‘How old were you then?’
‘Only sixteen. The boy I was seeing told me if I was ever “in trouble” I should take ephedrine. It’s used in a lot of hayfever preparations apparently. But I was too scared to ask the chemist in our town. Too many people knew my parents. So I ran away. Three weeks later it was all over anyway, without me doing or taking anything. My period came. I could have stayed after all. But by then it was too late. I knew I couldn’t ever go back.’
‘So where did you go?’
‘London. It wasn’t hard to find work in those days and I rented a pokey bedsit in West Hampstead. I couldn’t afford the Tube or buses, so every day I walked to the pub where I was working in Camden Town. I told them I was eighteen and they never questioned it. I did everything from washing up to pulling pints and making fried egg sandwiches. The Vic, the locals called it. It had stained glass, ceilings yellow with smoke and a long bar. It was an old-fashioned London pub, but there was a big advertising agency nearby whose staff gathered in the bars every day, so it was young and alive. At weekends we only served local residents. There were semi-intellectuals from the once-grand houses that looked towards Regent’s Park and workmen from the Peabody Buildings that overlooked the train line from Euston. But in the week it was filled with clever young men and women laughing. Camden was changing fast then, getting quite hip and trendy.’
Marian had paused and sat back; she twisted the silver rings she wore round and round her middle finger and looked down at her hands. After a few moments, she’d said, ‘Do you ever feel that you were born in the wrong place?’
I was quiet for a second, because of course I’d been too young to remember my birth mother, but my childhood had been happy and my adoptive parents were kind and wonderful. ‘I don’t think I feel it as such,’ I said, ‘but I do sometimes wonder what would have happened to me if life had been different.’
‘I used to envy those smart advertising people. They seemed to be having so much fun. They enjoyed their work, while I was in a dead-end job doing nothing of lasting value. I wished I could be one of them. I wished I could find a way into that kind of life.’
‘James was recruited by one of the big agencies from university,’ I said.
She went quiet and looked dreamy, remembering her early years, then said, ‘I went out with one of the guys for a while. Charles. Charlie, I called him. He invited me to some of their parties, but I knew it wouldn’t last. One time we went back to a house owned by a couple that worked together. He was an art director at the agency and she was a copywriter. I thought they were so cool and glamorous, so clever and creative. They had a room where the walls were papered with sheets of brown wrapping paper. I’d never seen anything like it. All I’d ever known was red flock in the local Indian and anaglypta at home. The room was newly papered, all fresh, and they invited everyone to write on the bare walls.’
‘So, what did you write?’
Then she was quiet for a moment and hung her head, before saying, ‘I didn’t. I couldn’t. Everyone else was writing such witty stuff, even poetry. I just said I’d wait till the others had finished, but really, I was too scared, too afraid whatever I wrote would look pathetic. They’d all been to university and art college, and what had I done? Nothing, not even the local tech.
‘And then it was all forgotten and no one noticed, because there was music playing and people were dancing and that was something I knew I could do well. I could really dance.’ She jiggled her shoulders as if recalling a beat from long ago. ‘I knew I looked good, better than any of them. So it no longer mattered that I couldn’t bring myself to write on their walls.
‘I asked Charlie once if he thought I could get a job in the agency and he just said, “Well, what can you do?” And that’s when I realised I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t type, I wasn’t educated, I couldn’t understand figures; I was useless. I was just the girl from Romford who worked behind the bar in their local.’
I felt so sorry for her then, seeing in this competent successful businesswoman the timid girl she had once been. ‘But you could have gone to night school and got some qualifications, couldn’t you, if you’d really wanted?’
Marian smiled and shook her head. ‘Not at the same time as holding down a job to pay my rent I couldn’t. You have to work evenings in a pub. So eventually I decided that I would save hard for a year and then do what I was best at.’
‘Which was what?’
