The Gypsy's Dream (5 page)

On the way
back Mama had explained that the people were gypsies, people who like to keep moving, without a home. As Stella was trying to make sense of this Mama had told her that the man on the moped and the one with the baby in his arms were her great uncles and everyone else she had met that day was a cousin, or second cousin. That made her, Stella, a gypsy too. It had taken some time to understand that Mama was a gypsy, but Baba wasn’t, even though Mama had been born in the village. It was Stella’s grandmother who had settled there before Mama was born. Mama had never lived the travelling life.

Stella puts the clean plates on their edges, leaning against the sink side; the racks above are full. There is no more room, so she puts some of the drier ones on the glass s
helves behind her. The day is a warm one and they are drying quickly. At the height of summer they dry in seconds.

Then school had started for her, at six years old like everyone else, but not like everyone else. It had been clear later that Mama had taken
her to meet her relatives so she would understand her classmates’ reactions at school. If she hadn’t known she was a gypsy or what a gypsy was it would have been a confusing as well as a painful time.

Stella rinses the last of the dishes, gives the sink a
cursory wipe and turns to the glasses. They are piled on one of the glass shelves, stuck on ouzo rims. Stella hears the sound of one of the big black dozy bugs fly in but it doesn’t venture past the grill. Far away a cockerel is crowing; a car going past drowns its cries. A glance at the potato bucket tells her Abby is far too slow. Stella shakes her hands of the washing-up water and wipes them down her dress. She takes the knife from Abby and uses it to point to the glasses and the sink. Abby begins on the glasses under the permanently trickling hot tap.

Stella deftly peels half a dozen potatoes. The skins that fall in the box are thicker than the skins that Abby had pared but with the amount of potatoes that they need speed is more important.

School had not been fun.

She digs an eye out of the spud with savagery. The potato splits in half.

She felt alone and was bullied. She did discover that she was quicker than the other children of her age. It was a mixed-age class so she often spent her time with older children. This did not help the separation she felt from her peers. Eight years of trying to belong, hating who she was by birth, desperate to fit in, pushed away. Her fourteenth birthday could not come fast enough. With her educational obligations fulfilled she and her peers left the classroom confines. Their energies directed elsewhere, they all went about their work in the villages, son following father so no one went very far, and neither did the prejudice, and to some extent the meanness continued. So Stella stayed at home, stayed indoors, except when she went on her walks.

Filling the bowl again, from the hessian sack under the grill, reminds Stella she must order more potatoes. She shakes out the last dozen or so and sets about peeling them.

Then Stavros came into her life. She had been on a ramble up in the hills and he had just been there with his startling blue eyes, his broad shoulders, his flat stomach; he looked like an athlete. Stella remembers she gasped at the sight of him. He had been so polite and so considerate. They had talked and talked. Well, he had talked, Stella had listened. He knew so much, had seen so much. He was from a village all the way across the orange orchards on the other side of the plain. He had once visited Athens.

Af
ter their meeting he had come into the village to ask her Baba if he could take her out, and the entire village quickly heard. That had shut them up. The girls who used to look down on her now looked jealous. The boys who used to tease fell silent. Stavros was not only tall; he was broad across the shoulders. He delivered her from their prejudice, her heritage, and she loved him for it.

Stella lugs the bucket of spuds round to the front of the grill, next to which is a tiny deep-fat fryer and a square foot
of counter surface on which to cut the yellowing misshapes into chips.

‘
Have you talked to her yet?’ Stavros exhales smoke as he speaks. He stands half in and half out of the shop, his extended stomach a shelf for his hand as it rests between puffs, confident that Abby has no understanding of his Greek tongue.

‘
About what?’ Stella says, her mind confusing the Stavros she used to know with this overweight, sweating, out-of-shape man talking to her. His irises are still an intense blue but the whites are mostly red. His face looks flushed and his eyes bulge as if they are about to pop out of his head.

