Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘My family were in the theatre when it blew up, sir.’ With that, fresh tears rose. ‘Please, I’m so terribly hungry, but I’ll give it back if you want.’ I could not take my eyes off the loaf as I held it out.

  He took it off me and said, ‘Go around the back of the shop and wait until I come out.’ He turned to the grocer. ‘Let her go, Tasso.’

  ‘Are you mad? She’ll just run off and steal from somebody else! You’ll never see her again.’

  ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’ He narrowed his eyes and stared at me. ‘Go on then, round to the back door. I’ve got things to do here!’

  I didn’t need telling twice. The moment the grocer let go of my hair, I raced to the end of the street, around the corner and into the back alley. Markos was there, a knife in his fist, hacking into the watermelon and giving pieces to other children who gathered around him. They all looked ragged, and shrank into an adjoining entry as I approached.

  ‘Here, get some of this, quick!’ Markos said, thrusting a chunk of melon my way.

  I almost fainted with joy, shoved the fruit into my mouth and gobbled it down, pips, skin and all.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Markos asked me.

  ‘I have to wait outside the baker’s back door.’

  ‘Senseless girl! Why? Run while you can.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t. I promised.’

  The boy rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, a door opened further down the alley and the baker stepped out. The boys scattered faster than cockroaches when the light’s turned on. The baker lifted an arm, wide and muscular from a lifetime of kneading dough. He beckoned me.

  ‘You, girl! Get in here!’

  I felt a spark of fear. What if he was one of those bad men who hurt little girls? I’d heard warnings about these people but didn’t understand what the danger was, or how you could tell if he was a baddie or a goodie. Like a meek fool, I went over and stood before him. Perhaps he would cane me like Matron. Just thinking about it made me tremble.

  The baker snapped his head sideways, indicating that I should go into the back of the shop. I glanced through the doorway, but the room beyond appeared so gloomy I could not make anything out.

  ‘Hurry up, child! I’ve work to do.’

  Cautiously, I stepped inside.

  He followed me, then threw the high bolt on the door.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sofia Bambaki, sir.’

  ‘Bambaki?’ He pulled his chin in and frowned.

  ‘Yes, sir. My mother was Alexa Bambaki, the singer.’ I stared at the floor, trying to control my emotions. ‘She was singing when . . .’ My tears rose again, ‘. . . when it happened, and I . . . I miss her, sir, every day, and I tried to go home but there are soldiers living in our house, and I don’t know what to do!’ My woes tumbled out. ‘And my brothers and Papa were in the front of the theatre and Big Yiannis says they are all in Heaven now, and . . .’

  ‘Shush now,’ he said. Putting a finger under my chin, he lifted my face and studied it for a moment. ‘Right, Sofia Bambaki. There’s a bucket and lye soap in the sink. Take all your clothes off and wash yourself properly, hair included. I don’t want fleas in here! Put your clothes in the bucket of water when you’re done and leave the soap on top. Then put these on and come into the shop.’ He handed me a drying cloth. ‘Tie it like a nappy, for drawers.’ He reached for a shirt hanging on the wall. ‘And put this over. Roll the sleeves up. Think you can manage?’

  I nodded and whispered, ‘Thank you.’

  When he had gone, and my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I studied my surroundings.

  Sacks of flour were piled against one wall, and above them, blocks of yeast, bags of sugar and salt and various trays. Opposite was a pair of scales set on a wooden kneading table the width of the wall, above which hung a row of icons, the faces all staring at me forlornly. A brick oven and wood store filled the outside wall, and opposite that, backing on to the shop, was a deep sink, and hooks that held items of clothing and aprons. In the centre of the room stood a giant mixing bowl with a paddle mechanism in the centre and a great wooden turning handle on the side.

  I didn’t want to take my clothes off, even though they itched and stank. Still, the baker seemed kindly in a stern, do-as-you’re-told sort of way. So I lifted the bucket out of the sink and stood on it. I put my face under the tap and slaked my thirst. Feeling vulnerable, I took all my clothes off and climbed into the big white sink.

  I soon forgot my embarrassment in the joy of washing months of grime away. I soaped and soaped, the sting of lye cleansing me to the bone. Afterwards, I wrung my wet hair and dressed in the nappy and shirt. After putting my clothes to soak, I went through the curtain that divided the bakery and the shop.

