Ice Dreams Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 Meet the Family

  2 Bus Drivers and Hairpin Bends

  3 Nina Needs a Story

  4 The Goat-herders of the Gap of the Winds

  5 The Song of the Afternoon

  6 Ice

  7 The Ice-cream Makers

  8 The Meeting

  9 Deep-fried Squid

  10 Not a Melon

  11 Discovering Athens

  12 Ice Dreams

  13 Mama Starts Thinking

  14 Mama Holds a Meeting

  15 The Most Stubborn Goat in the Whole Country

  16 The Most Stubborn Donkey in the Whole World

  17 Moutsouna Wakes Up

  18 The Ice-bus

  19 Ingredients

  20 We Need More Time

  21 Nina’s Book

  Mama’s Vanilla Ice Cream

  Easy Ice Lollies

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  For Noah, and local things

  1

  Meet the Family

  ‘I’m going to begin by introducing everybody,’ Nina said to her brother Alex.

  ‘Mm,’ Alex mumbled, as he flipped over in his bed like a pancake tossed in Mama’s hot oil. He was ready and eager for sleep, and he twisted impatiently while he waited for his dreams to come.

  Nina narrowed her large brown eyes. ‘You’re not listening to me, are you?’ she asked.

  Alex turned himself over to face Nina and his bright eyes swept across her face like the strong beam of the lighthouse on the headland across the bay.

  ‘Who are you introducing?’

  ‘Everybody,’ Nina sighed. ‘I’ve been telling you and you haven’t been listening. I’ve decided not to wait until I’m older to become a writer. I’m going to start my first book now, and I’m going to begin by introducing everybody.’

  ‘Everybody?’ Alex whistled, sitting up in bed. ‘You can’t introduce everybody in Moutsouna. It would take up a whole book to introduce everybody in the village!’

  At once his inventive mind started sparking about a book that could introduce everybody in their village. He frowned. It might be a good idea. It could have an alphabetical list of all the villagers, with a picture of each person standing in front of their home. That way you would know whether they lived in one of the tall, white houses that squeezed together around the ice-factory in the harbour, or if, like he and Nina, they lived in one of the bungalows on the edge of the beach.

  ‘Yes!’ Alex nodded happily. ‘It could be a special sort of village directory. Your book could list the names of a person’s children and say how many goats and chickens each family had. People could look at it and see straight away how many villagers worked in the factory and how many still fished and owned boats, though that wouldn’t be very many now, would it?’

  ‘No, Alex, that isn’t what I mean at all,’ Nina said, rolling over to face her brother. ‘This book is just about us. Our family. I’m going to begin by introducing everybody in this house.’ She went on. ‘I’ll say, “This is Alex Papadopolos and this is Nina Papadopolos. They are twins.” Underneath, I’ll have a picture of you on your bicycle with the pull-along-cart that you made, and under the picture it will say, “Alex is always inventing things.”’

  ‘Mm.’ Alex What does picture of show?’

  ‘I’m not Nina sighed.

  ‘You could draw a picture of you helping Mama make ice cream. You like doing that,’ he added.

  Alex is always inventing things.

  ‘I was going to have a picture of me writing my book. I would look very serious and hard working. I suppose the ice-cream picture might be better. It could be fun to draw all the egg shells and the jugs of cream,’ Nina said thoughtfully. ‘Then I need a picture of Grandfather. I’ll say that he is the oldest man in the village.’

  ‘You had better say he has gone blind now. I don’t think people could tell just from a picture,’ Alex added.

  Nina was writing a book …

  Grandfather was the oldest man in the village. He was blind.

  ‘All right.’ Nina nodded. ‘And lastly, there’ll be a picture of Mama and Papa. I’ll label them Mama Papadopolos and Papa Papadopolos.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you just call them Eleni and Nikos?’ Alex asked, pulling the white bedsheet up around his dark head.

  Mama Papadopolos and Papa Papadopolos.

  ‘No,’ Nina said. ‘If you put too many names in a book all at once, people get confused. Maybe later on, I might refer to Mama as Eleni, but at the beginning I’ll just have the picture, and underneath it will say, “Mama Papadopolos is the school teacher in the neighbouring town of Apiranthos.’’’

