But who’s my mother? Angie thought.
The old clock struck eleven, seven hours to her wedding. Tick, tick, tick. She heard a commotion in the village square. Tables and chairs were dragged out. Men knocked a wooden stage together for the bouzouki and lira band, and her heart also hammered.
‘Let’s sit outside so that we don’t disturb Yiayá and Papoú.’ A little fizz of excitement almost nudged Angie’s curiosity and sadness to one side. Soon she would be Nick’s wife.
They sat at the cracked marble table, the sun warming their damp faces, lifting the mood another notch. ‘How come you left for England, Mam?’
‘Stavro knew many people in Athens. The Mandrakis family had recently moved to London so he telegrammed them, asking for help. They owned a kebab house, one of the first all-night places in the city. They gave me a job, the night shift.’ Poppy gazed into the distance. ‘England was so different from Crete. The Beatles, Queen Elizabeth; Harold Wilson was the Prime Minister and there was much trouble about Ireland that I didn’t understand.
‘In Crete, because of the junta, we only had military music on the wireless but in England they had Radio Luxembourg. Also, all the women around my age wore the mini skirt, which was banned in Greece. I listened to pop music all night while I worked, Writing down the words to songs when we weren’t busy. I sang them while I served customers and practised the twist behind the counter. The customers loved it.’
‘I missed you. Especially when I married Voula,’ Matthia said, bringing her back to the misery. ‘On my wedding day, I raised my glass to absent friends, thinking of you and Yeorgo.’
Poppy placed her hand on his cheek. ‘There’s been so much misunderstanding between us.’
She turned to Angie. ‘I was lonely, but I learned English and spent a lot of time in front of the TV. They put a man on the moon, I couldn’t get enough of that. The Mandrakises took me into their family. Aunty Heleny had a daughter two years younger than me, Valentina, wild but very beautiful. Men found her irresistible.’ Poppy laughed. ‘When she worked in the kebab house with me, we would sing and dance all night long. Heleny’s business got so busy we had to employ extra staff.’ Poppy sighed, the smile falling away. She cupped Angie’s face in her hands and nodded. ‘Valentina was my best friend in England.’
Matthia stared at his sister.
Poppy continued. ‘Your father found me in London but, although I loved him with all my heart, living together became unbearable. He stayed for a week. We fought all the time. Being intimate was impossible, knowing we were siblings so I said I never wanted to see him again – which wasn’t true. I told the man I adored to divorce me and find another woman.’
‘That must have been so painful, Mam.’ Angie took her hand.
‘It broke my heart, Angelika. I loved him, I still do. The hardest part was packing his case. To fold his personal things into his bag seemed so final, it cut me up badly. Oddly enough, I wasn’t too concerned about him finding another woman. To tell the truth, I hoped he would. Whether he did, or he didn’t, made no difference to me, so if it added to his happiness, then it was some small consolation to me.’
Poppy sat in silence for a moment, tears trickling. ‘When he was going, he put his brown suitcase by the door and said, “Come here, little one.” He took me in his big strong arms. “I’ll never love anyone like I love you, Poppy Lambrakis. I’ve given you my heart and I refuse to take it back. It’s broken, but that’s not your fault. Promise you won’t forget me?” He kissed me, properly, for the very last time. My insides were twisted with pain. I longed to tell him how much I loved him, but doing so would just make matters worse.
‘He said, “You’re my moon and stars, Calliope Lambrakis, my moon and stars.” And then he turned and walked away.’
Poppy closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. ‘Why did it have to happen to us, Angelika? I didn’t deserve such a cruel blow, nor did your father.’
Angie couldn’t find the words to comfort Poppy – it was so much to take in.
‘He never re-married, and I never saw him again.’ Poppy sniffed and stared into the distance. ‘I see him in my imagination, talk to him in my dreams, but no, I haven’t set eyes on him since that day. Occasionally, I have a feeling he’s close, watching me, but that’s just my way of dealing with it.’
‘How awful. I’m sorry I said those terrible things,’ Angie said, full of remorse.
