Icon of Gold
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Two
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
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Copyright
Icon of Gold
Teresa Crane
PART ONE
Suffolk
Winter 1952
Chapter One
The leading horses, hooves thundering on the wet turf, took the final fence bunched dangerously tightly together. Their riders, bright silks sodden, urged them fiercely with voice and with whip. The punters were on their feet, roaring them on, their enthusiasm undiminished by the steady drizzle of fine rain that enveloped the course. A horse pecked, stumbled, regained its feet: but balance was gone, and the jockey’s seat was lost. He came off lightly as an acrobat, hit the turf rolling, just as the tired back markers crashed through the brushwood of the fence. A sharp hoof lashed. No one but the fallen man himself heard the crack of breaking bone.
Adam Sinclair, bareheaded in the drifting rain, was yelling with the rest of them. ‘Come on! Come on!’ The grey to win, that was all he needed. That lovely grey to win and he would recoup all this afternoon’s losses at a stroke —
The loose horse was causing trouble, threading through the leading group, running flat out and uncontrolled, wet mane flying. Round the last bend two runners were pulling ahead; the long-legged grey and a sturdy chestnut.
Adam stopped shouting. His hands were clenched: in the cold and the rain he was sweating.
It was a two-horse race now, the rest of the field despite the riders’ frantic efforts were falling behind. It had been a gruelling run, at least half the field had fallen and those gallant animals that were left were labouring. The two leaders, ears flat, tails streaming, battled down the last straight towards the post, their diminutive riders standing in the stirrups urging their mounts to the last heartbursting effort.
Come on! Come on!
The grey was faltering, the long, graceful strides becoming uneven. Slowly, inexorably, the smaller chestnut was pulling ahead.
The crowd’s excitement reached a crescendo. Encouraged, the handsome grey put in one last brave effort, regaining a little of the lost ground. But still, when they swept past the finishing post there was a clear half length between them.
Adam screwed up his betting slip and let it drop to the sodden mud beneath his feet. ‘Shit!’ he said, very quietly, ‘Oh, shit!’
*
‘Bus is stoppin’.’ Three pairs of interested eyes peered into the dreary and blustery November afternoon that sulked beyond the fly-specked window of the shop-cum-post-office of the hamlet of Aken, an unnoteworthy spot a mile or so inland from the windswept sweep of the Suffolk coastline. ‘First time tha’ss bothered this week,’ the speaker added, drily. The stink of the paraffin stove used to heat the shop easily overcame the smell of bacon and biscuits and the flat, musty aroma of the sacks of beans and lentils and flour that more usually permeated the place.
In the lane outside the gears of the ancient single-decker vehicle clashed and it pulled away, rattling, leaving a solitary figure standing by the roadside; a tall, slim young man in city clothes, a small grip in one hand.
The youngest of the trio of watchers, a woman of perhaps twenty-five with a baby on her hip, stood on tiptoe to get a better view. It was not often that tall, dark, presentable strangers turned up in Aken. Not since the Yanks had left the area after the war, anyway. ‘A foreigner I’d say, from the look of him.’
The young man stood for a moment, looking around him, hesitant, one hand to the brim of his hat, holding it against the gusting wind.
‘Anyone comes from Thorpness they’re a foreigner round here,’ Mrs Hamilton, the postmistress, said, her voice dryer still.
‘Tha’ss ‘cos they are.’ The old man who was propped comfortably against the counter tranquilly relit his pipe. ‘Strange folks at Thorpness. Strange folk. Never held wi’ ‘em meself.’
The woman cast an exasperated look at him. ‘Don’t be so daft, Tom Blowers.’
He smiled a sly, brown-toothed smile.
‘He’s comin’ across.’ The young woman settled the fidgeting child more firmly. ‘Hush up, now, Jimmy.’
The stranger hesitated for a moment outside the door, then pushed it open. The bell jangled discordantly, and fell to an echoing quiet. Three pairs of questioning eyes met his.
As, courteously, he took off his hat a lock of heavy black hair fell across his forehead. ‘I’m sorry – I wonder…?’
