The Secret of Helena's Bay

by Sally Quilford

  “The bay on the eastern side of the islet is out of bounds to guests,” Annette was saying. “Not only does the sea have dangerous undercurrents, but Professor Grunwald and his team are over there digging for religious artefacts, so in a day or two it will resemble a building site, with all the dangers inherent, such as falling masonry and deep pits. But fear not, we do have a nudist beach on the northern end of the islet which I’m sure you’ll all find just as interesting.”

  “It’ll be just like being back at the Windmill,” said Miss Charters, drawing a laugh from everyone.

  Annette smiled tightly again. Shelley wondered if the facilitator ever smiled easily about anything. She seemed pleasant enough, but there was a reserve behind her eyes, reminding Shelley of the headmistress at her old school, who never quite seemed to like children.

  The facilitator carried on with the health and safety regulations, explaining where the fire escapes were, what to do in case of emergency and how to stay safe in classes and when moving around the islet.

  “I would advise you all to go about in pairs,” said Annette. “We’ve never had a problem, in the five years the resort has been active, but that’s because the facilitators before me have been vigilant. You’ll have noticed that down near the jetty are the remains of the village. Be careful in that area, as some of the buildings are still dangerous.”

  “Will there be chance to go the mainland?” asked Mrs Caldicott.

  “Hopefully once the storm is over,” said Annette. “The ferry leaves here twice a day. At noon and at six in the evening. It comes from the mainland at eleven in the morning and five in the evening. So you won’t have much time over there, but it will be enough.

  “We want to see the church again,” said Miss Charters.

  “There’s enough time for that. Now,” Annette clapped her rather large hands together. “It is my pleasure to hand you over to our activities facilitator, Paris Georgiadis. Paris?”

  The hunk sat up straight, and smiled, showing his even white teeth.

  “Good evening everyone.” Shelley had expected him to be Greek. Surprisingly he spoke with an English accent. “Yes, my name is Paris,” he continued. “Yes, it has been the bane of my life and as a teenager I hated my parents for it. No, I’m not looking for my Helen. At this stage in my life I’d settle for a face that launched a couple of jet skis.”

  Whilst everyone else laughed, Shelley did not like the fact he was looking at her when he said it.

  Annette stood up and went from the room. Clearly the jet ski joke did not even warrant a tight smile.

  “This islet,” said Paris, “was owned by my late father’s family before the German occupation, and there were several other thriving farms, and the village, which, as Annette has explained, is now in ruins. The building we’re in was the main farmhouse, which has been added to over the years. After the war politics got in the way – I shan’t bore you all with the details, but suffice to say the government decided we had to reclaim it, and it has taken us until recently to achieve that aim. Years of neglect rendered the islet unfit for further farming, other than the smallholding we use to grow vegetables. So we decided to open it up to visitors, offering holistic breaks to the world weary. The aim of this Demos, as well as Annette advising you of health and safety, is to introduce you all to each other. My mother is British, hence my accent, so I know that if we don’t do something about it, you’ll all avoid each other until Friday.”

  Shelley smiled. That was exactly what Stefan had said.

  “Mrs Caldicott and Miss Charters, would you mind if I separated you two ladies? Just for this the purpose of this task. Miss Charters, swap with Ms Freeman.” He proceeded to organise the group into pairs. “The purpose of this task is that you all get to know each other. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to sing. Not yet. The singing class is on Wednesday, I believe. Simply talk to your partner for five minutes. At the end of that five minutes, I want you to learn their names, their occupations, if they’re married or single, where they’re from, and what made them come to this storm-battered place.”

  As if on cue, one of the doors to the patio was flung open by the wind, causing everyone to jump.

  “Don’t worry, folks,” said Paris. “That’ll just be our resident ghost, Dimitri.”

  “Ghosts?” said Miss Charters.

  “I’m joking,” said Paris, smiling. Yet as he stood up to close the door, Shelley was sure she saw several dark figures moving away from the building. She got up and walked to the window, but it was too dark to see anything. She shuddered.

