The Girl Under the Olive Tree

by Leah Fleming

  Penny soaked up the dusty heat as sights that had previously been only postcard pictures came to life: the Parthenon, the Acropolis, the noisy disreputable streets of the Plaka district, which they strolled along with Walter’s trusted escorts from the embassy staff. They sat at tables sampling rich dishes, plates of mezedes: yogurt flavoured with pungent garlic and mint, strips of octopus, rich tomato sauces full of dried beans and herbs, creamy feta cheese drizzled with olive oil, and custard-filled pastries warm from the oven.

  Everywhere a blaze of colour feasted the eye: blood-red geraniums hanging over wrought-iron balconies, lilac wisteria dripping from walls, the ink-blue of morning glory crawling over wasteland and the frothy bracts of bougainvillaea, rich in vermillion, purples and pinks. Long-forgotten phrases came into her head, and Penny discovered to her surprise that she could understand snippets of conversations rattled out like gunfire and raised voices shouting instructions, back, as if she’d always known them. Reading was another matter. If only she’d been taught a little formal Greek like Zan, she thought wistfully.

  Evadne’s house was delightful, a villa the colour of pink blancmange. It had cool marble floors and high ceilings, elegant wooden furniture. The shutters were kept permanently closed. The sun was the enemy in summer, bleaching fabric and wood. The fans in the ceiling whirled through the night to cool the air. Penny slept under only a sheet and a net, waking at first light, dying for the day to begin.

  How different from their routine at home. If an excursion was planned, they rose early in the cool of the morning, wandered about town, stopping for strong coffee or freshly squeezed orange juice, before heading for the open market before it shut at noon. There, her senses were assaulted by the noise of the stall holders shouting their wares. Tables of fresh fish, most species she’d never seen before, shimmered in displays. The butchers hung skinned rabbits with furry paws, whole lambs and poultry from hooks. The vegetable stalls were a rainbow of new and exotic shapes. Evadne’s housekeeper rose at dawn to pick only the freshest of produce; the girls were not here to buy, only to marvel at the variety, the bustle of people and the contrast to their own sedate market squares back home.

  Often they had a late lunch with Walter and then the compulsory siesta. Afterwards, maybe a little shopping or visiting friends in their lush manicured gardens, sitting in a grove of lemon trees sipping lemonade or milkless tea. Then home to change for a late dinner in one of the clubs with friends from the English community.

  There were British living all around the district, their social life consisting of cocktail parties, pre-dinner visits, dancing in the nightclubs. Penny wondered if Evadne would soon get bored with this small circle of friends. She knew she would.

  Their outings to the coast were a delight, picnicking looking out across the peacock-blue Aegean under great parasols. The change of diet and too many honey-soaked pastries caused Diane to fall foul of enteritis, which most new visitors endured. She was confined to the bathroom for an entire day, heaving her guts out. Penny played dutiful nurse, trying to put into practice her meagre knowledge of the affliction.

  To her surprise she was good at bed making and brow sponging, which was just as well, as poor Effy just wanted to heave at the attendant smells. Walter escaped to his office, leaving Penny to minister to the two invalids. When it was time for Diane to leave, several pounds lighter than when she arrived, Penny was not sorry to be staying on. She wanted to have time with her sister alone. There were exquisite places to shop for baby linens, intricate lacework to buy to take home, lunches, and strolls in the wonderful National Gardens.

  The extended stay would give her a chance to explore further. Plus she had an ulterior motive.

  ‘You know Mother did say I was to be “finished off” here? Well, I’d like to take some art lessons. Do you know anyone who would teach me?’ she asked Effy one day when they were sipping iced coffee and nibbling yet another syrupy pastry.

  Evadne laughed. ‘There are plenty of young artists who’d like to take you off my hands but none I would trust alone with you . . . I’ll see what I can do. I realize you don’t want to go back yet.’ She paused, lifting off her sunglasses to eye her sister with interest. ‘You’ve grown up, little sis, quite the gazelle.’ Evadne smiled as she smoked her cigarette. ‘All that Red Cross stuff’s made you responsible. You did us proud when poor Di was ill. I couldn’t have gone near her. If war comes, you’ll know where to do your bit. I hope I can be useful too.’