‘
Make her stay. I think she wants to know how much we will pay her as she did this.’ He rubs his thumbs and index finger pads together.

‘
Well, what are we going to pay her? We don’t have any extra.’

‘
Tell her it is a trial.’

‘
Where will she sleep?’ Stella asks as she finishes chopping. A child is walking with purpose towards the shop. She wipes her hand on some kitchen roll. She is not going to make this easy for Stavros. The boy comes in and orders two
giros
for himself and his granny, ‘who is looking after me for the day,’ he tells her. ‘We are going to feed the goats later.’

Stella oils two circular pita breads and puts them on the grill for a moment, the oil
sizzling, soaking into them. The meat on the spit turns automatically, all day, in front of a hot wire grid, cooking and turning, the aroma drifting into the street luring young and old alike. Stella takes a hot pita and puts it flat on her hand, a piece of greaseproof paper protecting her from the heat. She slices some meat off the spit and it falls onto the pita bread. She mounds on top some pre-made chips that are a little cold now, yoghurt and garlic sauce, some tomato slices, and asks if he would like onions. He nods his head enthusiastically. Stella piles raw onions on the mound and then with supple twists of her wrists she rolls the whole thing up and tucks the greaseproof paper in at one end to stop any drips and hands it to the boy.

The second
giro
is without onions as his granny cannot digest them. His little hands can hardly hold the two bulky rolls, open ends uppermost. He walks away smiling, eating a chip he picks out of the top with his teeth.

‘
She cannot be paid nothing and sleep on the floor. What exactly are we going to do with her?’ Stella asks.

‘
Why are you making this so difficult?’ Stavros’ face is going a livid red, and he throws his cigarette end into the street.

Stella knows that what he is really saying is,
‘You sort out the details’. But this is not her idea. ‘She is not sleeping on the sofa at our house, it wouldn’t be right. And we do need to pay her.’

‘
Today can be a trial, but if we make more than normal tomorrow then we will decide what to pay her.’ Stavros has no consideration for the girl. Stella is glad she stayed silent about Abby’s desperate situation.

‘
And if we don’t?’ Stella starts to mix some more lemon sauce for the chicken. She pauses to jot down a list on a napkin before she forgets: more tinfoil trays for the take-away, two dozen mini-ouzo bottles and another sack of potatoes.

Stavros does not reply but goes out into the sunshine and across to the kiosk for a paper.

Stella had done the sums over and over. At one time she had not even thought how much money they made in the
ouzeri
. When she needed to pay the butcher she took money from the till. But as time passed there seemed to be less and less money in the till and more and more unpaid bills. Stella began to wonder where the money went. Slowly she began to take notice, then she started to do the maths.

After they were married and had settled down with his parents in his home town, Stavros and his Baba would often get together to play cards. The mood was jolly. Stavros
’ Mama rustled up plates of food. With the shutters closed they would settle into a night of joking and fun. The men would laugh and Stavros’ mother would prepare coffees and chasers. Sometimes they would stay up so late Stella would go to bed and wake in the morning to find Stavros’ Mama asleep where she had sat the night before in one of the chairs.

Sometime Stavros would go out and play cards with his friends. Not often, but when he did he would not come home until very late and would be grumpy for several days, or elated, and his wallet would close or
open correspondingly. His Baba laughed and slapped him on the back either way. His Mama was given a handful of drachmas when he won.

His card-playing away from home increased as time passed and Stella continued not to conceive. She had had tests done. It w
asn’t her. Stavros had refused to believe it was him; it was too big a knock to his self-image. He said less and played more. His mama said it was God’s will and who are we to question what God decides? He would have his own reasons beyond our comprehension, He could see all.

Stella nips behind the grill to see how Abby is doing.

