Summer in Greece

by Patricia Wilson

  Mum was gone in a flash, and as Shelly hovered, horrified, on the borderline of her dream, she knew what the next ten minutes held. She tried, and tried, to shout a warning – to change the future – but her words were never voiced. Through the front window, she could see the back of her mum’s red wool coat as she walked away, heading for the bus stop.

  Shelly could see her so clearly and, though sensing it was a dream, she was filled with horror. Could she stop it, change it, after all, what were dreams for? Surely, they were warnings. ‘Don’t go, Mum!’ she tried to shout, but her mouth was glued shut and the words were nothing but a muffled mumble. She tried again and again, her mother getting smaller in the distance, the red coat, the bus stop . . . she mustn’t reach the bus stop!

  Then, as if Shelly had broken through into another dimension, she found her voice and yelled, ‘Don’t go, Mum! Don’t go! Don’t go! Mum, please!’ She tried to run after her, but her father held her back, she could feel his hands on her shoulders and hear his voice, but still she shouted, ‘Mum, don’t go!’

  Dad cried urgently, ‘’Ere, don’t, Shelly. It’s not real, love. Wake up now. Wake up!’

  A moment of confusion tangled time and place, like in one of those films played backwards, making no sense until it’s played forward once again. Her father was patting her shoulder. ‘Come on, love, you’re havin’ a nightmare.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, it was so real. I was there . . . you know?’ She sobbed as she surfaced from the heartbreaking drama, drained, and oh so sad. ‘Will it ever go away? It’s been such a long time now.’

  ‘Put yer dressing gown on and come down. Let’s have a brandy-cocoa and a bit of a chinwag.’

  She looked at him, saw the pain in his eyes – he was still suffering too.

  *

  At the kitchen table, Shelly poured the cocoa and her dad slopped a large measure of brandy into each mug.

  Gordon spoke first. ‘I know, love. It’s the same for me. I have . . . well . . . oh God. Why is it so difficult to talk?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just hurts too much, I guess.’

  ‘We’ve never really spoken about it, have we, Shelly love? I reckon we should have done, long ago.’

  ‘It won’t go away, Dad. I don’t know why I can’t just accept what happened and move on.’

  His forehead puckered. ‘I’ve given this a lot of thought too,’ he said. ‘I think it’s because we’ve both shut it up inside ourselves. We can’t let it go. In truth, we don’t want to let my Maggie go, and why would we? We both want to keep her with us because we loved her so much. But I have to confess, I was shocked before when you said it was more than twenty years. It’s time to move on, Shelly love. More than time, especially for you. Life’s passing you by.’

  Shelly couldn’t hold back her tears. ‘I loved her so much, Dad.’ She knuckled her tears away. ‘And I never told her. And it was my fault.’ She closed her eyes and tried to quell her sobs.

  ‘Don’t fight it. Let the grief out, Shelly. And you didn’t have to tell her you loved her. She knew, just like you knew she loved you.’

  She had never thought of that before. Looking up, she saw tears had settled into the crags around Dad’s eyes too.

  ‘When the bell rang that day, I thought she’d forgotten her keys,’ Shelly said. ‘I was going to pull her leg, you know, tease her. I knew we’d laugh about it for ages.’ She shook her head. ‘I pulled the door open and saw the policemen . . . well, I don’t know, I thought she’d organised some kind of joke. Like a novelty telegram or something, and when it wasn’t, when they asked for you . . . I felt guilty for grinning at them, and for thinking such a thing.

  ‘Why did it happen, Dad? Why us? Why Mum? Teenage boys don’t drive into women standing alone at bus stops on Christmas Eve; they crash into lampposts, they crash into other cars, they don’t crash into other people’s mothers.’

  Dad swiped a finger under his eyes. ‘I ask myself that same question every day, love; and the answer is, I don’t know. He was drunk, the boy. His first job, first car, first Christmas as an adult. At first, I wanted to go out in my car and find him. Revenge, you know? Then I wanted to find his parents and bust my knuckles on their faces. The consequences of not being a disciplined parent, of not teaching your children right from wrong, are too high. His parents are partly to blame, and the barman, and his mates. And me . . .’

