A Saint for the Summer

by Marjory McGinn

  She gave me a concerned look and went to reception to seemingly have the same conversation as Miltiades had, trying to hurry things along, or maybe handing over an envelope with a few banknotes stuffed inside. I had heard of such things. Bribes were still being paid in hospitals for speedier treatment, even though Angus had told me that it had been outlawed. I had a sneaking suspicion that in Greece nothing was really ever illegal.

  Perhaps it was Polly’s influence, but we were soon called into a large treatment room by a young doctor, who ushered Angus into a cubicle and closed the curtains. We huddled around the bed. The doctor’s English was good and he asked Angus a lot of questions and performed a few rudimentary checks before arranging to transfer him to the cardiology department. Despite reports of medical cutbacks in the crisis, the hospital seemed clean and orderly, the doctors and staff were pleasant and efficient.

  In cardiology, Angus was put in a small room on his own and seen by another young doctor, who ordered blood tests and a cardiogram, all of which would determine whether Angus had had a heart attack or not, or whether it was stress related or something else. Miltiades stood with us, but he was looking twitchy, and I knew his good nature was prevailing over the urge to return to the village to prepare the evening meals at the taverna. We told him to leave because we had no idea how long Angus would be kept in hospital.

  “You call me, Bronte, if you need me again. Any time day or the night, okay? If Angoose stays here tonight, tell me and I will bring him some food later. He is a good man, okay?” He bear-hugged me, and then Angus on his hospital bed, and left.

  “Bring food?” I asked.

  “Hospitals in Greece don’t provide nursing and the food is very basic, unlike your hospitals in Britain,” Polly explained. “Families must bring food and help out. That’s why if you went into one of the wards you would see many people sitting around each bed.” I could see why Angus thought he might need help with his health problem and why he wasn’t keen to go to Athens.

  He was taken into a treatment room down the corridor for his tests, while Polly and I sat in a waiting room, where a Greek family were huddled in one corner, looking anxious. Out in the corridor people walked back and forth, patients talking loudly to doctors in old-fashioned white coats with stethoscopes round their necks.

  Time seemed to drag on. After all the anxiety of the past hour and the effort to get here, I suddenly had too much time to think. I felt frightened. Angus and I had shared such an extraordinary experience that day it had brought us closer together in a way we hadn’t been since I was young. The idea that I could possibly lose him now, and in a foreign country, where I didn’t know what was going on most of the time, made me feel wretched. I tormented myself as well, wondering if all the time I’d been in Greece he had kept quiet about other chest pains, dousing himself with his medications. And then we’d had that argument over Polly. I’d helped to push him over the precipice.

  Polly picked up on my mood. “Don’t worry, Bronte. If Angus has had a heart attack already they will treat him here first and then send him straight to an Athens hospital. We are not living in the Dark Ages here,” she said, patting my hand.

  She was right but still, the outskirts of Athens were a three-hour drive from Kalamata.

  “You look exhausted, Bronte. Did you sleep this afternoon?”

  “I had a small siesta, but it hasn’t helped. My mind is racing from everything that has happened today. It feels like a day that will never end.”

  “I know what you mean. But this morning when the notebook was found was just so wonderful. Such a good outcome. But too much for Angus.”

  “At least now that I’m not pressured to go back to Scotland for a while, I can try to get his health sorted out.”

  We waited for over an hour until the doctor reappeared. Angus was back in the small room lying on the bed, his hair still tied back, but ruffled. He opened his eyes when we approached. “I’m still alive,” he said, with a sardonic grin.

  The doctor told me the tests showed Angus had not had a heart attack. “Ah, that’s such good news. Thank you,” I said, feeling grateful that we had avoided the worst scenario. And yet the doctor wasn’t quite as chipper.

  “For now it is okay, yes. But now I come to the rest of the diagnosis. Your father has had angina pains, caused most probably by some narrowing in the arteries. Your father needs to have an angiogram, where a small tube is inserted into an artery, like here,” he said, pointing to his wrist, “and dye is put inside to show up the coronary artery system. We have not the equipment to do this here and he will have to visit a hospital in Athens. It is not urgent for today, but it must be organised as soon as you can do it. All right?”

