Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  Chapter 4

  London, One Week Earlier.

  PERCHED ON THE BALLS of her feet, Angie pressed against the wardrobe mirror and reached for a cardboard box. She tightened her grip and pulled. A dust avalanche cascaded over her head. She sneezed, banged her forehead against the glass and fell back onto her heels.

  Exasperated, she tried again. Once the carton had tilted past the point of no return, the contents slid to one end and Angie couldn’t keep hold. The cardboard split and a lifetime of documents bombarded her.

  Guarantees, instruction books and Greek paperwork that belonged to Poppy littered the floor. Angie spotted a passport application leaflet. Hadn’t she needed her birth certificate when she applied for her first passport? Her sigh sent airborne motes percolating towards the window as she recalled signing the bottom line. Her mother had taken care of the rest.

  She noticed an old A4 envelope caught in the base of the box. If her birth certificate was inside, she could complete the form for her wedding licence.

  In the packet, Angie found a bundle of letters, pages smoothed flat and tied together with ribbon. The first, dated with the year of her birth, and the last one; quite recent. She blinked at them, curious and then excited. Perhaps they were from her father. But no, he had died before she was born. Angie had nothing of his, not even a picture. The sheets of pale Greek handwriting were almost undecipherable, each one signed: Love and kisses, Stavro. Disappointed, she wondered who this Stavro could be.

  ‘Angelika, what on earth’s going on up there? Dinner’s ready,’ Poppy shouted up the stairs.

  Angie slid the letters back into the envelope and placed them on the bed with the other documents, respecting her mother’s privacy.

  Downstairs, she sat opposite her mother in the Victorian kitchen. Perhaps Stavro was an old friend, she mused, glancing at Poppy. Clearly her mother had been very beautiful. Now, in her mid-sixties, she was still attractive with a good figure and smooth olive-coloured skin; but a boyfriend? Angie didn’t think so.

  ‘Mm, roast lamb, it’s making my mouth water,’ Angie said, suddenly hungry. She noticed a dish containing two red-dyed eggs and a simple white candle in the centre of the table. ‘Ah, of course, it’s Orthodox Easter. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘It is. What were you doing in the spare room?’ Poppy said.

  ‘Searching for my birth certificate. Sorry about the mess. Any idea where it might be?’

  Poppy glanced at an empty chair before concentrating on her food.

  ‘Can’t think . . . why do you need it?’

  ‘My marriage licence application,’ Angie said.

  ‘Fill the form in and leave it here. I’ll find your certificate and post it tomorrow. That room needs a seeing-to anyway.’

  ‘Mam, you’re a star. Nick’s meeting me at the estate agent’s later. We’re going to view the property again before making an offer. It’s perfect; in a good school area, too.’

  Poppy’s eyes widened. ‘You’re not . . . ?’

  ‘No, but I hope I will be soon. Thirty-seven, Mam. My biological clock’s ticking away. Perhaps you’d like to come and see the house with us?’

  ‘Another time. I’ll sort the spare room, get your paperwork done, and look forward to seeing you sometime next week.’

  ‘Thanks. Promise you’ll help me choose the dress,’ Angie said.

  ‘Of course.’ Poppy looked up, brown eyes filled with pride.

  ‘And the invitations, I need the addresses of everyone in Crete.’

  Her mother’s smile fell, and her cutlery clattered to the plate. She slapped a hand over her mouth, swallowed hard and blew through her fingers.

  ‘Mam . . . what’s the matter, are you all right?’

  ‘A bit of food down the wrong way, that’s all.’ Poppy frowned and thumped her chest. ‘Angelika, can we forget your wedding for an hour and just enjoy Easter by ourselves?’

  The annual return to Greek Orthodox tradition made Angie smile. ‘Come on then, let’s crack the eggs against each other,’ Angie said. ‘See who’ll get their wish granted this year.’

  They each took an egg and banged them together. Poppy won, her egg remaining intact while Angie’s shattered.

  ‘Make your Easter wish, Mam,’ she said, thinking her own silent prayer that her mother would find the peace and happiness she so rightly deserved.

  Quiet for a moment, Poppy closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands.

  Angie wondered what her mother wanted. ‘I hope your wishes come true, Mam. Thanks for seeing to my wedding licence; another job crossed off.’

