‘Well, I’m sure Greg will want to join us as well – he’s been full of praise for your husband’s wonderful cooking. Always coming home and telling me what an inspiring meal he’s had.’ She was weighing a towel in each colour in her hands, looking at them in turn. Then she said, ‘You know, I’m so pleased he met you two. It’s giving him such an interest. He loves helping to launch new businesses, and of course he’s got such valuable experience to share. And I hear you could be very busy in the future if this villa development goes ahead. Could be just what you two need up there.’
‘Villas? In our village?’
‘I think so, dear, or is it another village I’m thinking of? I’m sure I heard Greg talking about it to someone.’ She turned away to return one of the towels to the display stand, murmuring, ‘No perhaps I will get the blue after all. The charcoal’s really rather depressing.’
‘I must go,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get back. Call me when you want to make that booking.’
On the drive home I kept wondering about her remarks. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe she’d misheard. Her mind was rather full of her daughter and the towels, after all. But it was strange after that conversation with James the previous month. I couldn’t think of a way to ensure our lovely peaceful view remained unspoilt, but I did hope it would never be scarred by diggers and concrete mixers.
James was busy in the kitchen as usual when I returned, simmering a large pan of passata. I asked why he was making so much and he said it was a very useful base for many dishes, so he was going to freeze it in small quantities. And then when I said I thought he was meant to be cooking entirely from fresh produce, he gave me a filthy look, so I disappeared to the bedrooms with my new pillows. I’d already made up the beds and sent Lorna photos for the website, but I’d suddenly thought that some people might want extra pillows, so I’d decided to keep spare ones in the wardrobes. I stowed them away then stood by the windows, looking out across the valley. Maybe a sensitive upmarket development wouldn’t be so bad. At least it would be better than the wrong kind of building.
Then I thought I’d check on the website. Lorna had suggested some minor changes and we had a good selection of pictures of the completely finished interiors. I’d sent her all the photos I’d taken, thinking it was helpful to have a detached eye making the final selection. And she had chosen well. There was our terrace, not yet hung with vines, but with pots of thyme on the tables and shafts of sunlight striking the textured paving stones. The bedrooms looked fresh and peaceful, with pale-blue curtains matching the spring sky; the front of the restaurant seemed welcoming, with its bay trees and stone troughs of herbs and the images of James’s dishes looked enticing, promising succulence and flavour.
But there was an intriguing message from Lorna, too.
Thought I’d skip the pics with Mr Angry.
I couldn’t be bothered to look back at all the photographs I’d sent her, so I quickly typed: What do you mean? Are you talking about James? She’d suggested including a picture of us together, the proud and smiling proprietors, but I thought we’d both looked friendly and welcoming, certainly far from angry.
She was never far away from her iPhone or iPad, and her reply came back almost immediately: Not James. The guy who looks like Simon Cowell meets Antonio Banderas.
I couldn’t help laughing to myself. She’d got him spot on. I knew instantly that she meant Dimitri. But I couldn’t remember sending her any pictures of him. I was sure I hadn’t. Show me then, I typed.
It took her a bit longer to respond this time, but in minutes she’d sent them. There were three photographs of different aspects of the restaurant and premises, and I hadn’t noticed that Dimitri was in the background in all of them. And I certainly hadn’t noticed he was facing the camera and scowling.
Chapter Forty-Four
15 June 1944
As the sun reaches its height, Agata realises Georgiou has been gone for at least seven hours. He left just as the first misty glimmer of dawn appeared through the trees.
The girls played on the beach for a while in the morning, but once the heat was at its fiercest, Agata encouraged them to stay in the shade of the house. Their limbs, once so pale and translucent from months of hiding and poor diet, are now brushed with sepia and gold, but they do not yet have the tanned skin of island children who have been exposed to the harsh Greek sun since birth.
While Agata cuts then stitches the linen for their new dresses, Matilde and Anna play a game with shells and stones under the table. She can hear their voices and laughter, muffled slightly by the draped cloth she has spread across her work table to ensure the white dress fabric remains spotless. Seated at her work, in this cool, shady room, with its view of the calm sea, Agata feels contented and peaceful until she hears a shout. The cry of a male voice. She starts. It cannot be Georgiou, can it?
She stands up from her sewing and looks through the open doors towards the bay. And there, rising from the waves, is a man, dressed only in black swimming trunks, shaking the water from his dark blond hair.
Without even looking at the children, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on this figure striding through the water towards the beach, Agata says, ‘Girls. Go quickly, like I’ve told you. You must hide, right this minute.’
Matilde and Anna dart from their den in silence and scamper up the stairs. Agata can hear their bare feet slapping the stone steps as they run, but otherwise they make no sound at all.
She lays down her needlework and quickly folds it away. It would not do to let anyone see that she is making dresses for little girls when there are no children to be seen around the house. She moves towards the open doors and stands on the threshold, steadying herself by holding the doorframe. The man sees her as he reaches the sandy beach. He is tall and bronzed, like an Aryan Adonis, and brushes his hands over his slicked-back hair.
