The Priest's Well (The Greek Village Collection Book 12) (7 page)

The car drives well. It has such power, he can be in Saros in less than five minutes if needed. After his emotional moment in the church, he jumped behind the wheel and, once out of the village, his foot was heavy on the accelerator, topping a hundred kilometres an hour on the straight sections with no effort. The smell of the new leather lifted his senses, the plastic dashboard adding to the aroma. By the time he arrived in Saros, pulling up outside the first café he came to, he felt almost like his old self again. The coffee was good and his freshly baked croissant tingled the hairs in his nose. The second croissant satiated his hunger and the third, which was filled with chocolate, was a delightful indulgence. Sitting there, wiping crumbs from his thin beard, looking out across the sparkling blue sea where a small fishing boat putters out of the harbour, it occurs to him that he just isn’t a country person. Now that he is in town, his soul feels soothed, his senses satiated. In the village, there is nothing to distract him: no shop windows, no cafés worth sitting in, no men in suits, women in their finery. His village work isn’t life, it is just existence. He might think again about asking the bishop to reposition him.

With a certain reluctance, he drives slowly back to the village. He is somewhat revived by his brief sojourn in the town but the whitewashed cottages and neatly flowered gardens close in on him as he draws into the village. Looking up to the clear blue sky, he blocks out as much as he can of the rural scene, keeping one eye on the road ahead, and pulls up beside the church. Opening the door of his new car lets the new smell escape and the heat enter. The days are becoming hotter and hotter now. The cicadas have started their relentless mating call and he has ordered a catalogue of vestments. He needs to buy a cassock for the summer; otherwise, he will die from this heat. Unlocking the door to his little cottage, it occurs to him that he could even demand an air conditioning unit for the place. It is totally unreasonable not to have one. The thought of this concession to civilisation cheers him a little.

The catalogue has arrived and the postman, Costas, who does come to his services, has pushed it under the door. Perhaps he will get a silk cassock. They say silk is warm in the winter and cool in the summer.

With the door closed behind him, it is not unpleasant to be back in his cottage. To a degree, he has grown accustomed to the space. Although outside home, the village is very parochial, once he is inside his little house, everything seems less pressing. One thing the village has taught him so far is that there is no rush. Life continues. That attitude of the villagers seems to have got into his bones.

His phone rings.

‘Savvas, did the car arrive safely?’

‘
Kalimera
, Bishop. Yes, it is fine. Is it hot where you are?’

‘Oh my, yes. The summer is upon us, I fear.’

‘You have air conditioning, I take it?’

‘Oh, yes indeed. Of course.’

‘Then you are a lucky man, Bishop!’

‘Ah, I see. You have not, I take it?’

Savvas does not answer this.

‘Are you still there?’ the bishop asks.

‘Just mopping my brow, Bishop.’

‘Very well, I will see what I can do, but expenses are not what we want right now, Savvas my friend.’ The bishop clears his throat. ‘This new government, I think they have it in for us! They want us, the church I mean, to pay our own way! Pay priests and bishops ourselves, from church funds. I think they forget how much the church did for this country when we were occupied by the Turks!’

Savvas takes the phone through to the bedroom and sits down at the bureau, where he can look out into the olive grove through the window. He did not shut the casement last night, nor the shutters, and the sounds of goat bells coming through the trees had soothed him to sleep and later, in the small hours of the morning when he woke from a dream in which Nefeli preached a sermon with Maria’s voice, the gentle rustle of the olive leaves against each other caressed him back to his slumbers.

‘If that comes to pass, then each church will need a big windfall from somewhere.’ The bishop speaks with enthusiasm. ‘They are also rumours that we may have to pay taxes. We must keep our wits about us. By the way, I do not recall how much you raised for the insulation of your church in America?’

A-ha! Now it becomes clear why the bishop has called. Maybe the church is more cunning than he thought and this is the reason he was brought over to Greece in the first place. This is his strength; he is good at raising money. With a long, drawn-out expiration of air, he feels like he has suddenly come home. He is in his comfort zone, as the world at large expresses these things.

But the bishop does not wait for a reply and Savvas feels very certain that the bishop knows exactly the amount, probably to the last cent.

‘Although,’ the old man continues, ‘I have to say I am not personally bothered as I will retire soon, which of course leaves this bishopric open for a good man to come up.’ There is no subtlety in what he is inferring. Savvas estimates a bishop’s wage and envisages the colourful embroidered vestments on his own person. Within this brief dream also comes the big house as his home and Nefeli in her white apron, tending his domestic needs.

The bishop has chosen the right man. Savvas doubts that there is another priest in all of Greece who is as sharp as him when it comes to funding. The bishopric is his for the taking. All he needs to do is a little work here and there. His first task will be to acquire the grand house for the church. He jots down a note to himself to call Babis the village lawyer.

‘I hear you, Bishop.’

‘Good man, good man. And I will see what I can do about authorising a small air conditioning unit.’

Savvas mutters his response, suddenly distracted by a thought he is amazed he has not had before. Doesn’t that man who was praying so earnestly in church last Sunday own an electrical shop in Saros? Perhaps he needs some spiritual guidance, someone to pray with him, ease his concerns. But he will not tell the bishop this until it is done. Getting this man to install air conditioning at no cost to the church will be the first of many little successes that he will have that he can draw to the bishop’s attention, making him the obvious man to fill his shoes when he is ready to retire.

There are goats in his olive grove now. A tall, barrel-chested man is walking with a measured pace amongst them. The bells around the animals’ necks ring out an idyllic cantata; the occasional warbled throaty aria accompanies. Savvas stabs his phone to bring up Babis’ number and arranges a meeting. Babis might also know the name, and maybe other things, of the man who owns the electrical shop in Saros.