  Poppy took an apple pie from the oven and passed Angie a knife before she filled the kettle.

  ‘Can we tackle the guest list this week?’ Angie said. ‘I’ve seen the most gorgeous invitations, white parchment framed with the Greek keys in silver. The wedding planners are going to write everyone’s name in calligraphy.’ She grinned at Poppy, pausing for effect before she continued. ‘And listen to this, Mam, you’ll love it. Not only will the Cretan invites be written in Greek, but also using the Greek alphabet! What do you think? Fantastic, or what?’

  Poppy flinched.

  ‘And then next week, we can talk about the cake,’ Angie said. ‘You’re such a great cook, Mam. Can you make the actual wedding cake? Three tiers on Doric columns, and I thought the Greek keys pattern around the sides to tie in with the invitations. Simple, but classic.’ She stopped, suddenly concerned by the anguish on her mother’s face. ‘Mam, are you all right? What’s the matter? Don’t worry, we can buy the cake.’

  Poppy turned away. ‘Look, Angelika, I’ll tell you straight, I don’t want you to invite the Cretans.’ Giving the tea her full attention, she shared a teabag between two mugs. ‘We haven’t seen them since before you were born. Save your money towards the house.’ She fished out the teabag, stared at the drinks and scratched the back of her hand.

  Angie cut generous portions of pie. The delicious smells of apple and cinnamon clouded around her. ‘They’re your parents, we have to ask them. If my daughter got married and didn’t invite you, you’d be terribly hurt, Mam. Don’t worry about the money. We’ve saved for this for years. Nick, God bless him, is still putting in lots of extra hours, so we can have the wedding we want.’ Angie glanced about the room realising she couldn’t remember seeing anyone but her mother, and occasionally Nick, in the big old house.

  Since Aunty Heleny had died, Poppy seemed to have become something of a recluse. Perhaps she found the thought of so many guests descending on her suffocating, or even frightening. Poor Mam. Angie made a mental note to research agoraphobia and then help Poppy to get over whatever was making her so anxious. After all, there was no point in having the perfect wedding if her mother did not enjoy every moment of it too.

  ‘Well I don’t want you inviting them,’ Poppy said, tension making her voice brittle. ‘I haven’t asked for much concerning your marriage, so do this one thing for me. Invite Aunty Heleny’s folk, God rest her soul. Your godmother was all the real family we ever had.’

  ‘Why? It makes no sense. I’d like to meet Yiayá and Papoú and show them my husband,’ Angie said. ‘You’ve kept them from me all my life, Mam, and I’ve no idea why. But now we’re talking about our wedding. It’s important to me and Nick.’

  ‘Just save yourself the stamp, Angelika.’ Poppy stared into the distance, her voice softening as she spoke about her father. ‘Papoú is ninety-three, love, they’d never make it to London.’

  ‘No, Mam. They don’t actually have to come here. There’s no need to fret about finding accommodation for dozens of people you haven’t seen in decades.’ She watched her mother’s face, slightly ashamed that she hadn’t given Poppy’s lack of social life a thought before now.

  Poppy’s shoulders dropped and Angie realised how tense she was.

  ‘Mam, you don’t have to worry. I’m all organised. I’ve been dying to tell you all week.’ She grinned, sure her mother would love this latest idea o
f hers. ‘One of the girls at work got married recently and her family were from Jamaica. You can imagine the problems, because they all wanted her to get married there.’

  Poppy stared at the empty chair at the head of the table and then glanced around the room. Whatever Poppy was so concerned about, was sure to be nullified by Angie’s plan.

  ‘My colleague’s wedding planners organised a little reception in Jamaica for those that couldn’t come here. Then, they called her grandparents on video conferencing, shortly before she left for the church. Isn’t that a brilliant idea?’ Simply talking her wedding through with her mother uplifted her. ‘They’ll see me and Nick the morning we get married, and be part of the celebration. I’d love to hear them wish us health and happiness. And when we honeymoon in Crete, we can take them cake and favours. I can’t wait –’

  ‘Honeymoon in Crete?’ Poppy screwed her eyes and shook her head. ‘No, you’re not listening. NO!’

