Sophie thought of the Cabinet War Rooms in London that she had visited on a school trip. The day the war ended, all the personnel based there had simply left. Got up, walked out, and never touched anything again, for years and years. It had struck her as quite extraordinary. Half-finished documents still stood proud in typewriters; dishevelled bedding lay rumpled on camp beds. One operative had left his sugar ration, wrapped in paper, in his desk drawer: three more lumps to last the week. Once the horror was over, perhaps the instinct was never to go near it again.
Darko was still pondering theories. ‘And as for keeping them – there could be half a dozen reasons. Maybe she never got round to doing anything with them – just shoved them in the box and forgot about them. But I think it would be hard to throw such things away – they would be full of memories, apart from anything else.’
‘But memories of what?’ asked Sophie, softly. ‘Of his release and their subsequent happy life together? Or of tragedy?’
Darko shrugged. ‘We’ll have to read the rest of them and hope that they reveal the full truth – and a happy ending. If not –’
Sophie was glad he stopped there, without articulating the worst that could have happened to Dragan. She wanted Mira’s story to end well. Matt was dead and so her future would be forever blighted – but perhaps Mira and Dragan, and their unborn child, would have a better outcome.
She bid farewell to Darko, promising to be in touch soon about the next letter. She decided to walk home, even though it was late, dark, and cold. The revelations of the letter made her crave the silence of the bay and the calm of the diamond sky above. Her mind was befuddled, her emotions frayed.
As she walked, she thought of the pregnant Mira, gazing out over the still, black water, waiting for news of her husband – news that might never come.
***
The short February days continued to pass. During daylight hours, Sophie and Frank worked on the house. He had dug up the entire ground floor, with the dubious benefit of her help, lifting the huge, thick, ancient stones and carefully honing and cleaning them, ready to re-lay. The downstairs plumbing and electrics were almost finished, too.
When dusk came on and it was too dark to continue, they would down tools. Frank usually went out to sit in one of the few bars along the bay front that stayed open in the winter and exchange small talk and football banter with the other men, or to play cards and drink rakija with Petar and his cronies. Occasionally, he went into Kotor, or even to Budva.
Sophie never joined him. She did not want conviviality or conversation – not that she could participate anyway. Frank was fairly fluent at speaking the local language, even though he couldn’t read or write it in either alphabet, but she was still stuck at ‘hello’, ‘goodbye’ and ‘thank you.’ She had acquired a copy of Total Serbian, and it sat by her bed, patiently awaiting her attention. Just the sight of the promise on the cover that it contained everything she needed to attain fluency terrified her. The book remained unopened.
Instead, she downloaded novel after novel onto her Kindle and in the evenings read voraciously, curled up on the beanbag in front of the log fire. On her phone, she also read and reread the translated letter from Mira that Darko had emailed to her, studying it obsessively, as if immersion in this unknown woman’s torment and distress would lessen her own. She did nothing about contacting Darko to translate more letters. For the grief had come back anew, and with it the apathy and depression that prevented proactivity of any kind.
She was not alone – she had Frank, and her fisherman, both of whom she saw every day – but still loneliness pervaded her soul. She avoided smiley Sandra, lacking the words in any language to explain her feelings, and believing that Sandra might mistake her lack of progress in learning Montenegrin as arrogance. Frequently, she felt close to the abyss, knew that if she once fell in, she would never climb out again. She was on a spiral of grief, but whether she was going up or down the spiral she did not know.
One evening, the house deserted as usual, she went downstairs to fill a hot water bottle to take to bed. Frank had almost completed the fitting of the new kitchen and the kettle was kept down there now. On the way back up, she tripped on the bottom tread where the board was still unrepaired. Lying on the floor at the bottom of the staircase, lacking the will to get up, she ground her fists into the stones and wept in anger and despair. Why hadn’t he fixed the bloody stairs? she yowled inwardly. What use was he if he left death traps around the house?
