Summer in Greece

by Patricia Wilson

  The tape clicked and hissed and Gran Gertie’s words filled the room, so sharp and shockingly clear that Shelly half expected to see her standing in the corner, smiling. Then came the aftershock. The grand old lady with a neat grey bun and pale blue eyes wasn’t standing there with her arms loosely folded beneath her shapeless bosom. Her feet weren’t planted a foot apart in pink, fur-trimmed Christmas slippers. However, that was how Shelly always saw her.

  The voice that filled White Cottage was younger than Shelly remembered. Clearly, her great-grandmother’s spirit had come to life in the room.

  How I miss you, Gran Gertie.

  Gordon was shovelling steak and kidney pie into his mouth like a condemned man. The emotional outpouring had given him an appetite. Then he looked up, and said, ‘Your mum told me that when she was a toddler, Gran Gertie would stand at the back fence, shake a can of seed, and stare at the sky for ages.’

  Shelly pressed pause. ‘Why?’

  ‘Waiting for Icarus, a carrier pigeon, with a message from someone special in Greece.’

  ‘From Greece? Wouldn’t that be too far for the poor little bird, unless it thumbed a lift off EasyJet?’

  He blinked at her. ‘No, a good bird can do it at a push.’

  She resisted the urge to make a joke, Gordon took his birds very seriously and woe betide anyone who poked fun at them.

  Shelly opened a beer and passed it to her father, then placed their plates in the sink.

  ‘I’m shocked by Gertie’s tapes, Dad. I had no idea she’d had such a life. Let’s open the trunk, shall we? Did you pack it?’

  ‘No, someone from the parish council, after the funeral. But if I recall, the trunk was practically full already.’ He thought back. ‘I was in no fit state for anything. Do you remember much from then, Shelly?’

  She looked into his eyes and nodded.

  ‘I do know you’re still suffering, not just from your mother’s death, but from all that followed too. I feel bad about that, Shelly love. I’m ashamed of myself.’ He frowned, glanced at her, then the floor, then back to her. She had an odd feeling that she didn’t want him to say what was on his lips.

  ‘Don’t go there, Dad.’

  ‘I must, you see, I know it’s my job as your father, to advise you no matter how old you are; but I’m no bloody expert, am I? So, I have to say this in my own clumsy way. Have you thought about going for some kind of help, treatment, grief counselling, like?’

  Deeply moved, she smiled softly. ‘I deal with it in my own way, Dad, don’t worry. I keep busy . . . and of course, I dive. Every time I dive, it sort of dilutes what happened a little; do you know what I mean? It’s a kind of therapy. Anyway, let’s drop the subject and get back to the trunk. You say the church people packed it?’

  He shrugged and sighed again. ‘Not sure. It’s all a bit blurred. I was always going to go through it, but the time never seemed right.’

  The rusty key refused to turn until Gordon sprung the lock.

  At the next attempt, it popped open and they both stared at the contents.

  CHAPTER 12

  GERTIE

  Greece, 1916.

  TO BE TOLD TO GO and collect my valuables from the cabin was surprising and contradicted the drill we’d been taught. Although there was a strong sense of urgency, there was no panic. I glanced at the portholes, praying nobody would notice they were gaping open. I marched to my quarters and snatched at things, while wondering what was going on. Had a boiler exploded? I couldn’t think of another reason. We were a hospital ship, therefore we wouldn’t come under attack.

  I spun around in my cabin. What was important? Mother’s letters, documents, a lipstick, a clean uniform, my bible, my diary? They should have told us what’s classed as invaluable. I stuffed things into my pillow-bag, then hurried up top.

  At the muster, Matron checked everyone had their lifebelts tied properly. Some nurses were pulling their petticoats off, and I was about to join them when I remembered Sissy’s book, under my pillow. Oh my! I could not leave it behind. I slipped back, through the doors, down the staircase to F deck. Without wasting a second, I stuffed the book into my pillow-bag and then returned. Such a big ship – such a long way to and from my cabin. I burst through the main doors onto the deck, red-faced and breathless.

