A few days after moving in, I awoke and strolled out on to the balcony to take in the morning sun and enjoy a light breakfast. But when I sat down and looked down into my garden I could hardly believe my eyes. My Greek neighbour – a farmer – had put his sheep and goats on my lawn to eat all the grass! It made me chuckle to see a load of farm animals milling about in my new garden. But it solved a problem – I’d wondered how on earth I would tackle it without a strong lawnmower.
Unlike in England, my Greek neighbours were pretty relaxed when it came to property boundaries. It was all part of village life and I made lots of friends.
One day, I was just settling down to a spot of housework on one of my rare days off from work, when I heard a tap at my front door. I opened it to find a wise old Greek lady standing there. She was the matriarch of the village and highly respected. In other words, what she said went.
‘Come with me,’ she instructed in Greek, waving her crooked hand towards herself to beckon me to follow.
I only half-understood but followed her anyway, not having a clue where she was taking me. The heat from the midday sun was scorching and I wondered how she stayed cool dressed in her long black skirt and shawl and thick black stockings. I also wondered how long we would walk for until, suddenly, she came to an abrupt stop right by an overgrown field. The field was shabby, neglected and full of what I can only describe as weeds.
The old lady went into the field and turned back to face me; I guessed that she wanted me to follow. I was puzzled.
‘Horta!’ she exclaimed, as she picked a wide green leaf and waved it in front of my face. It looked just like a dandelion leaf. I was baffled. The lady pointed to the other varieties of weeds and gestured as if she were cooking and eating them.
Now I understood. I nodded my head to show her that I did.
The old woman explained in Greek and broken english that if I wanted to be a proper villager then I had to learn how to collect the different leaves and cook this dish from the wild.
‘This is what we do,’ she told me in Greek.
That day, we collected armfuls of wild leaves before making our way back to her house. Once there, she showed me how to clean, cook and even how to eat it. Once it had been wilted over a hot stove, the horta looked just like spinach. It was served with olive oil and drizzled with lemon juice and tasted surprisingly nice. The lady told me that the locals served it mostly in winter – it was the Greek equivalent to British greens. The tourists never ate it though; she explained this by pinching her nose and turning it up with the tip of one finger.
After the day with the old lady, I returned home a little muddy but full of wisdom from my Greek experience. I found it quite amusing; I was a grown woman yet I had just been trained and schooled like a child.
Later that evening, I called my mum back in England to explain what I’d been up to. I knew that she wouldn’t believe it.
‘Sorry, Jacqui,’ she said, dissolving into a fit of laughter. ‘I can just imagine you eating dandelion leaves. How did they taste? Were they delicious?’
‘It’s not funny,’ I scolded her in mock anger. But it was. I giggled too. ‘I’ll tell you what, though, I won’t be going again, that’s for sure!’
An elderly English couple lived opposite me and they decided that, as a single woman, I needed to be looked after. They were a kind couple and we became very good friends. I enjoyed their company but it remained on a social level. They didn’t know anything about me and I decided to keep it that way. Nobody knew about Colette or her murder. I had decided not to tell anyone, as I knew it would change the way they viewed and treated me. Also, this allowed me to be the old Jacqui, not the grieving mother caught up in the middle of a nightmare. I spent my first Christmas in my little house and invited the old couple to my place. Other friends arrived along with Nikos, a new Greek friend of mine, who insisted on bringing the Christmas turkey.
Nikos arrived with the bird in his hands and a jubilant smile on his face. As he came in, he gave me a hug before handing me the bird I was expected to cook. The only turkeys I’d ever been in close contact with before had been gutted and wrapped in clingfilm from the local butcher. But, as I unwrapped this one, I got the shock of my life. It had been cleaned and gutted, but the poor thing still had its neck on, and it was bobbing around.
‘Urgh, I’ll have to cut that off!’ I said, pointing at the neck dangling limply in my hands.
He looked at me, confused.
‘This is going to be a traditional English Christmas turkey so the neck will have to go,’ I explained.
‘English?’ he replied, a little puzzled. ‘How can it be an English turkey when it’s a Greek bird?’
I tried to explain, but soon tears of laughter were trickling down my face. He certainly had a point, and a funny one at that. I laughed and had a great time. For the first time in years, I could smile genuinely once more. Things were going to be OK, I told myself.
During my working day as a holiday rep, I’d force a happy smile. I’d meet excited British holidaymakers at the airport and take them to their accommodation, dropping each group off one by one. I’d organise the welcome meetings at the hotels and studio apartments and offer advice on local sights and tours that they could enjoy. I loved my job because not only did it give me a whole new sense of purpose, it also allowed me to share in the holidaymakers’ happiness even though my own life had been shredded to pieces. It was my escape.
