After the service, Poppy and Yeorgo stood at the head of the family line. Guests filed past to kiss the bride and groom and wished them ‘Happy life!’ Their Koumbaros held a basket for the wedding money. Each guest left an envelope containing a few drachmas for their marriage gift.
Almost a thousand people attended; Amiras and its surrounding villages, distant relatives, and Stavro’s friends from the university in Athens. The line of well-wishers seemed endless. Guests milled around, packing the church yard, despite the Koumbaros calling out, ‘Move along!’
Voula appeared. ‘Long life, you lucky woman.’ She kissed Poppy. ‘Now I’m going to kiss your beautiful husband,’ she said.
Poppy laughed at her friend’s exaggerated pout and turned to the next guest.
Emmanouil placed his hands either side of her waist, his eyes bored into Poppy’s. He leaned in to embrace her, pressed his cheek hard against hers and whispered in her ear.
‘You’re driving me insane. I will have you, be ready for us both, first my brother and then me.’
Yeorgo was laughing with Voula, unaware of what was going on next to him. Poppy found it impossible to break away from Emmanouil. Then he said quietly. ‘And if you refuse, you’ll enjoy the thrust of my knife.’
‘Never,’ Poppy said as a herd of wild horses stampeded over her chest.
Emmanouil squeezed her, reminding her of his great strength, and then he reached for his dagger, drawing it from its ornately moulded scabbard.
‘Emmanouil, my brother!’ Yeorgo shouted jovially, slapping him on the arm, causing him to let go of the ram’s-horn hilt. The knife slipped back into its sheath. Poppy trembled – sick to her stomach.
The guests walked to the village square to eat while Yeorgo and Poppy retired to the marriage bed to consummate their marriage. Determined not to allow the incident with Emmanouil to spoil her wedding day, Poppy decided not to tell Yeorgo about the confrontation. She convinced herself that Emmanouil had simply intended to frighten her with his jealous raki-talk.
They entered their new home, Poppy suddenly shy. Yeorgo lifted her, carried her into the bedroom. The Koumbaros, who was a cousin of Yeorgo’s, and his wife had decorated the bed with almonds and vermilion bougainvillea bracts arranged in the shapes of birds, flowers and hearts. Poppy gasped, nervous, embarrassed, and full of joy.
‘I love you, Poppy, I’m so happy you married me, little one,’ Yeorgo said, taking her in his arms. ‘I won’t hurt you, don’t be afraid.’
The warmth of his breath clouded her face. She saw the admiring look in his eyes. He always gave her a sense of beauty.
‘I’ve always loved you, Yeorgo,’ Poppy said. ‘I’ll try to be a good wife.’ She wanted him to be proud of her, and she longed to have his children and build a life with him. ‘Today’s the happiest day of my life,’ she whispered before he kissed her.
Yeorgo lifted her onto the bed and, in the flickering candlelight, he carefully undressed her, and himself, garment by garment until they reached nakedness together. He caressed her until she floated, almost fainting with happiness, intoxicated by his touch. Before long, she wanted him with a passion she had never before experienced.
‘Please, Yeorgo,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Make me your wife, I want to give myself to you. I’m yours, forever.’
He made love to her gently, amongst the bougainvillea petals, and only in his final spasms did he lose control, thrusting hard and crying out her name. ‘Poppy, you belong to me now. You’ll always be mine, little one.’
After the consummation, Yeorgo left to drink a raki and smoke a hashish cigarette on the front porch with the Koumbaros. The best man’s wife came into the bedroom and Poppy blushed because there were red streaks on the new bridal linen.
‘Go and wash while I take care of the bed,’ she said, trying to steer Poppy into the bathroom.
Poppy didn’t understand. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s never enough.’ She nodded at the soiled sheet. ‘We have to make a really good show, Poppy.’ She took a small bottle of blood out of her bag and poured it onto the bed. ‘I don’t know if the rabbit was a virgin, but let’s not worry, and never break our secret, Poppy.’
They laughed.
When they were ready, the Koumbaros led them back to the reception. They’d been gone for almost two hours, but apparently weren’t missed. The entire community ate and drank in the village square.
