The Santorini Summer

by Christine Shaw

  ‘It is for the best,’ Irini sobbed.

  ‘What is?’ But then I caught sight of Stavros and his sons wielding heavy hammers as they systematically destroyed the front of the house. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘My father says we will get compensation, like the people in Fira,’ Irini whispered. ‘If your house was destroyed in the earthquake they give you money to build a new house.’

  Now I understood what the arguments had been about. Stavros had been encouraging the Oians to destroy what was left of the town so that the government would pay compensation. Christos, with his love of tradition and architecture, his sense of historical accuracy, had been horrified. The old houses, particularly the Captains’ houses, were part of Oia’s legacy. To knock them down, needlessly, was nothing more than vandalism.

  But the front of the house was crumbling before my eyes and still the hammers rained down upon the stonework.

  ‘Can’t you stop them? This is dreadful. Where will you go?’ Even as I spoke, I knew that neither Irini nor her mother, however heartbroken at the loss of their home, would ever intervene in their men’s decisions. All I could do was go down to the harbour and wait for the Ariadne to return.

  Instead of my usual joyful anticipation of seeing her sails appear, I sat on a coil of rope dreading the boat’s return. I knew how Christos would feel when he learned of Stavros’ actions and even if he could make him change his mind, it would be too late to save the façade of the house. I wished we had not stayed so long in Oia but had made our way to Acrotiri immediately after the earthquake, or before the earthquake. By the time Ariadne entered the harbour I was wretched with anxiety on Christos’ behalf.

  ‘Olivia! What’s wrong?’

  Of course Christos could see, even before the boat was tied up, that I was unhappy. I shook my head miserably and waited until he’d jumped ashore, leaving his friends to man the ropes.

  ‘Are you unwell? Hurt? What has happened?’

  It was a comfort to be in his arms, but I hated to tell him what Stavros was doing.

  Although I spoke in English, I could see Niko and Dimitrios looking at each other and I knew then that they had known what was going to happen while they were away fishing.

  Christos said something in Greek which was obviously a curse, before starting up the steep hill with me in tow and the others following behind trying to be conciliatory.

  ‘Christos, begged Niko, ‘wait!’

  But there was nothing he could say which would have abated Christos’ fury and, although he was out of breath by the time we reached the house, Christos pushed me towards Irini and dashed across the garden, shouting Stavros’ name.

  It was impossible for the man to hear above the noise of the hammers and the consequent falling of stone, so Christos grabbed Stavros’ arm and pulled. The older man dropped his hammer and turned, his surprise turning to anger as he realised who was impeding him. I could not follow the Greek as he and Christos tussled, yelling at each other, but both were furious. Stavros’ sons went to stand behind their father, allowing him to deal with this interruption, but ready to leap forward if necessary.

  Niko went across and tried to take hold of Christos, but was briskly brushed aside. Stavros took advantage of the distraction to bend and retrieve his hammer, facing his opponent now with greater confidence and menace.

  ‘Christos!’ I shouted in terror, ‘Be careful!

  I was sure that Stavros was angry enough to use the hammer, and Niko evidently thought so too because he made another grab for Christos, pulling him away. Christos’ fury was now directed as much towards Niko as Stavros and he swung his arm around, snarling something which must have been deeply insulting because I saw Niko’s eyes widen in disbelief as he shoved Christos roughly away from him.

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion then. Christos stumbled backwards, his feet catching on the broken rocks, and he hit the ground, head first.

  I ran to him, but Niko got there first and began hauling Christos to his feet. Then he stopped, stared, and slowly, very slowly, lowered him back down again. Stavros started forward, but noticing Niko’s face, stopped.

  There was a long, strange moment when nobody spoke or moved.

  ‘Christos!’ I cried, trying to get past Niko, but my way was blocked first by Niko’s back, and then because he had turned and locked his arms tightly around me. He pulled me to him, and I could feel he was shaking.

  ‘Let me go!’ I yelled. ‘Let me go to him!’

  Dimitrios, who had been nervously hanging back, now rushed to kneel beside Christos. Then he turned and looked wide-eyed, first at Niko, then at me.

  ‘Christos!’ I yelled again. Then, struck by the behaviour of the two men Christos had called his friends, I stopped struggling. ‘Christos? Christos?’

  ‘Come away, Olivia,’ whispered Dimitrios. ‘There has been an accident.’

  *

  They took me to the priest’s house. Maria was devout and the priest knew her well as one of his faithful parishioners. There was a conversation which I barely heard, and the priest’s wife was called. She took my arm and led me to a bedroom, before asking me to lie down. I asked for Christos. She swallowed, then tried to smile, and asked me to lie down again. Feeling too shocked to defy her, I obeyed.

  After some minutes she brought me something to drink. It was both sweet and bitter and as I drank it I wondered if I was being drugged, but I truly did not have the strength to protest. Somewhere in my mind I knew that something awful had happened, and I did not care to think about that. I slept.

