Angie bought her tree, over a metre high and bearing four fat lemons.
‘What you pay?’ Manoli asked.
‘Eight euro.’
‘They rob you.’ His outspread fingers stretched towards her. ‘These are not the clothes to wear for shopping.’ He plucked a lemon and took it into his kitchen.
*
Angie drove out of Viannos with the tree sprawled across the passenger seat. Leathery, dark-green foliage bounced against the hatchback window, filling her car with a citrus zing. The horseshoe-shaped village of Amiras huddled on the mountainside and overlooked the Libyan Sea.
She saw the WW2 memorial, a simple procession of larger-than-life men cut from slabs of cream marble. The figures lined the road that led down into the village. Angie wondered if the monument was built after Poppy had left. She pulled over and took a photo through the car window.
With the phone still in her hand, she flicked back to the last image captured at home. Nick’s sleeping face, calm, dreamless, satiated. His thick dark hair falling boyishly over his forehead. His mouth, relaxed in slumber, reminded Angie of his wide, honest smile and beautiful, even teeth.
Angie adored watching him sleep. It had seemed slightly weird to photograph him without his knowing, but she had wanted something of the moment, with all its preceding pleasure and encompassing happiness to take to Crete with her.
They had made love, really made love. The room filled with flickering candle light. Puccini playing in the background, champagne on ice, and creamy Belgian chocolates on the bedside table.
Perhaps because they were about to be parted for a week – for the first time in their three years of living together – they seemed even closer than ever. An intense, yet gentle passion grew between them. This new experience was nothing like their usual boisterous sex; noisy, athletic, and breathlessly enjoyable.
They had sprawled on the sofa with a Greek takeaway before them and their favourite old movie playing. Between feeding each other stuffed vine leaves and tiny lamb chops, they sang along to; ‘As Time Goes By’ and ‘It Had to Be You’. Nick did his Humphrey Bogart impression growling, ‘Play it again, Sam,’ at Angie. She tried to flutter her eyelashes and look sad, but ended up giggling.
They murmured words that meant everything and nothing; odd lines from films, snippets, sensual promises and shared dreams.
They found themselves laughing, touching, and frequently kissing. When night drew in, their caresses became urgent, stirring a deeper desire to be closer, naked, and wrapped in each other’s arms.
Finally, as an aria from Madam Butterfly filled the bedroom, Angie clung to Nick, while a crazy emotional rollercoaster both melted and exploded inside her at the same time. Tingling surges of passion raced through her body. Every nerve ending set afire. She lost focus, breathing heavily, consumed by overwhelming pleasure so intense she called out his name. Again and again, she almost surfaced, and then drowned in painfully sweet euphoria until she lay, limp and exhausted, on damp sheets.
After making love, she had cried, unable to say why. He held her to his chest, stroking her long dark hair until her tears were spent.
*
Angie sat back in the car seat, closed her eyes, and allowed a great wave of emotion to wash over her. She remembered his last words before a goodbye kiss at the airport.
‘I love you Angie Lambrakis. I’m going to miss you,’ he said. ‘You must call me at least ten times a day.’
Angie sighed, dropped her phone onto the passenger seat, and returned to the mission in hand.
The small chapel next to the war memorial appeared quite modern and new. Through the open doors, she could see hundreds of highly polished gold lamps that hung from the ceiling. She took another picture, wondering about the significance of so many lanterns. A question to ask if conversation got awkward at her grandmother’s.
Angie realised she was stalling. This plan to find out what had upset her mother so much, for all these years, was only the half of it. She also hoped to learn about her father, Yeorgo. Poppy said he was killed. Died in the army before she was born. There had to be more than that, but her mother would never talk about him.
Angie needed to connect with her Dad. Was that so hard for Poppy to understand? She wanted to see her father’s birthplace, where he grew up, if any of his siblings were still alive. And discover Poppy’s Cretan life and family too. She was searching for her roots and knew she couldn’t be completely happy and able to start this new phase of her life until she found them.
A coach pulled up, tourists tumbling out, camera phones at the ready. Angie put the car in gear and drove down into the village of Amiras.