  To my horror, my companions and Lifeboat 1 had gone. All that remained were a few petticoats folded neatly on deck. Clearly, the owners believed they would return to claim their garments once the emergency was taken care of. I raced to the rail and saw the lifeboat and its seventy-five occupants dangling just above the water.

  A sailor was also leaning over the rail, watching, then shouting instructions to the two men above us who were handling the lifeboat davits, great metal cranes that swung the lifeboats out and then lowered them. Towards the stern, two of the lifeboat davits were also starting to move, both appeared to be lifting full lifeboats over the side. I could see a great deal of activity in that area and thought I should go there immediately. To add to my panic, the deck was rapidly taking on a steep slope.

  About to hurry along to the next muster station, something came sliding in front of me, tripping me and sending me sprawling to the floor. Pain shot up my leg as I scrambled to my feet. The deck was tilting and the first sparks of panic got the better of me. I cried for help.

  A loud whistle sounded above the screeching mechanism of the davits. One of the men working the lifeboats above our muster station must have seen me fall. He yelled something that didn’t reach me and pointed to his group. Now I think back, I must have been in shock because although I felt no fear, for a moment I was overwhelmed by hopelessness and couldn’t move. Matron Merriberry came racing around the corner with a clipboard in hand.

  ‘Good grief, Miss Smith! Why are you on the floor?’ she cried. ‘Where have you been! The captain’s given the order to man the lifeboats, but we’ve missed ours now. Come along, let’s hope the next one has room for us.’

  The Britannic turned, headed towards a distant island, then the engines stopped. We hurried, I hobbled, pain in my ankle slowing me. Matron strode off in a walk that almost ran.

  ‘Come along, Miss Smith!’

  ‘My ankle, Matron. I fell, I can’t . . .’

  ‘For goodness’ sake! Put your arm around my shoulder.’ She supported me around the waist and ushered me towards the stack of lifeboats. ‘Why haven’t you got your lifesaver on?’ She called over the noise of the screeching davit. ‘Really, Miss Smith, you must learn to obey orders!’

  Matron’s remark gutted me. Wasn’t I always doing my best? Hadn’t I tackled every foul job with all my energy? I noticed she had abandoned her petticoat and thought perhaps I should do the same, but there was no time, and even as we arrived at the muster, I was still trying to deal with my ankle pain and clutch onto my bulging pillow-bag.

  The last lifeboat at this muster appeared to be full, but the sergeant in charge ordered everyone to make room for two more. He thrust a lifesaver at me.

  Matron was given a place in the bow, and the pale, silent occupants of the stern bench budged up for me, then my pillow-bag was thrown in. I struggled to try and get my lifesaver on. We were lifted, swung over the side, and part lowered. Terror filled me as we hung far above the water. One of the men called up, ‘For God’s sake, set us down on the water!’

  I prayed to Sissy and Arthur to keep us safe!

  Lifeboat 1 was ahead of us, almost meeting the sea. Our vessel continued to hang halfway down the side of the ship. Perhaps there was a problem with the lowering mechanism. I hoped we would not have to jump from this great height. Why didn’t I take my petticoat off? At least I could swim; I guessed some of my companions could not. Could I rescue anyone from drowning? What terrible choices would I have to make? I tried to see Matron. Many lives would depend on her survival. If she ended up in the water, I’d try to save her first.

  To start with, everything moved in a steady, comforting way. I assured myself, the King’s Navy
had trained for this unfortunate eventuality. Then the ship rocked and the lifeboat rim crashed against the Britannic’s side. Everyone cried out when the green glass stripe that ran around the hull shattered. Glass daggers flew into the boat and hit some of the crew. Thankfully, eyes and faces escaped serious damage and our sturdy lifesavers spared anybody from being decapitated.

  The Britannic’s bows dipped further, tilting us, terrifying everyone as we swung precariously, only six feet above the Aegean. Thank God the sea was flat. Then we continued down. However, the moment we reached the water and ropes were released, the propellers started up again.

  Overwhelmed by the scene, I could hardly draw breath. My fear was not at that minute for myself, but for the people in Lifeboat 1.

  As Britannic’s bows sank, her stern lifted. The three giant propellers rose and were now half out of the water and continuing to rise. The further they came out of the sea, the faster they turned, looming like a giant bronze of Poseidon himself. I cowered, hands pressed against my chest, covering the red cross on my starched apron.

