Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction

by Suzanne Goldring

  ‘I can’t believe this has happened. How could it have spread so quickly?’

  Greg was silent apart from the grunts of his exertions as he carried me, then he gasped, ‘I can’t believe it either. Bloody fool.’

  ‘Who’s a bloody fool?’

  ‘Nothing. Forget it.’ He stopped and let me slide off his back, then bent down and stretched to ease his muscles. We were nearly there and the path was clearer than before. He stood up again, arched his back, took a deep breath, then said, ‘Think you can make it on one foot now?’ I put my left arm around Greg’s shoulders and began hopping on my good leg. It was painful and slow, but we could get there.

  As I hopped, I said, ‘But how do you think it all started?’

  ‘Started?’ He was panting.

  ‘The fire. How on earth did it start?’

  He shook his head. ‘It only takes a spark… someone careless… cigarette ends, glass maybe…’

  ‘But there’s never anyone up here at night. It’s always deserted. I don’t get it.’

  Greg came to a halt and let me lean against a wall while he caught his breath, bending forwards, hands on his knees. ‘Stupid idiot,’ he muttered. ‘Stupid fucking idiot.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I said. He didn’t reply, but stood up and turned away from me, running his hands over his hair. When he turned round again towards me, I saw from his face that he was distressed. He was shaking his head and saying, ‘He just didn’t think. Could’ve killed her. I’m so sorry.’

  I stared at him, wondering for a second or two what on earth he was talking about. Then suddenly I had one of those lightning moments of comprehension. Various events and comments slotted together into one utterly clear but totally shocking pattern. All those times when Greg and Dimitri were discussing the land deeds and laughing; Dimitri leaving Greg’s house when I arrived last night; Greg’s inept text message; then Dimitri running away from the village…

  ‘Dimitri,’ I said. ‘You’re talking about Dimitri, aren’t you? Did you tell him to start the fire? Tell him to raze the land? Please tell me you didn’t get him to do that.’ I could feel my suspicion and anger rising, like an indigestible, rich, spicy curry.

  Greg backed away from me a little. ‘No, I definitely didn’t tell him to start a fire. Look, he just told me he would sort it out and I could leave it all to him. That’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’ I shouted. ‘You’re saying that’s all? All he’s done is ruin my business and my property, and nearly kill my wife and child into the bargain. That’s all!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Greg spread out his hands in a placating gesture. ‘How was I to know what would happen? I never wanted this. Try to stay calm. She’s okay and so’s the baby.’

  ‘So he did do it then, did he? Dimitri started the fire that caused all this… this utter devastation?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Greg was shaking his head, still walking backwards. ‘I don’t know if it was him, for certain.’

  ‘And you… you knew he might do something like this?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Not for sure. I mean, I didn’t know what he would do.’

  ‘But you knew he was up to something, didn’t you? You’re to blame as much as he is. You paid him. You must’ve put the idea in his head.’

  ‘Now hang on…’ Greg took another step back as I hopped nearer, heaving myself along the low wall for support.

  ‘All those times… the two of you… in my kitchen… plotting…’

  ‘Not plotting, planning. Come on, James, you knew all about it. You knew development here would be to your advantage. You’d have made a tidy profit out of it. We all would.’

  ‘But I didn’t know this was how you’d get the land though, did I?’ I was spitting with rage by now, all my pain forgotten. ‘Did you know this was how he was going to do it? Did you?’ I hopped closer.

  Greg stepped back again. ‘I swear I didn’t know what he was planning to do. He just told me he would take care of things. That’s all I know. I had absolutely nothing to do with it.’

  And then it happened. I managed to get close enough to Greg to shove him in the chest with my good arm. ‘How could you?’ I shouted, nearly toppling over with the effort.

  He staggered and took another step backwards and there must have been a broken trap door, or maybe it was a cellar chute under his feet, but there was suddenly the sound of splintering wood and he fell. He fell out of sight with a great cry followed by a crash, and then silence.

  I shuffled towards the gaping black hole and called. There was no answer, and I could just make out Greg lying broken and silent on the stone floor below. I didn’t dare go any closer in case I fell in as well, so, gripping the wall, I moved away and continued my unsteady progress towards the restaurant, hoping I would soon reach my wife and child. And with each agonising step I wondered whether I had just killed the man who had saved their lives, rather than causing their deaths.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  July 2008

  Amber

  I think I had fallen into a doze on my bed of sacking after Greg left. Then I suddenly woke when I heard a bump at the top of the cellar stairs. It was followed by more thumps and laboured grunts, and then, by the light of my torch, I saw long legs in torn shorts, sliding down the steps. Eventually I could see it was James, heaving himself down the staircase, inch by inch on his bottom, one step at a time, pushing himself along with his left arm, while the other was held across his body. He was clearly seriously injured.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I called. ‘You’re hurt. And where’s Greg?’

  James just kept grunting and didn’t answer till he’d reached the bottom step, where he tried to haul himself to his feet by pulling on the banister. He gave a cry of pain as he stood up, and then said, ‘You’ve had the baby.’