  Angie’s elation fell away. ‘Please, stop this nonsense, Mam. A wedding is all about families and love and bringing people together. I won’t let you spoil it. As for Dad’s family, I don’t even know their names, so you can at least allow me this!’

  A cry caught in Poppy’s throat while she raked at the back of her hand.

  ‘Mam, stop scratching, you’re bleeding.’ Angie’s stomach rolled at the sight of her mother’s blood. She took a napkin and tenderly dabbed at the lacerations. ‘You silly thing, it’s really deep. Come and put it under the tap.’

  ‘Please, Angelika, forget your mad ideas, they’re simple people. I’ll bet you won’t find a computer in the entire village. You build things up in your head. They don’t know you, and you don’t know them, leave it alone now.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Where’s your heart? You’re saying I can’t even speak to my own family?’ They stood at the sink, cold water running over Poppy’s wound. ‘Tell me why you insisted I learned Greek, then? What was the point?’

  Angie dressed the hand and then made fresh tea. The silence built up like an ugly wall between them until, frustrated, she blasted through it with words louder than intended. ‘Come on, Mam, we have to talk about this. Why are you being difficult? Why shouldn’t I invite them? I have a right –’

  ‘Stop it, don’t push me,’ Poppy interrupted. ‘Let me speak in my own time.’

  Angie recalled her teenage years when they last argued about this. Angie had wanted to go to Crete for a holiday with her university mates. Poppy went berserk and Angie and her friends eventually booked a week in Benidorm. Crete became a taboo subject.

  But this had nothing to do with holidays. This was about roots, love, uniting the family and celebrating solidarity. She tried to find the words to explain but her mother cut in, glaring at her.

  ‘You know I don’t want to discuss it. Why won’t you leave it? I spent years burying the past – my past – and now you’re digging it all up, opening wounds. You’re so stubborn and selfish. You couldn’t care less if you break my heart, just so long as you have what you want.’

  Shocked at her mother’s outburst, Angie stared at the untouched apple pie. Ashamed, she admitted to herself that Poppy was right – she was stubborn and selfish. But why couldn’t her mother see the wedding was so important to her? Still determined to understand Poppy’s angst, she blocked the emotional blackmail and did her best to keep the dialogue going, even though she knew it would probably upset her mother further. ‘Mam, I’m an adult, please trust me. Explain what turned you against your family.’

  ‘You don’t want to know!’

  ‘I do want to know!’

  Her mother’s shoulders dropped and she picked at the edge of the dressing on her hand. ‘If I do, will you promise not to ask me again?’

  Angie hesitated. ‘Can’t you see I need to understand, Mam? Tell me. Why are you so against me contacting them? Then I can make up my own mind.’

  Poppy nagged her lip for a moment. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you the bare bones but don’t you judge me. And let that be an end to it, all right?’

  Angie wavered. The past couldn’t be that bad. ‘Mam, whatever happened, it won’t change our relationship. I just need to know, that’s all.’ Over the years, surely a minor incident had escalated in Poppy’s mind. Angie hugged her tea and watched her mother stare around the room.

  Poppy gathered herself together. ‘The trouble started after our marriage. A terrible feud built up between my family and your father’s. I can’t describe how awful, Angelika, honestly, you’ve no idea. Everyone was fighting. Things got steadily worse until the situation became impossible. Better if they all forgot me, so I left.’ Poppy stared at the floor.

  ‘A feud, you mean you had a quarrel with your in-laws? Is that what’s upsetting you?’ Angie sighed with a mixture of relief and disbelief.

  Poppy’s head snapped around, eyes narrow, her skin seemed to bleach and tighten over her face. ‘No, damn it . . . a real feud. People suffered the most terrible consequences. People I – we all loved. It divided the village.’ She inhaled sharply, fighting a wave of emotion. ‘That they might come after your father next, terrified me so much. I tried . . .’ Poppy closed her eyes. Her throat and chest made little convulsions against sobs.

  Terrified? Surely she’s exaggerating?

  Angie hated herself for dragging up the past but she was determined to get to the bottom of her mother’s distress.

  Poppy took a damp cloth from the sink and wiped the worktops, the front of the fridge and around their plates of pie. Angie remained silent, allowing Poppy to gather her thoughts.

  When her mother reached for the broom, Angie’s heart went out to her, ‘Mam, stop. Come and sit next to me.’

