‘For long enough, Zenia. And I am not alone. Look, here is my wife and our two little girls.’ He needn’t explain their relationship, not for now.
‘Mikro koritsi,’ she exclaims, clapping her hands with joy. ‘We shall have children in the village again. It is far too long since I heard the sound of little children.’ Tears begin to seep down her wrinkled cheeks and she dabs them away with her scarf.
‘Tell me, Zenia,’ Georgiou says, bending down to her diminished height, ‘is anyone else still living here now?’
She shakes her head and continues to wipe her face. ‘All gone. Every one of them. I am all alone these past five years.’ She grasps both his hands and brings them up to her lips. ‘You will stay? You will move back to your family’s farmhouse?’
He takes her gnarled old hands gently in his hardened fisherman’s fists. ‘We hope to. We have come a long way and the children are very tired, but we’d like to stay. It is not safe for us now, down on the coast.’
She nods her head. ‘I see them. I don’t know who they are, but I know they bring trouble.’
‘Have they been here? Have you seen any soldiers?’
‘None. But I see them up there.’ She shakes her fist at the sky. ‘And I say, away with you. Leave us in peace.’
‘Good for you. And how are you managing here on your own?’
‘Life is hard, but it is simple. I have sheep, a garden and hens. What more do I need?’ She glances across to where Agata and the two girls are watching and waiting.
‘I will gladly share what little I have for the pleasure of your company and to hear the laughter of little ones again.’
Chapter Sixty-Three
July 2008
James
As I ran around the outskirts of the village, I was sure I could hear shouting. It had to be the fire crew tackling the blaze from another side, but it was hard to be certain of their location while the flames were still crackling and advancing. I had no idea what the crew might be saying and doing or whether they thought they had any hope of saving any of the buildings.
The blaze was creeping around every house and barn, but finally I came to a corner where the fire hadn’t quite grabbed hold. It was at the very end of the cobbled street, far beyond the restaurant, and when I looked along the little lane, I realised I couldn’t safely approach Mountain Thyme at ground level, but I could get there if I took to the rooftops, above the level of the fire –the houses were jammed close to each other, the village having grown organically over centuries without the interference of town planners.
I clambered up a flight of outside steps to the top of the nearest house, then scrambled over the tiles and jumped the narrow gap across to the next roof. Despite the smoke, I could just about make out the tiles of the next roof and thought that if I could leap from one roof to another I would soon see the recently tiled roof of Mountain Thyme; our tiles, mostly reclaimed and recycled, were redder and more evenly spaced than those stretching ahead of me.
I held out my arms to balance myself as I slithered across the sloping sections of roof and ran forwards confidently where they were more level. It was far from easy, as many of the old tiles were slipping, some crashing to the street the minute my feet touched them, and there were gaps where the battens were broken, revealing gaping holes into the rooms below. I was desperate to run to Amber’s aid, but I knew if I didn’t watch my step I’d fall through a roof or down to the cobbled street below.
After a few minutes’ sliding and scrabbling, I was probably only a few hundred yards away from the restaurant. I heard a roaring sound overhead and looked up to see another small plane was circling the village and coming nearer, swinging its great trickling sackful of seawater. Thank goodness they’re still bringing in tonnes of water, I thought. We might stand a chance if they can get the fire under control soon.
And then the plane and its whining engine came closer and closer still. It couldn’t possibly have seen me; I was no more than a dot on the roof and smoke was swirling all around me. The plane dipped and circled overhead, its bulging cargo swinging out beneath the undercarriage. And then, suddenly, the water fell. It gushed and crashed down like a minor tsunami of salty water, and although I wasn’t directly hit, the impact of the drenching made me lose my footing – I fell and slid down the roof, landing in an upper terrace of one of the houses.
I don’t know how long I was unconscious. It could have been minutes, it could have been an hour or even longer. When I finally tried to sit up, my head throbbed and so did my right arm and leg. My clothes were soaked through, but the buildings nearest to me were no longer burning, they were just smouldering, and there was a thick smog of smoke curling in the morning air.
