‘Ah, I see, but I need a suitcase, Angelika.’ His eyes swivelled in the direction of Maria and Vassili. ‘Your grandparents want to send things to help with Poppy’s recovery.’
‘What’s in there, anyway?’ She caught the mischievous twinkle in his eye, uplifting after all the stress of the afternoon.
‘You’ll be sorry you asked. All kinds of our local food, olive products, and Demitri’s wine, and all Voula’s photos of Poppy and Yeorgo. We’ll need to copy them and bring the originals back.’
‘You’re too generous. The gifts will make Mam feel better. Thank you.’ She was pleased to have the photographs. She glanced around the cottage, stepped outside and looked up at the ridge. Maria watched her. Their eyes met.
‘Can I come back, Yiayá?’
‘I’ll be waiting for you, Angelika. Don’t leave it too long.’
Angie understood that the words were more than simple politeness. ‘Thank you. I’ll return as soon as I can.’
‘I know, koritsie. Don’t come alone, I haven’t much time.’
Angie listened to Maria’s poignant words, wrapped the old lady in a gentle hug and kissed her damp cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.’
‘It’s important, koritsie . . .’
‘I wish –’
‘I know. Go now.’
Chapter 24
London, Present Day.
OUTSIDE HEATHROW’S ARRIVALS, Angie ran into Nick’s arms. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’ She squeezed him tightly. ‘How’s Mam?’
‘She’s okay, doing better. They’ve decided on a stent.’ Nick glanced past Angie. He squared his shoulders and stood taller. ‘I think you’d better introduce us. I’m guessing that’s Uncle Stavro standing with the suitcases?’
Angie grabbed Nick’s hand and tugged him towards her uncle.
‘Uncle Stavro, I want you to meet my fiancé, Nick.’ The men shook hands, kissed cheeks and slapped one another on the back. Stavro gripped Nick’s shoulders and stared him in the face. The head of Angie’s family approving the man she would marry. The traditional salute meant such a lot to Angie. Acceptance. Stavro’s nod and the twinkle in his eye came as a ray of sunshine on a stormy night.
Nick drove them to the hospital. Angie watched the windshield wipers slap a melancholy heartbeat. Poor Poppy.
She remembered Crete, that star-studded evening, the pleasure of eating with them all, and the dancing. Her grandmother’s happiness, and above all, the camaraderie of her family. The occasion brought a strong sense of belonging to Angie’s life.
Angie continued to fret about her mother, as she had since the moment she heard the news, in Amiras. The thought that Poppy might have died was like a kick in the chest that she would never recover from. She tried to push the debilitating thought away and, for a moment, concentrate on Nick, as he drove. Her poor fiancé looked terrible, completely worn out. His skin was pale, he needed a shave, and he had dark bags under his eyes like she had never seen before. He looked like a heart attack waiting to happen, she thought, horrified.
Nick must be out of his mind with worry about his job. He had enough to deal with, without Angie accusing him of having an affair and his future mother-in-law collapsing at his feet. With the added pressure of house buying and the wedding on top of all that, no wonder he appeared stressed out and exhausted.
In a flash, Angie saw it all. She had asked too much of the people she loved. Hadn’t she inherited any of her grandmother’s spirit, the selfless need to better the lives of others? Had she ever made a real sacrifice for anybody? Sick and ashamed, she swore to herself she could change, it wasn’t too late, and that change would start here and now in the car.
She wanted to tell Nick that their goals, which were really her goals – the house, the job, the wedding, even the babies – weren’t crucial. That the people she loved were healthy, happy and above all, united, they were the important things. Together, Nick and Angie could change plans, and work things out. They’d talked about starting their own editing service, but she’d discouraged him, claiming it was better to aim for promotion, at least until they had a mortgage in place. So, her ever-loving Nick had abandoned his plans and taken Angie’s advice.
Now, with the shock of Poppy collapsing, and the horrible thought that she could have died, Angie’s priorities had taken a sharp turn. She would move back home for a while to take care of her mother. She wondered how Nick would feel. He would come to live at Mam’s too, if she asked him, but was that going to add to his pressure?
