Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘Well, naturally, I’m curious about everything. I wish I’d known my father and I am desperate to hear somebody say nice things about him. I guess you were close in age.’

  Agapi sighed, patted her chest and sat back, a faraway look in her eyes. Seconds ticked by before she answered. ‘Yeorgo was two years older than me, Angelika. We were very close . . . so very close.’ She swallowed hard, absentmindedly dabbing at crumbs in her lap – and then she brushed away a tear. ‘I miss him terribly, even now. It took me a long time to accept that he had died.’ She paused and touched her eyes. Angie realised she had been insensitive, not thinking of anyone else’s pain.

  ‘I’m so terribly sorry, Agapi. I didn’t mean to upset you. You’ve been really kind and helpful. I’m very grateful. That was a thoughtless thing to say, and very selfish, too. It’s a problem I’m trying to deal with. I’ve been spoiled all my life, but it wasn’t until I came here, did I realise how shallow and self-centred I’d become.’

  ‘No, you’re not selfish, Angelika. It’s only natural that you want to know about your father, and I understand you’re here trying to help Poppy. Under the circumstances, all this secrecy must be very difficult for you. I wish I could be more help.’ Agapi stared vacantly for a moment, and then she smiled. ‘Your father was completely selfless, and a very honest man, Angelika. Yeorgo had integrity and great loyalty to his family. He was a martyr in the truest sense of the word. He forfeited everything he loved, inadvertently even his own life, to save us all from more problems. You’ve inherited Yeorgo’s looks, but I pray you also have his special qualities, his principles and sincerity.’

  ‘I hope so too. It’s great to hear positive things about my father.’ Angie smiled. ‘Thank you, Agapi.’ Angie realised she had broadened her shoulders, proud. Of course he had been a good man, she always knew it. She promised herself she would try to become more like him.

  Agapi continued, ‘He took care of me when my parents were working. We had our own little gang. Me, Matthia, Yeorgo, Voula and . . .’ She frowned, clucked, and then chuckled. ‘When I think how life was then and how people treat children today – so different. When Poppy came along, she stayed with us from the day she left the breast. I would drag her around and find safe places to dump her while we played our childish games. Anyway, no more questions. Wait for Maria to tell you. I’m afraid of speaking out of turn.’

  Disappointed for a moment, Angie tried a different angle. ‘I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, betrothed to Matthia and then forced to break the engagement.’

  Agapi opened her mouth to speak, closed it again and glanced around the small room.

  Angie felt a change of mood in her aunt and, treading carefully, encouraged her to continue. ‘It must be difficult to accept that Matthia is married to Voula.’

  ‘Yes, I found it hard at first, Angelika, but they have two beautiful daughters and six grandchildren, and I love them all. So it’s rather good the way things turned out.’

  ‘Still . . . to see him almost every day . . .’ Angie said softly. ‘It must have been heart breaking.’

  Agapi took Angie’s hands and stared into her eyes. Her face softened and she started to speak, but once again hesitated, breaking eye contact and staring at the floor.

  ‘Go on,’ Angie said softly. ‘Tell me, Aunty.’

  After pulling in a long breath, Agapi let it out slowly and in a voice barely louder than a whisper she said, ‘You don’t understand, koritsie, it’s not Matthia I love.’

  The information took a moment to register.

  ‘Voula?’

  Agapi met Angie’s eyes, searching for a reaction, the longing for understanding shining from her face. ‘I hope you don’t mind me telling you, Angelika. I know it’s more acceptable where you come from, but I’d die if anyone here knew. An old woman like me – the locals would say all kinds of things. Are you shocked?’

  Angie smiled and gave her hands a squeeze. ‘Not at all, just surprised. I’d never have guessed.’

  Agapi nodded slowly. ‘Good. I’ve loved her since we were children. I always wanted to tell somebody. I suspect Voula knows, although I haven’t told her. Sometimes when our eyes meet . . . what can I say, love is a strange thing, yes? Anyway, it feels . . . well . . . marvellous now that I have said it aloud, actually divulged my secret.’ She looked down, shy for a moment. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Actually, I’m honoured that you’ve chosen to confide in me,’ Angie said, and it was true. Angie kissed Agapi and left another piece of baklava with her. She contemplated their conversation as she took the rest of the cakes to her grandmother’s cottage. How tragic, yet selfless, to love somebody all your life and not say anything. And wasn’t it easy to misread the situation, and jump to conclusions?