Poppy picked at a loose thread on the bottom of her cardigan. ‘Yeorgo said if he couldn’t live for me, then he’d die for his country, and he signed up for a life in the army. He returned to Greece with Valentina who was going to visit her grandparents in Athens. Valentina had a crush on Yeorgo. She said I was mad to send him away. Nobody knew why we were divorcing. When Valentina came back from Greece a month later, she was pregnant.’ Poppy turned to face Angie.
‘She was your real mother, Angelika; Valentina, Aunty Heleny’s daughter.’
‘No, Mam. You’re my real mother. Valentina gave birth to me. Can you tell me; what happened to her?’
‘Valentina had kept her pregnancy a secret until she went into early labour at home. We had no time to get her to hospital. The doctor did an emergency caesarean to save your life. She had eclampsia. They did everything possible. I’m sorry, Angelika. Although she was pregnant with Yeorgo’s child, she told me he still loved me, and I should always keep him in my heart.’
Angie nodded and slipped her arm around her mother’s shoulders.
‘I’ll never forget your father, Angelika. And the miracle of you . . . oh, Angelika, you can’t possibly understand how much that meant to me. I helped to deliver you. I cleaned your little body and watched you to get a grip on life. Before your mother left this world, she thanked me, and made me promise to keep you safe. She told me to make sure you were happy, until the end of my days.’
‘She’d be pleased to know what a good job you’ve done, Mam.’
‘Near to death, Valentina confessed to her mother that Yeorgo was your father, and that I was to raise you as my own child. I wondered if Yeorgo had told Valentina why we’d parted. I did bring you up as my own, Angelika. I love you unconditionally, because you’re my husband’s child.’
Angie found herself lost for words.
‘I prayed for years that Yeorgo would return,’ Poppy said. ‘But nobody heard from him. Most of our soldiers that were sent to Cyprus didn’t return.’ She smiled. ‘He’d be proud of you, Angelika.’
‘I’m glad baby Petro didn’t die, Mam. It’s hard to imagine I’m his daughter and one day – maybe soon – I hope to have his grandchild, your grandchild.’
Poppy continued. ‘Only Stavro knew the truth about Valentina, and he swore he wouldn’t tell. Back then, I didn’t think of the consequences. It wasn’t until you started asking about your father and later, wanting to come to Crete, that things got difficult.’
‘Didn’t Yiayá know?’ Angie asked.
‘No, and as the years went by, I even convinced myself you were mine. Seeing you grow, the double of your father, was a bittersweet experience, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I was blessed to be able to hold on to the most precious part of him – his only child.’
‘And nobody has heard from my father since?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘I think we have to accept things.’
‘There must be a tomb for the Unknown Soldier in Cyprus, Mam. Let’s go there together one day and lay some flowers for Dad?’
‘Yes, I’d like to do that. It would give me a sense of closure after all these years.’
‘Angelika! Poppy!’ Voula and her granddaughters, laden with bulging carrier bags, came waddling up the steps.
Angie laughed and dried her eyes. ‘Are you okay, Mam?’
Poppy nodded. ‘I’m glad you know. I nearly died when you were searching for your birth certificate. I feared you’d hate me if you discovered the pretence.’
‘Never,’ Angie said. ‘There’s no pretence. You’re my
mother and that’s that.’
Poppy blew her nose. ‘Like I said, I can’t give you away, ask Matthia or Stavro, they’re next in line after your father.’
They turned to Matthia. ‘If Stavro isn’t here, I’d be proud, Angelika.’ He patted her hand.
Maria came out of the house. ‘Well, I’m glad that’s settled. It took long enough.’
The three of them stared at the old lady.
‘Sorry, did we wake you, Yiayá?’ Angie said.
‘You woke me with your racket hours ago, inconsiderate lot,’ Maria said.
‘Mama, can you forgive me?’ Poppy hugged Maria and helped her into her chair.
‘Enough . . .’ Maria gave Poppy a cynical glance. ‘It’s been a long time. Perhaps we can put all this behind us now. I couldn’t tell Angelika or Matthia. You had to do it, Poppy. I’m glad you found the courage.’
Angie stared at her grandmother. ‘You knew, Yiayá?’