  ‘But you’ll have the baby . . .’

  ‘There’s always Nanny. It won’t change our lives so very much. Look at Mummy – when did three children ever stop her doing as she pleased?’ Evadne sat back, relaxed by the thought.

  ‘But we never saw her, it was Nanny who brought us up. I wouldn’t want that for my child.’ Penny leaned forward, sucking on the straw in her coffee.

  ‘It didn’t do us any harm. If you’re that keen you can push my pram when we come home. We won’t be here for ever, but Walter says it’s quite safe. Hitler doesn’t want southern Europe. He’s leaving that to Mussolini, who’s busy being Caesar.’

  Penny shrugged. It was funny how Effy took everything Walter said as gospel. Was that what all married women did?

  ‘I’ll help you with the baby when it comes, but I’d like to see the British School of Archaeology before then. You remember your engagement party and the slide show next day? Someone I met that evening told me that there’s a school here.’ Penny didn’t want to mention Bruce Jardine’s name for fear that Effy would make something of it.

  ‘Oh, yes, we know the Director and his wife and some of their students, a rum lot . . . The women students are so clever, keen types, very eager. They tend to keep themselves to themselves, always off digging up mountains or something dusty. Always look frightful in gumboots and short skirts!’ Evadne hooted.

  ‘I’d like to be an archaeologist,’ Penny sighed. ‘I suppose an assistant is more realistic at the rate I’m going. My drawing’s not up to scratch yet, but I will practise more if I go to classes.’

  ‘I’m certain Mummy doesn’t have an academic career in mind for you. But let’s not talk about that. Where shall we go today? I feel tons better seeing you, and full of energy now.’ Evadne was already up and raring to go.

  In her head, Penny ticked off each day that passed with mounting dread. Why did the beginning of a visit go so slowly and then, as the return loomed, speed up? She was now due to go home via London in September with the Boultons, a diplomatic family whose children were off to boarding school in Cheltenham. She was dreading the day when her suitcases would appear. How could she face dull Britain after city life here, the colours and smells, the Greek chatter? How could she return before she’d seen everything there was to see? Effy was often tired and didn’t want to go far but Penny was not allowed to go out alone.

  In desperation she begged Walter to find an escort and he came up with one of the embassy secretaries, Miss Celia Brand, who took her around the city, pointing out famous shops, and spent hours browsing through windows at the latest fashions, which was not Penny’s idea of fun.

  One afternoon, in desperation, she gave Celia the slip and, having wandered around a little, enjoying her independence, eventually found herself in the backstreets, caught up in a Nationalist demonstration. The street was full of young boys and girls dressed like Boy Scouts and Girl Guides, holding up banners, marching smartly as some of the passers-by stopped to give them the one-armed salute.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ the crowd shouted but Penny didn’t like the look on those ardent faces. ‘What is this?’ she asked and a woman shrugged. ‘Fascist . . . General Metaxas’s young army of thugs,’ she spat on the ground. Suddenly men were shouting insults from balconies. Penny stepped back as black-shirted men peeled off from the march and raced up the stairs to the apartment. There were shouts and a scuffle. Suddenly a man was thrown off the balcony onto the pavement. He didn’t move. Women were screaming as they rushed to shield him fro
m further blows, and still those young people marched past staring ahead

  Penny watched in horror as the gang of ruffians dragged out any protesters, beating them round the head and marching them away. She knew she’d seen something unspeakable, far away from her peaceful world in Artimisa Villa. She felt helpless and afraid knowing she’d made a big mistake.

  As the crowd began to melt away she knew she must find her own escape route. It took all her courage and quick thinking. She covered her head with her silk scarf, swiftly bought a bag of oranges, bent her head down and, passing herself off as a busy Greek housewife as best she could, slipped down a side alley and back onto the main streets.

  When, pale and shaken, she reached the embassy and described everything, Walter was furious with her.