  When I woke I could not think where I was or what had happened. Then the unwelcome memory returned and the chilling realisation ran icy cold through my veins. Christos. What had happened to him? Where was he? I remembered the journey to the priest’s house, his wife making me lie down. It could only have been something terrible. I began to cry, without knowing exactly why. After a few moments the door opened and the priest’s wife came in.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I cried. ‘Where is Christos?’

  Through the open door I could see Irina and her mother hovering. ‘Irina!’ I shouted. ‘Where is Christos?’

  Irina entered the bedroom with lowered, red-rimmed eyes. Her mother came to stand behind her. The priest’s wife stood at the foot of the bed. I was surrounded by women who would not meet my eyes.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I demanded. ‘Irini! For God’s sake!’

  Irini tried to take my hand but I pulled it away. ‘You must tell me what has happened. Why am I here? Where is Christos?’

  ‘Olivia,’ she began, tears flowing down her cheeks. ‘There was an accident. It was an accident.’

  ‘Is Christos dead?’ I watched her face carefully. ‘Is he dead?’

  She nodded. Maria muttered a prayer. The priest’s wife glided silently from the room.

  ‘Christos is dead?’ I had to keep saying it, to force myself to believe it.

  ‘He fell,’ said Maria firmly. ‘On the stones.’

  ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘He was pushed. Niko pushed him. I saw it!’

  ‘Olivia,’ Irini begged. ‘You must not say this. It was an accident. Niko never meant to hurt Christos.’

  ‘We must call the police,’ I said grimly, now fuelled by burning rage. ‘They must come. Christos was killed.’

  ‘No, no!’ Irini pleaded, cradling her belly. ‘Please, Olivia! It was an accident. The men were angry and shouting. It was Christos’ fault, too.’

  ‘If we send for the police there will be much trouble,’ said her mother. ‘Irini’s husband will be taken away. My husband will be taken away. There will be no money for us. No-one to help Irini, and her baby is due soon. How will she feed herself without Niko?’

  ‘Please, Olivia. You are my friend. Niko was Christos’ friend. He did not intend to hurt him. You must agree. Please. Do not talk of police. The village knows what happened. They will take care of everything. You cannot take Niko away from me now.’

  ‘Chri
stos has been taken from me!’ I shouted. ‘And your father caused it!’

  As Irini collapsed onto her knees, sobbing, the priest returned, his wife behind him carrying a cup of something.

  ‘Miss Olivia,’ he said gravely. ‘This is a great tragedy. Christos was a fine young man, but we cannot undo what has already been done. It will not help you to destroy Irini’s family and doing so will not bring Christos back. You are in shock. Drink the tisane my wife has brought you and sleep. In the morning we will take you to the church and Christos will be brought to you there. You can say goodbye and pray for him.’

  I had used up all my strength. I lay back on the pillow and wept. Christos was dead.

  Irini’s mother brought the cup to my lips and I drank, obediently, thinking that if they were poisoning me I didn’t care. Irini and Maria were gently ushered from the room and I was left alone.

  *

  The village church was small but, unlike an English church, there were no pews and so the central part of the building was empty. A table had been brought in and on this lay Christos, surrounded by a glowing halo of candles. The priest led me gently to the table and then left silently, closing the door behind him.

  Christos looked just the same. A little pale, perhaps. But there was nothing to say he was dead. They had placed a thick pad behind his head so I couldn’t see the damaged skull. He might have been asleep, except that his chest was still. His eyelashes were curled upon his cheeks and he looked entirely peaceful.

  I stood looking at him, trying to take it in. He was dead. To prove it to myself I stretched out my hand and touched his arm. The skin was ice cold and I flinched slightly at the physical confirmation – Christos was dead.

  I ran my fingers through the curls that fell upon his forehead. I ran them down his nose. I bent and kissed each eyelid. I kissed each finger. I stroked his chest, his stomach. His feet were bare so I kissed his toes. Then I stared hard at him, telling myself that I must remember this, I must remember how he looks for I will not see him grow old now. This is all there will ever be, there is no tomorrow for him, for us.

  The priest had said I should say goodbye and pray for him. I could do neither. I simply stood and stared at him until they came and took me away.

  *

  There was a meeting that evening at the priest’s house. Irini and Maria were there, with Stavros’ two sons, the priest and his wife, a red-eyed Niko and a white-faced Dimitrios. Stavros did not appear. I was glad he stayed away, whether from shame or contempt it didn’t matter to me. I never wanted to see his face again.

  ‘Miss Olivia,’ said the priest, once everyone had been served wine, ‘we are here for you to tell us what we must do. It is your decision. If you decide that we must send for the police from Fira, then I will do it. Niko will be tried for manslaughter and Stavros will be tried for fraud. Many others in the village who did what Stavros did will also be in trouble. Irini and her mother must then manage alone. But if you decide that it was an accident, that no-one meant any harm to come to Christos, then you could leave it to the village to…forget what happened. We will bury Christos with reverence and forever remember him in our prayers. And Irini and Niko will name their baby for him, if it is a boy.’

  ‘We cannot bury him, Father,’ burst out Niko, miserably. ‘If there is a grave then someone will eventually want to know what happened. We will all live in fear.’

