James was frowning. ‘So it’s totally empty up here in the winter months. At least the resorts on the coast still have a few visitors then.’
‘But that is a good time for us too. We reclaim it for ourselves. People can relax when the visitors go home after the summer. We walk and cycle, hunt and shoot, and we can enjoy the beauty for ourselves. And my friend,’ he patted James’s shoulder, ‘if you can become like a Kerkyran and adapt to the seasons, then you will be successful always.’
‘Sounds like you still have to make the most of the tourist season though,’ said James. ‘Right, we’d better go and look at these properties.’ He stood up and waited for me to follow.
I tried to stand, putting weight on my injured foot, and James heard the sound I made as I winced.
‘Oh really, Amber. We’ve come all this way specially. We don’t get another day off for a week.’
‘It’s all right. You go ahead, I’ll follow. I don’t want to hold you up.’
‘Perhaps you will permit me?’ Dimitri offered his arm again in support.
‘Thank you, but I’ll be fine. You go with James and show him round. I’ll just take my time.’
The men set out along the rough cobbled street, Dimitri gesturing at buildings on either side as they went. I sat down again and watched them. James, with his bare legs, rubber flip flops and cap, looked so juvenile compared with Dimitri in his well-washed but clean shirt and trousers. I sipped a little more water and looked around me. Large white butterflies were flitting over the oleander and I could hear a cockerel calling in the distance. It really was very peaceful, and I began to think we had found paradise.
Chapter Fourteen
8 June 1944
Agata hears their cries early in the morning. ‘Mama, Papa,’ they call over and over. She runs upstairs to the little room where she had tucked the two comatose children into bed the night before, when Georgiou returned with his secret cargo. The girls had hardly stirred in their drugged sleep and she had laid them down back to back, so each would be comforted by the solid warmth of the other.
‘Shh, don’t cry, my little ones. You are safe here with us.’ She kneels down by the bed so they won’t feel threatened by this strange woman. The little girls are sitting up, their eyes fearful, cheeks stained with tears. They are pale from their months of seclusion; hidden from prying eyes and the tally of the roll call since the Germans invaded last September.
‘Where’s Mama?’ the eldest says. But the younger child has no words to express her bewilderment, she just wails and rubs her eyes with her little fists.
‘You are Matilde, are you not?’ The older girl nods. ‘And your little sister is Anna?’ They both nod and their crying ceases. ‘Your mama and papa have had to leave Corfu for a time. They have gone away to work and they have asked me to look after you here until they return. You are going to live here with me and my husband, Georgiou, and grow big and strong. We shall feed you well and your parents will be so pleased to see how much you have grown when they come back.’
Matilde manages a small smile. ‘Has Rebekka gone with them as well?’
‘Yes, she has, my dear. Your sister is a big strong girl and old enough to work hard.’ Agata tries to return the child’s smile. She knows Rebekka is not yet fourteen, not yet fully grown, not yet a woman. God willing she will survive and come to no harm.
And how old are these little children? Five and three? What will they be able to remember of their parents, their sister and the life they once had before they were smuggled away in the night?
‘Bread,’ demands Anna. ‘Hungry.’
‘Of course you are, little one. You can’t have eaten properly for ages. Come with me and you shall both have bread, milk and peaches for your breakfast.’
As both girls scramble out of the bed Agata realises the little one’s dress is wet and there is a large damp patch on the mattress. ‘Here,’ she says, holding out her hand, ‘let’s take off those wet things and get you clean and dry.’ She pours water into the basin on the side table, rinses out a cloth and mops both the children clean. They are so thin; every rib is visible beneath their translucent skin after their poor diet this last year. Then she dresses them in fresh clothes from the small bundle that arrived with them the night before. They are not the babies she once hoped to have, whose tiny folded garments will never leave the scented drawer she rarely opens, but they are children in need and she will protect them with her life and show them loving care.
