Free A Handful of Pebbles by Sara Alexi Page B

attention still drawn by the villagers in the square. ‘Everyone here seems so, oh I don’t know, content?’
    ‘Most of them sit and argue or complain when really, they should be happy drinking ouzo in the warm evening surrounded by friends. Yia sou Damiane .’ She taps a man on the shoulder as they pass his table before crossing the empty road. She seems to know everyone, but then, of course, it is her village.
    Three steps take them onto the raised forecourt of the village shop. A woman sits on a chair by the door with her feet up on an empty crate.
    ‘ Marina afti einai . Sorry, what was your name again?’ Stella turns to Sarah, who answers her. ‘Oh yes, afti eiani i Sarah pou menei sto spiti tis Michelle .’
    Sarah hears her own name and picks out the word Michelle more easily this time.
    ‘Ah, welcome, welcome. I understand but no speak. Welcome. Marina.’ The woman says in broken English before she pats her ample housecoated bosom as she says her name.
    ‘ How do I say hello?’ Sarah asks Stella. She is not sure if the feeling in her stomach is excitement or hunger.
    ‘ Yia sou .’ Stella tries to say it in an English accent, enunciating clearly.
    ‘ Yia sou Marina .’ Sarah smiles into the shop owner’s face. The woman stands and waddles into the shop. Behind the counter, from floor to ceiling, are shelves piled high with different brands of cigarettes. To the right is a little window that looks out to the raised forecourt with its three drinks cabinets and a rack displaying soil-clogged loose vegetables. A Spanish omelette would be nice. Everything looks so fresh.
    Marina settles in behind the counter. To her right on the top shelf is a row of bottles of wine . Below that is a shelf of knitting needles, dolls, plastic flowers, and playing cards; under that, boxes of stockings and shower caps. Sarah cannot take it all in; the whole place is lined with shelves, including a row that stands back to back down the centre of the narrow space.
    ‘ How many days you here?’ Marina’s accent is so strong, Sarah can barely understand her. The sounds sink in and she filters out the words.
    ‘ It’s my son’s wedding. He is marrying Helena Plusiopoulos. Do you know her?’
    ‘ Ah yes.’ She resorts to her mother tongue. ‘ Poli kala, kali ikoyenia me ta hrimata. Poli kala yia to yio sou .’
    Sarah looks blankly at Stella. ‘She says they are a good family.’
    ‘ Now what did I come for?’ Stella asks herself and then turns to Marina and they speak fluently for some minutes.
    This gives Sarah time to discover shepherds ’ crooks leaning in the corner, dog collars by the biscuits, red and yellow boxed mousetraps on the shelf below the pasta, and a glimpse through a back door onto a flower-filled courtyard across which is a house, presumably Marina’s. A chicken pecks away in the middle at the weeds between the thick flagstones.
    It all seems so much more real here. Closer to nature maybe. She doubts there will be co-ops growing organic vegetables or evening classes on lace making. By the looks of what she has seen , everyone grows vegetables. Every garden seems to have something planted between the flowers; even the lady with the garden filled with potted flowers on her lane has a border of lettuce and some other things growing. There’ll be no time for night courses, what with chickens to feed, courtyards to sweep, and glasses of ouzo to drink.
    ‘ She says what do you need?’ Stella touches Sarah’s shoulder.
    ‘ Oh, er, a dozen eggs please.’
    ‘ Do you want village eggs or for the town?’ Stella asks.
    The question feels like liquid gold to her spirit , it pulls her so far from her life back home. Not graded for size or colour, instead whether they have come from someone in the village or a place just a few miles away.
    ‘ Oh village, please. Do I just go and choose vegetables or do I ask?’
    ‘ Either.’ Stella slides her plastic bag up her arm. ‘I go now. Bye.’ And with no more