by Teresa Crane
A door slammed, and in the quiet footsteps approached down the steep path from the parking place. Yannis lounged to the door and waited. ‘Ah,’ he said, softly, as the gate on to the terrace opened. ‘I wondered how long it would take for the puppy to coming sniffing again.’
Nikos’ face was drawn. Seeing Yannis he lifted his chin and stared defiantly.
‘Who is it?’ Cathy asked, and joined Yannis at the door. Nikos, ignoring the other man, stepped forward, took her hand.
‘I was in Athens. I read it in the papers. Pa —’ He stopped. Tears welled in his eyes.
‘You were told not to come back,’ Yannis said.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ Cathy flung round on him, shaking suddenly with a rage she had until this moment contained, ‘His father is dead! Give him leave to come home to grieve!’
Yannis looked at her levelly for a moment before, with the characteristic half-shrug, he turned and left them, vaulting over the stone wall on to the mountain path and setting off for the Village without a backward glance.
Silence held them for a moment. The tears had spilled from Nikos’ eyes and were running unheeded down his face. With no word Cathy held out her arms, and like a child he came to her, burying his face in her shoulder, his body shaking with sobs. It was a very long time before he calmed. She held him still, for a moment, comforting and soothing; beyond tears herself she found his all but unendurable. He lifted his head at last. ‘What happened? It said in the paper that Adam…’
She took his hand, led him to the table. ‘Come, sit down. I’ll tell you.’
*
They did not see Yannis again, though certain it was that he returned at some time during the night, for by the morning the box beneath the floor of the Shepherd’s Hut was empty of the last of its burden. ‘I’m glad,’ Cathy said, standing at the doorway of the hut and looking out at the distant sea. ‘I want nothing to do with the filthy stuff.’ A wild wind had risen in the night and died with the dawn, but the far-off waves were still rough and white-capped, as a swell ran on to the shore.
‘What will you do?’ Nikos asked, quietly, from behind her.
She shook her head. ‘At the moment I can do nothing. There are things to be done. And the police have asked me not to leave yet. But as soon as I can —’ She turned to him, walked into his arms and laid her head tiredly on his shoulder. ‘- I want to go home,’ she said.
*
Later that day a sober-faced policeman called. Nikos was on the terrace, Cathy in the kitchen making coffee. She heard their voices and came to the door. The man glanced at her, continued speaking rapidly to Nikos. She looked from one face to another, trying to follow the conversation. Nikos’ face was grim. The policeman sketched a salute, and left. Nikos turned to Cathy.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Nikos? What’s happened?’
He came to her and took her hand. ‘A boat was stolen last night. From a fishing village on the north of the island.’
Her heart leapt. ‘They think it was Adam?’
‘They’re fairly sure of it. A child saw someone answering his description in the mountains near the village. The kid didn’t think to say anything until after the boat was taken.’ He saw the beginnings of hope in her eyes and shook his head fiercely, his hand gripping hers painfully. ‘No, Cathy. Hear me out. The boat was found this morning. In a cove further up the coast. There was a bad squall last night. The thing had run on to the rocks.’
‘And — Adam?’
‘There was no sign of him.’ His voice was soft. ‘Cathy. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
She shook her head fiercely. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. Not necessarily.‘
He said nothing.
‘The gold?’ she asked, after a long silence.
He shook his head. ‘That must have gone, too. The police would surely have mentioned it had it been found.’
‘A liferaft worthy of Midas,’ she said, softly and bitterly.
Nikos gathered her to him in silence, held her until at last the tears came. In the distance the sea had calmed, and lay shimmering beneath a relentlessly burning sky.
Epilogue
The police investigation, it seemed to Cathy, was brief, and less than painstaking; baldly, the case was open and shut, the only suspect missing, presumed drowned. Logically she, of all people, knew it to be true, yet the very brusqueness of it all was painful. Not knowing whether Adam were alive or dead was the worst part of what was already a nightmare. All that she wanted to do was to go home; the one thing the authorities for the moment would not allow her to do. There were still formalities to be gone through, an enravelled skein of red tape to be untangled. Without Nikos beside her, she thought she might have despaired or gone mad.
