Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  Angie had a secret belief: if she could get him to eat, the food would put flesh on the phantom. Her father would fill up and become real. Once, when her mother joined her on the blanket, she revealed her plan, but Poppy had jumped up, snivelling, blaming a bout of hay fever.

  Poppy never played tea party again. She watched from the kitchen window, waving occasionally and blowing her nose.

  Angie remembered comprehensive school, when she wrote an essay about her father. Eleven-year-old Angelika claimed her Daddy was an astronaut who had gone to the moon. She said he worked in a secret spacestation, somewhere up there, and looked down on the world and his family.

  The prize she won for her writing made her mother proud, and probably sowed the seeds of her ambition to work in publishing. Angie desperately wanted her father there when she received that school trophy, at the end of term awards. She imagined his ghost clapping in the audience, unseen by the masses. She stared across the sea of applauding parents and threw a special smile to the invisible man, sensing his spirit in assembly hall, watching.

  Now, Angie could put a face to the entity. She battled with a lump in her throat. ‘I wish I’d known him. It’s not fair. As a child, I had ways of dealing with not having a father.’

  ‘A child’s imagination can be a great consolation, Angelika,’ Voula said.

  Angie nodded. ‘I accepted his death and built a fantasy father in my head. But, here’s the weird thing. I’m thirty-seven years old, and quite suddenly, I really wish I had a dad. Now, I want to learn as much as possible about him. For example, I wonder if he thought of me, before he died. Mam has always refused to talk about him. She says he left for the war before I was born and never came back, and that’s all there is.’

  Angie held the old photograph. Her fingertips brushed across the glass over his face and her eyes misted.

  ‘Of course he thought of you, koritsie,’ Voula said. ‘In fact, I know he did. Your mother sent a picture of you to Stavro, just after you were born. Stavro told me he gave it to your father when he was on leave. Stavro always feared Yeorgo might not return from the army. We all did.’

  ‘Can anyone tell me where he died? Is there a grave I could visit?’ Angie said. ‘I’d like to lay a wreath. It would make me feel closer. Perhaps my mother would come with me.’

  Voula dropped her bulk into an armchair, one of her stockings concertinaed to her ankle and she groaned, reached over her belly and tugged the black nylon up to her knee.

  ‘The year you were born, we had difficult times in Greece, Angelika. We’d had a war with the Axis and then, from ’46 to ’49, a civil war. That was terrible.’

  ‘But it can’t have been as bad as World War 2?’ Angie said.

  ‘Worse. Crete had always been communist, it still is, but in those days the British wouldn’t tolerate it so they, and the USA – who are even more paranoid about commies – backed the Greek government to wipe out communism. Everyone was afraid; our own people – against us.’ Her eyelids lowered. ‘You’ve never lived through civil war, when you don’t know who you can trust and fear your neighbour’s breadknife in your back. Anyway, then we had the junta.’

  ‘Matthia mentioned the junta last night, what is it?’ Angie said.

  Voula’s eyes widened. ‘Did you go to school, Angelika?’

  Angie nodded. ‘Of course, but . . . sorry . . .’

  Voula sighed. ‘In 1967 a Greek coup d’état was led by a group of Colonels. We had military rule. Anyway, the dictatorship ended in 1974 but then the Turks invaded Cyprus. But, with Archbishop Makarios –’

  ‘Archbishop Makarios?’ Angie tried to keep up with the details.

  ‘Angelika, are you telling me you’ve come here to discover your family’s past, and you don’t even know your own country’s history?’

  ‘To be honest, I can’t remember learning much more than British history at school. I wasn’t interested. I’m ashamed to admit it, Aunty Voula.’

  ‘So you should be. Anyway, that’s when your father left for Cyprus with the army.’ Voula shook her head, sniffed and then took Angie’s hand. ‘Thirty thousand Greeks were killed. May God forgive their sins. The Turks made another twenty thousand of our men refugees.

  ‘We all feared for our boys. Trouble here – conflict there; madness. Many simply disappeared, Yeorgo amongst them. That was at the end of the 1970s.’ She rubbed her hands over her face. ‘A generation lost to war.’

