Icon of Gold

by Teresa Crane

  ‘Sounds like quite a project,’ Adam said.

  ‘It is my home,’ his stepfather said, quietly. ‘It was the home of my father, and his father and of many before him. I do it for us and I do it for them. And I do it properly, in the traditional manner, built as the people of my village have always built. It is a symbol.’

  Cathy turned slowly, drying her hands on a tea towel. Leon looked at her. ‘You’ll come to see it soon?’ he asked. ‘In two months, perhaps three, you will need to decide on the colours you wish.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her tone utterly noncommittal.

  If Leon noticed he said nothing. He leaned back, stretched. ‘Nikos — I go to the shop for a paper. You’d like a ride?’

  ‘Sure.’ Nikos stood, smiled at Cathy. ‘Thank you. That was great.’

  She nodded, smiling.

  Adam watched as father and son donned jackets and hats and left. Cathy tossed him a tea towel. ‘Make yourself useful.’

  He stood up and began to wipe the plates, stacking them on the table. ‘Do I gather you aren’t exactly as enthusiastic about the Greek house as Leon is?’

  She sighed. ‘It’s going to be lovely. I know it is. And the location is utterly beautiful. When I was there last year — when Leon finally brought himself to go back — it was spring. The wild flowers were everywhere. The mountain- sides looked like a garden. There really is a stunning view. And I’ve seen Leon’s plans for the house. It really is going to be very nice.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘You know “but”. But I love it here. But this is my home. My life is here.’

  ‘Your life is with your husband. Isn’t it?’ The words were not entirely unsympathetic.

  She did not answer him directly, but cast a quick, questioning look. ‘Would you want me to go?’

  He did not hesitate. ‘Why not? The world’s getting smaller every day. Time will come when you’re no further from London on a Greek island than buried out here in wildest Suffolk. I honestly don’t know how you can stick it out here anyway. Ma, Leon’s making lots of money. He can give you a good life. He wants to —’

  She turned, studying him, shrewdly. ‘Has Leon been talking to you?’

  His fair skin had flushed just a little. ‘He — did mention it. On the drive from the station.’

  ‘He asked you to persuade me?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He was guarded; he busied himself with the cloth again.

  Anger stirred. ‘It’s my decision, Adam, and I’ll make it.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that.’ The words were so rueful that they brought sudden laughter to them both.

  She sobered quickly, reached to clear the last things from the table. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not just leaving here. I’d be moving to a different culture, living amongst people I don’t know or understand, and who certainly wouldn’t know or understand me. Oh, the ones I’ve met are charming; but then those are Leon’s associates, very different, I suspect, to the inhabitants of a village halfway up a mountain on a Greek island. These people don’t take kindly to outsiders.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought that would bother you? You like being alone.’

  ‘There’s a difference,’ she said quietly, ‘between being alone on your own ground and by your own choice and being alone surrounded by strangers. I should have thought even you could have worked that one out. I don’t speak the language —’

  ‘You could learn.’

  Cathy turned on him. ‘Adam, will you stop it! I’ve told you — it’s my business, no one else’s.’

  ‘Yours and Leon’s I would have thought.’ He was gentle.

  She was perilously close to temper, not least because, in fairness, she knew he was right. ‘It’s certainly none of yours!’

  He shrugged, picked up the plates and opened a cupboard door. Cathy, hastily, slipped under his arm and closed it again. ‘It’s all right. I’ll put them away.’

  ‘Honestly Ma.’ His smile was amused. ‘Don’t you ever tidy up?’

  ‘Not often.’ She was unimpressed. ‘Do you?’

  He studied her face for a moment. Then, ‘Come on, Sandy,’ he said to the dog, who had been watching proceedings interestedly from his chair. ‘Lets go and get some air in our lungs.’ He took a heavy jacket from the back of the door. The dog was down in a bound and at the door, tail wagging, head cocked, bright eyes on Adam’s face. Adam turned back to Cathy. ‘You married Leon, Ma.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘He’s a great bloke. And he works like a Trojan —’

  ‘Don’t tell him that,’ she said, quick and dry. ‘He might try to sell you a horse.’