They watched him, waiting. ‘I’m looking for Sandlings Cottage. Mr and Mrs Kotsikas —’ The accent was immediately and unmistakably recognisable as American, but with some underlying inflection. His pronunciation of the Greek surname with which so many locals professed to struggle was unthinking and easy.
There was a short, interested silence, then, ‘Up the road a bit,’ the old man said, jerking his head. ‘Turn left, then left again at the bike.’
‘I — beg your pardon?’
Mrs Hamilton took pity on him. ‘Mrs Kotsikas leaves a bicycle at the end of the track that leads to the cottage. For gettin’ down to the village when she needs to. Turn right out of the door here, follow the road up for a mile or so. There’s a narrow lane, on the left. There’s no signpost — that doesn’t go anywhere, you see. Just on to the heath and to a couple of houses. About a mile on down there’s a dirt track. Tha’ss where she leaves the bike. You can’t miss it. Just keep walkin’ till you come to the cottages.’
‘I see.’ He ducked his head a little awkwardly. ‘Thank you Ma’am.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Turning away he stopped. ‘Oh — do you sell cigarettes?’
‘Players and Woodbine.’
‘You wouldn’t have Three Castles?’
She raised faintly caustic brows. ‘Players and Woodbine,’ she repeated.
‘Of course — I’m sorry — I’ll take twenty Players, please.’ He paid for the cigarettes, tucked them into the inner pocket of his overcoat — his good quality overcoat, Mrs Hamilton noted — picked up his small bag, settled his hat firmly on his head. ‘Thank you again.’
Mrs Hamilton nodded. The girl with the baby, unaccountably, blushed as his eyes met hers. The old man eyed him, dourly impassive.
A gust of wind disturbed the stuffy atmosphere and then the bell jangled again as the stranger shut the door behind him.
‘Well, well,’ said Mrs Hamilton, with impenetrable equanimity.
The old man said nothing. A cloud of pipe smoke enveloped them both. Mrs Hamilton tutted.
The younger woman was at the window watching the tall figure trudge up the lane, shoulders hunched against the wind. She sighed a little as she turned away. Those eyes! Like a film star’s! Honestly — just like a flipping film star’s! Made you feel really weird just to look at them. That Mrs Kotsi-whatever had better keep her visitor away from the village girls, that was for sure. Too many parents around here remembered the Yanks. She smiled a little, wryly. She had a few memories herself.
‘Half a pound of best back, please, Mrs Hamilton.’
*
Nikos Kotsikas had been cold in New York.
Very cold; especially at the beginning, when he had first arrived from Greece. He had seen that busy metropolis brought to a standstill by snowdrifts that engulfed automobiles and immobilised the public transport system. He had walked in a Central Park of sculpted ice and sub-zero temperatures. He had scurried back to his grandmother’s elegant centrally heated apartment through blizzards as blinding as any in the Arctic.
He never remembered being as bone-cold as he was now.
The wind blew in bitter gusts direct from the North Sea — the sea that, grey as the skies above it and white-capped with wind-lashed spume, lay perhaps a mile behind him, crashing with constant and primeval force on to its long shingle beaches, visible occasionally through gaps in the leafless hedge that lined the narrow, deserted road. The sky was vast, and dense with billowing slate-grey cloud. He hooked his bag on to his shoulder and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. As he pushed doggedly on he found, somewhere in the back of his mind, the cherished picture forming; clear, quiet sea blue as sapphire, backed by the warm, still, bee-humming mountains that were lapped with groves of orange, lemon and olive, and whose crests rose against a crystalline, sunlit sky. He had not been back to Greece since his father had spirited him out of that war-torn land after the terrible death of his mother just before his sixteenth birthday. In the ten years since he had been to many places and seen many things. But he had never forgotten. He glanced about him. Nothing could be further from that warm and glittering beauty than this. The wild, sandy heathland was winter-dark, the gorse windswept, the bracken dry and brown, the branches of the birch trees slender, fragile-looking, bare against the threatening sky.
Where the hell was everybody? Surely someone must live in this God-forsaken place?