But the anger wasn’t for Frank or for anyone living and soon she was consumed with remorse, and the tears she cried were those of contrition. How could she take out her agony on innocent, endearing Frank, when all he had ever done was try to help? She knew that her vindictiveness came from a bad place, a place of self-pity and lack of resourcefulness, as she should be able to find it in herself to be a better person than this.
Though she had thought that the phase of deepest grief had passed, it clearly hadn’t. Now it was here again, in full, unexpiated force, she had no prophylaxis against it. All barriers were down, all defences spent. A vast emptiness stretched before her, unfathomable and insurmountable.
She crawled upstairs to bed and stayed there, entirely undisturbed, for two days.
Chapter 12
On the third day, Sophie woke early, disturbed by bright sunlight creeping across the silent room. She had not been closing the shutters at night during winter, when it was dark at bedtime and in the morning. Getting up, her legs were shaky, unused to bearing her weight. She went to the window. Opening it, she was greeted by a burst of sunshine and a waft of warm air.
The vegetation on the mountains across the bay seemed to have burst forth overnight so that they rose up like a blown jade-green wave, reflecting the sparkling light. On the pier opposite the house, her fisherman was out already. His beard glowed white in the light of a sun that held heat once more. He had taken his hat off and the rays glanced off his bald pate. Sophie had never known him hatless before and she chuckled to see him; perched on his bollard, he now looked more like a garden gnome than Father Christmas.
Sophie unlocked the back door’s stubborn bolt and went outside. She hadn’t been into the garden for months. Climbing to the top terrace, she could already discern the scent of orange blossom and early jasmine billowing fragrantly on the breeze, sweet as fresh laundry and subtle as a sigh. Beyond the rooftops, the sea that had been darkly glacial and unwelcoming for so long was suddenly bright and cheerful, its surface rippling joyously.
Spring was here at last.
Sophie stood, arms stretched out wide, absorbing the warmth, drinking in the fresh smell of the bay, the salt water and clean air. Inside herself she felt a stirring, as if something were waking up, accompanied by a gentle tickling against her cheek. Was it the wind? She put her hand up and touched her face.
She had a strange feeling of Matt being there beside her, but just passing by like a fleeting visitor. She looked around. There was no one there. She was completely alone in the lush, overgrown garden. She turned again, staring intently. Was it Tolstoy who had behaved like this, jumping around as quickly as he could to catch things – trees, buildings, people – not existing if he couldn’t see them? She was sure she had read that somewhere.
But in her case, she had not been doubting her own existence but instead sensing Matt’s, some presence of his that felt completely natural, uneventful even. And though she looked, she had not expected to discern anything, had not envisaged a translucent white phantom, a spectre, or a spirit. She just knew he had been there, telling her by some unseen and unheard communication from beyond the grave, that she must be strong, that she must learn to live without him.
In town that day, she called in on Darko. He seemed pleased to see her.
‘It’s been a long time, Sophie. I … I thought about contacting you but –’ He stopped, abruptly.
‘I’m sorry.’ She apologized but gave no explanation for her absence.
‘Oh yes,’ she replied. The sun was streaming through the window, through which one of Kotor’s numerous church towers could be seen, its clock about to ring midday. ‘If you don’t mind – there are six in total.’
‘We could have dinner this time?’ he suggested. ‘It would give us more time to talk.’
The idea of going out for a meal was a novel and appealing one after so long a break from any such activity. Sophie knew Darko would try to pay for her and also knew that wages here were low. She couldn’t allow him to work for her for free and also buy her dinner.
‘I would love that,’ she agreed, ‘but only if we go Dutch.’
The silence that greeted her remark, however, filled her with horror. Had she insulted him?
‘I’m not sure what that means.’ Darko’s voice was hesitant.
Sophie laughed with relief that he hadn’t taken it the wrong way as she had feared, merely didn’t understand her idiosyncratic language. ‘My fault. Your English is so good I assume you understand everything. It means we each pay half.’