‘Gnädige Frau,’ he calls out. ‘Guten Morgen.’ He comes closer and she can see diamond droplets of water sparkling on his tanned, muscular frame. ‘Ich möchte ein Tasse Wasser trinken, Bitte.’ He gives a little bow and then smiles. ‘You must forgive me for this intrusion. I felt like a refreshing swim on this hot day and had no idea this beautiful bay was also your home.’
His gracious tone and manner persuades Agata that he is probably an officer, not a foot soldier, and it would be wisest to be courteous and offer him hospitality. She gestures to the table and chairs just inside the cool and shady house, but he chooses to sit on the bench outside in full sun.
He leans back against the wall and closes his eyes against the glare of the sun’s beams. Spreading his arms along the back of the bench, with his legs widely splayed, his firm flesh is offered to the fierce rays like a shoulder of lamb on a charcoal grill. And as he settles himself, Agata catches a glint of silver on the ring finger of his left hand.
In the kitchen, she sets out creamy fava, tapenade and some sliced tomatoes on a plate, with a piece of the flatbread she made at breakfast time. She pours him cold water, not wine. They have not had coffee for months, so she also boils water for mountain tea made with wild herbs.
Her movements are quiet and measured and all the while, as she prepares these simple refreshments, she listens. She holds her breath and listens for the sounds that might indicate that the German is curious about her home, that Georgiou is returning unaware of this unexpected visitor and, most importantly, for any hint of childish voices that would betray the hidden presence of the forbidden Jewish children.
He gives no hint, when she returns with the food and drink, that he might suspect anything untoward. Then, as she bends to set the tray down on the small table before him and he reaches for the water, she finds herself transfixed by his silver ring, the ring she had assumed might mean he was a respectable married man. But this is no ordinary wedding band; adorning the ornate design is a gruesome skull, and Agata tears her gaze away. She doesn’t understand its significance, but the ominous symbol chills her, despite the warmth of the midday sun.
Chapter Forty-Five
May 2007
Amber
Once we were open for business, it was more hectic than I could ever have imagined. Our rooms were fully booked during the Easter holidays and we had a steady flow of customers for lunch and dinner. Service ran smoothly on the whole, apart from the evening Pam and Greg arrived with their daughter Lavinia and her sons. James nearly lost his patience over Lavinia’s questions about his ingredients and special requests.
After the Easter break we only opened the restaurant on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, as these were the busiest days and the time off in the week gave James time to continue developing his menu. He said we could make as much in these three days as we could by opening all week.
Spring also brings many serious walkers to Corfu, particularly those interested in the flowers which suddenly burst open after the winter rains, smothering the hillsides with the deep blue of wild muscari and iris. There were so many ramblers calling by, even on the days when the restaurant was meant to be closed, that I began to wonder if we should rethink our opening hours and, after a bit of persuasion, James agreed we would open for lunch midweek with a limited set menu.
The second time we did this, a group of ramblers came in for lunch and one of them was keen to show me the photographs he had taken that morning. He said March and April were really the best months for spring flowers, but he’d found pink tulips and geraniums growing wild on his walk that day. Then I remember pointing to the tree below our terrace, thick with clusters of deep pink flowers, and saying, ‘Isn’t the peach blossom wonderful too? It’s everywhere at the moment.’
And he stared at me with a look of total surprise, saying, ‘But that isn’t a peach tree, my dear. That’s a Judas Tree.’ I’d never heard of it before and asked him why it had such a strange name, then he said, ‘Judas Iscariot hanged himself from such a tree, so the story goes. Legend has it that the tree originally had white flowers, but they turned pink and blushed with shame, because of his betrayal of Jesus.’
I remember how I gazed at the magenta clusters, then shuddered. It was no longer a fresh innocent symbol of spring and fruitfulness; it suddenly signified death and deception and I began noticing the trees everywhere on the hillsides, shameful reminders of that terrible sin.
Our full launch, the first week in May, was a huge success. James prepared ten dishes, including his rabbit stew and braised octopus. I concentrated on giving out leaflets and business cards, along with small sample bottles of the house olive oil James had finally selected, labelled with both the name of the producer and Mountain Thyme. Lorna had done such a good job on the website and promotional material that we’d asked her and her partner Rob to join us, and their online review resulted in several more bookings for both the restaurant and accommodation almost immediately.
I’d invited Inge and Marian as well; I felt so grateful to them for giving our premises such authentic character and showed them round all the finished rooms to see what they’d helped us to achieve. But they didn’t stay very long, as Inge tired very easily, so as they left I promised to visit very soon, before the summer season was fully underway. I was fascinated by Inge’s stories and wanted to talk to her at length again.
There are days in May and early June when rain still pelts the island and waves throw themselves onto the beachside tavernas, but before long all is hot and calm again. The day I went to the Mill was one of those stormy days, and I didn’t expect to find Inge stretched out in the sun; I knew she would be wrapped in a woollen shawl beside the stove, cigarette in hand. The beach shop wasn’t yet open for business and their summer help was not needed for several more weeks, so it felt like the souk was still slumbering in its winter hibernation when I arrived.
I’d made James make me some more churros from the batter he’d prepared that morning for the restaurant – I couldn’t expect Inge to always offer me homemade cake when I visited.
