Sometime later, partly recovered, they sat side by side as Harry’s sons dealt with the chores to close the dive. ‘That was magical, thank you,’ Shelly said, hardly able to raise her voice above a murmur. Harry nodded and smiled.
*
‘Are you going to tell me what happened down there?’ Harry asked over dinner that evening.
‘Ah, on the Burdigala?’
He nodded.
‘Hm, yes, sorry about that.’ She hesitated; she never spoke to anybody about David, but somehow she found herself longing to open up to Harry. ‘Something catastrophic took place when I was sixteen, before I’d learned to dive, and it all came back in a similar scene.’
‘You seemed traumatised.’
‘Traumatised? No, it was just a recall. I was only sixteen, my first boyfriend, David. Someone I loved . . .’ She battled to keep calm. ‘Well, he got into trouble, tangled in a fishing net. I saw it all but couldn’t help.’ She had to stop and take a breath in order to say the essential words that she knew would help her to heal. ‘It ended in tragedy. So, you see, when your face lit up behind that net, it gave me quite a start.’
‘Must have been awful. You were sixteen?’
She nodded, suddenly realising she had no appetite. ‘Please, it was such a wonderful day today, I’d rather not spoil it by recalling that nightmare. If you don’t mind, Harry, I’ll tell you about it another time.’ He nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, feeling the memory of David take a respectful step back.
Harry reached across the table and touched her wrist. Shelly offered her hand and he took it, silent for a moment. ‘I lost my friend, too,’ he said simply. ‘Narcosis. It was many years ago, yet sometimes it’s like yesterday. I always remember him and use extra caution when I’m organising my tanks for a dive.’
She nodded again. ‘Like yesterday, yes, I understand that. Was it on a dive?’
‘It was, just a week after his wedding. I was in the boat,’ Harry said. We were very young; I was only eighteen. Though he was three years older than me, we’d been friends all our lives, through school, everything. He was my hero. That day, we high-fived then Spiro went down. I never saw him alive again.’ He stared at his plate. ‘Two and a half years later, I married his widow, Anita. It was such a mistake. Grief and love are not the same thing. Our break-up was a mutual decision. We’re still friends and see each other because of the boys. You must meet her when she comes over, she’s a great woman and you’d get on very well, I’m sure.’
‘I’m sorry, Harry. What a tragedy. You never quite get over it, do you?’
He shook his head. ‘He simply had a heart attack brought on by the narcosis. You prepare so carefully, it seems impossible, but when a man gets dive-drunk, it’s difficult to get some sense into him. His dive buddy thought he was filming something close up and wasn’t concerned when he didn’t move for a few minutes. When they were due to start their ascent, he realised something was wrong . . . but it was too late.’
‘Until now, I’ve found that I must keep diving, like I’m doing it for David,’ Shelly explained. ‘It’s like every experience under the water, every sensation, I’m sharing with him. Does that sound crazy?’
Harry shook his head.
‘But diving with you has been different, Harry. Something’s changed, and I’m not sure why?’
He shook his head again. ‘There comes a time to let go of grief, I learned that much. It doesn’t mean you no longer care, but in a way, you owe the person you’re grieving for a life of your own. Does that make any sense?’
Shelly thought about it. Harry had put it so simply: You owe the person you’re grieving for a life of your own. It was a profound statement; one that she knew instantly would change her life. She recalled the start of Gran Gertie’s tape: The most difficult thing we have to learn in life, is to let go of those we love, my darlings.
They sat in silence for a while, both occupied by their memories until Harry spoke again. ‘These days have been very special for me, Shelly. I do hope you come back.’
‘Thank you, that’s a kind thing to say. You’ve given me such a marvellous time, and though I haven’t learned much about my great-grandmother, I feel there’s a special story waiting to be uncovered.’
He pushed his plate away. ‘One last pudding?’
She grinned. ‘What do you suggest?’
He bobbed his eyebrows and they both laughed. ‘Kadaifi and frozen yoghurt?’
‘Oh, it sounds perfect.’ When it arrived, she glanced at her handbag. ‘I know this is really naff, but would you mind if I recorded the moment?’
