The Gypsy's Dream Read Free

like a child, sucking her drink through a straw. She shields her eyes from the sun as Abby approaches.
    ‘English?’ Abby asks.
    ‘ No, I’m Greek.’ The woman smiles.
    ‘ Ah, you speak English. I am here for a job. The Malibu.’
    The woman stands, spilling her drink down the front of her short dress in the process.
    ‘What is this “The Malibu”?’ Her accent is strong, she speaks slowly, wiping her dress with her hand.
    Abby ’s hope dissolves. ‘A bar.’ Surely she must know it.
    ‘ Where this bar?’
    ‘ Here, Saros.’
    ‘ Here is no Saros.’
    Abby can feel her shoulders droop. Her bag slips off and onto the pavement.
    ‘Are we near Saros?’ She feels she knows the answer before she hears it.
    ‘ The Saros an island.’ The woman waves her arm, suggesting impossible distances.
    ‘ But the boat said Saros.’ Abby blinks the tears away. She cannot stop her lip quivering.
    The woman says kindly, ‘I am thinking it say Soros.’
    ‘ But the taxi driver! He must have known this was not Saros.’
    ‘ Did you ask him? What you say to him?’
    ‘ The Malibu bar. I was told the bar was in a neighbouring village to the port, and everyone knew it.’
    ‘ What else you have said to him?’
    ‘ Well, he looked like he didn’t understand so I said Yiannis’ bar.’
    ‘ Ahhh!’ The woman laughs and Abby feels herself relax a little, she seems to know of it. ‘There is the Yiannis bar.’ She points to the drab-looking kafenio on the square, where the metal-framed glass doors are now wide open and two old men, one with an impressive moustache, are playing an animated game of backgammon, slamming the pieces down, the noise echoing around the village. Abby puts her hand over her mouth and squeezes her nose in the crook of her thumb to stop herself crying. The woman continues, ‘But Yiannis dead. Son Theo now has bar. But not Malibu, never Malibu. This not Saros.’
    Abby sinks where she stands, next to her bag, and sits on the kerbside.
    Her shoulders are burning.
    Dad was right, she ha s overreacted. She wishes she was at home making his coffee, Rockie there to cuddle, for comfort and to be easily made happy with his marrowbone treats.

Chapter 2

    Lighter fuel sprays cross the charcoals. A single match roars the grill into life. It will b e hot in twenty minutes or so. The chickens are split and waiting, and a stack of thick sausages ready. By lunch-time the ouzeri will be full of farmers, stuffing down the food dripping in her lemon sauce, swilling it down with large measures of ouzo in glasses clinking with ice. Satisfied that another day has begun Stella mixes herself an iced coffee and strolls outside to watch the world go by. She’ll peel the potatoes later.
    It ’s early, but warm already.
    She settles into the plastic chair and sucks her f rappé through a straw. There aren’t many people about. A girl stands in the shade leaning on the telegraph pole, a tourist. You don’t see many of those here in the village. Shorts, sandals, strappy T-shirt, bag. Everything looks creased. Maybe English. Too blonde for English?
    Distant sounds of morning echo around the village. Closer, from just across the square comes the grating sound of plastic against concrete as Vasso struggles with a stack of beer crates. It must be hard for her all day in the kiosk wit h no one to swap shifts with now. Not that Vasso will complain that she is alone. Her son’s job in Athens is such a point of pride.
    Stella stretches out her legs even further, luxuriating in the sun ’s touch relaxing her muscles. Child’s legs, all skin and bone and no muscle. Stavros won’t be here for hours. She didn’t hear him come in last night but this morning the sickly sweet odour of sweated alcohol betrayed last night’s excesses. She sighs and closes her eyes, the sun turning the insides of her eyelids pink.
    When they first met he was an Adonis, with his charm, his flat stomach, his laugh. But mostly she likes to remember when he