Even over that distance, she could hear the shepherd’s commanding whistles. She sensed his urgency to get the flock back to their pens before nightfall. The orange sun slid behind the chapel and the light turned down a notch. Angie felt a sense of urgency too. The end of another day. Time was ticking on. Still, she was no further in her quest to find out what had made her mother exile herself from these lovely people.
The cracked marble table supported a mismatch of plates and dishes. The aroma of moussaka, pasticcio, salads, bread, and dips drifted on the warm, early evening air.
Papoú grinned and clacked his worry beads. Voula’s son-in-law, Demitri from the supermarket, played his lira under the big olive tree, and Voula’s six grandchildren danced in a chain. The two boys and four girls kept time with delicate steps, the girls feminine, pretty; the boys leaping and kicking, their faces incredibly serious.
When the music stopped, the children crowded around Angie, stroked her hair and touched her bare arms as if confirming she was real.
‘Will you teach me to dance?’ Angie said.
They clapped and pulled Angie to her feet. Delight shone from Maria’s face, and Voula joined in the lesson. ‘You’re so light on your feet,’ Angie called to Voula who seemed to skip on air.
‘The basic step is easy, Angelika, kick left, kick right, step behind. Say it as you go.’
They danced with their hands on each other’s shoulders, and moved in a circle to the right. Voula, in the lead, flicked a napkin in the air with her free hand. The last child in the chain held his arm behind his back.
They took turns to break away, come to the front, and perform a solo. Angie danced a little hiphop zumba, rolling her hips and shoulders while punching the air. Laughing. Showing off.
‘Bravo!’ Demitri called out, encouraging Angie.
Demitri’s wife whacked him playfully around the head and Angie noticed a rare grin from Matthia.
Vassili clattered his stick against the table and shouted, ‘Opa! Opa!’ and one of the older boys stuck two fingers into his mouth, pleased to demonstrate his deafening whistling skills. Everyone clapped and whooped.
The boys made an elaborate display of flicking dust from their shoes in time with the music, and then they launched into high kicks and spins. The girls were delicate, tripping intricate steps that ended with a twirl.
Demitri played a slow Sitarki on his lira, the dance she’d learned. Angie stared down at her feet, pleased to keep up with the other dancers. She fell into the rhythm, smiled at Maria, and caught a glimpse of Matthia’s pleasure, his eyes fixed on his wife.
When Angie had mastered the dance, Demitri winked at her and the lira picked up pace. The old folk kept time, Papoú banging his stick and Maria slapping the table. Faster and faster, the music played until Angie whirled around in the chain. Then, suddenly, the music stopped.
Everyone clapped, laughed, and returned to their seats. Angie, dizzy and red-faced, stood with her hands on her hips, bent double, gasping for breath.
Voula waddled back and forth shouting words of affection and radiating her love of life with a periodic chorus of, ‘Eat! Eat!’ Matthia scowled at anyone who looked his way and complained the souvlaki meat was tough and the charcoal rubbish.
Darkness fell quickly. The girls lit nightlights and placed them on every available surface. A stout woman arrived carrying a basket of eggs and Voula invited her to stay. Angie sensed an awkward moment as glances were exchanged around the table.
Demitri broke the sudden tension. ‘Angelika!’ he called out while still playing his lira. ‘Meet your father’s sister, Agapi.’
Instantly excited, Angie had to think where she had heard the name before. Then she remembered her mother saying; Matthia was forced to break his engagement to Agapi. The woman seemed so like Voula, they could have been matching bookends, except for Agapi’s mass of dark hair, twisted and wound around her head.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Aunty,’ Angie said.
Agapi kissed Angie’s cheeks, and then greeted everyone, apart from Matthia. He, in turn, hardly looked her way. Angie suspected remnants of their bygone feelings remained. Even now, they were intensely aware of each other’s presence. She smiled to herself, caught her grandmother’s eye, and saw the slightest nod. Yiayá had sensed it too. That old woman was so astute, Angie thought.
Voula let out an exuberant screech and they all followed her direction. ‘Stavro!’ She launched herself at the tall stranger coming into the garden, her arms thrashing about over her head.
