Summer in Greece

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘One of the oldest lighthouses in Greece, takes its name from the little church next to it, Agios Nikolaos, St Nicholas. Built on the ruins of Poseidon’s temple in 1831.’

  ‘Poseidon’s temple?’ She smiled. ‘Interesting.’

  He nodded. ‘It was in use when the Britannic went down, though not lit, of course, as the Britannic went down in daylight.’

  ‘Did she sink far from here?’

  ‘No, just over a mile, or three kilometres if you like, out from the lighthouse there, and a little to the right.’ Diamond light glanced off the perpetual motion of the bay ‘Why do you want to dive the Britannic?’ he asked.

  ‘My great-grandmother was a nurse on the ship.’

  His eyebrows went up. ‘That’s interesting, did she survive?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  He turned his attention back to the open water. ‘There’s talk about it being made into a museum, did you know?’

  She shook her head. ‘Surely they’re not going to try and lift part of it? That would be impossible. She’s nine hundred feet long. Without a doubt she’d break up and a century-old ecosystem would be lost, all because some entrepreneur wants to make a few bob.’ She caught his calming look and wondered how many panicked dive students he had settled with that steady gaze.

  ‘No, they’re considering taking submersibles down. We’re trying to put a small museum dedicated to the Kea wrecks together. So far, it’s just a few bits of memorabilia that the locals gathered in their nets over the century, or bits that washed up just after it happened. A couple of cork lifesavers with the name stencilled on. A lifeboat, complete with oars, though the plaque has gone to Liverpool’s maritime museum; and some enlarged pictures of the Britannic’s construction in Belfast. There’s a video too, sponsored by one of the dive-equipment manufactures. I’ll take you to have a look if you like. Tell me about your great-grandmother.’

  ‘Nothing much to tell, yet. I’m just starting to look into her life. First World War and all that. She passed away in ’98, a few days after her hundredth birthday.’

  ‘A great age. Jacques Cousteau took one of the surviving nurses down in a submersible to see the wreck. Sheila MacBeth was in her eighties at that time. Those nurses were quite remarkable women by all accounts.’

  When he smiled, the knots in her shoulders melted away. ‘No, I didn’t know. That was kind of him, and brave of her.’

  ‘Your great-grandmother must have had some stories to tell.’

  ‘I guess she did, but I was only thirteen when she died. My mother was heartbroken. You see, her mother died just after giving birth, so my great-grandmother stepped into my grandmother’s role. She was quite wonderful.’

  ‘You were lucky; most of us never get to meet our great-grandparents, or hear their experiences.’

  ‘Gran Gertie was a strong woman. I loved her very much, but I didn’t know about her being on the Britannic until recently. She was unbelievably brave. You see, you had to be a minimum of twenty-three to be accepted in the Voluntary Aid Detachment, but she was so determined to nurse the wounded soldiers, she lied about her age and got away with it.’

  ‘She sounds cute.’

  ‘Cute?’

  He raised his hand as if to stop her words hitting him. ‘Sorry, wrong word, perhaps. I didn’t mean . . . she just sounded cool, that’s all.’ He stood.

  ‘No, it’s me who’s sorry – ignore me, I’m just tired.’ She smiled. ‘I was travelling through the night and then I noticed a turtle nesting just before dawn so I stayed up to watch. Such an amazing thing . . .’ Damn, she wasn’t going to tell anyone. She blamed her loose tongue on lack of sleep. Lids heavy now, skin itchy, and her brain running on five per cent battery. ‘Anyway, it was so magical, I sat on the beach for another hour and watched.’ She sighed. ‘Must go for some shut-eye, Harry, I’m in danger of nodding off while I speak.’

  ‘Poor you.’ He laughed gently and sat down again. ‘Just before you go, can I ask, was she tagged, the turtle, did you notice?’

  ‘I didn’t. It wasn’t quite light, but I’ll check the photos.’

  ‘You took snaps in the dark? She’d be disorientated by the flash. Did you happen to see if she made it back to the sea?’ He stared at the waterline.

