They were ‘good boys’, just as Katerina had said: polite, helpful and cheerful. And they seemed to have a very good relationship with their dad, joking around and teasing him a lot. They went quiet and listened carefully, though, when he started explaining something serious, giving them instructions about what to do.
At one point Maya walked by with a notebook in her hand. Cleo looked up and asked what she was doing.
‘I’m trying to work out sleeping arrangements, and also how much food and water we’re going to need. We don’t know how long we’ll be here and we don’t want to run short.’
‘Well done,’ Cleo said with a nod. She could imagine Maya shining in boardrooms and at strategy meetings. She had a natural organisational instinct.
She was shining now, too, though she probably didn’t realise it. Cleo fancied she was growing just a shade taller and straighter with each task she completed.
Around six o’clock in the evening, Tash asked Cleo if she could do anything more to help. The younger children were eating supper in the newly designated kitchen area, and she was at a loose end.
‘I suppose I could hand out wet wipes,’ she said with a slightly brittle, self-deprecating laugh. ‘That wouldn’t be too difficult for me.’
Cleo sensed her mood had dipped along with her self-esteem.
‘Actually, yes,’ she replied brightly. ‘There’s lots you can do. Comfort people and keep them talking. You’re really good at it. And if anyone’s panicking, bring them to me.’
Tash blinked. ‘I can do that.’
‘Of course you can,’ Cleo replied simply.
10
A little later, when Cleo was taking a short break from her duties, she sat outside the tent Maya had told her to use, sipping coffee and watching Achilles out of the corner of her eye.
He was right at the heart of everything that was going on, she could see, helping wherever he could. One minute he was carrying a pile of crates and another, assembling portable tables and chairs. Then she saw him chatting with a group of frightened-looking villagers, making them laugh.
Her eyes were tired, sore and stingy. She closed them for a few moments and when she opened them again, he was sitting on one of the chairs he’d just put together, with his guitar on his knee.
He didn’t look as if he were preparing to perform, she thought, but then he never did. He carried his guitar as though it were an extension of himself, like an extra limb he’d been born with.
Soon, he started playing and his voice drifted through the makeshift camp, blending with the hum of work. A group of children clustered near him when he strummed, drawn, no doubt, to the soft chords and playful lyrics.
Cleo noticed the adults starting to move more quickly, as if the music were making their tasks seem easier and the loads they were carrying, lighter.
Achilles was one of those rare people, she decided, who lit up a room when he entered and made everyone smile, including her.
After finishing her coffee, she rose slowly and heavily. Her whole body was screaming for sleep, but she wouldn’t give in just yet, not when everyone else was still hard at work.
Even now she could see Henrietta and Mark, plodding towards one of the tents carrying cumbersome boxes.
Strolling over to Achilles, Cleo crouched by his side for a short while and watched his fingers moving deftly across the strings and up and down the frets. He was like a magician, conjuring beautiful sounds out of wood and wire.
When he came to the end of one song, he paused for a moment as if he needed to gather his thoughts, and lifted his face towards the horizon. His long fingers rested lightly on the varnished wood and his thumb idly brushed the edge near the sound hole.
His fingers moved slowly at first, almost experimentally, running over the strings in a light stroke, and a soft, low hum shivered through those who’d gathered round.
He adjusted the tuning with small, precise twists, leaning in slightly and listening closely, almost as if he were communing with the instrument. When he was satisfied, he let out a small breath, then he began again.
The first chord unfurled like warm silk, smooth, deep and resonant. It vibrated through the air and through the earth beneath his feet. To Cleo, it seemed to carry a melancholy undertone, like an echo of something ancient and well-worn or the lingering heartbreak of an old folk song.
She remembered the mother of his boys, who was an addict and who’d disappeared, and her heart reached out to him. He brought joy to the world but he’d also experienced deep pain, she could tell.
At last, he lowered his hands, resting them again on the body of his guitar and his eyes opened. For a moment, he just sat there, absorbing the quiet as though he needed a bit of time before he stepped back fully into the present.
Then he exhaled and looked up with a small, almost shy smile, as if surprised anyone had bothered to listen to him.
All the while Cleo had been watching, she could feel the heat of his arm near her shoulder and she’d been breathing in his faint smell of olive oil, fresh sweat and sea air.
