Summer in Greece

by Patricia Wilson

  Mother gasped. ‘But why, Father?’

  ‘It’s about time our daughter saw some real casualties of this war. The tragedy of men with their arms and legs blown off.’ He turned to me. ‘Do you know what they’re known as?’ I shook my head. ‘Basket cases! Basket cases, do you hear me? Because there’s so little left of them, that’s how they’re transported, in a basket!’

  Father’s plan was to horrify me so much I would give up my ‘harebrained scheme’ as he called it, to work for the Voluntary Aid Detachment. I’d show him I could be as strong as anyone. Although, when I glanced worriedly at Mother, who was practically trembling at that point, I feared perhaps I might not be able to take whatever he had in mind.

  After losing Arthur and Sissy, his bombastic personality almost faded away; but now it was back with a vengeance. I understood that he wanted to keep me safe, and I loved him for that; but here was the odd thing: the more he tried to force his will on me, the stronger I became.

  *

  We arrived at the hospital and met Staff Nurse Cuthbert, in whose charge father left me. There followed the most disgusting four hours imaginable. I was ordered to perform the most sickening tasks.

  ‘Very good, Miss Smith,’ Staff Nurse said, her voice as cold as the sweat on my forehead. ‘You realise, as a VAD your life will mostly consist of bedpan duty?’

  ‘Yes, Staff Nurse.’ I nodded, suspecting that she’d caught my loathing of this chore. But I would rise above this station, and new recruits would take my place at the bottom of the nursing ladder.

  ‘Then you may wait for Dr Smith at the hospital entrance.’

  I stood out front, wrapped my cape around myself, and watched the arrival of military ambulances. The stretchers, four to a vehicle, were pulled out and lined up outside the hospital where orderlies took over. Casualties from the night’s battle streamed in. Young men in a terrible state.

  ‘Nurse! Nurse, please help me,’ one young seaman cried. ‘My hand, please . . .’

  For a moment, I wanted to run away, but his pleading tone brought out the pity in me. I could hold his hand for a moment. The sailor was held to the stretcher by two heavy straps over a blanket that covered all but his head. One strap pinned him across his chest, and the other over his thighs.

  I knelt beside him. ‘Take it easy, sailor, they’ll soon fix you up.’ I eased the blanket back to take his hand in mine . . . there was no hand, just a bloodied stump at his wrist and a tight tourniquet. The shock caught me by surprise and I almost cried out. I fought to keep the horror and fear off my face, but the hardest part was to speak to him with a steady voice. I turned my head away, thought of our Arthur, then called on Sissy for help.

  In a moment, I had regained control of my voice and was able to calm the young man. ‘This is one of the best hospitals in the country, sailor. They’ll take very good care of you, I promise.’ I talked to him, told him about my brother, but not that he had died.

  The orderlies came for him at the same moment as my father appeared.

  I tucked the blanket back under his arm and patted his shoulder. ‘Good luck, sailor,’ I called, my calm voice seeming to come from somebody else, my insides shaking like Mrs Cooper’s blancmange.

  ‘Thank you, nurse,’ the sailor called, his voice a little calmer now. ‘I’ll never forget you!’

  In father’s car, I turned away from him and, peering out of the window as he drove us home, broke down. I wept for a few minutes, then dried my eyes, blew my nose and threw my shoulders back.

  Father never spoke of the incident, yet I sensed he was quite aware of my emotions.

  That evening at dinner, Mother got herself in a tizzy about everything, saying it just proved how much danger I’d be in on the high seas, but Father sternly reassured her.

  ‘She’ll be on a hospital ship. Nobody’s allowed to fire at hospital ships, ours or theirs. She’ll be safer than you are in this house, Mother,’ he said.

  I was shocked by his sudden change of attitude. The hopes and dreams I’d held in my heart while gazing from the Dover cliff top were about to come to fruition. I would work on the greatest transatlantic passenger liner ever built, HMHS Britannic. To be honest, the ship had never actually traversed the Atlantic because our government acquired it before it had a chance. In consideration of my mother, I decided not to mention the vessel was sister ship to Titanic that sank only four years earlier.

