Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

‘Will you marry me, Angelika Lambrakis?’ He slipped her engagement ring onto her finger and kissed her.

  They stretched out on the bed. ‘I think I’m pregnant,’ Angie said quietly, staring at the ceiling, allowing tears of relief to fall freely.

  His silence seemed to fill her chest to aching point. In his arms with her ear pressed against him, she heard his heartbeat. She wanted to look into his face, but was afraid to see the truth. Eventually, he spoke.

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure. I haven’t done a test yet. I have the kit in my bag.’

  Nick’s silence filled the room again. He let go of her and, wincing, shifted his plaster cast so he could lie on his side and look at her. ‘Let’s not do the test until after we’re married, what do you think? We can do it together.’

  She nodded, searching his face for a reaction, and then it came all at once.

  With his grin wide and eyes sparkling he said, ‘You make my ordinary life completely wonderful, Angie.’ He was silent for a beat. ‘Our own baby, wow. A real family. I can hardly take it in. It’s impossible to say how happy I am. Thank you for loving me, darling.’

  ‘I do love you, Nick. You’re my world.’

  *

  Angie’s phone rang; the noise loud in the sparse apartment. ‘It’s Mam, what time is it?’ she said, wriggling out of Nick’s arms.

  He looked at his watch, the only thing he was wearing. ‘Six-thirty.’

  ‘She’ll kill me.’ Angie answered the phone.

  ‘Hi, Mam . . . Where have I been? I promised I’d get you an outfit for the wedding didn’t I? Wait until you see it. Back in twenty, love you, bye.’ She ended the call, kissed Nick lightly on the lips and then dragged her going-away ensemble out of the wardrobe. Good job the clothes were a little stretchy and Poppy was only half a size larger. She found the matching shoes and handbag and threw them all into a carrier.

  ‘You’ll have to dress me,’ Nick said, grinning cheekily.

  Angie glanced at his naked body. ‘You’re taking advantage now.

  ‘I will if we have time.’

  Angie shook her head. ‘Next time you make love, it will be to a married woman, Nick.’

  *

  Half an hour later, back in the cottage, Angie gave Poppy her outrageously expensive trousseau.

  ‘It’s red, red, I can’t wear that! I can only wear black. I’d look like a tart.’ Poppy glared.

  ‘No, Mam, you’re not wearing black for your only daughter’s wedding. It’s a celebration of life. Anyway, you couldn’t look like a tart if you tried.’

  Poppy squinted at Angie and then grumbled her way into Yiayá’s bedroom. Five minutes later, she reappeared in the crimson dress and jacket. Everyone applauded.

  Maria, damp eyed and smiling, held out a hand. ‘Poppy, my daughter. I’m so proud of you.’ She lifted Poppy’s hand, kissed the palm and then curled her daughter’s fingers to keep hold of the kiss. ‘It’s not much, but it’s all I have.’

  ‘Oh, Mama!’ Poppy turned to Angie. ‘Thanks for all this, Angelika. I’d never have done it without you.’

  ‘Wait,’ Maria said. ‘I forgot, I do have something for you, Poppy. I’ve kept it for so long and dreamed of the day when I’d give it back.’ She turned to Angelika. ‘In the top drawer of the pink cupboard in my bedroom. A brown paper bag.’

  Minutes later, Poppy opened the brown packet and pulled out a blue gingham sewing bag with varnished bamboo handles. ‘Oh, Mama! I remember when you gave it to me.’ She giggled childishly. ‘I recall how much I didn’t want to be a woman.’

  ‘The pillowcase you were working on when you left is still inside. I hope you get around to finishing it this time,’ Maria said.

  Angie watched her mother and thought about Thanassi. What had really happened to Emmanouil? She decided to get Emmanouil’s letter from Thanassi and show it to Manoli, so he understood the truth. Yánna’s death was an accident – a dangerous prank gone horribly wrong – a prank that might just as easily have killed Matthia.

  She wanted to talk to Poppy about Emmanouil, but with the wedding tomorrow, now was not the time. They had all been through enough.

  Papoú was shunted down to Voula’s cottage and Poppy slept with Maria. The silk wedding dress that Yiayá had made for her daughter hung from a nail on the bedroom wall.