  Angie found her grandmother sitting at the cracked marble table in the garden. She had a mound of small green plants before her. ‘Good morning, Yiayá.’ She kissed Maria and caught the scent of Palma violets. ‘You smell nice.’

  Her grandmother’s eyes sparkled. ‘Stavro always brings me a tablet of expensive soap from Athens. It’s my treat.’ The old woman grinned childishly, her frail body growing a little sturdier, strengthened by pleasure.

  ‘What are you doing there? Can I help?’ asked Angie, nodding at the leafy rosettes, thinking they looked more like something weeded from a lawn, than food.

  Yiayá ignored the question. Her eyes shone with contentment while her scarred hands clutched a knife awkwardly and cut taproots off the plants. ‘Sit down, koritsie. What time did you leave last night?’

  Angie laughed. ‘I didn’t. I woke up this morning on the cushions. We had a great party and I suspect we all ended up a little drunk.’

  ‘Good. Everyone needed to have some fun. And thank you for the food.’

  ‘Oh . . . I hope you weren’t offended. I wanted to save Voula the work. How did you know?’

  Yiayá chuckled. ‘You’re my granddaughter so perhaps I understand you better than you think. I probably would have done the same. Besides, after forty years of Voula’s cooking, I recognise her recipes. I suspect what we had last night came from Seli Taverna?’

  Angie nodded. ‘I hope I have your brains when I’m ninety, Yiayá.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish. It’s a curse to remember everything with such clarity. Sometimes I’ve prayed my memory would fade. Now tell me, what’s in the box?’

  ‘Baklava, from the bakery in Viannos.’

  ‘Then I suggest you practise your coffee-making skills, before Voula gets her greedy hands on the cakes. What do you say?’

  Angie laughed again. ‘You love her very much, don’t you?’

  ‘Voula’s a wonderful wife to Matthia. He’s not the easiest person to get on with and, despite being his second choice, she’s been loyal to him and a good mother and grandmother.’

  ‘Uncle Matthia’s a lucky man.’

  ‘In some ways, but not in others; he was obsessed with Agapi – so besotted, he agreed to wait until she finished her teaching degree – and part of that love has never died. You saw it last night, didn’t you?’

  Angie nodded, recalling the glance that passed between them.

  ‘But Matthia’s been faithful to Voula, and I admire him for that. Of course, he thinks nobody knows that he still holds affection for Agapi.’

  ‘I’m anxious to hear more of what happened, Yiayá.’

  ‘You go and make the coffee and, while we deprive Voula of as many baklava as we can, I’ll continue with the story.’

  Chapter 20

  Crete, 1943.

  AFTER AN HOUR TRUDGING uphill in the September sun, Matthia collapsed. Completely exhausted, my youngest child was unable to continue. Afraid for him, and realising we were still vulnerable on the mountainside, I knew we had to put more distance between us and Amiras. I don’t know where I found the strength to carry him on my back, but I did. Bent double, one step at a time, and desperately thirsty,
I struggled on with Stavros, uncomplaining, at my side.

  We found water in a gully above the village of Simi. Baby frogs were hopping all over the place. I used Matthia’s shoe to scoop the muddy liquid up, and ran it through my skirt into the other one. It tasted disgusting but we had to drink. I looked forward to our goat’s milk later and thanked God we had brought her along. The boys quickly recovered and played with the creatures. They needed a break from the slog and their laughter uplifted me.

  The track got steeper. Near to midday, we found the old ruined house that Andreas had described. Although far from civilisation and the soldiers, I felt uneasy. It stood close to the path, and had an atmosphere, as if the air around the building warned us to go away. We moved higher up the mountain.

  Most of the trees were pines now and, because of the steep lay of the ground, there was a reasonable view both up and down the slope. Apart from a herd of skittish wild goats and a few birds, our surroundings were still. The only noise came from the wind further up the mountain, soughing through the firs. The cool breeze refreshed us.

