Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  Over the weeks that followed, I told him of all the things that had happened while he had been away, reliving the events, but Vassili seemed remote and uncaring. He ate ferociously in those first days and then he started complaining. I did nothing right. His behaviour confused me and I should have realised a breakdown had warped his mind. I loved him so much and held him in great admiration, so this new conduct confused me.

  In the early days, I didn’t understand that war changed more than his physical appearance. He would wake from nightmares, thrashing and screaming. His mind collapsed due to the atrocities and the cruelty he had experienced.

  Stavro and Matthia were bewildered. He frightened them with his shouting and they tried to stay out of his way.

  In September, Constantina’s little boy was baptised. The occasion was hugely uplifting but at the same time, sad for all of us. Her little baby boy Yeorgo had been found seconds from death, under the huge pile of dead men and boys from Amiras. The air almost crushed out of his little body, he lay there, unconscious, for three days. That the baby lived, survived all that was against him, elevated the spirits of the entire village. If he could endure such adversity, so would we.

  The baptism was held in the church yard. In accordance with our religious rules, to have a celebration within the first twelve months of a death in the family was unthinkable. They held the baptism exactly a year to the day that Yeorgo was found alive.

  So, while we ate and drank and danced in the village square, celebrating Yeorgo’s life, we remembered our departed loved ones. Nobody mentioned their slaughtered menfolk, but they were in our hearts and minds. Among the merrymaking, the proud dancing, and forced conversation, many women suddenly broke down in tears. Held tightly by their neighbours, no one asked why, or tried to make them stop. We were simply there for each other, letting our friends vent their grief against our shoulders, and us against theirs, once more.

  Each took their turn in bouncing the tot on their knee. Some laughed, some wept, some were still so traumatised they simply stared at him while thoughts of their own departed ran through their minds. I desperately wanted to hold baby Yeorgo, but found it impossible. Too much, too soon. My heart was still breaking. If only Petro had survived, he would have been around the same age.

  Constantina came and sat next to me for a while. She was a handsome woman. Her straight black hair, parted down the centre, was pulled severely back into a chignon. Big black eyes under arched eyebrows, and although thin, as we all were, her figure was shapely.

  We held hands, hardly speaking. The little tribute was generous of her. Sadly, our eyes met and we nodded occasionally. There was nothing to say that was worthy of words. We were close friends before that September night, but after, I couldn’t stand to see her with Yeorgo. I avoided her. Things changed as her boy grew older. He often played with Matthia and I grew to accept him.

  Vassili and I became virtual strangers. Our marital situation deteriorated. My husband turned to drink and I became a nagging wife, always on his back complaining. Bizarrely, we protected ourselves by hating each other. Then, one evening, an argument about nothing escalated. He called me a filthy whore and threw a punch at me, knocking me to the ground. With my nose gushing blood, I ran from the house.

  When I reached the cemetery, I fell to the ground and cried until exhausted. What was it all for? I couldn’t see any good, any joy, any reason to continue with my mortal toil. Vassili had been everything that I lived for, yet my nagging drove him to drink and now he hated me. He blamed me for my sons turning against him, he blamed me for the death of Petro, and he blamed me for the impoverished way we lived. I despaired, my life not worth living. I saw, like an omen right in front of me, the clump of hemlock that Stavro talked about.

  Heaven seemed so inviting, so peaceful. I pulled the stems from the ground and snapped them into chunks, stuffing them into my mouth. I thought about all that had gone before. Soon I would be with my baby Petro, and dear Andreas, and also my gentle grandfather, Matthia; a place without hunger, fleas or aggression. I chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed, eager for the moment when I would pass from this earthly struggle into the afterlife.

  Consciousness drifted away; hemlock, the painless death – until searing pain jabbed at the back of my throat and I heard my husband’s voice, pleading, ‘Don’t die, I love you, Maria! Forgive me!’

  Vassili cried, begged, tears of remorse raging down his face. His hand thrust into my mouth, jagged nails stabbing until my stomach rolled and I convulsed in a fit of vomiting. He sat up with me all through that night, holding me, keeping me awake until he felt it was safe for me to sleep.

