Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  If they couldn’t forget, could they at least forgive?

  *

  Crete, 1968.

  ‘GO! DON’T COME BACK, Poppy!’ Stavro said, hugging her so tight, crushing her against him. He shoved her ticket and a small roll of pounds and drachmas into the pocket of her short, belted trenchcoat. ‘Don’t forget us, Calliope Lambrakis,’ he used her full name that last time, and then he pushed her through the black rubber doors.

  Poppy ran across the tarmac, her Cuban-heeled boots hitting the puddles, soaking the bottom of her orange flares. Fighting tears, she raced up the metal steps, clutching her meagre luggage. The round vanity case, blue patent leather with white daisies, was stuffed with a few snatched essentials.

  Her shoulder throbbed, the pain making her squint. She hadn’t expected the shotgun’s recoil and wondered if it had cracked a bone. Embarrassed to be the last passenger on flight OA41, she kept her head down and hurried along the aisle.

  The man next to her, who had stood while she got to her window seat, gave her a cigarette and a booklet of Olympic Airway’s matches. Hands trembling, she lit the wrong end, broke off the tip and sucked hard on the raw tobacco.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s safer than the bus,’ the man said, patting her arm, mistaking her distress for fear of flying.

  Poppy pulled the pleated curtain back and stared out of the small round window, watching the propellers gather speed until they were a blur. The plane vibrated with a rebellious promise to defy gravity.

  The air hostess wore a stiffly lacquered blonde beehive, false eyelashes, and startling ice-pink lipstick. She asked the passengers to extinguish cigarettes and fasten their seatbelts for take-off. Poppy’s hands shook so badly she could hardly manage the lap strap. You’re safe now, she promised herself, closing her eyes for a second and crossing herself.

  Her respite was short-lived.

  The propellers slowed, the steps were returned and a grey army Jeep came to a halt at the base of them.

  ‘God have mercy, God save me,’ she jabbered, her hysteria rising.

  The door opened and two hefty military police in dark uniforms entered the plane. They came up the narrow aisle like scum in a blocked drain, checking passports and identity cards. Poppy saw no chance of escape.

  When the police reached her, she would be escorted off the plane, locked up, interrogated and killed. Her family would be given hell for as long as the junta ruled. Perhaps her brothers would be executed too, for what she had done.

  The hostess walked up the aisle collecting IDs from each row of passengers. She handed them to the military police that followed with pistols drawn. By the time they reached Poppy’s row, her heart hammered so hard it drowned the drone of the idling engines. She snatched the sick bag, vomited into it and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

  ‘ID!’ the nearest military policeman demanded. Hands trembling, she passed hers to the cigarette man who, in turn, handed it to the hostess along with his own.

  Poppy shrank into her seat, staring at her knees.

  ‘Undo your seatbelt, place your hands on your head and stand up!’ the officer barked.

  Trapped in the plane, Poppy saw no way of escape. Quivering with fear, she followed their instructions.

  ‘Not you, woman, sit down!’ the official ordered.

  She glanced at her neighbour. The cigarette man, with his hands on his head, turned towards her. From his look, she knew he realised she also risked capture by the military. He nodded, blinked slowly, saying nothing because they both knew saying anything could be interpreted in any way the junta wanted.

  Poppy watched the officers and their captive leave the plane. At that moment, all the hell and injustice that she had suffered seemed to mow her down. Life had not been fair. This journey to London wasn’t simply an escape from danger, it marked a new beginning – but it had cost her everything. Her lovely home, and those she loved, were gone forever. She thought about her parents, brothers, and her dear, darling Yeorgo. The dreadful situation was more than Poppy could bear.

  What would happen to them, her family? As the plane took to the sky, she swore she would never love again, she had suffered enough. She watched her island shrink into the sea and wondered about the life ahead of her. Then, all she could see were the clouds blurred by tears.

  ‘Goodbye Crete, goodbye Mama, goodbye Yeorgo and my poor dead boys,’ Poppy whispered, believing she would never return.

  *

  Crete, Present Day.

  NICK RETURNED FROM THE Avis counter. ‘Let’s go outside, Mam, they’re bringing the car to the front.’