  ‘In the neighbouring town of Apiranthos?’ Alex yawned. ‘This book sounds like a guide for tourists. You’ll be having a map next.’

  ‘It is not a guidebook! It’s a story about you and me, Mama, Papa and Grandfather, and how we all live together in this little house, with the goats and the chickens and the melon patch, and the lemon tree and the olive grove, and how Mama is the school teacher and Papa works in the ice-factory,’ Nina said, crossly. ‘And maybe, just maybe I’ll put in your friend, Ios next-door, and his goat, Kalimara, and maybe I’ll say his is the most stubborn goat in the whole of Greece.’

  Alex frowned. He wasn’t sure if anybody would want to read about stubborn goats.

  Then drawing a huge breath, Nina went on, ‘And there is going to be a map so people can see we live on an island, in a small village, between the mountains and the sea. With a map it will be obvious that the only way here is by boat, or down the hairpin road. Things have to be obvious in books, because people don’t like too much explanation. Explanation is boring and this isn’t going to be a boring book.’ Nina finished huffily, rolling over to face the wall. She closed her eyes, feeling cross and sad, thinking Alex thought her book was a bad idea.

  Actually Alex did not think the book was a bad idea. He felt excited about it and, like Nina, he lay there, listening to the lap of the sea as the waves came in across the beach and, like Nina, he was imagining a map of their island, thinking of all the tiny details he would have to put on it. For he had decided he had better be the one to draw it. The map would need to be very accurate, so that people wouldn’t get lost in the mountains. It would need to be very exact so readers could tell just by looking at it how very dangerous the hairpin-bend road was.

  Nina twirled one lock of her brown hair around a sleepy finger. Her great long eyelashes flapped slowly at her eyes like butterflies folding their wings.

  ‘Nina,’ Alex whispered, ‘I’ll help you with your map. On our way to school tomorrow, we’ll count the number of bends there are on the hairpin road.’

  But Nina didn’t answer. She was already fast asleep.

  2

  Bus Drivers and Hairpin Bends

  Nina and Alex ran excitedly to breakfast. Thoughts of their map filled their heads and their eyes shone.

  ‘Ha!’ Papa Papadopolos said as they came to the table. ‘Just by looking at you I can tell what day of the week it is! You know why?’ he asked, offering Nina a slice of thick bread. Nina smiled back at him. She loved her papa. She knew what he was about to say because every Monday morning he said the same thing.

  ‘Just by looking at your faces I can tell it’s Monday or Wednesday or Friday. You know why, eh?’ Papa joked.

  ‘Bus drivers,’ Nina and Alex answered together.

  ‘Exactly!’ Papa laughed. ‘Bus drivers. The clock of this whole village ticks on bus drivers.’ He slapped his hand cheerfully on the table. ‘Right now in every house the children are smiling.’ (He smiled a big smile.) ‘They’re gulping their food.’ (Papa gulp
ed and chewed dramatically.) ‘They’re rushing their dressing. They’re brushing their hair with toothbrushes they’re in such a hurry.’ (Papa held his fork in front of his mouth and then swept it backwards through his hair.) ‘You know why?’ Papa smiled, opening his arms in a big shrug.

  Nina and Alex nodded, but they didn’t interrupt. They liked it when Papa carried on like this.

  ‘The whole happiness of our village depends on bus drivers. On Tuesdays and Thursdays the children wake up and sigh.’ (He groaned horribly.) ‘The children are miserable; they make everyone around them miserable! Why? Old Dimitri from the neighbouring town of Apiranthos!’ He shook his head. ‘Grumpy Dimitri. Smelly Dimitri.’ He sniffed and gagged and pretended to choke.

  The twins giggled.

  ‘Oh Papa!’ Mama Papadopolos frowned. ‘You shouldn’t say such things in front of the children. He doesn’t smell. He uses aftershave, that’s all.’

  ‘Smelly Dimitri Simitas from Apiranthos! What do we say eh, my children? We say “Boo! Boo!”’

  ‘Boo!’ The children echoed, laughing.

