Summer in Greece

by Patricia Wilson

  *

  Sunshine and smiles in the Med were like balm to her troubled soul. A week of photography and scuba diving would anchor her for another twelve months. They had been David’s two greatest pleasures, too. He and his best friend Simon used to dive wherever they could. It was an odd thing, but when she returned home, Shelly felt cleansed and guilt-free for a while. As if she had lived a small part of David’s dream. If she left the brochure on the table, Dad might realise how desperately she needed a break. He would never say he didn’t want her to go, but she sensed he was uncomfortable about being left alone for a week. Old age was catching up, and about time, he was eighty.

  She closed her eyes and imagined sliding into the sparkling turquoise Aegean, the delicious tingle of saltwater cooling her bronzed skin. Then her shoulders dropped.

  Gordon stared accusingly over his glasses. ‘I know what you’re thinking – that you can’t leave me alone for a week – but I’ll be fine, Shelly, honestly.’ He pushed his breakfast plate away. ‘I ’aven’t quite lost the plot yet, you know? You go while you can. God knows, you work hard enough all year. I can always get Bill Grundy to stop over for a few days if it will make you feel better.’

  Shelly’s jaw dropped. ‘You will not!’

  ‘Why’s that then? You afraid we’ll have too much fun?’ His white eyebrows were bobbing. ‘Spoilsport!’

  She stifled a laugh, then her heart melted. What was this, her dad making a joke? ‘I’m afraid you’ll use my pressure cooker to try and build a still in the kitchen again. You’re like a pair of naughty kids when you get together.’

  Despite the banter, her concern remained. Last month, he had set fire to the chip pan and could have been badly burned if she hadn’t stopped him tipping blazing oil into the sink. Only a week ago, she had returned from an evening call-out and found he had gone to bed and left the back door wide open.

  She tried again. ‘Think about it, Dad. It would do you a lot of good. When was the last time you went away?’

  ‘Bruges, on the coach with the club, just before . . .’ He stared at the half-eaten boiled egg with a sudden look of disgust, as if staring into a crystal ball, seeing the worst of his past right there in the golden yolk. Startled for a second, they glanced at each other, then both turned their eyes to the toast. ‘You know, your mum . . .’

  ‘That’s more than twenty years ago, Dad.’ Gordon Summer had never moved on from his wife’s death. Consequently, the widower’s wounds had never healed. She wondered if her father would consider going for some grief counselling, but the subject needed time and persuasion and she was already running late.

  ‘Is it really that long, Shelly love? Seems like yesterday.’ His voice faded to almost a whisper. ‘Still hurts like yesterday too.’ His wide eyes stared into the past. ‘I guess it must be. Same year as my sixtieth, wasn’t it? Remember that party she put on?’ He tilted his head to one side, eyes misted for a moment, then a look of intense joy filled his face. ‘Bloody marvellous, wasn’t it?’ he whispered. ‘Remember the cake? All my friends from Dover Homer Club . . . and me mates from the docks.’ He gazed around the kitchen, grinning at their ghosts, the light in his eyes shining right into Shelly’s heart.

  She stood still for a few seconds, enraptured, and reluctant to distract him from the wonder of his daydream. Perhaps she should do a party for his eightieth. But the kitchen clock drew her attention and the moment faded.

  ‘Of course, that was when I still had a job, Shelly,’ he grumbled.

  ‘I’d better go, Dad. Busy day at the surgery. Lunch is in the microwave. Four minutes. It’s all set, just press the start button, OK?’ She kissed him on the cheek.

  Reaching for his e-cigarette, he noticed the fluorescent-pink sticky-note on the microwave door. She caught his withering I’m not stupid look right between her eyes and decided to ignore it.

  ‘See you later, Dad.’

  *

  In the surgery later that morning, Eve ran an artistically painted fingernail down the appointment book. ‘Holiday all booked then?’ she called to Shelly.

  ‘I wish! Dad hates the idea of flying, and he won’t abandon his pigeons. I can’t leave him on his own for a whole week. God knows what catastrophe I’d come back to.’

  ‘Have you thought about renting him a room at The Rose and Crown?’

  ‘I did, but he’ll just go home once I’m on the plane.’