  ‘The largest British ship afloat, Father!’ I said at breakfast. ‘She’s already made several rescues in the Mediterranean, saving the wounded of Gallipoli.’ My thoughts went to Arthur and Sissy, how I missed them. Maybe I could save the lives of those who would otherwise perish?

  Mother touched Father’s hand. ‘Can we go to the port and see her off, dear?’ I had to report to Southampton at eight o’clock on the twelfth of November.

  ‘Most certainly.’ He stared at me for a moment before he swallowed hard and said, ‘I’m proud of you, Gertie. I admit, I had my doubts, but I am convinced you will be a great asset to this country and our wounded soldiers.’ He glanced at the two unused place settings at the table. ‘Make sure you take good care of yourself, Gertie. We could not bear to look at another empty plate.’

  CHAPTER 7

  SHELLY

  Dover, present day.

  THE LETTER FROM DJ TREMBLED in Shelly’s hand. She had resisted opening it all day, but now, sitting in the car outside White Cottage, she could put it off no longer.

  He had found her after nineteen years. She stared through the windscreen, remembering every detail of him, but especially his wide, pale blue eyes. Then an echo of her heartbreak returned with such a fierce stab, she whimpered.

  She said goodbye to DJ exactly one year and one month after her mother’s death. That tragedy had turned the father she adored into a bitter and cynical old man. He blamed everyone for his loss, once he knew about DJ, he made Shelly’s life miserable. Gordon Summer had had no idea how to deal with an errant teenager, he had no one to support him in his grief, and was too proud to ask for help, or admit he needed it.

  Shelly’s final words to DJ came back. ‘My father’s right. It’s the best thing for both our sakes.’ The words nearly choked her. ‘I’m just seventeen, my whole life’s ahead of me, and I have to admit that you’re better off with her. She’s more mature, and it’s clear to see that she loves you as much as I do.’ She curved her arms, remembering how she held him, never wanting to let go. Then she had walked away so that DJ wouldn’t see any more of her tears. She had felt the same sense of loss when her mother died.

  Shelly hadn’t seen him since, apart from in her dreams. Often, she had thought about him, wondered how he was doing, where he was, who he was with, if he was happy. With the development of the internet, she had toyed with the idea of looking for him on a social network, just to see how he was doing, but it would only lead to more pain. Her young heart took an eternity to accept that she had to live without him. He belonged to another and later, she heard, they had emigrated to Australia.

  However, according to the postmark on his letter, DJ had returned home.

  But should she let DJ back into her life? She had been replaced nineteen years ago. Yet she could still feel his cheek against hers, tears dripping down her face. ‘I swear, I’ll never forget you,’ she had whispered, then turned and walked away.

  Swallowing hard, she opened it and began to read.

  Dear Shelly,

  I hope you don’t mind me writing to you, and I hope it isn’t too much of a shock to hear from me after all this time. The fact is, I’ve been in Australia. I have just returned to Cambridge.

  I would really like to meet up, if that is possible, just to talk. I have some questions, of course. I’m sure you understand. I was thinking of a café, perhaps in Dover if that would be more convenient for you. Or, perhaps you would prefer somewhere more private?

  Here is my phone number, please call me if you agree, and let me know a time and place that would accommo
date you,

  Best wishes,

  DJ

  She placed a hand over her heart. If she didn’t deal with it today, the letter had the power to destroy her concentration, and with a tricky operation scheduled for the next morning, she needed a clear head. She took a calming breath and punched numbers into the phone.

  She mis-dialled twice. What should she say . . . her first words after nineteen years? What would he hope for her to say? Her mind was paralysed. She stared at his writing. Blue ballpoint in loopy, open script that suggested a big-hearted person, generous, honest . . . but who really knew after all this time? The ringtone thrummed. She might be sick. She ended the call and sniffed back tears, disgusted with herself. Now, she wanted to speak to him so badly it hurt. But after what had happened all those years ago, perhaps she should not.

  She wiped her eyes, flicked her dark hair back, and breezed into White Cottage.

  ‘Everything all right, Dad? How are you getting on with Alexa?’ She picked up a leaflet and started reading.

