Page 84 of Hot Greek Summer

‘He was so beloved by the island people.’ Corinna spoke so quietly that both Frankie and Winnie had to lean in a little to hear her. ‘Ninety-seven, but as fit as an ox,’ she sniffed. ‘Very few people remember a time when he wasn’t our mayor. He’s always governed us with a strong, peaceful hand.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Frankie said, glancing at Winnie and then Stella as she reached for a tissue and pressed it into Corinna’s hands. ‘I can see it’s very upsetting for everyone.’

Corinna glanced towards the back door, her hands twisting the tissue. ‘The thing you have to understand about the island is that it’s steeped in tradition and ritual. We’re simple people, with traditional family values and, as I’m sure you know by now, deeply held beliefs.’

A sense of unease crept slowly over Winnie as she listened. It was clear that Corinna was working up to saying why what appeared to be the entire population of the island was gathering in their garden.

On that, Jesse opened the kitchen door and stepped inside.

‘Bad news, ladies. The islanders think you killed the mayor.’

CHAPTER TWENTY

‘That was the worst day I can remember,’ Stella said, her chin propped in her hand as they sat around the kitchen table later that night. The last stragglers had finally gone home, having spent most of the day mourning their mayor and shooting baleful, accusatory looks towards the three Englishwomen who’d blown into the island on an ill wind and burned down their sacred arbutus bush. It had seemed almost ridiculous that people would genuinely lay the blame for the mayor’s demise on the fire, but there was no getting away from the fact that that’s exactly what pretty much everyone had decided. Frankie, Winnie and Stella had robbed the island of its much-lauded good fortune, starting right at the top with their beloved mayor. What was worse was that the three of them had no choice but to assume responsibility for the fire between them, because they couldn’t exactly blame Mikey Miller. One word in the wrong ear would be enough to bring the paparazzi running to Skelidos, their long lenses trained on the villa, hoping to catch a few grainy images of its famous inhabitants. They’d spent the day holed up in their rooms; Seth had offered to come down and help but Frankie had ushered him back upstairs with his friends and sporadically plied them with food.

‘The funeral will be within a couple of days,’ Corinna said. Winnie slid the band out of her hastily pulled back hair because it was giving her a headache.

‘Oh God,’ Stella said suddenly. ‘They’re going to want to drink gin, aren’t they?’

All three of them exchanged panicky looks. The supply of Ajax’s gin had dwindled quickly; the need to find a replacement for the arbutus berry had gone from pressing to critical.

‘Don’t panic,’ Frankie said. ‘It won’t help. We still have enough berries in the jar to make a couple more batches.’

The others nodded, thankful for Frankie’s calming personality.

‘We need to do a full count up and see how much time we have,’ Winnie said, sipping her cup of tea. She’d never been a big tea drinker back home in England, but they’d dug out their supply of teabags and made a pot as soon as they were finally alone. They were English, after all, and in times of trouble they turned to tea.

‘Did even one person look at you as if they didn’t wish you dead?’ Stella asked.

Frankie and Winnie shook their heads. The islanders had been nothing but warm and welcoming before today, but they’d dished out a lifetime of reproachful stares between them as they all came to witness the burnt bush with their own eyes. The three women felt well and truly like unwelcome outsiders.

‘Corinna did, to be fair to her,’ Winnie said.

Frankie brightened a little. ‘And Panos.’

Panos had arrived at Villa Valentina around lunchtime, having spent the morning at the town hall after being summoned there first thing to discuss the crisis with the island elders. He knew of course about what had really happened in the garden, but they’d sworn him to secrecy and he’d reluctantly agreed.

‘I think it’s time someone showed me this distillery of yours,’ Gav said, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

Stella looked like she might protest, but then shrugged, resigned. ‘I guess our secret’s out anyway. I don’t think I ever want to see another G&T.’

‘It must be bad then,’ Gav said. Stella narrowed her eyes, and then laughed, easing the tension in the room.

‘It was a bloody shrub!’ The words exploded from Frankie, followed by hysterical gasps of laughter. Winnie looked at her, and then her own shoulders started to shake too until she was laughing so much that tears rolled down her cheeks. Stella gripped one of each of their hands around the table, and there they sat, laughing until they cried despite the fact that none of them really found it even the slightest bit amusing. They were anxious, and they were over-tired, and they all harboured a tiny, niggling question of doubt over whether there could be any truth in the islanders’ unshakable belief in the mythical arbutus bush of good fortune. After all, hadn’t they been brought here on a whim? Wasn’t there an air of magic and happenstance to the way that all of their lives had aligned to give them the means and the motivation to come here at all? Had fatereallybrought them here to wreak havoc?

‘Come on,’ Winnie said, looking at Gav. ‘Let’s show you the distillery.’

‘We have fifty-four bottles ready to go on the shelf, another fifty of our own gin steeping which will be ready in a few days, and then enough berries to make up about a hundred more before we run dry,’ Frankie said, having weighed their dwindling supply of dried berries carefully. ‘On usual calculations we’d scrape by for a few months, but God knows how much we’re going to have to supply for the funeral.’

‘What if they ask for more than we have?’ Winnie said, already knowing the answer.

‘We’re in trouble,’ Stella said.

Gav looked around the cool, gloomy cellar. ‘Those shelves look like they could come down at any minute,’ he said, eyeing the flimsy shelves that housed their only supply of gin.

‘God, don’t even say it.’ Frankie shuddered. ‘I’m already paranoid about that bloody bad luck curse.’

‘No such thing as curses,’ Gav said, stoic. ‘You make your own luck. There is such a thing as crap shelving units and drunken celebrities with cigarettes though, and neither of those things are any of your faults. Let’s put the existing stock on the table for safety and I’ll see what I can do to shore up those shelves for you.’

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