The Koumbaros roared, ‘The bride and groom!’ Everyone thumped on the wooden tables or clattered the cutlery against the raki bottles and water jugs, and men whistled loudly.
Emmanouil pushed through the crowd, a shotgun in his fists.
Poppy’s elation plummeted, she couldn’t breathe and clutched Yeorgo’s arm. Emmanouil disappeared around their backs. The shots, deafening, exploded behind her.
Poppy clung to Yeorgo. She knew Emmanouil was supposed to fire the wedding volley, but she feared the actions of a man tanked up on alcohol and revenge. Her knees folded. Yeorgo caught her, swept her up, and kissed away her tears. The guests whooped and hollered, enjoying the drama, but Poppy was sure Emmanouil had seen the terror on her face.
Later, calmer, she led the bride’s dance, followed by Yeorgo and then family. The party continued until sunrise, Emmanouil always there, somewhere, watching.
At dawn, Yeorgo and Poppy returned to their new home. The bed sheet already hung, unwashed, on the clothesline outside the house. Her virgin blood on display for everyone to see, making her father-in-law extremely proud.
Poppy’s wedding day memories faded. Returning to the present, she realised if she had known then, what she knew now, her marriage to Yeorgo would never have taken place. And the love of her life would still be alive today.
Chapter 27
London, Present Day.
POPPY LAY BACK AGAINST the hospital pillow. When she opened her eyes, she saw her daughter staring at the water jug, her face flushed and her hand pressed against her chest. Horrified, Poppy wondered if Angelika had developed a weak heart too. She calmed quickly. That would be a cruel twist of fate, hardly likely but, nevertheless, she would talk her into a check-up.
‘Are you thirsty, Angelika, would you like a glass of water?’
‘No, I’m okay, thanks, Mam.’
‘You seem anxious.’
‘Ah, yes, well . . . I’ve a surprise for you, but I am worried you might not be up to it.’
‘I’m fine. You’re full of surprises today.’
‘The shock could be too much for you.’
‘Don’t keep me guessing. You’ll send my blood pressure rocketing.’
‘You have a special visitor.’
‘You’re special.’
‘More special.’
‘Not possible.’ Poppy glanced at the door. ‘I hope you haven’t brought the neighbours in to visit? And me with my hair a mess and my roots showing.’
Angelika laughed nervously. ‘Wait there.’
‘Does it look as though I’m going anywhere?’ She wanted her daughter by her side. ‘Stay,’ she pleaded.
Angelika flushed again. ‘It’s better if I don’t, but I’ll put my head in again before we go.’ She left the room. Muted talking came from the corridor.
The door opened slowly and Poppy blinked at the tall elderly gentleman who stepped into her room. She sensed he had been broad and strong in his younger days, and handsome too. Although the years had been kind, they had whittled away that vitality of youth. Poppy glanced at the photograph next to the bed and then stared at the stranger. He took a step closer, hesitated, his mouth almost a smile, his expression soft and slightly pitying.
Recognition teased her, his identity a fraction from revelation. The ageless eyes, large, brown, with sweeping lashes drew her. Poppy guessed there were few men with such an incredible look about them – and she had loved some of them dearly; one, more than any other man in the world.
With that thought, her mind went crazy, spinning and splintering with imposs
ible ideas. She had never fully accepted Yeorgo’s death, and now . . . blood hammered through her fragile heart.
‘Yeorgo? Is that you? Is it really you?’ Poppy panted, sobbed, unable to say more. She always knew they would be united again, someday. Her dream had come true, that he’d hold her in his arms once more. Even as she started to speak, she saw sympathy flood the stranger’s face. Her soul plummeted from the giddy heights of euphoria. He came to her bedside, shaking his head.
‘Oh, Calliope, I am so sorry.’ He took her hand.
The moment he spoke, using her childhood name, she recognised her brother.
‘Oh, Stavro, I’m mortified.’ Tears of disappointment spilled down her cheeks. ‘Take no notice of me, such a stupid mistake. For a minute, I thought . . .’ Poppy tried to calm herself and squeezed his hand. ‘It’s lovely to see you. Why are you here? Am I going to die?’
