by C. A. Larmer
“You all right, mate?”
Harry was standing beside him now as he waited in the driveway, Tom no longer welcome in his own home.
Scarlett had already fetched a worried-looking Phil, fed him breakfast and driven him to school, and she’d probably called Harry back from the paddocks while she was at it. That’s where he usually spent his mornings, checking fence lines, tending the beasts.
Avoiding his busybody wife, Tom thought.
“Yeah, it’s great fun having strangers crawl through your underwear drawer.”
“They’re just crossing their t’s.”
“Course they are.” Then he turned to eyeball him. “Why d’you have to go and tell Phil about Mum? Why did you do that?”
Harry took a step back. “I can’t believe you haven’t. Why the secrecy? She left twenty years ago.”
“So? That somehow makes it okay.”
Harry looked perplexed. He wasn’t sure what Tom was on about. “Sorry if I overstepped, Tommo, but I assumed Phil knew what had gone on. I didn’t give all the details, I simply explained she also vanished when we were kids. I thought it might help.”
“He’s barely talking to me, so good work, mate.”
“He barely talks to you anyway.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m outta here.” Harry stormed off, hands in his pockets just as Geoff approached.
“You two all right?”
“Never better,” Tom said, and Geoff glanced back towards the retreating brother and wondered now about their relationship.
The Wilson boys had always been close—you picked on one at school, you picked on both—which was why news that their dad had left the entire property to Harry had seemed a cruel blow, almost as though he was intending to break them up. In any case it hadn’t worked. Harry had done the brotherly thing and offered a slice of the property to Tom, righting a wrong and keeping the relationship close. Geoff wondered now what else Harry would do for his brother. Would he lie for him, for instance?
He turned back to Tom and tapped his watch. “I’m not waiting any longer, mate. I’ve arranged the press briefing for three o’clock so we can get it on the news tonight. I know you’ve got work, but I’ve already cleared it with Jimbo. He said to take the rest of the day off.”
“What?”
“Now don’t get angry. I figured he’d be more likely to say yes if I was the one doing the asking.”
That wasn’t what Tom was angry about. In fact, he wasn’t angry at all, he was surprised. “So that’s it. You’re done?”
“Here, yeah, sure.” He shook his head. “I didn’t really expect to find a smoking gun. I just had to tick that one off.”
Tom felt a surge of disappointment. Of course there was no smoking gun, but he had assumed they’d find some evidence of the holiday she was clearly planning. If six trained police officers couldn’t find it, what hope did he have?
“We’ll need you in there by about two thirty, okay? No later. Come to the front desk and ask for Ommie. She’s the media manager.”
“You guys have a media manager?”
He smiled. “It’s a slick operation we run, mate.”
SARISI
The fishing boat was made of fibreglass-reinforced wood, the hull painted a cheerful Greek blue with a tiny cockpit for the skipper, a ragged Greek flag at the stern and very little else to ingratiate itself. Millie had initially been assisted to a wooden bench seat behind the cockpit that had been furnished with a mouldy plastic cushion, but it left her choking up diesel fumes, and she was soon standing next to the skipper, making small talk. Eventually she groped her way down the starboard side, almost to the stern where Nicholas was sitting, legs dangling over the edge, holding what looked like a rusty tin can.
Despite the movement of the boat, the water below them was almost serene, yet Millie had been on so few boats she was yet to find her sea legs and thanked the heavens for the handrail as she made her way to him, finally dropping down clumsily by his side.
Nicholas looked up from the can—a makeshift fishing rod with line twined around it, one end reaching down into the water. He didn’t usually fish off a moving vessel, but they were going so slowly he thought he’d try his luck.
“Sorry!” he yelled, his voice rising with the sound of the motor and the wind. “She’s the flashiest vessel I could find at late notice.”
“Oh it’s fine,” she yelled back. “I’m just so appreciative he could take me.” She glanced forward. “This skipper fellow, I get the feeling he doesn’t speak much English.”