  ‘He’s perfect. Can you see him?’ I held the little face towards him. ‘You’ll have to come closer. It’s hard to see in this light.’

  James felt around for something to help him walk and found a broom propped against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. He tucked the brush under his arm and then made slow and obviously painful progress towards my bed. He looked down at me and our baby, then managed to sit on a nearby barrel, groaning with pain as he did so. He reached into his pocket for his mobile phone and shone its light over us.

  ‘He’s beautiful, like you.’ Then he was silent for a moment before shaking his head and saying, ‘Amber, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But Greg was here. And he was wonderful.’ There was silence between us and then I said, ‘He told me he was going off to fetch help. He phoned earlier and thought the fire brigade would reach us soon. Didn’t you see him anywhere outside?’

  James cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. I did.’ He coughed again. ‘He’s had a bit of an accident.’

  ‘What? Because of the fire? Did you see it happen? Is he okay?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He hung his head. ‘I couldn’t get to him.’

  We were both quiet for a few more seconds, then I said, ‘But he was going off to get help.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I think he’d already phoned again. And anyway, I phoned as well just before coming down here. They know where we are and they know there’s a new baby. The fire’s under control, so they should be able to get through. They said it won’t be too long now.’

  But it turned out to be a very long time. Maybe it was only a couple of hours, but it seemed to take for ever. I sipped water and made James have some too. I wasn’t in very much pain by then, I just felt drained, battered and bruised, but James was clearly in agony and there was no relief for him.

  I tried to distract him by asking him to help me decide on our baby’s name. I was wavering between Theo, which means God-given, and Felix, which means happiness, but when I said I thought his middle name should be Gregory in honour of Greg and his heroism, James shouted, ‘No, never. You can’t. I don’t want to be constantly reminded of that terrib
le man.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean? He’s not terrible. He was amazing. I don’t know if I could have managed to give birth down here without his help.’

  ‘I know.’ James shook his head. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. You really like Greg, don’t you? I know I didn’t warm to him before, but he was so different today. You should have seen him. He was so gentle and kind. I’ve got so much to thank him for.’ I looked down at my sleeping baby, his head sticky with the mucus and blood of his birth, still wrapped in Greg’s bloodstained shirt. ‘Oh, I do hope he’s going to be all right.’

  ‘Of course, I know you’re grateful to him. But you don’t know him like I do.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I thought you were such great friends.’

  ‘I know, but that was before.’

  ‘Before what, James? Before he helped deliver your son? I think you should be eternally grateful to him for that. I know I am.’

  James was groaning and I thought at first it was the pain of his injuries, but then I realised he was actually distraught. He was shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair, muttering, ‘I thought I could trust him. I thought I knew him. But this disaster, this catastrophe, it’s all his fault. Damn him. Damn you, Greg!’ he shouted, lifting his face towards the ceiling of the cellar.

  ‘His fault? How on earth could that be?’

  He was still shaking his head and rocking backwards and forwards on his precarious barrel. ‘He was the one with the big ideas. I just went along with it. I didn’t know how they were going to do it.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Greg and Dimitri. Always scheming. I think he’s been in on it right from the start.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense, James.’ I paused to think what he might mean. ‘Are you talking about that idea of developing the land around here?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am!’ he shouted. ‘It’s clear as day to me now. I was a fool to let them think I agreed to it. Letting them snoop around up here, sit in my kitchen, eat my food and drink my best wines whenever they felt like it. All that time they were taking advantage, letting me think we’d benefit from it in the end.’

  ‘But we never agreed to any kind of development, did we? I thought we didn’t want to see that happening? And anyway, what has all this got to do with the fire?’

  ‘Don’t you see? In the end they couldn’t lay their hands on the land legitimately. It was no man’s land. Nobody could be traced, nobody owned it. But it couldn’t be developed unless it was cleared by fire. So they arranged to have one, conveniently. Hoping it would look like yet another accidental wildfire.’ He was breathing heavily.

  ‘You mean the fire was deliberate? That they started it?’

  ‘Of course they did.’

  ‘Greg came up here and started the fire?’ I felt as if my breathing had stopped, yet my heart was pounding.

  ‘No, not Greg. Dimitri. I came across him when I first got to the village hours ago. He’s guilty, I tell you.’ He thumped the barrel with his fist. ‘Oh God, I wish I’d killed him and not Greg.’

  I was stunned. It was as if he’d punched me and not the barrel. I gasped and finally managed to whisper, ‘Greg? You’re saying you’ve killed Greg?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I mean, it was an accident. He fell. Oh, I don’t know. I couldn’t really see what had happened. Oh God, this is all so awful.’

  I held my baby close to my breast and cradled his head with my hand. He was innocent, blameless and I wanted to protect him. Suddenly it seemed as if everyone around me, Greg, Dimitri and now even James, had lied to me and could not be trusted.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  19 June 1944

  ‘You must kill him,’ Zenia says. ‘Years ago, I could do it all by myself, but it is too much for me now.’ She waves at the large black pig, contentedly grunting in the shade of his wooden shelter, from which he can freely roam around a small grassy enclosure littered with leaves and windfall apples. ‘When I was younger I collected acorns for our pigs in the autumn, but I cannot do that any longer. No, he must go. Besides, you will be in need of good ham and loukaniko this winter. And souvlaki – ah, I have not tasted fresh souvlaki in a long while.’

