Ten minutes later she dropped the old couple and their shopping at a small stone house. An enormous pink-painted cement swan dominated the front garden, and a row of supermarket bags, pegged to a clothesline, fluttered in the breeze. They offered her coffee. She explained, in halting Greek, she had to get to Amiras. The man kept hold of the car’s door handle while the woman toddled indoors. She returned with a napkin full of fat shortbreads and a plastic water bottle.
‘She make!’ the old man shouted in English, pointing at the biscuits, then at the bottle of clear liquid. ‘Is raki here, I make! Very good, very strong, like me.’ Beaming, he slapped his belly.
Angie said goodbye and continued her journey, laughing and looking forward to sharing the incident with Nick.
When their children came along, Angie could see them stalling at bedtime, as all youngsters do. ‘Mummy! Tell us that story about that old couple in Crete.’ She imagined a glance and a smile from Nick as she took her darlings to bed. She could see it all. The perfect family.
Angie thought Poppy must have found it difficult adjusting to life in London when she came from such a friendly environment. Once again, she wondered what had made her mother leave all the sunshine and laughter of Crete. Despite Poppy’s claims of family discord, Angie decided that enough time had passed. A line needed to be drawn under that era and the family reunite.
Spring flowers grew everywhere, exploding from roadsides, nodding a welcome as she passed. Lines of ochre earth separated olive trees and vine trellises across a quilted, undulating landscape. The countryside shimmered under a densely blue sky. In the distance, snow-covered peaks rose majestically to challenge the afternoon sun. The island seemed much bigger, and more intense, than she had expected.
Angie pulled onto the verge of a mountain road and gazed over a plateau. Hamlets of whitewashed houses clustered in the valleys of rolling green foothills. She noticed red-roofed churches with domes and bell towers which rose from the centre of each village. Angie got out of the car and took a panoramic picture with her phone, drinking in the captivating scenery.
In an olive grove just below the road, a flock of sheep stopped grazing and stared with curious, unblinking eyes. Their mouths twitched as if about to speak, and the clanging bells that hung from their wide red collars were silent for a moment.
Warm sunlight rested on her shoulders like her mother’s arm. Angie wondered if Poppy had ever stood on that spot and admired the picturesque countryside. She considered her mother’s forty years of self-exile. Could Angie heal old wounds without knowing the cause?
The photographs she planned to take were a start. Pictures of Crete were sure to bring happy memories to Poppy. A good feeling settled over her. In the bright sunshine, everything seemed so much more simple than it had at home.
Back in the shade of the car she reached for the ignition key, hesitated, and rested her head on the wheel as doubts set in. What possessed her to go against Poppy’s wishes? Angie feared her stupid, self-centred plan could lead to even more heartache.
Her grandmother knew nothing of Angie’s arrival in Crete. She could leave for a tourist area, have a few days of sun, sea, and sand and return to London refreshed. Her mother would be happy – on the surface. Angie dwelled on the deep-rooted secrets tormenting Poppy. Thinking of her from such a great distance, she realised the intense loneliness of the woman who had given her everything.
Angie remembered when she’d had a splinter of wood in her finger as a child. All that she touched gave her pain, even the things she loved. It hurt when her mother took the tweezers to it and prodded around. Angie had begged her to leave it alone.
If Angie could find the cause of Poppy’s unhappiness, despite the discomfort of her digging about, healing would be possible. Relief flooded through her. She started the car and pulled away from the tranquil scene.
*
Half an hour along the deserted road, cleaved into the muted red and green mountain rock, the landscape became sparse and rugged. A flurry of silky-haired goats with long mismatched horns skittered across her path. Kids romped and skipped around long-bearded nannie goats. Roadside poppies and rockroses gave way to clumps of sage and vast swathes of pink anemones. Neat rows of olive trees, so iconic of the Mediterranean, were replaced by tangle-rooted pine or holm oak that towered precariously overhead. Her adrenalin peaked as the uneven highway twisted and turned, always climbing steadily.