The lane narrowed further. Ahead he could see a left-hand turn, little more than a roughly tarmacked track, leading through a stand of battered and insignificant-looking scrub-like trees. This must be it. He turned into it, the distant sea now on his left, churning still, cold-looking and constantly restless. For a moment the huddled trees broke the force of the wind a little and he was able to catch his breath. Then he was in the open again, head down, collar around his cold, aching ears.
Turn left again at the bicycle. At the bicycle for Christ’s sake?
Ten minutes later he found it; an ancient pre-war machine, battered, its black paintwork chipped and muddy, a wicker basket, very much the worse for wear, strapped to its sit-up-and-beg handlebars. It was propped against the hedge beside a narrow sandy cart track that struck off east in the general direction of the sea. In the twenty minutes or so since he had left the shop he had not seen a soul. A few large, wet flakes of snow flew in the wind. Well, it couldn’t be far now, surely? Warmth and shelter and a friendly face. It was a seductive thought; just now, he told himself grimly, he’d settle for a barn if it got him out of this wind. What’s more, he was hungry. He’d give a year of his life for a cup of hot coffee and a doughnut; and as so often happened the simple, homely thought unexpectedly triggered memory and he found himself remembering the New York apartment that had been his home for so long. Home. The very word all but choked him with grief and with a crushing homesickness that brought with it a pain that was almost physical. Stop thinking about it; he had to stop thinking about it. He had to forget, to start afresh. Over and over he had told himself that during the long voyage across the Atlantic. But the treacherous memories would not let him go.
The tragedy had struck so suddenly and so hard that at first he had been almost anaesthetised against the pain; it was later that it had hit him. As now, uncalled for and unwanted the vivid recollections would catch him unaware and he could not escape them. He could see, could smell, could actually for a moment feel around him the charming, peaceful apartment with its waxed floors and polished furniture, its quiet-ticking clocks, its books and its pictures. A sanctuary of harmonious warmth and comfort in the winter, peacefully fanned and shaded in the sweltering New York summer, the rooms graced and ordered by his grandmother, as she had graced and ordered everything she had touched, including Nikos’ own life. The gentle scoldings, the wisdom, the laughter and the loving care. The music.
His eyes were suddenly hot with tears, and not for the first time he found himself taking refuge in a passion of almost childish anger. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t! She hadn’t been that old. Why should she have died so horribly? Cancer. He hated the very word. Hated to recall what it had done to her, she who with her soft voice and slow, gentle smile had, until the disease had struck so suddenly, never lost the beauty of her youth; on the contrary she had been one of that rare breed of women upon whom the years actually bestow more than they take. The thick, well-cut silver hair had still shone, the unusual gold-green eyes that had passed from mother to daughter and thence to Nikos himself had still been clear. The strong, serene bone structure of her face had been flawless. It had often amused him and — yes — been a source of pride too, to see men’s eyes turn upon his grandmother as she walked into a room or a restaurant. The one thing that New York recognised in its women was class; and Susan Constandina had certainly had that.
His face was cold, flayed by the wind. Clinging wet flakes of snow were suddenly driving in from the sea. But it was neither the wind nor the snow that was blurring his vision. Impatient and embarrassed he knuckled away the tears. For Christ’s sake — this was England! Everyone knew that men didn’t cry in England.
The uneven track dipped a little, leading down into a hollow where the wind was at least a little less fierce. He lifted his head, scenting the air. Wood smoke.
The squall had died as swiftly as it had arisen, and the snow had stopped. Ahead, through the tossing trees, he saw the ancient tiles of a low moss-grown roof, and a chimney from which the wisp of fragrant smoke issued, to be rent and torn by the wind. This, surely, must be it?
He stood, appalled.
The place looked derelict. The windows were filthy and uncurtained, the tiny garden an overgrown riot of weeds, brambles and nettles through which a disintegrating brick path meandered. The only sign that the place was inhabited at all was the wind-blown smoke.
He rapped at the wooden door with his knuckles.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, and when still there was no reply he lifted the latch. The door opened on to a large, dark and incredibly untidy room. A fire burned in a small, filthy grate. Every surface was cluttered, an armchair was piled with old newspapers. Light filtered through the uncurtained and extremely dirty window.