  Outside Demitri’s house – where Nick would sleep – Angie kissed him goodnight.

  ‘Is this your idea of a quiet marriage in Crete?’ he said, pulling her to his chest. ‘It’s pure madness.’

  ‘I’ve come to love them all to bits, but I’m really happy that we’re going to the other side of the island for our honeymoon.’

  ‘Nothing but sun, sea and sand, Angie. Are you sure you won’t go crazy with nothing to organise?’

  ‘I’ll have you, darling. That’s all I want. I’m relieved the mayhem’s over, Nick. Tomorrow will be perfect, you’ll see. Don’t forget we’re doing the pregnancy test, after the wedding, but before the reception, so we can drown our sorrows if it’s negative.’

  Nick pulled a face and groaned.

  ‘What? It was your idea.’

  ‘Yes, but I just had this horrible flash of the whole family waiting outside the bathroom door for the result. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?’

  Angie laughed. ‘No, of course not.’

  Nick grinned. ‘You realise if it’s negative, I’ll have to spend the entire honeymoon trying to change the result?’

  ‘Oooh!’

  Chapter 38

  A COCKEREL CROWED NEAR ANGIE’S bedroom window at five in the morning. My wedding day, she thought. She stretched, happy that they had chosen to marry in the village. Today was going to be wonderful. She just knew it.

  Angie pulled her sweats on and set out for a jog down the steps and past the Amiras cemetery. The air was still cool from the night. Dawns muted colours; a pastel blue sky displaying wisps of pink feathery clouds, and the distant sea, a shimmering turquoise watercolour.

  Scrub land surrounding the village glinted silver-green dew on clumps of wild sage. Exposed rocky areas leading up to the hilltop chapel, Agios Charalampos, were daubed with swathes of delicate mauve and cerise anemones. The perfume of dawn; jasmine, honeysuckle, and night-flowering cactus, rich and enchanting, hung drowsily in the air. Long-haired goats, their tin bells a distant clatter, shifted into the strengthening sunlight, from the shadows of the church. The morning’s silence was further shattered by a rooster’s boisterous crowing, and the priest’s donkey braying for its oats.

  Doors squeaked open, and Angie heard village people greet each other with obvious enthusiasm for the day ahead. She strode easy, her head full of imaginings; telling her children about the day Mummy and Daddy got married. They would hear how she wore their grandmother’s silk dress, had a bouquet of wild flowers, and a reception that consisted of a street party for the entire village.

  She ran onto the national road and then turned back down into Amiras at the war memorial, gathering speed on the downhill slope. She sprinted past the kafenion, and caught sight of Matthia who sat alone at an outside table, smoking. Full of joy, she had an urge to hug him.

  ‘Uncle Matthia, isn’t it a fantastic day? What are you doing here at this time in the morning?’

  Matthia scowled, rested his forearms on his knees and grunted. ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘Have you any news from Uncle Stavro?’

  Matthia drew on the cigarette and stared at her. ‘No.’

  Angie pulled a chair from one of the other tables and sat beside him, the sweat on her back chilling. ‘If he hasn’t returned by this evening, will you give me away?’

  He drew on the cigarette again. ‘No, I won’t.’

  Angie’s euphoria fell, she felt his anger and hers rose to meet it. She guessed he resented being last on her list. ‘Look, you can be a grumpy old git, but I’m not going to let you spoil my wedding day. Please, stand in for my father. It’s supposed t
o be an honour,’ she said good-humouredly.

  Matthia dropped the cigarette and screwed it into the ground with his foot. ‘I won’t. You shouldn’t be getting married, not here in this church. It’s not right. Whose mad idea was this, anyway?’ He stood and shoved the cigarette packet into his pocket.

  ‘What do you mean, it’s not right? Why? Tell me.’ Angie clenched her teeth. Matthia was nothing but a nasty old man. Then she wondered if he was still bitter about the things Thanassi had told her. ‘Look, sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped. Let’s sit down and you can explain what’s upsetting you, Uncle.’

  He glared at her. ‘I can’t tell you, Poppy made me promise.’ He stomped away. ‘You shouldn’t get married,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘People remember. You’re an unholy child – it’s a disgrace against God . . .’