I managed to pull myself to my feet by hanging onto the balustrade around the terrace and realised there was actually another outer flight of steps leading down to the street. I hopped down, one painful step at a time, heaving myself along the wall, and then began limping over the cobbles using a branch for a crutch. I was only a couple of hundred yards away from Mountain Thyme by then, but the distance seemed like a marathon as I made agonising progress, supporting myself on walls and windowsills where I could, trying to avoid tripping over the debris caused by the fire.
There was a door hanging off its hinges, heaps of fallen tiles, some shattered glass from windows, fallen branches and a dead chicken, roasted in its dressing of feathers. In the porch of the old house that Amber and I had found in our first summer on the island was this year’s swallows’ nest. But the chicks were not calling for their parents any longer, with gaping yellow mouths spread wide; they had been suffocated by the smoke, and their parents were nowhere to be seen.
I called out, hoping there’d be a response from Mountain Thyme or I’d see Greg’s florid face, grinning, letting me know all was well. ‘Greg, Amber, I’m here. Where are you?’ I cried, but no one answered, and I was just as abandoned as the baby birds in the shattered remains of the charred and smoking village.
Chapter Sixty-Four
July 2008
Amber
I could barely speak when I saw Greg come down the stairs; I was still panting with the effort of my labours. But finally, I managed to gasp, ‘Where’s James? Isn’t he coming?’
Greg shone his torch towards me when he heard my voice. ‘He’ll be along soon,’ he said. ‘We drove up here together, but we had to leave the car half a mile away. He wasn’t far behind me, so he shouldn’t be too much longer.’
‘It’s started,’ I groaned, as another intense pain began cutting into me.
‘Any idea how long or how far apart?’ He knelt down beside me and put a gentle hand on my shoulder.
‘No. I’m not sure. Oh, I can’t…’ my voice tailed off as I dealt with another fierce contraction.
‘I’m going upstairs to phone. There’s no signal down here.’
‘No, don’t leave me,’ I managed to cry.
‘I’ll only be a second, I promise,’ he called, as he ran towards the stairs. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back right away.’
I don’t know how long he was gone. I didn’t hear him climb the stairs and I didn’t hear him come back again. I could only listen to my inner pain as it squeezed and tightened until it felt as if I didn’t have a single breath left in my body. But then suddenly he was back. ‘James, where’s James?’ I gasped.
‘He’s coming,’ Greg said. ‘Here, let me help.’ He rolled a sack and wedged it behind my back. Then he held a bottle of cold water to my lips. ‘Drink some of this. You’ll be fine and I’m staying right here with you.’
‘Get the car… hospital…’ I croaked.
Greg put his arm around me. This was a totally different Greg to the braggadocio I had known before, he was far more gentle and quieter. ‘How far do you think you could walk?’ he said.
I tried to stand and he helped me by putting both his hands either side of my expanded waist. But as soon as I tried to take a step, a vice-like contraction gripped me once mo
re and I couldn’t move at all. I was made immobile, chained with agony, totally immersed in the pain, panting with every muscle, every nerve in my body.
‘I think we’re better off staying here,’ he said, helping me sink back down onto the sacks. ‘The cellar’s quite safe and I’ve told the fire brigade exactly where we are. They’ll find us very soon. You can’t leave here now without their help.’
‘But the baby,’ I groaned. ‘What about the baby? I don’t want to have it in here. It’s not right.’
‘You might not want to, but you might have to.’ He held my hand and stroked it. ‘Don’t worry. I’m going to stay with you the whole time until help arrives.’
Then he shone his torch over the makeshift bed I’d pulled together. The sacks were rumpled, slipping onto the hard floor. He pulled a small barrel up to one end and draped it with a folded sack, making a hard but firm backrest. He straightened the other sacks, then helped me to sit down again. It was more comfortable than before, with the support of the barrel and another rolled sack behind my back. He propped his torch on one of the upright barrels so my bed was partially illuminated, then sat down beside me and held my hand again. I felt calmer.
