Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  I caught a glimpse of life through his young eyes and, at that point, I had to put my hand over my mouth to cover a smile. To think, your mother may be hanged by the neck but how terrible for a shepherd to see you crying about it.

  Stavro continued – his voice quiet and sober. ‘When you returned with the food, I was so happy.’ He stared at the ground and spoke earnestly. ‘Please don’t get killed, Mama. I’m trying very hard to be a man but . . . promise you won’t tell anybody?’ His brown eyes turned up, pleading.

  ‘Not a soul, son.’

  ‘I’m scared all the time, really afraid.’ He held me in his gaze and nodded forcefully, but then shook his head. ‘I won’t be much good as a man. I’d better tell you now, Mama, so you don’t get your hopes up. I’ll never be as strong and clever as Andreas the shepherd.’

  ‘Come here, my big boy.’ I dropped to my knees and wrapped my arms around him tightly. ‘There’s no need for you to be grown up just yet, Stavro. You’re my first-born son and I love you more than anybody, exactly as you are at this moment. And I’ll tell you something, a secret between us, sometimes I’m afraid, too.’ I pulled back and looked at him. ‘But let’s put a brave face on for Matthia, hey? Even though we both know he’s a little devil. We should find him, before that goat drags him away through the bushes.’

  We discovered Matthia on his haunches, examining his scabbed knees.

  ‘They’ll be ready to pick in a few days. Don’t start now or they are sure to bleed,’ Stavro said.

  Matthia nodded earnestly.

  The goat’s leading rope had tangled in a thorny, scrub lemon tree. Stavro untangled it and, just as we continued our journey, we were drawn to the sound of the big dog somewhere far down the hill. The Alsatian worked itself into a frenzy, yapping and snarling.

  The distant stomp of marching feet rose on the morning air. A flock of crows took to the sky; wings flapping, they banked on a turn to the opposite hillside. My blood chilled.

  Troops were on the road. God knows how many soldiers’ boots hit that tarmac. The noise thrummed up through the trees, through my bones. I concentrated on the tone. So long as they stayed down there, we were safe. The chilling rhythm got louder, and then it stopped. The dog went mad.

  A burst of machine gun fire cracked the silence. The sound bounced off the mountainsides, each reverberation fainter than the last, echoing with the essence of death. A second later, a high-pitched whimper squealed into the morning light. The most remorseful, soul-destroying whine that ever came from an animal.

  A single gunshot with its choir of echoes silenced the beast. In that instant, I knew my dear friend Andreas and his dog were dead.

  Stavro’s head jerked back as if he had received a slap with the last retort.

  We stopped where we were, listening, my boys not understanding. I glanced up at a waning moon in an insipid sky, almost expecting to see the great ghost of Andreas the shepherd ascending. Even the dawn chorus had quietened. We peered down the hill but only saw the trees that hid us from the enemy.

  Stavro turned his sad eyes to me and asked, ‘Did they shoot the dog, Mama?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Stavro. They probably just frightened it away. Stop worrying, son, you’ve seen how those two take care of each other. Nothing will separate Andreas and that big old Alsatian.’

  Stavro nodded, comforted.

  ‘Now let’s go and keep an eye on your brother,’ I said.

  The path, a jagged wound in the scorched landscape, had partly healed over with nettles and saplings. We scrambled onward. The air, previously perfumed with thyme and rosemary, became resinous with the scent of pine. A gentle breeze refreshed us. Andreas drifted into my heavy heart. I wanted to shed tears for the big man at the end of his life but, like Stavro, I had to appear strong.

  I made a plea to the Virgin Mary.

  Take Andreas into God’s Kingdom, he was a kindly man, a shepherd the same as your own Son; a very good person.

  Chapter 15

  Crete, Present Day.

  ANGIE CONSIDERED HER GRANDMOTHER’S words. ‘Imagine watching them hang the women and not be able to do anything, Yiayá. I’d never sleep easy again. A thing like that could drive anyone insane. The poor man.’

  Maria crossed herself. ‘I can’t explain the effect that Andreas had on my life. I only knew him for a few hours but I learned we shouldn’t judge people by how they look. Nor should we believe everything we’re told.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me what happened; it can’t have been easy for you.’

