The Olive Tree Read online

  ALEX’S DIARY

  11th July 2006

  I hear him. Hovering somewhere above me in the dark, sharpening his teeth in preparation for his meal.

  Which is me.

  Do mosquitoes have teeth? They must do, because how else could they pierce the skin if they didn’t? Yet, when I achieve the ultimate, and manage to squash one of the little buggers against the wall, there is no crunching sound, just a squelch of softness. No cracking of enamel, which is what I heard when I fell off the climbing frame at the age of four and broke my front tooth.

  Sometimes, they have the cheek to come and whine in your ear, alert you to the fact you’re about to be eaten. You lie there, arms swatting thin air, while they dance invisibly above you, probably giggling hysterically at their hapless victim.

  I pull Bee from my rucksack and place him under the sheet next to me. He will be fine because he doesn’t need to breathe. For the record, he is not actually a bee, he is a stuffed rabbit, a rabbit as old as I am. He is called Bee because he is ‘B’ for Bunny. That’s what I named him when I was a toddler – Mum says it was one of my first words – and it’s stuck.

  She also said that ‘someone special’ gave him to me when I was born. I think she probably means my father. However sad and pathetic it is at the age of thirteen to still be sharing one’s bed with an ancient toy bunny rabbit, I do not care. He – The Bee – is my talisman, my safety net and my friend. I tell him everything.

  I’ve often thought that if someone could gather all the gazillions of cuddly child comforters together and interrogate them, they would know far more about the child they sleep with than any of the kids’ parents. Simply because they actually listen without interrupting.

  I cover the vulnerable parts of my body – especially my fat cheeks, which would give a mosquito breakfast, lunch and supper at one suck – as best I can with various articles of clothing.

  Eventually, I fall asleep. I think, anyway. That is, I hope I’m dreaming, because I’m in a burning furnace, flames licking my body, heat melting the flesh off my bones.

  I wake to see that it’s still dark, then realise I can’t breathe and find a pair of my underpants is covering my face – which is why it’s dark and I can’t breathe. I remove them, gulp in some air and see a ladder of light seeping in through the shutters.

  It’s morning. I am bathed in my own sweat, but it was worth it if that little bugger of an insect didn’t get me.

  I pull myself wetly from the mattress, tearing the sopping clothes off my body. There is a small, cloudy mirror over the chest of drawers and I stagger towards it to inspect my face. And see an enormous red bite-mark on my right cheek.

  I swear, using words my mother would hate, wondering how it managed to manoeuvre itself beneath the underpants to get me. But all mosquitoes are part of an elite force, highly trained in the art of infiltration.

  As well as the bite, the rest of my face is as red as the reddest side of a Cox’s Pippin. I turn to the windows, open the shutters and blink like a mole as I step out onto the small balcony. I feel the heat of the morning sun burn me like the furnace in my dream.

  When I’ve adjusted my vision, I see the view is amazing, just as my mother said it would be. We are very high up, perched on a mountainside, the yellow and brown and olive-green landscape below me arid and parched, like me. Far, far away, the blue sea shimmers in the sun. I then look down and focus on the small figure at the edge of the terrace below me.

  My mother is using the balustrade as a barre. Her golden hair flows downwards as she bends the top half of her body back like a contortionist and I can see her ribs clearly outlined beneath her leotard. She does this ballet routine every morning. Even on Christmas Day, or after she’s had a very late night and a few glasses of wine. In fact, the day she doesn’t do it, I’ll know something is horribly wrong with her. Other kids get Coco Pops and toast at breakfast-time, with parents who are upright. I get my mother’s head peering upside down at me from between her legs, as she asks me to put the kettle on.

  She tried to get me to do ballet once. That’s one way in which we are definitely not alike.

  I am suddenly incredibly, unbearably thirsty. And I feel dizzy. The world spins slightly and I fall back into the room and onto the mattress and close my eyes.

  Perhaps I have malaria. Perhaps that mosquito has done for me and I am in the last hours of my life.

  Whatever I have, I need water and my mother.

