The house on the cliff

That was how I learned about my older brother, Géorgios Velissáris, named after his grandfather, known as Tzórtzis. He had died two months after I was born, aged four. Loxándra told me the story. It had happened in Kifissiá, and involved an absent-minded nanny, childish curiosity, an outdoor bread oven, smoke inhalation, etc, etc. She told it all jumbled up and I didn’t ask for details. That night I too wept, for the lost older brother I’d always wished I had. After that scene in her boudoir, Dora and I lived in a state of prolonged truce. Then Mrs Sergeant arrived to take charge of my transformation from jungle child to young lady of good family, and it was she who gave orders, she who had to cope with my stubbornness, my silence, and my invincible indifference. My mother, ever courteous and and correct, retreated behind the battle lines. She dealt with me from a distance, with friendly interest, and imposed discipline or punishment only when absolutely necessary. The rest of her time she spent looking after herself, exercise, tennis, soirees, teas, and pinochle - and was always entertaining in describing these outings the following morning. Mrs Sergeant was a widow, stranded in Athens without employment when her previous charge got married. It was Aunt Éva who found her. She wasn’t a bad person, poor woman, but she was boring, and English, and smelled perpetually of unwashed wool. She wore thick tweed skirts summer and winter, and a string of dull pearls. When she spoke she emphasised certain words with a sharp inhalation. She gave me English lessons, that is she corrected my grammar and despaired over my wide and frequently inappropriate vocabulary and my accent, which Dóra found amusing. Our family’s particular mode of speaking English, originating with Morgy’s peculiar mix as well as Alexandrian multilingualism, had come down through Ánthimi and her children to me. And I, who had learned “the King’s English” (or the BBC’s, though that too is now passé) from Rafe, and could speak it impeccably, delighted in tormenting her with the accent of my inheritance. I was always a good mimic. She adored my mother. In her free time, when I was at school that is, or when I managed to escape her, she was the loyal volunteer handmaiden and lady’s maid of the beautiful Dóra, washing and ironing her delicate silk underthings, painting her nails, rubbing her back, brushing her hair, and running any number of errands, all for no reward but a smile or a blown kiss. Daddy I barely ever saw. They went out almost every night, but I couldn’t keep him company any more while he was shaving. They would close the doors when they were getting ready for an evening out, usually claiming a serious discussion. A serious discussion meant arguing about money, with Dóra complaining there wasn’t enough and him that she was spending too much of what there was. It was usually only her side I heard, since he took care to speak softly. On Sundays, when she woke up late, as she did every day, he and I still went shooting skeet in Kaissarianí, but now I had to wear pleated skirts and knee-socks, which I found very inconvenient. It