I got on well with my clients, and put myself out for them – nothing was too much trouble. I was making people happy, helping to turn their idea of a dream holiday into a reality. Now I was part of that dream, and I loved seeing all the sun-kissed faces returning home, content and relaxed. My own life had been a nightmare, but being with these people helped free me from it. I was working long hours and, even though I didn’t have to, I threw myself completely into my job by going on Greek nights and socialising as much as I could. In a strange way, it made me feel part of a family unit again. I felt needed and wanted by the holiday crowd, just as my children had once needed and wanted me.
Most importantly, for the first time since Colette died, I wasn’t looking over my shoulder any more. It felt wonderful. The constant feeling of being watched had disappeared the day the plane first left the rainsoaked tarmac at Gatwick airport. But, whenever I returned home to Nottingham, the same uneasy feeling would appear once more and I’d be frightened and vulnerable again.
Every year, I arrived in Greece in April in time for the season in May. I’d have to be there at least a month before just to prepare the books and holiday boards (adverts for excursions) for the expected crowds. I’d finish in October, but would not return home until after the anniversary of Colette’s murder. Being at home during this time was just another stab in my heart – I couldn’t bear it. It was too painful and too much of a reminder of everything I’d lost. I would arrive home in the deep winter months. But the more friends I made in Greece, the more I wanted to stay. Soon, I wasn’t returning home until January, and in April I would leave for Greece again.
After two years of my half-life in England and Greece, I thought it was time to make a decision.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I told Mum one day. ‘I need to make a permanent base and my heart is pulling me towards Greece.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve already made your decision,’ Mum sighed sadly.
I felt guilty leaving Mum behind to grieve in the familiar surroundings of Nottinghamshire, but I had to do it. It was a form of self-protection. For years I’d neglected myself and now it was time to look after Jacqui.
I decided to make a new home in Greece.
It was a happy time and, for the first time in years, I was genuinely content again. I knew that all my new friends – the Greek families in particular – would have no idea of what had happened to me before all this. They wouldn’t know my face from the newspapers; they wouldn’t cross the street to avoid me. Instead, I was welcomed with open arms and open minds. In
Greece, I could be Jacqui Aram or whoever I wanted to be. It didn’t matter because no one knew who I was and it was wonderful. Many of the people I met during those early days in Greece remain friends to this day.
When I’d lived in England, I had viewed everyone with suspicion. I would look at all men – especially those with a beard or a moustache – and wonder if they had killed my daughter. It was madness, of course, but then my whole existence at this time had been surreal. Up until the time I’d finally left Nottingham, it was as if my life had been put on hold. I’d always been a people person but Colette’s murder had changed all that. Now, at last I was getting some of the old me back again.
In the early days in Greece, I began helping a friend out by working on the reception in her hotel on the other side of the island. Many years later, I was still working at the hotel when something strange happened. I was travelling to work one morning past a tiny Greek church, which jutted out into the road like a sore thumb at the side of a sharp bend. I was just passing the church when suddenly, and from nowhere, I heard Colette’s voice.
‘Mum, why did you just go and leave me here and never come to see me?’ she called.
I gasped and turned to look behind me but there was no one there. But Colette’s voice was unmistakable. The words cut through me like a knife.
For a long time, I’d not been to see Colette’s grave at the churchyard back in Nottingham. I just couldn’t face it. The pain was still too raw. Yet here I was – at another church thousands of miles away from home – with Colette’s voice asking me ‘why?’.
I didn’t have any answers. The experience had left me completely shaken and I was crying uncontrollably by the time I arrived at the hotel. When I walked in, my friend noticed something was wrong and ran over to me.
‘Whatever’s the matter, Jacqui?’ she said, her arms wrapped around me. She assumed I’d been attacked or mugged.
I sat down, took a deep breath and, in between sobs, I told her everything. I told her about Colette, about her murder, about how I’d tried to escape to Greece. Then I told her about the voice I’d just heard from the rickety old Greek church. It was the first time that I’d told my friend about Colette and I could see she was taken aback. Up until that point she didn’t even know that I’d had a daughter. But she was sympathetic, listened intently and comforted me throughout. The Greeks are very spiritual. They believe in the evil eye – they wear it on bracelets or chains around their necks to ward off evil.
Not that I believed Colette was an evil spirit. Maybe the experience was just a random prick of my conscience. Maybe my subconscious felt I was out here having too much fun when I should be sad and grieving. I didn’t have any answers. All I know is I heard my daughter’s voice as clearly as if she was calling to me from the next room. I have never been able to explain it, even to this day.
Before Greece, I was obsessed with going to see Colette to lay flowers on her grave. The churchyard and Colette’s grave had become a second home to me. The flowers had to be the same colour. One week it would be carnations, the next week roses, and so on. If I couldn’t get the matching flowers I wanted, I would become quite upset. Mostly I chose white, to symbolise purity.
