Daughter of the Winds

by Jo Bunt

  I sat and looked closely at the dirty rubble under my feet. It was nothing but bricks and mortar. I tried to conjure up distasteful images in my head. I wanted to feel something. I expected to sit here and cry over my lamented mother. I tried to imagine her lying prone among these bricks but nothing moved me to any form of emotion.

  My eyes travelled across the floor and, I’m ashamed to say, I was searching for a physical sign of Helene Kostas’ death: a blood stain, a blast-torn locket, a waylaid shoe. Nothing I saw gave any indication of what had happened to the inhabitants here. Did it matter that no one heard her dying words? Did she realise that her child was alive and safe and would be loved and adored by a strong, courageous mother?

  If she could see me now, would she be pleased at how I’d turned out or would she be disappointed that I knew nothing of my heritage and knew only a smattering of Greek words? Did I look like her? Did I have any of her characteristics? Did we like any of the same things? I bowed my head and shoulders as I realised how little I would ever know and how pointless it was sitting here in this husk of a home.

  There was no bond between this woman and me. She may have given birth to me, but it was Mum who had plucked me from the carnage and given me my life in more ways than one. Pru hadn’t given birth to me, but without her intervention I would have almost certainly perished. It took two mothers to bring me into this world. One to bear me, and one to rescue me from the rubble and give me sustenance. I was indebted to both of my mothers. I was a product of them both.

  I suddenly felt so very guilty for coming here to find out more about Helene Kostas. It was a terrible slap in the face for Mum. I had no memories of Helene, no photographs and I felt sad that she was nothing to me. I had so wanted to feel a connection with her. Now I realised that the reason I felt nothing was that she had never been my mother. It was Pru who had held me, fed me from her own breast, nursed me when I was sick, attended every sports day and school play. She sat with me every night to help with my homework and stroked my hair when my heart was broken for the first time. And the second. And the third.

  It was her that had instilled in me my strong sense of fairness and morals and it was her that gave me the encouragement to go out and follow my dreams. Should she have told me sooner that I wasn’t her biological daughter? I had thought so, but now I wasn’t so sure. What good would that have done me except land issues on me that I would have been even more ill-equipped to deal with than I was now? She did the best thing for me that any mother could do; she brought me up in a secure environment feeling loved and wanted. She provided everything I needed, not everything I wanted. She taught me how to love other people unconditionally. It was my solid and loving relationship with her that was the driving force behind me wanting children of my own. I wanted the same relationship with my children as my mum had with me.

  Suddenly I was hit with the realisation that I didn’t need to carry the child myself for me to love it. I think that’s what Mum had been trying to tell me all along. Dom and I could look into adopting. I had absolutely no doubt in my mind that Mum loved me above anything and everything else in the world, so it stood to reason that I would love a child in my arms as much as if I’d given birth to it myself. I smiled to myself. I’d travelled a long way to discover that everything I needed was back home waiting for me. It was only then that the tears welled up inside of me and gushed down my face. I felt bulbous droplets thud onto my bare legs but I did nothing to wipe them away. There was no one to hide them from and no shame in these tears even if there was.

  I stood up feeling lighter than I had done in weeks and stepped out into the heat which spread over me like warm butter. It was darker now than I had ever seen it during the day in Cyprus. Drops of rain as big as walnuts were intermittently plop-plopping onto the cracked dirt as if the clouds were finally letting go of the build-up of pressure. I moved swiftly up the concrete steps two at a time as the rain started to fall a little heavier, and a little heavier still. I reached Mum and Eddie’s splintered front door and threw it open just as a flash of lightening split the sky in two overhead. The door clattered backwards, smacked off the wall behind it and swung back into my shoulder as I entered. I closed the door quickly behind me as thunder rattled the deserted streets like coins in a collection tin. I knew the door wouldn’t be locked. It had never been in doubt. It felt like the home had been waiting for me and knew that I would visit one day.

