They have to borrow a wheelbarrow from Mr Castanides and the men of the street take turns pushing Christos Vellas through the neighbourhood, up the hill to the cemetery, a terribly small procession of mourners following. Mrs Vellas, screaming in the throes of her grief, has to be held upright by Mrs Kodjagas and Mrs Castanides. The dead man’s stockinged feet, toes poking through, bob with every rut and dip in the road, the men from the cafe having decided that Charon won’t be interested in Christos’s nice Italian shoes. Zoë follows, trying to remember more about Christos than the beans and oil he sold her. But, she decides, that might be good enough. The first olive oil she had tasted for a year. She had paid for it, but what a gift it was. The priest from St George’s is persuaded to come and say the proper words, but there is no coffin and the men dig a hurried, shallow grave in a patch of empty ground that is already mounded with fresh earth from other burials. When they slide him into the little slot in the chalky earth, Zoë can’t bear to look down at his smashed face, so she throws in a sprig of wild basil flowers and walks back home as fast as she can, hugging herself for warmth, even though the sun is still shining.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

France, 7th August 1944

My darling Zoë,