Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  She hurried through the church doors. The organist struck one long note of Mendelssohn, before she realised her mistake.

  Poppy lifted her head and walked to the front. In the outfit as red as her namesake, she had prime position at the beginning of the first pew with her father and mother to her right. Voula stood next to Maria, and then Agapi.

  Maria and Vassili took Poppy’s hands.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ Poppy whispered. ‘I’m free to go. I’ll tell you everything later.’

  The relief was clear on her parents’ faces. Both Maria and Vassili dropped back into their seats and smiled at each other.

  ‘Stay sitting,’ Poppy said. ‘Nobody expects you to stand.’

  Voula leaned across. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s all over,’ Poppy replied. ‘I didn’t kill Emmanouil.’

  Agapi stretched even further forward. ‘Did I hear right? You’re innocent?’

  Poppy nodded. Her eye caught the microphone, between the metre-high wedding candles. She slipped out of the pew and had a quiet word with one of the churchwardens who turned on the mike.

  ‘My dear friends,’ Poppy stammered, embarrassed by the sound of her own voice. The priest poked his head out from behind the rood screen, his eyes wide and mouth open. The warden spoke to him quietly.

  Poppy cleared her throat and started again. ‘My dear friends and neighbours, most of you know why I left Amiras. I have just returned from the police station. Before my daughter gets married I want to tell you all that I was not responsible for the death of Lambrakis Emmanouil. The matter has been cleared up at the police station. The truth is Emmanouil sadly took his own life, after the death of his wife and child.’ She crossed herself. ‘May they rest in peace.’

  In a stage whisper, someone near the front said, ‘Poppy didn’t kill Emmanouil!’ and the sentence passed through the church, rustling like leaves in a breeze, and interspersed by the occasional, ‘Bravo!’ And then somebody started clapping and before Poppy could stop it, the entire church was applauding and Maria and Vassili were beaming at her.

  When the congregation calmed down, Poppy took her place and noticed that Maria now looked tired and bewildered. ‘Not long now, Mama,’ Poppy said.

  ‘What’s happening? I can’t keep looking over my shoulder, I’ll get a crick. Why haven’t they started?’ Maria said.

  The parishioners stirred. Matthia came dashing down the aisle and had a few words with the groom.

  Voula smiled at Matthia and Nick and then whispered across to Poppy. ‘Don’t they look fantastic?’

  Poppy glanced at the two men standing in the aisle in their pale grey suits; Nick’s missing a trouser leg, his plaster cast bright in the dull church light. Fortunately, Angelika had bought chain store outfits for the groom and the Kondulakis men, explaining the four Marks & Spencer’s suits, with shirts, ties, and shoes, had cost less than the Armani job Nick had originally planned for himself.

  Matthia had eventually agreed to wear the outfit, but only to please Poppy. Nevertheless, they all noticed his swagger in the new clothes as he returned to Angelika, outside the church.

  Chaos seemed to accessorise every wedding day, Poppy thought. She caught a glimpse of Voula and Agapi squeezing hands. The action caused her an odd glow of warmth. Aware of something more than affection between her oldest friends, she smiled and nodded to each of them.

  The priest of Amiras stood in the arch of the rood screen, brown eyes staring from his wildly hirsute face. Poppy remembered Papas Christos’s nervousness when he conducted her wedding, one of his first. Memories of her own marriage returned. Dear Yeorgo . . . despite the short and difficult time they’d had together, every moment had been worth the heartache of the following years.

  With a smile on her lips and her vision misted with tears, Poppy studied her Timex, staring at the second hand as it ticked towards seven o’clock.

  Papas Christos cleared his throat, stepped into the central aisle and gazed over his parishioners. When the congregation fell silent, he rolled his eyes heavenward, appearing to seek divine inspiration. Then Poppy realised he was simply checking his position under the Kriti TV boom mike. He turned on the loudspeaker and gave the microphone a couple of swift taps.

  Poppy got to her feet, faced the church doorway, and saw Angelika resplendent in the wedding dress that Maria had made all those years ago.

  Matthia stood tall with the bride on his arm. He tugged on his tie and polished a shoe against the back of his leg.