  The priest looked scandalised. ‘Of course he must be buried.’

  ‘We will bury him at sea,’ said Dimitrios. ‘It will be fitting. I believe Christos would understand. He was a fine fisherman.’

  The priest turned to me. ‘Miss Olivia?’

  I had spent the day thinking about what should happen. I hated Stavros for what he had done, the sort of man he was. I wanted him to be punished. But I could not do that without implicating Niko and I did feel pity for him, because I knew in my heart that he was a good man. He had been a true friend to Christos and he loved Irini devotedly. I pitied Irini who would have no father for her child. She would be forced to live with her mother in poverty. I didn’t think Christos would have wanted that. And whatever I did, Christos was gone. Putting Niko in prison would not help me.

  ‘We will bury him at sea,’ I said at last. ‘But the priest must be with us to say a prayer. I will not have him tossed overboard like a cargo of rotten fish.’

  Irini rushed to hug me. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she wept.

  Maria bent her head and muttered a prayer.

  ‘But you cannot be there, Olivia,’ said the priest, frowning. ‘Women are not permitted on the boats.’

  ‘It is bad luck,’ nodded Dimitrios.

  ‘Then I will go to the police,’ I said defiantly.

  They looked at each other. After a moment Niko stood and took my hand. ‘We have already had the bad luck. Let Olivia come. She can choose where we will … set him free.’

  I had already thought of that. ‘We will sail down into the channel between Santorini and Crete,’ I said. ‘That is the right place for him to be.’

  The next day was still and calm. When the boat was ready and Christos’ body, now wrapped safely in a sail, had been taken aboard, Irini walked with me down to Armeni, kissed me and then watched as the men helped me aboard. The priest said a blessing before he, too, stepped on board and we set sail. No-one spoke. There was just the wind in the sails and the sound of the water around the boat. The sky was a perfect, cloudless blue. I sat with my hand resting on the canvas bundle that was Christos as we sailed serenely through the strait between Santorini and Analfi down into the Sea of Crete.

  At a certain point there was a moment of unspoken agreement between Dimitrios and Niko. Without a word they dropped the anchor and lowered the sail. The priest rose unsteadily and came to take my hand.

  ‘This is a hard thing for you, Olivia. But it is a brave thing. A generous gift to Niko and Irini. To the entire village in fact. We will say a prayer now for Christos’ soul, sending him to God with great blessings and much love.’

  He placed his other hand on the body and began to pray. Niko and Dimitrios joined in softly but I could not speak. My heart was calling out to him, Goodbye my love, Goodbye, but I could not utter a single word.

  Then the three men lifted Christos up and placed him gently in the water, praying still until the body floated away towards Crete. When we could no longer see him, they drew up the anchor and set the sails for Santorini.

  *

  I had the address of Christos’s parents in Athens but I did not write to them. I had no idea what Christos had told them about me and I simply didn’t know what to say. Had I known then that I was pregnant, I might have felt differently, but I could see no reason why they would want to be bothered with an unknown foreign girl when their only son had been killed. I gave the address to the priest and asked him to write. I thought he would probably say there had been an accident on the boat. Cowardly of me, perhaps.

  One of the villagers accompanied me to Fira by donkey and from there, I boarded the boat to Piraeus. Sailing away from Santorini knowing I was leaving Christos behind would have broken my heart had it not already been broken.

  *

  ‘So Daddy is half-Greek and had Greek grandparents he never knew,’ Alexa muses softly, and I see tears in her eyes. ‘And Peter and I are one-quarter Greek, one half Italian and one quarter English. Quite a mixture. I wonder why Daddy never told us any of this?’

  ‘Perhaps he thinks it’s not his story to tell. After all, he never knew his father.’

  ‘It’s really sad, Nan. You and Christos had so little time together, and he never knew about his baby.’

  ‘Yes, it is sad. But when I look at you, Alexa, I see Christos. He would have been very proud of you and Peter, and proud of Christopher too.’

  ‘Did you ever see Irini and Niko again? Did they have a son?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I like to think they did and called him Christos. Every time I return to Santorini I wonder if I will se
e someone in the street I recognise, but I have changed beyond recognition so I suppose they will have, too.’

  ‘I’m surprised you can bear to be here, after what happened. Yet you come back so often.’

  ‘I come back to be near Christos.’

  ‘Oh, Nan.’ She gives me a hug and helps me up because I have grown stiff with sitting. ‘Could we hire a boat?’ she asks. ‘I’d like to sail to the place where you left him and drop some flowers there. He was my grandfather and I’d like to pay my respects to him.’

  I am touched. ‘That’s a lovely idea. Let’s organise that for tomorrow. But now, back to the hotel for a swim, I think. Then a good dinner and plenty of wine.’

  ‘Assyrtico?’ she asks.

  ‘Definitely.’

  If you enjoyed The Santorini Summer check out Endeavour Press’s other books here: Endeavour Press - the UK’s leading independent publisher of digital books.

  For weekly updates on our free and discounted eBooks sign up to our newsletter.

  Follow us on Twitter and Goodreads.