Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘No,’ Poppy whispered. ‘I can’t come to your wedding if they do. You’ll force me to go away until they’ve returned to Crete. I swore they’d never lay eyes on me again. Invite them if you must. It’s your choice. I can leave. That’s my ultimatum.’

  Riddled with guilt, Angie tried to push her mother into a family reunion with a counter-ultimatum. ‘Are you saying that they’re more important than me, than what I want? Just for our whole family to be together for one special moment? Is it too much to ask? If you don’t come to my wedding, you know very well I won’t get married.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Poppy said. ‘It’s you that’s saying the Cretans are more important than me. You don’t know them. I do. Trust me, Angelika, please! It’s for the best. You’re my life. Don’t bring back the past. I’m begging you.’

  Chapter 5

  Crete, Present Day.

  FORLORN, ANGIE STARED at her hands. ‘We never used to argue, ever, but I wanted to know why Mam left Crete. It sounds crazy, but the more she refused to talk about it, the more preoccupied I became. In the end, it was as if I’d become obsessed by her secrets.’ She closed her eyes for a moment, recalling all the tension of previous weeks.

  ‘Then, last week, I had a car accident on my way home from Mam’s. I ran a red light, too busy thinking about our argument instead of concentrating on the road. Nobody was hurt, thank God, but it could have been worse.’

  Yiayá crossed herself.

  Angie continued, ‘I got myself in a state and Nick caught me having a cry about it. He said enough was enough. The time had come to get to the bottom of Mam’s distress. He’s such a darling, Yiayá, so sensitive. He couldn’t stand to see me upset when I returned from Mam’s. I realise I’ve hurt her, and I feel awful, but for some crazy reason that I don’t understand, I can’t let it go. Nick was the one who suggested I came here to find you.’ Angie took a deep breath before she asked, ‘Will you tell me my family history, Yiayá? I want to know what’s at the root of Mam’s terrible unhappiness.’

  Maria squinted at the window and contemplated. Early afternoon sun pierced the handmade curtains and lacy shadows danced over her. ‘I’ll think about it, Angelika. Now, it’s time for my sleep. I’m tired. Come back tomorrow and meet your grandfather.’

  Angie returned to her car, preoccupied by her grandmother. Yiayá seemed so nice. Surely she would want to help Poppy recover from whatever had hurt her. The idea that Angie could arrive in London with new understanding, and the seeds of resolution, and healing made her so happy she wanted to pull on her sweats and jog through the streets.

  In the shimmering heat, siesta had settled over the village. Angie heard a raucous dog and an egotistical rooster, then the place became as still and silent as an abandoned film set. She drove back to Viannos.

  *

  ‘My grandmother’s amazing, Manoli,’ Angie said the next morning when he brought her coffee under the big tree. ‘She’s going to tell me about my family’s past, today. I’m quite excited.’

  Manoli blinked. ‘Your history? You mean you don’t –’

  Cretan music jangled from a megaphone on the roof of a pickup, drowning Manoli’s words. The vehicle contained several boxes of fish and an old-fashioned brass scale dangled from the back. Manoli shoved his thumb and forefinger into his mouth and whistled. The truck braked, crunched gears, and backed-up to the kerb.

  ‘Take your grandparents some fresh sardines. They are very good now,’ Manoli shouted over the jangle of music.

  *

  In Amiras, cats sniffed the air as Angie passed. Several felines leapt from the bins and stalked her, mewing and peering at the bag of fish. She chucked a sardine as far down the steps as possible and then she ran. Angie reached the top of the climb wheezing like an asthmatic donkey.

  In the garden, behind the cottage, Maria sat at a long, grey, marble table that had a jagged crack through the centre, dividing the table in a strangely artistic way. Delighted with the sardines, she said, ‘Let’s sit inside, Angelika. It’s cooler.’

  Angie felt sharp old bones through the cotton dress when she helped Maria out of her white plastic chair. In the living room, she broached the family history again.

  ‘Are you sure you want this, Angelika? You may regret it. You can’t return my words like an unwanted gift if you change your mind.’

  ‘I have to understand, Yiayá. It’s important to me, and Mam refuses to talk about what happened here.’

  ‘Poppy has her reasons,’ Maria said.