  Angus nodded. He seemed resigned to it now, even though it was the one thing he hadn’t wanted.

  “For now, he must continue to take all his drugs, to keep everything stabilised, and I will be sending a letter to his cardiologist in Kalamata to inform him what we have found. He will be able to organise the appointment in Athens for your father. In the meantime, if the pains return, and the drugs are not helping, you must return to the hospital immediately. Your father tells me he has had some stress today, and this is the likely cause of the angina pains. So, you see, even in Greece, when the sun is shining, we all have anxieties.” It was the first and only time he laughed, showing some boyish good humour. Angus rolled his eyes.

  I hoped he hadn’t told the doctor the whole story of Platanos. The doctor would probably have thought we were all crazy people, slogging around a mountain village and tormenting ourselves with the grisly contents of an ossuary box, but I think Angus had not gone into details.

  “Your father needs rest and, most of all, the next test,” he said, holding up his finger, as if pointing to the almighty.

  When we finally left the hospital, it was early evening. Polly offered to drive us back to the village, but Angus wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted to take one of the taxis parked outside the hospital. But Polly had a better idea. “I think you should both come back to my apartment. We will have some dinner and you can both stay tonight, or for the next few days. You both look exhausted. What do you think?”

  Angus and I looked at each other, then he said, “That’s incredibly thoughtful, Polly, but you’ve probably seen enough of us today.”

  “Not at all. I think you have both had a traumatic day. I am sure that Bronte doesn’t have the energy to worry about cooking and looking after her patient in that old village house,” she said, with a wink.

  Angus didn’t object to her suggestion, but I felt differently.

  “I’ve got another idea, Polly. You take Angus back to your apartment. That way, if he has any problems, he’s closer to the hospital than we are in the village. It makes sense. But if you don’t mind, I would like to go back home. I have some emails to send and some calls to make.”

  “Oh, are you sure? I’ve got two spare bedrooms. Enough room for everyone.”

  “I’m very sure,” I said, feeling rather pleased with my brainwave. I rather hoped that Angus’s stay might present an opportunity for them to talk about the future of their relationship. All that day I had seen nothing but the great affection and respect they had for each other and wondered why they couldn’t start afresh.

  They walked me to the taxi rank. Polly waved goodnight and went off to fetch her car. Angus approached the first taxi in the line-up and spoke to the driver, then turned to say goodnight. He put his hands firmly on my shoulders, as if he wanted my complete attention.

  “Thank you, Bronte, for an amazing day. For being with me. We’ve got a lot to talk about now. Read the notebook. It’s on my desk.”

  “Yes, I will. And by the way, stay till Sunday if you want. You and Polly have things to talk about, I think.”

  He gave me a curious look and kissed me on the cheek. “Sleep well, love,” he said, looking at me in a way I hadn’t seen for years. It was a familiar, comforting look.

  He opened the taxi door for m
e and I dived into the back seat before he could notice my eyes were prickling with tears. I waved goodbye as the cab sped off. I almost felt the need of an entourage of kindly saints again along the dashboard, but all I could see was an air freshener above the radio dial and a set of worry beads swinging from the rear-view mirror.

  When we got to the road that split, with one way towards the city, the other towards the village, I looked towards the gulf in the distance, shimmering under a full moon. How beautiful, how serene it looked that night. I tried to imagine what it would have been like here on those nights in 1941, with desperate allied troops hiding in the olive groves near the sea as the Nazis stormed into Kalamata. Along Navarino Street at the head of the gulf were modern apartments, cafes and bars. A social hub of the city. But underneath all of that, the land was steeped in fear, violence and bloodshed.

  From then on, whenever I looked at the Kalamata seafront, I would think of those war days − especially after reading Kieran’s notebook.

  Chapter 24

  A friend of Greece

  “Kieran McKnight, Royal Army Service Corps, 1940” was written on the top of the title page, as Angus had said. Underneath was a pen and ink self-portrait: a handsome young man in army uniform without his cap, showing thick wavy hair, alert eyes, a mischievous smile, ready for the adventure of his life. I saw a bit of Angus in his expression. I have no doubt the resemblance would have tugged at his heart.