  *

  The crisis of our lives had passed. Slowly, we learned to trust one another. After a time of growing towards each other like a courting couple, nervous and shy, our love returned. On a warm summer night, we drank a little wine and then Vassili led me outside. He hummed an old song, a favourite of mine, while we danced in the moonlight. We reminisced about life before the war and, just before dawn, I fell into his arms and we became lovers again.

  I truly believe that on that night, when we laughed and cried together and lay on a blanket beneath the big olive tree, under the dazzling constellation of Cassiopeia, I conceived my baby girl, Calliope.

  Chapter 33

  Crete, Present Day.

  ‘PHONE YOUR FIANCÉ NOW,’ Maria said. ‘Tell him your honest feelings, Angelika, at least do that. Don’t shut all the doors. After all that I’ve told you, haven’t you understood anything? The only things in life worth fighting for are those that you love. Fight, girl.’ She lifted a clenched fist and shook it at Angie. ‘Give it all you have. If you don’t value him that highly, you shouldn’t have been marrying him anyway.’

  Confused, because right up to the moment Judy answered the door of Nick’s flat, in her pyjamas, Angie believed she could have been mistaken about their affair.

  She walked into the garden and stared at the horizon. What if Nick came back to her? She would always be wondering if something was going on with another woman, or even with Judy who was the sort to make sure she got what she wanted.

  But, Angie thought, she could be that determined too! Just look at her grandmother. What she had gone through, endured, all fuelled on stubbornness, determination and guts. She returned to the living room, took her phone from her bag, and nodded at Maria.

  Back into the garden, she realised she hadn’t turned her mobile on since London airport. Five missed calls from Nick. Should she take the pregnancy test before she called him? He had a right to know, didn’t he?

  But he might marry her for the sake of the baby, and then things were bound to go wrong later. She foresaw separation and custody battles. Why instigate all that unhappiness? Angie never wanted her child to be in the bitter tangle of a divorce.

  She loved Nick intensely and would do anything to keep him, except use her child as ammunition. Could that love turn to suspicion, resentment, and eventually hate if they married now? She had seen it happen to friends. It didn’t seem possible, but she guessed her colleagues had thought that too.

  Angie returned indoors and stared at her grandmother. ‘What should I do? I’m so upset I can’t think straight.’

  ‘Follow your heart, Angelika.’

  ‘Angelika! Angelika!’

  Angie recognised Voula’s dulcet tones and much as she loved her Aunty, now was not the moment. Voula crashed into the cottage, her arm outstretched, thrusting a large brown envelope Angie’s way.

  ‘For you!’ she said.

  Angie blinked at the letter addressed to her. Who would send her mail to Amiras? She tore it open and found another, beautiful, white embossed envelope, with Nick’s handwriting across the top.

  NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL OUR WEDDING DAY

  Angie wondered if this was the big brush-off, letting her down while she was far away and surrounded by her family. When she moved into Nick’s mindset, his timing gave her a chance to calm down and come to accept
the situation, before they met again. But why save it for her wedding day? She could hardly believe Nick would be that thoughtless or cruel. She hesitated, and then decided as there wasn’t going to be a wedding day she might as well open the bloody envelope and be done with it.

  Her hands trembled slightly as she peeled back the flap and examined the contents. A rose scented letter, and a cheque for £400,000. Her jaw dropped and she fell into a seat beside her grandmother. Maria also looked at the cheque in Angie’s hands, and then blinked at Angie. In shock, they stared at each other. Voula and Vassili, aware of a drama, watched silently.

  Angie opened the letter, exquisite embossed paper that was folded into three. She read in silence.

  My Dearest Darling Wife,

  I feel as though I have been waiting for our wedding day all my life. I can never explain exactly how much I love you. This cheque is for you to spend, as you see fit, on our future. If you like, open the editing business we talked about, knowing we will start our married life together with no financial worries. I sold the flat at a premium to Judy Peabody. I tried my best to keep it a secret because I wanted to give you a big surprise on your wedding day; but perhaps you suspected?