“Giannis? Not a word!” Nico laughed. “How long did it take you to work that out?” He laughed again. “Nah, half the islanders don’t speak any English. It’s the only reason they let me stay. I help translate.”
“You speak Greek?”
He waggled his free hand. “I understand a bit. Come from a big Greek family, so some of it sunk in.”
“You’re from Melbourne?”
He glanced back at her. “I knew you were smart.”
But it was an easy guess. One of the largest Greek populations outside Athens could be found in that Australian city.
“Don’t you miss your family?” she asked, watching as he fished, and he shrugged and focused on his line.
He’d gone quiet, and she wondered whether he preferred to fish alone when he said, “We’ll be on Mikro in about ten. It’s close, but this old tug is slow, which is why I jumped on. Ideal for fishing.” Then he glanced across at her. “Hope you don’t mind my tagging along. I can get some decent bream out here. Saves me having to go out on the rocks this arvo.”
“Not at all. Thanks so much for organising this. I’m sure Giannis had better plans for the day. Besides, maybe you can translate for me, with Zoe.”
That brought the smile back to his face.
“What?” she asked.
“It’s not translation you’ll need help with, not when it comes to Zoe.”
He chuckled and she was about to enquire further when he said, “Whoah! We have a live one!” Nicholas began to wind the line in, his hands working overtime when he suddenly growled and relaxed it again.
“False alarm.”
She watched as he continued to wind it in to check the bait and, realising it had been pilfered, reached into his shirt pocket to scoop out a small plastic bag with something mushy inside. It looked like squid, and he pulled a slippery morsel out and pushed it through the hook, then released some line before flinging it outwards again.
After watching him for a while longer, she said, “You must love your fish.”
He laughed again. “Can’t stand the scaly critters!”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Just do it for Pete—the chef at Delfys. I sell him my catch. And because it’s therapeutic, fishing. You should try it.” He had a hunch it would help.
Nico hadn’t yet worked out why the woman was searching for nuns, but it smacked of something deep and heavy. I mean, you don’t look up old nuns to go partying with, right? He felt the line tug again, tugged it back to check, but it was nothing. Just the tide playing tricks.
“So what do you do for a living?” she asked, pulling her flyaway hair into a ponytail. “Apart from sell fish you don’t like and wait tables for Effie. Or is that it?”
“Is that not enough?” He smiled and gave it some thought. “I do whatever comes along. Never really settled on one job to be honest. I get bored easily. Need to stretch myself, try new things.”
Wow, she thought, wishing she could say the same. Wishing she was that brave.
“What about you? What do you do with yourself, apart from nun hunting that is?”
But before she could answer Nico found himself laughing again.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“Sorry, it’s just… nuns? Really?”
“What’s wrong with nuns?”
“They give me the creeps, that’s all. Bit too smarmy. And what’s with their getup? It’s
a little too KKK to me.”
“Oh stop it!” She smacked him on the arm. “Most of the nuns I’ve met are lovely and very few wear a uniform anymore.”
“Still,” he persisted. “Nuns aren’t what most people come asking about. They usually want to know where the beach is or how soon they can get the first ferry to Santorini.”
“Well, I’m not most people.”
“Yep,” he said, peering into her dark glasses, “I’ve already worked that one out.”
She met his stare for a moment, and her lips turned skyward in a smile. He felt his breath catch—what a smile! He wanted to see her smile again, but she was looking away and saying, “I think you got a bite.”
Nico swivelled back to see his line flying away from him, and he grabbed it and began to haul it in while she watched and laughed. She had a lovely laugh too, strong, confident, like a galloping horse, but she was already pulling in the reins, bringing it to a canter, and he felt a flash of disappointment. He had a sudden desire to hear that gallop again, but she was already pulling herself up by the railing.
“I’ll stop distracting you,” she said. “Besides, we’re nearly there.”