  β

  Two

  ‘Dehydration. That is all. Mix this sachet with water for salts now and then give him another before bed. And drink many fluids, young man.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s not malaria, doctor?’ Alex eyed the diminutive Cypriot suspiciously. ‘You can tell me, you know, I can deal with it.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t, Alex,’ snapped Helena. She turned to the doctor and watched as he closed his medical bag. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly, and I’m sorry to have bothered you.’ She ushered him out of the bedroom and led him down the stairs to the kitchen. ‘He seemed delirious. I was frightened.’

  ‘Of course, it is natural, and it is no problem. I treated Colonel McCladden for many years. His death . . . so sad.’ He shrugged and handed Helena his card. ‘In case you need me again. In future, it is better for you to visit the surgery. I’m afraid I must charge you a call-out fee for today.’

  ‘Oh dear, I doubt I have enough cash on me. I was going to go up to the bank in the village today.’ Helena replied, embarrassed.

  ‘No matter. The surgery is just a few doors down from there. Drop the payment off with my receptionist later.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor, I will.’

  He stepped through the front door, and Helena followed him. Then he turned back to look up at the house. ‘Pandora,’ he mused. ‘You must have heard of the myth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Such a wonderful house, but like the box in the legend after which it is named, it has been closed up for many years. Are you the one to open it, I wonder?’ He smiled at her quizzically, showing a set of white, even teeth.

  ‘Hopefully not so that all the evils of the world can pour out,’ Helena said with a wry smile. ‘Actually, this is my house now. Angus was my godfather. He left it to me.’

  ‘I see. And will you love it as he did?’

  ‘Oh, I do already. I came here to stay as a teenager and I’ve never forgotten it.’

  ‘Then you will know that this is the oldest house in these parts. Some say there was already a dwelling here thousands of years ago. That Aphrodite and Adonis once came to taste the wine and spent the night here. There are many rumours in the village . . .’

  ‘About the house?’

  ‘Yes.’ He met her gaze steadily. ‘You remind me very much of another lady I once met here at Pandora, many years ago.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She was visiting Colonel McCladden, and I was called to treat her. She was beautiful, like you,’ he said with a smile. ‘Now, make sure the boy drinks plenty of fluids. Adio, Madame.’

  ‘I will. Goodbye, and thank you.’

  Helena watched him drive off in a cloud of chalk dust. Looking up at Pandora, despite the searing heat, a shiver ran up her spine and the strange feeling of dread suffused her once more. She forced herself to concentrate on the list of jobs in her head. The first was that she needed to check on the state of the swimming pool, so she walked briskly around the house and across the terrace, noting that it could do with some colourful plants in the currently empty, mouldering stone urns to enhance it, and adding that task to her mental list. The pool, which lay beneath the terrace down a crumbling set of steps, looked to be in surprisingly good condition, but would obviously need years’ worth of grime cleaned from it before it was usable.

  As Helena turned to walk back to the house, she glanced up, noticing how different Pandora looked from this viewpoint. The initial approach to the main entrance gave a somewhat austere impression and was unadorned, but t
he front of it was positively picturesque. As well as being softened by the long terrace with its pergola, each bedroom window was aproned by an ornate wrought-iron Juliet balcony, giving a bizarre impression of an Italianate villa. She wondered why she hadn’t remembered it like this, but then realised that since she’d last been here, she’d actually lived for a while in Italy, so was now able to make the comparison.

  She went back inside and walked upstairs to Immy’s bedroom. Her daughter was standing in front of the mirror in her best pink party dress. Helena couldn’t help but smile as she watched Immy admiring herself unseen, twisting her small body and throwing her glorious flaxen hair this way and that as she contentedly surveyed her reflection through wide, innocent blue eyes.

  ‘I thought I left you to unpack, darling.’

  ‘I have, Mummy.’ With a sigh of irritation, Immy dragged herself away from the mirror and pointed to indicate that the clothes strewn all over the room were no longer in her case.

  ‘I meant unpack into the drawers, not onto the floor. And take that dress off. You can’t wear it now.’