He looked at the camera, smiled unselfconsciously and shook his head. ‘I don’t mind what you do.’
Shelly focused on her pudding, pressed live view, and started recording. She lifted the camera to take in his smiling face. ‘I’ve had a wonderful time with you,’ she said, knowing the camera was picking up her voice.
‘You’re very special,’ he said, the charismatic smile returning and his gaze penetrating her eyes in a way that transfixed her. She ended the video, knowing she would enjoy watching the moment again and again.
Shelly wanted to kiss him right there and then, but noticed the taverna owner watching. She smiled to herself, then threw him a slow and deliberate wink.
He flinched, startled, and turned away. Harry had seen her action. ‘What?’ he said, looking over his shoulder.
She giggled. ‘He’s been staring at us for an hour straight. I just thought I’d see what would happen.’
‘You are very . . . átaktos. I don’t know the English word.’
‘A-tak-tos?’ She got her phone out and pulled up Google Translate. ‘Ah . . . mischievous. Yes, I do my best.’
They laughed, warmed by the wine and the day. ‘It’s been lovely, more than that, very special. Thank you, Harry.’
Hand in hand, they walked along the promenade, towards her room. ‘Promise me you’ll come back.’
‘I’m only on day three.’
‘I don’t want to spend the rest of the week wondering if I’ll ever see you again.’
‘I will,’ she said, her attention caught by the flash of the lighthouse. Did Gran Gertie walk along the same path, and in whose company: Corporal Perkins, or Manno the mailman?
CHAPTER 22
GERTIE
Greece, 1916.
‘WHERE’S MY LEG? WHERE’S MY bloody leg?’ Perkins screamed. ‘They’ve cut my damn leg off! Where is it? I want to see it, now!’ The startled nurse let go. He fell back onto the bed, then hauled himself onto his elbows. ‘Where’s the surgeon who butchered me?’
‘He’s away on the ship, Corporal, heading for Piraeus.’ Nurse Josephine backed away. ‘He saved your life.’
‘Johnny,’ I said, remembering his name. ‘You need your medication. You’re having a panic attack. Try and breathe steadily. Come on, give me your hand and we’ll do it together. Breathe in, hold it, let it go slowly.’ From the corner of my eye, I could see Josephine filling a syringe. She swabbed his other wrist and stabbed him with the hypodermic.
‘Come on now, Johnny,’ I said. ‘Breathe in, hold it, let it go slowly.’
He stared at me, his eyes glazed, wide with the horror of his discovery. ‘There’s a part of me out there, somewhere, and I don’t even know where it is. Now, I’m not whole, not complete . . .’ His voice became heavy, dull, and more slurred as the seconds ticked by. ‘I’ll never sleep again . . . God knows what they will do to me next time.’
I kept talking to him, distracting him from the facts. ‘Come on, Johnny, give me your hand. Let’s breathe together,’ I encouraged him again. ‘I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you, don’t forget, you have my blood flowing around in your veins. We can get through this together, Johnny . . . together.’
*
This is the start of it, I thought in the middle of the night. Perspiration trickled off my forehead. Another punishment for causing so much misery. M
y throat burned, limbs deadweight, head throbbing. I stared at Perkins. He appeared to be in the same state, flushed, sweating, eyes wide and unblinking, staring at the ceiling.
Perhaps he’s died.
‘Nurse Josephine,’ I croaked, the words hurting my throat. ‘Some water, please.’ She came over with a glass. ‘No, Perkins first. He’s overheating, look.’
‘He’s just had his morphine. I’m trying to reduce his dose, but he gets so distressed. Poor man. I hadn’t realised that he didn’t know the extent of his amputation,’ she said hurriedly, sighing and holding her hand over her mask for a moment. ‘I guess he was so heavily sedated, it simply didn’t register when they told him.’ She stuck a thermometer in my mouth. ‘I have to report on your condition in five days. If your temperature goes down, they’ll probably pick you up in a week or so.’ She read the thermometer. ‘It’s over a hundred. You’ll be feeling pretty rotten.’
