Through open windows, she could see women sorting through clothes, curtains and kitchen equipment, while men repaired boats by the sea.
The rest of the day was one long slog, punctuated by laughter, songs and occasional bursts of triumph as walls went up and roofs were replaced.
As the light began to fade and lanterns were lit, everyone gathered on the beach and Tash put on a small performance with the children.
Cleo stood next to an Englishwoman named April, who was married to a local and ran the small supermarket behind them.
‘Destroyed, of course,’ April said ruefully. ‘But we’re beginning to rebuild.’
It seemed three of the children in the play belonged to her, including a boy aged seven or eight called Demetrios, a girl aged about six and a chubby toddler named Nico.
The crowd roared with laughter when Nico was wheeled out twice – first as a fisherman holding a dead eel and a bit of net, then as a helicopter pilot. As he was shy and could barely speak anyway, it was a little difficult to understand him.
When the play was over, someone managed to fix up a speaker and put on some music, which floated over the sand and mingled with the gentle sound of lapping waves.
Maya and Tash sat on one side of Cleo, while Achilles settled on the other. Cleo could feel the warmth of the day, and of Achilles’s presence, in her chest.
Someone found a guitar and handed it to him, while another produced some bottles of wine. Soon, the air was filled with his lilting chords, which seemed to drift out over the sea.
A few of those left in the camp, having seen the glowing lanterns and heard the faint music, hurried down the mountain to join the party.
April, from the supermarket, somehow managed to conjure up plates of roasted vegetables and flatbread.
‘Eat,’ she said. ‘And dance. The ground’s still for now. Let’s remind it who’s boss.’
Tash was the first to stand. She took the hand of one of the children and began a slow, playful dance, twirling and laughing, her eyes gleaming in the lamplight. Achilles picked up his pace and soon others joined in, while those round the edges clapped in rhythm.
Cleo hesitated only a moment before Maya managed to pull her into the circle.
‘Come on,’ Maya urged her. ‘It’ll do us good to let our hair down.’
Under the flickering light, they moved together, awkwardly at first, then more freely. When Cleo finally let herself go completely, she felt at one with the music, the water and the sky above, now blazing with sparkling stars.
At one point, Maya stopped and looked round the circle of faces – locals, those who’d been on the retreat, volunteers and strangers.
‘This,’ she said softly, almost to herself, ‘feels like home.’
Cleo touched her arm. ‘Maybe it is – for a while at least.’
Tash sashayed past them, her eyes shining brightly.
‘I heard that. I think we should stay here forever!’ she said with a grin.
15
Work went on the following day much as it had the day before, but this time, Cleo stayed close to the camp, helping to rebuild Villa Ariadne.
The sun was low when she paused for a break, and a late-afternoon light gilded the villa’s shattered rooftops and the olive and lemon trees that still leaned drunkenly from the storm.
The air was heavy with damp earth and salt, but a fragile peace had settled over the area. Birds had returned, hesitantly at first, and now their song seemed to filter through the ancient villa’s shattered windows and echo down its corridors and round its walls.
It seemed, to Cleo, that the place was beginning to wake from a long sleep, its beams, floorboards, pillars and rafters slowly regaining consciousness, spurred on by the cheerful shouts, singing and activity of the workers.
Planning to have a short break and some coffee, she started to walk down the hallway, picking her way carefully past broken tiles and upended buckets. There was the constant sound of hammering above, as men repaired the roof.
Just beyond the open front door, she spotted Katerina, bent double over a patch of collapsed stone beneath the porch. The old woman was insisting on doing things herself, despite everyone’s protests.
‘I’m not dead yet,’ she’d told Cleo that morning, her black eyes glinting fiercely in her small, wrinkled face.