Angie wanted to be alone with Nick, to talk all these things through, but with Stavro there such a personal discussion would be impossible. Then it occurred to her, what they really needed was a proper date. Some time by themselves – with no distractions – to discuss their future. She would set it up for tomorrow evening. Somewhere special. They would arrive separately, and go home to the flat together. She sighed audibly.
‘You all right?’ Nick asked, glancing sideways before returning to his driving.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just thinking.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Are you free tomorrow evening?’
‘I hope so,’ he said forlornly, still focused on the road. ‘Why? What can I do for you?’
‘A date, after work, 7.30 at Chez Henri? I’ll meet you at the bar.’ She tried to lighten the mood but the worry about her mother killed the humour and her words fell flat. ‘I’ll be carrying a red rose.’
‘Forget the rose, just tell me what you’ll be wearing,’ he whispered back, understanding where she was coming from and playing along. ‘In detail.’ His face lifted with a tired smile, the bags under his eyes bulging in the streetlights.
‘We’ll get through this, Nick,’ she said sadly.
He nodded, keeping his eyes on the road.
They continued to the hospital in silence. Her concern for Poppy gathered strength. Once there, the night sister said, ‘You can look in on Mrs Lambrakis for a moment, but don’t wake her. You may visit tomorrow until noon.’
Nick’s phone rang. He turned it off without looking at it.
‘Thanks,’ Angie said quietly. He put his arm around her and gave a squeeze.
They peeked in on Poppy. Asleep, she appeared drawn with dark circles under her eyes. Her hair, lank, fell away from her face, and an unhealthy sheen glistened on her forehead. Angie felt sick. She wanted to gather her mother in a hug, take away her pain, and ask forgiveness.
Outside the hospital, Angie buried her face in Nick’s chest. Nick, understanding words weren’t necessary, simply held her tightly while she gathered herself together. The north wind gusted around them and, after a minute, Angie gently pushed away from his embrace.
‘Feeling better?’ Nick asked, lifting her chin.
Nodding, she whispered, ‘Thank you,’ and pecked him on the cheek.
On the way home in the car, Angie said, ‘You’re very quiet, Uncle Stavro.’
‘I’m in shock, Angelika. I expected to see a mature version of the sister that left Crete forty years back, but she’s an old woman.’
‘Better not let Mam hear you say that, she’ll kill you.’ Again, Angie tried to lighten the moment.
Stavro didn’t laugh. ‘I can’t believe I made the same mistake again.’
‘Again?’
‘My old brain’s shutting down, koritsie. Only last week I searched for . . . someone.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, someone special that I hadn’t seen for years. I had a picture of a young man in my head and he must be quite old now. I’m a fool,’ Stavro said.
*
The next morning, Angie couldn’t concentrate on anything. Despite three aspirins and a strong coffee, a headache pounded across her brow. Nick had gone to work and she needed a diversion from the long day ahead. Nothing could be gained from fretting about Poppy. Yet she found it impossible to put her mother out of her mind.
Stavro wandered into the kitchen.
&n
bsp; ‘Morning, Uncle. Sorry there’s no Greek coffee. Would you like tea, or instant?’
‘Do you have any NoyNoy, Angelika?’
Angie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, what is it?’
‘You know, milk in a tin? I mix half a glass with hot water for breakfast. Most villagers do if they haven’t any fresh goat’s milk.’
‘Ah, evap. Yes of course. I’ll buy more, later. Sorry, but there’s no chance of Mam keeping a goat in her precious garden. She keeps that lawn mowed to within an inch of its life.’ They both laughed. ‘Let’s see now, where’s the can opener?’ She yanked the junk drawer open. As her hand closed around the kitchen utensil, her eyes fell on the old mobile, an emergency pay as you go that always had credit. She could give it to her uncle, in case he needed to contact her, but then the seed of an idea germinated.
She pulled the phone out, plugged in the charger and checked the credit.
*
Two hours later, Angie and Stavro were inside the hospital. The harsh lights, acres of glass and hard acoustics fuelled Angie’s tension.
Stavro squeezed her arm. ‘Trust me, she’ll be fine.’
‘I’d rather not shock her by us walking in together, Uncle. Do you mind if I see how she is first?’