  Angie’s jaw dropped. She went after him. ‘What are you talking about? What a horrible thing to say on my wedding day!’ She grabbed his arm and spun him around. ‘Why shouldn’t I marry the man I love, have his children, live happily ever after?’

  Matthia reeled and staggered. Angie caught him, saw tears brim in his tired old eyes. Her apprehension rose.

  ‘You think I don’t care about you, Angelika. You’re wrong, I seem to be the only one that’s concerned. You don’t understand. I won’t see you suffer like Poppy has,’ Matthia whispered. He knuckled his eyes and turned away.

  Confused by his emotion and ashamed of her heavy-handedness, Angie told herself, grumpy or not, Matthia was a frail old man.

  ‘Never mind what my mother made you promise, I have a right to know. Exactly what you are concerned about? It’s my life. Why shouldn’t I marry Nick? Tell me, Uncle.’

  Why couldn’t he let the past go? Despite what Poppy may or may not have done, why would it make Angie unholy? What rubbish was that?

  Matthia hesitated, closed his eyes and said slowly, ‘I’m too old for all this, but I can’t let you have your wedding without knowing the truth, Angelika. You should know the facts before you make your decision.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why shouldn’t I get married in the church?’ Angie repeated.

  Matthia’s hard features collapsed like a melting candle and, with incredible sadness in his voice he said, ‘It’s wrong for you to marry because . . .’ He sighed, blinked slowly and then peered into her face. ‘Your mother and father were brother and sister, and all your brothers were born dead . . .’

  Angie gasped, stared at him and forgot to breathe. She ran through the sentence again, and again, trying to make sense of it. She let go of his arm, and failed to grasp the rest of his words. Matthia’s speech became a distant mumble and her body swam though the rising heat of the morning, every movement a nauseating crawl. Darkness invaded the corners of her eyes. Close to passing out, Angie staggered to the edge of the street, slammed both palms against the wall of a house and vomited into the gutter. While she gagged, the statement thundered around her head. Her mother and father, brother and sister . . . her mother’s weak heart, Stavro’s weak heart, all her brothers – born dead? What brothers?

  Thanassi’s words came back: And then, just after Constantina’s second grandson died . . .

  ‘No, no, it’s not true . . .’

  Angie started to run, holding her belly that continued to cramp, her head reeling with the enormity of Matthia’s statement. The unthinkable – the disgusting, outrageous, impossible statement. It had to be a lie. Yet deep down, Angie feared he had told her the truth. Her own mother, Poppy, no!

  Confused and angry, she raced up the steps and into Maria’s cottage. The empty room said it all. They knew. Driven by secrets that no one dare tell her, the family hid away while she came to terms with the fact. Her mother and father were brother and sister.

  Had Matthia always known he had to tell her? It explained his animosity towards her from the start. His words tumbled around in her head.

  Today was her wedding day.

  Poppy emerged from the bedroom. ‘Angelika, what on earth is the matter? Calm down. Have you had a fight with Nick?’

  All Angie’s confusion and fears blasted out of her.

  ‘No!’ she paused, gathering her thoughts. ‘Uncle Matthia told me, Mam. I know everything. You and my father . . . brother and sister! How could you do this to me? God knows what would have happened. You know we’re desperate for children, I might even be pregnant already – I think I am – what am I going to do? Why didn’t you tell me? You’ve ruined everything,’ Angie yelled the words, tears streaming. ‘What in God’s name will I do, Mam? I love Nick. We hope to start a family. I’m supposed to be getting married today . . . Our wedding, our future, all damned to hell. Why did you keep such a terrible secret from me?’

  Poppy’s face turned grey and her mouth worked but no sound came out. She clutched her chest, took a step forward and, shaking her head, managed to gasp, ‘Don’t tell Nick. Forget what Matthia said. It’s not true. I’ll kill him. He can’t hold his mouth shut for five minutes. Just forget it.’ Her words spluttered out angrily.

  ‘Forget it – how can I? Don’t be so stupid, it’s disgusting! How could you have been so selfish, to keep something like that from me?’

  ‘I’m not selfish. How do you think this has been for me, all these years? Why did you go and dig up the past? I warned you. We were happy. You brought it on yourself. Just don’t tell Nick,’ Poppy warned.

  ‘I can’t not tell him. You can’t keep secrets from the people you love.’

