Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  ISLAND OF

  SECRETS

  PATRICIA WILSON

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For Berty, with love.

  STARS DON’T CRY FOR ME.

  Stars don’t cry for me,

  Because I sing at night.

  Because I hurt in my heart, for the dark-haired girl.

  Stars don’t tell me off

  Because I lament at night.

  I’ll tell my pain to the stars,

  Because they’re discreet.

  Because they have patience

  And listen all night,

  While I tell them about my pain, and you.

  Moon, you’ve never been

  In the mess that I’m in.

  And you have the right to ask

  What I’ve become, why I’m unhappy.

  But you can’t understand, it’s never happened to you.

  Chapter 1

  Crete, Present Day.

  THE VILLAGE OF AMIRAS WAS STILL, like a theatre waiting for the curtain to rise. Heat shimmered from the cobbled streets. In front of the kafenion, empty chairs stood in haphazard groups between square tables. Outside the closed supermarket, hessian olive sacks hung over boxes of potatoes and vegetables, protecting them from the fierce Mediterranean light.

  A herd of long-haired goats shifted into the shadow of the hilltop chapel. For a few seconds, the dull clatter of their bells broke the peace and quiet of siesta time.

  In the lower village, a blue door squeaked open and a wide hipped, middle-aged housewife hurried up the narrow streets. From the shade of a vermilion bougainvillea, a skinny white cat sniffed the air, narrowed its eyes and watched the woman.

  Inside one cottage, an elderly couple sat as still and silent as the stone walls. A crucifix hung over a garish icon of Saint George. The martyr seemed distracted from his dragon slaying by an object in the living room. A chocolate box overflowed with photographs, letters and mementoes in the centre of a low round table.

  The old woman, Maria, reached for a faded picture of Poppy cradling her baby. She studied the image and recalled Poppy’s last words, still fresh in her ears, although decades had passed.

  Forget me, Mama. Forget I ever existed.

  A shaft of sunlight streamed through the window illuminating Maria’s scarred hands – an ugly reminder of the fire. It took time for those wounds to heal.

  Her wizened face hardened with a decision.

  ‘I will write to them, Vassili,’ she said to the Einstein look-alike sitting by the fireplace. ‘Voula can help me.’ She replaced the picture and closed the box. ‘God’s getting impatient, and I’m tired of it all.’ She crossed herself three times and prayer-locked her arthritic fingers.

  Vassili nodded as though he understood, but passing years had eroded his grief. He dropped his amber worry beads and hobbled to her side.

  ‘Don’t waste your thoughts on what’s dead and gone, old woman.’ He kissed her forehead.

  Despite his words, scenes from the past returned and filled Maria’s head.

  ‘I can’t forget,’ she whispered, staring at ghosts that crowded into the whitewashed room.

  Vassili followed her gaze, unable to see those who haunted her.

  Recognising his confusion, Maria wished the spores of old age would moulder her mind too. Regrets were useless now. The time had come for forgiveness and, before she died, Maria hoped to touch the cheek of Poppy’s child.

  ‘Angelika has a right to know the truth, old man, she’s our granddaughter.’

  ‘Mama, Papa, your dinner’s here.’ Voula crashed through the doorway, the multi-coloured fly curtain whipping around her faded black dress. She gripped a casserole pot against her belly and grinned, her face a friendly gargoyle.

  ‘No need to shout, Voula, we’re not deaf,’ Maria said.

  Vassili cupped a hand behind his ear. ‘Eh, what’s that? Ah, the food. No chance of any meat I suppose? I’ll be glad when Lent’s over. I can smell the lamb already.’ He shuffled to the kitchen table.

  ‘Only a few more days until Easter, Papa. I’ve made stuffed peppers. Will you have a glass of Demitri’s wine?’ Voula clattered the dishes and then helped Maria out of the armchair. ‘Anything else?’ she asked, pouring cloudy red krasí into tumblers before serving their meals.

  Maria cut open a green pepper, hunched over her plate and sniffed the food.

  Voula stopped bustling and watched Maria taste the rice stuffing flavoured with herbs, currants, and pine nuts. When she approved with a nod, Voula took a breath and smiled.

  ‘I want to write to Poppy and Angelika,’ Maria said flatly.

  Voula’s eyes widened. She glanced around the table top and then at Vassili who guzzled his food. ‘Are you sure, Mama?’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘What if it starts up again, the trouble, after all these years? Isn’t it better to forget? We can’t bring back the dead.’

  ‘No,’ Maria said, her face drawn and thin above the mound of colourful vegetables. ‘I’ve decided.’

  *

  The next day, Voula asked, ‘How do you want to start the letter, Mama?’ Her pencil poised over a child’s exercise book.

  Maria grunted. ‘I’ve thought about it for hours. The beginning is the most difficult part. If it’s not perfect, they’ll screw it up and throw it away. We’ve got one chance at this, Voula. We should address the envelope to Angelika and put both letters in it. Otherwise, I fear her mother might tear it up unopened. Now, let’s see, how shall we begin?’

  ‘I know, what about: Dear Angelika?’