  ‘But I don’t know them. If I ask, she becomes distressed and hurts herself. She scratches the backs of her hands until she’s bleeding. It’s a nervous habit she has and it’s truly awful. Sometimes, I hear her crying in bed at night. The doctor has given her sleeping pills, and I’m terribly afraid it will be tranquillisers next.

  Maria took a sharp intake of breath and touched her mouth.

  ‘I can’t bear to see my mother so unhappy. It breaks my heart. I want to help her find peace,’ Angie explained with all sincerity.

  Maria’s face clouded. She stared at the floor and then brushed a tear from her eye. When she spoke, Angie heard both hurt and irony in her voice. ‘And you think if I tell you what Poppy doesn’t want you to know, it will make her feel better?’

  ‘Put like that, possibly not.’ Angie leaned back in her chair and thought about it. ‘But I do believe, if I understood why Mam’s so unhappy, I could try to ease her pain. I’m desperate to help her.’

  The silence seemed heavy in the room, but then the old woman spoke kindly. ‘Has it occurred to you that perhaps Poppy’s protecting you from something?’ Maria stared at Angie and crossed herself three times. ‘If you understand what happened here, in the past, it might alter your future, Angelika.’

  ‘Yiayá, I love my mother. She’s a good person, wonderful, generous and kind, and I admire her greatly. Nothing anyone tells me can change that.’

  Maria patted Angie’s knee. ‘May those thoughts always stay with you, child.’

  Angie frowned.

  ‘If I tell you, then you’ll get the whole story, Angelika. I won’t leave out the unpleasant things. I haven’t the strength to pick and choose what you should hear, and I’ll astonish you with the cruelty of it all. It won’t be something you can put out of your head.’

  Angie hesitated, for a moment unsure of what she might stir up. But in the end, she had to know the truth – everything – for her mother’s sake. She supposed the truth must come with a truckload of tragedy, because Angie did understand how much the past still upset Poppy.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Yiayá. Let’s concentrate on getting Mam sorted.’ After living in a big city all her life, Angie doubted anything that happened in the picturesque village of Amiras could shock her.

  Maria studied her for a moment and then her eyes narrowed. ‘You underestimate this wizened old woman, Angelika, but that will change.’

  A white-haired man with a kind, open face leaned heavily on his stick as he tottered into the room. Before sitting in the corner by the fireplace, his great, shaggy moustache spread in a horizontal grin aimed at Angie.

  Maria lifted her eyebrows and stared at him.

  He shook his head as if replying to a question.

  ‘I have to,’ Maria said, ‘before I die. It’s important.’

  Shocked by her grandmother’s words, Angie waited to be introduced.

  The old man frowned at the floor.

  In the stillness of the cottage, Angie sensed emotion pass between the couple.

  Maria pointed a bony finger towards the pensioner. ‘Angelika, meet your grandfather, Vassili.’

  My grandfather, my Papoú, at last.

  Vassili tossed amber worry beads over the back of his fingers while his other hand gripped his bastouni, the traditional Cretan walking stick.

  ‘Hello, Papoú.’ Angie stood and kissed his white-stubbled cheeks.

  The concern fell from his face and his eyes twinkled. ‘Hello, korits
ie mou.’

  Koritsie mou – my girl; the words thrilled Angie. She had found her family.

  Maria smoothed her skirt and glanced around the room.

  Angie’s excitement escalated.

  Her grandmother went through an assortment of facial expressions, both happy and sad. After a few minutes, the old woman seemed to reach a decision.

  ‘First, I need your promise, Angelika. When I’m dead you do as you like but, until then, keep this story to yourself. It’s a tragedy worse than you can imagine, and I won’t see anybody else hurt by it. Will you abide by my wishes?’

  ‘Absolutely, Yiayá, but may I take notes while you talk? I want to remember everything to tell my future husband and children.’

  ‘Ah, you remind me, there’s a notebook on the shelf. Pass it to me.’ Angie did and then watched her grandmother remove a sheet of Greek writing and hand it to her.

  ‘I was writing you a letter, but I didn’t get it finished,’ Maria said.

  ‘That’s quite a coincidence.’

