Under an Amber Sky

by Rose Alexander

  Sophie jumped up beside him. ‘All right then. They’re inside.’

  She led him to the storage area at the back of the house where row upon row of geranium plants languished in trays, wilting. Carrying one each, with trowels balanced on top, they took them to the troughs.

  ‘They’ll look so pretty, won’t they,’ said Sophie admiringly, fingering the purple-pink blooms of one plant. ‘And they’ll flower almost year-round in this climate.’

  Ton raised an eyebrow and frowned. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked, a cynical edge to his voice.

  ‘The garden centre –’ Sophie explained, and then stopped, clocking Ton’s expression.

  ‘One born every minute, as they say …’ Ton shook his head and sighed woefully.

  Sophie mock-punched him. ‘OK! So they saw me coming. But anyway, whilst they are flowering, whenever that might be, they’ll look pretty.’

  For a few minutes they concentrated on emptying the bags of compost into the troughs and smoothing it around.

  Ton laid some of the pots on top, working out the best planting position and then, happy with the arrangement, began to put them into the soil. ‘How’s Darko these days?’ he asked casually, trowel in hand.

  Sophie carefully extracted a plant from a pot. ‘In love.’

  She wondered how the next few geraniums Ton planted would ever recover from the shock of being thrown into the soil with the force of a pneumatic drill.

  ‘Some friends came out from the UK, and Darko and Katie got it together,’ she continued, seemingly intent on her planting but regarding Ton carefully from under her eyelashes.

  ‘Right.’ The next geranium was lifted lovingly out of its pot, as if it were a precious piece of porcelain. ‘And – are you OK with that?’

  ‘Me?’ Sophie’s response was more of a shriek than an answer. ‘Why would it matter to me?’ She was flustered and it was making her speak unthinkingly. ‘Sorry, let me rephrase that – of course I care deeply for Darko. I want nothing more than for him to be happy, and it seems that Katie does that job very nicely.’

  Ton contemplated a plant’s flower buds, hints of fuchsia pink beginning to peep through the pale green wrapping. ‘I thought … aren’t – weren’t you and him involved? You went away for the weekend together and out to dinner and stuff – I assumed there was something going on.’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘You assumed wrong.’ She fingered the flower that was the object of his studied attention. ‘That’s going to be a very pretty colour – and unusual.’

  Ton shrugged, seeming disinterested in issues of hue and shade.

  ‘You know what they say,’ continued Sophie, her tone even. ‘Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups.’

  Ton planted the geranium. ‘It seems so.’

  They worked on in silence.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ The question came from nowhere, hurled at Sophie like a curveball.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask?’ she retorted, boomeranging his accusation back at him.

  The wash from a large boat, far out in the centre of the bay, sent waves splashing against the shore.

  ‘So how are they going to work it out? Katie and Darko?’

  Sophie wasn’t sure if this was a deliberate changing of the subject or a natural continuation of the conversation. She was too confused to work it out.

  Ton reached for another plant and went on, ‘Long-distance relationships are never easy, are they?’

  I wouldn’t know, Sophie thought to respond. I’ve had no experience of one. I more or less married the boy next door and was never apart from him – until now. But you – who have you loved from afar?

  ‘I don’t know exactly,’ she replied instead, choosing a white geranium to go next to her purplish one. ‘But Katie’s a potter so she could transfer her business out here. I think she quite fancies the idea. She could have her own studio; she could run creative holidays – Darko’s parents’ place on Lustica is apparently huge and gorgeous and he’s an only child so his folks have given him the run of it all. She’d have to work out the logistics of importing and exporting – but I’m sure that’s surmountable.’

  ‘Anything’s surmountable for love.’

  Sophie paused, her trowel in mid-air. She looked at the water of the bay, restored to calm with the ship’s passing. ‘Yes.’

  Matt and she had believed just that, and had had faith that despite meeting so young they had a love that could last a lifetime. Just a shame they hadn’t been able to put it to the test. She turned back to Ton.