  ‘Yes, it was difficult, but somebody should hear what war really does to families, and the effect it has on local people. They’re the ones that suffer. All those Nazis too, they were some mothers’ sons, probably nice boys with loving parents. I can’t forgive them though, even now. I’m sure I never will.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. It must have been so upsetting for Papoú too, to hear all this when he returned from Albania.’

  Maria nodded, blew her flaccid cheeks out. ‘Very hard indeed; it took a few years to get back together as man and wife. Having him home should have been wonderful, but war twists us up inside. Difficult times, koritsie. I see films of conflicts on the TV, and toy guns in the shops. It’s all become unreal, even a little glamorous.’

  Maria shook her head, silent for a moment. ‘To train people to kill others and brainwash them into believing it’s something to be glorified is wrong. Corrupt governments and greedy politicians have taken our children and used them in their bloody, power-hungry, war games. Bah! This island is mine.’ She thumped her chest with alarming ferocity. ‘It belongs to me, we – the Cretan people, not those leaders in Athens, or the neo-Nazi fanatics that are using fear or bribery to capture seats in parliament right now, or those bureaucrats running Europe.’

  Angie stared at Maria. She had seen her as a sweet but decrepit old lady when she arrived in Crete a few days ago. Suddenly, she realised the fiercely patriotic, political animal that was her grandmother. She still held strong views and ideals, despite her great age. Maria had defied orders by going into the olive grove to find food for her children. Her grandmother was a selfless, brave and determined woman. Pride rushed through Angie. What an honour to belong to such a family.

  Poppy should feel the same, so why didn’t she?

  Suddenly ashamed, Angie recognised the triviality of her own life. She’d never held a political conviction, nor bothered to vote – though she knew, now, that would change. ‘What difference will my one vote make?’ she asked herself. As for her children’s future, she had hardly thought past the colourful pages of the Babyland catalogue, and deciding which pushchair to buy.

  Uncle Matthia came to mind. Now, Angie understood him. He saw her as shallow, self-centred, materialistic, and it made him angry. She shook her head, feeling slightly sick and humbled. She was all those things. Her life amounted to nothing more than superficial detritus floating on a sea of commercialism.

  Yiayá patted her knee. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said and smiled straight into Angie’s eyes, as if she knew everything that had gone through her mind.

  Angie told herself she could change. Glad to have had this epiphany now, before her children arrived. She would set an example to the next generation that would make her grandmother proud. Nick did not vote either, nor had he any political leanings. In a nutshell, like Angie, when it came to politics he wasn’t interested, didn’t care, changed the channel.

  ‘I want to tell you that, whatever I find out at the end of all this, I promise I’ll try to write your story, Yiayá.’ Angie paused to consider the awful personal details, and wondered how it would affect other family members.

  How would she react if she read about the rape, or humiliation and hanging of, say, her own mother? She shuddered. How would her children or grandchildren feel to discover they were connected to this tragedy? Yet, she decided, it would be cheating the victims to exclude the distasteful details.

  ‘Sh
ould I change the names of the women, Yiayá?’

  ‘It makes no difference to me, Angelika. I’ll be dead. Perhaps Poppy . . . you must ask her, and those others who were involved. A few people may want you to alter their names, but who knows? As we get older, we learn to tell the truth, things aren’t so embarrassing. After everything, we all shit and have sex, et cetera.’

  ‘Yiayá!’ Angie gulped and bit her lip.

  Her grandmother giggled. ‘Koritsie, one day you’ll understand. Meanwhile, you have to judge for yourself about the names, but don’t sell them cheap. Those martyrs deserve to be remembered and have a true and complete account of the facts told.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, I promise.’

  ‘I know you will,’ Maria said.

  What could have affected Mam so much that she might want her name changed in a story about her life? Poppy wasn’t even alive in the war. Angie realised the futility of asking. Yiayá would tell her to wait. She hesitated, unsure if she could stand to see ‘unsavoury’ things about her mother in print, if the manuscript were published.