  ‘How could you be to blame. That’s nonsense, Dad. It was my present she was going for.’

  He took a gulp of his cocoa and stared ahead for a moment. ‘Funny, don’t you think, that in a moment of acute crisis you remember all the small details? Things that don’t matter at all stay in your head forever.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘I was in the garden, filling that cream enamel colander with sprouts for Christmas dinner. I remember a chip near the handle. It would go rusty there and I’d have to give your mum the money for a new one.’ He shook his head, staring through the table top into the past. ‘Money-wise, that year was difficult with me being laid off from the docks. Yer mum refused to skimp on Christmas. “I’ll go without all year, Gordon, but Christmas is Christmas, so don’t make me call you Scrooge in December, dear,” she’d warned me.’ He dropped his head into his hands and hauled in a great breath. ‘God, how I miss her!’

  Shelly’s heart ached. She reached for the kitchen roll, tore off a couple of squares and pushed them into his fist. He dried his face and stared at the table for a long time.

  ‘It’s all my fault, because—’ His tears gathered again. ‘You see, what you don’t know is – what I’ve always been too ashamed to tell you is – your mum came down the garden and asked me for the taxi money. She was running late and the buses might have been on Sunday service, with it being Christmas Eve. And the thing is . . . the thing is . . . I refused. It was me, you see, that told her to get the bus. Too bloody mean to give her five pounds for a taxi, but what was the real cost? I’ll never forgive myself—’ He squeezed the tissues tightly and punched the table so hard, Shelly feared he might have broken something.

  ‘Dad, stop! It wasn’t your fault, or my fault, or even the boy’s fault. If we’re going to heal, we have to stop looking to blame. I just want the hurt to stop. It’s not fair; and it will never be fair no matter how hard we try. I want to help you, but I have other demons to deal with, remember?’

  Gordon’s mouth turned down. ‘I might not talk about it, Shelly love, but I haven’t forgotten what happened after your mother’s death. I just want to say one more thing tonight.’ He looked up, straight into her eyes. ‘I am truly sorry, Shelly. Perhaps I made a mistake, but it was with the best of intentions. I couldn’t see any other solution.’

  Shelly dropped her head into her hands and gave up trying to hold on to her composure. Eventually, she got up, wrapped her arms around her father, and kissed his wet cheek. ‘Thanks, Dad, that meant a lot to me. I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too long. Night, now.’

  *

  Although emotionally exhausted, Shelly went back to bed feeling lighter than she had for years.

  She lay on her back, and imagined herself floating on the flat, turquoise water of the Aegean. Under a cerulean sky, the dazzling sun warmed her to the bones and the softest breeze whispered over her skin.

  A lone seagull flew overhead. From the distant shore, she could hear bouzouki music drifting towards her from a beach taverna. Delicious smells perfumed the air – succulent lamb chops roasting on charcoal, pungent garlic bread sprinkled with fresh oregano, toasted to the point of perfection. She imagined crispy Greek salad with fat, sweet olives and salty fetta. She always fell into a deep relaxed sleep long before pudding.

  *

  Morning broke with memories of that awful Christmas Day. Gordon returned from somewhere – the police station or the mortuary, she didn’t know – and ripped down all Mum’s lovely Christmas decorations. He stuffed them into the wood burner and set fire to them, al
l the time sobbing and shouting obscenities. Instead of opening presents, an endless stream of Mum’s friends and neighbours passed through and said how sorry they were.

  Shelly snapped out of her recollections when her dad wandered into the kitchen wearing a bewildered expression. ‘I’ve lost me glasses.’

  ‘On your head.’ She turned and picked the phone up on its second ring. After a minute, she bid the caller goodbye and hung up. ‘Sorry, I have to go in early, Dad. A dog in collision with a car, poor thing, needs emergency surgery.’ She pulled the dresser drawer open and handed her father a box and a booklet. ‘Here, have a read of this while I’m out. If you get Alexa to understand your voice, you’ll find it useful while I’m away. It’s fun too. You can ask her absolutely anything you like.’