  Maria rolled her eyes. She wondered if her daughter-in-law had lost more of her marbles in sixty-five years than Maria had in ninety. ‘Yes, very good, Voula,’ she snorted. ‘And then?’

  Voula lifted and dropped her shoulders, which made her breasts quiver against her belly.

  ‘Write this then,’ Maria said. ‘I have wanted to send you a letter for a long time. I hoped to see you before I die, but I realise our meeting is unlikely.’

  ‘Mama!’

  ‘Oh, face the facts, Voula; I’m on my way out. Let’s get on with the letter before the Angel Gabriel replaces you as my personal assistant.’

  Voula scratched her lip and nodded.

  ‘Now, write this, Voula: Angelika, please tell your mother I have never stopped loving her. Put your arms around her and kiss
her from me. Poppy is in my heart. Say that I am sorry. Truly sorry. If I could have changed things, I would.’

  ‘Mama, how do we know Angelika reads Greek?’

  ‘We have to trust Poppy will have taught her. Anyway, we can ask Demitri to translate for us. What shall we write next? Perhaps something about Angelika’s father.’ Maria tilted her head to one side. ‘Yeorgo,’ she sighed. ‘Wasn’t he a beautiful man, Voula?’ Silent for a moment, Maria’s eyes became glazed. ‘That’s another difficult part. I wonder if Angelika knows.’

  *

  At the kitchen table, Voula sat opposite Maria and opened the exercise book. ‘It’s been a week and we’re no further, Mama. Perhaps we should write To Be Continued on the bottom and post it, just in case . . .’ Their eyes met.

  Maria shook her head. ‘The letter to Poppy wasn’t too difficult, but I’m struggling with what to say to Angelika. Let’s keep working on it. I don’t want it posted until it’s perfect, Voula, but it isn’t as easy as I thought. What do you think we should write?’

  ‘Tell her about her aunts, uncles and cousins. What about me and my children and grandchildren?’ Voula said.

  ‘No, I want it to be something important.’ Their eyes met again. A cockerel crowed outside the door. ‘Tut, you know what I mean, Voula. Considering I was a teacher, I shouldn’t find a simple letter so difficult. Make us a coffee and then we’ll sit in the garden and crochet.’

  They settled in the shade of an ancient olive tree, opposite the cottage door. Maria gazed down, over the village rooftops and the bell tower of the church of Agios Yeorgios. Her eyes followed the local bus, miniature in the distance, travelling the pale, dusty road beyond the village. Barely two cars wide, the road snaked between silver-green olive groves, descending to the beach and fishing village of Arvi. The sound of a tootling horn drifted up as the bus neared a bend. The Arvi gorge, clearly visible, was a deep slash in the red rock. From the sheer-sided canyon, griffon vultures launched off their narrow ledges to circle up, over Amiras, on the thermals.

  The view drew her in, so peaceful and calm, showing no hint of the horrors Maria had witnessed from under that very tree, long ago. She sniffed the air and caught the scent of burning wood, lamb, and rosemary. Chops on someone’s BBQ. The memory of a fire, her darling boys in mortal danger and the worst day of her life hit her with such startling clarity she whimpered.

  Voula looked up from her crocheting. ‘Are you all right, Mama?’

  Maria huffed. ‘Why shouldn’t I be? Let’s keep thinking about this letter.’

  ‘Why don’t we tell Angelika about the village, it might make her want to visit; or about the olive crop, or that the school is closing.’ Voula’s crochet hook flashed and dipped through a half-made tablecloth.

  ‘So much to say, but nothing seems worthy of such a significant letter.’ Maria struggled with her work, the silk snagging on her crooked fingers, but if she lost a day she’d never return to her crocheting.

  ‘I know!’ Voula said, making Maria jump and two hours’ work unravel as it fell to the ground.

  Maria took a swipe at her daughter-in-law, but missed. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do! This had better be good, Voula.’

  Voula had trouble picking up the crocheting, her legs too fat to bend, and her belly too round for the reach. ‘Start by telling Angelika about Poppy and Yeorgo’s wedding day. Tell her you still have Poppy’s dress. Ask if she’d like to have it.’

  ‘Bravo! That’s a good idea, Voula. Let’s aim to get the letter finished in time for next Monday’s post.’

  Grunting and panting, Voula reached for Maria’s work and came up flushed but triumphant. The moment she plopped into the garden chair, one of her black knee highs rolled to her ankle and the house telephone rang.

  ‘Virgin Mary!’ Voula cried.

  They both crossed themselves three times.

  Chapter 2

  Flight EZY1105, The Same Day.

  THROUGHOUT THE FOUR-HOUR flight to Crete, Angie worried about her trip. Suppose she found her mother’s family, how might they receive her? She wished there had been some form of communication before her visit to the island, but Angie had no way of contacting her Cretan family. What if they misinterpreted her good intentions as meddling? Who were her father’s family? Why did her mother leave Crete and break all contact with her family so many years ago? The answers, she believed, lay in the remote, mountain village of Amiras.