  We found a hiding place, a great, sprawling holly oak. The dead leaves on the ground were hard and uncomfortable with their sharp little spikes but the tree was big, old, and robust. Warm, still, air under the canopy was sweet and musty like stewed tea. The scent reminded me of home. Then I remembered we no longer had one.

  The heavy boughs reached to the earth and the inner ones, around the base of the trunk, were dead, dry and brittle. We pushed against them and they snapped away, disintegrating into little more than dust. The boys stamped on them, breaking them into manageable lengths.

  Soon we had a space cleared. Inside our woody cave, I laid the blanket that I’d used as a sling to bring the food up to Andreas’s cottage. We slept under the boughs until mid-afternoon when Matthia woke us with his wailing. The child had a fierce cramp. Stavro rubbed his bunched calf muscles and I begged him to stop crying.

  Our belongings were down the mountain and I was unable to fetch them by myself. We needed things that we took for granted in our daily lives: cups, a cooking pot, and the salt. The boys needed nourishment too, and if the goat wasn’t milked soon, she would start making a racket.

  ‘Stavro, do you think you can milk the goat straight into Matthia’s mouth if I hold her still?’

  He grinned, lifted and dropped his shoulders, and said, ‘I’ll try, Mama.’

  I sat next to the goat and gripped her back legs between my knees, to protect Matthia’s face from a kick. The result of Stavro’s efforts had us all in hysterics. Matthia had milk in his eyes and up his nose, but a fair amount ended up in his mouth. I’m not so sure all the misdirected milk was entirely accidental. Stavro swapped places with Matthia, and succeeded in squirting most the milk into his own mouth.

  When I lay under the goat, with Matthia hanging on to her back legs, Stavro did quite a good job. I don’t know if it was the milk, or the laughter, that made us feel greatly uplifted.

  While the boys went back to playing with the frogs, I tried to decide what to do about our things. Should I leave Matthia alone and trust the four-year-old to stay put for at least three hours? What if the cramps came back?

  ‘Matthia, I’m going to get our belongings with your brother. You stay here. Collect as many acorns as possible while we’re away and have another sleep,’ I said.

  He wrapped his arms around my knees. ‘I want to come with you. Please don’t leave me, Mama.’

  ‘Somebody must take care of the goat, and you’ve become an expert. We won’t be long.’

  ‘I wish I was seven, it’s not fair!’

  ‘Promise you’ll hide, and be very quiet, son?’ This was a bad plan and I knew it, but I had to take the risk. I thought about tying him on a length of rope like the goat, but he would have kicked up a fuss.

  ‘I won’t move, Mama,’ he promised. ‘Can I go with you next time?’ His big brown eyes turned up to me.

  ‘Of course.’ I dreaded leaving him. ‘Now give your mother a hug.’

  He wrapped his arms around my neck and squeezed. How could I abandon him on the mountainside, little more than a baby?

  Stavro and I set out on our journey. We made good progress without Matthia and I reassured myself I’d reached the right decision. False comfort because, deep down, I feared something unimaginable would happen to him in the time we were parted. Andreas’s cottage came into view and I sensed Stavro’s excitement.

  ‘Will the shepherd be there, Mama? Isn’t he the greatest man you ever met?’

  In my heart, I knew Andreas’s fate, and when I had a moment alone, he would reap my prayers and tears. I smiled at Stavro, realising the shepherd would always live in his memory too. One day, my son would realise what had happened to Andreas on this mountainside, and with all the sadness in the world, he would mourn for his hero too.

  ‘I don’t know, Stavro,’ I said softly, ‘Andreas planned to go up the mountain to his sheep.’

  We hid in the bushes, watching the cottage, afraid someone occupied the place. It stayed deathly quiet. I put my hand against the wall and opened the door. Such a feeling of abandonment seemed to come from the stones themselves. Overwhelmed by sadness, I remembered the intimate occasion when he washed me.

  We crept inside the hovel. Olive sacks lay on the floor, rucked along the edge where Andreas had lain on his side, watching over me.

  I’ll pray for you every night, Andreas. I’ll always remember the one night of peaceful sleep you gave me. You cared for me at a time when my life was a nightmare, filled with terror and turmoil. Thank you my dear friend.

  The cracked cup stood on the table where I had left it that morning. We drank our fill of water, replaced the cup and then continued down the mountain.