A bakery, kafenion, supermarket, and post office clustered around a central square. She parked opposite the supermarket. Men, sitting outside the neighbouring kafenion, stretched their necks and stared.
‘Yia sas!’ Angie called, knowing the stranger should greet first. They grinned and reciprocated.
She slipped into the dimly-lit shop, blind for a moment after the bright sunlight. Behind the counter, a handsome, thickset, forty-ish man looked up from a basketball game on TV. He stubbed his cigarette into a full ashtray and stood.
‘Angelika? I am Demitri, welcome.’ He shook Angie’s hand, his smile cautious, eyes curious. ‘Your grandmother’s waiting.’
‘Thank you, Demitri. I’ve brought her a lemon tree. It’s in the car.’ Angie blushed, wishing she had bought cakes too, or a nice piece of cut glass. Elderly people liked to receive ornaments. She had heard the Cretans were exceedingly generous. Now she was going to look mean and penny-pinching and she realised how much she wanted them to like her. Almost overcome by the longing to meet her family and be accepted, she watched Demitri’s face.
‘A lemon tree?’ His smile widened. ‘Maria is going to like that. Leave the car open, someone will bring it to the house.’
He didn’t bother to close the supermarket door. They walked fifty metres along the narrow road and turned left at a row of green rubbish bins. Skinny, long-legged cats with grubby noses searched among the refuse. They stared with glassy eyes, their tails straight, the tips flicking. Angie followed Demitri up uneven cement steps flanked by trees that met overhead.
The air chilled in the shade. Angie’s thoughts returned to her mother. Poppy had grown up here, played as a child and walked with Angie’s father. What made her mother leave Crete? Why wouldn’t she talk about Angie’s father or her homeland? Muddled by melancholy, and a sudden dread of meeting her grandmother, Angie felt apprehensive about what lay ahead.
She searched for an excuse to turn back, afraid there was more to the family breakup than a simple quarrel. What if deep hatred awaited her? Why hadn’t she thought of this earlier? Her grandmother might be deranged, angry and violent, and as much against a reunion as Poppy.
Perhaps this was the reason Poppy objected to the visit with such vehemence? Despite the shade, sweat prickled Angie’s forehead.
She jumped when a rust-coloured hen ran across the path. Her legs seemed leaden, her body reluctant to move forward. At the top of the climb they broke into sunshine. A short walk took them to a red-roofed cottage. The garden overflowed with flowers. Riotous clumps of reds, pinks and purples fought for space, plants bursting from an odd collection of buckets and cans.
Two gnarled olive trees threw mottled shade over the area. In the corner of the plot was a white-painted stone oven. Long nails driven into the mortar supported an axe, scythe, and mattock. The glint of fresh steel along age-blackened blades suggested the tools were newly sharpened. From one stout olive branch, a length of chain with a couple of heavy butcher’s hooks hung as still as death. Behind the trees lay a freshly-turned rectangle of red earth furrowed by neat rows of vegetables.
Aware of her breathlessness after the steps, Demitri asked, ‘Are you okay, Angelika?’ The overweight smoker seemed unaffected by the climb.
‘Give me a moment, I’ll be fine.’ She filled her lungs and blew slowly.
Angie pressed her hand against her chest and felt her heart thudding. She was about to meet her grandmother. Through the low entrance, two stone steps led down between cottage walls half a metre thick. She entered a cool, white-painted lounge with simple furniture. A gaudy icon of Saint George, displaying his dragon slaying skills, hung on the longest wall and a converted copper gaslight was suspended over a round, wooden table. A sharp-eyed matriarch sat on the sofa.
Chapter 3
ANGIE’S GRANDMOTHER, MARIA, WORE a faded blue dress and a washed-out floral scarf over her white hair. In the dim living room, the old lady appeared strangely fragile, almost ghostly, as if she had appeared in a dream.
‘Hello, Yiayá.’ Angie cranked up a smile. ‘How are you?’
The old woman fixed Angie with a squint. Her sharp eyes darted over Angie’s face, scrutinising every detail. She frowned at Angie’s hands, stared at her feet, and came back up to meet her eyes.