Stavro took a tissue from a box on her locker. He sat on the bed, dabbed the tears from her eyes, and smiled down at her. ‘No, you are certainly not, Poppy. Angelika kindly invited me and bought the ticket. I hope you don’t mind me coming? I couldn’t resist after all these years.’
‘She’s a strong-willed devil, Stavro, but I love her to pieces. You can see Angelika is her father’s daughter, she’s like him in many other ways too . . . but so stubborn, you wouldn’t believe.’ They embraced, patting each other, smiling, both slightly shy. ‘I’m sorry about before . . . stupid of me,’ she said, and then they both let the tears of lost decades fall freely.
Poppy fell into speaking Greek, reeling in the thread of time between them. ‘Fancy you coming all this way for me. I don’t know what to say. I’ve missed you all for so long.’ She asked about their mother and father and Voula and Agapi.
She glanced at the door. ‘Matthia?’
‘He hasn’t got a passport, Poppy.’
‘Will you tell him I miss him?’
‘You should do that yourself. He’s still angry that you left, even after all these years.’
‘I had no choice, Stavro.’
‘I know. Such a brave thing to do, to give up so much. And you made a good choice. It did stop the trouble.’
Stavro talked about everyone in Crete but all roads seemed to lead to the family break-up and Yeorgo. At that point, they sat in silence with their individual thoughts, holding hands, squeezing fingers when an emotional moment drifted by, each understanding the other.
*
Angie had pressed redial on her phone on the bedside cabinet as she got up from the chair and the old phone vibrated in her pocket even before she had left the room. The moment Stavro closed the door she answered the call, moving a little further down the corridor.
They were bound to talk about what had happened. Angie would hear, understand, work out a way to help heal the wounds – and that would be the end of it.
Her mother and Stavro came through loud and clear.
She heard Poppy tell Stavro about the hard times, working in the kebab house through the night and completing her accountancy module through the day, while bringing up a baby. It had been difficult, Poppy said, but she took pride from the way Angelika had grown up, and her achievements.
‘Isn’t she beautiful, Stavro? And so clever. She gets that from her father of course. When she sets her mind to doing something, nothing will stop her.’ A moment of silence settled on them and then Poppy said, ‘If things go wrong this afternoon, tell Angelika I love her more than anyone in the world. She’s made me incredibly happy. All those sacrifices, even the ones she’ll never know about, were worth it and I’d do it all again, ten times and more.’
Angie’s eyes misted. A soldier in army uniform came around the corner at the far end of the hall and, through her emotional haze, she saw the photograph of her father. She lowered the phone and stared at it in her palm, recalling Agapi’s words about her father: I pray you also have his special qualities, his principles and sincerity. She shook her head and turned off the phone. How could she stoop so low?
A nurse followed the soldier and glanced at the mobile in her hand. ‘Sorry, you can’t use that in the corridor; you’ll activate everyone’s bleeper.’
‘The ward sister told us we could make a call from Mam’s room. Is that all right? We want to contact her family in Crete,’ Angie said.
‘Sure, outside communication gives the patients a mental boost. Is your mother Mrs Lambrakis?’
‘Yes. Is everything okay?’
‘Fine, she’ll be up and about in no time. I’m about to administer her pre-med, so you only have another thirty minutes or so.’
Angie followed her into the room. Poppy swallowed the medicine and the nurse left.
Stavro gave Angie his seat and she took her mother’s hand. ‘Mam, we have to go soon but, well, I made this promise to Yiayá.’
‘I hope it didn’t involve me.’
‘I said we’d Skype before your operation.’
‘You should have asked me first.’
‘She’s sitting in Crete with my tablet, waiting. Please say you’ll do it, Yiayá is demented with worry. She loves you as much as you love me. How would you feel?’
Poppy frowned, chewing her lip. ‘I can’t, not after so long, and at the drop of a hat.’
‘The time will only get longer.’
‘I look a mess.’
‘The signal’s rubbish in Amiras. You’ll be in soft focus. Please don’t let me down, Mam.’
