When, after two hours in which I’d cuddled and played with both children, she returned, I still hadn’t heard from James. I went back to the villa we were using until our new place was habitable and decided I was not going to waste my evening wondering when he might eventually turn up; I would drive down to the Mill à la Mer and see if Marian was there.
The beachside shop closed earlier, now that the season was over. No more long, drawn-out days when they had to remain open until the last roasted tourist walked off the beach and the sun was beginning to dip behind the hillside church. I climbed the long flight of stone steps from the beach terrace to the upper levels of the shop, where the women lived and from where I could hear the murmur of their voices and the crunch of a knife on a chopping board.
Inge was sitting back in a chair, smoking as usual; Marian was slicing into a crisp lettuce. ‘Darling,’ Inge said. ‘Come and join us. How wonderful to see you.’
Marian looked up from her preparations. Her eyes were no longer red, but she looked very tired. ‘Hello again,’ she said. ‘How was the rest of your day?’
‘You don’t want to know. I haven’t seen James since lunchtime. I just thought I’d drop in and ask how you were. I got the impression you weren’t too happy when we left you today. Was anything the matter?’
Marian rolled her eyes at me then looked at Inge, who spoke on her behalf, ‘The poor girl had a nasty shock today.’
‘It’s nothing. Don’t make something of it. It was just an unfortunate accident, that’s all.’ Marian was shaking her head, then glanced at me. ‘Are you staying? There’s enough for all of us. It’s just baked pasta with meatballs.’
‘I’d love to, if that’s all right.’ I sat down at the table and Marian slid a tumbler and a bottle of wine towards me. ‘But what happened? Do you mind talking about it again?’
‘Of course she doesn’t mind,’ Inge said. ‘It will do her good to tell you everything.’
Marian sprinkled cheese over the pasta, put the large dish in the oven, then sat down at the bare table and poured glasses of red wine for herself and Inge. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘It’s really nothing, just a cat that’s died, that’s all.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘It’s always so sad losing a pet.’
‘No, she wasn’t really a pet. But what’s happened is rather odd.’ She sipped her drink then continued. ‘You know what Greek cats are like – scrawny, riddled with parasites, constantly hungry. Most people here don’t look after them, but they manage to survive, hunting vermin, pestering visitors for scraps.’
‘Like all the cats that hang around the tavernas,’ I said. ‘They’re all very well fed when the tourists take pity on them.’
She nodded. ‘She was a shy little tortoiseshell. I don’t know how long she’d been coming to our shop in the mountains, but gradually she became friendly and I’d leave her food and milk.’ She shrugged and gave a little smile. ‘Yes, I know, she was meant to be catching mice, but she looked so thin, I felt sorry for her. I even gave her a name – Tabitha. Then I realised she was pregnant and she had her kittens in one of the outhouses about eight weeks ago. Two ginger and two black and white. Such pretty things, and I’ve been leaving extra food out for all of them.
‘Then this morning when I checked the dishes, the food had gone but none of the cats were around. They’re usually always there to greet me in the mornings, but I had things to get on with and I knew you were coming over later, so I didn’t think too much of it. Then, after you and James arrived, while you were browsing inside, I went round the outhouses and found the kittens sleeping in a crate in a shed at the back of the barn. Mum was still nowhere to be seen, so I left the kittens food and water and got on with sorting out the urns that came yesterday.’
She turned to Inge at this point. ‘I’d tried grouping the urns around the courtyard in order of size, then decided they look better scattered about in random groups.’
‘Yes, my darling,’ Inge said. ‘I’m sure it all looks splendid. Now get back to the rest of your story.’
Marian sipped her wine, then continued. ‘It was one of those mornings when there were a few visitors roaming the village and coming to browse. And that’s when it happened. A white-haired couple came up to me and said, “Excuse me, but did you know there was a cat in your fountain?” They were part of the group that was milling around, all coach party types, you know the sort, here to do the main tourist sights. Then they said, “We thought you ought to know. We think it’s dead.” So I rushed over to the fountain and there she was in the water. I thought there might be a sign of life, so I felt her wet chest and her limp pink paws. There was a little trail of blood oozing from her nose. But it was no good.’