  “Are you cold, Shelley?” asked Paris, his voice gentle.

  “No, I’m fine. I just thought I saw someone outside.”

  “Not on a night like this, I’m sure.” His eyes searched her face. There was something unnerving about the way he looked at her. Not least because he had a habit of catching her looking at him.

  For the next ten minutes the room was filled with the sound of conversation. It was muted at first, but gradually, as people began to relax, laughter could be heard.

  “Are we ready?” Paris asked. “I gave you all extra time since you seem to be getting on so well. We’ll start with you, Mrs Caldicott. Tell me about Shelley.”

  “Very well,” said Mrs Caldicott, as if caught off guard. “I thought you’d have started at that end,” she said, gesturing to the four people on her right, who were nearest to Paris in the circle.

  “That’s the predictable way of doing things,” he said, humour in his blue eyes. “What have you learned about Ms Freeman?”

  “Hmm,” said Mrs Caldicott, as if she had her own thoughts about the way things should be done. “Young Shelley here works in a law centre in Derbyshire, though she’s originally from Kent. She was going to be married, but that didn’t work out.”

  Shelley coloured up, hoping against hope that Mrs Caldicott would not tell everyone the truth, which she had somehow blurted out, finding the older woman very warm, not to mention very inquisitive.

  Mrs Caldicott looked at her kindly, as if reading her thoughts. “She’s come here in the hopes that her mother will stop nagging her about getting a life.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Paris, smiling at Shelley. “Shelley, what have you learned about Mrs Caldicott?”

  “Mrs Caldicott’s first name is Rachel, but people always call her Mrs Caldicott, and she prefers that until she gets to know people better. She’s a retired librarian – so we have a lot in common regarding a love of books. I’m afraid we spent most of the time chatting about that.” Shelley shrugged apologetically. “We both enjoy Lee Child’s thrillers and want to marry Jack Reacher in our next lives.”

  “Really?” said Paris, grinning. “What else?”

  “I do know that Mrs Caldicott was born and raised in North London,” Shelley went on. “Her husband died several years ago…” Shelley hesitated, remembering the sadness in the lady’s dark eyes when she recalled her late husband. Instinctively, she reached out and touched Mrs Caldicott’s arm. “And she hasn’t found anyone to replace him.” Shelley paused for a while, because it seemed the fitting thing to do. “She’s here with her friend, Miss Charters, to embrace new experiences. She doesn’t know what state her chakras are in, or where they are in her body, but was heartened by the idea this holiday would sort them out once and for all.”

  “Oh yes, we’re experts at mending chakras here,” said Paris.

  “How do you do that then?” asked Len. “Medicine?”

  “No, we rely on the scenery and the peace and quiet,” said Paris.

  As he spoke there was a clap of thunder outside. “Can I have my money back?” Len quipped.

  “If you still feel the same by the end of the week, we’ll talk,” said Paris. Shelley noticed that his gorgeous smile always came very easily.

  The rest of the group were introduced by their partners. Miss Charters’ story, as told by Len, was pretty much the same as Mrs Caldicott’s. She too used to work in a library,
and was there to get her chakras fixed, but unlike Mrs Caldicott, she had never married.

  “She’s still holding out for Al Pacino,” said Len, rolling his eyes heavenward.

  “Aren’t we all?” said Shelley.

  “Won’t that make Jack Reacher jealous?” asked Paris.

  Len was an ex-policeman, from Leeds. He was widowed, and living in a studio flat above his son’s garage, since he had been injured in a car crash. He had taken the holiday at the behest of his daughter-in-law.

  “He thinks she just wanted him out of the way,” said Miss Charters, pursing her lips.

  “It was her slipping a road map into my passport that did it,” said Len, laughing far too bitterly for it to be a real joke. Despite his joviality, Shelley suspected that he hated having to rely on his son.