  She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder. ‘No, once I’d taken some selfies of me catching a ride on her back, I left.’ She forced her eyelids up and caught the shock on his face and would have laughed if she’d had the energy. Harry, she realised, was simply concerned for the turtle’s welfare.

  ‘Oh . . . you’re joking, right?’ He looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Sorry. Sometimes, tourists, you know, have no idea.’

  ‘I need to go. Thanks for the lift,’ she said, pushing herself to her feet then headed towards her room, across the road.

  Shelly stood on her balcony for a moment. Below, Harry swung the quadbike around and headed back to the dive centre. She peered out towards the distant lighthouse and imagined her great-grandmother sleeping in one of the nearby houses, exhausted from her ordeal, or looking out at the very same view.

  Minutes later, she slid under a crisp white sheet, closed her eyes, and drifted into a dream that recalled scenes from the first Greek island she had ever visited, Paros.

  In her mind, she was floating on her back, arms and legs spread. The sun, warm, on her face and belly, and the absolute bliss of being on holiday, alone, with her first, real, boyfriend. The glory of being in love, of sleeping in his arms, of knowing he loved her. The certainty that one day they would marry, have children, and live happily ever after.

  Shelly slept with a smile on her lips, hugging her pillow. ‘David . . .’ she murmured in her dreams.

  *

  Sun streamed through the hotel’s window. Shelly, disorientated for a moment, wondered where she could be and why she lay in bed when it was clearly daytime. She blinked at her suitcase, relaxed, and gathered her thoughts. The little fish-shaped clock on the wall told her it was mid-afternoon. She would check out the next beach, go for a snorkel, eat local food, and sleep with the balcony doors open and the sound of the sea drifting in. Perfect.

  She phoned work, relieved to hear Eve was managing perfectly well without her. Then, she called her dad, he didn’t answer. Right after dinner, she would find a frivolous gift for each of them. Now she felt better. A small task to complete would give her day a sense of purpose.

  While peering into gift shops and cafés, Shelly became aware of local eyes following her, one of the first tourists of the season. Between a fish restaurant and a ticket office she discovered a rack of sepia postcards showing Kea as it was. Her excitement rose as she bought one of each, and a vague plan to further record her great-grandmother’s life germinated.

  A short stroll along the pale sand brought her to the simple little church on a promontory dividing the bay. Under a deep cobalt sky, the blinding white chapel, surrounded by a flourish of wild asphodels bursting from the rocks, made the perfect photograph. She would dedicate at least one day solely to photography, but for now, she needed to swim, to lay the ghost of David and that terrible day. Every holiday was the same. This first swim, a pilgrimage in memory to the day she lost David.

  *

  She hoped the rock that the chapel stood upon would continue just as steeply under the water. A sanctuary for myriad sea creatures. Small octopus, pipe worms with their colourful chrysanthemum-type heads; fat, coral-coloured starfish, sea urchins, young sea bream and striped, colourful wrasse. Picking her spot on the pristine sand, she dropped her sundress and beach bag, pulled on her snorkel gear, and walked into the sea.

  Once the water reached her thighs, she slipped on the fins. It had been so long since her last holiday, she stood for a moment, savouring her surroundings. The sun, on its descent now, sparked off the water. She took a deep breath through her snorkel tube, testing it, then dived below the surface, scudding along the seabed. The thrust of water stroking her shoulders, back, and legs. A s
ensation of speed, weightlessness, and adventure surrounded her. A smile hovered in her chest, then spread through her body. This underwater world was so beautiful it made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.

  Small boulders lay scattered over patches of pale sand, crosshatched by silver lines of glinting light. The shadows of fish played across the seabed. She wondered how Mother Nature disguised them so well that they disappeared leaving only their telltale shadow on the sand below.

  The bottom sloped away until she was two metres beneath the surface. She wanted to stay down, explore, but her chest tightened with the need for air. More fish appeared once she had the eye for them, picture-book perfect, congregating in shapeshifting murmurs. Swift and silent. Her heart thudded, her blood thickened, needing oxygen, she must go up, up, breathe. Half a metre of moray eel slid from under a rock. A body of pure muscle, thick as her forearm, wearing nature’s warning livery of yellow and black. Lips turned in, cheeks hollow, like an old man without his dentures. Repugnant yet hypnotising. The fixed, smiling mouth showed a hint of razor teeth, while two satanic eyes drew her. The devil in the deep blue sea.