  ‘Can’t someone stay at yours?’

  ‘That’s what he suggested, but how would you feel about Bill Grundy scratching and farting in your bed?’

  Eve hooted with laughter. ‘Not the dreamboat I’d imagine between your sheets.’ She did a little shudder. ‘Have you joined that dating agency yet?’

  ‘Oh, stop it!’ Shelly rolled her eyes. ‘I filed the brochure in the kitchen bin, where it belongs. Talking of romance, we’ve got three cat neuters this morning, better crack on, so to speak. If you prep the anaesthetics, I’ll shave them and do the job once they’re under the influence. That leaves you, Miss Glamour-nails, free to man the counter and do the paperwork. OK?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ Both women set about their respective jobs until Eve broke the silence. ‘Anyway, I thought your cottage had three bedrooms. Couldn’t Bill Grundy sleep in the other one?’

  ‘It’s full of junk. Dad’s become a bit of a hoarder since Mum died. That’s not a bad idea, though. I might tell him I’ll go on holiday if he lets me clear his rubbish out of the spare room, so that Bill can sleep there.’

  ‘Get someone in to do it; those house clearance people.’

  ‘Ha! He’d have a hissy fit! Besides, Mum’s clothes are still in the wardrobe. I don’t know how he’d feel about getting rid of them and, to be honest, I’ll find it pretty hard myself.’

  Eve raised her head. ‘Sorry, really thoughtless of me. But I could come around this weekend and we’ll do it together. And you’ll owe me a pub lunch, right?’

  ‘Thanks, you’re very kind, but I’ll get around to it, honestly.’

  ‘Listen, Shelly, I don’t mean to be blunt, but you’ve had more than twenty years.’

  Shelly slumped into a chair. ‘I don’t know where the time’s gone, Eve. I should move on, I know it, but I can’t seem able to let go. The truth is, I don’t want to . . . I’m still hanging on to every memory.’

  Eve frowned, sat beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Shelly, come on. Is this about more than your mother’s clothes? Please don’t tell me you’re still blaming yourself . . . you were sixteen!’

  Remaining silent, Shelly went to the sink and scrubbed her hands viciously.

  ‘Perhaps you should talk about it?’ Eve said. ‘You know I’m always here for you.’

  Shelly peered into Eve’s eyes, opened her mouth to speak, but felt tears rise. She wanted to talk about it, to tell those close to her what had really happened that awful year, the whole story from beginning to end. It had shredded her life and made any future relationship impossible, simply because she could never forgive them; never forgive herself. Never.

  She snapped her mouth shut and shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine, really.’

  Eve sighed. ‘OK, say no more, but I will be around on Sunday to sort that bedroom. We’ll photograph everything too, just for the memories. Scrapbooking, you know? And then I’m starting on you, madam. Hairdressers, nail salon, and some new clothes, right?’

  ‘Thanks, but really, I’ve got better things to do with my money.’

  ‘Shelly Summer, you’ve no right depriving the world of that beautiful woman you’re hiding! Come on, what do you say? Just do it to please me, then we’ll go out for a meal and a drink for my birthday.’

  Shelly frowned. ‘Your birthday’s in October.’

  ‘So what? You’ll be early for once.’

  ‘Bollocks . . .’ Shelly said, then laughed. ‘And if we don’t move ourselves, the owners will return to find the cats still have theirs.’

  Eve giggled. �
�OK, I get it, change the subject, but I’m not giving up,’ she promised.

  *

  Shelly and Eve became friends in school but lost touch when Eve studied in Liverpool and Shelly at Oxford. They became partners in the veterinary business, and got on tremendously well. Quite remarkable for two opposite people.

  Eve was all glamour and high-maintenance. She would never admit to being past thirty-five, and due to the Botox, hyaluronic acid, lash and nail extensions and laser treatments, she looked less than thirty. She knew every new exercise regime, diet, and fashion trend, and had built-in radar for detecting wealthy, handsome men from a hundred metres.

  Shelly, on the other hand, was not interested in her looks, men, or fashion. Shelly was an achiever. She collected skills, certificates, and awards like Eve collected lipsticks and perfumes.