  I have also sold the Porsche Boxter, but this money will be used to do up Poppy’s house exactly the way you (and Poppy) want it.

  I love you so very much, Angie, you are my life.

  Your devoted husband, Nick, XXX

  Maria poked a crooked finger at the kisses and said, ‘What does it say?’

  Angie translated, tears tripping her before she got halfway.

  ‘Voula, raki!’ Maria said. Vassili nodded. Voula scuttled. ‘You’d better call him right away,’ Maria said.

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Angie said. ‘I gave my ring to the woman I thought he’d fallen in love with.’

  Maria threw her head back and laughed. ‘That’s the funniest thing! Then you’d better call her right away then.’

  Angie felt sick. He’d sold his flat and his precious Porsche Boxster for her and she couldn’t trust him for five minutes. Shame on her. She phoned the flat, hoping Judy was there and that she hadn’t had the number changed.

  Judy wasn’t home. Nick might never forgive her. He was probably cancelling the cheque right now. She called an old friend at Whitekings and got Judy’s office number.

  Judy picked up. Angie’s heart was racing.

  ‘I thought you and Nick were having an affair,’ Angie blurted out.

  ‘Is that his fiancée?’

  ‘Yes: Angie. I thought you –’

  ‘No such luck, Angie. It would have been nice, yes, but he wasn’t having any of it. He’d rather lose his job, sell his flat, and stay with you.’ She snorted. ‘I take it you want the ring back?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Look, Angie, I know we haven’t been bosom buddies, but I want you to know: it wasn’t me that fired Nick.’

  Fired Nick? Then she saw it all. Taking the time off to decorate her mother’s house. His recent attention to the Guardian appointments page. His sudden interest in their old idea, to start their own writing and editing service. ‘Who fired him then?’ Angie asked.

  ‘The MD himself. We had a board meeting, first of last month. Nick simply didn’t turn up, didn’t call in, and his phone was off. When he said he couldn’t attend the next meeting either, the MD put him on the redundancy list.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Nick was alone with my mother when she had a heart attack, Judy. His quick action saved her life. He picked her up and took her to hospital. They make you turn your phone off in cardiology.’

  ‘I understand. I’m sorry. How is she now?’

  ‘On the mend, but if Nick hadn’t been so quick thinking, there might have been a less satisfactory scenario. He stayed with her until I arrived back from Crete that night.’

  ‘I see. You can collect the ring from my flat at the weekend.’

  ‘I can’t, I’m in Crete. Nick and I were planning to get married here on Saturday.’

  ‘Unfortunate coincidence. That would explain his unavailability for the MD’s next meeting, on Friday. I’ll make sure you get the ring back.’

  ‘Uhm, does he know about it? I um . . .’

  ‘Haven’t seen or spoken to him since you gave me the ring. I won’t say a word.’

  ‘Oh, um, yes, thank you.’

  Angie ended the call, sighed, re-composed herself and said, ‘It looks like the wedding’s back on. I made a stupid mistake.’

  *

  The next day, Angie encouraged Maria to continue with her story, still eager to learn why Poppy had left Crete. Close to reaching the end of her quest, Angie guessed she was about to understand everything.

  ‘Please tell me about my mother’s early life, Yiayá.’

  Maria chuckled. ‘Calliope was a darling, chubby as a cherub and always laughing,’ she said. ‘Terribly noisy, constantly singing, or shouting, or squealing! How many times did I tell her, “Young Ladies don’t shout”? She remembered for less than a minute. Occasionally she’d shout back at me, “But Mama, I don’t want to be a Young Lady. I want to be a Big Boy, like Matthia.” He was her hero. Sometimes, if she woke before him, she would put on his clothes and shoes. She’d clomp about the house and tell us she was a boy and her name was Matthia. She had us in stitches with her antics.’

