other good girls in our own village of marriageable age. Why her?’ But Mitros was consumed by an unhealthy fixation for the dusky young beauty from the lower village who treated him as if he didn’t exist. The fact that Froso had barely noticed his presence and been entirely unaware of his infatuation with her was irrelevant to him; he had simply been waiting for her to come of age so that he could take possession of her. Yet now it looked as if she might be slipping through his fingers. The consideration that the girl had no say in the matter, was of no importance to Mitros’s plan. Her first visit to the village after their encounter, which Froso made hurriedly with her heart beating fast, went smoothly with no unwelcome chance meetings. She caught the very first bus and arrived just as her teacher was opening the schoolhouse.
‘Why so early and in such a hurry, Froso?’ Kyria Demitra asked, surprised that the girl didn’t stay on a little while for their customary chat about the book she was returning.
‘I need to get home to help mother,’ she lied, wishing that she could have confided in her. Kyria Demitra was a good person, a young woman not long married herself, and Froso fancied her former teacher might have some advice for her, if only she could summon the courage to speak to her.
The deciding factor to speak to her own mother arose when on her second visit to the village Mitros blatantly approached her as she waited in the square to board the bus. He stood in front of her, a smile more like a grimace on his lips, hands in his pockets, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and stared at her.
‘If I see you again with that hobo,’ he hissed at last, grinding his cigarette under his shoe, ‘I’ll go straight to your mother and father . . . or worse.’
That night in bed, frightened and disturbed, Froso tossed and turned, dark scenarios playing in her mind. Eventually she decided that if anyone was going to speak to her mother it must be herself. She had to take matters into her own hands: she would not be blackmailed or allow this stranger to terrorize her. She had always been able to talk with Calliope; they had been so close, more like sisters than mother and daughter, she tried to reassure herself. But even if her mother had always been fair, this was different, telling her that she was in love with a boy who she had been secretly meeting in deserted places was not going to be easy. Froso prayed that Calliope would be able to see that no crime was committed and that Kosmas was a decent boy from a good family even if they didn’t have much money. She would omit the part about the furtive kisses and embraces in the caves, which she knew would not be well received. She would tell her mother that she and Kosmas were in love and that he wanted to come with his father to ask for her hand. They didn’t have to marry just yet, but at least get engaged, make it legal, make it known, and deter this older man who was frightening her.
Calliope sat silently listening to Froso speak. When the girl finally finished, she got up, picked up the bricky and started to make coffee.
‘Why didn’t you come and tell me about Kosmas earlier?’ was her first question to her daughter. ‘If the boy loves you, he should have asked for you. He should have done the decent thing.’
‘Because I knew you and father would say I was too young and . . .’ Froso’s voice trailed off. She knew that was not a good enough reason. She knew that the only reason she had not told her mother was because the young lovers’ lust for each other was not something that could have been expressed; she couldn’t risk her father’s wrath – it had to be kept secret. She also knew well enough how decent girls were expected to behave, and she had misbehaved. Love was one thing, it could be tolerated; lust was another.
‘He . . . Mitros . . .’ Calliope paused for a moment and looked at her daughter, a furrow appearing between her brows. ‘When he asked for you, we told him he had to wait. How could we have known then that he was not honourable, that he