  ‘He’s givin’ me a real hard time.’

  ‘It’s a she.’

  ‘Silly bloody name then, ain’t it?’

  Shelly frowned, looked up, and said, ‘You’re pulling my leg?’

  She caught a flicker of concern that was quickly replaced by a grin. ‘What’s for dinner? Us technology wizards need to keep our energy levels up,’ he said.

  ‘Hotpot with cheesy dumplings and a side of pickled red cabbage.’ She started the microwave.

  Gordon’s eyes widened. ‘Will this Alexa be able to cook like you, while you’re away?’

  Shelly laughed. ‘Almost. She’ll tell you what to take out of the freezer in the morning, and how many minutes to heat it in the evening.’ Shelly smiled. ‘Do you think you and Bill will manage, Dad?’

  ‘’Course we will. We’ve got a poker school going one night, a couple of strippers on night two . . .’

  ‘You’re too naughty, Dad! Now wipe that silly grin off your face.’

  The microwave went, bing!

  *

  After dinner, Shelly returned to the spare bedroom. Too exhausted for any more sorting and too emotional to listen to another of Gran Gertie’s tapes, she closed her eyes and recalled how she had first met David. David, the love of her life. A fortnight after her mother’s funeral, Shelly had waited for her dad to leave for the pigeon club. When she had the house to herself, she started to box up some of her mother’s possessions – it was an odd feeling to go through her mum’s handbag; it was there, in her purse, that she found the ticket.

  The collection slip said: H SAMUEL, JEWELLER’s. COLLECT BEFORE 3.30 ON 24-DEC-2000.

  That Saturday, dressed in her finest, with make-up, nail polish, everything, Shelly set out on a pilgrimage with only her mum in mind. For the first time since Christmas Eve, she really wanted to look her best. She walked to the bus shelter, as her mum had done, and sat alone trying to imagine how it had been that day. She flinched each time a car came racing around the bend, afraid that in some way she was invoking a re-enactment of the past. Thinking about death, she wondered if her mother could see her there, at that moment.

  ‘Don’t leave me, Mum,’ she whispered, aware of the space around her, feeling her tears rise, then remembering she was wearing mascara and sniffing hard. The bus came, carried her into town with her mother’s ghost beside her. Shelly stared at her knees. She could feel her mother’s arm against hers, sensed her sparkling smile, her pride and her love. In moments like these, it was so easy to imagine Mum was still alive. But the bus journey came to an end, and so did the dream, for a moment.

  She headed straight for the jeweller’s shop, once again, imagining her mum walking alongside with that proud, this is my daughter air. That look always made Shelly smile when they were together.

  At the high street, Shelly sat on a bench, watching the shop for a long while. She didn’t know why, only that she somehow expected her mother to come out of the door, and Shelly would understand it had all been a terrible mistake. Perhaps she had been with her mother at the bus stop on Christmas Eve, Shelly reasoned. Perhaps she had been hit by the car and everything she knew from then on had been a drug-induced dream while she lay in a coma in hospital. When her body was repaired, the doctor would wake her . . . her mother would be sitting at her bedside telling her everything was all right now – and her father would be smiling, like he used to.

  Fantasies like this kept her lonely sixteen-year-old heart strong enough to continue under the weight of her grief.

  She took the ticket out of the purse, marched across the pavement and straight into the shop. A man at the counter, in his fifties, looked up curiously.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Er, yes, please. I’ve come to collect this.’ She passed the ticket over.

  ‘I see. Are you Mrs Summer?’

  Shelly wondered if he was being sarcastic. ‘No, she’s my mother. She was . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, miss. We can only give it to Mrs Summer, unless you have a note from her and proof of identity . . .’

  All the horrible hurt was gathering in Shelly’s chest. ‘But . . .’

  ‘Sorry, it’s the rules. Nothing I can do.’

  It had been so hard to get this far. Her bravery was all used up. Anger and frustration escaped in an explosion of distress. ‘She’s dead!’ she interrupted loudly, hysterically. ‘She was waiting for the one o’clock bus to come here on Christmas Eve when a drunk driver mounted the kerb!’ She was really shouting now, fury holding her tears back. ‘Did you hear me? My mother’s dead! Dead!’