‘Cath? That you? ‘Bout time. Tha’ss cold as a witch’s tit out there — you’ll catch your death on that beach one o’ these days…’ A man’s voice, irascible and with the cracked cadences of age in it. Nikos stood, embarrassed and uncertain, as an elderly man shuffled across the room, peering short-sightedly towards the open door.
‘No. I’m — I’m sorry, Sir. My name is Nikos Kotsikas. I think I must have missed my way —’ Turn left at the bicycle? A joke? Some joke! ‘I’m looking for —’
‘She in’t in. She’s took the damn’ dogs down the beach,’ the man interrupted him brusquely, in fact downright rudely. ‘Daft female she can be. Roamin’ that beach at all hours. She’ll catch her death. I’m allus tellin’ her —’ He was a full head shorter than Nikos, wore dirty corduroy trousers a size or two too big for him and an assortment of worn and ragged woollen jumpers and cardigans of indeterminate colour that would, Nikos thought, have given grief to a scarecrow. He, like the room itself, smelled rank and unpleasant. He turned his back, shuffled towards the fire. ‘You’re in the wrong house, boy,’ he said. ‘Next door. Tha’ss where you should be. Next door.’
‘Next door?’ Nikos was puzzled. So far as he had seen there had been no other house.
The ancient head jerked. ‘Go round the back. You’ll see. But I told you — Cathy in’t in. She’s down the beach.’
‘I see. Well — thank you very much…’ Awkwardly Nikos hesitated for a second. The old man neither turned nor r
eplied. Thankfully Nikos opened the door and escaped into the fresh air; for a moment even the bitter wind was welcome after the foetid atmosphere inside.
The brick path, he now saw, went on past the door and round the corner of the house. He hefted his grip on to his shoulder and followed it.
The house he was looking for was not, he discovered, strictly speaking ‘next door’ to the old man’s, but back to back with it. The second cottage faced the distant sea, and the sandy track resumed its way from a small rickety gate out on to the scrub—cloaked heathlands towards the dunes and the wild shore beyond. The surprisingly large garden was contained by a low flint wall and though at least, unlike its neighbour, it gave some impression of being cultivated, at this time of year and in this fierce and salty gale it looked bleak indeed. The gnarled branches of an old fruit tree creaked and groaned. A wooden bird table had blown over and lay half buried in a bed of tough-looking sharp-thorned rose bushes. Small paths meandered from nowhere to nowhere amongst leafless, lifeless plants and shrubs. A seat was set beneath a sagging latticed arch, forlorn and incongruous reminder of the days of summer.
The house, like its partner behind, was small, with a couple of lean-to additions, the low tiled roof moss-covered, the windows stained with salt spray. It was obviously very old, and had settled into its sandy foundations like a bird into a nest. The doorframe, like the frames of the windows, was distorted and angular. Upon the door, weather-beaten but legible was a small painted sign — Sandlings Cottage — the border of the sign and the two capital letters decorated by tiny paintings of small sea creatures.
Nikos lifted the latch.
The room in which he found himself was virtually identical to the one next door. It was also almost as cluttered and untidy, though undoubtedly — and thankfully — cleaner and fresher smelling. There were books everywhere. A half-finished pencil sketch was pinned to a beam, and a sketch pad and pencils were tossed on an ancient-looking and squashily comfortable sofa. There was a heap of shells and stones sitting, inexplicably, in the centre of a small tea table, next to a glass-shaded oil lamp that had obviously been pushed aside to make way for them. Sand and little bits of dried seaweed were scattered across the polished surface. A pair of shoes lay where they had apparently been kicked off beside one of the armchairs. An unwashed mug sat in the hearth. A cheerful fire danced in the basket of the blackened grate. The room was warm; but not simply from the warmth of the flames. There was colour everywhere. Bright cushions were scattered haphazardly across the shabby sofa and chairs — jade, and blue and deep terracotta. The curtains were the yellow of lemons in sunshine, the plaster walls around the beams were a slightly paler reflection of that same colour, applied with a careless hand. The ceiling was low.
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