She rounded a bend and suddenly, far below in the distance, she saw the sea. The majesty of the scene took her breath away. She wanted to stop but the road, dangerous and unforgiving, had an ornate religious shrine on each hairpin. She guessed many motorists had lost their lives on those sharp corners. When the road levelled, starting a gentle descent, Angie spotted a Shell sign. Horrified to see her petrol gauge showing red, she turned off the air-con to save fuel. With her palms wet on the wheel and her hair stuck to the back of her neck, she drove into a dusty forecourt.
Glad to be out of the sweltering car, Angie reached for the petrol pump. She gave a friendly nod to a pensioner sitting in heavy shade outside the garage shop.
A young man dashed from the workshop. ‘No! I’ll do it. How much?’ he said.
‘Full, please.’
He shoved the nozzle in place, dragged a chamois from a bucket, and washed her dusty windscreen.
‘Lovely, thanks,’ Angie said admiring the sparkling glass. ‘Can you tell me how far it is to Amiras Village?’
‘Ten kilometres. It’s just past the town of Viannos.’ He glanced at her cabin bag complete with flight labels on the rear seat. ‘Why Amiras? It’s not a holiday place.’
‘I’m looking for my grandmother, she lives there.’
‘What’s her name? My grandfather’s from Amiras, he’ll know her.’ He nodded towards the old man.
‘Kondulakis Maria, but I don’t have an exact address.’
While he spoke to his grandfather, the fuel clonked to a halt: forty-nine euros. Angie pulled a fifty from her purse and looked up to see the pensioner spit into the dust. The dense shade hid his face before he turned into the shop.
‘Keep the change,’ Angie said. ‘Thanks for the clean glass. Did your grandfather know my grandmother?’
‘No.’ Sullen now, the youth avoided her eyes and walked away.
Angie glanced in the rear-view mirror as she drove onto the road. The two men stood together, watching her.
*
In the main street of Viannos, the last town before her grandmother’s village, Angie reversed into a tight space behind a red pickup. A goat stared from the back of the battered vehicle, bleating its lack of confidence in her parking. She crossed the road and sat at a kerbside table, grateful for the cooling shade of an enormous tree. Tangled branches overhead were bursting with spring’s first leaves. Electrical wire and fly-speckled bulbs snaked through the boughs and swayed in the light breeze.
Angie didn’t expect a problem with her next task, to find accommodation. On the web, she had seen many rooms for rent in the town of Viannos. But for now, she needed to relax with a coffee.
A waiter approached and followed her gaze. ‘Is more than a thousand years old, this tree.’
‘Wow, so old!’ Angie placed her palm against the trunk and felt the warmth of the day in its gnarled bark. She soaked up the atmosphere of the town square. Perhaps Poppy had also relaxed there, touched the tree and smiled up into its branches.
The waiter snapped her back to the present. ‘You want a drink, lady?’
Too tired to try speaking Greek, Angie said, ‘Coffee, please.’
‘Frappé, Nes, Greek coffee?’
‘Frappé, thanks.’ An iced coffee would cool her and perk her depleted caffeine level.
‘Where yous from?’
Angie patted her chest. ‘England, English.’
‘Ah, I am Manoli. I speaks perfect English. You want something, you tell me, okay?’
While he made her drink, Angie enjoyed the town chaos, amused that such
a narrow street was part of the National Highway. Viannos, scruffy, dilapidated, yet postcard-picturesque, charmed her. Honeysuckle crawled up a whitewashed building and tangled around blue louvre shutters. Perfume from the spidery flowers drifted on the early evening air.
Upright old women with proud faces wore widow’s weeds and shuffled across the street, halting traffic. Occasionally, a stream of cars reversed so that oncoming vehicles could continue along the pothole-ridden thoroughfare. Local pensioners greeted each other with the vigour of intense friendship. Everyone smiled – and everyone shouted.
Manoli, broad, sun-drenched and handsome with come-to-bed eyes, brought Angie her frappé and then sat uninvited at her table. ‘What’s your name? Where you from in England? Are you married? You have sister? Why you here, holiday?’
Angie answered the questions, amused by his interest. ‘No, I’m here to find my grandparents.’
‘Your grandparents, who are they?’ Manoli asked.
Angie hesitated, remembering the atmosphere at the garage. ‘Kondulakis, in Amiras, it’s near here, isn’t it?’