  ‘Don’t be clever,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean. Leon’s been through a hell of a lot. I just feel he deserves your support, that’s all.’

  She was silent for a long moment. ‘He really has got to you, hasn’t he?’ she asked at last, her eyes puzzled.

  ‘Nope.’ He opened the door and cold air swirled around the warm kitchen. The dog shot out like a bullet from a gun. ‘I just think you should give it some serious consideration, that’s all. Seems to me that most women would jump at the chance.’

  ‘I’m not—!’ she stopped, gritting her teeth.

  ‘All right. I know. You aren’t most women.’

  She was certain that the trace of tolerant weariness he allowed to sound in his voice was deliberate; for an awful moment she feared she might slap him, like the graceless child she sometimes perceived him to be. ‘Don’t you patronise me, Adam Sinclair!’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare, Ma,’ he said, straightfaced. ‘I truly wouldn’t dare.’ The latch clicked softly and precisely behind him as he closed the door.

  She turned to the table, picked up a plate and for a brief and silly second contemplated dropping it on to the unforgiving stone flags. Then, very carefully, she placed it back on the pile. ‘Sorry plate,’ she said. ‘It isn’t your fault.’ She tilted her head back and quietly addressed a crack in the ceiling.

  ‘Bugger it,’ she said conversationally and with what she considered admirable restraint. ‘Bloody bugger it.’

  Chapter Three

  Trouble erupted between Leon and his son as swiftly and unexpectedly as a summer storm can be bred from a clear, warm sky. The first Cathy knew of it was the sound of raised voices in the kitchen as she came in from a Sunday morning stroll through the woods with the dogs. She had delivered Paddy back to his owner and had spent her usual ten minutes humouring the old man’s pessimism about the weather, the state of the country and of life in general. She let herself in through the front door still smiling to herself and stopped, listening, surprised. Nikos’ voice was raised, passionate and angry.

  ‘Germany? Germany? Pa — you’ve been doing business in Germany? You’ve been taking German money? I don’t — I can’t! — believe it!’

  Leon’s deep voice rumbled; Cathy could not make out the words. She took off her coat, and carrying it over her arm pushed open the door of the kitchen. The three men sat, as she had left them, around the kitchen table. She noted, wryly, that the breakfast dishes had simply been cleared into the big sink and left there. As she entered Leon was saying, ‘It’s over, Nikos. Over! You can’t live your life in the past —’ None of the three moved as Cathy pushed open the door. Nikos’ dark face had paled, his lucent eyes were blazing with anger. Adam sat back in his chair, a cigarette held lazily between his fingers, clear blue gaze moving interestedly from father to son and back again.

  Nikos came to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping loudly on the flags of the floor. He leaned forward, facing his father, his weight resting on his hands upon the table. ‘Over? No, Pa! It isn’t over. Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten what they did to us? To our country?’ He paused, almost choked with emotion, ‘Have you forgotten what they did to Mother?’

  This time it was Leon who came to his feet with a roar of anger and a torrent of furious Greek. Adam leaned forward and put his chin on his fist, watching, his
face inscrutable. Nikos, in face of his father’s fury, blanched further, but held his ground, replying swiftly and shortly in the same language, his face defiant. Leon reached a massive hand across the table and caught his son by the shirt front, hauling him forward. Sandy, excited by the turbulent atmosphere, danced around his legs, barking shrilly.

  ‘Leon! For heaven’s sake!’ Cathy dropped her coat and caught at Leon’s arm. ‘Stop it! What on earth’s going on? Sandy, do shut up!’

  The dog took no notice whatsoever; if anything the frenzy of his barking increased.

  Cathy’s own nerves had taken quite enough over the past couple of days. She bent to the dog, picked him up by the scruff of the neck and dumped him in his chair. ‘Enough!’ She turned. ‘Leon! Let the boy go. Where the hell do you think you are? In some backstreet bar in Athens?’

  There was a long, perilous moment of quiet. Then, slowly, Leon released his grip and straightened. Nikos pushed himself back from the table. Father and son stood eye to eye. Cathy could see that despite his every effort, despite the stubborn lift of his chin, the younger man was trembling. She felt a sudden, overwhelming sympathy. Surely the boy had been through enough recently without this?