  *

  After dealing with the unfortunate dog, which was beyond surgery, Shelly returned to her car. Delving into her pocket for the key, her fingers touched the unopened letter. Before she turned on the ignition, she stole a moment for herself and tore it open. Her suspicions, aroused by the Cambridge postmark, were correct. It was from him, DJ. She had left DJ in Cambridge nearly twenty years ago, and had never seen him since. However, she’d never forgotten him, or stopped loving him.

  CHAPTER 6

  GERTIE

  Dover, 1916.

  AFTER MY INDUCTION TRAINING, I had the dreaded interview before a selection committee. Two men and two women, all very stiff and even older than my father. That afternoon, I returned home to await the result. If they rejected me, at least my parents would be pleased.

  I washed the dishes while Mother pegged out the bed linen, Tuesday was Mrs Cooper’s day off. The postman came through the gate. Mother abandoned the laundry, took the post, and came indoors.

  ‘This might be it, Gertie,’ she said, holding out a white envelope – her smile tight – her face pale.

  I reached for it, but she kept hold of the corner and in a desperate voice said, ‘I’m sorry. I know how badly you want to go, but I hope they don’t need you, darling.’

  I opened the envelope carefully, raced down the letter searching for the words accepted or rejected, but saw neither. Confused, I read through it quickly until reaching the line: Report for duty . . .

  Overloaded with emotion, I couldn’t speak and felt a tear trickle down my cheek.

  ‘Oh, Gertie, I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘I got in, Mother. I made the grade.’

  ‘Oh!’ Mother pressed her hands against her heart and stared at me, her only remaining child. She scooped me into her arms with the fiercest hug, then raced out of the door.

  I went to the kitchen window and saw her standing beside the wicker laundry basket, staring across the landscape, fists balled at her sides. She picked up a pillowcase but the wind caught it, blew it across the garden until it lay pinned vertically to the hedge. Mother hurried after it, peeled the pillowcase off the laburnum, then she grasped it against her breast and rocked from side to side. I knew she was crying.

  Over the next week, I had my typhoid and tetanus injections, and a smallpox inoculation that produced a horrible scab like Arthur’s, and made me feel wretched. Life at home became difficult – my damp-eyed mother hugged me too often, Father hardly spoke. Mother knitted mittens, socks, and balaclavas at a furious rate, as if the more soldiers’ feet she saved from trench foot, the more favour she would gain with God to keep her daughter safe.

  *

  My application to assist the Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service was approved. Orders arrived telling me to join the hundred and one qualified medical staff on HMHS Britannic, in a few weeks’ time. It is impossible to describe how thrilled I was.

  When I broke the news to my parents over dinner, Father finally snapped.

  ‘Right, young woman. You learn to swim before you go anywhere near that ship, otherwise I’ll make you a ward of the court and you won’t be going anywhere until you’re twenty-one. Do you understand me?’

  In dismay, I stared across the table at Mother who lowered her eyes and passed the gravy boat. Neither of them knew I’d lied about my age in order to be accepted in the VAD. ‘But how shall I learn to swim? Can you swim, Mother?’ I asked, breaking the silence.

  ‘What a ridiculous question, of course not.’

  ‘I’ll teach you, Gertie,’ Father said, sticking a finger inside his starched collar and giving it a tug. ‘Do you have something appropriate to wear?’

  I felt the heat of a blush in my cheeks.

  ‘I’ll sort something out, dear,’ Mother said quickly. ‘I’ve seen the bathing dresses young people wear these days. I’m sure they’ll have one in the emporium.’

  ‘No, no, not a bathing dress, that’s no good for swimming. The skirts’ll sink her. Abandon the corset, Gertie, and put on a pair of my woollen combinations. We’ll start at dawn. Make sure you’re up and ready at five o’clock.’ He stared at the table top for a moment. ‘Martha, is that cork protector still under this cloth?’ Mother nodded. ‘Then roll it and tie it like a breast of lamb to keep your daughter afloat while she learns.’

  ‘Yes, dear. Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘I certainly do. Bring towels and brandy.’

  Before dawn the next morning the three of us hurried along the treacherous cliff path that led down to St Margaret’s Bay.

  ‘If we hear any planes,’ Father said, ‘I’ll blow the lamp out and we’ll have to stand still until there’s enough light to see where we’re going. I don’t want anyone falling down the cliff. Is that understood?’