Hardly breathing, Angie chewed her lip. A bead of sweat slithered down her spine.
After a moment, Maria’s tension fell away and her eyes twinkled. She patted the seat beside her. When Angie sat, Maria cupped her chin, peered at her again and pressed a shaky hand against Angie’s cheek.
‘Oh, Poppy . . . your precious child has come to me after all these years,’ Maria whispered. ‘It’s a miracle. I’ve waited so very long.’ The old lady’s eyes brimmed.
Angie’s excitement peaked, then, to her dismay, her grandmother’s tears spilled. She pulled a pack of tissues from her handbag and gently dried the old lady’s face, worried that her grandmother might not be strong enough for so much emotion. But despite her tears, Maria seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
‘Sorry, sorry, please don’t cry, Yiayá,’ Angie pleaded. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Despite her great age, the high cheekbones and classical beauty of Maria’s youth shone through her deeply-lined face. She sniffed and nodded, taking the tissue from Angie and dabbing her nose.
‘Hello, Angelika,’ she finally said, her voice weak but clear. She pulled Angie forward to kiss her cheeks and forehead. But then her emotions rose again. ‘Oh my poor child . . .’ she muttered, shaking her head, allowing fresh tears to fall. ‘How I’ve missed you all these long years.’
That would be Poppy, Angie thought, wrapping her arms around her fragile grandmother and allowing Maria to cry on her shoulder. A great rush of relief, and love, coursed through her and, as she held the old lady in her arms, she found herself sniffing back tears too.
Before they had a chance to chat, the neighbours arrived. Angie dried her grandmother’s face, and then her own. They held hands and smiled at each other as the room filled with local women. All the questions for her grandmother went on hold and, deep inside, Angie found herself bursting with affection for the woman she had only met minutes earlier.
‘Yia sas!’ or, ‘Welcome, welcome!’ the local women shouted. Several were proud to speak English, eager to practise the language, others were shy and smiling. No one came empty-handed. Supermarket bags, stuffed to their over-stretched handles with local fruit and vegetables, lined the wall. Plates of cookies, candied peel and olives for Angie to take to England, covered the round table. The village people with their broad smiles and curious eyes had no concept of ‘Luggage Allowance: twenty kilos’.
Two hours passed before Angie was finally left alone with her grandmother.
Maria studied her, stern for a moment, and then affection rolled in and softened her features. ‘You look like your father,’ she said, sliding a shaky hand down Angie’s face. ‘How often I prayed that one day I would touch the cheek of my granddaughter.’
Angie smiled, desperate to hear about her father.
‘How is Poppy?’ Maria said.
Angie threw her head back and smiled. ‘I’m so lucky. I couldn’t wish for a better mother. She worked hard to put me through university, really made some huge sacrifices. Not just that, she’s become more of a friend, recently. Nothing’s too much trouble. We share almost everything.’ Angie smiled again, proud. ‘I moved in with my partner, Nick, three years ago, but I go home regularly and often stay over with Mam. She’s amazing . . . makes the perfect Sunday roast, and always bakes something special for me.’
Maria seemed to glow.
‘I’m getting married soon,’ Angie continued. ‘That’s my big news, and Mam’s a bit het up about the wedding. She adores my fiancé, Nick; “a fine Greek boy”, she calls him.’ She hugged herself. ‘He is wonderful; kind, handsome, hardworking, everything I could wish for. I can’t wait for you to meet him.’
‘So Poppy approves?’
Angie nodded. ‘Mam sends her love,’ she lied.
Maria’s eyes narrowed.
Angie turned away, hiding her guilt.
Glancing over the gifts that cluttered the room, she tried to change the subject. ‘I’ll never be able to take all this to England, Yiayá.’
Maria wasn’t distracted. ‘You were saying, about Poppy?’
Angie tried again. ‘I’d like to draw my family tree, and perhaps write about my ancestors’ history. Nick and I want a family, Yiayá, that’s one of the reasons we’re getting married. I’m thirty-seven, so . . .’ She shrugged. Maria nodded. Angie continued. ‘It’s important that children are familiar with their roots, don’t you think?’ A weak excuse for digging into the family’s past – would her grandmother see through it?