They both stared out towards the rocky islet that was fast closing in and towards a large woman with long white hair who was standing on a wooden jetty, waving two arms like a windsock at them.
“Zoe,” Nicholas said, as if it needed explaining.
And in some ways it did.
Zoe was not at all what Millie had been expecting. No wizened Greek widow in chin whiskers and black garb, she was surprisingly glamorous—if Millie knew her designers, and she hadn’t read all those magazines for nothing; that was a $1,000 Camilla kaftan she was sporting over paint-splattered jeans—and, of all things, she was British. No wonder Nico had been laughing at her suggestion he translate.
But still, there was something a little kooky about the woman, starting with the fact that she didn’t seem to care why the boat had suddenly shown up and a stranger was now asking for a chat.
She simply said, rather cryptically, “Of course, my darling! I knew you would come!” Then she waved the men off like they were a distraction.
Nico looked uncertain for a moment, but Millie assured him she’d be fine.
“We’ll putter about for a bit and do some more fishing,” he said. “Just give us a holler when you’re ready. Do you have a mobile?” She shook her head. She’d left it at the castle. The constant stream of messages was beginning to tug at her heart, and she wasn’t ready to call. Not yet. “Then just wave your hands like a maniac, and we’ll keep an eye out.”
“She’ll be fine!” Zoe announced, all but pushing the men back onto the boat.
No sooner had they launched, the older woman launched herself at Millie grabbing her chin and moving her face from left to right as if inspecting a race horse or a cover model.
“Look at you!” she gushed. “So beautiful. And just as I imagined.”
Millie balked at that and pulled away. “Sorry, do I know you? Have we met?”
Zoe cackled. “No, darling girl, not yet, but come, let’s change that.”
Then she took Millie’s hand like she was a small child and led her along the creaky jetty and across the rocky bay to her house. It was actually a series of houses, more like yurts, some simple, some ramshackle, some looking new or newly renovated at least.
“I run an artists’ colony out here,” she explained, “although we’re low on numbers at the moment. But don’t be deceived; the sun always brings them back.” She stopped to offer her effusive wave at a middle-aged man and woman who were exiting one of the yurts, and they smiled widely and waved back. “That’s my Canadian couple,” Zoe explained. “They’re sorting out their marital issues through ceramics.” Before Millie had a chance to digest that, she added, “Come, the rosehip will be ready.”
They continued on, past the couple and towards the oldest and most ramshackle of the yurts where Millie spotted two goats nibbling on what looked like a vegetable patch.
Zoe spotted them too and let out an almighty shriek, then raced off to scare them away, surprisingly nimble for her age—which Millie assumed was well into her seventies—arms flailing about until the goats had trotted off and into a fenced area around the back. She followed them across and secured the gate.
When she returned to Millie’s side, she said, “Nigel and Nora are particularly fond of getting amorous around my spinach!”
For the life of her, Millie wasn’t sure if she was referring to the goats or the Canadians. She let it drop and followed the woman through the front door of her yurt.
The interior room, if that’s what you could call it, for it was really a series of circular rooms each one opening out from the other, was cluttered and cosy with a motley collection of furnishings and a myriad of knickknacks. There were elaborate vases with flowers (fresh, dried and synthetic), several rusty birdcages (empty as far as Millie could see), glass cupboards jammed with bright pottery, and old paint pallets and easels at every glance.
But it was the walls that caught her eye.
Everywhere you looked, enormous canvasses were hanging, leaning or piled up, each with oversized faces dripping out of them, some laughing, some crying, one screaming (that one looked suspiciously like the face of the man she’d just seen), another staring, bemused, her expression now matching Millie’s.
Zoe cackled again. “Don’t you love them!”
“They’re amazing. Did you paint them?”
“Of course! And I’d love to paint you one day, if you will let me.”
“Oh, well, I’m not going to be here for long, so…”
Zoe tsked. “Of course you are. We’ll schedule you in another time.”
