‘Can it see us now?’ Anna asks.
Agata takes her in her arms. ‘It can, my darling, and it is wishing us a safe journey to our new home.’
‘Can it see the bad men as well?’ Matilde says, sitting down on Georgiou’s outstretched legs and looking up at the mountain.
‘Of course it can. And it is praying they will leave Corfu for good very soon.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
July 2008
Amber
In my dreams that night, I was sure I could smell burnt toast. James always liked his toast very well done, so well done that he often burnt it. He called it ‘proper toast’. I like mine light brown, in thick slices, crisp outside and soft within. I dreamt I was telling him I didn’t want to eat toast with charred crusts and then I woke up, knowing that the scent was real and not a dream. There was the faintest hint of smoke in the air, but it didn’t smell like toast and I couldn’t hear James downstairs, and it wasn’t morning.
I switched on the bedside light and checked the time. Three o’clock. James didn’t usually come back in the middle of the night and he certainly didn’t come back in the early hours to begin cooking. I wondered if he might have left a pan on the stove in the kitchen, simmering till it boiled dry, or maybe a lantern had been left alight on one of the restaurant tables and had caught hold of a dry leaf, fallen from the vines overhead.
I heaved myself out of bed, then stood still and listened. The nights up there in the mountains were always so quiet when everyone else who worked in the village had gone home that the silence almost seemed to hum, the stillness broken only by the occasional cry of an owl or the bark of a far-away dog. But that night, although I could tell there was definitely nobody else in the house, I began to think I could hear something, a distant rustling sound, like dry leaves blowing in the wind or rain pattering on a roof. I pulled a shawl around my nightdress and lumbered across the landing and down the stairs, switching all the lights on as I went. The kitchen was empty and nothing was boiling dry. There was no haze of smoke hanging in the air in any of the rooms, and the alarms would surely have sounded if there had been, but I could still smell the faint trace that first woke me.
None of the candles inside the restaurant were burning and none of the lamps on the outside tables were alight when I stepped out onto the terrace. But I could still hear that curious rustling noise, and as soon as I switched on the lights that illuminated the steps leading down to the cobbled surface of the road, I could see why. The very stones that paved the street seemed to be moving. No, they weren’t just moving, they were crawling. The cobbles were alive with wildlife, and birds that normally sleep in their nests at night were darting through the air. Mice, rats, rabbits and even a stone marten were running past Mountain Thyme, along with a slow scuttling hedgehog and many, many, creepy crawlies.
I crossed the terrace and looked out over the olive and lemon trees. I could hear more rustling from that side of the restaurant too, and although there was no light, I could see the undergrowth was full of creatures, running and crawling. And then I could see why. On the far side of our valley, almost reaching the furthest edge of the lemon, orange and olive groves, fire was advancing, driving the animals before the tidal wave of flames. Rivulets of fire were streaming ahead, threading their way around the twisted tree trunks, running towards the village.
For a moment I was mesmerised by the sight, the flickering flames beyond the trees, the orange threads trickling through the orchard. Then I realised I had to act fast, just like the fleeing wildlife. But James had taken the car and no one else ever stayed in the village overnight. Our property was the only one permanently occupied, so I was completely alone.
I went inside and rang James. He knew that I only had a couple of weeks left till the baby was due. I thought he must surely keep his mobile phone switched on and with him at all times. But there was only an automatic response. I tried several times but he didn’t answer, so finally I left a message. ‘Ring me as soon as you can. A wildfire’s broken out up here’.
When I went back outside to the terrace, the trees were already encircled with a necklace of golden flames and I knew they’d soon catch fire. I called the fire service. Yes, they were aware of the situation and were on their way. But they couldn’t tell me how quickly the fire would be under control and I knew that these mountain roads could quickly become impassable, with flames leaping from one side of the track to the other as sparks scattered from the dry grass and brush.
I tried calling James again, then Greg and Pam, but they too must have been asleep, their phones switched off. I called Adrianna and Ariadne but no one was awake at that time of night. We were the only ones, my baby and me.