  ‘Why not?’ Immy’s rosebud lips drew together into a pout. ‘It’s my favourite.’

  ‘I know, but it’s for a party, not for running round a dusty old house in the heat.’

  Immy watched her mother sweep her clothes into a pile on the bed and begin to stow them away. ‘Anyway, the drawers smell funny inside.’

  ‘They just smell of old,’ countered Helena. ‘We’ll leave them open to air. They’ll be fine.’

  ‘What are we going to do today? Is there Disney Channel on the television here?’

  ‘I . . .’ It was almost midday now, and the morning had passed in a blur of panic trying to find a doctor for her apparently delirious son. Helena sat down abruptly on the bed, suddenly longing for the Disney Channel too. ‘We have lots to do today, darling, and no, there isn’t even a television here.’

  ‘Can we buy one, then?’

  ‘No, we can’t,’ she snapped, then regretted it immediately. Immy had been so good, both on the journey here and this morning, amusing herself quietly. She reached for her daughter and gave her a cuddle. ‘Mummy’s just got to sort out a few things, then we’ll go exploring, okay?’

  ‘Yes, but I might be a bit hungry. I didn’t have no breakfast.’

  ‘No, you didn’t, so I think we’d better go shopping very soon. I’m just going to check on Alex, then we’ll go out.’

  ‘I know, Mummy!’ Immy’s face lit up as she scrambled off Helena’s knee and began to root around in the small rucksack she’d carried with her on the plane. ‘I’ll make Alex a “Get Well” card to cheer him up.’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea, darling,’ Helena agreed as Immy brandished paper and felt-tips triumphantly.

  ‘Or . . .’ Immy stuck a pen in her mouth as she thought. ‘If he’s not going to get well, do I pick some flowers from outside to put on his grave?’

  ‘You could, but I promise you he is not going to die, so I think the card is a better idea.’

  ‘Oh. He said he was when I went in to see him this morning.’

  ‘Well, he’s not. You start making it, and I’ll see you in a few minutes.’

  Helena left the room and walked along the corridor to see Alex, half of her wishing that her son would morph into a hoodie-wearing normal adolescent, one who enjoyed football, girls and hanging around shopping centres at night with his mates, horrifying the odd granny with their antics. Instead, he had an off-the-scale IQ, which sounded good in practice, but actually seemed to cause more problems than his high-voltage brain could ever solve. He behaved more like an old man than a teenager.

  ‘How are you?’ She peered cautiously round the door. Alex was lying in his boxer shorts, one arm slung across his forehead.

  ‘Mmph,’ came the reply.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed. The ancient fan she’d dragged out of Angus’ bedroom to lend a cool breeze to her son’s burning forehead clanked with the effort of turning.

  ‘Not a good start, eh?’

  ‘Nope.’ Alex did not open his eyes. ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  ‘I’m going to take Immy into the village to buy some supplies and pay the doctor. Will you promise to drink lots of water while I’m gone?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Want anything?’

  ‘Some mosquito repellent.’

  ‘Really darling, Cyprus mozzies are perfectly harmless.’

  ‘I hate them, whatever their nationality.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get you some. And if you’re feeling better tomorrow, we’ll go to Paphos town. I’ve got a list of things to buy, including fans for all the bedrooms, bedding, towels, a new fridge-freezer and a TV with a DVD player.’

  Alex opened his eyes. ‘Really? I thought TV was off the agenda here?’

  ‘I think a DVD player is just about acceptable for Immy and Fred, especially on hot afternoons.’

  ‘Wow, things are looking up.’

  ‘Good.’ Helena smiled down at him. ‘You rest today, then hopefully you’ll be up for a trip out tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s only dehydration, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’ She kissed him on the forehead. ‘Try and get some sleep.’

  ‘I will. Sorry about the malaria thing, by the way.’

  ‘It’s okay. See you later.’ As Helena went downstairs, she heard her mobile ringing in the kitchen. Running through the hall, she managed to reach it just in time.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that you, Helena? Jules here. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, yes, we’re fine.’

  ‘Good-oh. How’s the house?’