  The room was empty, but I heard the baker’s booming voice call outside, ‘Bread! Fresh bread!’

  The loaf I had attempted to steal lay on the counter. I could grab it and run, but something inside me, stronger than the acid hunger that corroded my innards, told me I couldn’t continue this daily fight against starvation on my own. I touched the bread with the tips of my fingers, leaned in and sniffed it. For a moment, I stood on the edge of my future, deciding what to do.

  Then I turned my back on the loaf and went to stand at the shop door. In the street, a queue of adults stood in line. Each put a coin in his hand and took a loaf. One old woman tried to buy two.

  ‘No, Mother. Only one loaf. There are not enough for everyone as it is.’

  He glanced over me. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now, go back inside, cut that bread into four, and return to me when you’ve eaten a quarter.’

  Bewildered, I stared at him, then spun around, raced into the shop and grabbed the stolen loaf.

  The first taste of fresh, crusty bread after the mouldy crusts I’d lived on was pure heaven.

  Why was the baker being so kind? I was confused, and a little afraid, but I had no choice but to trust him.

  Before half an hour passed, the baker had sold out and came back inside.

  ‘You will call me Mr Zacharia, Sofia,’ he told me. ‘Now get the broom and clean up outside the shop.’

  I did it as quickly and thoroughly as I could.

  By midday, all the rusks and pastries were sold. I had cleaned the floor, wiped the shelves and made him a cup of coffee, which he said was the worst he’d ever tasted. He gave me the remains of the stolen loaf, threw a stack of flour sacks under the counter and told me to sleep there. We would start work again at 1 a.m.

  I woke from a deep sleep, disorientated and afraid when the shop light went on.

  ‘Come on, you little ragamuffin, get yourself onto your feet, we’ve work to do,’ he ordered.

  I jumped up. ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Go and scrub your hands up to your elbows.’

  I smoothed down the crumpled shirt and rolled the sleeves up again. After following him into the back, I drank lots of cold water and finished off the small piece of loaf saved for breakfast.

  I was exhausted by midday. I had learned how to turn the mixing bowl while he hefted a sack of flour, buckets of warm water and yeast into it. My arms were on fire by the time the dough was ready to knead. Mr Zacharia pulled off chunks of dough, threw them on the scale and made sure they were exactly half a kilo.

  ‘I can do that, sir,’ I said, thinking it was easy. I dived into the bowl and grabbed a sizeable lump of dough, but it seemed to come alive and stick to my hands and arms. The more I tried to pull it off and make it into a round chunk, the more glutinous it got until I was tangled up to my elbows in a terrible mess of stringy, sticky dough. To make it worse, I needed to pee-pee so badly I was doing the knock-kneed desperate dance.

  Mr Zacharia roared with laughter. ‘What’s the matter with you, girl?’ he boomed.

  ‘I need the closet, sir. I drank too much water.’

  He helped me out of the elastic dough, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘Go on then,
girl. I don’t want pee-pee on my floor!’

  When I returned, he said I should wash my hands and arms, then dip them up to my elbows in a flour bag, so the bread wouldn’t stick to me. Slowly but surely, I learned to do as he showed me. Later that day, one of his customers brought a bag of clothes. I rummaged through them, excited at first, but then disappointed to realise they were boy’s things. Nevertheless, the trousers, shirts, socks and underwear fitted, and I no longer had to wear the cursed nappy.

  *

  ‘Your mother was a wonderful singer, Sofia,’ Mr Zacharia said one morning.

  I threw a lump of dough onto the scale, pleased to see it was exactly half a kilo.

  ‘I know. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Don’t you sing? I’ll bet your mother always thought you would.’

  I considered his words for a moment. Mama had taught me scales, and we often practiced together.

  ‘I haven’t wanted to sing since that day, Mr Zacharia. It makes me too sad. Her last song was in English. She said it was very special, but I’m not sure what it was about. I learned the melody with her, but not the meaning. All I know is the last word means “songs”.’ I closed my eyes as I remembered that terrible moment. ‘I was standing up at the back of the theatre waving my hankie. She reached out her arms to me and sang that last word and that was when it happened.’ I sighed and cut off another chunk of dough.