  By the time Shelley made her way up to bed, she convinced herself that Stefan had merely been a confused old man, who had wandered into the house by accident. His stumble showed he was not entirely steady on his feet. Maybe his mind was just as muddled. Her grandmother had been the same before her death. She refused to believe Stefan was a gatecrasher, and pondered whether he came over on the ferry, then lost his way in the storm. On the other hand, there was nowhere on the islet for him to stay. The farmhouse and the village of grass huts that formed part of the complex were the only inhabited buildings there.

  She was glad to have taken an en suite bedroom in the house, given the storm. A few of the more hardy travellers had chosen to sleep in the huts, refusing to let the lashing rain deter them. In fact, they treated it all like an adventure. One woman, who had been to the islet for several years running, recalled sleeping soundly through much worse storms.

  Outside the window the storm had abated slightly, and Shelley looked out towards the huts, some of which had lights on. Sixteen guests had opted to stay in them and they each accommodated two people. The other four guests, Shelley, Mrs Caldicott, Miss Charters and Len took rooms in the farmhouse.

  It was a rule of the holiday that those choosing huts had to share with someone else. It surprised Shelley, given everyone’s earlier reticence, they agreed. So that meant, if she was right, that eight of the huts should be occupied. Yet she counted nine huts with lights on. The first eight were close together, nearest to the farmhouse, where they were afforded some shelter from the worst of the wind, whereas the last inhabited hut stood alone, down near the beach. It was probably the worst place to be, given the conditions.

  She fancied she saw a figure approaching the hut, and then almost as if the inhabitants of the hut knew she was looking, the light flickered and went out.

  Deciding she was starting to see intrigue where there were none, she tutted. It was just someone going to bed, that was all. Perhaps she miscounted the guests, and there were twenty-one instead of twenty. Or perhaps it was one of the staff, who were probably not expected to share.

  That led her to wondering if it were Paris, and she spent a nice five minutes imagining him lying in a truckle bed whilst the wind howled outside. He would be topless of course, with his thick dark hair spread out on the pillow, whilst he read a Booker Prize winner before turning the light out and going to sleep. She laughed at her own fancy. Most likely he was reading the latest Dan Brown, like most of the men on the plane coming over. And the truth was, she would probably like him better if that were the case. So, she thought, he is lying there half-naked, reading Dan Brown and, she hoped, thinking about her. Then she remembered his quip about the face that launched a couple of jet-skis, and how he had looked at her when he said it, and decided he probably was not thinking of her.

  Shelley’s mother had always accused her of having an over-active imagination. That was why Tony had so easily fooled her, with his talk of lucrative deals. She assumed he had big ideas that needed a big canvas on which to paint them. Instead it turned his big ideas involved her money, costing Shelley the contents of her bank account, her house, which she had re-mortgaged at his behest, and very nearly her sanity. Tony had been prosecuted and imprisoned for fraud, but her money was lost forever. The stress of it all nearly caused her a nervous breakdown. Somehow she hung onto her sanity, but only just. She often felt a fine thread held it in place, and that one incident would snap it, leaving her catatonic.

  At the age of thirty, she was back living with her mother and hating every minute of it. It was not just a step back in her life, but a step back in time, rendering her a child again, subject to the rules of a home that did not feel like her own anymore. To make things worse, her mum liked to remind her about her stupidity on what felt to Shelley like a daily basis.

  “Of course,” she would say, if Shelley complained, “had you not been so sure that Tony was telling the truth, despite me warning you, then you’d still have your own house.”

  Shelley sighed. Perhaps she was being too harsh. After all, her mum had not only taken her in when she needed it, but also paid for the holiday, though as with Len, Shelley suspected it was more to get her out of the way.

  “There you go again,” she said to herself, as she undressed. “Imagining things that aren’t necessarily so.”

  Catching her reflection in the mirror, she saw a not too unattractive young woman, with thick dark auburn hair, and a pale face. Her almond shaped green eyes were rimmed by the slightest trace of shadow; a testament to the many sleepless nights she had suffered over the past year.

