One Cretan Evening and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

know it, on a normal Christmas Day he would have been left sitting in the car.
    As the light began to fade, Philip declared that the meat was cooked. They all sat snugly under rugs at the garden table. Every scrap of the succulent turkey, goose, pheasant and pigeon was devoured and by seven o’clock, a row of empty bottles stood in a line along the table, some of them holding candles and others now emptied of wine. There had never been a Christmas lunch quite like it. It was beyond perfection. Jennifer sat close to her husband, licked her fingers and smiled.

This story was inspired by the demonstrations in Athens that took place in late 2008.

Aflame in Athens
    I RINI HURRIED THROUGH the quiet streets of Plaka and the sound of her heels resonated off the smooth marble paving slabs. The exposed metal tips clacking on the ancient paving slabs grated on her ear but she had no time to visit the cobbler now. Trainers had not been appropriate today and these were her only pair of smart shoes and the only footwear that went with her neat green coat.
    In this old part of Athens, racks of dusty postcards had been optimistically set down on the pavement, carried outside each morning by the owners of the shops who seemed unbothered that the summer tourists had now gone home and that they were unlikely to sell more than a handful each day. They were still resolutely hanging out their Parthenon T-shirts, posters with quotes from Aristotle and maps of the islands, and knew their expensive copies of museum artefacts would be dusted but not sold.
    Irini enjoyed walking through this city. To her it was still new and she loved to get lost in the narrow streets that would lead her to the centre of Athens and its long, wide avenues.
    It was her godmother’s saint’s day and she was on her way to meet her at one of Athens’ smartest cafés, Zonars. ‘Don’tforget to buy her some flowers,’ her mother had nagged down the telephone the previous night. ‘And don’t be late for her.’ Even from hundreds of kilometres away in Kilkis, Irini’s parents dictated the minutiae of her life and Irini, always dutiful, had done as instructed and carried an ornately wrapped arrangement of carnations.
    The streets were quiet that morning and it was only when she saw several groups of police loitering, chatting, smoking and murmuring into walkie-talkies that she remembered why some of the main streets had been closed to traffic. There was to be a march that day.
    The traffic had been diverted away from the centre in good time. It was uncannily peaceful. For once there was no impatient honking of car horns, no whining of scooters to break the silence and you could almost hear the paving stones breathe. The streets were rarely empty like this. Whether it was four in the afternoon or four in the morning, there would be queues of cars revving at the lights, impatient to get home. Only demonstrations could halt the Athens traffic.
    By the time Irini reached her destination in Panepistimiou, one of the long avenues that led down to the main square of Syntagma, she could hear a low, distant rumble. She noticed the police stirring into action, stubbing out half-smoked cigarettes with the heel of a boot and picking up riot shields that had been leaning against shop windows. That almost imperceptible sound would soon turn into a roar.
    Irini quickened her pace and soon the café was in sight. Pushing against the heavy glass door, she went inside. Oblivious to the ever-increasing noise in the street, well-heeled customers continued to drink their coffee, served by uniformed waiters.
    Irini’s nona , Dimitra, was already seated at one of the tables by the window, elegant in her red suit, heavy gold earrings and freshly coiffed hair. She was delighted to see her goddaughter. ‘You look so well! So smart!’ she cried. ‘How is university? How are your parents? Are your grandparents well?’ One question tumbled out after another.
    It was only a few weeks since