She gave a sad little laugh. ‘Running away. No, not exactly running, but getting away. I had no ties, nothing to keep me there, so I could travel. I wasn’t afraid of taking a job wherever I landed up. By the time I left London I was twenty, and I went to Australia. I’d stayed in touch with one of the agency secretaries who’d gone back home there, and she said I could stay with her if I ever decided to see the world. So I did. I worked there for a bit, bars again, saved up, then hopped over to India and eventually back to Europe.’
I’d thought of my own family and how distressed and worried they would feel if I disappeared. ‘Didn’t you ever think you’d like to go back home?’
‘Oh, sometimes I thought about it, but every time I did, I saw their disappointed faces and heard their questions. No, I’ve left it too long now. They would never understand that I left because of them.’
I could see in her eyes distant memories of dull suburban streets, wet with cold English rain, and almost knew the answer before I’d asked my next question: ‘But do you ever feel guilty?’
‘For leaving them? Sometimes. I can’t put it right, but if I thought I could explain and they would understand, I would want to let them know. Sometimes I think I’m like a cat we once had. He was away for about a month, then we heard he’d been found on the other side of town. He stayed with us for about a week before disappearing again. I used to think he came home just to let us know he could cope on his own. So sometimes I think I’d like them to know I’m well and happy.’
‘So why don’t you?’ I’d asked, thinking of that family who, if they had any feelings for her at all, must have fretted and wondered about her fate for years.
She’d hung her head, then said, ‘I’m afraid of the questions. I wake up in the night, hearing their voices, and anyway, it’s too late now. They must be long gone.’
I’d thought it was the drink talking, but deep down I knew she was telling the truth.
And Inge hugged her close. ‘Don’t have regrets, liebchen. Your home is here now.’
Chapter Twenty-One
October 2006
James
Greg was showing off in his speedy jeep and although I put my foot down, I didn’t risk it as much as I would have done if I’d been on my own. I could hear the tension in Amber’s voice and out of the corner of my eye I could see her gripping the seat and sometimes shutting her eyes. I’d have enjoyed the race if she hadn’t been with me.
The jeep finally screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust and scattered gravel outside a taverna with iron railings, where tables were set under an awning. Although it was late in the year, there were still times when the sun was hot in the middle of the day and it was more pleasant to sit outside in the shade. By the time I’d parked, Greg was talking vigorously to the owner, a stout, balding man in his fifties, clapping him on the back as an old friend. ‘Good news, good news,’ he announced as we approached. ‘My very good mate, Adonis here, says another acquaintance is due here shortly. So we shall have a bit of a party!’
Amber was very quiet and hung back, but there was nothing we could do. It was lunchtime, Greg was being friendly and hospitable and we needed to eat, but I assured her we would try to make our excuses and leave once lunch was over.
‘This is the best cuisine the island has to offer,’ Greg said. ‘This guy, this wonderful guy, looks after his lovely elderly mother, and she does all the cooking! And such cooking as you have never experienced before in Corfu. Recipes that she has cooked for years, and her mother, her grandmother and her great-grandmother
before that. Just you wait. You are in for a rare treat.’
I was immediately sold. I love authentic dishes and I’m inspired by simple traditional ingredients. ‘I can’t wait,’ I said. ‘Where’s the menu?’
‘There isn’t one. You’re getting whatever Mama feels like cooking today.’ Greg laughed and poured a jug of robust red wine into tumblers. ‘That’s what I love about this place. It’s full of surprises. There’s something different to eat every time I come here.’
I clinked glasses with him and then Amber slowly did the same. We sipped the wine – well, Greg and I drained our glasses almost immediately, so it was Amber who was sipping. She switched to iced water pretty quickly too. Adonis brought dishes of homemade tapenade and little black olives, spiced balls of minced lamb, aubergine dip, tzatziki and freshly baked pitta, the like of which rarely appeared in the local restaurants. It was so unlike the sanitised cardboard seen in English supermarkets; the flatbreads were soft golden pillows of dough, charred here and there from the wood oven, glistening with a slight sheen of oil.
Then we heard the screech of another car pulling up, and Greg waved in the direction of the driver. ‘Over here,’ he called, and a tall bearded man strolled across to join us. When he removed his sunglasses I recognised him immediately from our very first visit to the abandoned village.