  Father led the way, holding the lantern high. Shadows danced around our feet making it even more difficult to see where we were stepping. To the rear, Mother struggled with a bulging carpet bag. I felt ridiculous in my father’s underwear and my mother’s second-best coat. Thank God it was dark. I strained my ears for the sound of a plane, hoping for once that Kaiser Bill would save the day.

  At sunrise, my father and I entered the freezing water. I had never been in the sea above my knees before. Terrified, but determined, I obeyed Father’s instruction and lay belly-down in the shallows, the cork roll across my chest and sticking up from under my arms. Father’s hand cupped my chin.

  ‘Come on, Gertie, kick those legs!’ he boomed.

  After fifteen minutes, I stood and said, ‘Surely that’s enough, Father, I’m freezing to death.’

  He gave me such a shove that I staggered and lost my balance on the uneven stones. In a moment, I went under. Father came after me, I thought to help me up, but he shoved his big hand over my face and pushed it under the surface. I caught a glimpse of him through the water, lips tight, cheeks red and blown out. He was drowning me! I struggled against his hand, grasping his wrist, kicking furiously, my lungs bursting.

  Just at the moment I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, he pulled me up. Tugged into his arms, he held me tightly. Though I was crying, I could feel his chest heaving against my cheek and realised he had held his breath as long as me.

  When he could speak, he said, ‘Forgive me, but I have to make you understand why you must keep trying. You must be able to swim, my precious child. I could not bear to lose you too.’

  Mother dropped everything and rushed into the sea, the bottom of her skirts so wet and heavy she could hardly walk.

  Father commanded her to leave. ‘Mind your own business, woman!’ he shouted. ‘I’m trying to save your headstrong daughter’s life!’

  Despite my fear, coldness, and aching body, I was terribly proud of my darling father.

  We continued with the lesson, but at one point, a wave dragged me from him. Mother screamed and rushed to the water’s edge again. I clung to the cork and yelled, ‘Father! Father!’ He stumbled after me, grabbed the back of my sodden long johns and hauled me into shallow water. ‘Keep kicking!’ he cried. ‘Never give up! You won’t be able to take a break when you’re in the middle of the ocean.’ I heard a heartbreaking tremble in his voice. ‘Promise me! Promise
me, you’ll never give up, Gertie!’

  ‘I won’t give up, Father, I promise.’ I made a determined effort to kick harder.

  By eight o’clock, we were drinking beef tea and eating dripping on toast at the kitchen table. Every muscle in my body ached and I was exhausted to the core.

  ‘Rub wintergreen into your calves and shoulders and we’ll try again this evening,’ Father said before leaving for the surgery.

  Mother fell into a chair most ungraciously. ‘You could have both been swept away, then where would I be?’

  *

  I’m proud to say, by the middle of the second week, I could keep my head above water without the cork. Mother had ordered a modern, knitted swimming suit with three-quarter legs and arms, and I promised my father I would practise swimming whenever the opportunity arose.

  The summer passed quickly. My work experience took place at our local hospital, where I occasionally saw my father and caught his flattened smile and glint of pride.

  We all held our breath as the war gained momentum throughout 1916. By October, a great sea battle took place right off our coastline: the Battle of Dover Strait. Father and I watched from the cliff top for most of the night. At the time, we didn’t know who the burning or sinking ships belonged to: us or them. I’d always loved watching the ships, but to see those great vessels explode into fireballs, lighting up the dark – and for a few second the boats and lifeboats around them – was heartbreaking. To hear the distant cries of men calling for help, clearly some wounded and many in the sea, was too terrible.

  The next morning, Mrs Cooper brought the newspapers in. Nothing of note said about German losses, which we took to mean there weren’t any. Our navy lost seven ships and six were damaged, and the loss of life was appalling.

  ‘BRITANNIA RULE THE WAVES! Bah. We’re a disgrace!’ Father bellowed over his breakfast. ‘How are we supposed to win this war if we can’t even scuttle a few ships on the doorstep of England?’ He glared across the table at me. ‘Go and dress in your uniform, Gertie, and be ready in fifteen minutes. You’re coming to the hospital with me.’