  I walked tentatively down the short white-tiled corridor passing a bathroom on my left and the kitchen on my right and then a door that led to the single bedroom. I continued past it until I reached the open but small living room. I could imagine Mum in here as easily as if she were sitting here in front of me now. The window before me was opaque with years of looking out over the deserted streets, but at least it wasn’t broken. With no one to take in the view, it had been lost to high reaching trees which grew too close to the window and were now tapping out the mournful rhythm of a funeral dirge. Where cobwebs had once lightly dusted the corners, grey streamers now hung from the ceiling and down the walls. I reached out to swat away an offending spider’s web but it clung stickily to my fingers. I shook my hand vigorously and then wiped it on my top, repulsed by its adherence to my form like I was a troublesome fly.

  On the right side of the room was a plain table with a white Formica top and metal legs. Three matching chairs were sat at each open side. Where was the fourth? There was a low, chunky sideboard taking up most of the opposite wall. A comfortable chair was angled towards the balcony, ignoring the rest of the room. I could imagine Mum sitting there.

  On top of the sideboard was a record player and a bulky black machine. I wondered if it was a video player but on closer inspection I could see that it was an 8-track machine. They hadn’t really been used since the late 1970s and I remember Mum telling me about having to leave this beloved possession behind. I’d never heard one play and idly turned the knobs on the machine. It was a shame that there was no electricity here anymore. I would have loved to listen to some of Mum and Eddie’s music.

  I looked to the side and saw just five 8-track cartridges beside it. I turned my head sideways so that I could read the names more easily. I smiled as I went through them. Rolling stones Exile on Main Street; Curved Air Airconditioning; Bob Dylan Planet Waves; Mike Oldfield Tubular Bells and Jethro Tull Aqualung. Interesting mix of pop and progressive rock. Mum still liked those old bands. I wasn’t sure about Eddie.

  I looked around me. Why hadn’t this place been looted like pretty much everywhere else in Varosha? It wasn’t difficult to get in to but perhaps the half missing building acted as a deterrent.

  I opened the sliding doors of the cupboard beneath and saw a stack of records. They would probably be worth a fortune now at collectors’ fairs but there was no time to think about that now. I didn’t really know what I was looking for as I sat on the floor and opened the other sliding cupboard door. On the top shelf were two photo albums.

  One was entirely in black and white. It was Mum and Eddie’s wedding photos. They had an abundance of youth, so fresh and so naïve. Mum was beautiful, hair pinned back from her slender face with long white-gold curls cascading down her back. She wore a high-necked, empire-line lace dress. The flowers were roses but it was difficult to tell which colour in the black and white pictures. My best guess would have been pink. She looked delicate and blonde and even through the black and white pictures you could see the blush of her cheeks and the turquoise of her eyes.

  Eddie looked dapper in his army uniform with his hat under his arm. His severe haircut and rigid stance was a credit to his position. That was a man exploding with pride. They had so much to look forward to then. I felt sorry for the young couple in the photograph as I knew what hardship would befall them. But would they thank me for warning them? I doubted it. And if they were forewarned, what would they have done differently? I would probably have died in the rubble downstairs.

  The other photos had the same signature smiles
beaming from them. Cutting the cake, signing the register and standing under confetti held permanently aloft by the snap of the camera’s lens. There was one picture of a stern looking older woman with black-rimmed horned glasses and a hat perched on her head. She was unsmiling but she was holding horseshoes on ribbons, no doubt a gift of luck for the happy couple.

  I placed the thin photo album in my lap and reached for the other one. It was a fatter album this time with a seascape on the front of it inked in midnight blue. Most of these photos were in pale water-colours and a lot less formal. The album held four small square photos per page. The first page showed Mum in a short white dress in front of a float covered in oranges, Mum standing by a fence stroking the nose of a chestnut brown horse, and there were two of her sitting in a red bikini on the beach with an enviable figure.

  “Wow Mum, look at you!” I muttered.