  Poppy squeezed Maria’s hand and, as is customary with any bride’s mother, she let her tears fall. Angelika and Matthia started their slow walk accompanied by a buzz of admiration and a few bars of Mendelssohn.

  Then, a catastrophe. Matthia’s phone rang. He stopped, fumbled in his pocket and answered the call. An angry exchange took place that everybody strained to hear. Eventually he closed his phone and spoke to Angelika. They turned and walked out of the church. The congregation murmured, silenced, and then everyone listened to another undecipherable conversation coming from the porch.

  Papas Christos paled. His mouth clamped so tight it disappeared between his beard and moustache.

  Matthia returned alone. Was the wedding cancelled? Poppy sniffed, didn’t know what to think. Her brother hurried to the groom’s side. A discussion took place between the two men, with no regard to the fact that they were in church and standing only a metre in front of Papas Christos.

  Poppy sensed the priest’s dismay. He slid the microphone down its stand and whispered something to the verger. Unfortunately, the microphone picked up the rumble of the priest’s belly and transmitted it, loud and clear, not only through the church but also over the rooftops of Amiras.

  Young Mattie giggled loudly. The infectious laughter spread until half the congregation were laughing uncontrollably and the other half shushing the guilty.

  Papas Christos glowered.

  *

  Stavro pressed his phone to his ear and shouted over the taxi driver’s blasting horn. ‘We’re here, in the village! Where are you, Matthia?’

  ‘I’m outside the church of Agios Yeorgios with Angelika, but Papas Christos is furious and everyone’s getting fidgety,’ Matthia said. ‘The police brought Poppy back. They’ve dropped the charges but she must return to the station on Monday to make another statement. They kept her passport, but at least she’s here.’

  ‘Matthia, you must wait for me, I’ve got the rings!’

  The driver turned onto the village road, still blasting his horn.

  ‘Is that your taxi making the racket?’ Matthia said.

  ‘Yes, were almost there.’

  Stavro chuckled to hear Matthia shout, he guessed into the church, ‘It’s my brother, the Koumbaros. He’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘Which way?’ the taxi driver asked.

  Stavro pointed to a narrow street leading to the church of Agios Yeorgios. The cab tore off the road and through the ornate iron gateway at a ridiculous speed. The congregation overspill scattered. The vehicle crossed the churchyard and screeched to a sliding halt between alarmed reporters and cameramen at the porch.

  Stavro leapt out.

  ‘Go to Nick’s side, Matthia, I’m following you with Angelika.’ He turned to the bride. ‘Are you all right, koritsie?’ Then he realised he’d forgotten to give Matthia the rings. He would slip them to him when he left the bride with the groom.

  ‘Let’s go, Angelika,’ Stavro said.

  The taxi reversed, and the congregation overspill squeezed in behind the last pew.

  The organ seemed to hesitate before giving Mendelssohn another rendition.

  Poppy turned to see Stavro, with Angelika on his arm, step through the doorway. Parishioners nodded their approval and Mendelssohn, played with gusto, drowned murmurs of admiration. Angelika and Stavro had almost reached the groom when a voice bellowed from the open doors at the back of the church.

  ‘Stop!’

  Chapter 46


  ANGIE COULDN’T BELIEVE THE pandemonium of her wedding. Villagers, wearing their wide smiles and Sunday clothes, had lined the street to the church calling, ‘Bravo!’ and ‘Happy life!’ They clapped heartily as the marriage procession passed. Reporters made the most of the occasion, constantly taking pictures and shouting, ‘This way, please.’ A TV camera had filmed her arrival at the church and then . . . things got crazy.

  Angie stood three-quarters down the aisle for the second time, staring at the back of a man with a plastercast on his left leg and a crutch under his arm. Nick should have become her husband an hour ago, yet still she waited.

  Now another irreverent voice halted the proceedings.

  Angie decided to pay no attention to this latest interruption. She slid her arm out of Stavro’s and was about to continue alone, when she saw Poppy turn to face the door. Matthia, her grandparents and even her groom were peering at the back of the church. The priest and entire congregation gazed past Angie.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

  Angie turned and squinted through the sunbeams at the figure in the doorway. Stavro grinned, squeezed her hand and nodded like a restless horse.

  ‘I knew it!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Let’s return to the porch.’