  ‘Ton, there’s never been anyone in my life apart from Matt. I’m a one-man girl. I have never so much as kissed anyone else.’ Her smile was as bittersweet as her memories. ‘Not even Darko. Just so you know.’ It was a relief to say the words so unequivocally, to get it off her chest. She should have made it clear long ago. ‘No one could be more overjoyed about him and Katie than me. But if I’m honest – of course I’m jealous. He’s got what I had, and I envy that.’

  Ton nodded. A sudden breeze sent salt-spray flying.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he said.

  Sophie felt a clenching in her heart. The realization flashed through her mind: he’s met someone. That’s what this whole conversation has been leading up to. Instantly, she dismissed it. Who did she think she was? His keeper? She didn’t own him and his love life was nothing to do with her.

  ‘That sounds intriguing.’ Her voice was calm, despite the shaking of her hands. She planted another geranium, any old how, breaking off one of the sappy flowering heads and crushing the leaves.

  ‘I’ve found her.’

  Oh good God, he’s found her. He must mean love, the love of his life. What else?

  ‘I’ve found Jelena.’

  ‘Who’s Jelena?’ Sophie couldn’t think straight. She didn’t know anyone called Jelena.

  ‘The baby in the letter – Mira’s little girl. Although not so little any more, obviously. She’s seventy-four and living in Belgrade.’

  ‘Jelena Kovac?’ Sophie stared at Ton, open-mouthed in astonishment. ‘What the actual …? How on earth did you do that?’

  ‘Internet. Contacts. Few tip-offs Frank gave me, friends of his in Belgrade. I did some digging around.’ Ton smiled, slow and sure. ‘You can’t keep a newshound down.’

  ‘Wow.’ Sophie couldn’t think of anything coherent to say.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Go?’ She must sound like an idiot.

  ‘There’s a train – the Blue Train – Tito’s favourite. A Balkan version of the Orient Express,’ continued Ton, ignoring her inarticulacy. ‘But I was thinking – it’s summer; the weather is amazing. We could go on the bike.’

  All the way to Belgrade. On the bike with Ton. Sophie’s legs went weak.

  ‘We’ll have to get you some proper leathers for such a long journey, but there’s a place in Budva that has all the clobber.’

  Never in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined herself on a motorbike magical mystery tour, traversing countries, crossing borders. Sailing past rivers and lakes, through forests and meadows, clutching a handsome man around the waist and heading over the mountains.

  She hadn’t heard anything Ton was saying.

  ‘Sorry,’ she apologized, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘It can be done in a day in the car but on the bike it gets quite tiring,’ repeated Ton. ‘So I suggest we make a little holiday of it. Spend a long weekend, a week even, getting there and back. There’s loads to do in Belgrade – it’s really perked up in recent years.’

  Suddenly, she recognized what Ton was doing. Trying to convince her, interpreting her uncommunicativeness as reluctance.

  ‘What do you say?’ he concluded, lamely, seeming to have lost hope.

  Sophie took a deep breath. ‘I say yes.’ A delighted smile spread slowly across her face.

  ‘Is that a definite yes?’

  ‘An unequivocal, definit
e yes.’

  Chapter 27

  Ton handled the motorbike expertly, the twisting and turning roads that led through the mountains melting away behind them, the shimmering tarmac ahead inviting them onwards. Approaching the Tara river canyon, the black pines closed in over the road, tall with two centuries or more of growth. White and yellow saxifrage clung to the rocks like tenacious spiders. Ton took a short diversion to show Sophie the bridge that spanned the gorge and then they sped on, along the grey-white ribbon of road that led to Serbia.

  At Pljevlja, they stopped on Strazica Hill to look at the memorial to the two hundred and fourteen Partisans who were killed in an attack on the Italian-held fortress in December, 1941.

  ‘Just a year before Jelena was born,’ said Sophie, as they stood beneath the tall stone tower and looked out at the fertile plains that spread out all around, fringed as ever by the undulating shapes of distant hills. A river cut through the valley, glistening in the sun.