  Poppy studied the spotless floor for a moment and then returned to the kitchen table. After another minute of silence, she said, ‘I tried to put a stop to the fighting but everything started to go wrong.’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘If only I could live my life over, love. Things would be different.’

  Poppy stared hard at Angie, reached out and touched her daughter’s cheek. ‘But then, perhaps not.’ Her eyes softened. ‘I probably wouldn’t change a thing.’ She pushed her hair back and white roots flashed at the base of her dark curls.

  Angie covered her mother’s hand with her own and spoke softly. ‘Go on, Mam; don’t stop now, share it with me, you’ll feel better.’

  ‘My brother, Matthia, lay unconscious in hospital when I left, his face so swollen I didn’t recognise him. His ribs were smashed and his lungs almost punctured. Your uncles had tried to kick him to death.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘The surgeon said he’d live but the police told us, when the doctors discharged him, he would go to prison. My own brother locked up, because of my actions. I should have been jailed, Angelika, but don’t ask why. Don’t put me through that.’

  Angie found it difficult to know what to say when she didn’t have all the facts. What had her mother done? She slid her hand over Poppy’s again, and stroked the plaster. ‘Wounds heal, Mam.’

  ‘Not these wounds.’ Poppy thumped herself in the chest. ‘You can’t bring back the dead!’

  Shocked, Angie wondered who had died, but knew that to interrupt now would stop Poppy from opening up.

  ‘Poor Matthia! If you had seen the state of him.’ She shook her head. ‘They forbade him to marry their sister, and they sent her away to Athens. He loved Agapi so much, it broke his heart. I told them all to forget me and I believe they have, Angelika. How else could I stop the vendettas? I begged Stavro, my other brother, for money and I ran away to London.’

  Stavro . . . the letters.

  Poppy closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Your father signed up for life in the army. I didn’t see him again, and that’s my punishment. I don’t know when he died or where his bones are. It broke my heart, smashed it to smithereens.’

  Angie tried to imagine not seeing Nick again, never visiting her mother again. ‘I wish you’d to
ld me all this before, Mam. I’m ashamed to have doubted you. I never imagined . . . how awful.’ How could she have been so naïve and selfish? ‘What an awful tragedy to go through by yourself, Mam.’ She slipped her arm around Poppy’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

  ‘You still don’t understand, Angelika, but get this into your stubborn head.’ She shrugged from under Angie’s arm. ‘I do not want to see my family. It’s too painful for me and it would be too painful for them. Let’s drop it now. Please.’

  ‘But why did Dad go and join the army? Couldn’t he work here so that you’d be together?’

  ‘You and your damn questions! Why are you doing this to me?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay!’ She had pushed Poppy too far. Her voice softened. ‘No, really . . . I am sorry, Mam. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ Concerned to see her mother so emotionally distressed, Angie wished she could take on Poppy’s pain. She reached out a comforting arm.

  Poppy gulped, stiffly shrinking away from her with an air of pathos. ‘Can’t you understand it’s a tragedy that I want to forget? Haven’t I suffered enough?’ She stared, hurt and sadness etched around her eyes. Her mouth worked but it took a few moments before she put sound to her words. ‘All right, for God’s sake I’ll tell you.’ She paused, screwing her eyes closed again. ‘Your father left because, when he came to London and found me, I sent him away. Before you were born, I sent him away.’ She shoved her plate. It skidded across the polished table and teetered for a second before it crashed to the floor.

  Angie jumped up.

  ‘Leave it!’ Poppy shouted and then she whispered, ‘Why can’t you just leave it?’ She hugged herself. ‘You can’t imagine how often I’ve regretted that . . . sending my darling Yeorgo away, seeing you grow up without a father. I hope you’ll never experience such heartache.’ Tears rolled down her face and then her voice dropped. ‘I’ve thought about him and missed him every day since, for all these long years. I don’t want the Cretans to know why he re-enlisted and left for Cyprus. Don’t stir it all up again.’

  ‘You sent him away?’ Shocked, she held back her own pain at this revelation, understanding a reprimand would only worsen the situation. She tried to comfort her mother, calm her down. ‘Mam, it happened so long ago. Things change – people change – they’re our family. They’ll understand.’