A Saint for the Summer

by Marjory McGinn

  “Believe me, Bronte, no-one chooses to leave their homeland to work overseas if they can help it. But now in Greece, there are many people in a difficult position who leave to improve their lives, and sometimes leave a partner behind for a while.”

  “I understand, but few couples would want to live apart, as you are doing. Distance doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder. I think sometimes it kills romance in the end,” I said, goading him a bit to see what was behind his steely defences.

  He gave a defiant lift of his chin. “Phaedra and I have a strong understanding. We come from similar backgrounds. We are well suited. In these difficult times, we know that we can’t just let our hearts rule our heads.”

  He saw my eyes flicker with surprise, and quickly added, “Of course, I don’t mean that quite as it sounds. We are very attracted, of course, and she is beautiful. But you see, when I married, I picked my wife mostly because of romantic notions. I was swept away by her. She was an actress, not well known then, and she was still living in Kalamata. We had a child and then suddenly she became more successful and was offered a TV role, based in Athens. That was not the main problem. It was closer than England at least,” he said, smiling. “We had already grown apart very quickly because we were very different; wanted different things. I should have seen that but I just lost my head, as you say. This time, I wanted a steadier relationship. Even though Phaedra is miles away, we have stronger ties. Does that make sense to you?”

  It didn’t really. But I was intrigued. Leonidas may have been chasing a sensible blueprint of happiness, but the more I got to know him, the more I saw flashes of mischief beneath the common sense. The man who had teased me slightly at the village yiorti was not a man who would be a slave to marital templates. Perhaps he was just confused. After all, he had moved from a glamour goddess to a dentist. And what would Phaedra look like, I wondered? A beautiful but bespectacled swot in a white coat wielding a power drill instead of the latest fashion accessory? Again, he noticed my slightly unbelieving look.

  “You don’t agree?” he asked.

  “Oh, I can’t say anything about love and what works. I have had some disastrous relationships. I don’t choose very wisely. Now I have become lazy. I leave it to fate to sort my love life, then nothing is demanded of me,” I said, shrugging Greek-style.

  He laughed. “I can’t say I put so much faith in destiny. Life may be too short for that, but I hope it is kind to you at least, Bronte.” He tipped his head to the side, as if he were trying to get the measure of a misguided patient. Yet I sensed he didn’t want to pursue our chat about love any longer.

  “Would you care to have your swim now? The water is warm enough, I think.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t bring my costume,” I said, and quickly changed the subject. “Have you heard about Myrto’s battle with her stepson, Hector?”

  He blew air out between his lips and shut his eyes for a moment. Another difficult discussion. I almost felt sorry for him.

  “Ach, that business. They have been arguing for a while, but I think it will never happen. Hector is too lazy to organise a sale of the property.”

  “Myrto thinks he is determined. He needs the money.”

  “Myrto should never have handed over the land. It was her grandfather’s land in the beginning. She had no right to sign it away. She was a very stupid woman,” he said rather sharply. I gave him an arch look. “Okay, I am sorry. Of course she is not stupid but, really, there was no need for her to do what she did, or to marry the husband. She made bad choices and now she suffers from them,” he added, with a little hint of Greek machismo.

  “She wasn’t a young woman. Maybe she felt pressured to marry finally,” I said.

  “Perhaps, but what we are talking about is her family’s land. It is something precious to a Greek. Look, we left Platanos when my father was a young man. There is still a family house up there, an old wreck. Every year it crumbles a bit more. It would be better to sell it, but I could never do that. One day I will fix it up. It is part of our history,” he said firmly.

  The chat about Myrto, or perhaps about love, had put him in a spiky mood. Time to go. I put my things in my bag.

  “I fear I have been too outspoken about Myrto,” he said.

  “No, not at all. What do I know? I’m just a foreigner here,” I said, a little too regretfully.

  He reached over and patted the back of my hand lightly. Although I took it as a brief, avuncular gesture, like the day at the café when he squeezed my shoulder, his long fingers had a warmth and sensuality about them. I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy that brief touch. Then he withdrew his hand.