‘I am, but at least I still have two legs.’ We both looked at Perkins. His eyes had closed. ‘Will they send us back to England?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, to be honest. You might be picked up by a ship on its way to Lemnos. I’ve heard they’re awfully short of nurses. I’ll probably go there too. I’ve been meaning to ask, are you the woman who gave him blood in the lifeboat?’
I nodded. ‘I want to train to be a proper nurse, as soon as I can.’
‘Have you told anyone?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘I wasn’t sure I could do it, but I am now.’
*
At sunrise, eight days later, I walked out of the school room. Weak, but deliriously happy to be back on my feet, I took myself to the old chest on the quayside and sat in peace, enjoying the wonderful view of the harbour and surrounding village. Although it was the first day of December, the air had a spring-like quality. The windows in square white buildings flashed gold, reflecting the rising sun. The day was fresh and still and made me feel oddly weightless. The bay, mirror flat and crystalline, and on the rocky seabed, hundreds of silver fish darting in and out of the green-brown sea grass. I moved to the edge and gazed into the water.
Instantly, my mind flashed back to the bay at home and the Sunday afternoons of my childhood, kneeling at the edge of the water with Sissy beside me. Mother’s voice calling, ‘Don’t let her fall in, Sissy! I don’t want her to get wet stockings.’ The sound of cork on willow as Father played cricket on the sand with Arthur. Mother spreading a table cloth and unwrapping paper parcels of sandwiches and pouring homemade lemonade. Later, Father and Arthur skimming stones and arguing about the number of bounces. Big white fluffy clouds. My wonderful childhood.
I looked up. There were no clouds here, and the sky was ten times bluer. How I wished dear Sissy could be with me.
The fishing boat’s thudding engine drifted over the sea, louder as I put my ear nearer the water, drawing my attention towards the horizon. The red and blue boat rounded the lighthouse. My heart skipped. Without even thinking about it, I primped my hair and smoothed my uniform, which the kindly Yiayá had washed, starched, and ironed while I lay on my bed. Even the rip where Sissy’s watch had been was neatly stitched.
My thoughts went to my parents; they must have heard about the ship going down. I should send them a message right away. Let them know I’m safe. The fishing boat didn’t seem to be moving, so I walked around the harbour to the kafenion.
‘I want to send a telegram to England,’ I said very slowly to the kafenzies. ‘Tel-e-gram.’
He lifted his chin, showed his palms to the ceiling, and shrugged.
I poked the table several times, mimicking a telegraph operator. ‘Dot, dot, dot, dash, dot, dash . . .’
‘Ah!’ the old man said. ‘Tilegrafo? ’
‘Yes, yes, tilegrafo!’ I cried excitedly.
He shook his head. ‘We no have.’
‘How do you send urgent messages?’
His eyebrows puckered as he unravelled the foreign words, then pulled his hands into his shoulders and wiggled his fingers. ‘Poula! Poula! Athina!’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said, shaking my head.
He repeated the episode only this time shouting at the top of his voice.
A teenage boy raced into the kafenion and a boisterous conversation took place before the lad turned to me and said, ‘You have urgent message for England?’ I nodded. ‘I am Pavlo, my father is the mayor of the island.’ He did a head waggle. ‘We can send a pigeon to Athens with few words. They send a ticker tape to England. Arrive tomorrow.’
‘Good! Thank you, young man. Who do I see?’
‘Come, come, we go to the mayor, my father.’ Another head waggle. ‘He plays the tavli.’
I followed him, away from the harbour. We tramped up compact earthen streets, so narrow they’d barely take the width of a robust donkey, never mind a coach and four. The mayor was involved in a game of backgammon outside a small house. A number of villagers sat in a semi-circle around the two competitors, eyes riveted on the game. I squinted at the mayor. The man had a very relaxed mode of clothing but a perfectly waxed and curled moustache of some grandeur.
This was 1916. The world was at war and people were fighting and dying for their country. Yet here, in this little pocket of Greece, the head of the island played a board game in the street. A small pocket of normality in the chaos that was the world today. The scene gave me hope that one day all of Europe would return to normal. It reminded me what we were fighting for. The simple freedom of village life, tradition, and family values.