Leon was buried in the village graveyard, beside the first wife who had died for him. Cathy was glad of it; it seemed right. The funeral was an ordeal. Wife to the victim, mother to the murderer, the bizarre situation took every ounce of her strength to face on such a public occasion. The whole village attended, and ferry after ferry brought people from the mainland, from Athens and beyond. There were very few faces she recognised as she accepted handshakes and condolences; the day passed in a nerve-strung daze; by the time she escaped at last she was weary beyond rest and beyond tears.
Yannis did not come, and for that at least she was grateful.
Over the next few days life, as it has to through even the worst turmoil of grief and regret, returned to something approximating normality at last. Not for the first time Cathy had good reason to be grateful for the isolation of the house: at least she did not have to endure the glances and whispers that would surely have followed her if she had been in the village. Numb and exhausted she shut herself away, relying on the subdued but still ever-helpful Anna to run any errands that were necessary. Nikos stayed, to all outward appearances an attentive and dutiful son. But by night their bodies sought each other in ever increasing desperation, obsessive in their need for each other.
With the funeral over Nikos went to Athens to begin the mammoth task of taking up the reins of the business. He came back a day or so later, worn out, and with a briefcase full of papers over which he pored for most of the night. Cathy set a fourth cup of coffee beside him, laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come to bed?’
He sighed, rested his cheek on her hand for a moment. ‘In a little while. There’s so much to do.’
‘How long can you stay?
‘Just for tomorrow. Then I’ll have to go back for a couple of days. We’re getting there. Gikas is very good, very efficient, and the London office seems to be coping. We’ll sort it out, you’ll see.’
She tilted her head back, closed her eyes. ‘Oh, God, I wish we could go home!’ she said, suddenly intense. ‘I’ll die if I can’t get away from here, I swear it!’
He stood up, turned to her, took her in his arms. ‘Come on, now. Bear up. It won’t be long now. They’ll let us go soon. A few more formalities and we can put it all behind us.’ He put her from him, regarding her with sober eyes. ‘And then you’re going to have to make a decision.’
She held his gaze steadily.
‘I won’t leave you. But I won’t lie. Not any more. Never again. You either live openly with me or you send me away. I won’t pander to other people’s prejudices and opinions any more. I want you openly to be mine.’
She bent her head to lay her forehead on his shoulder, her untidy curls brushing the skin of his cheek. ‘We’ll talk about it later. When we get home. Leave it for now. Please.’
He dropped a kiss on to her head. ‘I will. For now. But you have to think about it.’
‘I know,’ she said, softly, ‘I do know.’
The next day he was gone again, promising to return in two days. ‘I’ll start to pack,’ Cathy said. ‘They have to let us go soon. There’s so much to do, I might as well at least get started. And it will keep me occupied.’
‘Good idea. I’ll be back on the evening boat on Wednesday.’
Aware of Anna’s eyes upon them she kissed his cheek. ‘Take care.’
A little later, with Anna gone to the village for supplies she took a break from her labours to sit for a while in the shade of an olive tree, a cup of coffee to hand and her sketch book on her knee. But, as so often recently, her pencil soon stilled. Images invaded her mind; Adam, a small child, bright, precocious, gleaming with mischief. The young man, the deft charm of him already apparent, beguiling his way through life with laughter and a quick tongue. The sudden tempers, the disarming apologies. The turn of his head. The timbre of his voice. Dead. Could he really be dead? A murderer. How could it be? But unstable, the ever-present voice of honesty argued, braced against pain. His father took his own life, Adam took another’s. Not so very different. The seeds were always there.
The sound of footsteps coming up the stony path by the garden wall was a welcome distraction; Anna’s mother, black-clad, three small children at her skirts, was trudging up the steep slope. She smiled shyly as she saw Cathy, and on impulse — anything to break this terrible chain of memory — Cathy walked over to the wall. ‘Good morning, Kiria. How are you? Is the little one recovered from his sickness?’