  “Perhaps you would like something else to drink? And my sister has made a lovely cheese pie for me. She always thinks I will starve here on my own. Perhaps you would like to try it, with a glass of white wine, maybe?”

  His big eyes had a look of quiet appeal, or perhaps he felt guilty for his small strop over Myrto. Damn the man for being so contrary! It was tempting, but I was going to be sensible and not stay and polish off half a bottle of wine (probably), and a mouth-watering pie, with Leonidas, all of which I would undoubtedly enjoy.

  “Thank you, but I really must get back now.”

  “So soon?”

  “Afraid so, but thank you for the interview.”

  “It was nothing really. I like people to know what is going on in Greece now.” He walked with me up to the garden door. I said goodbye but as I started up the path to Villa Anemos, he called my name. I turned around.

  “I was just thinking. If your work permits, perhaps you would let me show you a bit more of the Mani. The peninsula further down is wonderful. Otylo, Limeni, Areopolis. This is where the real Maniots live. It’s very wild. And there is a very nice fish taverna in Limeni, by the water, which I think you will like.”

  He painted a very nice picture and I heard myself saying, “Oh, that would be nice some time.” But I doubted I’d be able to go. Angus would keep me busy enough with the ‘mission’ and there would be no time for sightseeing, or anything else.

  But more importantly, what would Phaedra think of Leonidas escorting another woman round the Mani, dining by the sea, while she was up to her elbows in root canals in rain-lashed England? Did I really care what Phaedra thought about anything? I had a growing sense of unease inside me that, actually, I was just beginning to.

  Chapter 14

  Evangelismos

  The following Monday, Angus awoke feeling dizzy. He was sitting at the balcony table under the umbrella with his sunglasses on, looking like he’d been on a taverna crawl the previous night. He was drinking his second Greek coffee.

  “Call Leonidas,” I said. “He told us we could ring any time there was a problem.”

  “You call him, pet,” he said, with a lemony expression on his face.

  “It’s your body. You should talk to him,” I said, irritated as always by his aversion to dealing with health issues. I felt my first frisson of regret that I’d just signed up for another three weeks of playing matron.

  “Och, he’ll just give me loads of medical dread and I’ll feel skunnered for the whole day. I can’t take it today,” he said, like a petulant luvvie.

  “Okay then, give me the phone.”

  He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to me. He now had Leonidas on speed dial. After a short delay, he answered the call, sounding a little harassed. I apologised for disturbing him.

  “Is everything okay there?” he asked.

  I told him Angus was feeling unwell. Leonidas believed the cholesterol-lowering drugs the cardiologist had prescribed were probably giving him side-effects. “Tell your father to take the tablets at night as instructed and things will improve, but he must be patient. And no drinking, if he can.”

  “Yeah, right. He won’t like that, I’m afraid. Thanks and sorry to interrupt.”

  “Not at all. I am happy to help.”

  I was about to hang up when he added, “By the way,
Bronte, perhaps you recall that I proposed a trip down the Mani? I am thinking that this coming Saturday would be the best day, when I am free. And perhaps Angus would like to come too. It will be relaxing for him.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll ask him and let you know.” I hung up.

  Angus took off his sunglasses. I noticed his eyes were bloodshot. “Ask me WHAT?” he snapped.

  I sighed. “Ask you … ask you … if you’d care for a double hemlock with your coffee because you’re so bloody crabbit today, that’s what!”

  “Okay, very funny, pet, but if you could even manage to fix me a double hemlock, I’d certainly drink it. It would be easier than putting up with all this medical faff,” he said, replacing his sunglasses and looking sullenly towards the gulf.

  “Leonidas says you must persist with the tablets, that’s all. No-one said it would be easy. Take them at night, he said, and you’ll feel better if you don’t drink at the same time.”

  “Okay. I’ll drink in the morning.”