  ‘They were very brave,’ mused Ton, ‘taking on heavily armed professional soldiers with nothing more than their hunting weapons.’

  ‘I bet Dragan would have taken part,’ replied Sophie, fiercely. She felt so protective of Dragan, so sure he must have been a hero in some capacity or other, although in truth she knew nothing about him except that he had the love, loyalty, and adoration of his wife. She hoped that Jelena would be able to shed light on her father, his personality, his life outside of wartime. She had worked hard to convince herself he had survived, despite her deep misgivings.

  ‘There are countless stories of heroism,’ agreed Ton, as if he had read her mind. ‘In 1944, the Partisan forces were under constant attack from the Germans. Many were wounded and the RAF Special Operations Executive decided the only way to get them out was an airlift.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Yes.’ Ton nodded. ‘The only trouble was that there wasn’t an airstrip.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sophie bit her lip. How did people cope with such seemingly insuperable obstacles? ‘So the plan was scuppered?’

  ‘Far from it.’ Ton swept his arm wide as if to encompass everything around them. ‘Villagers from five local settlements scythed their unripe crops, destroyed their fences, filled their irrigation ditches, and cleared rocks by carrying them away in wooden buckets. Soon, they had their airstrip.’

  Ton sighed and handed Sophie the water bottle. ‘They are such brave, resourceful people. I hope it all works out for them.’

  Sophie looked around her in alarm, as if some new threat might be lurking behind a nearby boulder. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There are people – countries, rulers – who’d like to have control over Kotor, and Bar. Deep water, well-protected ports like that are highly coveted.’

  ‘What people?’

  Ton shook his head. ‘Rival states. Hostile powers.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sophie was dumbstruck. How could she be so ignorant? She knew hardly anything about her adopted country. ‘Let’s hope the current generation has been made in the Dragan mould. And that they’ve got a fair few hunting weapons hidden away somewhere, to bring out when necessary!’

  Ton laughed. ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that.’ He stood up and pulled Sophie to her feet. ‘Come on – let’s get going. Serbia awaits.’

  ***

  They stopped in a small guesthouse in a roadside town halfway to Belgrade. Ton was tired after the journey and so was Sophie. She thought she was used to the fresh air that both invigorated and enervated at the same time. When she had first arrived from London, she had been continually exhausted and not just because of the aftermath of Matt’s death. It had been the fatigue she had always used to experience when they went away to the country or the seaside for the weekend, a weariness that came from a lack of chemicals and exhaust fumes to inhale and an overdose of clean air, daylight and, on really good days, sunshine.

  Now she had all three of these in spades on a daily basis but still the motorbike ride – the wind rushing against her face, the heady feeling of freedom and escape – had intoxicated and overtaken her. Plus, of course, the anticipation of the visit to Jelena, of being able to hand her the letters, of finally finding out what had happened to Dragan.

  Asking if rooms were available, Sophie caught the hastily masked look of surprise the receptionist gave Ton when he said that they needed two. There was no restaurant on site so for dinner they ventured a little way along the street where the woman told them they would find a place that did pizzas and local dishes such as slow-roast pork.

  The next morning, Sophie woke with a fizzing excitement in her belly. In just a few hours, by early afternoon for sure, they would reach the outskirts of Belgrade and their destination.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Ton over the guesthouse’s simple breakfast of coffee, orange juice, and crisp white bread rolls with honey from the next-door neighbour’s hives.

  Sophie thought for a few moments. How to explain the mixture of trepidation and anticipation she was experiencing? ‘On tenterhooks,’ she replied finally, crumbling the crust of her roll between her fingers. ‘I suppose I have so many expectations of Jelena, so many ideas of how she looks and what she will say, that I’m frightened of being disappointed.’

  Ton nodded. ‘So – I guess the best thing to do is get on and get there. Endless speculation about it all is not really going to help.’

  Sophie smiled gratefully. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Let’s go.’

