Writing for Fun
April 2017
Pennies From Heaven - Maureen Rampersaud
It was dusk by the time Lydia picked her way through the olive grove that her great-grandfather had planted. It had been a long, tiring journey to Thessaloniki, so she took deep breaths of the sweet night air to replenish her. It was all hers now, and the enormity of the responsibility of her legacy had not sunk in yet. She wouldn't allow herself to worry about the practicalities of running all this yet. She revelled in the here and now. London life had been stifling her in so many ways . . . stressful job, miserable weather and most of all . . . a string of broken relationships. Perhaps she'd find peace here.
Lydia slept deeply that night, although she vaguely thought she heard scratching sounds in the early hours. The shutters kept the room so dark that it was past ten o'clock when she threw them open. Shielding her eyes from the harsh sunlight, she smiled, feeling so good. Desperate for coffee, she rummaged through the provisions, noticing that something had been nibbling one of the bags. She was glad that she had crammed so much into the ancient refrigerator.
Outside, she stretched her legs under the rickety table and took mouthfuls of delicious coffee, strong, the way her father always made it. It was the little things that reminded her of him, experiences like this ambushed her and made her tearful.
'Eh, what do you think you're doing?'
An elderly Greek man had appeared from nowhere, shouting and waving a pitchfork at her. Her Greek was rusty, but she caught a few phrases, 'Foreigners trespassing on our sacred land', 'promised my friend and neighbour' and finally, 'I am the guardian of his property, God rest his soul.'
This outburst was accompanied by a sign of the cross, delivered with all the drama of the final death scene of an opera.
A younger man stepped forward and managed to calm him down, which gave Lydia a chance to explain, in halting Greek, who she was. Well, what a change, Aristotle, Aris for short, was all apologies, clasping her to his chest and introducing her to his son, Giorgos.
Over coffee, Aris explained that her olive harvest was overdue, but if she paid a team of local workers, this year's harvest could be saved.
'But I have no money, I'll have to do what I can alone.'
'Come back with us and we'll show you what to do, you can have Giorgos to help you. Our harvest is over and he hasn't seen fit to get married and give me grandchildren to play with, so he's no bloody use to me!'
Giorgos sighed and shrugged, smirking at Lydia. She empathized with him . . . parents! They were walking through the olives when Giorgos stopped. Shading his eyes, he scrutinized the top of one of the trees.
'Give me your pitchfork, Pappa.'
He poked at something lodged in the branches which suddenly gave way in a deluge of coins, followed by an old sack. Giorgos turned to Lydia with the sweetest smile,
'Not, pennies from heaven, but euros . . . much more useful!'
Aris's face was a picture of astonishment.
'Your pappa was a sly one, he never believed in banks, not in this country, what a wise man. Now you can pay your workers.'
Giorgos responded promptly, 'You can still have me . . . for free!'
Lydia looked upwards and thought, 'Thank you, God.'