  Voula lowered her voice. ‘After seven years, we had a memorial service for soldiers that hadn’t come home. Matthia hoped Poppy would return for the commemoration, but she probably didn’t have the money, and you were in school by then.’

  ‘I wonder why Mam never kept in touch with Uncle Matthia.’

  ‘Stavro and Poppy corresponded. That also hurt Matthia. Poppy didn’t contact Matthia after leaving Greece, not once. It dented his pride so much that he refused to write to her.’

  Angie recalled the bundle of letters from Stavro stashed in her mother’s spare room.

  Voula stared at the floor for a moment. ‘You know, it would mean such a lot to Matthia if Poppy did call, just once, to say she hadn’t forgotten him.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, I promise. Mam continues to mourn my Dad. On the anniversary of their marriage she goes to the local park and lays a copy of her wedding bouquet on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. She’s worn black for as long as I remember. I know she still loves him, with all her heart.

  ‘Tell me, Aunty Voula, why isn’t Yiayá wearing black after losing Petro, is it because he wasn’t baptised?’

  ‘At the time of his death, she didn’t have a choice.’ Voula shrugged, then lifted a hand. ‘Don’t ask me any more questions, Angelika. I don’t want to get into trouble with my in-laws. The events of that year were so tragic. Poor Poppy,’ she repeated before passing another photo frame. ‘Here are your parents on the day of their marriage. Poppy was incredibly beautiful, the double of her mother. What does she look like now?’

  Angie held the picture and gasped, hardly hearing Voula. She saw her mother and father together for the first time in her life. Although stiff, and staring at the camera, she recognised a slight tilt to their bodies, leaning in towards each other. They were very much in love, she sensed it from that fraction of body language. She stared at the photo, bringing it close to her face, her breath misting the glass and emotion misting her eyes.

  ‘Angelika, what does Poppy look like now?’ Voula repeated.

  Angie swallowed hard, not wanting to speak – the moment was so precious to her. ‘Mam, Dad,’ she said, her finger tracing their faces, linking the two words together for the first time in her life. She couldn’t take her eyes off the photograph, and then she realised Voula was waiting for an answer.

  For all her literary skills, Angie found it difficult to describe her own mother to someone who hadn’t seen her for forty years. ‘I wish I’d brought a photo, thoughtless of me. She’s sixty-something now, of course. Curly dark hair, like mine, but hers is short.’ She made a sawing motion at jaw level and then she stared at the photograph again, unable to get enough of her parents together.

  ‘Mam wears glasses to read and she’s gained a little weight.’ Suddenly, Angie saw her mother as if for the first time. ‘My mother’s very beautiful for her age.’ She flushed with pride and wished Poppy had come with her to Crete.

  Voula nodded. ‘I knew she’d keep her looks, good bones – like Maria.’ She seemed to be talking to herself and Angie realised Voula also missed her friend.

  ‘On her wedding day, Poppy wore a gown made by your Yiayá, silk and handmade lace.’ She held out another picture.

  Angie stared at it. ‘Wow, Yiayá made that? And look at Mam. She reminds me of somebody . . . Emilia Clark.’ Voula frowned. ‘Game of Thrones,’ Angie said.

  ‘Ah, I haven’t time for those game shows,’ Voula said and then frowned again when Angie grinned.

  ‘You know something, Angelika, that wedding dress would fi
t you. Your grandmother still has it, a very special keepsake. Poppy and Yeorgo had a wonderful day. I wasn’t with Matthia then. I taught a new breed of Greeks who planned to become travel agents in Heraklion. Matthia was engaged to my friend Agapi, but that’s another story. Poppy chose me, Agapi, and Yánna for her bridesmaids – we were all best friends.’

  ‘Yánna?’

  ‘Poppy’s sister-in-law . . .’ Voula’s eyes opened wide. ‘She . . . um . . . died later.’ She took a breath, frowned, and then smiled at the photograph. ‘Such a beautiful wedding, before all the family trouble, of course. The whole village came together. A perfect day, apart from the donkey’s penis . . .’

  ‘What?’ Angie blinked rapidly.

  Voula started a giggle that grew until she laughed real tears, her huge breasts bouncing while she flapped her hands in the air.

