Summer in Greece

by Patricia Wilson

  My darling brother had his inoculations, which gave him a horrible scab on the top of his arm and made him feel quite wretched for a few days. Then, he went off for training on Salisbury Plain where, he told us later, he spent most of his days digging trenches, learning to clean and fire his rifle, and polish his boots. He was sent to fight in a major battle – Mons, Belgium, on 23 August.

  Sissy, who was itching to do something, anything, managed to get employment at a distant munitions factory. She promised to write, and two weeks after her departure, I received a letter.

  My dearest sister, Gertie,

  I miss you terribly! I am writing you a different letter from Ma and Pa because I don’t want them to worry.

  The munitions factory is buried between sand dunes and surrounded by a trench. It is forbidden to say where in case Kaiser Bill gets our post. All of us women workers stay in a hostel which is awfully basic, a mile away from the factory. Life is hard! We’re not allowed to wear anything metal, no hooks, or metal bones in our stays, so most of us have abandoned this undergarment. Oh, the joy of being able to breathe and not have your middle pinched into pleats!

  They wake us at 5 a.m. to break the ice on our water jugs. Breakfast is bread with lard and sweet tea. We walk a mile to work in our khaki uniforms, which are not too bad, and a heavy cape which we clutch around ourselves against the bitter cold. Our boots are diabolical, unladylike and uncomfortable. Thank God for Vaseline which we smear on our heels and bunion-bone to prevent more blisters. We must wrap our hair in muslin, so we look like dumplings ready for the pot.

  We slave through a twelve-hour day, all windows closed, and the silence is peculiarly sinister as we pack these instruments of death and torture. I fill sixty-pound shells with TNT which are ammunition for some great cannons that are bound to bring victory for our brave soldiers.

  I often think of Arthur and hope a German woman is not packing shrapnel into a shell that might harm him. Although I’m determined to serve my country, I hate to think of the distress brought to some mother in our enemy’s country by the bombs I help to put together.

  A woman died from TNT poisoning last week, Gertie. The girls in one section turn yellow from the explosives – even the whites of their eyes – and twenty workers were killed on Thursday in an explosion. We were hurried into the surrounding trenches for fear of a massive detonation but the trenches were not wide enough so we had to squeeze in. Then we realised, the mud walls teemed with slugs! Cripes! How I wished we wore trousers.

  Yesterday a government photographer came around – we were all afraid his flash would blow us to Kingdom come. He was terrifically good-looking, so you can imagine the smiles from two thousand women blinding the poor chap. The gossip is, Lloyd George himself sent the photographer, though we’re not sure if it’s for the Pathé News or the broadsheets. I’ll let you know when I hear.

  There is a whisper they’re building a military hospital nearer home, so I will apply to nurse there. It’s my dream to take care of our wounded soldiers.

  I hope everything is going well for you, dearest Gertie. Try and stand up to Father once in a while. Do write back!

  That’s all for now.

  Love from your devoted,

  Sissy

  I touched my cheek remembering Sissy’s goodbye kiss. Oh, I missed her terribly. The correspondence trembled in my hand. I quickly dried the letter when a tear splashed onto her precious words and puckered the paper.

  *

  When Arthur and Sissy came home on leave, we sat around my brother in the parlour, enraptured by Arthur’s stories. He fed Mother all the best bits of army life, and kept the less savoury morsels for himself.

  ‘Greece is terrific, Mother, it’s easy to see why kings and queens go there to take the waters and watch plays by Sophocles and Euripides in the ancient amphitheatres.’ She would lower her embroidery hoop and gaze at him. ‘The great marble auditoriums are always outdoors, Mother, and on summer nights they’re filled with thousands of people. Their perfect design means everyone can hear the actors and music with no need for a single microphone.’

  Mother’s eyes widened in wonder, Sissy and I exchanged gleeful glances.

  ‘Tell us more, dear brother!’ Sissy cried.

  Arthur smiled softly at Mother and at that moment, I loved him more than ever.