Marian paused for a moment and I could see how shaken she still was by what she had seen. Then she continued, ‘And then the stupid woman who’d called me over said the cat must have been thirsty. And her husband, if it was her husband, told me I should cover the water in case it happened again. Stupid people.’
‘They weren’t to blame, darling,’ Inge said. ‘They didn’t know her, that’s all.’
‘Then I watched them walk away and I was just standing there with a totally wet shirt, water dripping from the body down to my feet. I couldn’t understand how it had happened. Didn’t I leave the cats enough water?
‘I left her in a box in the barn and once you’d all gone, I realised I had to bury her quickly. So I carried her round to the back of the barn, wondering how was I going to dig a hole. There were no tools, no spade, and no pickaxe to break the rocky ground. It’s all boulders and scrubby gorse round there, no soft earth. So in the end I laid the body on the ground and pushed one of the larger stones out of the way. It was really heavy, but I managed to roll it aside and the earth was damper and softer underneath.’
Marian paused again and took a gulp from her glass. ‘I had to scrape away at the grit and dirt with my bare hands, till it was large enough for her.’ I glanced at her hands clasping the chunky glass tumbler. The nails were torn and grimy, her knuckles grazed.
‘I picked some wild oregano and lavender, crushed the leaves and laid them over her.’ She brushed her tears away with her fist and sniffed loudly. ‘And when I’d finished, I made her a promise. I promised to look after her babies and told her to go to sleep. I scooped the earth over her body and gently replaced the stone. I didn’t want to crush her. And then, as I got up, I thought I saw a movement beyond the barn, where the visitors park their cars. There was a bearded man watching me. I had the feeling he’d been watching the whole thing all along. And I’m not sure, but I think I’ve seen him before.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
October 2006
James
It was late when I returned to the villa after that long afternoon with Greg and Dimitri, but Amber wasn’t there. I assumed she was still with Ben and Eleni and would maybe eat with them, but I was hungry, even though I’d eaten plenty at lunchtime. So I looked through our supplies and decided to make a mushroom and butternut squash frittata. It takes longer to cook than an omelette, as the squash has to be peeled and roasted, but it’s much more interesting, especially if you add a dash of chilli and cumin to the roasting dish.
I was just starting to peel the squash when my phone rang. I assumed it would be Amber, but it was Greg. He sounded drunk and shouted, ‘Hey, I just did it. I got the crap in the pool!’ His laugh was loud and then it was distant, with clattering noises and muffled words. ‘Dropped the bloody phone,’ he spluttered. ‘Bullseye!’
‘Brilliant,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘You’ll definitely be on form by next summer. But they’ll be draining the pool for the winter soon, won’t they?’
‘Yeah, probably. Shame, I’ll have to keep my hand in some other way though.’
‘You do that, mate. Gotta be ready for the start of the season, eh?’ There was no response. Whether he’d dropped the phone again, lost reception or fallen into a drunken stupor I could
n’t tell, but there was silence. I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I prepared my supper.
Greg was a couldn’t-care-less, fuck-you, one-off individual and I couldn’t help but find him highly entertaining. I could see that his mischief-making could be dangerous, but that was part of his charm for me. And when it came to talking money, he was deadly serious.
We hadn’t exactly talked figures after Amber had left, but it would have been clear to Dimitri that Greg was an equal in the enterprise. Handing the project over to a site manager, even someone clearly as experienced as Dimitri, was going to add to our costs in the short term, even though it might save us money in the end, but Greg was totally in favour of the idea. ‘You can’t be there on site yourself, all the time,’ he kept saying. ‘And just think what an advantage you’ll have over the workforce with Dimitri cracking the whip. He’s a real taskmaster, aren’t you, Dimitri?’