‘I don’t see why you have to keep going over there,’ he’d said. ‘We don’t need them; we’ve got all the furniture now.’ But he’d made me some churros all the same. They are so quick to make, and he’d made plenty of the batter.
‘How charming,’ Inge said, when I presented her with the little cinnamon sugared doughnuts and told her James had made them specially that morning. ‘You must thank James. He is so kind and generous. We shall eat them with hot chocolate.’ She reached for mugs and a chipped enamel saucepan to boil the milk. ‘Marian has eaten all of our cake. I tell her she will be eine Knödel if she eats any more.’
‘What does that mean? Knödel?’ I stumbled a little over my pronunciation.
‘I think you say “dumpling” in English. A great big dumpling.’ She laughed, an affectionate laugh of love for the woman who shared her life and was her almost constant companion.
I pictured Marian’s dimples, her pink cheeks and blonde hair. ‘Has she changed much over the years?’
Inge gave a hoarse laugh again. ‘No, she is still the lost girl I found in the harbour many years ago. Still the babe in the woods, you know. Has she told you how we met and how she came here?’
‘She did once,’ I said, remembering Marian telling me about their first meeting. I’d been backpacking around the islands and I was checking the ferry times at Corfu harbour when I noticed a beautiful blonde woman staring at me. And now we’ve been friends for over thirty years and lovers for nearly as long.
I sat while Inge poured the milk into the pan, and asked, ‘Marian came to help you one summer, many years ago, didn’t she?’
‘Ja, my student help had changed her mind that year. But as soon as Marian came here and saw my shop she fell in love with it. I sometimes think it was the Mill rather than me that convinced her to stay.’ She gave another little croaky laugh.
And again I could hear Marian’s words in my mind: When Inge unlocked the mesh shutters at the front of the Mill and waved me inside, I loved the place. It looked and smelt like a casbah, hung with caftans, rugs, lanterns and joss sticks.
‘People thought we were sisters then,’ Inge said, standing by the stove. ‘We looked so alike, even though I am ten years older than her. But now she looks much younger than me. I am fading.’
The milk was boiling, and I told Inge to sit while I made the hot chocolate. ‘Have you got help coming again this summer?’ Now that Inge was so frail, the women had gone back to having a student help them at the beach shop during the busy season.
‘Josie is coming back to us this year. It is not hard to find good help. They have their own room and enough free time to enjoy the beach and see friends. I should know. It is how I started here too.’
And then I remembered she had been travelling through, just like the other students, when she had come to Nissaki and found her home. ‘You were going to tell me about Agata and Georgiou, weren’t you? How you came to live with them?’
‘Ah yes, that is so. Such dear people. I came to think of them as my grandparents, but they were grandparents I could respect, especially when I came to know them better and knew what they had done. They always said I was like the child they never had.’ She looked sad and dipped her sugared churro into the hot chocolate and nibbled, like a sickly rabbit.
‘How old were they, when you came here?’
‘Oh, seventies, eighties. I was never too sure. They were very old, but they still worked hard. Every morning, Agata washed down the steps and swept away the sand on the terrace. Georgiou grew tomatoes and courgettes in the plot of land at the back, which we now rent out to the taverna and their donkey. But back then it was full of fruit and vegetables – corn, squash, aubergines and melons. He was always bent over the earth, hoeing, weeding, and watering. They were simple people, like many here were then, brought up to provide for themselves. A chicken here, a goat there, a little bit of land – they could feed their families well on what they grew.’
‘And had they always had a shop here?’
‘By the time I came here, they’d had the shop for
maybe nearly twenty years. Visitors started coming back to Corfu and then the track down here became a road, so people could get down to the sea. But the shop was very simple when I arrived. Just beach mats, towels, some sun lotion, plastic shoes, just basic things people might need for the beach.’
‘Well, it’s certainly not simple any more. You’ve made it into a virtual Aladdin’s cave.’
She smiled. ‘It was what people began to want. I had already begun importing from Morocco and then Marian and I went to Rajasthan one winter and began to bring back goods from even further afield. It is all so very different from its simple beginnings.’
I looked around the kitchen – the furnishings and the pots and pans had probably barely changed since Inge came here all those years ago, and I thought of the richly stocked exotic shop below. ‘Do you think Agata and Georgiou would be proud of what you have achieved here?’
She gave me the gentlest of smiles, then said, ‘Perhaps, I hope so. But I am more proud than you can imagine of what they achieved here. They did something greater and more important than I have ever done.’ Suddenly she was struggling to get to her feet and I put out a hand to steady her, but she waved it away, saying, ‘Come, I will show you, then you will understand.’
She began to shuffle out of the kitchen towards the staircase and then, with great effort, climbed the stairs, one slow step at a time. When she reached the top, she turned to a room on the right. ‘In here,’ she said. ‘We use this room now for our summer student. When they are here it looks quite different. Not at all tidy.’ The room was sparsely furnished, with just a bed heaped with folded bedding, a chair, a desk and a tall, carved wardrobe against the wall opposite the door. ‘Open it,’ Inge said, pointing at the heavy furniture, then sitting down on the bed to catch her breath after the tiring climb.
Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 16