‘Alright?’ she asks. Abby starts. Stella wonders why she has her bag over her shoulders. It looks heavy and it cannot be easy to work like that. ‘Do you want to hang your bag here?’ She takes some coats that have been left for as long as she can remember off a peg on the wall at the grill end. Abby looks around for somewhere to dry her hands. Stella steps forwards and lifts the bag from over her head, being careful not to mess her hair or touch her wet hands.

‘
Thank you. Erm, can I ask what the pay is, please. I need to make plans to get to this job. I promised to be there …’ Abby blushes.

Stella takes a breath.
‘Today we try you. Tomorrow we pay you when we see how much more we make. OK?’ It doesn’t even sound ok to Stella. She feels her own cheeks grow hot.

‘
A trial?’ Abby asks.

The grill spits and hisses. Stella leaves Abby
’s question unanswered to attend to it. The tongs grip the chicken’s legs and the splayed bird flips awkwardly onto its back.

‘
Why are you making this so hard?’ Stavros hisses in Greek. He flicks his cigarette end into the gutter before entering the
ouzeri
.

Stella throws the spatula onto the counter and turns to face him.

‘Now what have I made difficult?’

‘
Vasso, she tells me she has already said the girl can sleep at her house.’

‘
We do not have money to pay Vasso for somewhere for the girl to sleep and the girl cannot pay because we are not paying her.’ Her hand on her hips.

‘
Well, it’s done, it’s agreed, tonight she sleeps at Vasso’s on trial. If she stays, she pays.’ He takes out another cigarette.

Stella sighs. It feels like they are dividing Abby up between them like a roasted goat. The poor girl should be on a boat to Saros, to a real job, a teenage
r’s job, a bar, life, young people, not stuck in this village to serve old farmers.

Stavros sits inside on one of the wooden chairs and puts his feet up on one of the tables to read his newspaper.

‘Abby.’ Stella goes behind the grill. ‘I must be true.’ She is sure that she is not using the right word in English, perhaps honest would be a better word, but she goes on. ‘We do not have the money to pay you to work. If tomorrow we make more money because the farmers like your pretty face then we can pay you. So it is a trial for us both. Vasso, that is the woman from the kiosk, she has a room for you. If you stay, after tonight, then you will agree a price to pay. This is all I can offer. I can offer no more. It is up to you.’

Abby finishes washing the glasses
and wipes her hands dry on some kitchen roll.

‘
I have been thinking. You have been very kind trying to arrange a job here for me. I am happy to work today to pay for my meal but I think that perhaps tomorrow it is best if I go and get a job in the town.’

‘
Yia
.’ A gruff goodbye comes from Stavros as he leaves the shop.

‘
He is going for a sleep, it is his habit at this time of day. You need a sleep?’

‘
I did earlier but I am past it now.’ Abby looks around the counter area. There is a picture of the old Greek King and Queen on the wall. ‘How long have you had this place?’

‘
Seven years, since my Baba died.’

‘
Baba?’

‘
Dad.’

‘
Oh, I am sorry.’ Abby looks at the ground. ‘Um, can I use the loo I am bursting?’

‘
No need to ask!’ Abby feels Stella watching as she takes the kitchen roll with her through to the presently empty café. When she returns Stella asks, ‘You like Greece?’ as she tidies the high counter.

‘
I have only been here, well, less than a day, but it’s amazing. The people are so different.’ Abby folds her arms and slouches to rest them on the counter top, still standing.

‘
Yes? Different how?’

‘
Oh, I don’t know ...’

Abby cannot quite articulate the differences she is feeling. Sure, Greece looks different and it
’s hotter. A donkey brays and Abby declares, laughing, that this is just another difference, there are few donkeys in England, and none in the towns. But it is more than that. The heat relaxes her, as it seems to relax everyone who lives here.