  Nick called her ‘Mam’, short for the Greek, Mama, and it made Poppy smile. With the wedding only two days away she guessed the time was right. Despite the grin on his face and the mischievous twinkle in his eye, he must be stressed about meeting the family too.

  Poppy patted his arm, ‘You’re the boss, Son.’

  As they walked towards the glass doors, Poppy studied her reflection. What would they think of her?

  ‘You look great, don’t worry,’ Nick said as if reading her thoughts. ‘If Angie looks half as good as you when she’s your age, I’ll be a lucky man.’

  Poppy forced a smile, though oddly uncomfortable receiving a compliment about her appearance from her future son-in-law. ‘Don’t talk rubbish. Now where’s the car?’

  ‘Here.’ Nick nodded at a small, white, open-top 4x4. ‘You get in and I’ll load the cases.’

  ‘It’s got no roof!’ Poppy stared at the Suzuki Jimny.

  ‘That’s because we’re on an adventure, and anyway, you’ll get a better view of the countryside.’

  ‘It’s almost dark, and what about the mosquitoes? We’ll be bitten to buggery!’ Poppy said.

  ‘They’ll never catch us.’

  ‘I hope you’re not one of those speed freaks. Just mind you stick to the speed limit. Good grief, my new hairdo will be destroyed. I could kill you, you lummox.’

  Feeling much better with something to gripe about, Poppy made him unzip her suitcase to find the chiffon scarf she wore over her curlers at night. While Nick had the case open, Poppy gathered the toiletries that she had brought for Angelika and dropped them into her oversized handbag.

  Nick discovered the boot was practically non-existent. He released one of the back seats and stowed the cases there. Poppy watched over him like a mother hen. Nick might be forty years old and one and a half feet taller than her, but she believed there wasn’t a man on earth that didn’t need advice occasionally. Eventually, she sat in the passenger seat, clutching her handbag and complaining about the lack of roof.

  ‘Belt up, Mam,’ Nick said.

  ‘You mind your mouth, Son,’ Poppy replied, not quite sure if he was joking.

  ‘Your seatbelt . . .’

  ‘I’m not stupid.’

  Poppy watched him study the map before they set off.

  ‘Not long now, we’ll be there in an hour,’ Nick pulled onto the motorway. ‘The road takes us almost straight across to the south coast. I can’t wait to see Angie.’

  Hunched down in the seat, Poppy clutched the front of her scarf with one hand and her collar with the other, not happy with the noisy, draughty vehicle.

  ‘I hope they didn’t make you pay full price when you only got half a car,’ she shouted above the roar of the wind. ‘And slow down! I daren’t open my mouth for fear my damn dentures will be blown away.’

  Nick didn’t reply, or go any slower, but he was still grinning when they pulled into a petrol station. Poppy made him get a cardigan out of her cabin bag while a young lad filled the tank. She tidied herself up and looked at Nick, but his attention was elsewhere.

  He stared admiringly at a massive all-terrain vehicle, parked on low ramps in the mechanics’ bay. A giant car that seemed to be constructed of mismatched parts that didn’t quite belong together, but at least it had a lid, Poppy thought. The wheels were even wider than the enormous Jeep-type body and the row of spotlights across the roof w
ould better suit an articulated lorry. Bullbars protected the front. Despite the mythology, Poppy doubted a single bull ran free in all Crete. Men, why couldn’t they be satisfied with anything as practical as a Ford Fiesta?

  ‘Nice wheels!’ Nick said to the pump attendant.

  ‘The boss’s,’ he replied. ‘Where you go?’

  ‘Amiras, a wedding, I’m the groom.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ The lad glanced at Poppy.

  ‘My future mother-in-law.’ Nick smiled.

  ‘You could do with some air in that back tyre,’ the lad said. ‘Pull over to the hose while I get the pump key.’

  Poppy watched him jog back to the glass-fronted shop where a couple of men sat inside, playing tavli. He had a few words and they peered up from their backgammon board. She stared at the older of the two and then shrank into her seat.

  ‘Do you know them?’ Nick asked as he drove away.

  ‘It’s been so long, and the shadows . . .’ Poppy replied, clutching on to her scarf and her dignity as Nick raced towards Amiras. The silence seemed awkward, and then they both started so speak at the same time.

