Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  Chapter 12

  AMIRAS HAD WOKEN FROM siesta. Men played cards or backgammon outside the kafenion. Women, mostly dressed in black, sat in small groups on the shady side of the street, gossiping while they crocheted. Children, with a length of rope tied to a tree, played a skipping game in the narrow road. They stopped and moved to one side so that Angie could drive past. If it hadn’t been for the childrens’ Nike trainers and Benetton hoodies, she thought the scene could have been from decades ago.

  Halfway up the village steps, a cluster of young teens jostled for space on a makeshift bench under a mulberry tree. As she approached, panting from the climb, they fell silent, glancing shyly with wide, curious eyes. ‘Hello, lady!’ one of the older ones called in English. They giggled and bunched together, tangling limbs around each other like puppies in their playful wrestling.

  Angie placed a hand flat on her belly. How long before she and Nick would have their own family? Children would bring a whole new dimension to their lives.

  The sun had morphed into the deep yellow of a nursery school painting, and honeyed light flashed starbursts through the olive branches. Angie walked around to the back of the house. In the garden, dishes of food and mismatched plates covered the cracked marble table.

  Nearby, Uncle Matthia turned a row of souvlakia on a barbeque that looked suspiciously like half a hot water cylinder. Chunks of pork sizzled on sticks of rosemary. The scent of herbs, lemon, and roasting meat teased Angie’s taste buds.

  Yiayá sat in the shade of the olive tree, concentrating on her crocheting. Before Angie could greet her, a very fat woman, wearing dark stockings that hardly reached her knees and a black dress that barely came down to them, dashed out of the house. Thrashing her arms above her head, she launched herself at Angie.

  ‘Angelika! Angelika!’

  Angie supressed an urge to turn and run. The animated, jovial woman grabbed Angie’s shoulders and kissed her cheeks forcefully.

  ‘Yia sas . . .’ Angie stammered at the grinning face.

  ‘I am your Aunty Voula, Matthia’s wife. They are my grandchildren,’ she yelled, gleefully waving at the youngsters under the mulberry tree. Voula steered Angie towards the food and shouted at Matthia to bring the meat.

  Yiayá smiled and dropped her needlework into its bag. With Angie’s help, she got out of the white plastic chair and tottered to the table. Angie wanted to talk to her but Voula dominated the scene, gathering her grandchildren and forcing meat and salads on everyone. ‘Eat! Eat!’

  Matthia scowled from under his frosty eyebrows.

  The children, as rowdy as Voula, snatched food from the plates and then ran wild in the garden. They threw olive stones into the barbeque and screamed with laughter when the pips exploded under Matthia’s kebabs. Although incredibly noisy, their happiness infected everyone. Sometimes the boys swore, ‘Malákas!’ and then Voula would run at them making chopping movements with the side of her hand. Her dimpled knees flashed white, like risen dough, over the black half-stockings.

  Neighbours arrived with more food and vied for Angie’s attention. Tumblers, filled with red wine poured from cola bottles, were passed along the table. ‘Without chemicals,’ Voula yelled. ‘Every day you must drink two glasses, Angelika.’

  Eventually, Matthia joined the party, eating like a lion. He shoved more meat into his mouth before he’d swallowed the last and managed to sip raki while his cheeks bulged with pork. The fury Angie had seen on his face the first moment she’d met him hadn’t shifted.

  When Voula filled Angie’s glass with acidic wine for the third time, she found the courage to talk to her formidable uncle. She walked around the table and sat beside him. He stood and returned to the barbeque. Determined, she followed him, thinking it would be better to have a conversation with him away from the present company, anyway. The thought of a confrontation made her nervous, but she needed to get to the bottom of his anger, or there would always be this tension between them.

  ‘Uncle Matthia, can I speak to you?’ she said.

  ‘Why do you want to talk to me? My mother talks enough for everyone.’

  Angie tried to smile but the corner of her mouth ticked nervously. Humility did not come easily to her. In a moment of tense silence, Matthia ignored her and turned the last six souvlakia.

  Exasperated, she cleared her throat. ‘Uncle, I was very excited to meet you, but you’ve been so cold to me since I arrived.’ She glanced at the glowing coals that were spitting and flaring as the pork fat dripped. ‘What did I do that made you so angry?’