*
‘Kiria Bouyoukas has had her baby. A little boy.’ Anna was at the sink, peeling potatoes. ‘She had a hard time so they say. I met her mother in the bakery.’
‘Is the baby all right?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Anna fell to silence.
Cathy watched her for a moment, then on impulse said, ‘Anna? Are you unhappy with me because of what’s happened? You don’t have to stay with me if you’d rather not, you know —’
‘Oh no!’ Anna’s head came up sharply. ‘I like to work for you.’ She regarded Cathy with wide, alarmed eyes. ‘Are you not satisfied with me?’
‘Of course I am. It’s just — you’ve been very quiet lately and — well, I just wondered if there were something wrong. Something you hadn’t told me.’ Anna was chewing her lip, worriedly. Cathy laid a hand on her arm. ‘I spoke to your mother this morning,’ she said, very gently, ‘I asked about your little brother. She said he hadn’t been ill — Anna, darling what is it?’ The knife had clattered into the sink, and the girl’s face had drained of colour. Still she stared at Cathy in silence. Cathy put an arm about her shoulders. ‘Is it a young man? Have you been meeting someone? Oh, don’t worry — I said nothing to your mother — you know I wouldn’t do that. I simply said I must have been mistaken.’ She could feel the slender body trembling within the circle of her arm. ‘Anna, tell me what’s wrong —’
‘He said he would tell you,’ Anna said. ‘He promised me he would tell you.’
‘Who? Who promised?’
‘Kirios Nikos.’ The words were barely audible.
There was a long, puzzled silence. Then, ‘I don’t
understand,’ Cathy said, still gently. ‘I think you had better explain.’
*
She had two days and a long night to absorb the significance of the story Anna told. By the time Nikos returned from Athens she had thought herself round in circles so often that she did not know what to believe. Nikos came on the evening boat; she watched it, as she had so often before, as it steamed across the bay to dock at the little port. He arrived at the house hot, thirsty and tired. ‘God, let me get into something more comfortable!’ He shrugged off his jacket, slung it over his arm, kissed her. ‘Pour me a drink?’
She did so in silence. Minutes later he had rejoined her on the terrace, wearing open-necked shirt and light slacks. He threw himself into a chair, accepted the drink she offered, lit a cigarette and then cocked his head questioningly, watching her. ‘Cathy? Is something wrong?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Something is.’
‘What? What’s the matter?’
She drew a long breath. ‘Anna’s mother came up the mountain the other morning. She was going to the beehives to collect some honey. I spoke to her.’
He blew out a long, calmly drifting spiral of smoke, eyebrows raised.
‘Anna had told me her little brother was sick. It was an excuse for being late. She also went home — or so she said — a couple of times to help nurse him. I enquired about the child. He was never sick. Anna was lying.’
He had become very still. The drink stood untouched on the table.
‘I asked her about it,’ Cathy said, very quietly. ‘I asked her if she had been meeting a young man.’
‘And she told you,’ Nikos said, very evenly, ‘that indeed she had been meeting a young man. Me.’
‘Yes.’ Her head came up, and her eyes were blazing
‘Why didn’t you tell me? You were here on the island all along! You didn’t arrive from Athens that night —‘
‘Yes I did.’ He held out an assured hand. ‘Come and sit down. I was going to tell you. Later.’
‘Tell me now.’ She folded her arms obdurately.
‘I wouldn’t leave you. I couldn’t. I was afraid for you. Afraid of what Pa might do. I couldn’t stay away, no matter what Pa said. I hitched a lift with a fisherman from the mainland who dropped me in the north of the island. I was back here by the following day — but I knew I had to keep out of sight, both of Pa and of Yannis. I slept in the deserted hut, up the mountain there —’
‘The one we made love in,‘ she whispered.
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you let me know you were here?‘
‘I was going to.’ He was patient. ‘But I told you — I had to be careful. I was afraid for you. Well, I have to admit it, for myself as well. You know how violent Pa could be —’
She turned from him.