  ‘I can’t say. You heard your grandfather, Maria must tell you.’ She set off again, chuckling hysterically. ‘I’ll bet she doesn’t though.’ Voula sniffed and wiped her eyes.

  Angie thought about her own wedding plans, and her fiancé, and her emotions took a dive. She had to face the fact; if Nick lost his job, they must postpone the wedding, and put the house buying on hold. Heart-breaking, yes, but not the end of their future together. It was more important for them to support each other in their individual quests to find employment and get back on their feet. She held up the photo of her parents. ‘Can they make copies of this in Viannos? I’d like to take one home for Mam, and I’d love a copy for myself.’

  Voula bit her lip, still trying to murder the laughter, and if merriment hadn’t danced in her eyes, she would have succeeded. ‘Why don’t you go back to your grandmother for the rest of the story? I’ll gather the pictures I have of Poppy and Yeorgo and you can look at them all later.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Angie said. ‘Also, I’d like to meet my father’s parents, my other grandparents. Are they still alive? Do they live in Amiras?’

  ‘Virgin Mary, that’s a big one . . .’ Voula hesitated. ‘Leave it until you’ve heard the whole story, koritsie. Then, if you want to contact the Lambrakis family, we’ll talk about it, but don’t say that to Maria, will you? It might kill her.’ She crossed herself.

  Shut out again, why?

  Maria had only spoken affectionately about Angie’s father. She remembered the soft wistful look when her grandmother said Angie resembled him. Why would mentioning her father’s family upset Maria so much it could be the end of her?

  ‘Now go back to your grandmother,’ Voula said. ‘Send your grumpy uncle home. Here, take your lunch with you.’

  ‘Stavro’s coming for dinner this evening, may I provide the food? Everyone’s been so kind and generous, I feel it’s the least I can do.’

  ‘It would save me a lot of work, but don’t go crazy with lots of fancy dishes, or you could offend Maria.’

  ‘Why, how?’ Angie asked.

  ‘She may think our food isn’t good enough for you, Angelika. I’ll give you a list of dishes, and you get them from Seli Taverna, near the monument; then everything will be homemade. Bring it here after five and I’ll put the food into my own bowls.’

  They grinned at each other, happy with the conspiracy.

  The children rushed at Angie when she stepped into the street. They skipped alongside her as she panted all the way back up the road. When they passed one of the other houses, a wide-faced woman came rushing out with a misshapen square of something wrapped in aluminium foil.

  ‘Take, take!’ she said in English, handing a parcel over her red-flowering hibiscus shrubs. ‘Cake, cake, I make, for you – for you!’

  Angie smiled and said ‘thank you’ twice, in English, as it seemed traditional to repeat everything.

  The lady beamed and the girls clapped, chirping, ‘Thank you, thank you,’ to each other, mimicking Angie who wished Nick were with her, to see how welcoming everyone was.

  Angie speculated as she walked: how were things going back at the office? She wondered about cosy meals with the woman from Whitekings in ‘their’ restaurant, and questioned how far Nick would go to protect his job.

  She was being stupid. Hadn’t she always trusted him? He’d never given her a moment of worry. How often had he said, ‘You’re my world, Angie, I couldn’t live without you’? Why was she doubting him now? Pre-wedding nerves, that was probably it.

  Back at her grandmother’s, Angie saw no sign of Matthia. Maria appeared pale and tired and Angie realised siesta time had arrived. ‘Yiayá, I’m going shopping, is there anything you want?’

  ‘I have everything I need, koritsie, now I must sleep.’

  Papoú tottered through the door, clacking his worry beads. He stood for a moment, and then opened his arms wide. Surprised, Angie went to him and he hugged her. The scent of mothballs and fabric softener filled her nostrils.

  ‘Thank you, Papoú. I needed that,’ she said softly. ‘It’s been a difficult day.’

  He nodded knowingly. ‘Patience, Angelika, patience,’ he muttered.

  Chapter 17

  Athens, Present Day.

  STAVRO SAT IN THE DEPARTURE lounge, waiting for his flight to Crete. He hardly noticed the people that bustled around him with their luggage trolleys and tired children. A sign caught his eye: Cheese Pie and Greek Coffee, 3 Euro.