As another contraction began to sweep in, I squeezed his hand tight and heard him say, ‘Go on. You can do it. Grip my hand as much as you like. You can’t hurt me.’
‘Thank you,’ I panted, as the wave of pain receded. ‘It will be all right, won’t it?’
‘Of course it will,’ he said. ‘You’re young, healthy and strong. You’ll be fine and so will the baby. I don’t know much about childbirth, but I was there when Lavinia was born. She was so beautiful. Still is.’
I couldn’t make out his expression in the dim half-light, but his voice was tender. ‘You’d do anything for her, wouldn’t you?’ I said, wanting him to keep talking and to give me something to think about other than the next jolt of pain, which was already beginning to take hold.
‘She can wind me round her little finger,’ he laughed. ‘And she knows it too.’ Then he was silent for a second before saying, ‘We always thought we’d have more, but she’s the only one.’ He sighed. ‘My lovely Lavinia.’
I don’t remember much of the conversation after that, as the contractions became more and more frequent, until it was nearly one continual surge of agonising pain, culminating in the most almighty desire to push, which I instinctively knew meant the baby was about to emerge. I didn’t know whether it was the right thing to do, but I felt I had to be on my knees and I just about managed to hold back my scream to gasp, ‘Not on a sack. Please not a sack.’ And then I screamed. I hollered and bellowed and didn’t give a damn who heard me.
But through my screeching, I kept hearing Greg’s soothing voice, saying, ‘Keep going, good girl. It’s coming. Don’t worry, I’ve got it.’
And then suddenly it was all over. I panted, catching my breath, and fell on my side, turning towards Greg. ‘Is it all right? Can I see?’ And I heard squawking as he passed the small bundle to me. I peered at the cross little face in the poor light, so scrunched, so tiny.
‘He’s perfect,’ Greg said, rinsing his hands in the water bucket then wiping them on his trousers. ‘You have a beautiful baby boy.’
And then I noticed Greg was bare-chested. I glanced down again; my newborn baby was squinting at me, wrapped in Greg’s blue and white striped shirt. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered. ‘Thank you so much for being here and helping me.’
‘I’m glad I could be of service,’ Greg said. ‘But now I think I’d better see if there’s any help nearby.’ He started climbing the stairs. ‘I won’t be long. I promise.’
Chapter Sixty-Five
17 June 1944
‘Go to sleep now, my dears,’ Agata smooths the children’s freshly brushed hair and kisses their cheeks. They are exhausted from their long hike and the excitement of reaching the village. Tonight, they have no need of songs or stories to bring sleep, which comes quickly as they curl around each other on their makeshift bed, the blackened soles of their feet peeping from under the blanket. In the morning, Agata will wash them and their clothes, but for now they must rest. She covers them loosely and goes outside to the terrace, where Georgiou is contemplating the overgrown garden while he sips his cooling mountain tea.
‘There is much to be done,’ he says, ‘but I think we can manage here.’ The farmhouse is in better condition than many of the village houses. The windows are cracked, but their shutters can be fastened and the doors can be barred and locked, and its walls are strong. But Agata will not allow the girls to venture up the staircase until Georgiou has checked that it is free of rot and that the floorboards in all the rooms above are sound. ‘I will check the roof thoroughly tomorrow. Some tiles have broken away, but I can replace them. We must have a dry house before the winter rains.’
‘We are lucky your cousins didn’t take everything with them,’ Agata says. ‘A table, chairs and bedframes, all still here. In the morning, I will clean out the kitchen range and see if the chimney is clear. There is dry wood all around us, so we should be able to cook and keep ourselves warm.’ She had gathered a bundle of dry kindling as soon as they reached the house and tethered the donkey and goats on the grass.