‘Of course I knew. I told you on the first day you came here, koritsie, I’m not the stupid old woman you may think.’ In her eyes, a spark of anger glinted and died.
Chapter 43
Thessaloniki Greece, Present Day.
STAVRO FOUND THE KAFENION and, inside, glanced around for Yeorgo. Two guys played tavli, neither of them old enough to be his brother. A young woman in a revealing vest top and short shorts cleared a table. She lifted an empty coffee cup and a full ashtray onto her tray and then threw Stavro a questioning look.
‘Hello, I’m looking for Yeorgo Lambrakis. Is he here?’
She glanced at the tray. ‘You’ve just missed him. Can I get you anything?’
Stavro stared at the empty seat. ‘Will he be back, do you think?’
‘Probably, he’s gone to buy a paper.’ She straightened, placed her hands on her hips, pert breasts pushed against stretchy fabric. Stavro realised he was staring and flicked his glance back to her face.
‘Okay, I’ll wait. Greek coffee, medium sweet.’
He pulled out the chair that he suspected his brother had just left and watched the sweetest bottom he had noticed in a long time swing provocatively until it disappeared behind the counter.
Yes, Yeorgo, I’d come here for my morning coffee too.
By nine o’clock, Stavro battled with impatience. The kafenion had filled. He stared at each face that came through the door but didn’t recognise Yeorgo.
‘Do you have a phone book?’ he asked the waitress. When she brought it, Stavro looked up the airport number, holding it at arm’s length to get the small print into focus. He called flight information and wrote details into his notebook. He had to get the rings and wedding crowns to Crete, so the two o’clock flight from Thessaloniki to Heraklion was his only option. He glanced at his notes. The later Heraklion flight was at five o’clock – far too late.
Stavro tore a page from his book and wrote:
Yeorgo Lambrakis,
My good friend. Your daughter, Angelika, is getting married in Amiras today at six o’clock. The reception is in the village square. I have been trying to find you for many years to ask you to return to the family. We all miss you, especially Mama, Poppy and Angelika. Please come home!
Your loving brother, Stavro.
To arrive at this point – so close – and still leave for Crete alone, sickened him. He folded the note and passed it to the young woman. ‘Please give this to Lambrakis. It’s very important. I have to go. I’ve a plane to catch.’
She unfolded the piece of paper and read it. Her eyes widened. ‘I’ll make sure he gets it as soon as possible.’
Stavro dropped five euros onto the table and scooted back to his apartment.
*
Aboard the Aegean Airways plane, Stavro fastened his seatbelt and watched the flight attendant. He should have written his phone number on the note, and he also forgot to take down the kafenion’s details. His memory had let him down again. Being realistic, what were the odds of this person, who had one of the commonest names in Greece, being his brother? Slim, he thought.
Stavro recalled the last time he saw Yeorgo. He remembered his face so clearly. A clean-shaven and handsome man with wide brown eyes, a square jaw, and a slight cleft in the chin. They had hugged and slapped each other’s backs. They were alike in many ways. Once the truth was out – that they were brothers – he questioned how everyone had missed their similarities in both looks and personality. He wondered if Constantina had recognised the resemblance between them and always feared her mistake.
A few months after Angelika’s birth, Yeorgo had turned up at Stavro’s apartment in Athens and stayed overnight. They had drunk too much raki and talked until dawn. When Yeorgo left, he took Poppy’s letters and the picture of his baby daughter. Stavro had tried to get him to visit London, knowing how much Poppy still wanted to see him despite her hard words.
‘I’ve already been,’ Yeorgo had said, staring at the photograph of Angelika. ‘I went to London, laid flowers on Valentina’s grave and watched Poppy pushing a pram around the park. I kept out of sight; better that way, no point in causing more upset.’ His shoulders dropped and he stared into the distance. ‘She’ll come to terms with everything and deal with it.’
Stavro topped up their glasses – a feeble gesture when he wanted to do so much more.