And Dimitri had nodded with a slight smile and simply said, ‘I will be very attentive. It is a great responsibility and I am honoured that you think I am worthy of such a task.’
‘Don’t be so damned modest, man,’ Greg said. ‘You could do it with your hands tied and your eyes shut.’
‘But I will maybe keep my eyes open,’ Dimitri said. ‘Keep them plucked, don’t you say?’
Greg couldn’t stop laughing at this. ‘Very good,’ he chuckled. ‘Here’s to a productive partnership. Tell you what, let’s go back to Adonis and drink to a successful project.’
Back at the restaurant, Greg’s glass had clanked against mine and red wine splashed over the tablecloth. ‘Here’s to…’ He’d paused for a second. ‘What the hell are you calling the place?’
‘We haven’t actually decided yet. Amber and I have had a few thoughts, obviously, but nothing’s clicked with us so far.’ I’d given a small embarrassed laugh. ‘One idea we had, well, it sounds totally stupid now, was to combine our names and call it Jamboree.’
Greg had almost choked on his drink, then spluttered and said, ‘Definitely not. Sounds more like a bloody kids’ nursery, not a fine-dining establishment.’
‘Yeah, I know. Not right at all, is it?’
‘Name, we’ve got to have a name,’ shouted Greg, slamming his glass on the table. ‘We’ve got to make that a priority. Come on, everyone, let’s get thinking.’ He was quiet only for a second, then he’d thumped the table again, saying, ‘I know, we should all put our ideas into a hat and pick one.’
I laughed and said, ‘Who’s got the hat? You got one handy, Greg?’
He’d laughed too, and held up his empty hands. ‘Okay then, the bread basket will have to do.’ He tipped the remaining pieces of pitta bread out onto the table, then tore the paper napkin lining the basket into pieces. ‘Right, one name per slip, fold them up and put them in the basket.’
I think we were all laughing by this point, especially when Greg waved to Adonis and called him over to join in as well. ‘This isn’t exactly what you’d call a professional brainstorm,’ I said, ‘and I’m not guaranteeing we’ll go with whatever crap name you come up with. It’s bonkers, but come on, let’s do it.’
This was what I liked about Greg. It felt just like we were a group of kids secretly writing dirty jokes or composing coded messages. It reminded me of messing about in a den in the woods with my childhood mates in the summer holidays, but here we were, four grown men, frowning, chewing our pens and scribbling on scraps of paper.
‘Right, all finished?’ Greg was the first to stop, then me, then Dimitri and lastly, Adonis, who contributed only one folded slip of paper. Greg stirred the little pile with his finger and then held the basket out to me. ‘Go on, pick one.’
I’d hesitated, sniggered, then rummaged through the pile and picked out one slip from the bottom of the basket. I unfolded it slowly and stared at the writing, utterly baffled by the Greek characters. Then I held it up so the others could see it.
Greg was the first to speak. ‘You Greek bastard,’ he’d said, laughing and leaning to one side to clap Adonis on the back. ‘You stupid Greek bastard.’
‘Why, what does it say?’
‘He’s written Mama’s Kitchen! Fucking idiot!’
We were all laughing, Adonis included, and even more when he’d said, ‘My mama, she is the best. I cannot think of a better name. There is no one like her.’
‘Of course there isn’t, you daft bugger.’ Greg had wiped the tears from his eyes and pulled out a large handkerchief to mop his brow. ‘James, have another go. He only did one, so the rest should make more sense. Bloody Mama’s Kitchen, I ask you.’
I’d picked another slip and opened it. ‘No, this one isn’t right either. It’s one of mine.’
‘Well, tell us then,’ Greg said. ‘Let’s hear it, whatever it is.’
‘Swallows Rest.’ My words were met with silence and I’d grimaced. ‘Amber and I had played around with that one because we saw the swallows nesting there when we first found the place. But I know it’s not right. Sounds like a stupid pun, totally inappropriate for a high-end restaurant. No, it sounds even worse now I say it and see it written down.’