  Not again . . . This is simply unbelievable, she thought.

  Rooted to the spot, Angie wondered what could delay her walk down the aisle for a second time. She remembered her grandfather’s words, ‘Be patient, Angelika’. She looked at the unfamiliar man silhouetted at the back of the church.

  The sun, setting behind him, showed the tall upright figure only as a stark shape. Shafts of blinding sunlight radiated through the open doorway, gilding his outline.

  ‘Stop,’ the stranger repeated, calmer now that he had everyone’s attention. ‘Stavro, would you allow me to give my daughter away, brother?’

  Poppy’s voice, hardly more than a whisper, broke the complete silence.

  ‘Yeorgo? Oh . . . Oh, I can’t believe it, my dear husband!’

  Maria cried out with both hands on her heart. ‘Petro . . . Petro! It’s my baby boy, my son, Petro!’ Vassili held her to him, and together they stared disbelievingly at Yeorgo.

  Stavro stepped away from Angie and stood with Matthia in the front pew. The sun-drenched spectre came into the church and took his place at Angie’s side. His mature, handsome face, radiant; his eyes fixed on the bride.

  ‘Petro . . . Yeorgo . . . Dad . . .?’ Angie muttered, unable to believe her own words. ‘Surely you can’t be? Is it true? This is . . . well, just remarkable.’

  He nodded. ‘You can thank your Uncle Stavro. He found me and persuaded me to return for your wedding.’ He embraced her. ‘You’ve grown since the last time I saw you.’

  Angelika drew back and recognised a reflection of herself, and Uncle Stavro, in his features. ‘When was that, the last time you saw me?’ she asked.

  ‘I was in the back of the school hall, when you won your award for writing.’

  The priest cleared his throat. ‘Are we ready?’

  Overwhelmed by the moment, Angie linked arms with her father and walked proudly towards Nick.

  Matthia, at the far end of the front pew, leaned forward and said to Stavro at the other end, ‘Is that really Yeorgo?’ When Stavro nodded, Matthia exclaimed, ‘Jesus, God!’ and three rows of congregation crossed themselves repeatedly.

  Angie and her father arrived at Nick’s side. ‘You look amazing. I love you,’ Nick said, his eyes shining.

  She turned to her future husband and said with all sincerity, ‘I love you more,’ and after a shaky breath she whispered, ‘I know this is really inappropriate, but would you give me a moment with my parents?’

  Nick’s jaw dropped. ‘Angie . . . this is our wedding day.’

  She nodded, ‘I know.’

  Nick threw his head back and started laughing. ‘This is the maddest day of my entire life,’ he said. Then turning to the scowling Papas Christos, he apologised, and squeezed onto the end of a pew, his plaster cast sticking out into the aisle.

  Angie reached for Poppy’s hand and pulled her into the aisle. For the first time in her life, Angelika Lambrakis stood between her parents, holding their hands. She closed her eyes and remembered all the Easters, throughout her childhood, that she had cracked her red egg against her mother’s and wished for this very moment.

  She turned her face up to the priest. ‘Papas, would you bless the three of us, before I leave my parents’ family, to live with my husband?’ She heard her mother’s gasp and felt the squeeze of her hand.

  Papas Christos commenced with the blessing. Angie looked over to Maria and saw her smiling and weeping. She gave Angie an understanding nod, which Angie returned. When the blessing was over, Angie placed Poppy’s hand in Yeorgo’s and they took a step back. Nick, smiling broadly, hauled himself back onto his crutch and hopped to Angie’s side.

  ‘I knew we should have run away together,’ he whispered.

  ‘What, and miss all this chaos on the happiest day of my life? No way,’ she whispered back, still unable to grasp that her father was in the church. The day that had seemed to be turning into a nightmare, now surpassed her wildest dreams.

  ‘Who gives this woman, Angelika Lambrakis, to marry this man, Nickolas Kondos?’ the priest said.

  ‘I do. Her father,’ Yeorgo said with immense pride in his voice. He stepped between them, took Angie’s hand, and placed it in Nick’s.

  He turned to Nick and said with all seriousness, ‘Make my daughter miserable for one single second, and I’ll break both your legs before I kill you with my bare hands.’ Then Yeorgo kissed Angie chastely but firmly on the lips before stepping back to Poppy’s side.