  Her chest was heaving though she could hardly get her breath. She slapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and glaring in a struggle against tears. She swallowed hard, lowered her hand, and whispered, ‘Whatever it is, it was my Christmas present.’

  An older man came out of the back of the shop. ‘Is everything all right?’ The assistant told him what had happened. He looked at Shelly in a kindly way, which made her feel even closer to tears. ‘Do you have anything to prove who you are, or anyone we can phone, young lady?’

  She shook her head, pulling her purse out of her pocket at the same time. My dad’s at home, but he gets upset. Anyway, he’ll be in the pigeon loft. He stays there most of the time since it happened. I’ve got my bus pass, will that do?’ She put it on the counter. ‘And there’s Sergeant Edge at the police station. He gave me his card and said if I had any problems at all, I could call him.’

  The older man looked at the younger one. ‘I don’t think we need to do that. Let’s see what we have, shall we?’ He took the collection ticket and went into the back of the shop.

  She could hear what sounded like a filing-cabinet drawer open, then two thumps of a stapler. He returned to the shop holding a midnight-blue-and-gold paper bag.

  ‘There you are, my dear. Just sign for it. There’s nothing to pay.’

  Outside the shop, she took some deep breaths and walked a little way down the high street. The air was crisp, cold, and the town still busy with bargain hunters in the January sales. As the late-afternoon light faded, she saw herself in the shop windows, alone.

  What she really needed was a friend to talk to, or just to be silent with. Shelly wished there was someone who could sit with her while she opened the bag. Her emotions were so exhausting that she felt weak most of the time. Looking around, she realised she’d entered the pedestrian area and faced Gerrard’s Cake Shop. Suddenly starving, she bought herself a sausage roll and a cola and sat on a bench that wrapped around a tree trunk.

  Fortified after the food and drink, she pulled the jeweller’s bag from her tote. What could it be? She eased the staples open and pulled out a box in the same colour scheme. With butterflies in her tummy, she slid it open, then gasped at the simple beauty of a beautiful, silver, teardrop-shaped bangle. ‘Oh Mum . . .’ she whispered and looked up, in her mind’s eye seeing her mother in her Burberry raincoat, with her furle
d umbrella and shiny old leather satchel bag slung across her body. ‘It’s beautiful.’ Then she saw the writing engraved inside.

  TO THE MOON AND BACK, MY DARLING. 25.12.2000

  How often had her mother asked: How much do I love you? Shelly slipped the bracelet on and whispered, ‘To the moon and back.’ Overwhelmed, her tears came fast and free. It was such a relief to be able to cry without the fear of her father hearing. Lost to grief, she felt herself cleansed in some way, then something cold and wet touched her arm and made her jump.

  Her eyes flew open and she found herself staring into the big face of an old Golden Retriever. Its big brown eyes peered with sympathy. The dog dropped its head into her lap and continued to gaze up.

  She scratched behind its ear. ‘Sorry, old girl, I’m a bit upset.’

  The Retriever cocked its head slightly and made an odd mewling sound.

  ‘Hey, are you all right? Here, take this,’ a male voice said as a hand came towards her with a McDonald’s napkin.

  ‘Thanks.’ She glanced up and saw he was a little older than her, with sandy hair and blue-grey eyes. ‘Thanks,’ she said again, feeling snotty, and imagining the state of her mascara.

  ‘Sorry about my dog, she’s a sucker for tears. What’s up?’ he asked. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Nobody can help. Please, I’d just like to be by myself.’

  ‘Ah, sorry, I do understand – but it’s just that I’m the opposite. I really need to talk to somebody.’

  ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not the person to unburden yourself onto.’ She found herself stroking the dog. The comforting weight of its head, that intense sympathetic stare, and its silence, was exactly what she needed at that moment. ‘Your dog’s lovely. What’s its name?’

  He sighed. ‘It’s my dog that’s the problem. I’ve a terrible decision to make and it’s just too difficult.’