We’d eaten lunch out on the terrace, under a vast angled umbrella, which supplemented the mottled shade cast by the vines. Salade Niçoise made with freshly seared tuna, just the way I liked it, in a heavy pottery bowl and a platter of tricolore salad drizzled with green olive oil. With fresh bread and the local spinach pie, it was simple but substantial.
‘I thought the lunch was quite good,’ James said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘And they were both perfectly pleasant.’
‘Honestly, James, Pam’s all right, but he’s awful! I’m sure he chose all those pretentious sculptures himself. She’s much more down-to-earth.’
‘I quite liked him, actually.’
‘I know you did. I heard the two of you killing yourselves laughing when I was dragged inside to chat with Pam. And again, when I was taken on the guided tour afterwards. You were sniggering at everything he said all through lunch too. Just what was so funny?’
James didn’t seem to hear my question, he just said, ‘Come on. The car’s cooled down now. We can get going.’
We climbed in and I drove off in silence, but after a while I couldn’t resist returning to the subject; they’d made such an impression on me. ‘I know Ben thinks Greg would be a useful contact, but you don’t honestly think you’d value his opinion, do you?’
‘Okay, maybe not on decor perhaps, but on managing a project, on construction, yeah, I think I would respect his judgement. He’s done a ton of work on the island. There’s a lot to be said for that.’
As I drove, I fell silent thinking again about the house we had just seen. Pam was obviously proud of her home and was keen to show me the whole interior. All seven bedrooms had marble en suite bathrooms, there was a mirrored wet room accessed from the garden for quick showers after swimming, and every bedroom had its own flatscreen television. The basement utility room had two washing machines, which she pointed out, saying, ‘I told Greg we had to have two if he wants the maid to cope with his demand for freshly laundered shirts all the time. And when Lavinia and the boys are here, the number of towels they get through, you wouldn’t believe. And as for the bed linen, well, I insist it’s changed twice a week and the girl wouldn’t keep up with that if we didn’t have the facilities. There’s nothing I like more than fresh sheets, especially in this climate.’
I couldn’t help smiling to myself as she spoke, thinking of the crumpled unmade bed in our temporary home on the island and how bedding was lucky to be changed once a month back in our London flat, when we were both busy working long hours. But despite the cleanliness and the immaculate order of the villa, I didn’t warm to it at all. It had quiet air conditioning in every room, neatly rolled towels on shelves in every bathroom, electrically controlled blinds in all the bedrooms and music piped throughout the house; it felt like a shiny modern hotel, not a comfortable, much-loved home. Now and then there were occasional glimpses into Pam’s character, such as the collection of porcelain and pottery frogs in her bathroom (‘I happened to say how much I liked Paul McCartney’s frog song once and now everyone buys them for me all the time’), and a scattering of family photographs in every room, which she pointed out, saying, ‘Lavinia and her darling boys. Look, isn’t this one of Anton when he was skiing just adorable? I gave him that red bobble hat for Christmas so he’d stand out if they lost him in the snow.’
Despite the frogs and the photographs, it was a cold, gleaming show house, designed just for that purpose, to show off its owners’ wealth and influence. I pictured all the villas James and I had stayed in since we’d arrived in Corfu. We’d envied some for their views, others for the size of their pool and some for their sympathetic restoration of ancient buildings, but my favourite was the simplest of them all. Poised above a stony beach, there was a little gardener’s cottage, bordered by low white walls, over which there was a clear view of the open sea. It only had one bedroom and no air conditioning, there was a tiny kitchen and a simple shower room, but it was secluded, surrounded by lemon and orange trees that we could smell even when we latched the green shutters fast at night. Ben said it wasn’t suitable for winter accommodation as it was so close to the sea, with its high waves and storms, but I loved the thought of being inside with a blazing olive wood fire, hearing the winds batter the barred shutters and the sea crashing on the shore.
I knew what Pam would say about my little cottage. She’d say it would do for the maid. And as for Greg, well, he’d pull it all down and develop the site as another soulless edifice to his wealth.