Then before Millie could object, she was striding into the kitchen and towards a white ceramic teapot that was decorated in hand-painted yellow and black flowers.
“Meg’s creation,” she said, nudging her head back towards the front door. “It was one of the few she didn’t lob at her husband’s head.”
She cackled again as she reached for mismatched cups and a strainer. After pouring for them both, not asking about milk or sugar, she thrust a cup in Millie’s hand and then padded into the centre of the room and settled on the rug, her legs folded meditation-style beneath her.
Millie hadn’t sat cross-legged on the floor since childhood, so she glanced around, spotting the only armchair without books piled up on it, and said, “May I?”
“Of course!”
Zoe watched and waited until Millie had sat down and taken a few sips of her tea, then she said very matter-of-factly, “So you’re looking for Aggie.”
Then she cackled again at the younger woman’s surprise. “Oh I am psychic, but not quite that psychic. News travels fast even out here.” Then she crossed herself and said, “Poor Aggie, may she rest in peace.”
Millie’s heart nosedived. No, no, no.
“Oh my darling, I can see this news did not quite travel fast enough. Or should I say far enough. You have come from Australia?”
“Yes. A few days ago.”
“But you cannot be surprised, surely? Agnetha was older even than me.”
“I guess not… I never thought…” She stopped, took another fortifying sip. “She seemed ageless, invincible.”
“It’s hard to tell with nuns. They’re very clever; they hide their grey hairs beneath a white habit. She was a good friend to you.”
It wasn’t a question, but Millie nodded anyway. “For a while, yes.”
“She was formidable.”
“That too.”
“Then you know how much we all miss her around here. And not just here, all the surrounding islands. She saved a lot of lives.”
“I know,” she said, thinking, She saved me. “She should have been a doctor,” Millie said. “She was so talented.”
“She should have trained as a doctor, that is true. Maybe then she wouldn’t have got in quite so much trouble.” Then to Mi
llie’s blank expression she said, “Ah you never heard that either.”
“Heard what?”
Zoe took a good gulp of her own tea, then placed it on the floor before her. “Dear Aggie. She lost someone, about six years ago, administering her usual medicine, her usual magic—at least that’s what the imbecilic policeman called it, and it wasn’t a compliment, I can tell you that. In any case, it was an utter nightmare. The poor darling bled out, a helicopter was called, mad dash to Athens, but it was too late. The officials came down hard on Aggie after that. Oh don’t worry, she didn’t get charged, there were too many skeletons for that, but there would be no more needy souls through the convent doors.” She stopped, stared at a spot behind Millie’s head. “Aggie was never quite the same after that, never quite as formidable. Neither was the convent for that matter.”
“What happened to it all? I know the convent’s now a hostel, but what happened to all the other nuns who were there?”
And why couldn’t she remember any of their names and faces?
“Eventually…” Zoe stopped, shook her head. “No, quickly when you think about it, the sisters began to leave, took posts elsewhere, and who could blame them? Aggie had lost her spark, her raison d’être. I think you all gave her something to live for but after that… well…”
“That’s so tragic,” Millie said, tears welling in her eyes.
“And not just for Aggie. For all of Sarisi. She was the only one with any medical nous. Now all we’ve got is a vet, and he’s only good if you’ve got four feet and not even very good then. If anything goes wrong, we have to scoot off to the mainland. It’s a dreadful six-hour ferry ride away. But that you do know about, yes?”
Yes. She took a long drink from her cup. “How did she…?”
“Peacefully as it turns out. About four years ago. They found her in bed. Rosary beads in her hands. Mozart playing.”
Millie’s heart swelled. She had forgotten all about the classical music that tinkled through the convent from various transistor radios set up by Aggie. It had become like a soundtrack to her time in Greece, and so Millie avoided anything remotely like it when she returned home, flicking past Classic FM whenever she tuned her radio.