The Olive Garden Choir Read online

  THE OLIVE GARDEN CHOIR

  Leah Fleming

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About The Olive Garden Choir

  On the beautiful island of Santaniki, close to Crete, it’s not all white sands and sunshine. When retired bookseller Ariadne Blunt suggests the residents form a choir, there are groans of resistance. After a little persuasion, the group gather in Ariadne’s olive garden to rehearse for a seasonal concert, but each member of this choir has their own struggles and secrets.

  Ariadne’s partner, Hebe, is in failing health. Clive struggles to accept the loss of his wife, while Della, the Pilates teacher, drinks too much. Then there is Mel, the real songbird amongst them, English wife of a taverna owner who hides her talent until the choir inspires her to raise her voice once more.

  In this tiny community, the choir brings the residents together like never before in a bittersweet tale of love and loss – and how life can begin again when you let go of the past.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About The Olive Garden Choir

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Acknowledgements

  About Leah Fleming

  Also by Leah Fleming

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  To Brenda T with love and thanks for

  all those happy days in the sun.

  From The Escape to Paradise Guide to the Greek Islands:

  Santaniki, Christmas Island

  Off the coast of Crete lies the beautiful island of Santaniki, with its harbour, fishing villages and white sands. The main town is Ayios Nikolaos, known as St Nick’s. It is a haven for honeymooners and birdwatchers. The ancient chapel of St Nicholas (patron saint of sailors and all things Christmas) is cut into the mountain rock, with fine frescos inside.

  There are exclusive villas to rent in the outlying villages, with a lively British community in residence. The coastal scenery is breathtaking. In spring the central rocky plateau is full of meadow flowers, orchids, poppies and other beautiful species. In summer there are courses in writing, poetry, art and ceramics in the former home of the famous British romantic novelist, Elodie Durrante. A perfect holiday venue for any who are creative in the arts or seeking a quiet retreat from the bustle of city life.

  There are regular flights from the UK to Crete in season. A short ferry ride from the lively ports of Chania and Rethymnon will bring you to this charming destination.

  1

  Ariadne Blunt swept up the bougainvillaea leaves from the veranda of her villa on the island of Santaniki, then stopped to admire the view down the rocky slope of olive trees to the sparkling sea, where the faint outline of the big island glinted in the late September sunshine. Now the summer visitors were returning for school terms in Britain, local activities would start again.

  Tonight at the first book-club meeting of the season members would provide a summary of their summer reading or single out a book for discussion, and she wanted them to sit on the veranda in the warmth of sunset.

  Looking up, she saw the fledgling swallows peeking out of their nest in the corner. It was always a relief when Hick and Hetty returned to raise two broods before their long flight back to Africa. Their safe arrival each year heralded spring, but it was always a sad moment when the young flew off. Their mess was contained in a bucket, but she’d clean it in case some eagle-eyed member thought it unsightly or unhygienic.

  The group consisted of a motley assortment of women, mostly middle-aged and retired, but there was a sprinkling of younger ones, who could be relied on to vary the usual selection of middle-brow literature. As a former bookseller, Ariadne assumed leadership to check any snide comments on choices, but tonight she had something important to say.

  It had all started when she’d seen a family coming off the ferry, dressed in tunics and jeans, the women in hijabs, reminding her of the drownings off the coasts of Libya and Turkey. Some eastern islands were swamped with refugees but Crete was too far away for that. Most of the survivors had nothing but what the aid agencies had found for them. Here on Santaniki, she hoped they would be found temporary accommodation and seasonal work, and wondered what she could do to help.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by her friend and housemate, Hebe Wilson. ‘Shall I set the cups out? It is this evening, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes – I told you so this morning. No apologies yet, so we’ll need seven or eight chairs. I thought we might have some wine as it’s the first gathering.’

  ‘Isn’t the garden looking good?’ Hebe nodded in the direction of the path where the oleander borders were still in late blossom. ‘Shall I cut some flowers?’

  ‘If you like, but try not to make a trail of dust. I’ve just swept.’

  Ariadne liked everything to look tidy for their guests but Hebe had a knack of spreading clutter, forgetting to wipe up and leaving her gardening tools on the tables. It was only a small villa, among a row of grander ones, of which some were only half finished because of the recession. She sighed. The building trade had collapsed and the glory days of foreigners buying second homes were over. Houses were getting harder to sell. She shook herself. Stop wool-gathering, for heaven’s sake! Go and get smartened up, before the early birds appear…

  *

  One by one they arrived, clutching book bags. Chloë Bartlett was always the first. in her linen jumpsuit and fancy beads. Nor did she come empty-handed: she was carrying a posy of fresh blooms from her beautiful landscaped garden on a hillside outside the town.

  Then freckled Della Fitzpatrick staggered up the path, wearing skinny jeans and a jazzy top, and behind her little Natalie Fletcher was dressed in black, her thin arms covered with a crocheted shawl.