  Above us, another lifeboat had paused on its way down, but they could not see what was happening immediately below them.

  The propellers created a malevolent maelstrom, spray flying through the air to pepper us like holy water at benediction. Turbulence sucked Lifeboat 1 and its seventy-five terrified occupants – the wounded from my ward, the nurses who tended them, my cabin mates – towards the exposed, spinning blades with inescapable force. Somewhere between them was my empty seat, and Matron’s too. Some of those who were facing the propeller saw their doom approach, and started to jump out of the lifeboat like rats from a sinking ship. Thrashing and splashing, they tried to swim away. Everyone else scrambled towards the rear of the lifeboat, terrified by what was about to happen.

  Realising the fate awaiting his companions, sea-scout George, the quick-witted errand boy, grabbed a line that dangled from the side of the ship and hung on. The fifteen-year-old raced from end to end of the nine-hundred-foot vessel with messages while good-natured sailors and medical staff called, ‘Run, George, run!’

  The lifeboat was pulled from beneath him.

  ‘Hold on, George!’ I shouted, doubting he could hear me for the roar of turbulence. Everyone clenched their fists. I waved frantically at my patients in that doomed boat. ‘Corporal Perkins, look out! Get away from there! Jump! Swim away!’ I screeched with such vigour my throat burned raw.

  Perkins stared as his packed vessel drew nearer the fatal blades, the din of them filling the air until it drowned out the screams of terror. Less than an hour ago, Perkins had winked at me cheekily, enjoying my embarrassed blush. And now . . .

  *

  Above the Corporal’s helpless craft, the ship’s lights flickered once, then went out. HMHS Britannic bellowed and roared, the sounds rising from the liner’s bowels and shuddering around us.

  ‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,’ the chaplain chanted, his voice timorous, two fingers making crosses in the air. ‘I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’

  I gripped the side our lifeboat, my knuckles white, hysteria short-circuiting behind my eyes and all my attention fixed on the poor souls in the first lifeboat and those in the water, as the turbulence continued to pull everything towards the propeller blades.

  Somebody, help them! God save them!

  My body trembled, horror shaking me to the bones. Painfully helpless, I regretted lying about my age.

  My knees were pressed against the priest’s in the cramped boat. ‘Please! Please, can’t we throw them a rope?’ I begged, aware that I should sit quietly like the others, snivelling and gasping and politely looking away. But I had no control of myself and knew it was wrong to pretend this was not pure horror. To turn away would be cowardly. I wanted to share their last moments, be with them in thought and spirit. All those poor, poor souls, about to suffer a horrible end. ‘We have to stop the propellers!’ I repeated faintly, knowing my pleas were futile.

  The doomed oarsmen rowed with all ferocity, for what else could they do?

  Choked by panic, and fury with my companions, I tried to stand and wave my arms. If only we could get away from the side of the ship, we could signal to those above, who were still filling lifeboats, what was happening. Nobody was doing anything! I was trying to run in a nightmare. I knew what was needed, but no matter what, I couldn’t change the situation. My neighbour, the cook, yanked me back into my seat and delivered a fierce slap on my cheek. The shock and the outrage were appalling, then I found myself held tightly against his broad chest as my tears raged. I struggled free and fisted my eyes, unable to drag them away from the occupants of that ill-fated vessel.

  The ship was long, nine-hundred-feet, there was still time – yet the wide propellers continued to turn dragging the relatively small craft towards them.

  ‘No, please dear God, no!’ I prayed.

  The crammed lifeboat moved closer and closer to the destructive blades. Men heaved oars against the pull of water, still screaming for a rope to be thrown, reaching out, trying to clutch onto the Britannic’s slippery antifoul.

  The din increased; deafening, whirring, people howling, and the roar of water turbulence. The blades spun faster and faster.

  Another man jumped; I couldn’t make out if it was Perkins. His head bobbed in the foam, arms thrashing in a futile attempt to escape the maelstrom, dragged feet-first towards the elegant bronze screw, then he disappeared. The foam spume turned red for a second, as did a mist in the air.