‘It’s not so bad, is it?’ Georgiou says, putting a protective arm around his wife. ‘We haven’t done the wrong thing in leaving our comfortable home?’
She lays her head on his shoulder. ‘We had no choice. We can’t think of ourselves. These poor children have only us to protect them. We couldn’t take the risk.’
‘Then come and sit down and let us plan the work we must do. I will visit Zenia and see what help she needs in return for sharing her livestock. She has a pig as well as sheep and there will be milk for a while, as they lambed this spring.’
‘Then we may have meat for our table, if she is willing. And although the garden is overgrown, I am sure I can see artichokes. They may have gone too far now to eat this year, but we can tend them and ensure they will be productive next season.’
‘And we should also explore all the other abandoned houses here. There may well be furniture or tools that we can put to good use, as well as fruit trees.’
‘But first we must make this house safe,’ Agata says, ‘and then I will clean everywhere, so we can use more than just the one room. I think birds have nested upstairs and there may be mice in the old kitchen. I don’t want to put our mattresses on the beds until I am sure the house is free of vermin.’ Agata had insisted the bedding they had brought on the handcart should remain rolled up until she considered it safe to make the beds. Tonight, she and her husband will make do with sacks of straw and hay, while the little girls sleep on blankets over a pile of dry leaves.
Georgiou laughs at his wife’s high standards. She is proud of her industry and her housekeeping skills. She was taught well by her mother and will teach the girls all they need to know too. He throws another dry vine cutting onto the campfire they lit to boil water and cook eggs for their supper. It reminds him of his adventures as a boy, exploring the mountain trails and camping out on summer nights, while herding sheep and goats. He was happy to fall asleep under the stars after a meal of cheese and grapes. But Agata is not used to such a carefree way of life and much as it suits him, he knows he must create a more civilised home for her and the children as soon as he can. He looks up at the untended vine entangling the beams over the terrace. ‘There are a few bunches of grapes here too, despite the neglect. But I’ll prune it hard and we should have plenty next year.’
Agata takes his hand. ‘You are a good man. I know you will do your best to provide for us.’
Chapter Sixty-Six
July 2008
James
Another seaplane roared above me, its cargo swinging beneath its belly, then it circled over the far side of the village. I watched the water cascade onto the furthest buildings and olive groves and hoped the fire was finally coming under control.
I had managed to hop no more tha
n a dozen or so yards from where I’d fallen and was finding it exhausting as well as painful. I leant against a wall, trying to find the strength to continue, then suddenly saw the half-dressed figure of Greg emerging from the smoke-blackened walls of Mountain Thyme, further down the street. ‘Greg!’ I shouted. ‘I’m over here. Is Amber there? Is she all right?’
He ran up the road to me, jumping over all the dead creatures and rubble in his path. ‘She’s fine,’ he called, as he ran. ‘She’s had the baby.’
‘The baby? Here already? But it’s far too early.’
‘Maybe, but she’s just had a healthy boy. It looks fine and so is she. They’re down in the cellar.’ Greg grabbed me as I slumped, then helped me sit down on a low ledge. ‘Mate, you’re all done in. I was wondering what had happened to you.’
‘One of the planes,’ I said. ‘Decided I needed a shower.’ I was exhausted and in pain, but I knew I needed to see Amber. ‘I’ve got to get to her. Can you help me over there?’
‘Sure. Then I’ve got to find help so we can get her to hospital.’
‘Hospital? But you just said she was all right.’
‘She is. But she needs to be checked over. And so do you, by the looks of things. If this mess has calmed down, the fire brigade should be able to radio for an air ambulance now. I doubt they’ll be able to get up here by road for a while yet.’
He helped me to my feet, then pulled me onto his bare back and stumbled forwards over the cobbles towards the restaurant. ‘It looks bad,’ he said, ‘but the main structure is still intact. It should be salvageable.’ I could see ash and debris everywhere, but it was still more of a building than many in the village.
Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 23