‘I’ll stay in the corridor. Call when you’re ready, Angelika. If you don’t think she’s up to it, I’ll wait a few days.’
Poppy was asleep, a monitor pegged to her finger. A colourful bunch of mixed flowers stood on her bedside locker.
Angie worried about her mother’s hay fever.
Overhead, a notice said: NIL BY MOUTH and an LCD screen blipped technical information in a language known only to the medical profession.
Poppy looked so vulnerable that Angie wanted to hug her tightly. She held her hand instead. Then she reached into her bag and hooked her fingers over her smartphone. She had called it from the old mobile earlier and saved the number. All she had to do was press redial. She hoped this cunning plan would divulge her mother’s secrets without causing more distress. Then she could concentrate on bringing peace to Poppy.
Maria’s words returned: And you think if I tell you what Poppy doesn’t want you to know, it will make her feel better?
Angie hesitated, and then slid the phone behind a water jug on the bedside locker.
*
Poppy drifted up from a deep sleep. Remembering she was in hospital, she didn’t open her eyes. Poor Nick, she thought, recalling his horror when the crushing pain in her chest spread down her left arm and she could hardly breathe. She didn’t have to tell him it was a heart attack. He swooped her up and almost ran to the car. God knew where he got the strength, but he had certainly saved her life. She would always be grateful to him.
Smiling, Poppy thought fondly of him. Angelika had done well. Suddenly, she sensed a presence in the room. She opened her eyes, confused when her daughter came into focus. Hadn’t Angelika gone to Crete? Her head filled with questions but she only voiced one.
‘Angelika, what are you doing here?’ Her throat, dry as sand, meant the words sounded rough.
‘You didn’t think I’d stay in Crete with my mother in hospital, did you?’ Angelika kissed her.
The brush of her daughter’s lips did Poppy more good than all the hospital treatments in the world.
‘How are you, Mam?’ Angelika asked.
‘All the better for seeing you, love. Truly, I haven’t felt so well in a long time.’ The warmth of her daughter’s hand in hers gave her strength. ‘How was Crete?’ she asked, closing her eyes, afraid of what she might hear. Had they told her the truth as they knew it? The monitor on the wall bleeped.
‘Mam. I really didn’t mean to upset you so much with that call,’ Angelika said. ‘I’m very sorry.’
Poppy ignored the apology. ‘How’s everybody?’ She had to know.
‘They made me very welcome. Yiayá told me amazing stories about the war. Everyone sends their love and wishes for a speedy recovery. They all said how they missed you, Mam. They’ve sent a suitcase full of gifts to help you get better.’
Poppy noticed that Angelika’s eyes were intense, sparkling, exactly like Yeorgo’s. Her heart skipped a beat. The monitor bleeped again.
‘They’re incredibly generous.’ Angelika chewed her lip. ‘The presents are at home, but I’ve brought something from Voula. I thought you might like it on your locker. She told me to say: “Remember the day?”’
Poppy smiled. Voula, always concerned about the welfare of others, always laughing. Memories trickled back, but then she sensed her daughter’s tension.
Angelika hesitated, then shoved a crumpled bag at her. ‘Sorry it’s not wrapped.’
Poppy pulled out a framed portrait. ‘Oh, Angelika,’ she said, staring at the wedding photograph. Yeorgo, so handsome, stood at her side in the church doorway. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘This was the most wonderful day of my life. Just look at your father. Wasn’t he the most perfect man on earth? And do you know what, Angelika? You are so like him. Not only in looks, but temperament too.’
Poppy’s daughter blinked. ‘You’ve never talked about him before, Mam. It means a lot to me, please don’t stop. Tell me more.’
Poppy squeezed her hand. She found the effort draining, but worth it. ‘What can I say? You know how you feel about Nick, well, multiply that by a million, and that’s me and your father.’
With her emotions rising, Poppy realised how precious Angelika was to her, and how her own mother must have loved her, all those years ago. She wondered if she had faded from Maria’s memory after so long. For the first time, she really understood the pain that she had caused Maria when she left Crete, swearing never to return.