She lowers her head onto her arms and stares. The walls are g
reen in the counter area too, but in here they are streaked where condensation has run down them. She recalls standing at a bus stop near to her house, the rain streaming down the glass sides. Two of the people in the queue for the bus were people she knew: one was her next-door neighbour and the other the lady who used to feed their cat when they went away on holiday. But they didn’t speak to each other. It was not as if anyone was being rude, it was just that it was cold and wet. Abby remembers pulling up the collar of her coat and trying to dip her chin inside for warmth. The neighbour had put on a see-through plastic head covering that tied at her chin and everyone had pulled their shoulders up around their ears and tucked their arms into their sides to keep warm, hands deep in pockets. No one was going to expend energy or expose themselves to the chill wind just to have a conversation.

Here the sun has people lifting up their faces to feel the warmth, arms unstuck from their sides as they try to create t
he biggest surface area to cool themselves. There is no possibility of rushing in this temperature and, as things happen slowly, there is time to talk. She sees the people in the street demonstrating this all the time. The man who brought the bread this morning must have tarried for ten minutes or more talking to the lady from the kiosk. And the man who came out of the grim café at the top of the square to buy cigarettes from the kiosk seemed quite happy to wait, leaning on her counter, until she finished her chat and wandered with no hurry back to serve him. He had stayed and chatted with her a while as well. People are important here, more so than the jobs they do, it seems.

A restrictive weight is lifted from Abby with this thought. On reflection, she fin
ds herself smiling despite her circumstances and she experiences a strange confidence that everything will be fine.

Stella, if nothing else, is being honest. Maybe they do need her help and really cannot afford it. Maybe they don
’t need her help and are being kind. Either way, she wants to stay for the ‘trial’ day to thank them for their kindness, and besides, she has got a tasty chicken dinner out of it.

Standing up straight she eases the strain on her full stomach.

Tomorrow she will go into town, but for now she has landed well and truly on her feet.

She must ring Dad though, and let him know she is safe.
Stupid man.

Maybe she should take Modern Greek. Languages are always useful. Even Stella, a Greek village woman, speaks English.

The other thing about Greece, Abby ponders, watching Stella adding some numbers in the columns of what looks like a home-made accounts book, is that it feels very safe, even as a single female. She has been into London with friends before and there were some areas where she was not sure she felt safe. Pickpockets, maybe even muggers worried her. But here she feels she can leave her bag unattended, hanging on the hook at the end of the grill with all her belongings and her phone, and no one will touch it, she is sure.

So much fo
r England being the supposed civilised country. Half a laugh escapes her. Stella briefly looks up but her eyes are un-focused, she turns back to the ledger on the shelf behind the raised counter.

Abby leans against the door frame, the heat is making her fe
el sleepy. Her eyes close and she imagines what would have happened if she had turned up in some district of London miles away from where she was supposed to be. Abby doubts that anyone would care, let alone find her a job and a place to sleep. They would either just walk past her or, worse, someone might even try to take advantage of the situation. There is no way anyone would offer her somewhere to stay for the night. They would be fearful she was a psycho or, if they did offer a place to kip, they themselves might be the psycho. She would instantly be another homeless person, curled up in a shop doorway. But she cannot conjure up the feeling of cold, the sun is too strong, sweat runs down her temple. She opens her eyes and steps from the doorway into the shade.

‘
Greece is an amazing place,’ Abby concludes walking round to see what Stella is studying. She points to a number on the page. ‘Shouldn’t that be a three?’ Abby asks. Stella makes a sound of relief and quickly rubs out the eight, and pencils in a three.

‘
Are you missing your Baba?’ Stella continues, looking at the book.

Abby had forgotten about Dad again. He will have read her note by now and no doubt has been trying to ring her. What were they, two hours behind in England? If everything had gone t
o plan she would have been at her job on Saros where someone would have a phone charger and she would have been able to tell him where she was and how successful she had been in getting the job and getting there. She swallows.

She wonders what he would ha
ve had to say about that, if it had all gone to plan. She had been really looking forward to the shock of doing that. ‘Hi, Dad. I am in Greece working at a bar called the Malibu with Jackie. Earning money to put towards Uni.’ Now she will have to wait, and so will he. Well, it serves him right.