On one of my visits home, I visited Colette’s grave with Mark. We stood at the graveside with our arms around one another and cried. Afterwards, all I could think of was the desperate and utter misery of it all. The grave was a reminder of the hopelessness. That day, I realised how obsessed I’d become before I’d left for my new life. As a result, I couldn’t bring myself to return. It would be another ten years before I visited my daughter’s grave again, and another five years after that before I went back again.
Sometimes I felt bad – as if I was a bad mother, selfish and uncaring. Whenever I thought of my visit with Mark, all I could see was the two of us, arms wrapped around each other, sobbing our hearts out for Colette. I knew that I cared, but part of me could no longer visit Colette in her grave without being able to tell her that the police had captured the man who’d taken her life so brutally.
How could I visit and lay flowers in peace without having any kind of justice for her? How could I face her?
I loved my job, particularly the excitement on the faces of families coming through the airport terminals. It was a fulfilling occupation, but sometimes the flights would be delayed and I’d find myself kicking my heels, waiting around like a spare part.
It was on one of these occasions that I met Peter.
Peter owned his own yacht charter company and would wait alongside me to meet and greet his clients. I was struck by his cheerful manner. We’d always exchange pleasantries before going our separate ways. One afternoon, I was standing at the airport waiting around when Peter approached me and we said our hellos. It soon turned out that Peter had something to ask me.
‘I was wondering,’ he began, nervously shuffling from one foot to the other. ‘You don’t have to, but I just wondered if you’d like to come sailing with me sometime, perhaps?’
The question hung in the air between us and it took me a moment to realise that Peter was asking me out on a date.
‘Er, no, thank you,’ I replied immediately. My suspicion of men extended to everyone, even the nice guys. I’d moved on in leaps and bounds in the seven years since Colette’s murder, but I certainly wasn’t feeling ready to start dating again.
Peter looked crestfallen.
‘It’s not you,’ I stammered, feeling a pang of guilt. ‘It’s just I’m not that keen on boats. Besides, my brother’s here on holiday at the moment with his wife and they’re both staying with me.’
Pete’s face lit up. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘perhaps they could come sailing with me?’
‘They’d like that,’ I smiled. ‘But I’m not so sure I’d like to.’
Peter understood, and scrawled down his telephone number so my brother could call him.
I spoke to Michael and told him about the offer. Of course, he was delighted and eager to go, so I called Peter and made arrangements for them to meet up. Peter took Michael and his wife Sue sailing for the day. While they were out at sea, he asked Michael if he thought I’d go on a dinner date with him. Michael agreed on my behalf and readily gave out my home telephone number.
Hours later, I returned home from work to find Michael and Sue back home exhilarated from a day’s sailing.
They were bubbling with excitement, eager to tell me about the great day they’d had. I was pleased that Peter had made such a fuss of them. I thought it was a very kind gesture. But, when Michael told me he had given Peter my telephone number and organised a date for me, I was angry.
‘I’m not going out for dinner with him!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’m not interested. I don’t want to go out with anyone.’
Michael crossed the room and took my hands in his. ‘Jacqui, isn’t it about time that you got on with your life?’ he said gently. ‘Isn’t it time that you put everything behind you and started again?’
My face fell into a frown. I didn’t know what to say. How could I move on without Colette?
‘Anyway,’ Michael said, his voice breaking the silence. ‘I’ve told him that you’ll go.’
The following day, the phone rang and I agreed to meet up with Peter. I felt I owed it to him and myself to give it a chance. I had spent the last few years viewing every man with suspicion, but Michael was right; it was time for a change.
That evening, Peter and I went for dinner at a local taverna – a small fish tavern in Zakynthos town. He was familiar with the taverna and its owner, as he always went when he was in town with his yacht. It felt weird to be on a date with a man that I knew, but not very well. It also seemed unthinkable to have a good time with Colette dead and her murderer still at large. But I had to do it. I had to carry on living. I knew deep down in my heart of hearts that this is what Colette would have wanted. It was a fun evening, not romantic really, as there were lots of people around. But it was nice and relaxing and I was glad I’d gone along.
It was 1996. By this time I had been in Greece five years and was living in a new upstairs two-bedroom apartment, which had a large sunny lounge, a cheerful kitchen and bathroom. The apartment was situated in the middle of an olive and orange grove. It was my own piece of heaven, to wake in the mornings and to smell the freshness of orange blossom encased in early-morning dew. It was the most magical and unforgettable place.
Six months into our relationship, Peter was talking to me about his two sons and daughter when I began to tell him about Mark. Suddenly, and without warning, I started talking about Colette and the ongoing murder inquiry. Peter sat and listened to every word. I could tell that he was a little shocked but he remained silent until I’d finished. Peter didn’t say much, he just listened, which is all I wanted him to do. He didn’t offer his opinion or interfere – he knew that this was a personal heartache and there was nothing he could say or do to make it any better. At least now he understood.
Justice for Colette: My daughter was murdered - I never gave up hope of her killer being found. He was finally caught after 26 years Page 13