  *

  That evening, when her father had gone to bed, Shelly opened the door of the spare room and surveyed the contents. There were boxes everywhere. It seemed like a mammoth task but if she did one box each evening, six would be gone by Sunday. She lifted a large shoe box off the Lloyd Loom bedside cabinet, took it downstairs, and used a damp cloth to wipe away a thick layer of dust. That box would do to start with. Probably full of rubbish for the bin.

  She lifted the lid, puzzled by the contents at first, then she recognised the ancient cassette player and collection of tapes. It had belonged to her great-grandmother, Gran Gertie. The tapes were labelled THE MEMOIRS OF GERTIE SMITH: TAPE 1,2, and so on.

  She plugged it in, loaded cassette one, and pressed play.

  CHAPTER 2

  GERTIE

  Dover, 1990.

  MY NAME IS GERTIE SMITH, and I’m recording my life story on these cassette tapes for my darling family, especially Margarete and Shelly, my granddaughter and great-granddaughter. After a happy life at White Cottage, I’m now living at The Gables Retirement Home, in Dover. I’ve been blessed with great love in my life, and also some heartbreaking sadness. You will learn that where there’s passion there’s pain, especially regarding those we hold dear. I hope by telling you my story, showing you what I overcame, I might give you a little extra strength when you need it. I found the most difficult thing we have to learn in life, is to let go. Let go of guilt, anger, and blame; and the hardest of all is to let go of those we love, my darlings. But this is something we must do, for their sakes, and ours.

  My story starts on Wednesday, 5 August 1914, with the outbreak of the First World War, though we called it the Great War in my day.

  I was born in The White House, now known as White Cottage, on Lighthouse Lane in 1898, and had a happy childhood with my older siblings, Arthur and Sissy. My father, Charles Smith, was the local doctor, and my mother, Martha, was a saint who took care of us all. They were good parents and I loved my family dearly.

  Like any sixteen-year-old, I wanted to stay in bed that fateful morning, but my father’s raised voice drifted upstairs. I slipped into my robe and slippers and hurried to the drawing room where my family gathered around Father, looking over his shoulder.

  GREAT BRITAIN DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY

  The following announcement was issued from the Foreign Office at 12.15 a.m. Owing to the summary rejection by the German government of the request made by His Majesty’s Government for assurances . . .

  Father fell silent for a moment. ‘Never mind what’s happening abroad, we’ve got our own problems here with the crisis in Ireland!’ he boomed, shaking his newspaper the way our turkey-cock shakes his feathers when a hen comes near. He dropped the broadsheet onto the coffee table and started pacing.

  ‘This is Churchill’s doing, and Grey’s speech in the house, yesterday! They’ve led us into this ridiculous state of affairs!’

  Arthur picked up the paper. ‘Look, Father, there’s a call for military volunteers to serve Britain. I’ll sign up, of course. It all sounds rather exciting. It will be over by Christmas, surely.’

  Mother’s hand went over her mouth.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Mother, we’ll soon show them what’s what,’ Arthur promised.

  Fully dressed and perfectly groomed, Sissy sat stiffly with her hands in her lap. When she spoke, it was with a certain aloofness. ‘You see, Father? If we women had the vote – and were represented in parliament – we would have objected to a war. I wonder what Mrs Pankhurst has to say about the matter.’

  Oh, how I adored my courageous sister! One day I would be exactly like her, brave and bold and a champion for all women.

  Father glared at her. ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Sissy. This is not the time for your games, and parliament’s not the place for girls!’

  Mother put her hand over her mouth again to muffle a whimper, then, as if catching a little bravery from her daughter she spoke tentatively. ‘Now, now, dear. I think Sissy is making the point that she’s on your side.’

  Before Father could roar again, there was a tap on the door and Mrs Cooper, our three-day-domestic entered, springs of ginger curls escaping her starched white cap. ‘I’ve watered the horse and fed the chickens. Eggs are in the larder, ma’am. Can I get on wi’ the beds?’

  Father placed his fists on his hips. ‘Do you know we’re at war with Germany, Mrs Cooper?’