  Matthia glared. ‘You don’t know?’ He huffed and turned towards her. ‘You rich people, you come here . . . These honest villagers have brought you all they have in gifts. Your grandmother has told you that the Germans took all that we had, every single thing; our crops, our possessions, our houses, our men . . .’ his voice dropped, ‘and more.’ His face pinched. ‘Have you noticed how many blue eyes you see in Greek faces, around here? Two generations later, and we are still not allowed to forget the worst of it.’

  Angie blinked, slow to understand then shocked. She shook her head.

  ‘Now, they cut my pension to dust, raise the taxes on everything, and give us a pittance for the olive oil. We struggle again because of the upper-crust Europeans. I can’t even put petrol into the car to take my grandchildren to the beach. It’s a catastrophe.’

  Angie, speechless for a moment, glanced at the heaps of food still on the table. She struggled to keep the conversation going. ‘I realise it must be painful –’

  Matthia interrupted. ‘Painful? You don’t know what you are talking about!’ he shouted. His fingers stuttered down buttons before he threw his shirt off, spinning away from her. ‘This was painful!’

  Angie gasped. Matthia’s back, pale gold Mediterranean skin kept out of the sun for a lifetime, had many white, spear-shaped scars.

  ‘Good God, what is that?’ Her hand covered her mouth.

  ‘Ask my mother,’ Matthia shouted. ‘She’s so eager to talk about the past and how lucky we are; stupid woman.’

  Maria’s voice reached them. ‘Matthia, be careful.’

  He glanced at his mother, then back to Angie, before speaking quietly but with no less anger.

  ‘We weren’t to blame then, and we aren’t now,’ he said, pulling his shirt over his shoulders. ‘Politicians, Europe, they claim to work for the people, they are liars. And you lot, you don’t know anything. If we had black oil, you’d be on your knees slobbering with respect, but olive oil . . . you screw us.

  ‘You have no idea what’s going on here, and you couldn’t care less. You didn’t then, through the wars and the junta, or perhaps you did, I suspect that’s why you supported our oppressors, the regime of the Colonels. I’ll bet you don’t even know we have the Nazis back here now, at this very moment.’

  Angie shook her head. ‘No, you’re right, but I’ve come to Crete because I want to know and understand, Uncle Matthia.’ She blinked at him. ‘What do you mean, the Nazis have returned?’

  ‘Golden Dawn, racist monsters that use our Greek keys symbol like a Nazi swastika. They attack, even kill people who say anything against them. Well, they won’t stop me saying what I believe. You Europeans look the other way while we struggle, but you still expect us to defend Europe’s borders against the Muslims and terrorists.’

  Angie wondered why he grouped Muslims with terrorists, but she decided not to antagonise him with political or religious questions.

  He continued to rant, his voice low and hard, eyes flicking towards Maria. ‘Cretans, gullible fools with short memories, or village people who should know better, give these anarchist-thugs their support. They swap their vote in exchange for a bag of potatoes. Potatoes! It’s ironic that the excuse the Nazis gave for being here in the Viannos area, in ’43, was also potatoes. Bah, Judases.’

  ‘I’m sorry. There’s so much I don’t understand,’ Angie said.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come here. The j
ourney was a stupid waste of your time and money.’

  ‘I wanted to invite you to my wedding, Uncle Matthia, it was important to me. But now . . .’ Angie didn’t want to tell him she might have to cancel the wedding. Not only that, but also her Pilates class, her interior design course, and God only knew how she was going to pay off her credit card debt. But, she told herself, she hadn’t just come to Crete to escape her own worries; she was here to try and help her mother find peace. To resolve whatever had driven poor Mam away from her parents.

  Suddenly, she realised her own shallowness. Her entire life revolved around herself, her marriage, and her happy-ever-after. Poppy had been right, and so had her Uncle Matthia, she shouldn’t have come.

  She saw herself in a new light and didn’t like it. Shocked to recognise the person she had turned into, she stared at the people who were giving their all to make sure she had a good time. Matthia grabbed her attention again.

