Island of Secrets
Page 41
When Angie caught sight of Poppy again, she was struggling with a huge rusted key in the lock of a faded dusty-rose-pink house. The place looked as though it hadn’t been lived in for many decades. Poppy slipped inside and moments later, Angie recognised the flicker of candle light. She hesitated, wanting to respect her mother’s privacy, but then she heard a heart-wrenching howl. Such pain. Angie couldn’t stand it. She rushed through the door.
Angie found herself in one large room with a stone floor. Kitchen, dining table, bed and sofa, all thick with dust, were arranged around the walls. Poppy sat on the edge of the bed, hugging her belly and crying.
Angie guessed this was where she had given birth, and held her dying babies. Her heart went to her mother, because one thing Angie was sure of, Poppy was absolutely her mother in every sense of the word.
‘Mam! Mam, don’t cry. What’s the matter?’ she said, slipping her arm around Poppy and holding her close.
‘I don’t want to go back,’ she cried. ‘I can’t, not after all this. The man I love is here in Amiras. It’s been so long. My parents. My loving brothers. Angelika, it will break my heart to be parted from any of them, or you either. And now I’m torn between all that I’ve missed, and you, my precious girl.’
‘What do you mean, Mam?’
‘I don’t want to leave Yeorgo, and my friends and family, Angelica. But I love you more than anything. How can I remain here when you’re returning to London? Will you stay? Please. Come and live here in Crete, please!’
Angie blew her cheeks out. ‘I can’t, Mam. England is my home. But you must remain in Amiras. It’s your birthplace, your home. One thing Yiayá taught me; we women are strong enough to do whatever we want.’ She gave her mother a hug. ‘It took a little effort to get you here, Mam; and you were extremely brave to come. So, stay. Be happy. See the stars again.’
Poppy gazed at Angie and nodded.
‘Anyway,’ Angie continued. ‘Think about it, you’re less than a four hour flight away, and we can call one another every Sunday.’ She smiled and kissed Poppy’s cheek. ‘I’d feel better if you were with my father and my grandparents. And we’ll visit often. But I must warn you: you’ll have to come back to London next March.’
‘March . . . why?’
‘Because I want you with me when your grandchild is born, Mam.’
EPILOGUE
London, Nine Months Later.
ANGIE RAN HER HAND over the soft down on her baby’s head and watched the alabaster eyelids flicker. She wondered what her baby girl could be dreaming about. She lifted baby Maria from her crib and smiled at the infant. Although only six weeks old, it was plain to see Maria had the regal beauty of the Kondulakis women.
Angie slipped her nursing bra open and held the baby to her breast. The infant latched on and suckled. Breastfeeding hadn’t been easy. Angie had struggled through the first week, almost giving up. But now, she found feeding times were the most intimate and rewarding moments of her day. With her daughter snuggled to her bosom, Angie padded into the kitchen in her dressing gown and slippers. She filled the kettle, and then sat and enjoyed watching her baby girl. Life, she decided, could not be more perfect.
Once Maria was changed and settled, Angie switched on her laptop to see which new manuscripts looked promising. She loved working from home, and so did Nick. After fifteen years in publishing, they had opened their own literary agency and editing service. They couldn’t be happier.
She usually woke Nick with a coffee at eight, and then he took over as househusband, leaving Angie to work in her office, Poppy’s old bedroom.
While filling the coffee machine, she heard the jangle of a Skype call. Who could this be at seven in the morning? When her mother’s avatar popped onto the screen, Angie remembered Crete was two hours ahead.
Poppy had returned to Crete after baby Maria’s birth just in time to see her father one last time.
Papoú had died of simple heart failure, sitting next to Poppy at the cracked marble table, with a glass of raki in front of him. Poppy had taken a small framed photo of Angie and baby Maria for her parents, and Papoú had stood it on the outside table. He clattered his bastouni against the marble and said, ‘Long life, Angelika and baby Maria!’ Everyone banged their raki glasses down and then gulped the clear liquid.