  Leon, still watching his son, lifted a warning finger. ‘Never say that again, boy. Never tell me that I don’t remember what happened to your mother. I watched. As you did.’

  It was quite deliberately brutal. Nikos shut his eyes for a second. Cathy, looking away from the naked pain in the young face found her attention suddenly caught by Adam. He was still watching intently, his bright, forget-me—not eyes moving from one face to another. His face betrayed nothing.

  Leon pressed relentlessly on. ‘Your mother, God rest her soul, would be the first to know that life goes on. It’s over. It’s finished. A new war begins. A war to survive. A war to succeed. A war to show the world that we are not broken. And, yes —‘ Nikos had opened his mouth to speak, ‘— I will use any means to win that war. Any means, you understand?’ He slipped his hand into the open neck of his shirt and lifted something into the light, something that glinted gold as it swung and turned in his fingers. Cathy was very familiar with the small, weighty medallion that Leon always wore. She knew, too, its provenance. ‘Your mother gave me this. It was her last gift to me. You know it well. The Holy Virgin, to protect me. One day it will be yours; it is the thing that binds us to her, the only thing we have of her.’ The exquisitely worked miniature golden icon spun and settled, sheened in the quiet light. ‘May she strike me dead if I have forgotten what happened!’ He let the icon drop, and his fist hit the table with savage force. ‘But that isn’t the point! It’s time you grew up, boy. It’s time you were away from the influence of women. Your mother, God rest her, is dead. And so, now, is your Grandmother.’ He stabbed a finger forcefully. ‘It‘s time you joined the world of the men. Time you joined me in making the name of Kotsikas a name to be reckoned with. And if that means dealing with Germans — if it means dealing with the devil himself — then you’ll do it. And you’ll smile while you do it. Is that understood?’

  A heavy silence hung in the room.

  ‘Did you hear me?‘ Leon’s voice was suddenly very quiet.

  ‘I heard you.’

  ‘And is it understood?’

  Nikos’ voice cracked a little as he spoke. ‘It’s understood.’ Blindly he turned and walked to the back door.

  Only Cathy, who had moved near to the door, saw the tears. She put out a hand. ‘Nikos —’ He walked past her. In the quiet the snick of the door latch as it shut behind him sounded very loud.

  Wordless, Cathy picked up her coat, pushed one arm into a sleeve, struggled into the other, reached for a heavy jacket that hung on the back of the door and, with scarcely a glance at Leon, followed.

  She did not see the quick lift of Adam’s head, nor the narrowing of her son’s eyes as he looked after her.

  ‘The boy is soft,’ Leon growled.

  Adam considered for a moment. ‘Yes. I think he probably is.’ He smiled his most tranquil smile, reached into his pocket. ‘It’s not his fault. He’ll get over it. Cigarette?’

  *

  Outside Cathy looked around. There was no sign of Nikos. ‘Nikos? Nikos!’ She listened intently; heard nothing but the cold wind that soughed in the trees and the distant crash of the waves upon the shingle beach. She buttoned her coat, turned the collar up about her ears and set off down the track towards the sea.

  She saw Nikos as she breasted the dunes and caught her breath as the full force of the spray-laden north-easter struck her. He was hunkered on to his heels, his arms crossed on his knees, his head bowed. His damp hair was wild and he was panting for breath; obviously he had run all the way from the cottage. She scrunched through the shifting shingle to him, He did not lift his head. ‘Here.’ She had to raise her voice above the sound of wind and sea. She put the jacket about his shoulders; shoulders that, suddenly, were shaking. She straightened, stood looking out at the grey, wind-whipped, white—capped waves. Beneath the wild and natural sounds she could hear his sobs. Her own eyes stung. Still looking out to the distant, smudged horizon she laid a hand lightly on his damp head; a contact, a warmth, a small touch of comfort. After a moment she felt his cold hand come up and clasp hers, but his head remained bowed and still the sobs shook him. She lifted her face to the wind, steadying her own nerves, trying to ignore the almost painful compassion that threatened to overwhelm her. The last thing he needed, she told herself fiercely, was for her to cry with him. The last thing he would want at the moment was her pity.