  Mr Zacharia kneaded two loaves at a time, pushing with the heel of his hand, then pulling it over with his fingers. His biceps bulged rhythmically as he plodded through the work. I was reminded of the tortoise Apollo again, and wondered if Mr Zacharia ever walked around the garden eating lettuce.

  ‘Let me hear it then,’ he said without looking up. ‘I’ll translate it into Greek for you.’

  For a horrible moment, I couldn’t remember the start. I stared at Mr Zacharia as panic built in my chest. I couldn’t let Mama down; she might be watching me, might be disappointed in me. My tears were rising. I pressed my fingers into the dough ball and closed my eyes to try and recall the song. There she was, in my mind: my Mama, as if she had been waiting since that day, in her beautiful black gown and red lipstick, stepping into the cone of light on the stage. All the love she had for me seemed to wash through my body.

  I sang the first few lines and Mr Zacharia translated them. I felt as though my mother was talking to me. After swallowing hard, I continued, and so did he. My tears brimmed and spilled over, but in hardly more than a whisper, I struggled on to the end of the song:

  Angels, wings give you flight,

  Every star-spangled night.

  My love, you are life’s sweetest songs.

  *

  After midnight, when Mr Zacharia let himself back into the shop, he called me.

  ‘Sofia, come out here for a moment.’

  Sleepy-eyed, I scrambled off my flour-sack bed and hurried to the shop doorway. As I stepped onto the pavement, he pointed to the Acropolis that rose over the city. In the night sky, lighting the pillars of the Parthenon with a yellow glow, was the largest full moon I had ever seen.

  Φτερά Αγγέλων σας δίνουν πτήση – Angels, wings give you flight.

  Κάθε νύχτα με αστέρι – Every star-spangled night.

  Αγάπη Μου, είσαι τα πιο γλυκά τραγούδια της ζωής. – My love, you are life’s sweetest songs.

  I sang softly, raising my arms towards the moon, tears rolling down my face.

  CHAPTER 13

  MEGAN

  Manchester, present day.

  MEGAN HURRIED THROUGH THE CITY towards the passport office. Queuing for a shower at Centrepoint had made her late for the appointment. She turned into Portland Street, breathless, the perspiration on her face cold in the breeze. She ran around the corner to the front of the building, came to a halt and backtracked.

  Emily raced across the pavement – and behind her, was her mother! They disappeared into the passport office.

  What was Emily doing with her mum? First, she’d robbed her and now this. Why was her mother in Manchester? What were they doing at the passport office? Were they looking for her? She ducked back and peered around the corner of the building, her cheek pressed against the cold grey cement.

  Spots of rain fell from a thunderous sky. Megan wanted to stay and watch for her mother coming out of the building. If she followed them, perhaps she would work out what was going on. She’d bet Emily would nick her mother’s handbag at the first opportunity.

  Megan had to keep her passport interview. Joyce at Centrepoint had gone to a lot of trouble to get it. Now what was she supposed to do? A small part of her ached for her mother, but she shoved that pain aside. She couldn’t face a confrontation until she understood the situation. She hurried across the road to shelter under the Tourist Information Centre’s overhang.

  Megan watched the passport building for nearly an hour. They still hadn’t emerged. Rain splattered the pavement.

  ‘You waiting for somebody, love?’

  Megan saw a dowdy middle-aged woman halfway out of the Information Centre.

  ‘Come inside, before you get soaked,’ the woman said.

  Megan wondered what she wanted. Everybody wanted something. Still, she was cold, hungry and wet, so she stepped inside the empty, glass-walled office.

  ‘I’m making a cuppa,’ the woman said. ‘Want one?’

  Megan nodded, stood by the window and stared across the road. A procession of buses blocked her view. Perhaps she had missed them.

  The woman brought a mug of tea and a packet of ginger biscuits around the counter.

  ‘Here, help yourself.’

  She put the biscuits on a small table of brochures at the corner of the window.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Megan, reaching for a biscuit, still gazing at the building across the road.

  ‘Boyfriend, is it?’

  ‘Mind . . .’ Megan stopped herself from a rebuff. ‘No, it’s my mum.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  How could she ‘see’, Megan thought. She glanced at the woman, who had come to sit near the window.