It has been a roller coaster of an emotional ride settling into the village, but if he can keep his mind where it is now, firmly set on the needs of the church, all that he deserves will follow.

There is a tap on the door, which startles him as he did not expect Babis so soon. The door pushes open before he can reply, so he knows it is Nefeli.

‘Here is your cassock, Papas, all washed.’ She hangs it on the back of the door on a coat hanger she has brought with her.

‘Thank you.’

Then she goes straight to the sink and begins washing up the pots from his breakfast. He is so used to her being around now that her presence no longer disturbs him. She actually calms him with her quiet movements, her grace, and her tidiness. Although she still does not speak a great deal, she seems to have grown comfortable with him, too. He certainly does not feel towards her as Sotos felt. What he feels is far more gentle.

She takes the broom and starts to sweep. Now that the heat is upon them, the dust seems to grow out of the floorboards almost hourly. Nefeli is very conscientious and not only sweeps but mops his little cottage every day. The motes spin and dance in the sunbeams, her white apron blindingly clean in the light, her hair glistening as it falls over her face.

He should broach the subject of her moving into the cottage before Babis is here.

‘Nefeli, how would you like to move back home?’ It comes out rather more direct then he envisaged.

The sweeping stops. She looks at him, her pale eyes accentuated by her wide pupils.

‘I mean back here, into the cottage,’ he clarifies.

‘No.’ She sweeps on.

‘Why?’

‘Because Mama she is used to where she is and it is hers for life.’

‘And?’ He softens his voice, sensing she has more to say.

‘And if I moved back here, how can I be sure there is security for her life?’

‘In the same way that you had when you used to live here.’

‘The cottage came with the job. The church can take both away. It is not enough now she is as she is.’ Another rise of motes in the sunlight as her broom takes action again.

‘I could do the same with this cottage as my predecessor did with the big house. I could legally write it over to you.’

‘She is familiar with the big house.’ The broom is set to one side and the mop bucket is filled.

‘Nefeli, I am not about to make you homeless. As long as I am here, you are assured of your position.’ From under her hair, she looks at him to see if truth shows in his face. He knows it does.

‘They might move you.’ Her eyes are so wide now, she looks scared, fragile. He wants to put his arms around her, assure her not to fear. When she is in the room, he cannot imagine being anywhere else in the world. In fact, when she is in the room, nothing else seems to matter at all: not his work, nor the bishopric, nor the ownership of the big house.

‘I will stay,’ he announces, and the conviction he feels inside is a revelation to him.

She takes a step towards him, the mop bucket abandoned. His own heartbeat throbs at his temple. There is also a strange expansion in his chest which steals his breath and he recognises it as a yearning, a yearning to make her safe, take her in his arms and hold her gently, softly.

With long fingers, she strokes the hair from her face and looks him in the eye. The fear he usually sees there is subsiding. The scar on her forehead twists its ragged way into the hairline she has made visible. His hand reaches towards it, fingers pulsating to stroke the angry reminder but he pulls his arm back to his side.

‘It was my home here, but with the move to the big house, I realised nothing is secure.’

‘I will give it to you.’ He cannot stop staring into her eyes. The rule that once ordained a priest cannot marry is a ridiculous one. In this moment, he would give up his calling to marry her. The church might be losing many good men for such a silly rule.

‘You will give it to me?’ A small frown flashes across her forehead but the scarred area does not move. A tractor rumbles somewhere outside in the village, but, right now, life outside of these walls has nothing to do with him. There is only Nefeli.

‘Yes. I will give it to you.’ The words create a smoothness to her countenance; her eyes are moist. Has he reduced her to tears? Does it mean that much to her? ‘Babis is coming round; I will ask him to make up the papers. It will be yours.’ Her eyes moisten all the more and a single tear rolls over and runs down her cheek. Again, his arm moves and his hands reaches, this time to stroke the tear away. He feels she would let him, maybe he should just do it. He lets his arm finish its upward arch and his thumb reaches her cheek. Slowly and gently, he wipes away the tear. Her whole body seems to relax and he would give anything to kiss her!

His weight rolls onto the balls of his feet, readying him to move, to cover the small distance between them.

A sharp rap on the door dispels the fixation, sending the room spinning into collision with reality.

‘Papas? It’s Babis.’

Nefeli’s hair falls. She looks to the floor. Her limbs take on their usual tightness of movement and she takes mop and bucket to the fireside, where she resumes her work.

Lifting the latch, Babis pushes in with briefcase and papers in each hand, heavy steps and sweating profusely. He smells of aftershave and fried food.

‘Kalimera
,’ he says in Nefeli’s direction and dumps everything he is carrying on the table. ‘And
Kalimera
to you too, Papas. I hope you are settling in alright. So, what can I do for you?’

‘Coffee?’ Savvas asks.

‘Water,’ Babis replies and before the word has left his mouth, Nefeli is taking glasses from the shelf.

‘My God, Papas, have you no air conditioning in here? You will roast like an Easter goat come August!’ Babis sits heavily into a chair, taking out a handkerchief to mop his forehead.

‘It is being arranged,’ Savvas says and looks to Nefeli to see if she is alright. The change of mood was so sudden, he feels he is reeling.

‘So, how can I help?’ Babis takes a fat fountain pen from his shirt pocket and a notebook from his briefcase and waits, poised.

‘One minute.’ Savvas goes through to the other room and takes the stamped official paper from under the diary and poetry book in the bureau. ‘This is the old agreement, of Nefeli and her mama moving into the big house, but this cottage is her home, so I think it is best that we make the old agreement null and void and strike up a new agreement that gives her the rights to this cottage again.’ He is not sure now if what he is doing is the right thing.