‘Now let me introduce you to the most useful man on the island,’ Greg said, after shaking hands with his friend.
‘Actually, we’ve already met,’ I said, and I could see Amber smiling in recognition too. ‘But I can’t quite remember your name, though. It was back in the summer.’
‘Of course, my friend.’ He bowed his head and shook my hand. ‘Dimitri Barberis, at your service.’ Then he turned to Amber and as she went to shake his hand, he bent his head and gave it the lightest of kisses, causing her to smile, making her more attractive than ever. ‘I trust your foot has healed well, Madam,’ he murmured.
She laughed. ‘Yes, thank you. It was such a stupid thing to do. I’ve learnt since then to keep my sandals for the beach and the evening.’
‘May I?’ He gestured to the empty chair at the table and looked at Greg, who nodded and waved at him to sit down, then poured another glass of wine for our visitor.
‘I didn’t know you all knew each other,’ Greg said, laughing. ‘It’s just like a family reunion.’
‘We only met briefly,’ I said.
‘All because I tripped,’ Amber said.
‘Whatever.’ Greg waved his hand around. ‘I asked Dimitri to join us because he’s got some very useful contacts and experience. He might be able to help you get things moving more quickly.’
I wasn’t totally surprised, because Greg had told me a couple of times that once we found the right property he would advise us how to stay on track and I was anxious not to waste time or money. The house Dimitri had shown us, when we’d first met back in July, hadn’t been suitable, but the one we had finally bought would be perfect for our business if we could only get the work finished on schedule. It was already mid-October and I wanted it completed by Easter at the very latest. If we didn’t meet that deadline we wouldn’t be taking any bookings once the main tourist season started.
‘I will be honoured to assist you,’ Dimitri said.
Greg was pouring more wine but Amber put her hand over her glass. ‘Maybe we should take a detour on the way back,’ Greg said, through a mouthful of bread and tapenade. ‘Give Dimitri an idea of what you’re up to.’
Amber shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I need to get back. I promised Eleni and Ben I’d help look after the children this afternoon.’
Then the main course arrived. Great plates of sumptuous, tempting food. Mama never made an appearance, but Adonis brought golden courgette fritters and dakos – a salad of bread, tomatoes, feta cheese and olive oil. Then he fetched a platter of grilled lamb, pink inside, charred outside, flavoured with rosemary, thyme and garlic, the very scent and flavour of the island, served with wilted spinach tossed in lemon and pepper, with a bowl of crunchy roasted potatoes.
I piled my plate and began to eat, relishing the juicy meat and the delicacy of the fritters. Amber touched my arm and whispered, ‘Let’s go soon.’
My mouth was full and it was a minute before I could reply, but when I could I didn’t whisper, but spoke so the whole table could hear. ‘I think I should take Dimitri over to see the house. It’s a pity to miss an opportunity. Why don’t you take the car back?’ I glanced at her and her lips were tight. I looked across the table to Greg and said, ‘Would that be okay with you? Can you give me a lift later on?’
I think Amber left soon after that. But the three of us lingered all afternoon at the table, Greg drinking more, Dimitri drinking very little, until it was agreed that Greg should leave his jeep behind and we would go with Dimitri.
We reached the building site late in the day, while there was still just enough light to make out what progress had been made. All was quiet, apart from the distant clang of sheep bells, harmonising with a church bell tolling over the hills. The cement mixer was still, a wheelbarrow lay on its side, the men had gone home and I had no way of knowing how much work had been done that day. ‘Your men should not leave at this time. There is still light.’ Dimitri looked stern. ‘I would not permit such a short day of work.’
I sighed and shook my head. ‘I thought they were going to be good. Greg’s used them before and Ben employed them on one of the villas and told us they were reliable workers.’
Dimitri puffed his cheeks and surveyed the scene. ‘There is much to do here and there will be much rain in the winter. They must make work while, what do you say, the sun shines?’