  At that moment, Angie noticed the mosquito on her shin, slapped at it and, unexpectedly, saw it flattened on the palm of her hand. ‘Ugh!’ She cleaned it off with a napkin and then spotted the smear of blood on her leg. After spitting on the napkin, she wiped it away.

  Her grandmother pointed to a decanter and six tiny glasses on the shelf over the fireplace. ‘Get some raki, koritsie. It will stop you scratching later.’

  Angie nodded, poured a small glass of the clear liquid and knocked it back quickly.

  Maria hooted with laughter, her bony shoulders jigging up and down and her hand over her mouth.

  ‘No, Angelika, you rub it on the mosquito bite.’

  Angie blushed and then saw the funny side. She dispensed a little raki onto the napkin and dabbed her leg.

  ‘Angelika, Angelika!’ The strip curtain in the doorway seemed to shiver with the force of Voula’s voice as she screeched over the rooftops. Angie stepped outside and peered across to the lower village. Voula waved from the same flat roof as before, standing at the end of a clothesline of white sheets flapping in the breeze. ‘The lunch is ready, come!’

  Back in the cottage, Yiayá glanced up from her crocheting. ‘Voula cooks our food every day. She’s a good woman. You can collect it, to save her traipsing up here. Tell Vassili to stay at Voula’s. I haven’t finished telling my story.’

  ‘How will I know the right way to Voula’s house, Yiayá?’

  ‘Don’t worry, the house will find you. Just walk in that direction. If you get lost, ask anybody for Kondulakis Voula.’

  Down the main village road, Angie tried to figure out which side street would lead to Voula’s. She turned towards a woman, watering a clump of salmon-pink geraniums, when a group of schoolchildren distracted her. They held hands like a chain of paper dolls and skipped up the steep cobbles.

  ‘Aunty, Aunty!’ they chanted. It took Angie a moment to realise they were calling her.

  She waved and greeted them in Greek, which led to great hilarity.

  When the youngsters reached her side, they lifted their arms and Angie stooped to receive their hugs and kisses. The physical embrace comforted her; they were so affectionate and unselfconscious. The girls skipped and pranced as they tugged her down the sloping street towards Voula’s.

  Several old people, sitting on verandas that exploded with flowers, or pegging out their laundry, waved and called, ‘Come for coffee, come, come.’

  ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow!’ the girls replied, explaining their aunty had to collect Maria’s dinner.

  A battered red pickup, loaded with small bananas, chugged and spluttered up the narrow road. Bouzouki music blared from a loudspeaker on its roof and the driver hung out of his window shouting the price of his fruit.

  Voula’s granddaughters and Angie flattened themselves against a house as he came close. The truck stopped. The middle-aged driver jumped out and snatched a viciously sharp knife from the back of the 4x4.

  Blocked in by the wall behind, the pickup in front and the girls either side, Angie stared about wildly, looking for an escape. The man with bulging, bloodshot eyes and wild, grey hair ran around the vehicle. Sunlight flashed off his knife blade. The children huddled in close to Angie, squealing as they clung to her; their voices inaudible over the jangling music.

  The Cretan grabbed a hand of bananas, sliced half a dozen off the bunch and thrust them at her. He grinned a set of strong, tobacco-stained teeth, jogged back to the cab, and drove away without a word.

  Stunned, Angie remained flattened against the wall, staring for a moment at the bananas in her fist. Still very unsettled by her grandmother’s story, she had completely misjudged the poor man. The children, carefree and happy, continued to tug her towards Voula’s house. By the time she reached her destination, her heartbeat had steadied.

  A net curtain hung over the open door and, inside, the warm air smelled of fried onions and cinnamon. Voula rushed towards her, clasped her head, kissed her viciously on both cheeks and then pinched one of them so hard Angie feared a bruise.

  Everyone grinned, except Matthia, of course.

  Voula handed her two plates of food covered in aluminium foil. ‘Chicken in the oven,’ she yelled.

  Angie placed her bananas on the gold satin tablecloth. She told them about the pickup, her fear of being attacked, and the charity of the banana man.