I introduced myself and offered my hand. He shook it so vigorously I felt my knuckles pop.
The pleasant-looking youth with bare feet and unruly dark hair spoke to the mayor, his father. The men got to their feet and stared at me with embarrassing frankness. After a moment, the mayor said, ‘Ela, come.’
We walked back to the harbour, the rest of the men, about ten, followed in a procession behind us. I noticed Manno was mooring up. ‘Nurse!’ he yelled across the quay, waving an arm. I suppressed a grin. ‘Look, I have something for you!’ he yelled, raising a pair of crutches.
I beckoned him to come over. Manno strode around the curve of the harbour and thrust the crutches at me.
‘The doctor of Syros sent these for the sailor.’ He glanced at the crowd then back to me. ‘What’s your problem?’ He stared right into my eyes which, honestly, made me tingle.
Oddly breathless, yet also embarrassed, I couldn’t speak. I turned away to break the intimate look between us and noticed our bystanders nodding and smiling at each other.
Self-conscious and confused, I pulled myself together.
‘My parents will think I was killed on the Britannic, Manno. I need to send them an urgent message to say I’m all right. You see, my brother died in battle, and my sister, a nurse, has died recently too. I’m all they have left. They’ll be dreadfully anxious and heartbroken. I must inform them that I am unharmed as soon as possible.’
‘Virgin Mary! They must be crazy with the worry. If I have to glue wings of Icarus onto my own shoulders and fly to England myself, I will make sure they get your message, koukla mou.’
I recalled the picture on Yiayá’s wall and did my best to blank out certain bits of the drawing. Manno could not fly into England in such a blatant state of undress.
What? Oh, my goodness. Was I losing my mind – thinking such ridiculous things?
Yianni came scuttling over to Manno, waving his arms at his son, and then thrusting his hands towards the boat and its fish. A heated conversation took place until Manno held a hand towards me.
Yianni’s face softened. ‘Ahhh,’ he sighed knowingly.
The onlookers grinned and nodded at each other again.
I seemed to be centre stage of a Shakespearean play that I didn’t understand, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked quietly.
‘No worries,’ Manno replied, lifting my chin and smiling into my eyes again. ‘Let’s go and prep
are your message.’
I walked around to the back of the school with Manno. Although the village was a somewhat ramshackle affair – created with no apparent sense of planning, order, or even straight lines – the pigeon loft was a complete contradiction. The coop was a marvellous, symmetrical, construction on stilts. The wooden building had a red-tiled, A-frame, roof and a platform that ran around the outside with a stout wooden ladder for access.
‘What a beautiful loft, Manno,’ I said.
‘All the small islands have them.’ He stuck out his chest in such a way I almost expected him to start strutting around me, cooing and bobbing and dragging his tail feathers. The thought brought heat to my cheeks and I wished I could find a way to stop blushing.
Manno spoke to the mayor for a moment, then he turned to me. ‘We’re going to return Aphrodite to Athens. Aphrodite, she is the goddess of love; you know this?’ He bobbed his eyebrows.
The damn blush! I bit my lip and nodded.
‘Athens will send a telegraph to England, so now, we go to write your message in not many words,’ he said.
Back in the kafenion, I constructed my letter to Father. I had to reduce it to as few letters as possible, which was difficult. Eventually, I settled on: Dr Smith. White Cot. Lighthouse Ln. Dover. UK. I am unharmed. Safe in Greece. Love Gertie.
Mama would be in tears. Papa’s stern face would hide his emotion. My parents would embrace, silently, unable to voice their relief.
*
I watched as the boy wrote in tiny letters on a cigarette paper. Manno rolled the fragile note so gently with his big fisherman hands, then slid it into a small tube, and fastened it to Aphrodite’s leg. There was a sense of ceremony in the air as they released the pigeon. The sturdy bird flew in a low circle over the houses, orientating herself, then she set off, gaining height until she disappeared into the deep blue sky. For a moment, silence fell over the village as everyone’s eyes followed her.
Summer in Greece Page 18