  Dorinda Thorner wore the usual flowery tent, accompanied by a waft of expensive perfume. She would demand the most comfortable chair, on account of her bad back.

  Last but not least, and always late, young Mel Papadaki, English wife of Spiro, son of a local taverna owner, would probably get them going. ‘I’ve just read Elodie Durrante’s novel, Under the Cretan Sun.’

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ Ariadne asked. Once Elodie had been the island’s most famous resident and it felt right to honour her with a reading of her novel.

  Before Mel could reply, Dorinda butted in. ‘I thought it a terrible choice.’ She sniffed. ‘The sort of torrid romantic nonsense I’m not used to reading.’

  ‘Well, I thought it was brilliant,’ Mel replied. ‘I’d never got round to reading her before. She writes good sex, doesn’t she?’

  The others fell silent until Della giggled. ‘Trust you to pick that book. She was quite a woman, I’m told. Maybe she’d had a lot of experience in that department. Ariadne, you knew her…’

  ‘I did, and a more generous soul would be hard to find. Her later books were not her best. I think she ran out of steam, but I’m glad you enjoyed it, Mel.’ Ariadne didn’t want her put down for choosing something light and relaxing. Mel had her work cut out, what with two small boys and a mother-in-law like Irini Papadaki, plus the taverna to help run, when Spiro was away finding work. The taverna was on the square and a popular venue for parties. Ariadne was amazed that Mel had time to read anything. Then she saw that Natalie was hanging back, too nervous to offer her opinion. ‘How about you, Natalie? Did you enjoy Elodie’s novel?’

  Natalie blushed. ‘Actually, I’ve not had much time to read. I’ve been catering for a house party, but they’ve gone now. I’ll try to keep up with the reading list.’

  Ariadne doubted she would ever relax enough to sit down and read anything. She came to book-club meetings for the company, as she did to the Pilates class, which Della ran. At least she always brou
ght a little something with her. This time it was a plate of delicious-looking lemon polenta squares.

  ‘Did you like it, Della?’ Ariadne asked.

  ‘Yes, in parts, It’s a relaxing read, though I did fall asleep towards the end.’

  There were some approving nods, but Dorinda Thorner folded her arms in disagreement.

  ‘We should be reading uplifting fiction that stretches our minds,’ she said. ‘I don’t come here to read smut.’ And so it went on, everyone arguing the toss.

  ‘It would make a good film,’ Mel put in. ‘A real Romeo and Juliet story, don’t you think?’

  ‘No one would want to film here,’ Dorinda replied. ‘Think of the expense, and it might stir up old feuds between the locals.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Della asked.

  ‘All that stuff about Greeks fighting Turks.’

  ‘Elodie handled it with sensitivity,’ Ariadne argued. ‘She did her research well.’

  ‘I think it showed up too much,’ Chloë said. ‘If you want a good book on the subject read Freedom and Death by Kazantzakis. It’s long but accurate.’

  ‘Reading’s hard when the pressure’s on,’ Ariadne said, aware that Hebe was half dozing in the corner. Hebe was another who found it hard to concentrate on a book for long, drifting off as the book slid onto the floor.

  ‘I think it’s good to have a variety of genres on the to-read list,’ Chloë said. ‘This wasn’t really my cup of tea, but I do have a few books to lend.’ She pulled out a pile of paperbacks by prize-winning literary authors, spread them on the table and reviewed each one at length. When Chloë got into her stride there was no stopping her.

  Ariadne’s eyes glazed over. Chloë liked to take over every meeting, even though no one showed much enthusiasm for her choice, unless it was Kate Atkinson’s latest. Time to change the subject. ‘Have you finished pulling Elodie’s last novel to pieces?’ she asked. ‘Hands up for wine.’ Everyone raised a hand.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ whispered Hebe, then retreated into the kitchen, where the glasses were already set out beside Natalie’s lemon polenta cake.

  ‘It’s not village wine, is it?’ said Dorinda. ‘It gives me a headache.’

  You’re the headache in this group, thought Ariadne, always criticising, but she smiled politely. ‘We had enough of that when Elodie was still alive. I never slept a wink after one of her parties.’

  ‘No, it’s Durakis’s best,’ Della chipped in. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with village wine? We have to support local enterprise.’ Her support for the local taverna was well known.

  ‘Poor Elodie, we’ve not been fair. This was her last book, not her best. Still, she was a bestseller and the island owes much to her generosity.’ Ariadne wanted the last word. Elodie’s magnificent villa was now an arts and crafts retreat centre. She had bequeathed it to the island under the auspices of the Elodie Durrante Arts Foundation. Pilgrim tourists climbed the dusty track to view the small museum devoted to her life and work.

  ‘Do we vote on it, then?’

  ‘No.’ Hebe suddenly came to life. ‘She was our friend, Ariadne, not marks out of ten, please.’ She jumped up and went into the kitchen.