I stood on the terrace, looking at the advancing flames, wondering how soon the fire service could reach the village and get it under control. The dry grassy scrub around the groves ran right up to the walls of our home, and drifting embers from burning trees could float on the wind and ignite new fires yards away. If sparks landed on the vines which clung to the walls and over the wooden beams that shaded the terrace, the fire could rapidly travel into the restaurant and the whole building could soon be blazing.
I tried to think where all our fire extinguishers were and found the first one in the reception area. But it was so heavy. I dragged it out onto the terrace and across to the balustrade overlooking the oncoming flames, but I couldn’t lift it. Maybe I could have previously, but in the cumbersome state of late pregnancy, I struggled with the weight.
I then remembered we had a hose our handyman used for watering the vines and the pot plants, so I dragged that over too, linked it to the tap and checked that it was working. The spray was feeble, even when the tap was fully turned. It could douse a few sparks, but I doubted it would be any use if the whole grove caught fire.
And then the baby kicked me. It was telling me I couldn’t fight this blaze alone. It was telling me I must find a safe place to shelter. But where? Was there anywhere safe, if the village was surrounded by burning olive trees? If I tried to leave on foot in the dark, I could fall, and I doubted I could manage to walk very far on the cobbled streets and rough mountain tracks. I imagined leaving Mountain Thyme, then stumbling and falling from the steep roads into a crevasse, giving birth under a thorny berberis bush and no one ever finding me in the wilderness.
And then I remembered the cellar; the deep cool cellar below the restaurant, where wine and oil were stored, along with preserves and dry goods. I moved as quickly as my baby would allow and filled a basket with bottled water, peaches, cheese and bread from the kitchen. I was only wearing slippers, a loose nightdress and a shawl. I would have preferred to be properly dressed, but there was no time to go back to the bedroom and worry about clothes.
I threw a torch into the basket with the provisions, and then went slowly down the steep granite steps, closing the door to the restaurant behind me. I hoped we’d be safe there, the baby and me, while every other living creature in the entire village was fleeing for its very life in the middle of the night.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
July 2008
James
One minute I was in a dead sleep, the next the light was switched on and Greg was shaking my shoulder. ‘Wake up, quick,’ he was saying. ‘We’ve got to go, right away.’
I was groggy with sleep and the wine we’d drunk earlier, mumbling, ‘Why? What time is it?’
‘There’s a fire up the mountain. Come on, hurry. Get dressed.’
He rushed away. I could see he was already dressed. I fumbled for my clothes, pulling them on in a stupor, and staggered into the bathroom to splash water over my face and brush my teeth. Then I felt for my phone. It wasn’t in my pocket, nor on the bedside table. Where was it? Then I remembered. I’d had it when I was showing Greg how to use his new phone. I must have left it on the table out on the terrace.
I ran downstairs, where Greg was gulping black coffee. He held out a cup for me, but I waved it away and ran outside.
Both phones were still where we’d left them and when I picked mine up and switched it on, I saw I had several missed calls from Amber and a message. Her voice was shaky and she sounded very scared. I ran back in to Greg, shouting, ‘We’ve got to go. I have to get to Amber right away.’
‘I know. Come on,’ he yelled back and we ran to the cars. ‘No,’ he shouted, as I went to unlock mine. ‘We’d better take the jeep. If the road’s blocked we might have to go cross-country.’
‘Has it reached the village?’ I asked, as he pulled away in a spurt of gravel.
‘It’s very close,’ was his terse answer. He was hunched over the wheel, accelerating around the bends.
‘The fire brigade, we’ve got to call them,’ I said, as I tried to ring Amber again. Every time I dialled she didn’t answer, making me more and more frantic. She must have her phone with her, I kept thinking, she must have charged it up. She knew it was her lifeline. There was no answer from the restaurant phone either.
‘Already done it,’ he said, driving even faster.
‘You called them?’
‘Yup. They’d already had the call and were on their way.’