  Outside the arrivals terminal, Angie tilted her head and closed her eyes allowing golden sunlight to wash over her face. Things would work out. Anyhow, they could hardly get worse. Her mother – Poppy – seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown. Angie worried about her all the time. The doctor had prescribed sleeping pills for Poppy and Angie feared if she didn’t do something to help her, the next prescription would be tranquillisers.

  To add to this, Angie had just lost her job – the career in publishing that was her lifeblood.

  With Poppy’s illness, and her own redundancy, Angie wondered if her wedding would ever take place. Until now, she hadn’t realised how much of her life revolved around her mother and her career. Despite always trying to appear confident, privately she struggled with everything that had happened.

  What would she have done without Nick to lean on? He promised they would have their wedding, house, children, and happy-ever-after no matter what. Angie couldn’t wish for a more supportive or loving man. But, in the aftershock of her redundancy, she realised she needed to prove her value in the whole scheme of things, mainly to herself.

  She had to get another job soon, but, more importantly, she must find out what was troubling her mother so much that it was making her ill. It seemed the closer Angie got to finalising her wedding plans, the more Poppy suffered.

  Angie hated the idea of looking for employment. What if she wasn’t considered good enough for a major publishing house? Would she become sad and lonely because life had been unfair, and end up on medication like her mother?

  At least now she had time to try and get to the bottom of Poppy’s wretched unhappiness. Her mother so vehemently objected when Angie said she was going to Crete to find her grandparents that Angie almost cancelled.

  ‘Don’t go! Angelika, please, I’m begging you!’ Poppy had pleaded, and then she had cried – breaking Angie’s heart. Thank goodness Nick had promised to keep an eye on her.

  The situation was awful. In all her thirty-seven years, Angie had never gone against her mother like this. If she was honest, though, She was using her wedding as an excuse to find Poppy’s estranged family. She suspected the root of her mother’s worsening illness lay buried in Poppy’s self-exile from her homeland. Every time Angie brought up the subject of Crete, her mother would have a relapse.

  Angie took a breath and studied her surroundings. The airport seemed dangerously close to the city of Heraklion. Perhaps less than a mile away, she could see the hotels and buildings of Crete’s capital quite clearly. Through the airport’s chain-link fence, she gazed across the runway to the blue sea beyond. From her window seat on the plane, for a horrible moment, Angie had feared they were landing on the water.

  She turned and faced Crete’s interior. Past rows of shiny coaches and parked hire cars, Angie studied a backdrop of high mountains. On the south side of those peaks, which surrounded the Lassithi Plateau, she hoped to find her mother’s village.

  Suddenly, Angie saw a window of opportunity. Alone in Crete with no fiancé, no mother and no job left her completely unrestricted. Free to find direction. She could decide what she wanted most from life; a career, the commitment of motherhood, or the wellbeing of her mother. Was a three-way compromise possible?

  Happy tourists dragged luggage and lively children around her. Slightly light headed, but calmer, Angie absorbed their holiday mood. Her shoulders dropped and the grip on her suitcase relaxed.

  Angie’s confidence gathered strength. Her plan was simple, and so long as she could find her grandmother, she couldn’t f
oresee any problems. Hopefully, in the mountain village of Amiras, she would discover the cause of her mother’s anxiety attacks. Then her family could reunite and Poppy’s health would improve in time for the wedding.

  When Nick and Angie had children, they would be her everything, and her mother would make the perfect Granny Poppy. In her mind, she could see the loving environment that would surround her family and it filled her with happiness.

  Angie realised these things didn’t just happen, they had to be worked on, earned. This week in Crete, she had to forget about herself and try to get to the bottom of her mother’s unhappiness. Yet the feeling of loss and shame over the job severance hurt like a great emotional bruise in her chest.

  She hired a car from smiling, helpful Greeks. They welcomed her to Crete with a map of the island and then hauled her suitcase into the boot. She set off for the island’s south coast.

  To drive on the ‘wrong’ side of the road seemed weird. At gear change, her left hand searched for the gearstick and bumped against the door panel. By the time her right hand found the gearstick, she had inadvertently taken her foot off the clutch and she crunched.

  ‘Come on, Angie, you can do this,’ she told herself, trying to calm down.

  On the outskirts of the city, traffic thinned and the modern infrastructure with its magnificent fountains, glass buildings and palm-lined streets disappeared. Traffic lights didn’t work. Pavements crumbled. Roadworks, shopping trollies, and old cars lay abandoned along the highway. Deciding to stop and practise her gear change, she pulled over at a broken kerb, turned off the engine, and closed her eyes.

  Clutch, right hand down to the gearstick, change, de-clutch.

  Startled by the sound of the passenger door opening, Angie swung around in her seat. An elderly couple bundled themselves, and two bursting Lidl supermarket bags, into the back of her car. In heavy Cretan dialect, the man was saying something Angie didn’t understand.

  ‘Wha . . .’ she stammered, glancing about for help, and then realising she had parked at a bus stop with a three-legged plastic chair tie-tagged to the post.

  The man, gruff voiced and ancient, flapped his hand at the windscreen and said, ‘Páme!’ which Angie remembered meant: Let’s go.