  ‘Greece lay beneath a sky bluer than anywhere else in the world. Magnificent marble temples with columns double the height of this house strewn all over the city.’ He kissed Mother’s hand and bowed, as if she were royalty. ‘One day, after this war, I’m going to take you to see the Parthenon, a great temple on a mountain, right in the centre of the city of Athens, Mother.’ Enraptured, her face shone with love for her son. ‘I will take your hand and lead you down the centre aisle as if you are the Goddess Athena herself, the Queen of Athens . . . the Queen of Greece.’

  When I look back, I remember poor Arthur’s hands trembled sometimes. A distant stare in his eye preceded an unexplained look of revulsion. Later, I discovered he was in torment, remembering the battle of Gallipoli. What a noble gesture, to fill our mother’s heart with glory when he was suffering horrors too diabolical for us to imagine.

  *

  Both Sissy and Arthur came home for Christmas that year and we planned to have a wonderful time together. I had no true concept of what ‘war’ meant, or where it would lead, or how it would change our lives.

  On Christmas Eve, a plane flew over and dropped a bomb on Dover. Mother and I had spent all morning baking mince pies for the carol singers when there was a terrific explosion outside.

  Mother grabbed me and pulled me under the heavy kitchen table. She crossed herself and recited the ‘Hail Mary’ while I trembled with fear.

  After a few minutes, Mother placed her hand on my cheek and whispered, ‘Don’t be afraid, we’ll be fine.’ She reached up and retrieved the cooking sherry, and there we sat for an hour, sipping the mince-pie-plonk. All my fear of being bombed was taken away by the wonder of my mother treating me like an adult . . . like an equal, for the first time in my life. For me, it was a wonderful moment of closeness that I’ll never forget.

  ‘Shall we go and look, Gertie, while we can still walk?’ We both giggled nervously, then rushed out and peered over the cliff to see if there was a German gunboat pointing its cannons at our home. There were no ships to be seen, but still, Mother rolled her sleeve up and shook her fist across the English Channel.

  ‘Don’t you ever dare frighten my daughter like that again, Kaiser Bill, you dirty devil, or you’ll have me to deal with!’ she cried, and I could hardly walk back up the path for laughing. Still, we managed to finish making the mince pies, and nobody seemed to notice the lack of sherry, or that the pastry lids were askew.

  CHAPTER 3

  SHELLY

  Dover, present day.

  ‘YOU’LL BE LATE, GET AWAY with you,’ Gordon said gruffly, as Shelly came downstairs for work. ‘Can’t afford you slacking, and taking exotic holidays.’

  She smiled, kissed his cheek, and hurried out, almost bumping into the postman.

  ‘Morning, vet. I’ve got a letter for you.’ He thrust it towards her and glanced into her face with a flash of adoration.

  ‘Thank you, Malcolm. Very kind of you to cycle all this way.’ A tinge of pink brightened his plump cheeks.

  ‘It’s nothing, m-miss.’

  Shelly glanced at the envelope, saw the Cambridge postmark, and felt the blood drain from her face.

  He’s found me then . . . after all these years, he’s returned to his roots.

  ‘Not bad news, I hope?’

  Shaking her head a little too fast, she shoved the letter deep into her pocket. ‘Must run, Malcolm. Busy day ahead.’

  ‘Fancy a cuppa, Malcolm?’ Dad called.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

  *

  Shelly hurried outside into a bright, blustery morning. She watched a gull out over the cliff, wings spread, heading into the
wind. Almost stationary, it floated on air, free, determined to be where it was. Captivated by the magnificent views and the dramatic light of stormy weather, she was reminded of her good fortune.

  With her father’s help, White Cottage had been mortgaged for the funds to get her through college. Evening education followed, while she gained experience as a low paid junior veterinary. The property was also surety for the funds she needed to open the practice and although people sometimes commented about their high veterinary bills, they had no idea of the costs involved.

  Nevertheless, business was good and she would soon be in the clear, reaping the benefits of her many sacrifices.

  Before turning the ignition, she squandered another precious minute gazing back at the cottage. It had once been The White House, a grand, five-bedroomed family home built by an ancestor. She could imagine horse-drawn carriages, and Model T Fords pulling up outside.