‘Blackmail now, is it? Me at death’s door and you with an answer for everything.’
‘Mam, stop it.’ For an obscure reason, Angie remembered the letter, still in the zip pocket of her handbag. ‘Yiayá wrote this before I even got to Crete. She said I must give it to you.’ Angie thrust the folded page at her mother and passed her glasses from the cabinet top.
She had no idea what was written inside, and had forgotten all about it until that moment. They were silent, watching Poppy’s tears rise as she read the words aloud. Near the end, her eyes flicked up to meet Angie’s, and then returned to the last lines of the letter.
My dearest darling Calliope,
I feel my time is almost done here. God is getting impatient so I wanted to tell you how much I love you, before I leave this world. I move on with a broken heart. I can never express how sorry I am for all that happened, and if I could change the past, I hope you know that I would.
I’m very proud of all the things you have achieved in England, but most of all, I am so happy for your daughter. She could not have a better mother. And isn’t she beautiful, just as you were at her age.
Please try and find it in your heart to forgive me, and to return to Crete one day. Your brothers and your father miss you very much, as I do. I hope you think of me with kindness, once in a while. I’ll never forget you and, God willing, I will always be watching over you and my granddaughter.
Bless you and keep you safe, Calliope, my only daughter.
All my love,
Mama, XXX
Poppy blinked her tears away, fighting a sob before she said to Stavro, ‘I’m quite shocked that Mama seems to know so much about me. Did you break your promise, Stavro?’
He moved over to the window, turned his back on them, and then after a moment he blew his nose. Angie realised he was struggling with his emotions too. He returned to the bedside. ‘Absolutely not, Poppy. But I do believe you should find the courage to call Mama. I don’t think she has a great deal of time left. I can’t see her die of a broken heart.’ The tremor in his voice was hardly noticeable. ‘You’d regret it for the rest of your life if she passed away tonight. Just say hello.’
The nurse popped into the room. ‘Ten minutes, people.’
Angie took her mobile from the bedside locker and called Crete.
*
Crete, Present Day.
MARIA SAT AT THE cracked marble table and glared, her jaw thrust out and her eyes narrow.
‘The trouble with you youngsters is: you don’t listen! Voula!�
�� Voula cowered. ‘Go and phone the school,’ Maria said. ‘Tell them to send Young Mattie home, it’s an emergency. Perhaps your grandson knows how to work this contraption.’
Matthia stomped into the garden to join them. ‘Is it going yet?’
‘Is it hell!’ Demitri said.
They all crossed themselves three times.
Matthia scowled and shouted at Demitri. ‘You’ve a laptop and a computerised till giving us chits we don’t want and can’t read. Why can’t you get this thing to work, you fool? It’s no bigger than an ant’s cock.’
Vassili grinned at Maria.
‘Matthia!’ Maria scolded and then frowned at Vassili.
Demitri assassinated a smile before it reached the corners of his mouth. ‘It’s got no keyboard,’ he said. ‘I have to jab at the right pictures but they don’t mean anything to me. It’s all guesswork.’
Matthia huffed. ‘Can’t you just follow the directions?’
They all stared at him.
‘They’re taped on the back. See what they say.’
Voula appeared from the house. ‘The headmaster’s bringing Young Mattie home.’
Demitri turned the tablet over and read the instructions aloud, twice. When he turned it the right way up the tablet had switched off. ‘I think the battery’s flat, where’s the charger?’
‘It’s at our house,’ Matthia said. ‘On top of the fridge.’
Maria pointed a crooked finger. ‘Demitri, you’re the youngest, go and find the charger.’ She spoke to Voula. ‘Get back on the phone. Call electric Orpheus and telephone-man, Pavlo. Tell them to come over here. It’s an emergency. We need to have this machine working, out here, with a plug for the charging. It will drain quickly if we’re calling all the way to England.’
Voula dashed into the house.
Matthia, about to light a cigarette, hesitated and then said, ‘Mama, get used to it, you’re not going to see Poppy before she’s cut open. It’s no good hoping; time’s passing.’
‘Matthia, I’ll boil your head for soup,’ Maria snapped.
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