  ‘Wonderful. Just as I remembered it.’

  ‘Twenty-four years ago? Goodness, I hope they’ve updated the plumbing since then!’

  ‘Actually, they haven’t.’ Helena couldn’t help a frisson of enjoyment as she gently taunted Jules. ‘It definitely needs a bit of a facelift and a couple of new loo seats, but I think it’s sound – structurally, at least.’

  ‘That’s something, then. Glad the roof won’t fall in on us while we’re sleeping.’

  ‘The kitchen could do with some modernising, too,’ added Helena. ‘I think we’ll be relying on barbecues more than the oven. To be honest, it may not be what you’re used to.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll manage. And of course I’ll bring our own sheets with us – you know I always like to anyway. If you need anything else, just let me know.’

  ‘Thanks, Jules, I will. How are the children?’

  ‘Oh, Rupes and Viola are fine, but I’ve spent what feels like weeks doing prize-giving, governors’ speeches and soggy strawberries. Sacha managed to wriggle out of all that kind of stuff, lucky sod.’

  ‘Oh.’ Helena knew Jules secretly loved it. ‘How is Sacha?’ she asked politely.

  ‘Working all the hours God sends, drinking too much . . . you know what he’s like. I’ve hardly seen him in the past few weeks. God, Helena, afraid I’ve got to dash. We’re having a dinner party here tonight, so I’m frantic this end.’

  ‘I’ll see you in a few days’ time, then.’

  ‘You will. Don’t get too much of a head start on the tan, will you? Pissing down here. Ciao, darling.’

  ‘Ciao,’ Helena mouthed into the mobile disconsolately as she disconnected the call and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Oh God,’ she groaned, wishing with all her heart she hadn’t allowed Jules to railroad her into coming to stay here for two weeks. She’d used every excuse she could think of, but Jules had simply refused to take no for an answer. The upshot was that the four members of the Chandler family – Jules, her two children and her husband Sacha – were descending on Pandora in a week’s time.

  Whatever dread Helena felt about the Chandlers joining them, she knew she must keep it to herself. Sacha was William’s best and oldest friend; his daughter, Viola, was William’s godchild. There was nothing she could do but accept the situation.

&
nbsp; How will I cope . . . ? Helena fanned herself in the oppressive heat, seeing the kitchen and its dilapidated state through Jules’ eagle eyes and knowing she wouldn’t be able to bear the criticism. She reached for her scrunchie, abandoned on the kitchen table last night, twirled up her hair and wound it into a knot on the top of her head, relishing the sudden coolness at the nape of her neck.

  I will cope, she told herself. I have to.

  ‘Are we going yet?’ Immy was behind her. ‘I’m hungry. Can I have chips with ketchup at the restaurant?’ Her small arms snaked around her mother’s waist.

  ‘Yes, we are.’ Helena stood up, turned round and managed a weak smile. ‘And yes, you can.’

  The midday sun scorched through the windows of the car as Helena drove along the road that wound through the acres of grapevines. Immy sat illegally next to her in the front, the seatbelt worn across her like a saggy fashion accessory as she knelt up to look out of the window.

  ‘Can we stop and pick some grapes, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, let’s, though they don’t taste quite the same as normal grapes.’ Helena brought the car to a halt and they both got out.

  ‘Here.’ Helena bent down, and from under a fan of vine leaves, revealed a tight cluster of magenta grapes. She tore it away from the branch and broke a few off.

  ‘Should we eat them, Mummy?’ Immy asked, staring at them doubtfully. ‘They don’t come from a supermarket, you know.’

  ‘They’re not very sweet yet because they’re not quite ripe. But go ahead, try one,’ Helena encouraged as she put one into her own mouth.

  Immy’s small white teeth bit into the tough outer flesh cautiously. ‘They’re okay, I suppose. Can we take some back for Alex? Sick people like grapes.’

  ‘Good idea. We’ll take two bunches.’ Helena began to break off another cluster, then stood up, instinctively feeling someone watching her. And caught her breath as she saw him. No more than twenty yards away, standing in the middle of the vines, staring at her.