  Her head buzzed; her chest exploded with the need to breathe now. Why couldn’t she stay down longer? Feel his pain in the last moments of his life. Pay the price for her wrongdoing.

  The water, so crystal clear, painfully reminded her of that terrible day when the man she loved was taken away from her, right before her eyes. Why did it happen? And why did she have to keep punishing herself like this? She had loved David so much . . . and it was only a bracelet that her mother had bought her for Christmas. In a cruel twist of fate, her mother was dead because of it. Just a piece of silver with a few poignant words engraved around the inside. Beautiful, sentimental words, but not worth the lives of all those people she loved.

  Was this hateful hex destined to go on? Whose life would be destroyed next – DJ’s? After that terrible year with so much pain and loss, Shelly had found it impossible to forgive herself again. For twenty years, she had feared what might happen to anyone who came close to her heart. Now, with no notion of the danger he might be inviting upon himself, DJ wanted to come back into her life. Her precious DJ. If he knew about her past, he would want to get as far away from her as possible.

  At the root of all Shelly’s heartache was that beautiful, silver bracelet.

  Her memory returned to the island of Paros, and David. She recalled treading water, pulling the snorkel from her mouth and begging. ‘David, please, if you love me, try and find my bangle.’ Shelly remembered his grin – his last grin – ever. She’d slept with him for the first time, the night before. She was a grown-up now, and loving it. He was showing off too, winking at her, touching her at every opportunity – her hand, her neck, her cheek. Smiling with almost religious sincerity. David and his woman. His fins breaking the surface as his head went down. She, proud that he was doing this for her, feeling her power.

  Shelly returned to now, with a flick of her fins she headed up, up . . . She’d left it too late! Her lungs screamed, her head buzzing louder and louder, her vision turning black in the corners. She broke the surface! Hauled in those first, desperate, breaths, her chest heaving painfully. Then, she floated on her back while her pulse returned to normal. Her eyes were closed as she pulled her steamed mask back, enabling hot tears to run straight into the sea – saltwater into saltwater. No matter how often she told herself it wasn’t her fault, she always knew it was. Oh David.

  A few months later, she met DJ.

  CHAPTER 16

  GERTIE

  Greek island of Kea, 1916.

  UNDER AN EVER-HOTTER SUN, on a sea as flat as glass, the bailers kept bailing, but the rowers raised their oars, and yard by sneaky yard we floated on the millpond sea, never closer nor more distant from the island but drifting in the invisible grip of the current. The surgeon rummaged in his bag and firstly used cotton wool to rub a little alcohol onto my wrist. Then he brought out a syringe. For a moment my bravery wavered. I shuddered at the size of the needle, which seemed to grow larger as it came closer to my flesh. He tapped my wrist and pushed the wide-bore needle against an artery. It resisted, then quite suddenly the needle popped through my skin and I heard someone gasp. The barrel of the syringe was glass and as the bright red blood filled it, my head began to swim.

  ‘Deep breaths, nurse. Are you all right?’ the surgeon asked.

  ‘I’m only a VAD, sir. Yes, just a little lightheaded. It’s a very odd sensation.’

  ‘Press down on your artery while I withdraw the needle and insert it into the soldier’s vein.’ He turned to the priest. ‘Please, help her. This needs to be done quickly, before the blood starts to clot. I can’t see to them both at once.’ He took the Corporal’s arm and emptied the contents of the syringe into it. Turning back to me, he said, ‘Do you think you can manage another one?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, of course. I believe two pints are possible, are they not?’

  ‘I think one more syringe should be enough to maintain a stronger pulse. Your sacrifice is admirable. Tell me your name, young lady.’

  Before I could reply, someone rasped, ‘Boats!’ I looked up, glad to be distracted from the wide-bore needle. People were pointing and waving at the first of several small craft chugging out towards us.

  The surgeon managed to complete his task and although I felt lightheaded, it was a relief to know Perkins stood a much better chance of survival now.