Chapter Eleven
8 June 1944
When Rebekka wakes, the house is much quieter than usual. Why are her little sisters not crying for their breakfast or calling to her to help them dress? They are always awake early, saying they are hungry, clinging to Mama in the hope of an extra crust. She can hear footsteps below her bedroom and low murmuring, then the scrape of a pan and the sound of water, but not the high-pitched voices of children nor the scampering of little feet.
Last night, after their poor supper, she had argued with Papa. ‘Let me stay with them please. I am old enough to look after Matilde and Anna on my own.’
‘No. It is no use,’ Papa had said. ‘We have to go. They know we live here. Everybody is going to the square and we must go too. They have a list and all our names are there. They want us to work for them. That is all. We are going away to work for them.’
Rebekka had reached for her father’s hand. Her mother looked stern but her eyes were brimming with tears. She was folding the younger children’s few clothes into a large shawl. ‘But Matilde and Anna are too young to work for the Germans. They are only little children. They cannot be sent away to work. Please, Papa, let me stay with them. We will be very quiet and then they will think we have gone with you.’
‘No, my child, they would come for you all the same. Remember, they know we live here. Every week they have checked our names in the roll call on the Spianada. But they do not know about Matilde and Anna and I have made arrangements. Come, be calm, do not be afraid. They will be safe.’
Rebekka throws on her dress and runs downstairs to find Mama furiously scouring a pot in the kitchen. ‘Where are Matilde and Anna?’ she asks her mother.
When Mama lifts her head from the sink, Rebekka can see she has been weeping. ‘Your father and I have done what we think is best. You must not ask us any more.’
‘But I could look after them. I could stay with them.’
‘Your name is on the list, Rebekka. Matilde and Anna have not been counted in the roll call. It is better this way.’ Then Mama turns her back to her, scrubbing hard, angrily scraping and cleaning so her tears cannot be seen or heard.
Rebekka runs downstairs to the shop and is about to run outside when Papa grabs her by the arm. ‘No, you cannot go out. We are not allowed to leave our homes today. The Germans have ruled that everyone from the Evraiki must stay indoors all day. You would be in danger if you break their curfew.’ He takes her in his arms and holds her in a warm embrace. ‘Please, my daughter, your mother and I need you to do as we say. It is better that way.’
Rebekka knows she cannot argue with him. She turns away and crouches in a corner of the shop, next to a heap of dusty, forgotten shoes. She pulls Katya, her skinny white cat, onto her lap and strokes her fur, finding the purring soothes her. The cat is thin, but her belly is bulging again. Perhaps this time she will be allowed to keep the kittens in place of her little sisters.
Chapter Twelve
July 2006
James
While I could understand Amber’s dislike of Greg’s villa, I was thinking more about the character of the man I’d just met, not his taste in decor. He had a boyish sense of humour I liked, a sense of mischief which reminded me of a boy in the year above me at school who’d always devised imaginative and hilarious escapades, such as pinning comic moustaches on all the portraits of the school’s former headmasters lining the grand staircase leading from the main entrance hall. Greg had listened with interest when Amber and I
outlined our plans for the restaurant, but I could also see myself enjoying a drink with him and playing practical jokes on anyone who crossed us.
When Amber had gone inside the house with Pam after lunch, Greg had suddenly said, ‘Are you a cricketer?’
‘I’ve played a bit in the past.’
‘Any good at bowling? Or any kind of throwing?’ He looked impish, a smile creasing his eyes, then he beckoned.
I couldn’t imagine what he had in mind. He led me back to the edge of the terrace and pointed towards the hotel’s roof. ‘Think you could reach that?’
‘Maybe. Might stand a better chance down by the pool, perhaps.’
‘We’re higher up here. I was thinking the angle might help. Let’s both try.’ He reached down behind a tall urn and brought up a plant pot filled with large pebbles. ‘Here, take your pick.’