‘Chuck it,’ said Greg. ‘Try again.’
So I did, rejecting one after another of the slips we’d written until I unfolded the final one. ‘Mountain Thyme. I like it. Is that yours?’ I’d looked across at Greg, who shook his head and pointed at Dimitri, who was holding up his index finger and smiling. ‘I really like it. There’s something so right about that name.’
‘Told you he was our man,’ said Greg, tossing back the last of his wine.
Chapter Twenty-Five
9 June 1944
Rebekka steps out of the shop doorway and looks along the high-sided alleyway, still in shade even though the sun is nearly at its height. No longer do bright strands of freshly washed clothes and sheets flutter overhead like carnival bunting, and the caged birds that once trilled from balconies have all been set free, unlike the people. All around her, with their heads lowered, some faces wet with tears, the residents of the Evraiki – dark-haired children, women wrapped in black scarves, men in dark suits – are creeping like a trail of black ants from every crevice of the Jewish quarter.
German soldiers stand with ready guns slung across their bodies at the corners of the streets as the entire community streams into the main square of Corfu Town. Most of the people follow this migration obediently, too afraid to break away from their families, but now and then a young man or boy darts into a dark passage and in seconds has vanished.
‘Good luck to them,’ mutters Papa. ‘The Germans daren’t enter the Campiello.’ Rebekka wishes she could run after them and hide there. Even the Italians never dared to penetrate that dense warren of alleyways where the lurking Resistance conspired and deadly steel knives were keenly sharpened. She overhears muttered conversations all around her. ‘Josef, look, your friends have escaped, go now, go quickly,’ and ‘No, Mama, I can’t leave you and the others.’ The ties of the Jewish family are hard to break as she knows only too well.
She slips a hand through her mother’s arm as they take one sorrowful step after another towards the Kato Plateia, the square where the horse-drawn carriages used to wait, where the Germans now lounge in the cafes of the Liston Terrace and where row upon row of frightened people are ordered to line up in groups of five in the harsh, scorching sun. She longs to ask after her little sisters, but she is afraid to speak their names in case someone overhears their conversation and thinks there would be some advantage to be had in revealing that Here, look, over here, this family is incomplete – there may still be hidden children to flush out.
Looking back towards the Evraiki, she can see soldiers searching the empty houses. Soon the air is filled with a haze, like a cloud of drifting dandelion seeds. It is puzzling until she notices that they are dragging mattresses out onto the streets, slashing them with knives so the cobbles are covered with tufts of white kapok. And she realises the men are ransacking the homes where the families lived and
loved for hidden valuables. We are poor people, she thinks, but they want to take everything from us. She clutches her mother’s arm tight, hoping she won’t turn back to see the home she once proudly kept so neat and clean defiled by the looting soldiers.
Four long tiring hours they stand in the fierce sun, some fainting, some crying, while the Germans bark orders in harsh voices. To amuse themselves, the soldiers direct a group of men to squat and jump like frogs, their hands held above their heads. Rebekka wants to look away, horrified that her people are being ridiculed, but she cannot stop watching the humiliation. Then, above the general shouting and murmuring, above the lines of frightened people, there comes a rallying cry. Startled, Rebekka grabs Papa’s hand. He strains to hear the words. ‘It’s the Resistance. They’re trying to help us. They’re calling for our people to fight back and run.’
‘Should we go, Papa?’ Rebekka is afraid, but more afraid of the unknown. Then they hear shots. ‘Are the Germans shooting them, Papa?’
He is stretching his neck to see above the crowd. ‘No, it’s not the Germans. Oh, I can’t believe it! It’s one of ours. It’s Patrikios. He’s the right-hand man of the police chief, Dedopoulos. He’s grabbed one of the German machine guns and turned on our people. Now no one will be able to escape, and the Germans will be even more vigilant than before.’
Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 9