‘Now you are both clean and ready to come and eat a good breakfast.’ They show they trust her by reaching up for her hands as she leads them down the stairs. Their little legs make for a slow descent, so Agata talks to them with every step. ‘When we’ve eaten you can go outside. It is safe here and you can play in the sunshine on the beach. And I’ll take you to see the chickens and we can see if they’ve laid any eggs yet today. And we’ll pick tomatoes in the garden.’ The children listen quietly to every word and then Matilde says, ‘Mama doesn’t allow us to play outside. We have to stay indoors all the time and be very quiet.’
‘I know, my dear. Your mama is very wise. But here you can play outside every day, as long as I can see you. And you can make as much noise as you like.’
Chapter Fifteen
August 2006
James
It was the swallows that convinced Amber this was the right place. Screeching, swooping, they dived under the tiles and into the ruined house. There, in the shadows, in a scooped bowl of hardened mud, were five gaping yellow mouths, awaiting the beakfuls of insects their parents were delivering every few minutes. With black eyes they gazed at Amber and she stared back in amusement.
‘I love it here,’ she said. ‘This is where we should live.’
I remember I laughed at her. ‘In this tumbledown hovel, in the middle of the island?’
She gripped my hand. ‘Maybe not this particular hovel, but somewhere in this lovely old village. Just imagine how we could bring it back to life.’
We had been back to the village several times since our first visit. Amber remembered to wear more sensible shoes and we explored the ruins, the few houses still standing, the remains of barns and the overgrown gardens and orchards.
She looked at me with her dark eyes and then turned to look again at the baby swallows, tucked side by side, tight in their cot of daub. ‘It feels so right,’ she said. ‘Up here in the hills, I feel we’re closer to the heart of the real Corfu and its past. It’s not like the crowded beaches with their tacky bars or the marinas with the expensive yachts. It seems more earthy and genuine somehow.’
I put my arm around her and kissed the springy curls on the top of her head. Then we started walking again along the partly cobbled path where wildflowers and grasses grew among the warm stones. The once well populated village had been abandoned for many years, but recently, as more tourists hired cars and explored the island’s interior, a handful of Kerkyrans had returned and there were now a couple of tavernas and a souvenir shop in the previously derelict houses. Some of the old buildings lacked floors and roofs, but others were largely intact and I was beginning to see that these could, with a lot of work, become habitable again.
‘It could be right for us here, couldn’t it?’ She squeezed my hand. We stopped outside one of the less dilapidated of the crumbling houses. The heavy wooden door had flaking green paint, but there was still a roof and stairs. Slatted shutters were bolted over the lower windows and inside was a rough table, splattered with bird droppings, in front of the open fireplace. Outside, the ground was overgrown, but we could just see the outline of paving slabs marking the remains of a terrace and upright beams which had once supported a healthy vine, now wizened and unwatered.
I still had my doubts about the location, so far away from the main mass of tourists, but Amber’s conviction was beginning to persuade me. I waved my hand over the hidden stones and could picture it transformed. ‘I suppose this would be the main area for the restaurant. We’d have t
ables inside as well, of course, but I’m sure we’d have many days, even out of season, when everyone could eat outside. And it’s big enough for us to do bed and breakfast as well.’ I looked up the stairs. ‘There must be at least five rooms up there.’
‘We might not want to do bed and breakfast in the height of summer though,’ Amber frowned. ‘We’d be busy enough running the restaurant. But I know there are lots of walkers and cyclists in the spring when the flowers are at their best and then again in the autumn, so we could easily do rooms then.’
‘But what about the winter, when the visitors have gone? It might seem very bleak up here at that time of year.’
She giggled and nudged me with her elbow. ‘Then we’ll have time for the repairs, making the garden wonderful and sitting by the fire,’ she nudged me again, ‘or on a rug in front of it.’ She took a few steps across to the edge of the camouflaged terrace and gazed down at the land below, then across to the view of the hills beyond. ‘If this belongs to this house too then we’ll be able to grow all the melons, courgettes and tomatoes we need. And in the summer we’ll have that astonishing blue morning glory that grows everywhere here, climbing all over fences and the pergola.’