  ‘What is that place?’ I asked the chaplain, trying to distract myself from the shocking ache in my midriff, and the painful throb of my ankle. I also avoided looking at the sea in case I saw Perkins’s missing foot floating in the flotsam. Was there no end to this nightmare?

  ‘As I said earlier, I believe it’s the Greek island of Kea,’ the priest said, pressing on my wrist as the surgeon withdrew another syringe full of blood.

  ‘But how on earth will we get home?’ I whispered to myself.

  I promise I’ll never give up, Father!

  If he hadn’t insisted on that ridiculous thing! Me in my father’s long johns, slumped over the dining-table protector cork, my father yelling orders at me. Kick, Gertie, kick!

  The child inside me rose, needing the guidance of an adult. A child desperate to be told that everything would be all right, that it wasn’t my fault. I glanced at the other end of Perkins, the concern on everyone’s faces. He was maimed for life. There are penalties for wrongdoing and at that moment, I feared I should be hung for this.

  No, no, don’t even think such things!

  I was going mad with the worry, but one wrong had led to another and somebody should pay. I shouldn’t have lied about my age, that was the start of it all. One small, simple lie had led to this carnage, and I had a terrible feeling it wasn’t over. ‘I’m not fit to be left in charge – to use my initiative.’

  The chaplain stared at me, trying to make sense of my jumbled words. ‘I don’t think you should give any more blood, child,’ he said. ‘You’re in danger of becoming a little hysterical.’

  I fought the temptation to tell him that I had opened the portholes. Perhaps all the Corporal’s fellow patients had perished. I hung my head. I had to do everything I could to try and save his life.

  Nobody must ever know I was responsible, but what if Perkins told, and what would his reaction be when he discovered he’d lost a foot? Yet what difference would the truth make to anyone now? I must take my secret to the grave, and along my journey through life, I swore I would do everything I could to atone for the terrible thing I’d done.

  The Corporal’s eyes fluttered and opened a little. ‘I died,’ he slurred. ‘I find myself in the arms of an angel.’

  I stroked his cheek. ‘Behave, Corporal. Heaven’s full enough after today, so you’re on leave for a while.’ A splash on his cheek confused me for a moment, then I realised it was one of my tears.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘My head feels pretty close to Heaven already, nurse.’

  Re
alising the proximity of the soldier’s head to my woman parts, I felt myself blushing again. ‘I’m warning you, Corporal Perkins, any nonsense and you’ll be over the side.’

  He closed his eyes and smiled. ‘Don’t cry, nurse, I’ll look after you. Do I have all my limbs?’

  I looked at the surgeon. He put a finger to his lips and shook his head.

  ‘As far as I can see,’ I said. ‘It’s difficult to tell. But you’d better make sure you keep control of them, or you’ll find yourself in a greater predicament.’ I held his head to my chest to prevent him from looking down and seeing his elevated leg. He turned his head towards my breasts, smiled, and closed his eyes again. He became so still, I wondered if he was still conscious.

  The surgeon took his pulse and smiled at me. ‘That did it. Well done, nurse.’

  Some distance away, I saw the Captain helped from the raft into a lifeboat, then he boomed orders through a megaphone. We were too far away to make out his instructions. On the horizon, the grey shapes of two battleships approached. Not knowing if they were friend or foe, we were all relieved when a small, brightly painted caïque came alongside with a rounded but rustic skipper at the prow and a younger man at the tiller.

  I stared at the old fisherman. His loose, tanned skin folded over the bones of his face like warm toffee. Thick, wind-dried lips smiled from below a hedge of silver moustache. His teeth were mismatched, and tobacco-stained, and his elbows stuck through holes in his dishevelled jumper. When he beamed reassuringly, deep crow’s feet around his eyes concertinaed like a brown paper fan.

  Clearly pleased to rescue our lifeboat, the man boomed words in Greek that nobody understood, yet they were comforting as my mother’s hug after a nightmare. He poked himself in the chest with his thumb. ‘Yianni! Yianni!’ Pointing at the younger sailor at the stern, he yelled, ‘Manno! Manno!’