  She picked up her bag, to find her mobile phone, supposing she ought to ring her mum and let her know she was safe. Assuming she could get a signal. That was the one thing she had not considered about the islet. Did it even have a transmitter?

  When she reached into her bag, the contents felt strange. Like most women, she carried the same items with her all the time, along with a few old receipts when she had not bothered to clear out her bag for a while. But what she found was a thick wad of paper, which was definitely not meant to be there. Taking it out of her bag, she saw that it was a pile of yellowing letters, all addressed in German, to a Gretchen Von Mueller.

  She remembered Stefan’s stumble, and how he had knocked her handbag to the ground. The only explanation was that he had hidden them in there. But why?

  Opening one of the envelopes, she perused the letter within. Unsurprisingly they were all written in German. A language she had only paid scant attention to in school. They were signed Stefan, but Shelley guessed it wasn’t the man she’d spoken to, as the letters were dated early nineteen-forty-five. The man she met could have only been a child then.

  Shelley took her laptop from her bag, hoping that she could get a satellite signal, despite the weather. It was intermittent, but she was able to get online, copying some of the text into an online translator. The pages took ages to load, and once or twice she lost the website completely. Finally, she was able to translate a good part of one of the letters, based on the words she could read and spell clearly.

  Gretchen,

  I hope that you and young Stefan are well. I am well, and (indecipherable). They say that we (indecipherable)

  I went (indecipherable), to Helena's bay, a pleasant part of the islet. It is quiet there, and I like (indecipherable).

  My friend knows much about the history here, and told me (indecipherable), which are kept in a vault at the old church. Of course, I had to report this to my commanding officer, which made (indecipherable).

  She does not understand duty as I do. She only worries about (indecipherable).

  I must stop now as (indecipherable). Please (indecipherable) Stefan. I am missing so much of his childhood, but one day will return to you both and continue my duties as a father.

  All my love

  Stefan

  To Shelley the letter seemed strangely lacking in passion. She put it down to the Germanic mentality, but was still disappointed at the lack of romance. Especially all that stuff about duty. But she had probably watched too many war films, where everyone was so intense and living for the moment. In reality, for a young man stuck on a qu
iet Aegean islet, it probably all seemed a bit dull, and far away from the main action. There was no need to live for the moment. Or at least, that’s what Stefan Von Mueller Senior must have thought at the time.

  Whilst Shelley was online, she put the name Stefan Von Mueller into a search engine, and found a family site, run by what seemed to be an American cousin of the Von Mueller’s, with pictures of an aristocratic young man in a soldier’s uniform, taken in the early forties, and marked Luetnant Stefan Von Mueller. Another picture showed Gretchen Von Mueller and son, a sturdy looking German woman, with a young boy, whom Shelley presumed was the Stefan she met at dinner. At least it showed they existed, which gave Shelley some hope. The website asked for anyone who knew the family to contact Bertha Von Mueller-Carter.

  There was an email address, so she emailed the cousin, Bertha Mueller-Vanhausen, and asked if she knew whether Stefan had indeed visited Agios Georgios Islet.

  It was only as Shelley was closing the site down that she saw it had not been updated since the previous year.

  If she had not been so tired, she might have set about translating the rest of the letters. Instead, she put them away safely in her bag, and tried to settle down to sleep.

  It was a struggle. She kept remembering the times she had pored over the Google Earth map of the islet, before arriving. None of the three bays, as far as she remembered, was called Helena’s Bay.

  Sitting up in bed with her laptop resting on her legs, Shelley tried to get online again, but the satellite signal was down, probably due to atmospherics. She remembered seeing a map of the islet on the wall of the reception hall when they arrived.

  She crept downstairs to find the front door ajar. So instead of looking at the map, she decided to wander down to the huts. She had no idea what she would do when she got there.

  Chapter Four

  The storm had abated a little, but the wind and rain still battered Shelley as she made her way down to the hut. She had not put a coat on, so very soon her clothes, jeans and a simple white vest top, were sticking to her skin.