  Ariadne smiled. ‘We understand, but it is our custom.’

  Natalie shook her head. ‘Let’s leave it as it is. I can’t vote because I didn’t read it.’

  ‘Now,’ Ariadne said, ‘I have an announcement to make in a little while but, first, thank you, Natalie, for your delicious contribution.’

  She followed Hebe into the kitchen to open the bottles. Hebe was sitting in a chair. The kettle was boiling. She started. ‘Sorry, I was day-dreaming,’ she said.

  Ariadne took a deep breath. Hebe had been so absent-minded lately. Still, there had been a good discussion tonight. Poor Elodie would be turning in her grave at the criticisms of her style: she had always made sure Hebe and Ariadne were aware of her status in the bestseller charts. But her style was old-fashioned, and too raunchy for the older members’ modern taste. Perhaps they needed shaking up.

  She was pleased to see such a good turnout, now that most of the seasonal visitors were departing. They had their island to themselves once more.

  She loved the change of seasons, when the nights drew in early, the air was cooler and even rainy at times. Soon they would change the lacy summer curtains for winter velvets, bring out the woven rugs to warm the stone floors, and gather in the dry olive wood, ready for the nightly fire. Besides all of this, she had plenty of plans for the winter and now was the time to strike.

  While everyone’s mouths were full of cake, she announced her intentions. ‘I’ve been thinking we should form a proper choir for our Christmas appeal for the refugees, followed by a grand carol concert for the whole district. What do you think?”

  ‘Come on,’ said Chloë. ‘We’ll hardly be the Military Wives Choir.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Ariadne replied. ‘I was thinking more of a community choir. We’ve got enough voices to put on a decent show and I have plenty of music.’

  ‘I’ve not sung since the sixth form, when I got excluded for changing the words of the song we were learning to rude ones. Perhaps we’re too old to make a decent sound,’ Della said.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Mel snapped. ‘I’m only thirty and I know other younger people who might join in – the couple who run the retreat house, for a start.’

  ‘We need men,’ said Chloë. ‘Tenors and basses to add depth and tone. We’d sound like a cats’ chorus on our own, but it would be good to do something for charity at Christmas.’

  ‘Something jazzy and rock, not just old-fashioned carols,’ Della added.

  ‘Oh, but some are so beautiful,’ Hebe said. ‘I love “Silent Night” and “The Boar’s Head Carol”. John Rutter’s written some excellent tunes.’

  ‘All right, Hebe,’ Ariadne interrupted. ’We’ll have to make it appeal to everyone in St Nick’s, and of course we’ll want to show our Greek friends a true English Christmas.’

  ‘They have their own customs. Will they be interested in English carols? Perhaps American classics would be better – “White Christmas” or “Deck the Halls”, or even some songs from the musicals,’ Chloë suggested, noticing heads shaking.

  ‘We won’t know if we don’t try, Chloë. Christmas means a lot when you’re far from home,’ Ariadne replied. She wouldn’t be defeated by negative talk.

  ‘Simon and I will be visiting Alexa and her family back in the UK, so you can count us out,’ Chloë told her.

  ‘Well, there’s St Nicholas’s Day on December the sixth. You’ll still be here then,’ Ariadne said. Chloë always like to set the tone for the group. Ariadne found her a little patronising and negative at times. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘think about it. We can rehearse here, in the olive garden.’

  ‘It’ll soon be too dark,’ murmured Hebe.

  ‘Not in the afternoon. We can use the drawing room when it’s wet. October and November can be so unpredictable. I’m relying on you all to chip in and invite your friends – cast the net wide.’

  Ariadne sensed hesitation. She’d sprung it on them without warning, but this would be something new. The tavernas hosted karaoke or jazz evenings, but a choir would include people of all ages and abilities. It could form the core of a festive concert, with tickets sold, a raffle, tombola, all the usual money-spinners for a good cause.

  When nights were long and daylight shortened, residents withdrew into themselves. This might bring the community together, although Ariadne could tell she had a challenge on her hands, if she was to make her idea anything more than wishful thinking.

  Natalie’s Lemon Polenta Slices

  160ml extra virgin olive oil

  200g caster sugar

  200g ground almonds

  100g instant polenta

  1½ teaspoons baking powder

  3 large eggs

  Zest and juice of 2 large lemons

  200g icing sugar

  Grease a tin and line it with greaseproof paper. Set the oven to 180°C. Whisk together the olive oil and sugar until pale and frothy.

  In another bowl mix the ground almonds, polenta and baking powder. Pour about a third of the dry mixture into the olive oil, add an egg, beaten, and stir well. Then add another third of the dry mixture with another beaten egg and stir again. Add the rest of the dry mixture with the third egg, also beaten, and the lemon zest, then stir thoroughly. Pour the batter into the prepared tin and bake for 35–40 minutes. Test with a skewer: when it comes out dry, the cake is done.