  ‘Look, I –’

  ‘Let me say –’

  They laughed together and the tension fell.

  ‘Go on,’ Poppy said.

  Nick took a breath. ‘I just wanted to thank you for doing this for Angie. I don’t know what your problem is with your family, but I do realise this was a difficult decision for you. We’re both very grateful.’ He glanced at her.

  ‘Watch the road!’

  ‘And we’re sorry we were so full of wedding plans; we didn’t notice you were poorly. It was very selfish of us.’

  His phone bleeped. He pulled onto the edge of the mountain road, even though the highway was empty.

  ‘It’s Angie,’ he said. ‘I’ll put it on speaker.’

  ‘Hi, bridegroom,’ Angelika said. ‘Where are you? Is Mam okay?’

  ‘She sounds so close,’ Poppy said, incredibly happy, but then the engine spluttered and the lights dimmed. The night closed in and she realised the danger of being invisible and alone in such a remote place.

  What danger? Don’t be stupid, she thought.

  ‘I guess we’re about ten kilometres from Viannos,’ Nick said to the phone. ‘I can’t wait to get hold of you.’

  Poppy heard Angelika giggle, remembered Yeorgo and their love, and she smiled too.

  The engine spluttered again. ‘We’d better get going, Nick, or you’ll have to find my coat in the suitcase,’ Poppy said. ‘I’m getting chilly. You’ll see Angelika soon.’

  ‘Put my jacket around your shoulders. It’s on the passenger seat.’ He unclipped his seatbelt and reached into the back.

  A light flashed in the rear-view mirror, making Poppy squint. They hadn’t seen another vehicle on the road since leaving the city. A row of headlights blazed from above a cab, a HGV perhaps, or that monster truck from the garage. On the speaker phone, Angelika talked about Yiayá, but the approaching lights distracted Poppy. A weird feeling came over her then she told herself not to be idiotic.

  The truck drove past.

  Nick put the little Jimny into gear and raised his voice to the phone on the dashboard. ‘Angie, we’re on our way, see you soon, sweet –’

  ‘No! No!’ Poppy cried.

  The monster truck had U-turned and now hounded towards them.

  ‘Jesus!’ Nick yelled as it swung at their Jimny. He released the clutch. The Jimny pitched forward. The monster clouted their rear offside. The phone hurtled past Poppy and vanished into the darkness. She slammed against the locked seatbelt with such force she feared her operation scar might burst open and her heart disappear into the night too.

  The monster kicked up a cloud of dirt and thundered out of sight at the next bend.

  Poppy didn’t realise she was whimpering until Nick tried to calm her down and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. ‘Are you okay, Poppy?’

  Poppy threw her hands over her face and cried out. ‘He’s going to kill us!’

  ‘No, it’s all right, he’s gone,’ Nick said, lifting his head and staring into the night. ‘Take it easy, deep breaths. We’re fine.’

  She could hear the shock in his voice.

  ‘Are you hurt anywhere?’ he said.

  Poppy shook her head. ‘No, are you?’ She rubbed her breastbone, feeling as though the seatbelt had cleaved her ribs apart.

  ‘No, I’m fine. Probably a drunk driver. Bloody lunatic! It looked like that truck from the garage,’ he said. ‘I’ll turn the engine off to let it cool.’ He rested his head on the steering wheel. ‘Take deep breaths. We’ll be okay.’

  Poppy rustled up some anger to block her tears. ‘Okay? You nearly killed us, you bloody idiot! My insides are mincemeat.’ But behind her words was the terrible fear that their attacker would be back. She suspected this was no drunk driver, but there was little point in terrifying Nick. He needed a clear head to get them to Amiras and the safety of the family.

  ‘Me! There’s gratitude,’ Nick said.

  Poppy gripped her handbag, let go of her scarf, and took a swipe at him. ‘If this chaos is your idea of an adventure, kindly remember I’m a pensioner with a weak heart. I’ll thank you for treating me accordingly. Bugger it, you’ve completely ruined my make-up.’

  ‘Language, Mam.’