  Papoú, sitting in the corner, banged his stick on the floor. His black eyes sparkled, his wrinkled face radiating glee. ‘You did right to be afraid, koritsie. Beware of strange Cretan men who put their bananas in your hand!’

  Voula and the children laughed. Matthia got up and walked out.

  Angie watched him and sighed.

  Voula took the plates from her, dropped them next to the bananas on the table, and rubbed Angie’s back. She turned away from her father-in-law and lowered her voice. ‘Don’t let him upset you, Angelika. Sometimes Matthia’s a nasty old bastard and I hate him to death.’

  Shocked by Voula’s vicious tone, Angie glanced up and saw squinting snake-eyes flicker with animosity, immediately replaced by an affable grin directed at her slightly deaf father-in-law. Surprised to see a dark side to the plump, Greek chuckle-bunny, she said, ‘I can’t help being upset, Aunty. He always seems so angry with me.’

  Voula shoved her into an overstuffed armchair. Papoú shook his head and then struggled to his feet.

  ‘Maria must tell her,’ he said, his voice steady and unemotional. ‘Not you, Voula.’ He grasped his walking stick and hobbled outside to join Matthia on the terrace.

  Voula lowered her eyes and Angie sensed a conspiracy.

  Voula measured Papoú’s words for a moment and then shouted, ‘Matthia, take your mother’s lunch, and sit with her while I talk to Angelika.’

  Matthia came through the door, glared at Voula, then at Angie, then at the food. After a moment’s consideration and a complaining grunt, he took a plate and left.

  ‘Coffee?’ Voula asked when Matthia had gone. She folded her arms under her bosoms, raising them like foothills in an earthquake.

  Angie shook her head. What must Maria tell her?

  ‘Okay, koritsie, you have to understand, your grandfather’s right, I can’t tell you much,’ Voula said. ‘Your grandmother will explain everything. Matthia is angry because it’s your mother’s duty to take care of Yiayá and Papoú and we have done it ever since Poppy left.’

  She patted the back of Angie’s hand. ‘Also, Matthia and Poppy were very close. He would never say so, but he misses her and wants to blame everyone because she upped and ran off to England. Perhaps he holds himself responsible; there was an argument about money before she left.’ Voula shrugged. ‘He won’t talk about it. Sometimes it’s better to let things go. We all hope she’ll return one day. He misses your father too. Matthia and Yeorgo were good friends before your father joined the army.’

  ‘Can you tell me about him?’
Angie glanced at a collection of photographs on top of the fridge. ‘Do you have a picture? My mother has a small passport photo in her purse but it’s so battered I can’t see what he looked like.’

  Chapter 16

  VOULA STARED AT ANGIE for a moment and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘You must wait for Maria to tell you about Poppy. Your poor mother, such a terrible tragedy, so unfair. I don’t know what I’d have done.’ She rolled her lips inward, bit on them and gazed into space.

  Angie cleared her throat and Voula snapped from her daydream. She reached for a picture and passed it to Angie.

  ‘Here’s your father when he joined the army.’

  Angie took the sepia photo. She stared at the strongly built man with dark eyes and thick lashes, handsome in his uniform. He appeared to be in his thirties – her age now – and that small thing seemed to draw her closer to him.

  She studied her father’s face and recognised her own similarities, his brown curls, strong jaw, and full lips. She imagined herself as a youngster at his side, his arm around her shoulders telling her how much he loved his daughter.

  Her eyes misted as childhood fantasies came back. Hide and seek. Angie would flatten herself behind a curtain or curl under her bed, imagining his search for her, her name on his lips. ‘Where are you, Angelika? Where’s my girl? I’m getting closer . . .’ She would wait, grinning, expecting her phantom father to appear with a ‘Boo!’

  Eventually she would crawl out of her hiding place with nothing but pins and needles and disappointment.

  When she played shop, her Daddy’s ghost always appeared as her first customer, buying everything and telling her to keep the change when she held out plastic coins. Angie smiled now, remembering dolls’ tea parties on a blanket in the back garden, an empty place set between teddy and her Sindy doll, where she served lemonade and iced gems to her father.