  ‘But now . . .’ he scoffed, ‘you realise we couldn’t afford to bring our families to England, or buy the wedding clothes. We’d embarrass you. Can you imagine how my Voula feels – you in your fancy get-up and gold jewellery?’ Matthia’s eyes flicked from Angie’s face to her shoes and back again.

  Angie lowered her eyes.

  Matthia continued, ‘And my hard-working and selfless wife in the same dress she’s worn for years? I don’t have the money to get her another. You probably think it’s quaint, ethnic. You’ll take your photos to London and say, “They are real village people, Greek peasants,” like we’re tourist-postcard freaks. Well, let me tell you, Angelika, we are Cretans first – proud Cretans, Greeks second, and Europeans last of all.’

  Angie felt the heat of a blush burn into her cheeks. ‘No, you misunderstand me. What you wear to our wedding isn’t important. It would be wonderful if you came, for Mam’s sake as much as ours.’ She halted for a moment, realising that might not be quite true. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .’

  Angry and sad at the same time, she struggled to find the right words. She wanted them to like her – wasn’t that childish? She’d had her own way, always been given anything she wanted, by the two people she loved; Poppy and Nick. Now, when the time had come to be honest and open and selfless with her estranged family, she floundered.

  Angie’s desire to belong, and to understand, hadn’t weakened, yet she found it impossible to relate. She should stand on her own two feet and speak to these lovely people with sincerity, on an equal footing, but she didn’t know where to begin. She had absolutely nothing in common with them, apart from her bloodline. How shallow she was, the realisation cut her deeply. Choked on frustration, she decided to drop the subject and leave.

  ‘I’d better go, Uncle. I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to come here and upset you.’ She reached out and touched his arm, but he turned away, sniffed hard, and flipped his souvlakia over the blazing coals.

  She’d hurt him – although unintentionally – and Angie felt bad. Defeated and drained, she stared at the ground for a moment, and then returned to the table for her handbag. She couldn’t think of any way to reconcile herself with her uncle and staying would only worsen the atmosphere. Yet oddly enough, she had a sudden suspicion Matthia’s angst was more to do with Poppy than herself.

  ‘Where are you going, Angelika?’ Voula screeched.

  ‘I’ve a headache, too much wine, Aunty. It’s been lovely, thank you.’

  ‘No! You sit here. I will bring you aspirin. My malákas husband upset you, yes? I’ll kill him.’ She reached into the olive tree and peeled a slender branch from the trunk. The tiny white blossom showered over her like Princess Shrek in a snow globe. She ran at Matthia, yelling in Cretan dialect beyond Angie’s comprehension.

  The children came running and gathered to watch. Matthia crossed his forearms in front of his face while Voula whacked at him with the branch.

  ‘Voula, stop it.’ Maria called as loud as she could manage.

  Voula froze mid-swipe. She started back to the table but Matthia crept up behind her and gave her such a hefty slap on her massive bottom it made Angie’s eyes water.

  Maria giggled, Voula yelped, lurched forward and then spun around, threatening to chop his head off with the side of her hand.

  The kids clapped, laughed and whistled.

  Angie met her uncle’s glance and, for a second, their differences were forgotten. She saw the small, skinny child who had planted his shoes. A boy whose innocence had kept his mother focused through their darkest hours.

  Everybody returned to eating and drinking. Voula’s two daughters arrived with their husbands. The occasion seemed dominated by each guest trying to talk louder than anyone else until somebody yelled, ‘Quiet! The phone’s ringing.’

  Voula jogged indoors. Everyone’s eyes involuntarily fixed on her bovine buttocks. They listened to her squealing and shouting into the phone until she returned to the table, her face flushed and her body jigging with excitement. ‘Stavro is coming. He’ll be here tomorrow evening.’

  Maria crossed herself and then squeezed Angie’s hand. ‘Good, you will meet your Uncle Stavro.’

  The prodigal son? Angie wondered, remembering the letters at her mother’s house.