I selected a stone, weighed it in my hand, leant back and then threw. It landed in the bushes that marked the boundary between Greg’s garden and the hotel grounds. Then Greg tried, with a similar result. We both tried a couple more times, then we walked down a flight of steps to the pool and stood there in full sun, trying to decide on the best vantage point for another attempt.
‘Perhaps we’d have a better view further down the path to the beach,’ I said, so we both went through the iron gate and onto a stony path cut into the hillside, with short flights of rough steps every few yards.
The track was overhung with thickly entwined juniper and myrtle, their dark branches shading us and making it difficult to see the hotel. I climbed up a tree near the boundary and found it offered a good view of the hotel’s pool, surrounded by sun loungers underneath large umbrellas. ‘You’d have no trouble hitting the water from here,’ I called down to Greg. We inspected another couple of hundred yards of the trail, then made our way back up to the terrace.
We stood there, contemplating the hotel. Greg was tossing a stone from hand to hand, deep in thought. ‘It needs more power,’ he said. ‘I was having a go at making some kind of contraption just before you got here. A kind of catapult, on a grand scale.’
‘Catapult? Now you’re talking. Though mine got me into some hot water at school.’
‘Me too,’ he smirked. ‘Maybe we’d better not go there, eh?’
‘It’s a good idea though.’ We both fell silent again, until I said, ‘Why are we doing this, exactly?’
‘Closure,’ said Greg. ‘I want the effing place closed down. I want it to fail big time. If the sodding lawyers can’t find a way to do it, then I will.’
‘So how will the stones help?’
A wicked smile crept across his face. ‘That was just the test run. I was thinking more like say… cat shit.’ He turned and pointed to the skinny tabby scraping at the thin dirt of the flowerbed below the terrace. ‘The bloody moggies are everywhere. We’ve probably got twenty cats crawling all over the place, crapping on every square inch of bare earth, so that’s a lot of ammunition. I was thinking a lot of cat shit in the air vents and the air con on the roof would sour the atmosphere for them down there.’
I couldn’t help myself. Although the idea was disgusting, he looked so mischievous that I laughed and laughed. Part of me was shocked, but the other half, the half that had enjoyed a good lunch and several glasses of wine and appreciated a prank, said, ‘Then it’s obvious. Forget the roof, you’ve got to concentrate on the pool. If it gets polluted, they’ll have to keep draining it out. That should soon put people off all right.’
Greg liked the idea and that was the laughter Amber heard. But I didn’t explain it to her. I didn’t think she’d appreciate the joke.
Chapter Thirteen
July 2006
Amber
As I opened the car door, the air buzzed with heat and I felt the dry dust rising from the track. We had managed to park in a sliver of shade, but with the morning temperature already well over 35°C that offered little relief from the oven-like heat. It was late July and the island was getting steadily hotter by the day.
I closed the door on the cool interior of the car and I knew I was going to find this an ordeal. James was keen to see the old village and was already striding ahead on the stony road, a small dust cloud marking his progress.
‘Get a move on,’ he called, turning round, taking a couple of steps backwards as he walked, rather than stopping and waiting for me. ‘Let’s see as much as we can before it gets any hotter.’ He adjusted his cap and resumed his stride.
‘Hang on a minute,’ I called, clutching the large bottle of water I knew I’d soon need. I’d only taken a few steps when my sandal caught a sharp stone and I stumbled. I cursed and called for James, but he was already far ahead. ‘I’ve hurt my foot,’ I cried, although I knew he could not hear.
I hopped to a low wall beneath a prickly bush. By now James was out of sight and the track was empty. I took off my sandal and rested my injured foot on my knee. Gritty dust filled the bleeding cut on my big toe, so I poured a little of my precious water over it. The wound stung and I couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath. Then, as I stared at my injury, I heard footsteps crunching behind me.
‘James, you could have waited,’ I started to say, and turned round to look at him. But it wasn’t my husband. It was a tall bearded man, wearing a white shirt and blue trousers.