‘Go Dutch,’ repeated Darko, slowly. ‘OK, so I learnt something today already, and it’s only twelve o’clock!’
Dead on cue, the chimes from the church clock rang out.
It wasn’t until she’d clattered down the stone stairs and out into the sunshine that Sophie realized the date they’d settled on was her birthday. She would be thirty-three.
‘I’m not coming home for it, Mum,’ she said to Helena, taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi to make a FaceTime call. She had been doing everything she could to avoid thinking about her birthday; her mother would not stop talking about it and her disappointment was evident in both expression and tone of voice.
‘I’m just ignoring it this year, Mum. Please allow me that.’ Sophie fought to keep the exasperation out of her voice. ‘I’m not suicidal, I’m not going to do anything stupid – I just don’t want to come home, or celebrate in any way.’
‘I thought after Christmas, after your refusal to participate in that –’ Helena’s voice wavered and she paused to regain control. ‘How long is this going to go on for, Sophie? Surely you should be feeling better by now?’
Sophie bit her lip and looked away for a moment. Was there a time frame for grief? Was she being selfish and indulgent in needing longer than others deemed necessary?
‘You can’t turn thirty-three all on your own!’ Helena’s words were almost a wail.
Sophie’s guilt was profound but she was obdurate. ‘I’m not completely high and dry,’ she retaliated. ‘I know people here now,’ she added, vaguely.
She didn’t mention the appointment with Darko. It was probably better that her mother genuinely believed her to be alone than to make her feel that there were people she’d rather be with than her own flesh and blood. And it wasn’t even a case of preference; it wasn’t that she didn’t want to be with her mother. It was simply that, over here, no one knew Matt, no one had ever met him, so no one enquired about him or her state of mind without him. Here, she had never been anything other than Sophie. In England, for as long as anyone could remember, she had only ever been Sophie and Matt.
‘I’ll be absolutely fine,’ she concluded, wanting the conversation over. ‘After all, I’ve got Frank to keep me company.’
Helena’s weighty silence and pursed lips made it obvious what she thought about that.
The signal began to falter and the connection to come and go and Sophie used that as an excuse the end the conversation.
***
Having thought that the subject of her birthday was safely put to bed, later that day she heard her phone ring. It seemed that the arrival of the spring breezes was bringing another breath of fresh air – it was Anna and she was coming to stay.
‘I don’t think we’ll make it for the nineteenth,’ explained Anna, ‘so we’ll have to do cake and candles when we do get there. You don’t mind, do you?’
Sophie frowned, pleased that Anna couldn’t see her. She just wanted everyone to forget about it.
‘No problem,’ she replied dismissively. ‘But – why actually are you coming right now? I mean, the weather’s better than it was, but it’s not beach season yet.’
Anna paused. ‘Oh, Sophie,’ she said, her voice sunk to a near whisper. ‘After all these years, the house is finally being repossessed. It’s definite this time.’
Sophie thought of the nights she had spent in the crumbling, chaotic building and couldn’t help thinking, Thank goodness for that. But then she checked herself – it was Anna’s home, and losing it would be as painful for her as letting go of the flat had been for Sophie. More so, probably, given that Sophie had not even lived in her flat for three years whereas Anna had been in that house for substantially longer.
‘I don’t have anywhere else to go right now and I need to focus on my art,’ declaimed Anna loftily, her mood seeming to suddenly change as it was so often wont to do. ‘So I’m coming to Montenegro.’
‘Fabulous!’ Sophie switched to upbeat mode to match Anna. ‘I’m so excited. When exactly will you be here?’
Mentally, she was calculating the things she’d need to get to make a room suitable for Anna and Tomasz – bed (they would share a double?), highchair (did Tomasz still need one?), baby bath as the house only had a shower (would Tomasz still fit in one?). At least Frank had completed the rewiring so Tomasz might be spared death by electrocution; but there were numerous other hazards – the still-unmended stair tread, the dubious floorboards on the second floor. Recently a neighbour had found a venomous nose-horned viper in their garden, Frank had told her –
‘Next week,’ replied Anna.
