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others who are with us. ‘In war it is the best who are killed, ‘‘the brave
ones of the world” . . . . ’
George says, ‘When I was in London I heard a piece of Byzantine
folk music from Mt Athos; the oldest they’ve ever found.’
George went to London three years ago as one of the two Greeks
invited to a grand Reunion of Resistance heroes who had helped the
allies.
‘How many days were you there, George?’
‘Four.’
‘And of those four, how many did it rain?’
‘Po po po ! All four.’
‘Did you like the English food ?’
‘Wherever I am, I always like the food.’ His eyes go watery. The
abstracted look comes over his face. ‘But our food was special. We were
official guests. We went to a dinner at a big hotel – what’s it called ? –
Claridges? – and do you know?’ (for the benefit of the others) ‘They
start the meal with melon and you eat it with a spoon.’
‘We don’t often get melon in England,’ I said.
‘We had it every day,’ he says firmly. ‘They’d invited all the ambassadors
from all the countries represented at the Reunion, and there
were flags for each country put out on the table. I thought the Greek
flag was to show us where to sit and I was just going over there to sit
down with my Greek friend when,’ he begins to laugh, ‘the Greek
ambassador, Mr Sepheris the poet, sits down there. And there was a
man all dressed up, with a big hammer, and BAM BAM BAM he bangs
this hammer and someone gets up and makes a speech. It was happening
all the time, speeches, speeches. We just ate.’
George has become the village story teller.
‘What about the rain?’ says Pavlos. ‘It was summer, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. The next day we went to a “Garden Party” at Buckingham
Palace to meet the Queen. There was I looking round me, expecting
a being different from other beings, and then in she comes followed by a
lot of ladies and everyone is looking at them and I have to ask, “Which
is the Queen ?” because they’re all the same to me. Then a cloud comes
up and brrr! – it rains. The Queen is all right, someone holds an
umbrella over her. So I run up to some lady and say “Excuzz me, can
I stand under your umbrella please?” Then of course the rain stops.’
Darkness falls. Click click of worry beads. The women still plod down
the street carrying their water jars. The clocks have stopped here.
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