‘Cathy?’ he said, quietly, behind her. ‘What are you thinking?’ She heard his movement, felt him come to her.
She turned to face him. ‘I don’t know what to think.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I see.‘
‘Explain to me,’ she said. ‘Explain what happened.’
‘You obviously know what happened. Anna has told you.’
‘You tell me.‘
He shrugged. ‘I waylaid her that morning. I wanted to know you were safe. And I needed help; food, water. She agreed to help. The girl isn’t stupid, and she’d do anything for you —’
‘Or you,’ Cathy said.
He shrugged. ‘She knew something was very wrong. She knew you were unhappy. That Pa was treating you badly. She said you were sick. She said he wouldn’t let you out of the house.’
‘That was true.’
‘So I simply decided to bide my time until I could get to see you —’
‘But why didn’t you let Anna tell me you were here? Why didn’t you send a message?’
‘Darling, I know you too well! I know how stubborn you can be once you make your mind up. And once I’d had time to think I knew — of course I knew! — that you’d lied about not loving me. And I understood why. I was afraid if you knew I was there you’d defy Pa and come to find me. I wanted to protect you, not make matters worse, can’t you see that? I thought sooner or later he’d have to leave. That was what I was waiting for. I intended to persuade you to leave him, to come away with me, for good and all. To America, perhaps. Anywhere. I didn’t care. But meanwhile I didn’t want to do anything to make him angrier than he already was. He was capable of killing you, you know he was.’
She said nothing.
‘Darling, don’t doubt me.’ He put his arms about her and laid his face on her hair. ‘Please don’t doubt me. I can’t bear it.’
‘When you heard what had happened,’ her voice was muffled against his chest, ‘why didn’t you come straight away?’
He put her from him, looked down at her. ‘Think,’ he said. ‘Yannis knew what had happened between us. He knew what my father had done to me. What if he had discovered that I had been on the island that day? I heard the commotion, heard some of what was said, and I panicked. I didn’t realise then that Adam had been involved, or that the police had no cause to look for anyone else. All I k
new was that Pa was dead — murdered, for Christ’s sake! - and that I was where I shouldn’t be. I went back up north, crossed to the mainland the same way I had come and slipped back to Athens. The news was in the papers by then. The rest you know.’
She leaned against him tiredly. ‘I was afraid —’ she said, and stopped.
‘What? What were you afraid of?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.
‘Look at me.’
She raised her eyes to his.
‘Do you love me?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Then trust me.’ His voice was very quiet, his hands firm upon her shoulders, his eyes unwavering. ‘Trust me,’ he said again.
‘I do. Of course I do. I’m sorry. It was just — when Anna told me — it was a shock, that’s all. That you could have lied to me.’
He pulled her to him again, and held her gently, a hand in her hair. ‘I would have told you,’ he said, ‘if I’d really thought it was necessary. But to be honest, by the time I got back to Athens I was thoroughly ashamed of myself for panicking and running away. I still am. I can’t believe I did such a thing — leaving you to face that horror alone. I wish with all my heart now that I had stayed. And I suppose that’s why I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want you to know what a coward I had been. I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me. That’s all. I swear it. You’ve had such a lousy time lately. I just want to put it all behind us.’
‘And go home,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ He tilted her chin and kissed her. ‘And go home. We will. Soon.’
*
It was another long week before the news finally came that they were free to leave; the relief was so great that Cathy wept. The lethargy of grief which had afflicted her during the seemingly endless wait dropped away, and she was galvanised into a frenzy of packing and organisation. They were to travel by sea, a brief relaxing break before they faced the problems of the future; for problems there would be, she had no doubt of that. For now she simply wanted to get away, to give herself a chance to come to terms with the double tragedy of Leon’s and Adam’s deaths. She wanted cool winds and summer rain. She wanted the wide skies and the space of the Suffolk coast. She wanted — needed — peace, and a chance to heal.