space, more a museum, crammed in, claustrophobic.
Between the end of the bed and the dressing table, at right angles to it, are stacks of boxes around the standard lamp. Material peeps from one which is half open as if someone has rifled through the contents. On the other side of the dressing table, behind his chair, is a rack hung with clothes. The smell of mothballs dominates. A sleeve of a fur coat ruffles his mop of hair at the back if he moves.
‘ Right. Sign here,’ she demands.
‘ Whilst I appreciate that you will take me as a tenant, I wonder if I might see the room first?’ Theo speaks kindly.
‘ I hope you are not going to be a difficult tenant.’ She glares at him, her sharp features intensifying her words.
Theo stands. If she is not going to show him the room, there is nothing more to be done here, even if the rent is reasonable, and even if it means he must spend a night in the park.
‘Help me up, then!’ she hisses. Theo lunges to her aid. Her arms are as fragile as chicken bones; he tries not to grip them too firmly. His own Yiayia grew thin in her last years, paper skin over protruding bones, her frailty making her grumpy. Confusion took over, especially about people, and she mistook the living for the dead, talking to both. She thought his baba was her brother who died in the war, and so his baba became terse and officious with her. She thought his mama was a German soldier come to steal the food, as she always had a plate in her hands, so Dimitra stayed away, sent Theo around with the home-cooked food. But Yiayia always knew who Theo was. He would look forward to the times he popped in with a meal. She would tell him stories of her childhood, the old days, the better ways.
Soon after the onset of her illness, he was called up for his military service in Corinth, and not long after that, his baba wrote to inform him of Yiayia’s passing. He stared at the ceiling, lying in his bunk that night, his heart heavy because he could not be by her bedside to hold her hand as she left, to whisper his words of love and comfort, let her know she was not alone and that she would be missed. He would have given anything to be with her in the moments of her departure so her final feeling would be one of love.
‘ I won’t break.’ The old landlady snaps, but she is on her feet and Theo lets go. He remains alert, ready to catch her if she falls.
She makes her way to the door. Theo hopes his room will not be directly opposite hers. She may be alone and vulnerable, but he is in Athens to live his own life. He does not want to end up at her every beck and call. For that, he can stay at home with his baba.
But she walks past the doors on this floor and begins a slow descent. Even better, he will not be on the same floor at all. This could work out well.
Theo peers into the shadows as he follows her down the staircase, eager to know which of the doors on the ground floor will be his, but she walks straight to the front door and out onto the steps.
‘Shut the door then,’ she snaps. Theo rolls his eyes behind her back, but he cannot take her too seriously. Old age must be hard, especially if you are a woman alone.
With one hand against the building, she walks to the corner, Theo following. Out in the light, he can see that the woman ’s dress is very faded and many of the beads are missing, leaving pale bald patches. She turns the corner round the side of the house and they pass two more windows at head height and two that are half-submerged below pavement level, with iron grates to stop people falling down the cutaways made to let the light in. There is another balcony above, with more fine stone-carved brackets. At the end of the building, between this property and next door, is a painted cast-iron gate. Taking a key from around her neck, she struggles as it gets caught in her feathers and she mutters to herself as she tugs it free. The gate opens, she takes another key, which also becomes caught.
Between the end of the bed and the dressing table, at right angles to it, are stacks of boxes around the standard lamp. Material peeps from one which is half open as if someone has rifled through the contents. On the other side of the dressing table, behind his chair, is a rack hung with clothes. The smell of mothballs dominates. A sleeve of a fur coat ruffles his mop of hair at the back if he moves.
‘ Right. Sign here,’ she demands.
‘ Whilst I appreciate that you will take me as a tenant, I wonder if I might see the room first?’ Theo speaks kindly.
‘ I hope you are not going to be a difficult tenant.’ She glares at him, her sharp features intensifying her words.
Theo stands. If she is not going to show him the room, there is nothing more to be done here, even if the rent is reasonable, and even if it means he must spend a night in the park.
‘Help me up, then!’ she hisses. Theo lunges to her aid. Her arms are as fragile as chicken bones; he tries not to grip them too firmly. His own Yiayia grew thin in her last years, paper skin over protruding bones, her frailty making her grumpy. Confusion took over, especially about people, and she mistook the living for the dead, talking to both. She thought his baba was her brother who died in the war, and so his baba became terse and officious with her. She thought his mama was a German soldier come to steal the food, as she always had a plate in her hands, so Dimitra stayed away, sent Theo around with the home-cooked food. But Yiayia always knew who Theo was. He would look forward to the times he popped in with a meal. She would tell him stories of her childhood, the old days, the better ways.
Soon after the onset of her illness, he was called up for his military service in Corinth, and not long after that, his baba wrote to inform him of Yiayia’s passing. He stared at the ceiling, lying in his bunk that night, his heart heavy because he could not be by her bedside to hold her hand as she left, to whisper his words of love and comfort, let her know she was not alone and that she would be missed. He would have given anything to be with her in the moments of her departure so her final feeling would be one of love.
‘ I won’t break.’ The old landlady snaps, but she is on her feet and Theo lets go. He remains alert, ready to catch her if she falls.
She makes her way to the door. Theo hopes his room will not be directly opposite hers. She may be alone and vulnerable, but he is in Athens to live his own life. He does not want to end up at her every beck and call. For that, he can stay at home with his baba.
But she walks past the doors on this floor and begins a slow descent. Even better, he will not be on the same floor at all. This could work out well.
Theo peers into the shadows as he follows her down the staircase, eager to know which of the doors on the ground floor will be his, but she walks straight to the front door and out onto the steps.
‘Shut the door then,’ she snaps. Theo rolls his eyes behind her back, but he cannot take her too seriously. Old age must be hard, especially if you are a woman alone.
With one hand against the building, she walks to the corner, Theo following. Out in the light, he can see that the woman ’s dress is very faded and many of the beads are missing, leaving pale bald patches. She turns the corner round the side of the house and they pass two more windows at head height and two that are half-submerged below pavement level, with iron grates to stop people falling down the cutaways made to let the light in. There is another balcony above, with more fine stone-carved brackets. At the end of the building, between this property and next door, is a painted cast-iron gate. Taking a key from around her neck, she struggles as it gets caught in her feathers and she mutters to herself as she tugs it free. The gate opens, she takes another key, which also becomes caught.
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