‘On their way? They’re not there yet?’ The jeep swung wide round another sharp bend and suddenly Greg shot across the road, taking the tight turn up to the mountains. I hung onto the strap above the side window and steadied myself with one hand on the dashboard. As we climbed, there was a view ahead of the mountainside, normally dark and featureless at night, unless there was a full moon and a clear sky, but now it was jewel-like, wreathed in beads of orange, amber and red. ‘My God,’ I said. ‘It’s spreading everywhere.’
‘Bloody fool,’ Greg muttered, taking another sharp turn, tyres screeching and spraying gravel on the hairpin bends.
I was craning to look at the hillside, struggling in the dark to work out exactly how near to the village and the restaurant the blaze was. It seemed to be taking us forever to get there. Through the open window, as well as the growling whine of the engine, I thought I could hear something above us and suddenly, against the dawning sky, I could see a plane, carrying a bulging parcel. ‘I think they’re bringing in water,’ I shouted to Greg. ‘That should help.’
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he cursed. ‘It must be spreading fast. They only do that when they can’t reach it with the hoses.’
Of course. I should have known. We’d seen it two years before, in our first summer on the island; the seaplanes dipping and scooping over the turquoise waters, hauling great bucketloads up to the burning hillsides.
‘But the firefighters must be trying to deal with it too. They must be. Amber’s up there. She’s all alone.’ I punched the dashboard in frustration. ‘Damn it, I shouldn’t have left her on her own. I should never have left her.’
Then suddenly, just after we’d rounded another bend, Greg skidded to a halt. A police car was angled across the road and an officer came towards us, his hand held up to halt our progress. He and Greg spoke rapidly in Greek, waving arms and pointing down the road towards the village.
‘What’s he saying?’ I shouted. ‘Tell him I’ve got to get through.’
‘He says no one’s allowed any further. They all think the village is deserted and no one’s there overnight. But I’ve told him we’re sure Amber’s still there, on her own.’
‘She must be. I know she is. She couldn’t leave without a car, not in her condition. We both know that.’
‘Calm down. The fire fighters are all around the village. They’ll get to her very soon. She’ll be fine.’
I climbed out of the car, but I couldn’t see or hear any activity. I could see the distant glow of the fire but I couldn’t see the village. It was half a mile away, tucked into the valley, shielded by the mountain slopes. I felt frantic, not knowing how Amber was coping. I cursed myself again for leaving her on her own. And I knew I couldn’t stand there doing nothing – I had to get to her, right away.
‘I’ve got to find her,’ I shouted, and charged past the police car and its officer. I heard him and Greg shouting after me, then more shouts as I ran. It was starting to get light now and I could see the road as a grey ribbon ahead of me, snaking round boulders on the left and dropping down into steep gullies on the right. Please don’t say she’s tried to leave alone on foot in the dark, I pleaded, please let her be safe.
Before long, my breathing became laboured; I wasn’t as fit as I used to be. All that time in the kitchen may have been hard on my feet and my fingers, but it hadn’t prepared me for this kind of endurance race. My pace slowed and I had to catch my breath. I leant on my knees, easing the stitch that was gripping my stomach, and that’s when I heard steps behind me. I looked round, about to start running again, thinking it was the policeman trying to stop me, but it was Greg. Despite his age and his drinking, he was fitter than me from all his regular tennis and games of golf.
‘Catch me up when you can,’ he called, as he jogged past. ‘We’ll get to her, don’t you worry.’ His voice trailed into the distance and he was soon out of sight, far along the track.
I began running again, but couldn’t catch up with him, as I was soon reduced to stumbling with another agonising stitch in my side. Then, as I rounded the final bend, I could see the tiled rooftops in the hollow ahead of me. ‘No,’ I cried out loud. This end of the village was completely surrounded by fire, and flames were licking the doors and windows of the very houses.