  In the Second World War, a bomb caused dangerous cracks in the masonry and a portion of the house had to be demolished. With post-war austerity, the family decided the building was adequate with three bedrooms, so the brickwork was tidied up and the house renamed White Cottage.

  She pulled the envelope from her pocket and stared at the handwriting, presumably his, DJ’s. Shelly pressed it against her cheek.

  Oh, if only she could see him again!

  But she had to think of the long-term consequences; what good could come from digging up the past and all the pain that went with it? She had enough to deal with. What effect would it have on her father – after all, it was his fault that DJ went away. Returning the correspondence to her pocket, she started the car. Perhaps she would open it this evening, depending on how she got on with the spare-room spring-clean.

  *

  Years back, Shelly had made a feeble effort to empty the crammed wardrobe, but within ten minutes, she was in tears. She promised herself then, she wouldn’t try to sort her mother’s things until she had forgiven herself for that terrible Christmas. Her mother’s elegant dresses brought back many beautiful memories, but each one loomed like Marley’s ghost, pointing the finger at her. A room full of hobgoblins and heartache.

  She was only sixteen, when it started, and by the time she was seventeen she had lost three people she loved more than life. Now she would have to face the first of them, in the dust and gloom and memorabilia of the spare bedroom.

  Perhaps the time had come to put everything right. Starting that very evening.

  Shelly stood tall, ready to face her demons. She needed to move on and live her own life, free to love again, and be loved.

  She set to work. Boxes of jumble that her father had shoved in there over the years were destined for the charity shop. She dragged cartons onto the landing, making space to investigate. The Women’s Institute ladies had come over after her mother’s funeral and packed Mum’s stuff away.

  Memories tumbled into Shelly’s head, she must have been six or seven when her great-grandmother would gather herself up and struggle onto Shelly’s bed. There, they would listen to story tapes, transported into the worlds of Jungle Book, The Borrowers, Charlotte’s Web, and The Snowman.

  Those stories were sorely missed when Gran Gertie went into the residential home. She felt a rush of love, tinged with pain at the memory.

  With sudden yearning to hear Gran Gertie’s voice, she fetched the tape player and listened to the next episode of her great-grandmother’s memoirs.

  *

  Half an hour later, stunned by what she had just heard, Shelly sat on the edge of the old bed and gawped at the cassette player.

  CHAPTER 4

  GERTIE

  Dover, 1915.

  AFTER THE MINCE PIE INCIDENT, Father had the cellar cleared out and put a few essentials down there, like water and candles and a couple of old chairs just in case Kaiser Bill got more accurate with his mortars. The exercise meant that Mother could rest assured; whatever the war brought upon us, her husband and children would be safe.

  When another explosion rocked our house a week later, Father ordered, ‘Everyone down to the cellar, we’re being attacked!’

  We lifted the trapdoor and hurried down the wooden steps. After an hour with no more disturbance, Mother, Father, Mrs Cooper and I emerged with a list of things we needed if the worst happened again. A primus stove, books, crayons, paper, a jigsaw, blankets, a bucket, another jug of water.

  That incident had been the first of nine thousand German bombs that fell from planes onto British soil in the Great War.

  *

  Who could have foreseen the way our lives changed over the next two years? The war gained momentum. Fokkers and Zeppelins flew over Britain dropping their payloads of bad-will and bombs. National conscription started. The government insisted that all able-bodied men join up, and Sissy’s dream of being a nurse became a reality. Her letters were terrifically inspiring. Whenever I felt lonely, I’d go and sit under the big oak tree and study her correspondence. Her sense of glee shone off the page as I read.

  Gertie, you’re terribly lucky! How everything is changing for us women. We can become anything we choose, and isn’t that absolutely spiffing? Can you imagine how terrific it would be to drive a bus, Gertie? You must imagine, yes, imagine, because that is the first stage of accomplishing your dreams. Or, you could learn to be a welder, dear sister, or a brick layer, or at worst, go and work in a factory. Stay away from the munitions factories, though. They’re awfully dangerous.

  I carried her letters around in my pocket and read them over and again. How could women do welding, were there no end to our skills? Just the idea made my skin tingle. Some women cut their hair, some even wore trousers! We joined together in support for our men and our country and succeeded in surprising even ourselves.