  Halfway between the shepherd’s cottage and the fig tree, we took a moment under the spreading carob, where I had seen the polecat. A great shadow slid over the open ground between the trees, heading in the same direction as us, towards Amiras. My heart almost stopped.

  The shadow seemed as big as a man but, knowing no Cretan men remained in the village, it did not make sense. Then I thought about the camouflage clothes that soldiers wore. Perhaps they were very effective in this environment of harsh light. So long as they didn’t move, I feared they would be invisible to us. Afraid we were surrounded, I remembered what they had done to the midwife.

  We peered between trees, stared into dark shadows made by the strong afternoon sun, but I saw neither man nor animal. My heart hammered and a sharp cutting pain seared my hands. I realised I’d clenched my fists, cracking the flesh open.

  For a stupid moment, I thought the shadow belonged to the spirit of Andreas, watching over us. Then, I reprimanded myself for being a superstitious fool. Just when I believed I had imagined it all, Stavro gasped.

  ‘Mama, look!’ He stepped into the clearing and gawped, pointing at the sky.

  I craned my neck to see between the branches, and then my flesh crawled over my bones.

  Oh, dear Jesus Christ . . .

  To the west, at least thirty vultures circled slowly on a thermal over the ridge. Their parallel wings, black against the deep blue sky, contrasted with the cream of their ruffs and necks.

  Another shadow slithered over us, across the pale ground, and then another, and another as more of the giant birds with their huge wingspan glided in from the direction of the canyon. One came so close I saw the glint of its eye. Black feathers on the end of its wings spread stiffly like outstretched fingers.

  I wanted to sprout wings, fly to the ridge and find Petro. Please God, let somebody have taken his little body and buried him properly. Horrific visions thundered into my head. Those hooked beaks . . . my baby. The world about me spun and my throat closed. I crumpled to the ground, my boy’s voice vague, distant, and panic stricken; then everything rushed away.

  Consciousness came back with the sound of Stavro’s sobs. I opened my eyes, vision creeping into focus. At first, I was poleaxed by fear t
hat we may be encircled by soldiers with their pistols drawn. Then my sanity returned. I realised we were alone.

  My boy sat cross-legged next to me, his hands in his lap, fingers twisting and knotting and his shoulders jerking up and down as he cried. Even after all we had been through, I’d never seen him so wretched.

  ‘Don’t die, Mama, please don’t die,’ he blubbered, rocking back and forth. ‘I’ll try harder, I promise. I’m sorry, Mama . . .’ he sobbed. ‘Please, God, don’t take my Mama, I need her more than you do. And I have a little brother that I can’t take care of by myself.’

  Bless his brave heart, I thought. ‘You have nothing to be sorry about, Stavro. You’ve been wonderful,’ I whispered, wanting to hold his hand but my own looking so repulsive stopped me. Flies, taking advantage of my stillness, were feeding on the congealed blood. He stared at them. ‘I just went a little dizzy,’ I said. ‘Probably shock from the burns, son.’

  ‘You were asleep for a very long time, Mama. I thought you had died and I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Well, I’m not dead. Anyway, I would be in heaven watching over you both if I was. Stavro, my boy, you do understand what you must do if anything like that happens?’ His eyes widened. ‘You will leave me where I lay, and go and care for Matthia.’ I pushed myself up into a sitting position. ‘Now, come on, silly, give me a hug.’

  I held him, forced myself not to crush him to me as I thought of Petro. What more could I do to reassure Stavro? I saw myself as a big old roof beam, holding everything up while worms tunnelled inside, eating my strength, and no matter how hard I tried, one day I would crumble and all about me, collapse.

  I shuffled onto my knees, blinked away the light-headedness and after a few deep breaths, I got to my feet. We were just about to continue to the fig tree when a great clattering noise rattled over the mountainside. The racket increased. I sensed danger and my heart thumped against my ribs.

  ‘Quick, Stavro! Let’s go back a bit and hide.’

  We scooted up the slope, panting hard, and stumbling over dry thistles until we found a patch of low shrubs. A gap through the trees ran straight down to the road below, which made it impossible to cross without being seen. We dropped to our knees and crawled inside the bushes, me on my elbows, scrambling for cover. Twigs dragged at my hair and clothes and scratched my face.