Escape To The Hills

We had promised ourselves this holiday, and I hoped my husband would relax and enjoy it . . .

THE coach labours up the steep incline and I wonder briefly whether we will make it to the top. But we’re in expert hands.

I watch those oliveskinned hands, broad and capable, operating the steering wheel with confidence, imbuing trust in the rest of us who need do nothing more than sit back and enjoy the view.

And what a view! Each twist of the road brings another breathtaking vista of the slopes and peaks of the Troodos mountains.

We’re surrounded by rock; pine-clad, misttopped and magnificent. Far, far below is the glint of water, a scattering of red roof-tops and the winding road, threading through the verdant valley like a white ribbon.

Carl has the windowseat. At the start of the trip, he alternated between gazing at the scenery and turning to me.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” or “Look at that waterfall!”

Now, I realise, he hasn’t spoken in ages. I catch his reflection in the glass. It’s pensive, distracted. I know why, but knowing doesn’t always help.

I give Carl a gentle nudge with my elbow, a little reminder that I’m here if he needs me. He doesn’t look round.

My thoughts drift back. When they told me, at the hospital, that the lump in my breast was benign, I should have felt instantly relieved. But somehow it didn’t work that way. All those sleepless nights of worry had taken their toll and I couldn’t believe I could be that lucky. I was convinced the doctors had made a mistake.

But Carl had kept the faith all along, for both of us. He’d kept a quiet watch on me and my state of mind, had listened when I needed to talk until, eventually, I shook off my gloom and began to embrace my life again.

Now it’s my turn to do the same for him.

I gaze down from the window. The road is bordered by miniature landscapes of grasses and wildflowers – pink, purple, yellow, white – softening the edges of the sun-baked rocks. Our driver points out a Byzantine church with a squat round tower and we all crane to look.

We pass through another tiny village; two straggling rows of lowroofed dwellings encompassed by lush green vineyards and orchards.

A cat darts out from a patch of scrub between the buildings, followed by four kittens of various colours. The mother cat stops to lick one of her brood and turns mistrustful yellow eyes on the passing coach before she and her family vanish into the bushes.

A little way up the next, almost vertical section of the hill, the driver stops the coach and gets out of his seat to slide back the passenger door.

A tiny Cypriot woman, dressed in black, with a headscarf well down over her forehead and a patterned apron over her long skirts, climbs up the steps.

“Everybody, this is Constantina,” our driver says. “I think we’ll give her a lift up to where she lives, in the next village, don’t you?”

We all murmur and nod in agreement, and return Constantina’s crinkle-faced smile as she stands facing us in the aisle.

“That’s kind of him,” I say to Carl.

“Huh. I bet she can get up and down these hills faster than those goats if she wants to.”

This is not like Carl at all. The real Carl is one of the most charitable people you could ever meet.

“Kalimera,” our new passenger says.

“Kalimera,” we reply. Or most of us do. Carl just mutters something under his breath.

I expect Constantina to take the vacant seat at the front and the coach to move off again, but instead the driver talks to us about the plants that grow wild in Troodos. How herbs are gathered every day by the local women to use in their cooking.

Constantina dutifully produces a handful of leaves from her apron pocket. The driver takes a couple and passes them out to be handed round the coach. The chatter becomes animated as more leaves of different shapes are passed around, to be examined and sniffed.

Hearing about the culture and traditions of Troodos is a nice addition to the tour and we listen with interest, including Carl, I’m happy to note.

But as the coach drops Constantina off and I comment on the rustic little dwelling behind her gate, he spoils it.

“Don’t fall for it, Beth. She’s part of the tourist experience. It’s her job. She’ll be back in her apartment in Paphos with her feet up in front of the telly by teatime.”

“How can you say that?” I whisper, not wanting to be overheard. “Why wouldn’t she live here?’

We’ve just seen a woman feeding chickens in her yard, and another tending rows of vegetables. Several houses, though their windows were shuttered, had vehicles parked alongside.

“Some people do live here, I grant you,” Carl says, not bothering to lower his voice. “For part of the year, anyway. But not her. I bet Constantina’s not even her real name.”

There’s no point in continuing this conversation and I sit silent for the next mile or so.

Carl’s face closes as tightly as the shutters on those houses.

The midday heat envelops me, a surprise after the cool interior of the coach. Perched on a rocky platform above the road, the modern-looking restaurant with green-andwhite striped awning and signs advertising beer and ice-cream is at odds with its surroundings.