With his family having a good time around him, and his worry beads hanging slack from his fingers – nobody knew the exact time he had left the party. He died smiling mischievously, on a star filled night; Demitri and Yeorgo’s music in his ears, and his grandchildren dancing under the big olive tree.
Angie was glad Poppy had returned in time. She ran her fingers through sleep tousled hair, and then clicked on answer, smiling in anticipation of seeing her dear mother.
‘Hi Mam, how are you and Dad . . .?’ Angie’s smile fell when the distraught look on her mother’s face registered.
‘I’m sorry, Angelika . . .’ Poppy sobbed, her red-rimmed eyes blinking back tears.
‘Yiayá?’ Angie whispered.
Poppy nodded. ‘We guessed she wouldn’t last long after your grandfather’s heart failure, but it’s still a shock.’
Angie gulped, struggling to speak. ‘I’m so sorry. What happened, Mam?’
‘We had my father’s thirty-day memorial yesterday. Stavro came from Athens and we spent the time together. Mama said to say thank you. Your wedding re-united the family. She also said, “Tell Angelika not to forget her promise. She is the guardian of my story; she mustn’t let it fade away.” You were in her thoughts right to the end, koritsie. You made her very happy naming the baby after her.’
Poppy sniffed hard, fighting her emotions before she could continue. ‘Mama went to bed at eight o’clock last night and passed away in her sleep. She’s smiling, like Papoú, Angelika, I’ve never seen her as relaxed and peaceful. I’m waiting for Papas Christos.’ Poppy dropped her head into her hands. Angie found herself crying too, wanting to say comforting words to her mother, but finding herself overwhelmed by grief.
Poppy moved out of the way and Yeorgo took her place.
‘Hi, Dad.’ Her father’s face blurred through her tears.
‘Hello, koritsie. Sorry for this news, but your mother wanted to tell you herself. Everyone sends love and blessings for the baby. The priest’s just arrived. Are you okay?’
Unable to speak, Angie nodded, then managed to say, ‘Thank you, Dad. Will you call me later?’
‘Of course I will, Angelika. Try not to be too upset. It had to happen and Mama wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. She had spent the afternoon with Young Mattie, helping him with a school project. Survival skills, believe it or not.’
Angie closed her laptop and sat in the silence of the kitchen, remembering her first trip to Crete. How nervous she was at the prospect of meeting her grandmother, the beautiful, warm-hearted, and brave Maria. Yiayá was a teacher in the truest sense of the word. Angie had learned so much from her, not just about making coffee from acorns, but about the value of life, and love, and above all; trust, respect, and sacrifice.
*
Angie placed her mug of tea next to the keyboard, opened a Word document, set the font to Times New Roman – double spaced, and typed:
Maria Kondulakis and the Holocaust of Amiras.
At six o’clock in the morning, on the fourteenth of September nineteen forty-three, hunger woke me. In the dark, I listened to the breathing of my boys, Stavro and Matthia, beside me. Would my husband, Vassili, at war in Albania, remember his oldest son’s name-day today? Should I cook the last of the beans to celebrate the feast of The Holy Cross, Saint Stavro, or should I plant them? This war couldn’t last forever. I ought to plant them but the thought of boiled beans flavoured with wild greens, herbs, olive oil and a splash of lemon juice made my belly rumble.
Baby Petro stirred in his little hammock above me.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patricia Wilson lived in the village of Amiras in Cre
te where the book is set. She was inspired to write when she unearthed a machine gun in her garden – one used in the events that unfolded in September 1943 – and much of the novel is based on real stories told to her by the oldest women of Amiras. Women who’ve never spoken of their experiences before. Patricia still spends much of her time in Greece. This is her debut novel.
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Zaffre Publishing
This ebook edition published in 2017 by
Zaffre Publishing
80-81 Wimpole St, London, W1G 9RE
www.zaffrebooks.co.uk
Copyright © Patricia Wilson, 2017
The moral right of Patricia Wilson to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-7857-6279-6
This ebook was produced by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd
Zaffre Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre, a Bonnier Publishing company
www.bonnierzaffre.co.uk
www.bonnierpublishing.co.uk