustled about in the kitchen. Claire looked around her. The walls were covered in the same icons that she had seen in other Cypriot houses, but in addition there were perhaps thirty photographs. Some of them were wedding pictures but most of them were formal portraits of the same man, handsome, moustachioed, proudly wearing army uniform.
    ‘Your father?’ enquired Claire.
    ‘Yes,’ Andreas replied.
    ‘You look quite a lot like him . . .’
    ‘That’s what my mother always says. Sadly, I don’t remember him.’
    Claire had known that Andreas had no siblings. She also now saw how much this only child was doted on and adored by his mother. She suddenly felt the awkwardness of being here. It was not just the nostalgia for home, a place where even if it did not snow on Christmas Day, the likelihood of frost was strong. It was also the sense of being an outsider, particularly here, in this house.
    She sat quietly through the meal. A few other relatives hadjoined them: cousins and their children, three aunts and two very aged uncles. Claire smiled when she was spoken to, though she did not have a clue what was being said, and took a little from every