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meet the demands of banks or landlords.
‘His wife never looks very cheery,’ I said, tired chest aching now.
‘You know she lost her job in the deli, next to the Flamingo inn, in Kos Town?’
I nodded.
‘That’s why she and Yanis could no longer afford their house. I guess it made sense to move here, when his dad died.’
‘Moving here must have been a life-saver, then.’ But perhaps not for old Mrs Manos, who had recently lost loads of weight, plus chain-smoked more than ever.
‘Yanis headed left, towards Caretta Cove,’ shouted a passing villager as we stopped by the fishing boats to catch our breath.
‘Okay, we turn right then,’ said Niko, already recovered, unlike me whose daily exercise only involved beating, whisking and kneading.
We rummaged through boat sheds and gardens, all to a soundtrack of villagers calling Otis’ name. However an hour or so later, the dog still wasn’t found – and Yanis wasn’t back.
With rosy cheeks, and heaving chests, everyone sat in the taverna. Grandma and old Mrs Manos handed out coffees and slices of honey cake.
‘Otis will wander back home, I’m sure of it,’ I said to Mrs Vesteros and slipped an arm around her shoulders.
Her face crumpled. ‘I don’t understand. Someone must have him, otherwise he would have returned.’
Perhaps. But I doubted it. Greece was overrun with stray dogs at the moment, many dumped by financially-stretched owners who also couldn’t afford to neuter them, so numbers easily swelled. Some pets, like Otis, might run off to join roaming packs.
‘Let’s look again once we’ve warmed up,’ said Cosmo. ‘I’ll go a bit further afield on one of my bikes.’
‘And this time all of you put your coats on,’ said Grandma.
But the door opened and Yanis stepped in, along with a gust of cold afternoon wind. His face looked flushed. Hair unkempt. Clothes damp. And in his hand was… Oh no. Otis’ distinct leopard-print lead.
‘My baby?’ stuttered Mrs Vesteros.
Slowly Yanis nodded. ‘Sorry. Spotted him just past Caretta Cove. He must have seen something in the water. I followed him in but…’ Yanis glanced away. ‘The dog sank. Perhaps his lead got caught on some rocks and held him down.’ He held up the lead which was broken around the neck. ‘This washed up on the shore.’
A howl followed by sobs came from Mrs Vesteros’ body and she fled the taverna. A couple of her neighbours followed. Yet crying still came from the room – Mrs Manos. She looked distraught.
‘Poor dog,’ she finally muttered, in between sniffs.
All the villagers nodded. It was especially hard for dog-loving Mrs Manos who had taken in a couple of strays, keeping them in the shed at the back of her property. She fed them unsellable scraps from the butcher’s business. I’d wanted to home one, but Niko wasn’t keen. Not until we moved out of the taverna into our own place. Which made sense. Since we’d got engaged and talked of the future I’d seen a new side to Niko that was less spontaneous; more logical. That was good, right?
Mrs Manos stood up and went over to Yanis. ‘We go,’ she said and sniffed loudly before nodding at Niko’s parents. ‘Thanks for the coffee and cake.’ She glanced at me. ‘As for this meeting…a Christmas market? What difference will that really make?’ Her voice wobbled. ‘Until our businesses take off next summer and the Marine Museum is completed…’ She threw her arms in the air. ‘I know not where the money comes from to pay the electricity for my big refrigerators, let alone help pay for my young grandson’s measles jab. And as for Christmas presents…this pointless idea belongs to a thriving English town, not a Greek village crippled by debt.’
Yanis patted his mother’s shoulder as my mouth went dry.
‘Mama is right,’ he said. ‘Everything going to still be a struggle, for a few months at least. A market no make any difference.’
Mrs Manos shook her head. ‘At the moment I see so few prospects for our children. How will a Christmas market change that?’
I swallowed and thought back to Mrs Manos’ comment about her grandson’s measles jab. Only last week I’d got talking to a doctor in Kos Town, who shook his head saying he had diagnosed many a case of malnutrition in hard-off adults and children.
‘Mrs Manos, Yanis, I know my idea doesn’t seem like much at the moment, but—’
She snorted. ‘A market stall won’t raise enough to buy even the door of the new money-saving freezer we need, to cut down running costs.’
Pandora glared at her but I noticed the way Mrs Manos’ chin trembled; how she wrung her nicotine-stained hands. A lump formed in my throat.
‘It’s got to be better than doing nothing,’ I said softly. ‘Let’s see… Taxos schoolchildren do a dance performance each year for the parents, don’t they? Maybe they could perform a couple of times a day, out in the street, for visitors? We could have fun games like…like hook-a-turtle,’ I said, ignoring the blank stares from people who’d clearly never heard of hook-a-duck.
Uncle Christos rubbed his chin. ‘Really, it would be more like a fair.’
My eyebrows raised. ‘Yes, that’s an even better concept. We’d have Christmas music playing or carol-singers…’
‘Mama, Papa, you could serve hot egg-lemon chicken and rice soup in mugs, with chunks of sourdough bread from the taverna, for local visitors who want their traditional festive food,’ said Niko.
‘Pandora, what about selling some of your handkerchiefs?’ I said. She’d built up quite a collection since her husband had died in a local forest fire, when Niko and I were children. Clearly, sewing had filled many an empty evening.
‘Me and Niko could plan a Christmas-themed treasure hunt each day for children, with some strategically placed boats on the beach,’ said Niko’s cousin Stefan.
Vigorously I nodded my head.
‘Perhaps your friendly goats could wear cardboard antlers,’ I said to the Dellises.
Yanis muttered something under his breath, rolled his eyes and left with his mum.
Ignoring their departure, Mr Dellis bowed. ‘And we could offer donkey rides. Our youngest ass loves children and we’d make sure she got a number of rests during the day.’
I smiled. Mr Dellis had obviously heard that the English were huge advocates of animal welfare. Every time I visited to buy some of their delicious goat’s cheese, he would describe, in great detail, how he tended to his livestock’s every need.
A couple of hours later, the villagers had switched from coffee to wine and Sophia had put on one of her compilation Christmas CDs. She was a big fan of Bing Crosby and Michael Bublé. Despite the chilly December breeze, several people spilled onto the back patio where someone accompanied Cosmo’s harmonica with guitar. Fairy lights lit up the outside and inside of the restaurant. Most people seemed to be coming around to the idea of giving my venture a go.
‘I have started making scented candles,’ said Postie’s wife, a gifted jewellery maker. ‘Perhaps, Pippa, you can help me think up some Christmas fragrances?’
‘Yes!’
‘And my legs are used to walking,’ said her husband, a squat man with enormous, postbag-carrying shoulders. ‘Like in the summer, when the village put together that leaflet to advertise our new businesses, I can ask my bosses at the post office if you can borrow our big printer again for the flyers. Then on my day off I will post them around Kos Town.’
‘Excellent,’ I said. I took a big glug of one of Taxos Taverna’s famous orange granitas as alcohol wouldn’t refresh the parts of me worn out by the several