Poppy tried to recall the last thing she said to her mother. A strange sense of panic came over her when she couldn’t remember. Then the moment returned, sharp and vivid. Words shouted over her shoulder as she ran out of the cottage.
Forget me, Mama. Forget I ever existed!
How would she react if Angelika said that to her, or if Angelika hadn’t returned from Crete? If Poppy never saw her daughter again . . . she would go crazy. Her eyes brimmed. Who would eat her cherry cake?
‘I’m sorry, Mam. I didn’t mean . . .’ Angelika misread the tears and passed a tissue.
‘No, no need. You and your good intentions,’ Poppy grumbled. ‘You really must learn to mind your own business.’ A smile played on her lips as she stared at the picture. ‘We were a beautiful couple, don’t you think, Angelika?’ She wanted to say more to her daughter, but couldn’t. ‘Put it on the locker for me, so that I can see it.’ She fiddled with the edge of the hospital sheet and silence returned to the room.
‘Give me your hand,’ she said to Angelika.
After spending more than half her life practically alone, Poppy found it difficult to speak while emotional, unless she could draw on anger. She battled to keep her voice steady.
‘Angelika, listen to me, the mortgage is paid and the house deeds are in your name, just in case.’ Angelika’s hand squeezed. ‘And if I don’t come out of surgery this afternoon,’ Poppy continued, ‘you go straight back to Crete and tell Mama I never stopped loving her.’ Breathless, she closed her eyes, panting, relieved the words were said. ‘I never stopped loving her. Have you got that? Remember, it’s very important.’
‘Don’t talk like that. There’s no “just in case”, Mam. You’ll be fine.’ Poppy could hear her daughter’s battle to keep her voice even. ‘I promise you, Mam, they do these operations every single day.’
‘You never know.’
‘That was mad, but very kind, the house thing . . . Thanks,’ Angelika said.
‘It’ll save you doing it later,’ Poppy said.
‘Stop it, Mam! You’ll be home and on the mend in a matter of days.’
Poppy nodded at the photograph. ‘He was beautiful, your father. I’d loved him even as a child, always dreamt of becoming his wife.’ She squeezed Angelika’s fingers. ‘T
hat kind of love never fades, but I believe you know that.’
‘Please tell me about your wedding, Mam?’
‘One day, but not now, Angelika. Perhaps when I get home.’ Poppy closed her eyes and recalled the run-up to her marriage, all those years ago.
Chapter 25
Crete, 1962.
POPPY CLUTCHED HER STOMACH. The cramping pains of her first period made her want to stay in bed.
‘Come on, don’t act like a child, you’re a woman now, Poppy,’ Mama said kindly. ‘It’s only a few days a month, you’ll get used to it.’ Her mother wrapped a hot water bottle in an old cardigan, placed it on Poppy’s belly, and then gave her the woman’s rags to place in her underwear.
Poppy, unsure that she wanted to be a grown-up, couldn’t imagine coping with the discomfort every four weeks, for the rest of her life.
Her mother became an expert on boys and lectured her for the entire morning.
‘Mama, I won’t let them near me, honestly,’ Poppy said, dying of embarrassment.
‘Just understand, once a boy gets his paws on you, they’ll all be after you. They will ruin your name faster than dice roll on a tavli board.’ Mama seemed angry, the way she said it, but then she smiled and fussed, stroking Poppy’s hair and cuddling her.
‘Mama, you don’t have to worry.’
‘I’ve made you a present to mark the day.’ Mama shoved a parcel, wrapped in brown paper, into her hands. Because of the civil war, times were hard and gifts unusual.
Poppy untied the string and opened the gift. She stared at the cloth sewing bag, blue gingham with white embroidery and varnished bamboo handles.
‘Mama, it’s the most beautiful thing.’ Inside, she found a ball of gold-coloured thread and two crochet hooks. ‘Will you teach me the craft?’
From that day, everyone greeted Poppy with the respect of a woman. Maria took her everywhere. They became close, more like sisters than mother and daughter. The village women would call out, ‘Maria, Poppy, come for coffee,’ as if they were equals. Poppy sat at their tables and drank strong, sweet coffee, or ate candied orange peel with ice-cold spring water.
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