Manoli’s head jerked back as if slapped. ‘Kondulakis, you is the granddaughter of Kondulakis Maria?’ His eyes widened.
Angie gulped. ‘To tell the truth, I’m not sure where they live, and they don’t know I’m here. Do you know them? I mean, I might not even . . .’ she stuttered.
‘Wait.’ Manoli loomed over her. He placed his big hand on her shoulder, pinning her to the seat while he pulled a mobile phone from his jeans and thumbed numbers. Moments later, he bellowed into the phone, his free arm gesticulating.
Angie thought of running but someone had boxed-in her car. She had trouble understanding Manoli’s Cretan dialect but caught, ‘I’m telling you, she’s here, in front of me!’ He thrust his open hand towards Angie as if the person at the other end of the conversation could see her. ‘I’m sure, malákas – the granddaughter!’
Unsure of what to expect, Angie placed both feet flat on the floor and shifted to the edge of her seat. Several people appeared from nowhere, almost surrounding her table. She glanced from one to the other. Blankly, they stared back.
Manoli turned to Angie. ‘Your mother’s name?’
‘Poppy,’ Angie said. ‘It’s short for Calliope.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Father’s name?’
‘Yeorgo, but he died,’ she said.
Manoli squinted at her. He took a breath and then continued on the phone, throwing in the occasional malákas – a common expletive meaning wanker. His animated voice made pedestrians turn. More people stopped and gawked, heads cocked to one side.
An old man rested on his stick in the middle of the road. He glared at Manoli and then Angie. A truck pulled up with a hiss of airbrakes. Traffic came to a halt and tailed back. Everyone stared at the waiter.
‘You go to Amiras tonight?’ Manoli said.
Angie glanced at her watch and shook her head. ‘No, in the morning.’
After a few words, Manoli ended the call. ‘I telephone Demitri from the supermarket of Amiras. He is family of Kondulakis. Tomorrow, he will take you to your grandmother.’
‘Thank you, you’ve been so kind,’ Angie said.
The old man who had stopped traffic hobbled to her side. He glared at Angie, his mouth tight, eyes hard and narrow. His jaw thrust forward in a lined face that appeared to have seen the worst of life. After a moment of contemplation, his look softened and his mouth relaxed into a smile.
‘Welcome,’ he said reaching out and shaking her hand. ‘I am Thanassi Lambrakis.’
Angie’s heart seemed to leap into the back of her throat. ‘Lambrakis . . . I’m Lambrakis too!’ she cried. This was so unexpected. Was he from her father’s family? Could her quest to find her relations be so simple?
‘Of course you are,’ Manoli scoffed, with a smile. ‘Lambrakis and Kondulakis are the two most common names in this area. There are hundreds of us living here, and thousands spread around the world. We go back to Byzantium.’ He poked his chest with his thumb. ‘I am Manoli Lambrakis. Manoli comes from Emmanouil, meaning God. Lambrakis means the light.’ There was no doubting the pride on his face, as if the name Lambrakis was exclusively his.
‘The little light,’ the pensioner corrected. ‘Akis means little.’
Manoli stood taller and broadened his chest while throwing the pensioner a scowl.
He turned back to Angie. ‘Here, the surname comes first so, translated, my name becomes: The light of God.’ He spread his hands piously.
‘The little light of God,’ the pensioner said.
‘Go and sit down, old man!’ Manoli shouted.
Angie could hardly contain her excitement. ‘Manoli, are we related?’ she asked, the words tumbling out.
Manoli huffed and turned his head away, as if the thought of being related to an Englishwoman disgusted him. He replied with a sneer. ‘Plato said: if you go back far enough, you will find we are all related.’
Angie’s elation died. Nothing was ever that simple.
The old man chuckled, nodded amiably, and sat at another table. With a cough of black smoke, the HGV pulled away and traffic moved along the street.
Children swung on the back of Angie’s chair, touched her arms and stroked her long hair while chattering to each other.
‘Go, go,’ Manoli said, flicking the backs of his fingers at the youngsters. He turned to Angie. ‘The frappé is from me, you no pay, okay? You need anything, you tell me,’ he said in what appeared to be a complete change of mood. He showed his palms in a gesture of openness – and then made an exaggerated wink.