‘Morning glory and a vine. We’ve got to have a vine.’
‘Of course we have,’ she said, laughing again. ‘We’d never be accepted around here if we didn’t have a vine. And look, see down there? We’ve got lemon trees and olives too.’
Then she took my hand and we stood watching the scrubby bleached pasture around the village, where an old man was leading his sheep home for milking. As they trotted along the narrow path their bells tinkled with different tones.
‘It’s like a dream. London seems a lifetime away.’
‘Only a few months, but another life. Another time.’ I kissed her head. ‘We can start again now.’ I continued looking around the empty house. The walls were sound, the floors were intact, as was the staircase, and the rooms were spacious. There were even steps leading down to a cellar, which smelt dry and still had some dusty barrels in a corner.
‘Maybe we should ask that Dimitri Barberis to look at this one with us. It would help to have a local give us an idea of the renovation costs. You’ve still got his card, haven’t you?’
My arms slipped from her shoulders. ‘I’m not sure about him. He was quite pushy about the farmhouse.’ I remembered our first expedition to the village and the tour of the property on its outskirts. Dimitri had sung its praises till I’d felt uncomfortably pressured and had insisted on returning to the cafe to check on Amber. I found she had not moved, staying in the shade with her sore foot, and had used this as an excuse to leave promptly.
‘Oh, come on. I thought he seemed really helpful. He’d have been happy to take us to lots of places we could never have found on our own. And though in the end we’ve found it for ourselves, it would still be worth having a second opinion.’
‘Okay, but I think I’ll ask Ben who he uses to work on the villas as well. It makes sense to get more than one quote.’
‘Sure. But you like this one, don’t you?’ She was excited. Smiling at me. Keen for me to agree.
‘I do. But just remember one swallow, or even half dozen, doesn’t make a summer. I’m not sure how that’s appropriate, but I think it means just because you’ve been captivated by those baby birds, that doesn’t mean that this is the place.’ I took her arm and tried to turn her towards the street.
‘There were five. Babies, I mean. Then two parents as well. That’s seven. My lucky number.’
‘Secret seven.’
‘Secret?’
‘Like magpies? You know, one for sorrow, two for joy, seven for a secret never to be told.’
Amber glanced at the old fireplace and the steps leading to the cellar below. ‘I expect there are secrets here too. What’s eight?’
I laughed. ‘Eight for a wish and nine for a kiss!’ I lunged at her and caught her round the waist. She twisted away from me, squealing with delight, then clasped my hand and pulled me outside into the bright sun.
‘How come you know all that nonsense, anyway?’
‘My nanny used to sing to me and tell me all those old rhymes. I’m full of such rubbish.’ I laughed again and began to sing, ‘You shall have a fishy,’
‘On a little dishy,’ she responded, and then we both sang, swinging our hands together as we walked along the old stones in the late afternoon sun, ‘You shall have a fishy when the boat comes in.’
It must have sounded strange to the man, watching unbeknownst to us in the shadows of the ruined house nearby; the man who was taking a close interest in our pleasure.
Chapter Sixteen
8 June 1944
Late in the day, Rebekka watches the swallows returning to their night-time roosts in the town. Why must we leave our homes tomorrow, she thinks, while the swallows are allowed to stay. Every year, they come back to Corfu to mate, build their nests and feed their young, but we cannot stay because of who we are. And today, we were not even allowed to walk through our own streets. The Germans made us prisoners in our own homes.
She leans out of her bedroom window at the very top of the house and watches the birds swirling above the roofs as the sun fades in the sky. The homes in the Evraiki are so close to each other, she feels she could almost touch the green shutters of the house across the alleyway. Lower and closer the swallows dive, screeching their greetings to one another. By day they fly high in the air, but come the evening they gather over the terracotta-roofed houses of the town, crying and swooping, finding their way back to their homes for the night.