  Kieran’s writing was neat and slightly slanted. There were dates and brief notes from his arrival in Alexandria, Egypt, and his first weeks in Greece in the spring of 1941, but more sketches than notes, as if there was little time for words. The diary started in earnest in late April. He didn’t write much initially but by the end the entries were longer and more personal, as if he were slowly discovering his writer’s voice.

  When he arrived in Greece, he was billeted to a racecourse in Phaleron, outside Athens, which served as one of the allied camps. He had been assigned mainly as a driver for one of the officers and tasked with bringing petrol in from local suppliers. Before the German invasion started in April 1941, there had been some downtime and excursions into Athens with other RASC soldiers to see the ancient sites or hang around the bars and tavernas in the Plaka district, sometimes getting ‘guttered’, drunk, and sometimes fantasising over local women.

  By the middle of April, however, everything changed when the Germans advanced quicker than expected from the north to the outskirts of Athens, with heavy Luftwaffe raids, mostly at the port of Piraeus, on the allied ships carrying ammunition. The allied forces then began their retreat south, ending up in Kalamata, where thousands of troops were waiting to be picked up by Royal Navy ships sent from Souda Bay, Crete.

  April 26

  Driving a one-tonner truck for three days now, carrying tins of meat, rum, cigarettes and a few troops as well. No driving at night with headlights because of possible pounding from the Luftwaffe. The Jerries are throwing everything at us. Plenty of our lads killed. Roads bad, a few trucks gone off the edge full of troops. We had to stop on the way and push the truck into olive groves when we got caught up in bad Stuka fire. Back tyres blown out. Lost a day over that. Looks like we’re set to have a right old rammy in Kalamata with the Jerries. They’ve been moving in behind us the last few days. Parachute troops have arrived at Corinth Canal. Won’t be long for them to get down to Kalamata.

  April 27

  We’ve arrived in Kalamata, and by the looks of things so have hundreds of others. The place is hoaching with soldiers. We’re under constant air attack from the Luftwaffe. A group of RASC lads have taken cover in olive groves half way up a hillside overlooking the city. We’ve been instructed to smash up all our trucks, supplies, equipment, everything. Och, it fair kills you to do that but we don’t want the Jerries to get their mitts on it. Nothing to do here now but wait for evacuation on the beach below. We’ve heard Navy destroyers should be in the gulf tonight to pick up troops. Hundreds picked up last night. We’re the late ones and I don’t like our chances. It will be fighting forces first. The RASC will be at the back of the queue and more arriving all the time. Will we be lucky?

  April 28

  Och, we didn’t make it out last night. Slept in the olive groves. We’ve got to bloody embark tonight. May be our last chance. Jerries came at us from dawn, up to 50 planes bombing and machine-gunning everywhere. Dropped mines at the entrance to harbour. Destroyed quays, sunk small fishing boats. Part of the city on fire.

  It’s evening now and we’re still waiting for the signal to get down to the beach. Told destroyers and cruisers on their way to the port but maybe holding back with this stramash goin on and there’s fear over the mines in harbour. Jerry soldiers arrived in Kalamata in force at the port. Fierce fighting. We heard those gallus NZ lads gave the Jerries a right hammering up there. Plenty of casualties and Jerries taken prisoner. We’ve been told to wait in the olive groves again til we get a signal to move down to the beach for embarkation. I cannae wait to get going.

  April 29

  Daybreak and we’re skunnered, the lot of us! We’ve just lost our last chance to be picked up. Hid in olive groves for hours waiting for a signal. After midnight told to get to the beach. Felt wretched at the sight of thousands of troops lined up along beach waiting. Fighting forces, signal men at the top of the queue. Waiting our turn – RASC lads. Four destroyers came at 2am. Queue was orderly, moved slowly but tide was strong and there was a right struggle with landing craft. Some poor lads waded out and were pulled under, drowned. Panic, confusion. Fear over mines, and Stukas. Few hundred maybe fighting forces embarked, and then navy retreated. Thousands left on the beach including us RASC lads. No more ships tonight. No more planned for tomorrow. Brigadier Parrington surrendered this morning. Told us to make our own escape. What a muckle mess this is!