Angie laughed, recognising her uncle’s urge to turn and run. He stooped and allowed his sister-in-law to kiss him before he came over to the table.
‘Yia sas!’ Stavro addressed everyone and then cupped Maria’s face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘How are you, Mama?’ Their eyes met, she smiled and nodded. Stavro greeted his father next, kissing cheeks and patting each other’s backs, and then he embraced Matthia. Lastly, he offered an outstretched hand to Angie. ‘Welcome to Crete, Angelika.’
‘Thank you, Uncle Stavro. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.’ She kissed him, shy for a moment – in awe of the trim and upright old man who had experienced such a lot as a young boy. Scenes from Maria’s story rushed back. How Maria had saved his life, and how in turn, he had rescued her from mortal danger. They had come very close to death, yet together they had survived.
To be a member of this noble family, relatives who overcame so much adversity and still had iron ties of loyalty to each other, was tremendous. And Poppy was part of it all too. Her mother, the kindest and most honourable woman Angie knew. However, a rift remained. A thorn in Poppy’s shoe that prevented her from taking a step closer to the people who loved her. What could possibly have caused such pain? She studied her Uncle Stavro and remembered the letters in the spare bedroom. He had kept in touch with Poppy for decades, and perhaps he still did.
Would Angie ever get to the root of the problem?
The party continued long after the children, Yiayá and Papoú, and Voula’s daughters had left. Agapi pulled Voula up to dance. They held hands and stepped daintily side-by-side to a very fast tune from the lira. Angie couldn’t believe that the two stout women, both in their sixties, were so light of foot. Occasionally they would break away, twirl delicately with their arms raised like music box ballerinas, and then come back together as gracefully as black swans gliding over water.
On one such occasion, Agapi’s amazing hair worked loose and tumbled over her shoulders, reaching past her waist. A dark wavy cloak that shimmered as she danced. Angie heard Matthia gasp. The dancing women’s faces glowed, their expressions otherworldly, serene. Once again, Angie desperately wished her mother was with her.
They sat around until deep into the night, drinking raki and telling stories. The streetlight on the steps went out and the village below plunged into darkness. ‘A power cut,’ Matthia grumbled, satisfied.
Angie couldn’t believe her eyes. ‘Look at the stars . . . Wow.’
It seemed like they were under a black, moth-eaten blanket in a brightly lit room. In the ebony sky, thousands of diamonds blazed and twinkled.
‘That’s so amazing,’ she whispered.
Stavro reached for her hand. ‘Come with me,’ he said as someone blew out the last of the flickering candles
After leading her cautiously to the end of the garden in the pitch dark, he stood behind her. Holding her shoulders, he turned her to face the horizon of the Libyan Sea.
‘See how it spirals away? That shimmering powder arching through the sky is the Milky Way, our galaxy, 400 billion stars.’
Stavro stepped back. Night closed in and surrounded her. Below and all around, there was nothing but darkness and silence. Above, millions of brilliant pricks of light in a great coil of stardust exploded into infinity.
A melancholy chord broke in as Demitri pulled his bow across the lira strings and proceeded to play a slow Greek melody. Angie recalled the words of one of her mother’s favourite
songs, ‘Stars Don’t Cry For Me’.
Overcome by the moment, her heart ached with longing for Nick and a surge of emotion filled her chest. ‘Uncle Stavro,’ she whispered – her voice catching. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful, thank you.’
‘The stars are here every night, waiting for your return, koritsie. You must bring your bridegroom and show him, and we all hope your mother will come back and see this once more. Please remind her of it, Angelika.’
Angie nodded. Everyone seemed to miss Poppy. Perhaps time had changed them all and her mother’s fears, whatever they were, no longer mattered.
They returned to the table and relit the candles. Shortly after, the village lights came on and the magic of the night sky disappeared.
Demitri took up his lira again and played as Stavro and Matthia danced ‘Zorba the Greek’ with their arms over each other’s shoulders. Then, Matthia danced alone, waving his hands above his head and spinning on his heels while Voula knelt on one knee, grunting and calling on the Virgin Mary to ease her arthritis. She raised her arms towards Matthia and clapped the rhythm – a traditional salute of admiration.