‘What was Poppy’s reaction to this family tree idea?’ Maria insisted.
Stubborn, Angie thought, a trait she recognised in herself. ‘To be honest, she’s reluctant to help me with it.’ She sighed and met her grandmother’s eyes. ‘In fact, she refuses to discuss it.’ The truth brought heat to her cheeks.
Maria nodded. ‘Understandable.’ She pulled a bag of crocheting from under the table. Despite her poor eyesight and crooked fingers, she worked the fine crochet hook through the lace.
‘How beautiful, Yiayá.’ Angie fingered the filigree. ‘What are you making?’
‘It’s the last item for your dowry, Angelika. A tablecloth. May God give me time to finish it.’
‘My dowry? But how did you know I was getting married?’
Maria seemed to shrink a little, her eyes flicking to the icon of Saint George. She bowed her head and continued crocheting as she spoke. ‘Naturally, you must have your wedding linen, Angelika, but I’m not aware of what my daughter has made.’
The words were forced and Angie heard pain in her voice.
‘Mam wanted to come too, but she has the influenza, Yiayá. Perhaps next time.’
Maria looked up. She had recognised another lie. Angie’s cheeks burned and she turned away.
Yiayá reached over and patted her thigh. ‘Don’t worry; it’s not your fault.’ She sat with her thoughts for a minute, stiffened, clamped her mouth and shook her head.
Again, Angie wondered what had caused this terrible rift between her mother and grandmother. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly.
‘No need. I know you mean well.’ Maria shrugged.
‘Was it wrong of me to come here, Yiayá?’ Angie watched her grandmother’s face as she continued. ‘I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time, but Mam became upset when I told her. I’m sorry to say we had a huge fight.’
‘I was waiting, Angelika, hoping one day you would visit. About your mother, what was said? Don’t spare my feelings, Angelika. I need to hear the whole story.’ Maria stroked the scars on her hands.
Angie hesitated, but then thought if she wanted her grandmother to be totally honest and tell her everything, she owed Maria the truth.
‘Me and Nick, we have a small flat in the city. It’s fabulous, and he’s lovely too.’
A
ngie closed her eyes for a moment and recalled the first time she met Nick. He had walked into her office, smartly suited-up, arm outstretched, and caught her eating a sandwich while playing Candy Crush on her computer.
‘Hi, I’m Nick; new head of department,’ he had said with a twinkle in his eye.
‘Oh, sorry, lunch break,’ she replied through a mouthful of egg mayo. Crumbs, brushed from her chest, sprinkled her keyboard. He looked on, grinning as he so often did, eyes bright and face full of amusement. Heat rose in her cheeks. Being flustered was something Angie rarely experienced.
At his first staff meeting the next day, she had scribbled notes, her hand on automatic while her heart did somersaults every time he glanced her way.
She fingered her engagement ring and said to her grandmother, ‘We’ve lived together for three years, Yiayá. I love him to bits.’
Maria patted Angie’s leg again. ‘I see it.’
‘Sometimes, Nick takes in freelance editing and works from the flat. The extra money is to pay for our wedding and a house we’ve set our hearts on. It’s better if I’m not home, distracting him, so I usually go out with my friends or visit Mam. Me and Nick, we’re employed by the same company, so we’re practically together all day.’ She stopped, her shoulders drooping as she remembered her jobless situation. ‘Except that I’ve been made redundant, so that’s all changed. I haven’t had time to adjust yet; but I hope to find employment with another publishing house soon,’ she added quickly with confidence she didn’t feel. ‘I’ve always had a nice time at Mam’s, until recently.’ Angie tugged her lip, thinking about her mother. ‘Things haven’t been so good lately.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Maria sat back. ‘What started the trouble with Poppy?’
Angie recalled life before her redundancy, when everything seemed perfect. At her mother’s house, she searched for her birth certificate. That was the afternoon when her problems really began.
Island of Secrets Page 3