She has done so well with her GCSEs, she knows it. Why did he think she would not put the studying into her A levels? Actually, she does understand. The whole
“not working hard enough” thing was just a ploy. What he really meant to say was, ‘What was the point in her taking her A levels as no one could afford to send her to university?’ So she might just as well start working from sixteen and contribute to the household. Well, here she is, working at sixteen. But not for him. She will save enough to pay her own way through Uni. If she can make the tuition fees then a bar job while she is there will take care of the rest. Besides, there are always student loans.

‘
He has no faith in me.’ she blurts.

‘
Faith, like you are God?’ Stella looks up from the book with wide eyes.

‘
No, faith, like he does not believe I can do things.’ Abby steps towards the door before turning to lean against the counter again.

‘
Oh. My Baba used to say: “How can you know what you can do until you try?’ Stella shuts the book and puts it on the bottom shelf, out of sight.

‘
That’s what I said, that I should try, and if I can’t then I will give up.’ Abby decides she likes Stella.

‘
It’s the only way. You want a frappé?’ She lifts her own empty glass.

‘
What’s a frappé?’

‘
Coffee with ice.’

‘
Water’s fine, thanks.’

‘
What you want to do that he doesn’t believe and you haven’t tried yet?’ Stella spoons coffee granules and sugar into her glass.

‘
I want to go to university.’

‘
Ah, university. What a lovely idea. I would like to study something.’ Stella uses a little electric whisk on her coffee and sugar with the smallest amount of water. The mix turns brown and then cream-coloured and shiny. She turns off the whisk and adds water and evaporated milk.

Abby says,
‘Really! What would you study?’

‘
Business, I dream of owning an international business. Like the women in Hollywood films, who tell the men what to do and don’t need them.’ She laughs at her own joke and Abby joins in. She too would like to tell Dad what to do and not need him. Even without understanding the language she relates to Stella.

‘
Who is the man, is he your brother, your husband, what?’ Abby nods her head to the door, indicating the departed Stavros.

‘
Stavros, he is my husband. He saved me from a hard life, makes me belong.’

‘
Oh’ is all Abby can find to say. From what she has seen of him and the way he treats Stella the price seems a bit high for whatever it is he has done.

Stavros stamps up the couple of steps into the kafenio. He grunts a hello to the men he knows and clicks his fingers at the owner for his ‘usual’. Stella is just unbelievable. It is almost as if she wants things to get worse. His idea to get the tourist girl working there is just logical. Stella knows they need to pay things off, so they need to make more money. Something has to change. The first thing that should change is the way Stella behaves. The locals must be so heartily sick of her flirting ways; it’s amazing anyone comes in at all. The same old stuff over and over.

He
pictures Abby’s face, glad for a new mental image to look on. And it is a face that doesn’t show as many years as his wife’s. Doesn’t Stella realise how unseemly it is for someone of her age to carry on the way she does? She should take better care of herself. She should take better care of herself for him. She would be the first to complain if he wandered.

His coffee arrives and he grunts a thank you. Who is he trying to kid? His mind wandered after the first year of wedlock. He should never have married
her, stuck the rumours out; they would have stopped eventually. The young girl would have grown soon enough and then some local boy would have plucked her and he would have been forgotten.

He takes a sip of his coffee. The kafenio will close soon; the ow
ner, Theo, has a nap in the heat of the day. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows give Stavros a view of the whole square. There are very few people making their way anywhere at this time, which is a relief; he does not want to see any of the men he owes money to. He should have quit with the first debt. He can see now that trying to win enough to cover that debt somewhere else had been a mistake, as had the loan. But these things happen. It will sort itself out, just not today, and not any time soon unless Stella gets off her high horse and starts working with him, gets this foreign girl behind the counter. A young tourist in her little T-shirts and white shorts should bring plenty of locals in. For a while, anyway.