They were all slightly drunk, yet Angie saw great dignity and pride in these people. She felt immensely honoured to be a part of this family unit.
Agapi patted her arm. ‘I’m going now. Come for coffee tomorrow,’ she said quietly before slipping away unnoticed by the others. Matthia finished his dance and faced the table, leaving Voula to struggle to her feet. His face, flushed, eyes sparkling, he turned towards Agapi’s empty chair. Angie saw a flicker of disappointment.
When Angie woke, she found herself prostrate on the cushions in the garden. The first glint of sunrise lightened the sky. Someone had thrown a faded pink sheet over her.
She lay still for a moment, remembered the stars and listened to the whirring of birds’ wings. The scent of jasmine hung in the air, and the trellis next to her was covered in small white flowers. She admired a blue and yellow butterfly that fluttered down and perched on a discarded watermelon rind.
The remnants of the party were scattered across the table. If only Poppy had been there to complete the family. Angie felt sure she would have enjoyed herself. Stavro’s words returned. ‘. . . we all hope your mother will come back and see this once more. Remind her of it, Angelika.’ He had sounded so sincere. Poppy was the only one missing. There had to be a way to return her mother to the family circle.
The dawn chorus escalated into a racket and various flying insects, attracted by the empty wineglasses, buzzed over the table. Angie collected a few tumblers and wandered through the motionless strip curtain. Stavro lay, fully clothed, asleep on the sofa. She placed the glasses in the sink, covered her uncle with the sheet, found her keys and set off for town.
The road was busier than Angie expected. Traffic had backed up to the outskirts of Viannos. She sat patiently, wondering if there had been an accident. Her fears dissipated when hundreds of goats shambled and bumped between the vehicles ahead. A huge bell clanged beneath the head of the leading ram. Angie thought of Andreas. When the beast reached her car, it stared into her windscreen for a second, before it turned off the high street and galloped up the mountainside. The herd followed.
Angie showered and changed before she bought fresh bread and a box of baklava from the local bakery. She set off for Amiras again. On the outskirts of the village, she caught sight of Agapi with two bulging carriers.
‘Can I give you a lift?’ she called through the window, eager to spend some time with her father’s sister.
‘Good day, Angelika.’ Agapi hurled her groceries onto the back seat, squeezed onto the small front seat, and grinned. She directed Angie down a narrow bumpy track that finished just above Maria’s cottage, saving a trek up the steps.
They carried the shopping into Agapi’s whitewashed house. ‘You must stay for coffee, Angelika,’ she insisted.
Agapi must know what had split the family, and why her mother left, Angie thought. They chatted while Agapi stored her groceries in the old fashioned kitchen.
‘What do you like to drink, Angelika?’
‘A glass of water would go well with this baklava. I brought them for Yiayá but I don’t think she’ll miss two, do you?’
Angie studied the rough-plastered room while Agapi bustled in the kitchen. Religious bric-a-brac seemed to be the decoration of choice, along with crocheted curtains, and a huge mirror decorated with varnished seashells.
Only one old photograph hung on the wall, an oval portrait in a thin wooden frame. The woman, regal, almost formidable, had a strong chin and high forehead. Her black hair was parted down the middle and dragged tightly back. Agapi returned while Angie was studying the image.
‘My mother, Constantina,’ Agapi said, placing forks on the table.
‘My other grandmother?’ Angie said.
Agapi straightened, stared at the window, and then at Angie. ‘Has your mother forgiven her, Angelika?’
Angie frowned. ‘Forgiven her . . . for what?’
Agapi’s eyes flicked away and she retreated to the kitchen, returning with a tray laden with glasses of water, saucers and napkins.
They settled on the sofa with its patchwork cushions at their backs and a striped Cretan rug under their feet. Angie opened the cake box and the scent of honey and toasted sesame seeds reached up and grabbed her appetite. A minute later, they were enjoying the sticky confectionery.
‘Is she still alive, Yiayá Constantina?’ Angie said carefully.
Agapi stared at her. ‘You mean you don’t know . . .?’
Angie shook her head. ‘Know what?’
Agapi blew her cheeks out. Awkward silence filled the room.