  ‘The fates guide us,’ Maria said. ‘Here’s the one I wrote to Poppy. I was going to post them together. Don’t look at it now. Wait until you’re in England. Read it to your mother.’

  Angie folded the page and slipped it into the zip pocket of her handbag. Was she about to learn the cause of her mother’s distress and something about the father she’d never known? She hoped so. Then she could return to London and Poppy would realise the past didn’t matter as much as the present and the future.

  Uplifted by relief, Angie hugged her grandmother. ‘Thank you. You’ve no idea what this means to me.’

  Maria hesitated and Angie realised she was still uncertain.

  ‘Please, Yiayá,’ she said.

  Maria peered into Angie’s eyes. ‘I need time to think, Angelika. Go with your grandfather.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Old man, take Angelika through the house. Show her how we lived in those days, so she understands everything.’

  Vassili nodded, pulled himself up and rested on Angie’s shoulder. ‘My grandfather built this place.’ He waved his cane at the beamed ceiling. ‘The roof was made with tree trunks and clay back then. Very strong; it kept the heat and rain out. Now we have foam stuff that mice eat and tiles that crack.’ He snorted. ‘That’s progress, hey? The youngsters always know better.’

  Angie looked at him and remembered her mother’s words: Papoú is ninety-three. She hadn’t expected this jovial old man.

  He poked the wall. ‘No plaster or electric in those days. The walls were lime-washed every Easter, to stop fleas, and we lit the place with oil lamps.’ He nodded at the fireplace. ‘That’s where we cooked, in one big pot. My grandfather built a kiln outside, for baking, but it used too much wood. It’s still out there.’ He lifted his chin to the window. ‘The oven had a food safe on the back for the rusks and honey. If you keep sweet things in the house, you get pestered by bees and ants.’

  ‘Tell her about the bread,’ Maria said.

  Angie smiled. Yiayá could talk about these things, but she wanted to include Papoú. She imagined herself and Nick as doddery old people, still caring about each other’s feelings.

  ‘Look up the chimney, koritsie,’ Vassili said. ‘There’s a nook for the dough. It went in at night and we woke to a fresh loaf each morning.’

  Angie peered up the flue but it was dark and soot-laden.

  ‘Go through there, Angelika.’ Vassili nodded at a curtain draped over a narrow archway.

  The super modern kitchen with its faint smell of vanilla, coffee and roast meat surprised Angie.

  Vassili stood taller and squared his shoulders. ‘It’s new, and this . . .’ They turned and faced a small dining area with the largest plasma TV Angie had seen in a house.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she said.

  Vassili crossed himself, stuck his chest out and said, ‘A gift from our eldest son, Stavro. We don’t see very well, koritsie.’

  They grinned at each other but then Vassili’s eyes dimmed.

  ‘This used to be the bedroom, very traditional. All the houses were the same. One big wall-to-wall bed as high as this.’ He leaned on her shoulder and waved his stick over the kitchen worktops. ‘The mezzanine had wide steps and cupboards underneath for the clothes and linen. My father built it. Nice carving on the front. We were proud of that woodwork; the finest bed in the village. The baby slept in a hammock above us so that Maria could reach him.’

  Vassili spoke with sadness. ‘The Nazis destroyed it, burned everything. Nothing left of that bed but the children conceived there.’

  ‘The Nazis . . . they were here? I didn’t realise.’

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know, Angelika.’

  ‘I kept meaning to do a little research, to understand where I came from, but I’m afraid my work and the wedding always got in the way. I never progressed much further than tourist information, Papoú.’

  Vassili seemed sad, lost in his thoughts for a moment, and then his gloom lifted. He flashed a smile towards another hand-woven blanket nailed across the opposite wall. ‘The next room is more interesting.’

  The third part of the house was a peculiar contrast to the steel and pine kitchen.

  The dusky bedroom hinted of mildew and mothballs and myrrh. An odd collection of furniture, from polished walnut to pink marble Formica, stood side-by-side. Every flat surface supported a white crochet tablecloth and framed photographs of stiff-faced people. Jesus, and an iridescent 3D of a blinking Virgin Mary, featured prominently. Purple and red silk flowers with petals tipped in gold glitter, paid homage.