‘Next week?’ shrieked Sophie. ‘Blimey.’ Words failed her as she ran back over the same thoughts as previously, but at triple speed. How could she possibly get it all done?
‘I’ve got to get off now. I’m out of time.’ Anna completely ignored Sophie’s exclamation. ‘We’re flying to Dubrovnik; can you meet us at the airport?’
Sophie searched for a pen and paper and wrote down the details Anna gave her.
‘Sorry again that we won’t make it for your birthday,’ said Anna, once the arrangements for their arrival were made. ‘But we’ll celebrate when we get there, yes?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Sophie, feeling a bit faint. It would be wonderful to have her best friend and godson here. But at the same time, she had got so used to her own company, and the unobtrusive presence of Frank. Anna and Tomasz would change everything and she found change hard to cope with these days.
‘Bye,’ called Anna. ‘And by the way, Soph, I’m bringing all my canvases – I’ve booked extra baggage on the plane but we’ll need a van to pick us up. OK?’
Before Sophie could think of an answer, Anna had hung up and the line was dead, her words echoing in Sophie’s ears. She shook her head, smiling to herself despite the presumption of Anna’s request. Perhaps it would be good for her to have someone to stir her up, someone who simply would not allow her to wallow in gloom and despondency.
Mixed feelings notwithstanding, the prospect of Anna’s imminent arrival spurred Sophie to action. She cleaned and prepared the large room next to hers on the first floor and ordered another bed from the same shop that Frank’s had come from, plus a chest of drawers and a dressing table. Frank pitched in to help, dutifully getting out his drill and assembling the flat-pack furniture, scrubbing the floor and whitewashing the walls.
Once everything was done, the room was fresh and bright, the sunlight dancing through the window as if eagerly awaiting its new occupants. Sophie picked a bunch of the dark blue, almost purple irises that had appeared in great clumps throughout the garden and put them in a jam jar on the windowsill, then spread a throw she’d found in the market over the bed that was an almost identical shade. She’d have to replenish the flowers before Anna’s arriv
al – but she was content to see that the room was perfect.
A few days later, her birthday brought with it a perfect spring evening. The water of the bay sparkled and the plants and flowers seemed to grow and flourish before her very eyes. White clouds scudded across a blue sky and even the wind was refulgent, bringing with it the creamy sweet scent of magnolia flowers. Arriving in Kotor as the sun slipped, slowly and gradually, up the jagged face of the rocky mountains, it was as if the whole place were held spellbound, bathed in mellow luminescence.
Darko, waiting by the main entrance gate, was in a reflective mood. ‘Here in Montenegro we have a saying,’ he said, after greeting Sophie and listening to her gushing about the beauty of the day. ‘God used six days to make the earth and the seventh to make the Bay of Kotor.’
‘That’s the sort of hyperbole that one would normally dismiss in a cynical and disparaging way,’ Sophie said with a laugh. ‘But here – it could almost be true.’
She was so buoyed up by the sense of hopeful expectation that filled the spring air that she considered telling Darko it was her birthday. But then she decided not to. It was irrelevant, and all she really wanted to talk about were Mira and Dragan and what news of them the next letter would bear. In the restaurant, they quickly made their order and then Sophie handed over the document.
‘Dearest Dragan,’
Darko began, in the mellifluous, considered tone that had already become familiar.
‘I am writing to you, again, as I do every week, but still without any real hope that you are receiving my letters. I write because I must, and because I don’t know what else to do.
‘It is early summer now, lipanj, the month we call “flowers” – and everywhere blooms the catmint in waves of billowing blue, interspersed with the tall stems of pink hollyhocks. We are fast approaching the longest day – but each day without you is long, longer than long. And for you – I imagine the time must stretch away before you like a chasm as wide and deep as the Tara river canyon.’
Under an Amber Sky Page 10