  *

  Angie drove through Viannos at midnight, surprised to see several bars open in the main street. Back in her room, tanked on Greek coffee and emotionally drained after her fracas with Matthia, she found sleep impossible. As twelve o’clock in Crete meant ten o’clock in London, Angie decided to call Nick. She imagined him lonely in the flat, his calming voice telling her of his day, saying everything would work out. Sleep would arrive with a smile.

  ‘Hey, it’s me,’ she said, before recognising the background noise of a public place. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Hey you, I’ve missed you. How’s it going?’ He sounded tired.

  ‘I’ll bring the car around, Nick,’ a woman spoke in the background.

  Angie recognised the voice. The transitions manager from Whitekings, again.

  ‘Where are you, Nick?’

  ‘The Meadows, we’ve just finished a meeting over dinner.’ Angie heard alarm bells. How many people are at this meeting Nick; just two? He continued, ‘It’s been a long, long day, Angie and I can’t talk now. I’ll phone you tomorrow, okay? Got to go. Love you.’ He ended the call.

  Nick, at the Meadows with another woman. Their special, romantic, candlelit restaurant.

  Another woman? No way. She was overreacting. Pulling herself together, she dismissed the entire conversation, put on her sassiest little black dress and heels, and locked the room. At half-past midnight, she marched down the high street of Viannos with purpose.

  *

  At three thirty in the morning, with Manoli standing behind her, Angie fumbled to get the key into her door. What a night! Who would have believed a bunch of isolated village-Greeks were such party animals? She had never danced on a table in her life before, and did that middle-aged man really drink Cava out of her shoe? Wow!

  The quaint, traffic clogged, pensioner-populated Viannos underwent a transformation at midnight. Nondescript doors, plastered in peeling events posters, were flung open. Super modern, neon-lit bars were revealed. Music blared. Scantily clad, stunningly beautiful women of all ages danced as if their spines were latex. People filled the high street.

  An elderly man with a receding hairline wore an open shirt that showed too much chest hair, and a heavy gold neck-chain. He actually kissed the back of Angie’s hand and presented her with a red rose. Mad, or what? Manoli appeared and seemed to think he stood a chance. A couple of musicians walked down the street, playing bouzouki and lira.

  Manoli leapt into the street and performed the solitary Zeibekiko dance, blatantly showing off his skills. He waved his arms above his head, his eyes serious, concentrating on the ground. A ring of appreciative Viannos revellers surrounded him in a big circle, a few went down on one knee, clapping the rhythm of a stoic, sombre tune. Someone
threw a glass of raki that smashed at his feet. Someone else set fire to it. Manoli fearlessly danced through the flames, his arms swaying above like seagrass in a swell. The audience shouted, ‘Opa!’ after each dramatic twirl or leap.

  As the key turned in her door lock, Angie said, ‘Thanks for seeing me safely back, Manoli. I appreciate it, goodnight.’ Then she quickly ducked inside, and turned the key.

  He knocked. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a coffee?’

  ‘Sorry, Manoli, early start tomorrow,’ she called through the door.

  Angie took a bottle of chilled water from the fridge, sat on the bed, and listened to Manoli’s departing footsteps. She half turned the key in the lock so, if he had a duplicate, and she had no idea why she thought he might have, he wouldn’t be able to use it.

  She wanted to be at home with Nick, but then told herself to stop pining. She only had another four days to learn the truth about her family. Angie pulled the rose from her hair and dropped it into the pocket of her suitcase. Nick would laugh when she told him about her night on the town.

  Then she remembered what had prompted her need for a crazy evening. Her fiancé had taken another woman to their special restaurant. How could he do that? She recalled their first proper date. They arrived in their own cars, ate there and kissed in the car park before parting. The following week she’d suffered palpitations whenever he came near her desk.

  He did ask her out, and later told her he was just as afraid she would say no.

  She rapped her knuckles against her forehead. What on earth was she thinking?! How could she be such an idiot? Of course she could trust her man. He loved her . . . he’d been on a business meeting, nothing more, and anyway, he happened to be the most reliable person she had ever known.

  *

  Angie woke with a headache after a few restless hours, ashamed of doubting Nick. After a cool shower, her thoughts rationalised and her head cleared. She dressed in an Indian cotton skirt and washed-out T-shirt, abandoning all jewellery apart from her engagement ring.