Greg was nowhere in sight, but as I stumbled down the stony track and neared the burning village, I thought I could hear distant shouts from the far side. I hoped that meant the firefighters were tackling the blaze and that it might soon be under control. Flames were starting to trickle through the undergrowth on either side of the road, and the narrow lane into the village was littered with falling debris from houses and trees. I came to a halt at the entrance to the cobbled street we usually drove down to the restaurant. All I could see ahead of me was buildings ablaze on every side, with tiles crashing through roofs as timbers burnt and windows exploded, their glass shattering into the street.
I couldn’t see a way to reach Mountain Thyme safely, so I decided to skirt around the perimeter of the village by following the thin worn path used by the local sheep and goats, winding through the scrubland dotted with thorny bushes. It made for slow progress, as I kept tripping over roots and rocks – not a problem for nimble, cloven hooves, but an obstacle race for my big clumsy feet.
Although the sky had lightened with the dawn, visibility was still poor because of the smoke, so I didn’t immediately see the figure crouching a little way off behind the stunted juniper trees. But, as I came nearer, I noticed a man hunched there. At first, I assumed it was Greg catching his breath, then I suddenly realised it was Dimitri. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I called.
His head jerked round in surprise on hearing my voice. ‘Mr James,’ he said, pointing to the flames. ‘The fire, it is a terrible thing. The whole village destroyed, I fear.’
I reached him, almost out of breath and gasped, ‘Have you seen Greg? Did he come this way?’
‘Mr Richards? Is here now?’ He looked around from side to side, his eyes wide open.
‘He came on ahead of me. I’ve got to find a way in,’ I panted, trying to catch my breath. ‘I must find her. Amber’s in there alone. Is there any way of reaching the restaurant?’
But Dimitri just kept on staring at me. Why on earth didn’t he answer? Was he numbed into silence by the ferocity of the fire?
‘Dimitri, where’s Greg? Come on, we have to get into the village and find them.’ I turned away and resumed running along the narrow goat track, and then I stopped and looked back. He was still standing there under the trees, then, suddenly, he turned and began to run. He started running fast, but not towards me and not towards the village: he was running away, back towards the road. ‘Dimitri!’ I called. ‘Where are you going? Come back. We’ve got to get to Amber. She needs help.’
He shouted something as he ran. A
t first, I couldn’t quite catch his words, tossed away as he stumbled up the track. But as I turned them over, trying to interpret his distorted cry, I realised he’d shouted, ‘None of it’s yours. It belongs to us, not you!’
I began to run after him, my chest bursting with pain, my feet catching on the rough ground. He was faster than me and I saw he was heading for his car, tucked away under bushes in the shadow of a cliff, but then suddenly he tripped and as he staggered to his feet, limping, I caught up with him, grabbing hold of him by his collar. He swung back and lunged at me, but I dodged his fists.
‘Hey, hold on!’ I cried, ducking another swing. ‘What’s the problem? What’s this all about?’
‘You English!’ he shouted. ‘Always taking. It’s not yours. It never was.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re in business, aren’t we? We’re all in it together?’
He pulled free of my grasp, stepped back, and then began to laugh. ‘Never. It will never be yours. The fire takes everything and then it will be ours again.’
I was shocked into silence. I didn’t understand. All I could comprehend was his contempt for all of us and his total lack of concern for Amber. And then he spat at me, his spittle landing on the ground at my feet. At that point I lost control and threw myself at him, knocking him off balance. As he lay there stunned, I fumbled in his pockets and found his car keys, then I threw them as far as I could across the dry scrub. ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ I shouted, as I began running back again along the narrow track towards the fire. ‘I’ve got to find my wife. You can wait.’
Chapter Fifty-Nine
16 June 1944
That night they sleep under the trees. The girls are sleeping in the handcart, dreaming of new white dresses, the donkey and goats are tethered nearby with a bag of hay and the caged hens mutter soft clucks in their feathery sleep. Georgiou and Agata lie on a bed of pine needles, looking up at the stars through a ceiling of airy branches. They ate a sparse cold supper of feta and cucumbers, not daring to light a fire in this tinder-dry clearing.
Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 21