  ‘The sooner you’re back in England, the better, young lady. Girls of our class don’t wander around. It’s not safe, not now. There’re fascist groups on the march in the city since Metaxas’s coup, trouble brewing. I’ll be glad when Evadne returns home. Dark forces are at work and who knows where it will end?’

  She’d never heard Walter so pessimistic but she was secretly proud that she’d made it back safely without any help.

  Then, in the fourth week of her stay, something happened to change everything. On a September morning hazy with heat, Evadne woke up grumpy with backache. As the morning went on Penny noticed how pale she was, and the pain had intensified. It was when Effy tried to get out of bed and Penny was smoothing the sheets that she noticed blood had soaked into them.

  ‘How long have you been bleeding?’ she asked, trying to look calm while her pulse raced.

  ‘Am I?’ Evadne lifted back the sheet in surprise. ‘Good Lord!’ She looked up at Penny, her eyes full of fear. ‘What’s happening? It’s going to be alright, isn’t it?’

  Penny immediately summoned Kaliope, the housekeeper, to call for the doctor. By the time he arrived poor Effy was curled up in a ball, crying in pain. Penny found a case and packed some toiletries while the doctor examined Evadne briskly and then put her in his car to make for the private clinic.

  Walter arrived stony-faced as Penny sat outside Effy’s private room feeling helpless.

  Suddenly there was no honeymoon baby, no explanation, no reason for such a late miscarriage.

  ‘It’s just one of those things that happen,’ the duty doctor explained in broken English. ‘We can never know why. Your wife is healthy and she should go on to have plenty of sons for you once she has recovered.’ He meant to be reassuring but it sounded cold and heartless to Penny. If ever I was a nurse telling someone bad news, she thought, I’d sit them down in private and show some sympathy.

  Later Penny sat with her sister, seeing the light had gone out of her eyes. She looked so small, like a frightened child, not the Evadne who was a fearless horsewoman, jumping high fences, who served like a man at tennis and won with a demolishing forehand. Now she lay helpless, uncomplaining, numb.

  ‘Everything’s been taken away . . . I never even saw if it were a boy or a girl . . . I feel so empty.’ She didn’t cry, just sat staring out of the window. ‘Just get me home, Penny, please,’ she whispered.

  In those few hours it was as if a whole new world of suffering had opened up to Penny, a world of which she’d known nothing in her privileged life so far. There was nothing left of her sister’s dream. Kaliope had packed the baby’s layette away out of sight. Now there was only a terrible disappointment that no one could talk about. It hovered in the air unspoken, and all the more powerful for that. None of their crowd had been brought up to talk about feelings or intimate bodily functions. ‘Bad luck, old girl,’ was the best the men could manage in the days that followed.

  Penny wanted to hug her sister better but she couldn’t give back what had been so cruelly taken from her. They brought Evadne home and she lay in bed curled into a ball, not speaking. Penny knew then she’d not be leaving with the Boultons as planned, and she hated herself for feeling relief at this terrible time.

  Walter was glad she was staying on and wired home to tell the family of the change of plans. It was strange how their sad loss would be Penny’s salvation. Even Mother couldn’t begrudge her extended stay, phoning every day to check Evadne’s progress and threatening to come out herself if she were needed, but insisting they all be home for Christmas. Then, she promised, trying to rally their spirits, there would be preparations for the big coming-out dance in the spring, which Penny would be sharing with Lady Forbes-Halsted’s daughter, Clemency.

  It was a grateful Walter who insisted that Penny must continue her interest in archaeology and drawing at the British School of Archaeology, arranging for her to have private drawing lessons in the autumn term. She could stay on, using their villa as her base, living the life of an expat. Penny could barely believe her good fortune: to be treated at last like a grown-up and given freedoms unknown to her at home.

  As Evadne recovered her strength, if not her spirit, they grew ever closer. Penny was discovering that suffering was a great leveller. It took no heed of age, status or wealth. She learned to be useful and to be independent, but how she wished she could have achieved her sense of responsibility and freedom some other way. But fate had dealt this cruel hand and she was here now, for better or worse.