  The smile fell from her apple cheeks and her jowls quivered. ‘War, sir? I heard some such gossip over the bank holiday. Demonstrations in Trafalgar Square and the like reported in the newspaper. But I ask you, Dr Smith, will it stop the hens laying? I think not.’ She smoothed her spotless apron and folded her hands over her round belly. ‘Mr Cooper can’t see as it will make any difference to ’is pigs but, to be honest, I’d be worried if I had a son of soldiering age.’ She glanced at Arthur.

  Father patted his cravat then slipped out of his smoking jacket. ‘We’re an island, therefore in danger of siege in the event of war reaching our shores. I’m going to take you all into town to buy as much sugar, tea, bully beef and flour as you can carry before it’s in short supply. Starving people out has won many a battle and we must make sure it never happens here. Gertie, go and get dressed right away.’

  Though reluctant to miss the conversation, I did. Breakfast was rushed, then Father took us into town in the automobile. Dover thronged with like-minded people. Both lower and upper decks of the trams were overflowing, and one would wonder how the conductor got around. Queues of shoppers snaked out of doorways and onto the streets. Posters, pasted onto walls and windows, called for able-bodied men to sign up and defend the Empire. Everywhere buzzed with excitement, fervour, urgency.

  *

  Arthur came home that evening and at dinner announced that he had joined the army. ‘I’ll work two weeks’ notice at Frister & Sons, then I’m off to training camp. Honestly, I won’t miss being an accountant one little bit.’

  Mother, who was serving squab pie, clattered the dish to the table. ‘No! You could get shot by one of those nasty Huns. Father, tell him he can’t go, you won’t allow it.’

  *

  Sissy went into town with Arthur the next morning, the first day of his official notice at Frister & Sons. According to Arthur’s account over dinner that evening, she marched into the office after him and spoke boldly to Mr Frister Snr.

  ‘I’ve come to offer my services, sir,’ she said, looking the old man in the eye. ‘I’m prepared to work with my brother, without pay, until he leaves, then step into his place until his return at the end of the war.’

  ‘Have you lost your senses? This is no place for a girl. Go home to your mother!’ demanded Mr Frister.

  ‘With respect, sir, whoever replaces Arthur is also likely to sign up before long and, as a consequence, you will be obliged to start training someone new again. The sensible thing would be for you to employ me, I’m a quick learner and will be a loyal and trustworthy employee.’

  Mr Frister blustered and glared at Arthur. ‘I’ll thank you to accompany your sister to the door, Master Smith, and bid her not to return. We’ve wasted too much of the morning alr
eady.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  Sissy was so furious that Arthur hadn’t backed her, she locked herself in the bedroom and refused to dine with us.

  The next day, the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies announced that it was suspending all activity until the conflict was over. Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst encouraged suffragettes to focus on the war effort. She asked women to take up the roles of men in factories and, on 10 August, we learned that our government was releasing the thousand incarcerated suffragettes from prison.

  ‘Hurrah!’ Sissy rejoiced. ‘It takes a war for our leaders to see sense. The same men that got us into this horrible situation, now see us women as useful human beings!’ she cried. ‘I’m applying for a job, immediately.’

  Mother had taken to whimpering every time one of us spoke.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Father boomed. ‘What can you do?’

  ‘I can drive as well as any man!’ Sissy proclaimed.

  ‘Impossible! You’ve never been behind a wheel, never mind tackled the gears.’

  ‘With respect, Father, neither had you until you acquired our marvellous Model T.’ She met his eyes. ‘Or I might train to be a doctor, like you.’ She gave me a quick glance and I sensed mischief. ‘You’re admired by everyone, Father, and I would be proud to learn your skills.’ Another glance came my way. ‘Just imagine, if Gertie and I followed in your footsteps, you could hang a sign over the surgery: DR SMITH & DAUGHTERS.’

  Father’s face turned puce.

  *

  Two days later, Sissy and I signed on for our St John Ambulance training. I dreamed of being a nurse, and Sissy hoped to be the first woman ambulance driver for the Red Cross. Father and Mother were shocked. This was not the behaviour of ‘nice’ young ladies. However, much to Father’s surprise, we both achieved our certificates in first aid, and also understood a great deal about the workings of the human body. Meal times were most entertaining as my sister pestered Father with medical questions. He, in turn, gave up trying to remind Sissy of her ‘place’, and I do believe he was secretly quite proud of her.