  That will do for me.

  He dragged his suitcase across the highly polished floor.

  After buying the snack, Stavro settled at a table with his food and drink. He reached inside his jacket for a small notebook. Once again, his investigation had come to a dead end. Although he had little proof, he remained convinced that Yeorgo hadn’t died.

  There must be a way to find him. Stavro had ploughed through the usual army channels but Greek administration was slow with abysmal recordkeeping. Eventually, he followed advice found on the web, sending letters addressed to Yeorgo to every battalion. He had included a return envelope but nothing came back except for one reply.

  His unopened letter was returned from Yugoslavia with a note from an officer saying Yeorgo had been sent to Serbia.

  For the first time, Stavro knew for sure that Yeorgo was alive. He hadn’t died in Cyprus. He felt close to finding him, but then Stavro’s investigation fell apart when he was hospitalised for a triple heart bypass. By the time Stavro had recovered, and was well enough to continue his search, the Serbian battalion had relocated. The thread was broken.

  He bit into his cheese pie, golden flakes of filo pastry fluttered over the pages of his notebook and grease spots soaked into the paper.

  Stavro never told his family. They had come to accept Yeorgo had died. He wondered if Poppy ever found the courage to tell Angelika the truth about her father. Yeorgo’s decision, to disappear, had been hard to take. But, considering the circumstances, and with the feud still going on, Yeorgo had feared that somebody else would be killed.

  Yeorgo’s brothers had forced Matthia to break his engagement with their sister, Agapi, and beaten him almost to death. An action that made Stavro determined to become a criminal lawyer and fight against injustice. A profession he had practised in Athens and enjoyed right up until retirement. However, if Yeorgo had survived the wars, Stavro thought the time had come to return home and heal the rift, before his mother and father died. He knew his parents still hoped Poppy would come back one day.

  Stavro brushed the crumbs away and glanced around the airport. A group of soldiers loitered in fatigues, their bulging kitbags piled against the wall; scrubbed young men in their twenties, clean-shaven with thick necks. He smiled, remembering his own national service.

  When were the Yugoslavian wars? He couldn’t remember. He got up, and dragged his bag over to the young men.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he said.

  The soldiers turned to him. One said, ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Can any of you tell me when the Yugoslav war started?’

  They glanced at each other. ‘Early nineties, perhaps,’ one replied. ‘Ni
nety-one, two?’

  ‘Before our time, sir,’ added another.

  ‘Before I was born,’ said a third soldier.

  ‘Thanks.’ Stavro returned to his table. How the years had raced past him. It hadn’t seemed so long ago since he received that officer’s reply.

  He caught a reflection of himself in the black glass-fronted café counter, slightly shocked to see a stooped old man. He sat up straight, pulled his stomach in and squared his shoulders. I’m getting on, he admitted to himself, sometimes I forget. After a quick calculation, he realised Yeorgo would be retired now. Where had the years gone? Perhaps Yeorgo lived in an army-sponsored retirement home.

  And then it struck him. Of course, he could trace Yeorgo through his army pension. Stavro had always imagined Yeorgo as a soldier still serving his country. What a stupid mistake. He should try going through those channels, retired service men.

  At that moment, he wanted to leave the airport and find the army pension records building. They were probably located in Athens. His heart pounded. Take it easy, he told himself, you’ve a stent and you’re knocking on, old man.

  Damn it, Yeorgo, I’ll find you if it kills me.

  His chest tightened.

  Chapter 18

  Crete, Present Day.

  AS SHE WAS ABOUT TO ENTER THE cottage garden, a clatter of sheep-bells made Angie look up. To the right of the monument, on the rocky ridge overlooking Amiras, stood a picturesque chapel. Black and white sheep hurried past in single file, disappearing over the hilltop. Moments later, an old shepherd and his dog appeared from behind a row of cypress trees.

  Angie remembered how Maria had described those very trees on the night of the massacre: A row of wind-bent cypress trees, silhouetted witches’ fingernails, reminded me of the baby snatched from my breast. Heart-breaking, Angie thought.