  Poppy thrust her jaw out and squinted at him. ‘Sorry! Although I don’t know why when your terrible driving nearly killed us, and you’ve managed to destroy my elegant appearance too.’ She clutched her scarf and glared ahead, even though they were stationary. The road was deathly quiet.

  Nick held his hands out and stared at them. They were shaking. ‘Hell, let’s go for it, shall we?’ he said, re-starting the engine.

  Poppy nodded. A vague sense of calm settled on her, until the vehicle burst from an olive grove, its powerful headlights blinding her.

  ‘Hang on, he’s back,’ Nick shouted.

  Poppy hung on to the door handle and braced herself.

  Nick hit the brakes. Poppy’s seatbelt locked as they swung through a ninety-degree arc. The car, spinning across the tarmac, slid past the truck. Nick braked hard to avoid plunging into a ravine then he accelerated towards Viannos, gaining precious seconds.

  From the racket that came from the wheel, Poppy feared it might fall off. The unlit road wound around the mountainside. After another bend, a distant cluster of buildings, illuminated by streetlights, gave her hope .

  ‘Viannos, at last!’ Poppy said. Then, to her surprise, she saw the flashing blue lights of half a dozen police cars racing towards them.

  ‘Look, the police!’ Nick shouted above the din from the back wheel.

  The monster truck raced up alongside, then took another swing at them.

  Contact came with a bone-rattling Bang!

  Poppy’s scream morphed into the sound of metal tearing against metal.

  Nick, thrown from his seat, made a grab for the roll-bar but catapulted into the night.

  Poppy, terrified and blinded by the truck’s spotlights, imagined him crushed beneath giant wheels. She screamed, grabbed the handbrake and pulled with all her might.

  Without a driver and out of control, the small 4x4 came to a halt in the gravel run-off at the edge of the mountain road.

  Through black tree trunks and billowing dirt, she registered the oscillating police lights, now almost upon them.

  The monster truck seemed to have disappeared.

  But where was Nick?

  Chapter 34

  IN THE COTTAGE, ANGIE ticked things off her wedding list while Yiayá and Voula were engrossed in a conversation about candles. She looked at the clock. Nick and her mother should have arrived. She snatched the moment to give him a call from the house phone, knowing he’d use handsfree while driving.

  Nick was halfway through saying something when the call suddenly ended. ‘Nick, Nick are you there?’ she cried. Turning to Maria, she said, ‘That’s odd, Nick’s on his w
ay but I thought I heard Mam yell, and then nothing.’

  ‘Probably a goat in the road,’ Maria said.

  ‘He must be near Viannos,’ Voula said, glancing at her watch. ‘There’s a blank spot, no signal on the other side of the mountain.’

  ‘Ah, okay, then I’m guessing they’ll be here soon.’ Angie tried to keep the glee from her face. The smiles of the other women told her she’d failed. They returned to their wedding plans.

  The minutes ticked by. Angie checked the time on her phone. Where are you, Nick? Where are you, Mam?

  *

  Voula was using the house phone to call the taxi driver’s wife and organise a ride to the church for Yiayá and Papoú. She made a face, pointed at the phone and pressed the handsfree button.

  Maria and Angie listened to a one-sided conversation about the taxi driver’s medical condition. They made clownish faces at each other when the taxi driver’s wife went into details.

  Angie flapped her hand at Voula who got the message and turned off the speaker.

  Papoú, in his corner sipping raki, grinned at the women.

  ‘And, instead of confetti,’ Angie suggested, ‘can we use rice mixed with rose petals from the garden?’

  Maria nodded.

  Angie glanced at the clock again. A racket outside the cottage drew their attention. Agapi, yelling at the top of her voice, burst through the doorway at the same moment as the phone rang.

  ‘Angelika, there’s been an accident! Poppy and Nick!’ She turned to Voula. ‘Put the phone down, they’re trying to call.’

  ‘I’ve put it down,’ Voula said, startled, picking it up again.

  ‘What do you mean, an accident?’ Angie said. ‘I was just talking to them.’

  The colour drained from Voula’s face. She thumped herself in the chest and dropped the receiver.

  ‘What, Voula? Tell us . . .’ Angie said. It had to be a misunderstanding.