One Cretan Evening and Other Stories Read Free Page A

plate that was handed to her, even eating one of the minute baby birds, ambelopoulia , cruelly caught and killed on their maiden flight. She did not want to let Andreas down, but at the end of the meal, when glasses of fiery zivania had been swallowed and it was time to depart, she was exhausted from keeping up the pretence of enjoying herself. Kyria Markides gave her a cursory handshake as they left.
    The atmosphere in the car on the way down the hillside was tense. Claire felt that she had done her best but the iciness from Andreas’ mother had been worse than she had anticipated.
    ‘Why does she have to be like that? What is wrong with these Greek mothers? Why are they so possessive?’ The tension had been building in her since the moment they’d arrived and she could not contain her anger.
    Andreas did not answer and Claire was unable to make out his expression on this dark moonless night.
    A few minutes later she repeated her question.
    ‘Well? Why?’
    His silence only provided further provocation.
    ‘Your mother will never accept me,’ she said with resignation. ‘I’m an outsider here and I’ll never be anything else.’
    They were now driving into Nicosia. Claire glanced out of the window and noticed they were passing the same shop window she had seen this morning with its fake pine trees and falling snow.
    She also realised that he had now taken a turning that led away from her area of Nicosia but after a while he drew up.
    ‘There’s somewhere I want to take you,’ said Andreas.
    They walked, apart, down a street illuminated with festive decorations and in the far distance Claire could make out a Christmas tree. It was standing in the middle of the pavement, not illuminated with fairy lights but festooned with ribbons. As they got closer she saw that there was something stranger still. Instead of baubles, this tree was hung with photographs, black and white pictures, mostly of men, with words and a date underneath. 1974.
    ‘Look,’ said Andreas. The caption under the picture he was holding read: ‘Giorgos Markides’.
    The photograph was faded and had evidently been there for many years.
    ‘But why is his picture here?’
    ‘My father was one of the “disappeared”,’ explained Andreas. ‘Like fifteen hundred others, who vanished when Cyprus was invaded by Turkey, he has not been seen since. The pictures keep the memory of them alive.’
    Andreas had only just been born at the time and his mother had waited, and waited, expecting each day her husband’s return. Every day she had lit a candle in the church and prayed, meanwhile lavishing on her son all the love she had for Giorgos and much more.
    Claire touched Andreas’ arm, half-expecting him to draw away.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘No wonder she fears losing you. It makes perfect sense.’
    Andreas looked at her and smiled.
    ‘I think it will take a while for her to realise that you’re not going to take me away from here, that’s all,’ he said.
    They stood on the pavement contemplating this strange tree that was there not just for December but for every day of the year, and Claire’s urge to be in England left her entirely. This was where she wanted to be, far from frost and ice, with sweet balmy air around her and the sight of this pine without snow.

By the Fire
    T HE FIRE HAD been lit for many hours and now glowed luminously orange. From time to time a log let out a hiss and showers of sparks followed in a bright burst up into the chimney.
    It was New Year’s Eve. An hour from midnight. Amanda sat on the worn Persian rug in front of the fire, her legs curled up underneath her, cat-like. She was cracking the last of the remaining Christmas walnuts, carefully prising away sharp pieces of shell to extract tiny fragments of nut, then tossing the debris into the embers and watching them flare. Her cheeks were flushed with warmth.
    In a capacious armchair sat Richard, generous chintz cushions enveloping him like a nest. He