Rebekka tilts her head to see their acrobatics. Now and then one ducks beneath a gutter, another flits through a broken roof tile. There must be hundreds overhead, circling and dipping, never colliding, calling to their mates, their chicks and their neighbours.
I wish I could fly like them, Rebekka thinks. I wish I could hide in the tiniest gap in a roof then fly away with my children when the summer is over, knowing our homes will all be here when I return next year.
When the Germans bombarded the Italians in the autumn, many people and birds lost their homes. The Evraiki was badly damaged and the homeless have been reduced to sleeping in the damp tunnels of the Paleo Frourio, the Old Fortress. We were lucky, we still have our home and shop. But where did the swallows go, she wonders. What did they think when they returned this spring and found their old nests had been destroyed?
And the swallows have not had to part with their children, they still have mouths to feed, young ones to snuggle under their wings. Rebekka misses her little sisters. If they’d been here with her, they’d have played together and told stories.
Rebekka wonders if they, too, are watching the swallows come home tonight. Her throat aches with unshed tears as she thinks of the two girls, how she brushed their curly dark hair and sang to help them fall asleep. She hopes someone is singing to them and kissing them goodnight.
The sudden slamming of a neighbour’s window shutters across the alleyway disturbs her thoughts. It must be getting late. A sign that birds and people must rest and prepare for whatever will come tomorrow. She closes the shutters and the window, hoping the Nikokiris family will all return to their home one day, just as the swallows always will.
Chapter Seventeen
October 2006
Amber
James didn’t tell me Greg was coming with us until we were having breakfast. I was spooning thick Greek yogurt over sliced fresh peaches, as I did every morning, when he said, ‘Oh, by the way, I’ve asked Greg to meet us there.’
I was so surprised, I didn’t speak at first. I just looked at him. We were going to look at the old furniture at the Mill of the Mountains for the property we were restoring. ‘Why is he coming along?’
‘I thought it might be helpful, having a second opinion. He’s got an eye for style and he’s a good negotiator. Plus, people like Greg could be our target market if we want to develop a high-class, Michelin-
starred restaurant. Think of it as a kind of market research.’
I think I replied with a dismissive snort and then began to eat my breakfast.
On the drive along the coast we passed the turning to the bay where we had come across the Mill à la Mer, sister shop to the Mill of the Mountains. We’d discovered it on one of our many excursions to rented villas that first hot frantic summer. I think we’d been replacing beach towels and an umbrella that had been blown away in a seasonal storm, and then decided we’d earned a drink before heading on to another property up in the hills. As I sipped iced coffee and James had cold beer, we’d noticed the shaded interior of the cavernous shop opposite the cafe, so different to its neighbours with their novelty inflatables, sunglasses and plastic sandals. I remember holding my icy glass to my cheek so the condensation could cool my skin, as I stared at the enticing entrance through which I could just make out carpets, cushions, lanterns and pottery.
James had drained his beer glass and was standing up ready to get back to work before I had even half finished my drink. ‘I just want to take a quick look in that shop over there,’ I’d said, leaving my coffee and walking towards the Mill. I didn’t ask if he wanted to come, but he followed as soon as he’d paid the bill for our drinks.
Since that day, we’d returned many times, buying gifts for family back home and browsing through the goods, imagining how our own home was going to look. I loved the feel and the smell of all the textiles, impregnated with the scent of patchouli, and James exclaimed over the colours and patterns. As the shop was usually open until sunset, we often called in on our way back after a day of fretful holidaymakers’ complaints and petty problems. We’d stroke the intricately woven rugs and weigh the heavy glazed pottery in our hands, discussing which pieces would create the right atmosphere for our future home and for the business.
Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 6