  Poppy staggered back against the wall, cupped her hands over her mouth and juddered air through her fingers. ‘Don’t do this to me, Angelika. Trust me. Haven’t I been a good mother to you? Didn’t I love you with everything I had?’

  Angie hardly heard her. ‘I’ll have to cancel the wedding. I have to tell Nick. Get advice, blood tests, DNA stuff . . . God! What if we’re unable to have children, Mam? What if I’m already having Nick’s baby? Uncle Matthia told me about the others, my brothers, born dead. Brothers I didn’t know I had. How many more secrets are there? And how many times would you have watched me go through childbirth . . . knowing? I can’t believe you!’

  ‘Take no notice. I’ve told you, Matthia’s a stupid old fool who doesn’t know anything!’

  ‘Is that so? Then tell me the truth, did you marry your brother, Mam?’ In blind panic, Angie couldn’t grasp the logistics. Her mind was going crazy with the thought that she might be pregnant, and what were the consequences of her being born from an incestuous relationship.

  ‘I . . . I . . . oh, God forgive me!’ Poppy broke down, stumbled into a seat and rocked back and forth with her hands flat over her face.

  Angie leapt from the sofa. Poppy reached out and brushed her arm.

  ‘Don’t touch me! There’s no excuse for this!’ Angie yelled through her tears. She stormed through the door and down the steps, sprinting along the village street until she came to the olive grove. Behind her, Poppy cried her name.

  ‘Angelika, Angelika, please!’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Angie shouted. She ran up the slope and into the grove, throwing herself under the biggest tree. Overwhelmed by anger and confusion, she had to decide what to do.

  Naturally, she had to tell Nick. Or did she? What if she didn’t tell him? Was it possible to deceive the man she loved, as Poppy had deceived her? Perhaps the risk was minimal. Angie had no idea. But a threat would hang over her pregnancy and the joy of having a baby would be marred by worry.

  Now it all made sense. Why her mother never wanted to talk about Yeorgo. Why he left her for a life in the army. Why she ran away from Crete. But who was Angie’s father? Was it Stavro or Matthia? Her stomach churned.

  Angie stared into the tree branches and recalled Maria’s story. Would her grandmother have told her? She thought so; they just hadn’t got that far. She sobbed, her face puffy and her vision blurred with tears. Why hadn’t Poppy warned her? All this time she had kept that terrible secret?
Angie remembered the wretched arguments when she wanted to connect with her family. Poppy must have gone through hell when Angie said she was going anyway.

  Her mother called out, ‘Angelika! Angelika!’ And then Poppy came into view. Still in her slippers, she ran along the road where Maria had seen the soldiers on that terrible day in 1943.

  Chapter 39

  Thessaloniki, Greece, Present Day.

  ON THE MORNING OF Angelika’s wedding, Stavro glanced at his watch: seven-thirty. His last chance to find Yeorgo before the marriage ceremony. Although a little early to go knocking on a stranger’s door, these were unusual circumstances. This was the fifth Lambrakis doorbell he had pressed in two days.

  The clock was ticking. He hoped there was a flight from Thessaloniki to Crete that afternoon. If not, he was in big trouble. He had received a list of retired soldiers with the name Lambrakis from the pension office, and his investigation had started in Athens. No luck. He continued his search around Thessaloniki, where three of the names on his list had already passed away.

  In two of those cases, the widow had failed to inform the correct department. One soldier’s wife suspected Stavro came from the fraud squad. The old woman attacked him with a broom. Hadn’t her man given everything to his country? He’d died in poverty and wasn’t he entitled to more than that?

  Now, in the city of Thessaloniki, Stavro stood before the last address on his list. If he drew a blank here, he would take a break from the search for a while. He found it too time consuming and expensive. He glanced up at the apartment’s name, etched over the glass door, and pushed through. Doors seemed heavier these days.

  The central light didn’t work, and the cream marble floor was grimy in the corners. The wall to his left contained the lift, and straight ahead, two apartment doors. To his right stood a block of overflowing mailboxes, and the occupants’ doorbells. Stavro slid his forefinger down the list of names. His hand trembled a little. Condensation bubbles obscured some of the writing behind the Perspex and, to make matters worse, he had forgotten his reading glasses. Forgetting things seemed to be a common occurrence lately.