  Over the next few pages there were pictures of Mum and Eddie at formal dances, Mum in a floor-length mauve dress with a matching short floral cape around her shoulders. There were photos of Eddie on his motorbike, Eddie in uniform, Eddie kissing a budgie, Eddie smoking a cigarette.

  Back to the pictures and I could see that these were snapshots of a simple life, when they still thought that they were living in paradise with a bright future in front of them. I wondered if either of them had expected any fighting on this posting. Eddie was trained for battle, but had he really expected to see a war unfold around his family and ultimately involve his family so tragically? I doubted that Mum had realised there was a serious threat otherwise she wouldn’t have considered having her baby here.

  It was becoming difficult to see the photographs and I squinted at them, realising that most of the light had gone out of the day. I didn’t have a watch on, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t as late in the day as it felt. I could hear the rain hammering down outside, but it was almost comforting, like a blanket had been wrapped around me, blocking out the outside world. I could have been the only person on the planet for all I knew at that moment.

  I pulled myself up using the sideboard as leverage. I carried the photo albums with me as I went to look at the rest of the house. If the light was fading fast then I needed to see all I could of this place before the light was gone completely. I seriously doubted that there would be any electricity still live in Varosha for me to turn a light on, and even if I knew where to locate candles, I would be afraid to light them in case the glow alerted anyone to my presence here.

  With no streetlights, and a heavy covering of cloud to obliterate the stars and moon, it could be pitch black in less than an hour. I wandered into the kitchen. The first thing that I noticed was the rain coming in through the broken window and slapping the window ledge. I took another step and my foot crunched on something. I stepped back immediately, recognising the sound of broken glass. However, it wasn’t glass from the window, it was curved like a tumbler. It rolled gently from side to side before coming completely to a halt. It lay next to a dark patch on the ground. Even in the gathering gloom I could see the deep rust colour. My first thought was that something had spilled out of the glass, red wine perhaps, but it covered too much of the floor for that to be the case. A bolt of realisation shot through me as it occurred to me that I was looking down at Mum’s blood on the floor from when she was shot in the stomach.

  I crouched down and went to feel it. I stopped just short of the stain and took my hand back, rubbing my fingers on my shorts as if I’d touched something unpalatable.

  “Oh Mum,” I whispered. “I am so sorry.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what I was sorry for. Sorry for the loss of her baby, because she was shot or that this signified the beginning of the end of her dreams and her marriage? Or sorry for the fact that I had reacted so badly when she told me? Either way, I was sorry.

  A gust of wind blew suddenly through the window and an inner door slammed shut. I jumped and let out an involuntary squeak.

  “It’s just the wind. Just the wind,” I told myself.

  Green tiles had fallen from the walls in groups of four or five but still more clung onto the plaster, refusing to let go. I opened the nearest cupboard to find piles of plates and cups. The shelves were lined with patterned wallpaper that had curled and greyed at the edges.

  I was suddenly very cold. Goosebumps stood to attention up and down my arms. I had an idea and went back down the corridor towards the bedroom. A slight hesitation on the threshold allowed me to take in the gaudy colours of oranges, purples and browns. There was no colour co-ordination in here. Twenty-first century Pru would never have allowed these strong colours in a bedroom. I smiled at the idea of my Mum as a young girl, inexperienced and inelegant. I wish I’d known her better. Paperback books were stacked up on the floor like the leaning tower of Pisa, pages fattened and yellowed with age.

  I stepped through the door and went straight to the wardrobe. The door was hanging limply on its hinges so I opened it with care. The wardrobe seemed full, no empty hangers where clothes had been hastily packed and no gaping holes where once favoured clothes had hung. When Mum left this flat for the last time she couldn’t have known she would never be coming back.