  Arthur returned home on a few days leave every three months. He told us horrific stories when Mother was out of earshot. There was a haunted air about him in mid-December. We gathered together for a pretend Christmas Day. Mother, determined to spend every moment with her son, fell asleep in the chair after we’d swapped presents and eaten.

  My darling Sissy was also home. She wore bright red lipstick and drew a black beauty spot on her jaw, which Father objected to, saying she looked common. She sat on Arthur’s lap and threw her arms around his neck.

  ‘Come on, Arthur, tell us what’s really going on?’ she said quietly. ‘Ma’s asleep, and you know we won’t breathe a word.’

  He sighed, weary and depressed. ‘If it gets out that I’ve told you, they’ll execute me, you know that?’

  Sissy and I exchanged a horrified glance, then nodded.

  ‘It’s the Gallipoli campaign.’ We frowned at him. ‘On the land and the sea between Greece and Turkey. Turkey’s on their side and we’re supporting the admiralty, allowing allied ships to pass through the Dardanelles. They’re desperate to capture Constantinople and knock Turkey out of the war, but it’s not going well. If it wasn’t for the Aussies, and Kiwis, we wouldn’t have hung on this long. Godawful trench warfare. Gas that literally melts your eyes and lungs. Bodies everywhere, wounded and dead. Trenches running with rats at night. The casualties are unbelievable.’

  ‘What? Real dead bodies?’ I said, unable to imagine such a thing.

  ‘Yes, Gertie, real dead bodies!’ I could hear the irritation in his voice. ‘That’s what the rats come for, running over us when we fall asleep in the trenches.’

  ‘Rats?’ Horrified, I couldn’t imagine.

  ‘Despite the rain, it’s so bloody hot there.’

  I clasped my hand over my mouth and glanced at Mother. Oh goodness, if she had heard him use that language!

  Arthur snorted good-humouredly when he realised he’d sworn, but then his face softened and a sad look came to his eyes. ‘Sorry, darling Gertie. You’re so innocent, dear sister. You wouldn’t believe how often I think of you when things get too bad. When the trenches swarm with flesh flies. When there are sheets of maggots. When everyone’s sick, shell-shocked, or sufferin
g from trench foot.’ He stopped and stared, trance-like. ‘You see, we’re not really in this war for our country, Gertie, or for King George; we’re fighting for our mothers and sisters.’

  We gazed at him, sadly silent until Sissy asked, ‘What about food, Arthur? What do they give you?’

  ‘The food’s infested, yet we have to eat. We’re all horribly weak, and tired, and so outnumbered we can hardly advance.’ He shook his head. ‘The situation’s impossible. They say half a million casualties have gone to the hospital sorting station on a Greek island. Lemnos, I think it’s called. Not too far away, but it’s understaffed and overcrowded. Now the rainy season’s with us, wounded men lay dying in the mud as they wait to be collected by British hospital ships.’ He sighed so deeply he trembled. ‘We’re all doing our best, but . . .’ He shook his head again. ‘It’s futile. We’re bound to retreat before New Year. If the worst happens, Gertie, I’ll remember how much I enjoyed this Christmas dinner. Promise you’ll toast me every Christmas in my absence, preferably when you set the figgy pudding alight and swig the brandy.’ He grinned at us all, his eyes bright with a sort of madness that I didn’t understand.

  That was the last time I saw my brother, Arthur. When I woke the next morning, he’d gone already. He never came back. We learned he’d died of shrapnel wounds at the hospital he’d told us about on Lemnos, waiting for a ship to bring him home.

  The telegram boy came belting down Lighthouse Lane ringing his bicycle bell. I’d never seen Father cry before. The silent tears that trickled down his face were more painful than my mother’s wailing as he pulled her tighter into his arms.

  Sissy came home for a week.

  In the misery that followed, we received a formal letter from the battalion adjutant which Father read to us all. Our darling Arthur was part of a thrust forward on the front line. We were told that his group of brave soldiers had become separated from the main drive and came under fierce shelling. The men had fought bravely.