  Agata looks at Georgiou. Her husband is resourceful and determined and he has caught many large fish in his time, from tuna to swordfish, but has he ever tackled anything as large as this pig? And she has never made loukaniko, sausages flavoured with orange zest, but she is willing to learn.

  ‘I would be honoured to undertake the slaughter of your pig,’ Georgiou says. ‘You and he will be doing us a great service. But let us not be hasty. Let us prepare the house first and plan for this important event. We must not waste him. He will add greatly to our winter provisions.’

  ‘In the old days,’ Zenia says, ‘we had a feast when we killed a pig. Such a celebration. The men did it all and there was much dancing and singing.’

  ‘Perhaps we should make a smokehouse in one of the empty houses,’ Agata says. ‘There will be a lot of meat to preserve and that will be the best way to keep it.’ She is glad the children aren’t listening to this talk of killing – they’re playing with a litter of striped kittens under the trees.

  ‘We shall have plenty for all of us,’ Zenia says. ‘And when the rains come our tanks will be filled with sweet water again.’ Agata was disappointed to find that the farmhouse did not have fresh water. The underground tank had acquired a layer of rotten leaves, souring the remaining water. Georgiou promised to drain it and clear away the sludge, but in the meantime they can fetch water from a nearby spring, which is still producing a clear trickle from the winter reserves.

  ‘Are your sheep milking well?’ Agata asks, keen to know as much as possible about the resources available to feed the children and keep them healthy.

  ‘Five of them give a good yield, five are this year’s lambs and two are old ladies, fit only for the table. But we get enough milk to make feta and kefalotiri, so we shall eat well.’

  Agata has never made any cheese other than feta, but knows that the hard cheese kefalotiri will keep well, unlike the softer cheeses. ‘Is there enough for yogurt too?’ she says, thinking of how she can supplement the children’s breakfasts with a thick creamy topping over fresh juicy peaches.

  ‘But of course,’ Zenia says, clapping her hands. ‘The milk has been going to waste up to now. I cannot drink it all myself. You must come every day and collect as much as you need. It will be a pleasure, knowing it will be put to good use, making those children grow big and strong.’ She turns to look at the little girls. ‘They could do with fattening up. Have supplies been so very short?’

  Agata glances at her husband. Maybe now is the time, now Zenia has offered to share so much with them, to share some of the truth with her. Georgiou nods, so Agata says, ‘They’ve come from the town. Life has been very hard there, with the Germans and the bombing. We’ve adopted them and hope to give them a safe, happy home.’

  Zenia’s wrinkled face creases even more as she frowns. ‘They will be happy here. We will all make sure of that. And they need never go hungry again.’

  They all watch the children for a moment, enjoying their carefree play, then Georgiou says, ‘You said your sheep lambed this year, but I didn’t see a ram. Did he pass over?’

  ‘No, Gabriel went back to Lafki with Tomas. He has sired many lambs here. He came in November to cover the ewes and give me lambs for Easter and he will come back again on St Michael’s Day.’

  ‘In five months’ time,’ murmurs Georgiou. ‘I look forward to meeting Tomas and his fine ram.’

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  July 2008

  James

  They came for Amber first. Two strong firemen carried her and the baby up the cellar steps on a stretcher, and then they came back for me.

  Outside, the morning sun was shining brightly on the devastation all around
us. Although the walls of Mountain Thyme were blackened, the main structure was relatively unharmed. Our vine was scorched and ash as thick as fallen autumn leaves was strewn across the terrace and tables, where our guests usually enjoyed their morning coffee and orange juice. But today, instead of the smell of grilling bacon and freshly baked croissants, honey and bougainvillea, everywhere smelt of scorched destruction.

  Faint plumes of smoke were still spiralling into the air all around the village, pierced by shafts of sunlight. But that morning there was no melodic birdsong or triumphant cockcrow to greet the day; all we could hear was the loud drone of the helicopter overhead, waiting to lift all three of us to safety. The way through the village was still impassable and this was the quickest route out.

  As Amber was hauled up, the baby strapped securely to her breast, I watched them disappear into the arms of the medic reaching out from the body of the aircraft. She had not said a word to me since our rescuers had arrived and her main concern as she was preparing to be airlifted was her lack of clothing, so they wrapped her in a blanket for the sake of modesty.

  I kept picturing her face, a grim mixture of utter shock and quiet determination. I couldn’t blame her if she was furious with me. I had to admit I hadn’t ever asked Greg to hold back on his ideas for a development, but I suspected he and Dimitri would have gone ahead even if I hadn’t been compliant. If they had been successful, then I would have been celebrating with them. But I should have asked more questions, been more curious about how the land title problems were going to be resolved. It was a poor excuse now, but I’d been so deeply immersed in establishing the restaurant, its growing fame and my escalating reputation, that I’d not paid enough attention to their scheme.