  The clothes smelled fusty as I ran my finger over their shoulders. It was a stale, smoky smell tinged with something vaguely citrus. Already the dust was aggravating my nose to try to provoke a sneeze. I squeezed my nose and wriggled it. There were some beautiful tops in here, mostly in blues and greens, always a good colour on my mother. There were kaftans and sun-dresses and two pairs of ridiculously bell-bottomed trousers. I placed the photo albums on the bed as I rummaged through the clothes. Didn’t Mum own anything warm at all? A cardigan or something? Then on the top shelf of the wardrobe, I spotted a pile of folded woollens.

  “Aha.”

  I reached for a soft purple towelling one but three fell out at once with a thud. I frowned at the sound, they didn’t look heavy enough to make that impact, I lifted them up gingerly, half expecting to see a decomposing bird, but as I shook out the purple top a bundle of letters tied with a red elastic band tumbled to the floor. I swallowed down my thudding heart that leapt into my throat at the unexpected movement and let out a soothing sigh of relief.

  I stooped for both the top and the letters. I didn’t recognise the handwriting on the envelopes. They were written on fine, almost transparent, shiny blue paper with red and blue airmail markings on the front. Some were addressed to my mother in Bedford and some were addressed, in a hand I was familiar with, to Cprl Edward Clarke in Cyprus. These had to be love letters. I so wanted to tear them open and devour their contents but I stopped short of doing so. I had intruded enough on my mother’s life for now. Besides, there might be things in there that I did not want to see.

  I squeezed the wad of paper into my pocket and pulled the jumper over my head. It was a loose, round-necked jumper, hanging below the hips with two square front pockets low down on the front with splits up either side. I inhaled deeply, hoping to still be able to smell my Mum’s scent but all that was left was the pathetic smell of years of neglect.

  Picking up the photos I went back into the living room. On the table were blank postcards, three pens and a small, brown, unopened parcel. Curious, I turned the parcel over in my hands, hesitating. There was only so much that I could carry back with me so I would have to open it to be sure it was worth smuggling out of here. Conscience calmed I eased the string off the parcel and ripped open the brittle brown paper. A plain brown square box was inside. I fumbled with it in my haste to open it and when I did I saw a folded piece of paper. I opened it and read: Dear Prudence. Going through your Dad’s things I found this and thought you might like to have it back. Thinking of you. Mam

  I reached into the box and plucked out a delicate watch with thin white straps. I turned it over and saw that it was inscribed on the back. It was difficult to read in the bleak light and I turned it to one side and then the other trying to decipher the message.

  Happy 18th Little Bean.
Dad and Mam.

  I couldn’t help but let out an involuntary ‘Ahhhhh!’ into the empty room which sounded too loud to my ears. The face read 12.15 but had stopped working many years ago. As useless as it was as a tool for telling me the time, I strapped it to my own slender wrist and stared at it some more.

  With the sound of muffled rain outside, I picked up the photo albums and began to think about getting home. Would I be able to find my way back in the dark? If not, I’d have to stay here until dawn and then get out as quickly as possible. I stopped to have a last look around the flat. It was unlikely I would ever step foot here again and even though I felt a little bit sad about that, I was gratified and humbled that I’d had the opportunity to have a look around the place that Mum and Eddie had lived in as a young couple.

  Just as I was about to leave, I spotted a clothes horse the other side of the table on the far wall with what looked like baby clothes on it. I felt a wave of sadness for Mum. She had so many plans for her baby. She had started getting in baby clothes ahead of the birth with no reason to think that her baby wouldn’t be born safely. I found myself in front of the clothes running my fingers over the cloth even though I hadn’t been aware of moving towards them at all. I lifted up the white wool and saw that it was a hand knitted blanket. It was a little bumpy but knitted with love. It was a perfect square with yellow flowers around the edges.

  The sadness I felt in my heart right then was like a physical pain. I knew what it was like to plan for a baby and to think of the future you would have with that child for it only to be taken away from you. It tore me apart to think about what I had lost, and I hadn’t even seen it on a scan or felt it move under my hand. I don’t know how Mum managed to stay so strong for so long.