The old thing had come from a village of the Mesoyia. If it had not been for her complexion, she might have been moulded out of clay – formally she was so archaic. But her complexion, it was porcelain. Under the stubble she remained a delicate blush colour, rather blue at times to be sure, from a collaboration of bristle with the white powder that she used. But Anthoula’s eye would not have disgraced the Panayia. Of such a candour, of such a truly pure blue. It must, in fact, have been her appearance of chastity which appealed so very much to the men. For there had been Kyr Spyrakopoulos, the caretaker at sixty-one, and Kyr Hondros of the Three Lemon Trees, and Manolis of the laundry, to name a few. There had been Vangelaki, the gendarme at Ayia Paraskevi, who was the reason why she had returned to her village and kept the little sweetshop for the nuns. Anthoula had sold bon-bons, and mineral waters, and postcards of the mosaics, and of course the embroideries the nuns themselves had worked. It should have turned out an admirable arrangement if it had not been for Vangelaki. Who would come. And sit. It grew into quite a scandal, Vangelaki’s boots lying at the door. Such a ruddy young man, it must have been his Albanian blood. Anthoula loved him. She could have eaten every particle of the burnt earth from which her Vangelaki was baked. Even when he brought disaster. First, it was the nuns. The diavolopoutanes had packed her off. Then, it was her savings. Of course, she said, I knew Vangelaki was after my money. She had lived for a time after the disaster at Pancrati, with a little cat, and swept the floors of public institutions for a crust of bread. Till the cat had wandered. As some cats will. Then Anthoula had returned to a former mistress, Kyria Alexiou.

‘I might have known,’ Anthoula said. ‘A cat is never more than a cat’

‘Oh, but you must experiment,’ her mistress assured her, ‘you must try, Anthoula, until you have found the cat that suits you.’

‘I’ll not try,’ Anthoula grunted, ‘here where there are cats for all.’

‘But you’re fond of them, aren’t you?’ the mistress insisted.

‘It’s an effort that doesn’t cost,’ Anthoula said, and sighed.

On returning home Kyria Alexiou could never congratulate herself enough for recovering the services of old Anthoula.

She would hear:

‘There! Stick this inside, and grow into a big strong man!’ ‘Ach, but Anthoula, I am too tired, it is too hot to think about food!’

‘I don’t know what else a man would think about at mid-day, unless he is the randy sort.’

Then Kyria Alexiou would peep in – she was so pleased to hear such a flow of language, of truly popular speech – and there would be Aleko her husband still in his pyjama pants. She did not notice how he sagged, only the full fork with which Anthoula was threatening further refusal from her important husband’s lips.