  ‘On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Smelly Dimitri drives the bus,’ Papa went on. ‘He wears mirrored sunglasses so you can’t see his eyes.’ (Papa put his hands in front of his face.) ‘And he speaks to the children with a sharp tongue that if … if you could see it, if he let it out of his head, you would know it was forked like a snake’s. Sssss!’ Papa hissed.

  ‘Oh Papa!’ Mama said crossly. ‘What have you got against the man?’

  ‘It’s not me; it’s the children that don’t like him,’ Papa carried on.

  ‘Just because he’s a bit sharp with them? The bus is always on time on his days. He always drives at a nice, steady pace.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Papa nodded. ‘And you can drive through life in exactly the same way. You can take it very seriously, set your heart on your destination and then get impatient when anything gets in the way. Am I right, Grandfather?’ Papa asked, leaning over toward his father-in-law.

  Grandfather nodded slowly.

  ‘Or,’ Papa said suddenly, becoming quite calm and still, ‘you can do the opposite and be like Filipos.’

  The children smiled. Easily they could imagine Filipos Velcanos who drove the bus on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Alex even imagined the tall, thin house Filipos lived in beside the ice-factory. Nina pictured his face and remembered he never wore sunglasses so you always saw his bright eyes.

  ‘Filipos drives the bus,’ Papa said, putting his arms out and steering an imaginary wheel, ‘with the radio turned up loud. When his favourite songs come on he turns the volume even higher and sings along. Now Smelly Dimitri, he uses the horn when he is impatient and angry, but Filipos thinks of the horn as a musical instrument he just happens to be playing while driving a bus. At every bend in the road he gives two long blasts and shouts out Moutsouna or Apiranthos or wherever it is he’s stopping next.’

  ‘That way a person can get a headache,’ Mama sighed, getting up to gather her bags.

  ‘But no one ever has to worry they’re on the wrong bus!’ Papa laughed. ‘And why, if you told Filipos you had a headache, he’d drive you all the way to the chemist in Naxos Town! Filipos has time for everyone, time for the tired old school mistresses with their headaches and time for small children who run and trip and drop their sticky sweets.’ (He said reaching forward to put small, rustling packages in Nina and Alex’s pockets.) ‘Filipos drives with his heart in his hand like a handkerchief, ever ready to hand it out to whoever needs it,’ Papa said. ‘With Filipos the whole drive is a carnival; with him it’s the journey that matters; it’s how you get there, not where you’re going. We never really know where we’re going, do we, Grandfather?’ Papa Papadopolos shrugged and the old man nodded slowly. ‘And we never know what we’ll meet on the way. Maybe they’ll be stray goats or a stubborn donkey, or a woman with more parcels than she can carry, or a tourist who has broken down. You can beep your horn impatiently at them like Smelly Dimitri.’ (Papa tooted loudly.) ‘Or you can welcome them into your journey with a smile!’

  Alex nodded. Filipos always welcomed everything with a smile. He welcomed the stray goats and the tourists driving down the centre of the road trying to steer away from the dangerous cliffs. Alex smiled to himself, yes, Filipos welcomed the dangerous road. He welcomed the way it had no wall to protect you. He lived his days with the back of the bus or the front of the bus hung in some precarious way over the edge of a cliff, but he always kept the four wheels squarely on the road. Driving the bus in those mountains was wild and dangerous, but Alex knew if you asked his friends what they wanted to be when they grew up and left school, all of them, girls and boys, dreamed of becoming bus drivers like Filipos.

  ‘Come on,’ Nina said suddenly to Alex, seeing Mama was ready by the door. ‘We’d better get counting.’

  ‘Counting?’ Papa asked.

  ‘Secret,’ Nina said, grabbing Alex’s arm and pulling him from the house. They overtook Mama as she was saying her goodbyes and ran along the dusty road until they reached the square by the harbour where the old bus waited. Its door hung open and there was Filipos smiling at them. Yes! Nina and Alex thought gladly, knowing no hairpin bend was going to slip by unnoticed while they had Filipos there hooting his horn and shouting ‘Apiranthos, Apiranthos!’ at each and every one.