  “Very droll,” I said, shaking my head. “Perhaps you should go back to bed for a while. You look rough.”

  He rubbed his hands over his whiskery face. “I feel rough.”

  I decided not to mention the Saturday tour with Leonidas just yet. It would only make things worse because I knew he wouldn’t want to go.

  The mobile phone chirped. I answered. It was Professor Zografos. I handed the phone to Angus. He sat for a while, nodding and smiling. His mood had completely shifted. “Oh, that’s pretty amazing,” he said. “I guess you just struck it lucky. Okay. Give me the address and I will sort something out. Any morning, you say? Thanks, Adriano. Yeia sas.” He ended the call.

  “Adrianos says he’s been asking around in all his old haunts in Kalamata and he’s already found out about an old guy who lives in a village above the city, to the east. He doesn’t have a phone apparently but I’ve got the name of the village and some rough directions. Adrianos says this guy comes originally from Platanos. He’s in his late eighties now, but he’s pretty lucid and knowledgeable too about the village, though he doesn’t go back there any more. Adrianos thinks he will be helpful.”

  “That’s great, Angus. This could be a breakthrough. When do you want to go and see him?”

  “First thing tomorrow perhaps, if I’m feeling up for it. I must call Polly though. The old guy has no English and it may end up being an ordeal, like talking to Pavlos the shopkeeper, remember?”

  “Sure. That will be nice if she comes,” I said, wondering how Polly liked this role of favoured translator, and if perhaps Angus was more interested in Polly than he cared to admit.

  The village of Evangelismos was a 45-minute drive to the east of Kalamata in the foothills of the north Taygetos. We had left early to pick up Polly and were now making our ascent on a narrow but well maintained stretch of road past a few small villages. Evangelismos was a traditional settlement, with several churches, a plateia and one kafeneio. The old guy we had come to see was called Orestes and he lived on one of the back roads of the village but with an exhilarating view down towards Kalamata. It took a while for him to answer the door.

  “I hope he won’t mind us turning up out of the blue, but this will smooth the way,” Angus said, looking down at the box of rivani cake we had picked up in Kalamata. When the front door finally creaked open, a gaunt face appeared, rheumy eyes flitting from one of us to the other, showing displeasure, as if we’d come to offer a subscription to an unwanted periodical. Polly explained our mission but he seemed unimpressed, until he spied the cake box and then his small face lit up. Polly pushed the box towards him. He took it, said something to her and left us for a moment.

  “Poor man is quite dazed by our visit, but he’s gone to make himself presentable and wants us to sit on his terrace and wait,” she said.

  The back terrace was accessed via a side path and we sat outside at a wooden table under a faded umbrella. We heard a lot of banging and rattling coming from inside and some 15 minutes later Orestes emerged, looking slightly more dapper in dark trousers and a striped shirt. His hair was neatly combed. He was carrying a tray with cups and saucers and plates and went back inside, returning with a large briki full of Greek coffee, and the cake box.

  Angus chatted to Orestes in Greek while we had morning tea, but for the discussion about the Battle of Kalamata and the escaping allies we’d agreed Polly should do most of the talking. She and Orestes spoke for quite a while, though he stopped now and then as if to gather his thoughts. At one point Polly interrupted him and turned to us, with a look of excitement. She said Orestes had just confirmed that a British soldier had been hidden in Platanos after the battle by a neighbouring family.

  “So finally we have some proof we’re on the right track − a soldier in that village,” Angus said, looking towards me and smiling.

  Orestes told Polly a dramatic but distressing tale that turned out to be the first breakthrough in our search for Kieran. We learnt that Orestes was 12 when the Battle of Kalamata took place. He lived in a house at the northern end of Platanos, where there were two houses set on their own not far from a small spring, which we had seen the day we visited. The larger house was owned by a man called Panayiotis Maneas, who had two sons. Dimitris was the youngest at 14 and he and Orestes were friends. Orestes remembered the invasion of Kalamata late in April 1941 and how the Luftwaffe had regularly bombed the city and surrounding area. The Greeks had at first rejoiced to see the allied soldiers arriving in Kalamata, only to learn that they were in retreat from the German advance further north and waiting in their thousands to be evacuated from the beach. He also remembered the stories of soldiers fleeing down through the Mani, looking for a means of escape or being hidden by Greek families.