  ‘He means it,’ Angie whispered, smiling.

  ‘I do believe he does,’ Nick replied.

  Somebody shouted, ‘Bravo, Yeorgo!’ Someone else whistled, and another called out, ‘Opa!’

  The priest flapped his hands at the congregation.

  Angie’s tears reached their tipping point.

  Yeorgo embraced Poppy and then Maria who, stroking his hair and patting his face, almost fainted with pleasure.

  The priest pulled the mike closer to his mouth and said, ‘Is everybody finally ready for this wedding?’ He paused, watching his flock nod and mutter, ‘Yes, yes,’ before he continued. ‘Then let’s join these two people in holy matrimony!’

  *

  After the marriage service, Nick and Angie rushed to Maria’s cottage. They squeezed into the small lean-to bathroom.

  ‘Where’s the kit, wife?’ Nick said.

  ‘In my toilet bag, on top of the cabinet, husband.’

  They both giggled. Nick lifted it down and tipped the contents into the wash hand basin. ‘Angie, this looks complicated.’

  ‘No, I just have to pee over the stick. Can you hold my dress up for me?’

  ‘Sure, what about your knickers, do you want help?’

  ‘No, I’m not wearing any.’

  ‘What?! My God, you’re going to burn in hell! Knicker-less in the church! Got to be a huge whopping sin.’ He laughed uproariously.

  ‘If God knows everything, then she’ll understand about VPL.’ Angie chuckled at Nick’s vacant look. ‘Visible Panty Line.’ Angie sat on the toilet and peed over the wand. She passed it to Nick and they both stared at it.

  ‘Nothing’s happened,’ Nick said. ‘We drew a blank then. Not about to become parents.’

  ‘No, we have to wait three minutes. If we see a blue stripe, we’re pregnant.’

  ‘Where’s your watch?’

  ‘Didn’t bring one. Where’s your phone?’

  ‘Demitri’s house.’

  ‘Clock!’ they both said together before shuffling into Maria’s living room.

  Nick held the pregnancy indicator behind him as they watched the second hand on the old clock turn three times around the face. It seemed to take forever. ‘Right, on three,’ he said. �
��One, two, three!’ He whipped the wand from behind his back.

  Angie squealed. Nick grinned.

  *

  At the reception in the village square, everyone stood and applauded when Nick and Angie arrived. Every time bride and groom kissed, the guests hammered their forks against their wineglasses, making a glorious racket and coming precariously close to a mass shattering.

  The moon rose and arced over the celebration. A tiny pipistrelle bat flitted around the streetlamp catching moths. Dogs and the roosters were respectfully quiet.

  Through the balmy night, three musicians playing bouzouki, lira, and guitar, performed on a makeshift stage under the starlight. After the traditional wedding dances, Angie had a quiet moment with her mother. They sat facing each other, knee to knee, holding hands.

  A long note from the lira came louder than earlier music, and they both looked up, towards the source of music. Yeorgo sat centre stage, drawing his bow across the ivory inlaid instrument.

  ‘For the two most beautiful women in my life,’ he said into the microphone. ‘My daughter, Angelika Lambrakis, sorry, Angelika Kondos; we have some catching up to do.’ He played a couple of notes, smiling down from the stage. Angie stood and blew him a kiss, and the guests whooped and clapped.

  ‘And my wife, Calliope Lambrakis.’ His face softened, eyes crinkling. ‘You are my moon and stars, Calliope Lambrakis, my moon and stars.’ And with that statement, he played the slow intro to their favourite song, ‘Stars Don’t Cry For Me’.

  Everyone got up, danced the Sitarki, and sang along. Poppy, her face wet with tears, waved a napkin over her head and led the dance. Angie followed, then Nick and most of the guests. They danced in a spiralling circle in Amiras village square. Both mother and daughter smiled at Yeorgo, fighting emotion, happier than they’d ever been before.

  The festivities were still going strong at 3a.m. It was then, while Angie was talking to Nick, she noticed Poppy moving away from the party. She slipped down a side street off the village square.

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ Angie said. She gathered up her skirt and followed her mother. Once past Voula’s cottage and around the next bend, she saw Poppy disappear into another narrow road.