Angie still needed a room. ‘Is there a tourist information office?’
‘Tourist information, what you want? I am tourist information. We no need office, we have kafenion, tell me.’
She hesitated, feeling vulnerable after the suggestive wink and not wanting helpful Manoli to know where she would sleep. ‘Is there a hotel?’
Manoli grinned and whacked himself in the chest. ‘Ah, I have room.’
Oh, crap.
‘A very good room – special price for you – over my kafenion.’ Manoli glanced at her breasts, then back to her face. A triumphant smile blazed across his face as he pointed to a flaking balcony.
‘Thanks, Manoli, but I need a quiet place away from the road.’
His smile fell and with less enthusiasm he said, ‘Okay, my cousin have rooms, very nice, very quiet. How many days? I call her.’
*
Angie hauled her suitcase up a steep backstreet. The four-by-three white-painted room contained a new pine bed, a wardrobe, and a tiny modern bathroom that had surely been tiled by a blind man. Finding only one small towel, a coat hanger, and no soap, she locked the door and went in search of a store. On her return, Angie’s stomach rumbled and Manoli’s kafenion seemed the easy option.
‘Welcome back, lady. The room is good, yes? What you want?’ Manoli peered at her supermarket bag. ‘What you buy?’
‘Nothing exciting, Manoli, but I’m hungry, is there a menu?’
‘Why you want menu? Tell me what you like, I am menu.’
‘Moussaka? Lamb chops? Sardines?’
‘Ah, all finished, we have pizza, any sort of pizza except four seasons, because we only have three,’ Manoli said.
Angie couldn’t figure out that little gem. ‘What about Greek salad?’
‘But of course, Greek salad. This is Greece. Always we have the Greek salad! I don’t have to say, because I make the best Greek salad in Crete. Everybody knows it.’
Angie laughed. ‘And a glass of dry red, please.’
While he busied himself preparing her food, night fell. She studied the locals and realised she didn’t look out of place at all. With her olive skin, brown eyes, and long dark hair, she could easily be mistaken for a Cretan woman. She had just arrived, yet already the wish to belong stirred inside her.
Bathed in harsh light from the bulbs in the old tree, Angie wondered about the vi
llage of Amiras and her grandparents. Then, she thought about her mother and hoped she was doing the right thing. If only she had better understood Manoli’s phone call. Still, her mother’s parents and family were her family too, she had a right to meet them, to know them. Yet, despite her internal pep-talk, a niggling spark of anguish flickered in the back of her mind.
*
The following morning, Angie checked herself in the mirror. What would they think of her? First impressions were so important. Her sigh steamed the glass.
Calm down, she told herself. They’re family, why get stressed?
She wore her best clothes and jewellery, and slicked her hair into a ponytail. Ashamed to realise she had forgotten to bring a gift, she decided to buy something from a local shop. First, she needed a coffee.
At the kafenion, Angie dropped into a chair.
‘Madam, you go to see your Yiayá now, yes?’ Manoli beamed.
‘Coffee first. I’m nervous, Manoli. Do I look all right?’ Her skin felt damp, her heart fluttery.
‘Very nice.’ His grin was ridiculous.
A pretty donkey trotted along the road. An old man in dusty dungarees and a black leather cap rode side-saddle, drumming his heels against the beast’s belly. Bits of fodder fell like confetti from a mound of vegetation roped over the donkey’s hindquarters.
Iridescent in the Mediterranean sunlight, a bright yellow petrol-tanker crept along behind man and beast. An occasional hiss of airbrakes interrupted the steady clip-clop. Angie noticed the tanker driver was reading his newspaper while he inched down the street. These people are so laid back, she thought.
Angie’s grandparents would surely be pleased to see her, after so many years. This early step towards a family reunion was down to her. It hadn’t been easy, and she regretted hurting her mother but she hoped Poppy was going to thank her for making this first move.
‘Should I buy my grandmother cakes or chocolates, Manoli?’
‘Bah! Take something that will stay when you’ve gone. You see the flower shop? They have beautiful lemon trees. You cannot have too many lemon trees. I make coffee, you buy a tree. Fetch it here and I’ll put it in your car when you pass.’
Island of Secrets Page 2