  ‘This was the appothiki, the store room,’ Vassili said. ‘We kept the animals, olive oil, and the dried food here. The walls had recesses for cheeses.’ He caught Angie’s puzzled look. ‘Because, in the thick wall, the cheese stayed cool for most of the year, ripening nicely.’ He waved his stick. Angie ducked. The Virgin Mary blinked.

  ‘There was a door where the window is. We had a goat for milk and cheese and we fattened her kid for meat, if the Nazis didn’t get it first. Our chickens roosted here at night, safe from vermin. Polecats are malákas, that’s why we have dogs. Polecats kill the fowl and steal the eggs. Do you have them in England?’

  Angie shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen one, Papoú.’

  ‘You must have because I hear the English have many dogs.’ He poked his stick towards the corner of the room. ‘I buried our largest terracotta pot there, below the floor. In war time, it’s important to have a hidey-hole, everyone knows that.’

  Vassili lowered his stick. Jesus remained in place. His upturned eyes gazed at a mildew patch on the ceiling as he offered his bleeding heart.

  Back in the lounge, Angie sat next to Maria. Vassili closed the cottage door and then settled into his chair. Concern returned to his face.

  Maria glanced around the room. ‘This journey will take me down a path of pain, child. If I shouldn’t make it to the end, you mustn’t feel guilty, Angelika.’

  Startled, Angie stared at her grandmother, and then at her grandfather. He nodded and then shook his head. A spark of fear exploded in Angie’s chest. She took her grandmother’s bony hand.

  ‘Yiayá, I don’t want to –’

  ‘Quiet now, Angelika. The decision’s been made.’ Maria closed her eyes and when she spoke again, decades had fallen from her voice.

  ‘As I remember, the story started at dawn on the fourteenth of September, 1943 . . .’

  Chapter 6

  Crete, 14 September 1943.

  AT SIX O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, hunger woke me. In the musty warmth of the big bed, I listened to the breathing of my two boys, Stavro and Matthia, beside me. My thoughts settled on my husband, Vassili, fighting in Albania. After ten long months, I missed him enormously. Would he remember his son’s name-day today? Should I cook the remains of our beans to celebrate the feast of The Holy Cross, Saint Stavro, or should I plant them? This war wouldn’t last forever.

  The thought of a bean casser
ole with wild herbs and a splash of lemon made my belly rumble so loudly I feared it would wake the children. Baby Petro stirred in his hammock. He would cry for my breast soon. I rocked the fabric cradle, hoping he would sleep longer.

  I slipped from our bed, crept into the living room and pulled the front door open. Cool air drifted in, earthy and fresh. In the wide fireplace, embers flared and flames danced into life. With a small copper brickie, I scooped water from the pail before settling the long-handled jug in the ashes. Coffee would be wonderful but we had none. I added chopped olive leaves and a pinch of mountain herbs to the brickie and then reached inside the chimney stack. The bread had baked hard overnight. I lifted it to my nose and inhaled its sweet, nutty smell. I had used the last of the flour and bulked the loaf out with sunflower seeds and crushed chickpeas. Thank God the wheat harvest would start in a few weeks. If I found work in the field, I hoped payment would be in flour. Money had little value now.

  The oil lamp flickered into life and I sat in peace with my warm bread drizzled with olive oil and a sprinkle of salt, and my cup of herb tea. If I didn’t eat, my milk would dry up and my baby starve.

  Stavro wandered in, sleep-tousled and innocent-faced.

  ‘Come here, my boy.’ I hugged him and kissed his damp cheeks. ‘A big year for you, son. It’s your name-day today, Stavro. Your father will be thinking of you. Let’s eat bread together.’ I gave him my knife, an honour to the child. ‘Cut yourself a slice.’

  Stavro stood taller, the seven-year-old boy trying to be a man. While he hacked at the loaf I had to turn my head, fearing for his fingers. I stood the bucket of water in the embers, a treat to have a warm wash this morning.

  Petro slept after I’d suckled him. An easy baby, content to feed and sleep through his days and nights, oblivious to our troubles. I tucked him back into the hammock and set about my chores. The sun appeared over the mountains. Long shadows through the golden sunlight reminded me to water our struggling crops, before the earth became hot.