  ‘You don’t recognise me, do you? I’m Pam. I volunteer at Centrepoint. I’ve seen you in there, haven’t I?’

  Megan blinked at her. ‘I . . . Sorry . . .’ Then she wondered what she was apologising for. ‘It’s my mum . . .’ she said again, jerking her head in the direction of Westminster House.

  Pam smiled, though her eyes were sad. ‘It’s a difficult step. I understand. But it will only get harder, love.’ She smiled softly. ‘You’ll walk towards her when you’re ready. When you find the courage.’

  Megan sighed, thinking she was in for a lecture.

  But the woman dropped the subject and chatted instead about her kids, and how worried she was about one of her boys who’d sagged school and was giving her trouble.

  ‘He’s in with a bad lot,’ she said. ‘Thinks we don’t care. It breaks my heart. He says he hates me, but I’m at my wits’ end.’

  Megan’s eyes swivelled back to the building – and then, quite suddenly, they were there. Her mother and Emily stood in the entrance. She gasped, slapped her hand over her mouth. Mum and Emily side by side. She squinted with a pang of jealousy. Emily was in her place.

  Her mother seemed older, tired. Megan watched her peer up and down the street. Emily came to the kerb and whistled a taxi, but they were all occupied. They started to walk away. Megan wondered if she should follow them or go and see the passport woman.

  ‘Thanks for the tea,’ she said to Pam. ‘Got to go.’

  ‘Wait!’ Pam called as Megan yanked the door open. ‘Take the biscuits.’ She held them out.

  Megan hesitated, snatched the packet and faltered again.

  ‘Listen to him . . . your son,’ she said to Pam. ‘Really listen.’

  Their eyes met.

  Pam nodded. ‘I will. Thanks. Good luck. Don’t lose her again, love.’

  Megan bo
lted through the door and trotted up the damp street, careful to keep out of sight.

  She ate the entire packet of biscuits as she followed her mother and Emily across the city, around all Megan’s juggling haunts. She lost them when they boarded a city bus, a number 71. It went past Centrepoint.

  That was it then. They really were looking for her. Emily was helping her mum to find her, which meant – well, it meant her mother wanted her. It meant her mother missed her.

  Except, Megan didn’t want to be found. She didn’t want the trouble, didn’t want to go back and face the truth.

  She sighed, lost in her thoughts for a moment.

  What would happen, after all, if she ran up to her mum now? Would she be furious? Push her away and yell at her the way she did at Dad sometimes? She shouldn’t have lied to her mother. She should have stayed away from drugs, from cigarettes, from booze. Maybe stayed away from Simon, too. What she’d done was unforgivable. Having a daughter like Megan could ruin her mum’s career, and her dad’s. Mum might be forced to make an example of her daughter, or else lose her job as a lawyer and magistrate.

  And then there was Dad. What would she do if her mum asked her why she’d run away? She’d have to tell her about Dad, about that party, about the woman with her arms around him.

  No, she couldn’t do it. Best to play safe, stick to the original plan. She would go to Crete, find Granny Anna, tell her everything and take it from there. Her grandmother would help Megan decide what she should do.

  At least she had a chance to juggle at the station while her mum and Emily were out of the way. Commuters going home often had spare change, and besides, Megan needed to juggle.

  *

  Two hours later, with an extra tenner in her pocket and the rush hour over, Megan realised she was starving. She headed for the nearest chip shop, remembering the family tradition of a chip shop takeaway for supper every Friday. They each had their favourite. Granny Anna, fishcakes and mushy peas. Mum, the whole chippy dinner. Dad, chips, sausage and curry sauce. Josh, hot dog. Megan, burger and chip bap. They would put the kitchen TV on, and all try to answer questions in their favourite quiz programme while they ate, her mum frowning when Megan and Josh overdosed on the ketchup. The blue dolphin salt-shaker that said I  CRETE. She stopped in her tracks, wilting with sadness for those lost Fridays. Would it, could it, ever be the same again? Was her regular chair, to the right of her mum’s, empty at the kitchen table, or had they moved it away? How she wished Granny Anna hadn’t gone back to Greece, because at that moment, more than anything, Megan longed to go home.