Shut out again, Angie thought. She decided to change the subject, and try returning to it later. ‘Wasn’t it a lovely night?’ she said over a mouthful of crushed walnuts and filo pastry. ‘Great to see my uncles having a good time too.’
‘Don’t judge Matthia too badly, Angelika.’ Agapi wiped her mouth on a napkin. ‘Voula told me he’d been hard on you. He’s a very loyal man. He spent his entire life in the shadow of Stavro.’
‘You were engaged to him, weren’t you?’ She bit her lip, tasted honey and felt the heat of a blush rising. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
Agapi dabbed at cake crumbs. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not a secret.’
No, but everything else seems to be, Angie thought.
‘Everybody knows we were betrothed. He loved me very much and I rather liked him.’ Agapi paused for a moment.
Liked? Angie frowned again.
‘Things turned bad between our families, in fact, it became impossible.’ Agapi put her empty saucer on the table and tangled her fingers. ‘My brothers forbade my wedding to Matthia but he refused to end our romance. I’m afraid they treated him very badly.’ She paused, staring at the window.
Angie suspected Agapi wanted to say more. She licked her lips and leaned forward, sure she would learn something major. ‘Why wouldn’t they let you get married? If you don’t mind me asking.’
Agapi glanced up, first at Angie and then at the portrait of her mother. She gave a little shake of her head. ‘You really don’t know, Angelika?’
Chapter 19
ANGIE STARED AT AGAPI. Could the reason for Agapi’s breakup with Matthia have something to do with Poppy, or Constantina?
‘I don’t know anything about my mother’s exit from Amiras.’ Angie said. ‘I understand there was a feud, but no one will explain. Papoú told me it’s for Yiayá to tell the whole sorry story, but it’s taking so long.’ She hoped Agapi would drop a few clues. ‘I’m trying to discover why my mother ran away to England. Mam won’t even talk about Crete and gets upset if I do.’
‘That’s understandable. Poppy wants to forget. We all have demons from those times.’
‘But the trouble is she can’t put it behind her. Mam’s still tortured by whatever happened here. We had a huge fight because I
wanted to come to Crete.’
Angie took a moment to think of Poppy all alone at home. ‘Poor Mam,’ she muttered. Her mother would be fretting, cleaning that kitchen over and over, scratching at her hands.
‘Agapi, I knew nothing of the war or the massacre. I can’t understand why Mam’s never talked about Yiayá’s troubles. In fact, the whole split-up between the two families is a mystery to me.’
‘I see. Look, Angelika, I don’t want problems,’ Agapi said. ‘It’s taken generations for things to settle. I advised Poppy to go, get out of our lives and never come back, and she did. I’ve often wondered if she ever forgave me. We were great friends, I miss her. You can’t imagine what she suffered, but for all the heartbreak, she did the right thing. People had died and it wouldn’t have stopped. Please tell her: I haven’t forgotten her. That I’m truly sorry. And I still regard her as my best friend.’
Angie nodded. ‘But why did she go? I can’t even guess at circumstances that would cause such a rift in a family.’
Agapi sighed. ‘You must wait for Maria. Nobody will go against her wishes. She’s a good woman, Angelika, the most respected village elder in Amiras.’
‘Can you tell me something about your brother?’ Angie said.
‘My brother? No, forget him, bah! Don’t listen to what anyone says.’ Agapi leapt to her feet, her thigh knocking the saucer of cake, causing it to teeter precariously on the edge of the table.
Angie caught it, instantly remembering the apple pie and the terrible argument that took place in her mother’s kitchen.
Agapi clenched her fists and stared about the room before she continued. ‘What they did to Matthia was unforgivable. Why would you want to know anything about my brother?’
Angie blinked rapidly, startled by Agapi’s change of mood. ‘Because he’s my father and nobody else will talk about him.’
There was an awkward moment while Agapi struggled to recompose. ‘Oh . . . yes, of course. Sorry, I misheard you. Thought you said . . . anyway, never mind. Old age catching up and too many questions. What can I tell you?’ She dropped into her chair, two red patches flaring her cheeks.
Island of Secrets Page 17