  Moments later, the bow of the first lifeboat splintered. Oarsmen continued to row for all they were worth, to no avail. Bodies were tossed like jackstones from a child’s hand. Nurses and patients threw themselves into the sea, but many suffered the same horrific fate. ‘They’re all going to die . . .’ I whispered, my tears rising and my body turning cold to the core. The propeller claimed its victims. The water foaming red; dismembered bodies tossed into the air.

  The young scout still dangled from the line, but how much longer could he hold on?

  Another hollow moan from the dying vessel reverberated over the water like a death cry. I buried my face in my hands, not wanting to see more, then I realised our lifeboat was gaining speed. I stared at a sea that tossed and turned like a restless sleeper under a blanket of splintered lifeboat and chewed limbs. Bodies seduced by the false promise of safety. They had felt secure for a moment in that white-painted vessel, as I had.

  Terrified, we ploughed through the carnage, headed for similar disaster.

  We passed under the boy scout. ‘I can’t hold on any longer!’ he yelled.

  We had already travelled three-quarters of the way towards the propeller. The Britannic was such a length; the biggest translantic passenger ship in the world before the military got it. I locked eyes with the priest, for a moment thinking about my parents. They’d be devastated to get the news. I’d failed them.

  Noise and chaos brought me back to now. ‘Should we jump and make a swim for it, before we get any closer?’ I cried above the din.

  ‘Are you stronger than those monsters?’ The priest nodded towards the churning propellers. ‘I don’t think so. What hope has a mere girl against blades powerful enough to pull God’s oceans under a ship this size? Pray with me, Gertie. Pray for a miracle.’ His voice was loud, but calm, a preacher’s voice, but there was madness in his eyes. His words rose above the growing thrum of our destiny. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven . . .’

  Everyone joined in, focusing on the priest as the turbulence almost capsized us.

  ‘Mother!’ I cried, seeing her sweet face as terror and turmoil crashed through my mind. If I could fill my thoughts with her, then death would not be as bad.

  The water was now thick with the chaos of limbs and wreckage in a boiling soup of sea. I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by a need to be with my parents, many miles from this hellish situation. I yearned for my mother’s ar
ms around me in my final moments.

  People at the front of our boat scrambled towards the back, dangerously close to upending us; but why should I worry? We were doomed.

  CHAPTER 13

  SHELLY

  Dover/Greece, present day.

  ‘WELL DONE, DAD.’ SHELLY HAD thrown the lid of the trunk back and they both stared at a grey blanket that covered the contents.

  ‘Looks like an army blanket,’ Gordon said. ‘What’s on the label?’

  ‘It’s embroidered, Johnathan Perkins.’ Shelly frowned. ‘Does the name ring a bell?’ She was relieved to be concentrating on Gran Gertie now. Shelly’s past was just as big a monster as that ship’s propeller, and she was just as terrified of being dragged towards it.

  ‘Wasn’t Perkins the engineer in the ward, and in the other lifeboat, the one that might have got chopped up on the last tape? ’Ere, rewind it a bit,’ her father suggested.

  ‘You might be right, Dad.’ They listened again and realised it was the very same Corporal. ‘What a wonderful historical record,’ Shelly said. ‘Imagine if this blanket could talk, it’s over a hundred years old. Like new, too. I wonder why Gran Gertie kept it. Sentimental value, do you think? Perhaps, you know . . . who can imagine what went on underneath it? By the way, Gran Gertie’s husband seems to have been a forbidden subject when I was younger. Do you know who he was – Corporal Perkins, or somebody else entirely?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s not my job to tell you.’

  ‘She always used the name Smith. To be honest, I took it for granted it was her married name, but if her father was Dr Smith, it was her maiden name,’ Shelly said.

  ‘That was the name of her son too, your grandfather, Adam Smith. Let’s hope your answers lay in one of those tapes. Anyway, my memory’s going, Shelly.’ Their eyes met. ‘One of these days you’ll have to sign me into The Gables, you know. Gertie was very happy there.’

  ‘Are you worried, Dad?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m eighty. But I’ll tell you something, when I’m not worried, that’s when I need to go and stay there.’