  April 30

  Scores of us left Kalamata yesterday just as the Jerries were pegging swastikas along the beach. A group of RASC boys heading south along the coast road. Joined by Aussies, Kiwis and a Greek Cypriot lad. Plan is to find a boat. Get to Crete. We’ve trauchled for miles down here searching for boats. Everywhere there’s dozens of us doin the same. Greeks running about in a panic as well. Some villages empty. At night we’ve found caves. Locals bring food and water as supplies are low. Can’t fault these people. Risking their lives too. I’ve got a pal at least. Raymond MacArthur from Aberdeen, and RASC. We have a right blether. Passes time. He speaks his doo-lally Doric, the way they do up there. Calls me a skinnymalink cause I’m thin. And he’s always stammygastered, shocked, at everything. The other boys think he’s a foreigner. I do as well sometimes. That’s a right laugh. All the laugh we’re goin to get.

  May 2

  We’ve come to a long beach. You can see the mountains now and a deep gorge. We’ve met a local man who’s helpful. Told us about a fishing boat in a cove. When we got there, found it smashed up by Stuka fire. We’ve heard Jerries are moving this way. Sooner or later we’ll be rounded up if not machine gunned first from the air. Some of the lads are all for moving further south, even though shortest route means a steep hike over a clifftop. We’re all still hoping to find any kind of boat to get into the gulf and find a navy ship, but every day there’s less ships. Some lads have made it, some gunned down on the way. The Greek we met told us to head to the mountains. Villages there are hidden from sight. Raymond and I are all for that. We don’t have faith in finding a boat. The Greek, with the help of the Cypriot lad for translator told us about a village called Platanos. I hope I got that right. Wrote it down straight away. No road to it, only a mule track. Well hidden. We told the other lads we were setting off for the mountains. They thought we were doo-lally.

  May 4

  A trauchle for two days through olive groves, dirt road and then up a stone path. Bloody long trek. All a zigzag with about 80 turns on it. Lost count. Murder on feet. Half dead at the top. Still wearing our great coats. Too scared to ditch them. Last tin of corned beef, biscuit
s, gone. Water low. Felt mingin. Found outskirts Platanos. Waited. Didn’t know how welcoming the locals are. Maybe a Jerry here after all. Stayed on northern edge and climbed a hill in the dark past a couple of farm houses. Found big cave to sleep in. No food now and bloody freezing. Passed the night reminiscing about Scotland and Raymond made me laugh with more of his doo-lally Aberdeen words. He’s invited me there after the war to meet his family. I hope we make it even though won’t understand a word of their Doric.

  (There was a long gap here in the entries but a few sketches done from the hilltop looking down along the length of the Taygetos mountains).

  May 16

  Writing in the notebook by candlelight tonight in the basement of a house. I’ve got time on my hands now. This is a dark dreich space divided by a wooden barrier. A donkey sleeps in there. Couthie wee beast, and company at least. After two days in the cave a young lad, Dimitris, found us and we were taken down the hill to his family house at bottom. They have been good to us. A father and two sons, an older one to the lad who found us and the mother. She doesn’t speak to us much. Suppose it isn’t the thing for Greek women to talk to strange men in her house. The family only speak Greek so it’s hard to explain things but they know we’ve escaped from Kalamata and seem mighty proud of us. Raymond has gone now. I was right sad about that. Miss all his blethering. I tried to talk him out of going but he thought we’d made a mistake. He felt trapped here. Wanted me to come with him to coast, try again for boat. Not me. I’d rather take my chances here.

  The father Panayotis is a rare fellow. He explained, with plenty of hand signs, I must keep out of sight, even from other villagers. Maybe the Jerries will come up here. I don’t know how long I can stay here. Will need to make my way along mountain tracks, south. It should be quieter, and fewer Jerries. Panayotis showed me maps of places I can head for. The days are getting longer, warmer. Finally managed somehow to persuade the father to let me go up the hill during the day. It’s dreich inside when the sun’s shining and braw to be out in fresh mountain air.