  2001

  I woke with a start. Dozing off in the afternoon was getting to be a bad habit and thoughts of returning to Crete had brought the past so close in my dreams. Dear Evadne, how much I owe you for my freedom and how relieved we all were when you eventually got your reward. Effy and Walter’s precious daughter, Athene, arrived after the war was over, a strange child, not unlike myself, who brought us such joy and, later on, sorrow when she contracted leukaemia and died young.

  How those halcyon days stretched out before us. Athens had a vibrancy that seduced my senses and lured me to its heart. I thought that heady time of learning and independence would never end. But then came the dreaded day when I had to make the biggest decision of my young life, cutting for ever the silken threads of family loyalties, choosing to abandon everything I’d ever known in my bid for romance and adventure.

  How on earth did I ever do it? I often ask myself and the answer is always the same. You were young and the young have no fear. Only that desire for freedom gave me the courage to change my destiny.

  Athens, 1937–1938

  Miss Bushnell arrived one morning at the villa to give Penny the once-over. She would not commit herself to taking on a student until she was sure she was serious about the subject. She herself was on a scholarship to the British School, seconded from a girls’ grammar school in the north of England. She was tall, her fair hair bleached by the sun, and wore round spectacles. She was about the same age as Evadne and eager to make a new career in archaeology. She’d been recommended to Walter by the Director. She peered now at her new charge with suspicion and Penny tried to look enthusiastic. This was an important interview.

  ‘What have you read? What experience have you had? How’s your Greek?’

  Penny shoved all her drawings of museum artefacts under Miss Bushnell’s nose. ‘Ela.’

  Miss Bushnell peered at them closely, then glanced up at her with interest.

  ‘You’ve got an eye but our work is all about accuracy of line and shading. You’ll need a better selection of pens and pencils . . . I can’t provide equipment. I presume you have been to all the museums here?’

  Penny nodded, taken aback by her sharp tone. This was not an encouraging start.

  ‘If I take you on, I want no time wasting, no flitting off to cocktail parties on a whim. My spare time is precious and I’m not interested in excuses. Girls of your age can be keen one moment and then off onto the next craze once the assignments get harder. I won’t give praise unless it’s due,’ she continued brusquely, but her eyes were warm, Penny noted. ‘You’ve made a valiant attempt to impress, I’ll give you that, but we’ll have to go right back to basics if you are serious about archaeological illustratio
n. Reputations are made or lost on how finds are represented on the page. Have you ever been to a stratigraphic museum?’

  Penny looked blank.

  Miss Bushnell smiled. ‘Latin and Greek; it means layers and drawing. It’s where discoveries are cleaned, sorted, recorded, drawn from many angles, then stored for reference and research. You must read John Pendlebury’s work and, of course, Sir Arthur Evans on Knossos.’

  ‘Papa once went to dinner in Oxford and he was a guest,’ Penny chipped in hopefully.

  ‘I’m not interested in your social goings-on,’ Miss Bushnell snapped. ‘You need to read all round your subject, and find out what’s been going on here in the British School of Archaeology. I can get you a ticket for the Penrose Library but first, here are some ground rules for our sessions. I’ll give you six and then I’m off on a dig. I will leave you a chunk of work while I’m away. If you make a decent shot at this, I’ll give you some more. Oh, and you must make a visit to a stratigraphic museum and see what really goes on. I also want you to observe an excavation and learn how the artifacts are recorded. I’ll be going back to Crete with the Pendleburys next spring. That might give you something to aim for.’

  Next spring. Penny gulped – she and Evadne were due home for Christmas – but she nodded. ‘That will be wonderful but I’ll have to check with my parents, of course.’

  ‘Why? How old are you?’

  ‘I’ll be eighteen by then.’

  ‘And never done a day’s work, I hazard a guess . . . There are children of thirteen full time in the mills where I come from. Surely your parents won’t object to your studies, though it’s dirty work. You won’t keep those nails or those hands, and your skin will turn to leather in the sun,’ she warned, inspecting Penny’s smooth hands and painted nails.