‘Yammas! Health and happiness to my baby girl,’ Yeorgo had said with an overly bright smile, slamming his glass on the table before knocking back the clear liquid. ‘I couldn’t see her, tucked away in the pram, so I’m grateful for the picture. Angelika’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? Poppy seemed happy. She was smiling and chatting to other mothers who peeked at my baby. I don’t want to spoil things for them. You know how much Poppy wanted a child and I couldn’t wish for a better mother for Angelika, could I?’
Yeorgo had paused and swallowed hard, the photograph trembling in his hand.
Stavro saw his brother’s heart breaking.
Yeorgo continued. ‘I’ll set up a trust fund for Angelika but I’ll have it paid into your account, Stavro. I know you’ll see they get it. Say it’s from you. It’s kinder if they don’t think of me.’
When drink had the better of them, Yeorgo confessed he believed himself responsible for the death of the woman he had always regarded as his mother. Constantina had loved him with everything she had, no one could doubt it. The truth, that she had taken another woman’s baby and left her own to the dogs, had destroyed her.
Once Yeorgo returned to the army, Stavro had an odd feeling his brother had come to say goodbye. He never heard from Yeorgo again.
*
The seatbelt sign stayed on inside the Aegean aircraft. Stavro gripped the armrests. A couple of passengers crossed themselves as the plane continued through turbulence. In the back of Stavro’s mind, a spark of fear flared and died. He was safe. Planes seldom fell out of the sky. His skin seemed to tighten over his body with each anxious moment. The aircraft galloped across the firmament like a disorientated carthorse. The flight attendant answered the internal phone and had a conversation with the cockpit. She replaced the receiver, strapped herself into a pull-down seat at the front of the cabin and then stretched for the mike above her head. The plane banked and dipped, slightly out of sync with Stavro’s stomach.
‘Due to high winds at Heraklion airport, we’re turning back and heading for Athens. All passengers will be transferred to the first available slot for Heraklion. The captain apologises for the inconvenience but would like to remind everyone that it’s for their own safety.’
Stavro glanced at his watch; three o’clock. Was there any chance he would make the wedding? A dull pain in his chest grew stronger as time ticked by. In forty-five minutes, they’d be inside the Athens terminal. Even if the winds at Heraklion dropped immediately, it would be an hour before he was outside that airport and then he had to get to Amiras.
The plane continued to toss around like a brick in a tumble drier and the pain in Stavro’s chest grew a little stronger.
Chapter 44
Amiras, Crete.
ANGIE AND POPPY STARED across the cracked marble table at Maria.
‘But how did you know, Mama?’ Poppy said.
‘Matthia, fetch me the big pink chocolate box from the top of my wardrobe,’ Maria said.
Minutes later, Matthia placed the tattered box, tied by a length of yellow ribbon, in front of them.
‘This pile of mementoes is your wedding present from me, Angelika. It’s your life story in a chocolate box,’ she paused. ‘Now will somebody make me a coffee or do I have to do everything myself?’ Maria said.
Voula, who had joined them after organising her granddaughters, was uncharacteristically quiet. She jumped up and waddled into the kitchen.
Angie and Poppy delved into the collection of mementoes and found bundles of letters, a pair of scratch mittens, a baby’s shoe, photographs of Poppy holding a sleeping baby, Angie’s first steps, Christmas dinners, Girl Guide badges, school plays, university graduation and so much more.
‘Where did they come from?’ Angie asked.
‘From London, of course,’ Maria said.
Poppy unfolded one of the letters, her eyes scanning to the bottom, and then she gasped.
‘Good grief . . . they’re from Aunty Heleny – Valentina’s mother!’
‘Yes, Valentina’s mother and Angelika’s grandmother. A very good woman. She knew Poppy had come from Amiras, and learned my name from Stavro. She sent me a letter to say my daughter was safe and well. We corresponded.’ Maria nodded. ‘When she’d lost her own daughter she understood the pain I’d suffered after Poppy left. Until last year, she sent me a letter and photographs every month, bless her.’ Maria picked up the baby shoe, stroked it affectionately and smiled. ‘After Heleny died, it made me crazy not hearing about you both. So, I was about to send a letter to England, but then Angelika turned up like a miracle.’
‘Heleny was always snapping us with her little camera. We used to call her paparazzi,’ Poppy said.
Island of Secrets Page 37