  It was a long time before she felt him calm a little. fine rain was flying in the air. She crouched beside him. ‘Put your jacket on.’ She held it for him as he slipped his arms into the sleeves. His eyes were blurred and swollen with tears, his face drawn. His breath still caught in his throat in small hiccoughing sobs. ‘Nikos, don’t,’ she said, softly, her arm about his shoulders her mouth close to his ear. ‘Please don’t.’

  He leaned against her like a tired child. The wind buffeted, died a little, buffeted again. The sea washed tirelessly against the stones. She held him, tightly, willing warmth and strength into the taut, shaking body. He laid his head upon her shoulder, his eyes fixed on the long, rolling breakers that crashed and swirled upon the beach, foaming upon the patches of sand, shifting the smooth round stones of the shingle. When he started to speak at first she could barely hear him; then his voice got stronger. ‘We were hiding on the mountainside above the house. Pa was badly wounded — he was caught in an ambush — his leg was smashed to pieces — you must have seen the scars — Mother insisted — she insisted — that if she were in the house alone they wouldn’t suspect —’

  The terror when the convoy of trucks and motorcycles had driven up the rocky track to the village, when grey-clad soldiers had poured from them, shouting orders, crashing on closed doors with their rifle-butts. The noise; women screaming, men shouting, the sounds of blows, the occasional shot. It had never left him. The panic — that he still sometimes experienced in dreams — as the brutal threat had surged up the mountainside, closer and closer—

  ‘— she made me go and join Pa. We could see the yard of the house.’ He stopped.

  ‘Nikos, don’t. Don’t think about it.’ She knew the story; just once, after a serious bout of drinking, Leon had spoken of what had happened. Nikos had been just sixteen years old. Her arm tightened about him.

  ‘They came to the house. She stood in the yard. She was very small, and very beautiful. There were five of them.’ He was trembling like a leaf.

  His crippled father’s huge, peasants hands had held him, one hand over his mouth. ‘Do you think she wants to see you die too?’ Leon had been weeping in anguish at his own helplessness.

  ‘She didn’t make a sound. Not once. Not when they —’ he chewed his lip, ‘— not when they hurt her. Not when they killed her, after they had used her.’

  Leon’s strength had easily overcome his boy’s struggles. He
had turned Nikos’ head into his chest, his grip like a vice, to prevent him from watching. Nikos remembered now the smell of his father‘s body, the great gouts of blood that were pumping from the reopened wound in his thigh. Could feel in his own body, as he had on that awful day, the shaking of Leon’s huge, wasted frame.

  He lifted a tired, tear—marked face and turned to look at her. ‘How could he?’ he asked, simply. ‘How could he?’

  Cathy was quiet for a long moment. Then: ‘He’s right in a way, you know. It’s over. It’s past. We can’t forget, of course we can’t. But it’s time perhaps for forgiveness —’

  He shook his head, fiercely and silently.

  ‘Oh — not the men who did it. I understand that. But, Nikos, the wounds have to heal. What we must do is to try to make sure it can’t happen again. And hatred won’t do that.’

  ‘Grandmother hated them.’

  Ah. Cathy said nothing.

  ‘She — I think she hated Pa too.’

  ‘Oh, surely not?’ The words were gentle.

  He shook his head. ‘You didn’t know her. She was a very strong woman. A very good woman, but very single minded. And where she loved she loved with her whole heart. Mother was her only child. She never forgave Pa for what happened, not even when he agreed that I should go to America to live with her.’ He had stopped shivering, his weight was heavy against her. The sobs had died. ‘I miss her,’ he said, very quietly. ‘I miss her so much.’

  Cathy inclined her head to his, laid her cheek on his damp hair. ‘Of course you do.’ Her bare hands were frozen, her face stung from the wind and the salt spray and she could feel the chill of the wet stones on which she sat creeping through the heavy material of her slacks. Yet for all the discomfort she had no desire to move. They sat so in silence for a long time. Then, very slowly, he lifted his head from her shoulder and turned to look at her. Her brown hair was wild and wet, her face pinched with cold. Her eyes, hazel green and oddly slanted, that from the first moment he had met her had reminded him of a cat’s, held his; disturbed, suddenly, and questioning. She made to pull away from him.