‘May I be of assistance, madam?’ His English was excellent, his tone educated. He removed his sunglasses as he spoke, revealing dark brown eyes.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just a stone, that’s all.’
‘Allow me.’ He knelt in front of me, peering at my bleeding toe, then pulled a clean white handkerchief from his pocket. ‘May I?’ He took the water bottle from my hand, then poured a little onto the clean cloth before wrapping it around the wound. ‘There. It is clean and it will heal soon.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, still looking down at his large hand holding my dusty foot.
He stood up and looked down the track. ‘Would you like me to escort you to your husband, madam?’
‘Amber Young,’ I said, shaking his outstretched hand. I stuffed my bandaged foot back in my sandal, then allowed him to help me to my feet.
‘Dimitri Barberis.’ He gave the slightest bow of his head as he said his name. It was an old-fashioned gesture, which made me like him all the more. ‘At your service.’
After a few faltering steps on the stony track, I almost stumbled again and threw my arms wide to save myself.
‘Please, madam, take my arm. For your own safety.’ He took my hand and tucked it around his forearm. My skin looked darker than ever against his white shirtsleeve and the tips of my fingers glowed with the bright orange varnish I’d chosen that day, like a little cluster of black and tangerine marigolds.
Walking slowly, with me limping and him guiding, I finally caught sight of my husband standing in the shade of a dilapidated building. ‘James,’ I called out, ‘I’ve hurt my foot.’
He turned and didn’t seem very surprised that I’d acquired a male companion. ‘Honestly, Amber, I only left you alone for a few minutes.’
‘I know. It was my stupid sandals. I should have worn something sturdier. This is Mr Barberis. He found me and helped me.’ I slipped my hand from my rescuer’s side and reached for James’s arm.
‘Thank you very much for looking after my wife, Mr Barberis,’ James said, shaking the man’s hand.
‘My pleasure. Is this your first visit to the island?’
‘Yes and no. We’ve been here a while and we’re actually working for a friend. But we’ve come to see the village because we’ve heard there’s some property for sale here.’
‘Then let me help you. I know many of the local owners. I can show you around.’ Dimitri produced his wallet and handed James a card. ‘But perhaps first some refreshment, to help your wife recover from her accident.’
James looked at me and I nodded my acceptance. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We’d like that. But we shouldn’t take too long. It’s already getting very hot.�
�
Minutes later we were sitting on a shaded veranda, where vines shielded us from the sun. Cool water and traditional coffee were served by the moustachioed owner, who evidently knew Dimitri well, for they embraced and spoke rapidly in Greek.
‘My cousin Costas tells me there is a beautiful farmhouse on the edge of the village which would be perfect for you. I will take you there shortly.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said James, taking a slip of paper from his pocket. ‘But a friend told me about another house here too. Do you happen to know where this one is?’
Dimitri studied the note and passed it to the cafe owner, who studied it then shrugged, exclaiming again in his rapid manner, the speed of his Greek way beyond our basic comprehension. Dimitri turned back to us. ‘Costas thinks it is not so good, my friends. But if you wish, I will show you this house as well.’
We sipped our water and coffee while he talked. ‘My profession is surveyor. I build new but also I make good the old. Many people are now interested in acquiring our oldest homes here. It is good for us and it will bring business back to the interior of the island. There is much development on the coast, but that life is not for everyone. So it is excellent you have come here to see what you can find.’
‘It’s so very peaceful up here,’ I said, looking across the valley where sheep were grazing on the steep rocky hillsides. ‘No scooters, no jeeps, hardly any people.’
‘But remember, those who come are here because they appreciate the beauty and solitude. We get many people walking, studying the flowers and the wildlife. Especially in spring. Ah, that is the best time to be here. When the winter rain has finished, the hills are covered with the most beautiful flowers. It is like a garden everywhere.’ He spread his hands in a gesture encompassing all the surrounding land and I could imagine a botanical tapestry of many colours, freshly painted.
Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 5