‘Yes, hay, that’s it. We’re not going to be ready by the spring, are we?’
‘That depends,’ he said. ‘If you have a project manager, they will work harder.’
‘A project manager? And where will I find one of those?’
‘Right here, my friend,’ Dimitri tapped his chest. ‘Right here. I would be honoured and happy to assist.’ He looked beyond the outer reaches of the old village across to the far side of the valley, now merging into deepening purple shadows. ‘You have chosen well here. This location has great promise. It will be a pleasure to work here with you.’
I laughed with relief and shook first his hand then Greg’s, and we all laughed and clapped each other on the back.
‘Sounds like we have something to celebrate,’ Greg said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
9 June 1944
As she carries her bundle down the stairs, Rebekka pauses to look around the kitchen, where the family has enjoyed so many happy meals together. One last look to memorise it all before they finally leave their home with all their neighbours on this journey to the East and into the unknown.
Until the recent hardships of the war, the ceiling was always garlanded with strands of dried mushrooms and peppers, bunches of thyme and oregano. Jars of rice, flour and beans had filled the shelves, but now stand empty, as every last grain has gone to feed this hungry family. But even though food has been in short supply in recent weeks and months, Rebekka is sure she can still smell the garlic that enriched her mother’s potato burekas sprinkled with sesame seeds, and the savoury aroma of her aubergines stuffed with rice, herbs and pine nuts and stewed with tomatoes. It is a long time since Mama cooked meatballs with walnut sauce, but perhaps the family will all be together again before too long and she will prepare a grand dinner in celebration and they will all laugh, sing and eat their fill.
She watches Mama give her favourite copper pan a final polish with a rag, then hang it on its rightful hook, where it has always hung, below the carved blue spice cupboard which still holds a few grains of fragrant cumin, coriander and paprika. Then Mama stacks the plain earthenware bowls from their last breakfast on the shelf and wipes the worn, much-scrubbed table, where they have always talked, laughed and celebrated Pasach.
When Rebekka was younger and didn’t have
to run so many errands for her parents, she played under that very table, pretending it was a secret cave, a ship at sea, or a house of her very own. At first, she played alone, and then later with her sisters, each imagining their own worlds.
The whole room is as neat and spotless as the rest of the house. The floors have been swept and the shelves dusted. All the family’s bed linen is folded, the rugs are rolled and dishes have been washed and put away in cupboards.
‘We cannot delay any longer,’ Papa says. ‘Come, Perla, you can do no more here.’ He takes his wife’s hand and removes the duster she holds tight in her fist. She wipes her hands on her apron, then unties the strings and hangs it on a hook on the back of the kitchen door. She picks up her bulging bundle and he throws his sack across his shoulder. Like many of the men trudging past the shop, he is wearing a dark jacket and trousers – his best suit, brushed and pressed for this very important journey.
‘What will happen to all our belongings and furniture?’ Rebekka asks as she follows her parents down the stairs to the street. ‘We are leaving nearly everything we own behind here.’
‘It will be fine,’ Papa says. ‘We will lock the door to the house and the shop and it will all be here waiting for us, ready for when we come back from working for the Germans.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
October 2006
Amber
I was so cross when I left James at the taverna with Greg and Dimitri that my driving almost rivalled the speed of our earlier journey. I felt like I’d been dismissed from the room, so the grown-ups could go on to discuss more important things. I knew that wasn’t really the case, I knew they were more likely to continue drinking and joking, but that was how it felt as I drove away.
By the time I reached Ben and Eleni’s house I was calmer and was happy to be distracted by the gurgling of their baby, George, and the chatter of their toddler, Maria. Eleni had begun cooking again in the restaurant in the evenings and just needed a couple of free hours at the end of the afternoon for essential preparation, even though they were entering the quiet winter season. ‘You must tell James,’ she said, as she handed me a bottle for the baby and a beaker and biscuits for Maria, ‘a good chef always plans and always prepares. A dish may only take a few minutes to cook in the end, but the chopping, the peeling, the filleting, that is where a real chef does their work.’
Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 8