We take our places at the inside tables, and soon the food and wine have a mellowing effect on Carl. I watch him dipping bread into rich green olive oil, and helping himself to meats, cheeses and salads with obvious pleasure.

He chats happily with the others as the carafes of wine are passed along the table, and I allow myself to relax and enjoy my own lunch.

Then a man about Carl’s age, sitting at the end of the table with his wife, mentions a recent promotion at work and Carl falls silent again. He excuses himself before the thick black coffee comes round.

I find him outside, sitting alone at one of the tables beneath the awning, gazing thoughtfully at the scenery. “All right?”

He nods, and gives me a warm smile that lightens my heart.

The highlight of the tour is a visit to the Kykkos monastery, so high in the mountains it feels as if we’re at the top of the world. As the coach enters the gates, we hear that the original monastery dates back to the 11th century.

Much of it was later destroyed by numerous fires and lovingly rebuilt, time and again. I realise that the Kykkos story is, above all, one of hope, and survival against the odds.

As we leave the coach and head for the remarkably pristine buildings, I take my sunglasses out of my straw bag and put them on, then tuck my arm into Carl’s.

He smiles at me as we stroll beneath the grand arched entrance and into a peaceful courtyard. There is another coach outside besides ours, and a number of cars, but the spirit of the monastery permeates the atmosphere, quietening the voices and the echoing footsteps.

We gaze in awe at the gold splendour of the church and stand, transfixed, before the gorgeous colours of the murals and paintings.

A guide points the way to a mother-of-pearl shrine in which lies the icon of the Virgin Mary, the apparent source of many miracles. The icon itself is hidden from view; it’s said that whoever looks at it will be blinded.

Carl peers at the shrine. After the Constantina business, I’m half expecting him to announce that there’s nothing inside it. I decide to get in first.

“You’re not going to tell me this isn’t genuine, are you?”

“No way. This is as genuine as it gets.” He shakes his head at the apparent daftness of my question and gives me a look that reminds me of the old Carl.

“Just testing,” I say. “It’s all a matter of faith, of what you believe, isn’t it?”

Carl nods, biting his lower lip.

“I’m glad we came on this holiday,” he says after a moment. “You were right. It’s just what we needed.”

As we wander into a flower-scented garden, I relive that day Carl came home with the news that his department was closing down and he, with the rest of his team, faced redundancy.

“I’ll never get another job at my age. That’s it, Beth. I’m done for!”

It wasn’t only himself and his career he’d been thinking about. It was Rosie, our daughter; we ‘d wanted to help with the deposit on her first flat.

And he was thinking about the two of us, and what we had planned for the future, including this long-awaited holiday to Cyprus. Carl had wanted to cancel, until I’d persuaded him that there was all the more reason to have a holiday now, and we would manage, whatever.

The problem was that Carl had lost his belief in the way the world treated him. He’d lost belief in himself, too. But now, as I look at his face, somehow I know that a corner has been turned and Carl is getting to the place he needs to be. Just as I did.

On the way back down the mountain, we pass Constantina in her apron standing at the side of the road below her village, at the very spot where we’d picked her up earlier. The driver raises a hand in greeting, as do most of the passengers.

Carl just laughs and raises his eyes at me.

“Shouldn’t she be throwing those herbs into her cooking pot by now?”

I smother a smile, swivelling round to catch a last glimpse of Constantina. Then I look at the other passengers sitting contentedly in their seats. We may never know the truth about our herbgathering friend, but what does it matter? We can choose to believe whatever makes us happiest.

As the coach joins the traffic on the road back to Paphos, Carl takes out his phone and checks it.

A grin spreads across his face.

“What?” I lean in to look. “It’s a text from Rosie. She’s been keeping an eye on the house and has taken a message from the answer machine.” Carl can’t keep the excitement out of his voice. “I’ve got an interview next week! Rosie’s rung on my behalf and told them I’ll be there.”

“That’s marvellous!” I say. Switching off the phone, Carl settles back in his seat.

“Do you know something, Beth? I think I’m in with a chance there. A very good chance. I really believe that.”

I smile.

“If I don’t get that one, though,” he continues, “there will be other opportunities. You can’t keep a good man down!”

“You certainly can’t,” I say. n

Through our troubles, Carl had always kept the faith. Till now . . . We can choose to believe what makes us happiest