  He had never heard of any troops escaping to the high villages like Platanos, until the day Dimitris confided in him that his own family were hiding a British soldier in their house and he was sworn to secrecy. In the following weeks, Orestes had sometimes seen the soldier, dressed like a Greek shepherd, roaming about the hillside where Dimitris and he often grazed their goats. It piqued his interest and he was keen to approach him, yet he never did, for fear of frightening him, or angering Dimitris, who might think him interfering. He knew where the soldier went when he was outside, usually to a large cave at the top of the ridge, where Orestes and Dimitris often took their animals during the heat of August. But Orestes never got his opportunity to befriend the soldier.

  At the end of May, Orestes was shocked to see a patrol of Germans. They must have come up the kalderimi from Ayios Yiorgos. Orestes had been near the top of the ridge that bordered the village, with some of his family’s goats. He was a long way from the houses below when he saw the soldiers in the distance marching up a narrow path towards the summit of the ridge. He moved the goats off towards a rocky outcrop and hid. Not long afterwards, he heard shouting and then gunfire and the sound of the Germans hurrying down the hill. He stayed out of sight for a long time, terrified they would find him and shoot him. When he was sure they had gone, he left the goats and ascended the path.

  What he found there haunted him still, he told us. He discovered the body of the British soldier on the ridge, where the land began to slope into a ravine. He had been shot twice, once in the back as if in mid-flight, once in the forehead. Afterwards, Orestes had rushed down in a panic to find Dimitris and his father to tell them what had happened, but they were away for the day. Dimitris’ terrified mother was alone in the house.

  Earlier, the Germans had ransacked both houses before they ascended the ridge. It was as if they were acting on a tip-off because no-one usually came up to Platanos without a good reason. Orestes’ father had been confronted by the soldiers and beaten up, his head gashed by a blow from a rifle butt.

  When Panayiotis eventually returned with his sons and heard of the shooting from Orestes, they went straight away to find the British soldier. They had no choice but to bury him on the ridge where they found his body.

>   Orestes’ memory was hazy on some of the details of the murder and its aftermath, but he was clear about how tormented poor Panayiotis had been over the death of the soldier, how he had felt responsible, as if he were one of Panayiotis’s own family. The soldier was never spoken of again after that and Orestes was instructed never to tell anyone in the village what he knew.

  Orestes described the soldier as tall with dark hair. Dimitris had called him English because he spoke English but he could have been Scottish, or anything else for that matter, as far as Orestes knew. Like Dimitris, he was a poor farmer’s son with a meagre village education, who knew little about the world beyond the perimeters of the Mani. Also, he couldn’t remember the soldier’s name, if in fact he’d ever known it. Orestes told us he rarely spoke to anyone outside the family about these things and it seemed a huge effort for him now in calling it up again. Certainly, it wasn’t worth all the sweet rivani cake in Greece – poor man. We felt sorry for him.

  “Well, at least we know there was a British soldier in Platanos and someone who vaguely resembled Kieran. But what a terrible story, a young man alone on a foreign hillside, hunted down and shot in the back,” Angus said, catching my eye. “It’s funny how you can feel desperate for closure, isn’t it, Bronte, and then when a story comes along like this, one part of you doesn’t really want the boy in it to be Kieran at all. Yet we know he died somewhere in this region. If not here, then it was some place equally strange and wretched.”

  “We knew the search wouldn’t be a happy one and we’re a long way from knowing if this is Kieran,” I said. “All we know about this soldier is that he was tall with dark hair. That could fit half the British Army. And if this was one of the two Scottish soldiers mentioned in Thomas’s story – the one you found on the internet – there should have been two soldiers hiding. This could be someone completely different.”