  3

  Nina Needs a Story

  That evening, just as every evening, the village children played football on the beach. Their parents and uncles and aunts gathered on the Papadopolos porch to watch as the last rays of the setting sun slipped behind the mountains. But Alex and Nina didn’t join them; they were busy inside. As he worked, Alex could hear the adults’ talk drift in through the open window. He could even hear the thud and lift of the ball, but he wasn’t interested in playing right now. It was more important to finish his map.

  Nina went to the window to look out. The village was filling with purple dusk and the great blue night coming down from the hills. Across the bay the island of Dhenousa had disappeared into the dark. The swirling beam of the lighthouse on the headland flashed into the black sky.

  Alex put the final details on his map. Proudly he handed it to Nina. The hairpin road had exactly thirty-six bad bends.

  ‘Thanks, thanks so much,’ Nina said, snaking her finger down the curved road. Then she folded the map carefully into the front of her new notebook.

  ‘Alex?’ she asked quietly. ‘Alex, I’m worried about my book.’

  ‘What sort of worried?’ Alex smiled.

  ‘Well in chapter one I’ve introduced everybody and I’ve drawn pictures. It’s a good start, but I don’t know what to put in next. What I really want is to write a book that children say is their favourite book ever.’

  ‘You could never write a book as good as that!’ Alex pouted. ‘Most favourite books have already been written.’

  That made Nina cross. ‘That’s like saying all the best inventions have already been invented. If I said that, would you stop inventing things?’

  Alex looked at her very seriously. He had to admit Nina had a point. Even if he thought all the best inventions had already been invented, it would never stop him from trying to invent more.

  ‘Of course not.’ Alex nodded. He thought for a moment. ‘A favourite book has to be about something children love. Like sweets,’ Alex said.

  ‘I don’t want to write about sweets,’ Nina moaned.

  ‘Or about a person that children love. Like Santa Claus,’ Alex suggested.

  ‘I don’t want to write about Santa Claus,’ Nina sighed. ‘I want to write about us.’

  ‘You could put in some of my inventions if you like,’ Alex offered.

  Nina frowned.

  ‘You could put in my car-that-steers-by-itself or my bicycle-that-powers-uphill? I’ve drawings of my kite-that-doesn’t-get-stuck-in-olive-trees, but I’m still working on my plane-that-doesn’t-break-when-it-crashes. You could have that when I’m ready?’

>   ‘That’s kind of you Alex, but you know, what I really need is a story.’

  ‘A story?’ Alex puzzled.

  ‘Yes, a story about all these people that live in this house.’

  ‘Well if you want a story, you should be out on the porch with the adults. You should be sitting listening to Grandfather,’ Alex said.

  ‘Of course! That’s what I need, one of Grandfather’s stories!’ Nina smiled at him and then turned on her heels and ran, notebook in hand, out of the room. Alex followed after her.

  Outside aunts and uncles and children had settled like roosting birds. In his rocking chair in the centre of the porch sat Grandfather. The smaller children crept to sit close by. Like their older brothers and sisters they were a little bit frightened of him. It was whispered that his blindness gave him special powers. It was said he could see things that no one else could and he could smell things before they ever happened. The children were afraid he could read their minds. Yet, despite their fear, they drew around as if he were a fire that kept them warm. For Grandfather was the oldest person in their village and as Mama Papadopolos always said, he was a living book, a history book of Moutsouna, that someone had better write down.

  Nina went to sit on Mama’s lap. Alex came out to find Papa’s knee. His big arms wrapped Alex in a tight hug and Alex could smell that fresh icy scent that all the men who worked in the factory came home with.

  Suddenly the boy next door, Ios, got up and went shyly to the grandfather.

  ‘Will you tell a story about my people, please?’ he asked.

  The grandfather’s worn hands lifted slowly to Ios’ face. Gently, the old man felt the boy’s forehead; his fingers sketched around his eyes and then back to feel Ios’ ears. They stuck out strongly from the sides of his head.

  The children watched transfixed. Often they copied him, running wild and blindfold in the olive groves. They tried to guess one another by their ears or noses, but no one could do it like the grandfather.