  Pleasure flushed Maria’s cheeks. ‘Poppy hugged everyone she met. Her favourite place was in Vassili’s lap. She would scramble up there with no regard as to where she dug her elbows and heels. I often saw him wince and draw his knees up, his eyes watering.’ Maria chuckled. ‘Poppy would fling her arms around his neck and yell, “I love you, Daddy!” before planting great slobbery kisses all over his face. Vassili adored her.’ She glanced over to his chair. ‘He still does.’

  Angie found herself grinning, but her smile softened when she realised how much Vassili must miss his daughter.

  Maria said, ‘I returned to teaching after the war. We had forty-five local students aged between six and eleven. School started at 8a.m. and lasted for four hours.

  ‘I had a big playpen for Calliope. It was a huge, open-topped, wooden crate set under the big olive tree. I would dump her in it with a bottle, toys, and her favourite blanket. All Vassili had to do was to keep an eye on her while he worked in the garden.

  ‘One morning, I remember it so clearly, the year was 1953. We had just started teaching English in our Greek schools. I was attempting to give a group of ten-year-olds their first lesson in a language I barely knew myself, when a terrible thumping hammered on the classroom door. I looked through the glass at the top, but saw nobody. When I opened up, to investigate further, three-year-old Calliope rode straight into the classroom on her little tricycle and said, “I need to start school now, Mama! Where shall I sit?” My students thought it hilarious. She was a bossy little madam. Happy days, Angelika, although we had civil war. Our crops were bountiful. We were together, healthy, and life seemed harmonious.’

  Maria recounted more tales of Poppy, and Angie realised her mother was a character.

  ‘How pleased I was to have my little girl,’ Maria said. ‘She came like a blessing, absorbed our happiness, multiplied it tenfold, and then gave it right back. Whatever our difficulties, we found it impossible to be miserable with Poppy around.’

  Angie imagined her mother as a newborn, held precious by Yiayá. Life seemed to have improved immensely for them all, after the ravages of war and the tragedies they suffered. She stood and drew the lace curtain back. Above the trees and rooftops of the lower village, the church bell tower marked the spot where she would be married in two days’ time.

  Captivated by Maria’s stories, Angie realised that she still didn’t know why her mother had left Crete.

  She checked online and saw Poppy and Nick’s plane had landed. Soon, the family would be reunited. She gave herself a mental pat on the back. The struggle for unification had been tough at times, but worth it. She willed Nick to hurry, longing to b
e in his arms, and she couldn’t wait to see Poppy and Maria embrace.

  The old woman smiled.

  Angie smiled back. ‘I’m so excited, Yiayá. It’s going to be wonderful.’

  *

  Poppy glanced around the arrivals area of Heraklion airport, her eyes jumping from the WC sign, to the café, to a row of empty seats.

  ‘Do you need the loo?’ Nick said.

  She shook her head, unsure what she wanted.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Nick asked.

  Poppy lifted and dropped her shoulders in a shrug. So many lost years, she thought. Who would have believed her return to the island? But when she left Crete, she didn’t have a daughter whose happiness was paramount. If her heart packed up, she had to leave this world satisfied she had done everything possible for Angelika’s future. Stavro had better be right. She hoped enough time had passed since their troubles.

  Nick stood in the car hire queue after depositing her and the suitcases under the clock. As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned and beamed. Poppy had taken to him from the first moment they’d met. She smiled back.

  The airport had changed beyond recognition. Poppy remembered the old aerodrome, stifling heat and dust that had itched her nose and eyes. A row of temporary buildings had consisted of nothing more than white canvas tents. She recalled the cement skeleton of a new construction, possibly the modern arrivals lounge she sat in now, with its marble floor and modular seating.

  Tired, Poppy allowed her lids to slide down. She tilted her face to enjoy the cooling draught from an air-con grille above. Her thoughts slipped back four decades. Recollections of terror filled her head. The last time she passed through Heraklion airport she was fleeing for her life.

  The junta officers were sure to administer the worst possible torture before executing her. They would force her to admit she had killed one of their men. Her eyes flew open . . . but she could not stop the ghastly images: the memory of her last shocking hour in Crete. In Amiras, people were bound to remember why she left . . . even though her own mind blocked most of the details.