  ***

  As they approached Belgrade, the road flattened out and widened and the signs of a busy capital city became apparent: car showrooms, DIY stores, small factories, and suburban housing estates.

  The directions that Jelena had given to Frank over the phone, and which he had relayed to Ton, proved vague to say the least, and it took an hour of driving around a somewhat soulless residential district before they finally stumbled across Jelena’s house. It was a small, square, squat building in a street of similar abodes, behind which, though some distance away, loomed a concrete Soviet-era tower block, bleak and grey in the bright summer sun.

  Jelena had three sons, the youngest of whom, Pavle, spoke good English and had agreed to be there to translate. It was he who opened the door. Tall and broad, Sophie guessed he was in his mid-thirties. He was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and welcomed her and Ton in with a cautious smile. Sophie sensed a reticence about him and wondered what it was.

  ‘My mother is happy to see you,’ he said in perfect, hardly accented English. Sophie was continually amazed at the competence with which almost everyone she had met spoke a foreign language. She thought about her feeble attempts at speaking Serbian/Montenegrin, the blasted Total Serbian book that had given her nothing but a total sense of her own inadequacy. What was it about the British and languages? Thank goodness for the many immigrant children in big city schools across the UK, bringing their fluency in one, two, even three other tongues to assuage the shame of the rest of us, she reflected to herself.

  Pavle was speaking again and she realized she’d missed half of it and had to ask him to repeat himself.

  ‘She – my mother – has bad health these days,’ he explained, holding them in the entrance hall off which all the doors were shut. ‘She has high blood pressure and a number of other complications.’

  Immediately, Sophie understood his caution, and was touched by his obvious concern for his mother.

  ‘She very much wants to see you but just for you to be aware that she must not get too overexcited or emotional.’

  Sophie frowned sympathetically and nodded her agreement. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, eagerly, anxious to convince Pavle that they would take care of Jelena. ‘We’ll tread carefully. You must tell us if you think it’s too much for her.’

  Pavle smiled graciously. ‘Of course.’

  His faultless manners and considered way of speaking softened the austerity of his figure, which filled the hall and seemed to somehow abso
rb the light.

  He turned to walk onwards, towards the back of the house where he threw open a door and ushered them before him. The room they entered was filled with sunshine from a large picture window that gave a view onto a tiny but immaculate garden in which hollyhocks and buddleia luxuriously bloomed.

  In a chair sat a petite woman with sleek black hair. She was dressed in a linen skirt suit and exuded quiet elegance. She looked much younger than her years.

  Overwhelmed, Sophie couldn’t speak, all words deserting her now that this moment had come. Clamped under her arm she held the wooden box that contained the letters and the watch, and all her many questions were scrambling over each other in her brain, fighting to get out but imprisoned by sudden muteness.

  ‘Lovely to meet you.’ Ton stepped forward, stretching out his hand towards Jelena, taking the initiative as always, coming to Sophie’s rescue.

  ‘Thank you for giving up your time to see us,’ said Sophie, once she had regained her composure and also greeted Jelena. ‘It’s so kind of you. And you too, Pavle,’ she added, turning hastily towards him.

  There was a small, awkward silence. It was as if, confronted with the long-awaited moment, no one knew what to do with it. Sophie looked down at the floor and then, raising her eyes to Jelena’s, took a deep breath and began.

  ‘We –’ She hesitated and glanced towards Ton. Was this the best way to proceed? But it was too late as she’d started now and she couldn’t think of what else to say if not this. ‘We brought you the letters of your mother’s that we – that I found in the house in Prcanj. I’m sure you would like to have them.’

  Jelena smiled sweetly. ‘Thank you.’ She sighed and pointed to an aged black photo album on the table beside her. ‘If you would like to see pictures of her, there are many in there, stretching way back. Perhaps whilst you look through them, I will do the same with the letters.’

  ‘Oh yes, that would be wonderful!’ Sophie was up and out of her chair, reaching for the album, before Jelena had finished speaking.