Summer in Greece

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘We can visit the place if you like. Or there might be other solutions.’

  ‘Nah, let’s get back to the trunk and what’s-his-name’s blanket.’

  Shelly lifted it out and gasped. ‘Oh my, look! Christmas presents. Mum must have hidden them in here before she went shopping.’ Her heart squeezed. ‘Let’s put them to one side.’

  Gordon stared at the parcels. ‘Perhaps we should have a Christmas dinner in your mother’s memory this year. Maggie would love that. All she wanted was to give us a good time. Seems a shame to waste it. What do you think?’

  ‘Oh, Dad, that’s the loveliest thought. If it wouldn’t be too painful, I’d love it.’

  ‘Recently I’ve come to realise, she wouldn’t want us to be so miserable every year. I know we’ve never celebrated Christmas since, because of me. But, I felt it just wouldn’t work, trying to be happy and festive. It would all be a lie.’

  Once again, Shelly recalled Gordon ripping the decorations down on Christmas morning, his face nasty with anger, his sobs loud. She had curled up in her mother’s armchair, snuggling into the thick cardigan her mum had tossed over the chairback just before she left. It still smelled of her. The comforting, oaty smell of fresh porridge. Shelly had wrapped the sleeves around herself like a hug and cried until exhausted, yet nobody put real arms around her and said it would be all right.

  She had longed for the father-figure she’d known and loved, her big, cheerful, Dad, always full of fun, but that person had died with her mother. Hardly surprising that she threw herself into the arms of the first man that showed any affection. She yawned into her hand. ‘Sorry, Dad, but I’m beat. Perkins’s story may have to wait until I’m back from holiday.’

  *

  Shelly fell asleep imagining all the pleasures of her upcoming trip. Packing, travelling, arriving – she loved it all and didn’t really care where she was going, so long as she could dive, take amazing photographs, and lay on a sunbed with a good book. She woke early, with a smile. One day nearer. She should get some clothes organised. Half a dozen cotton tops, shorts, jeans to travel, capri pants and a skirt, a few luxury toiletries, sandals and walking shoes, swimwear, and her snorkel kit, of course.

  Just to get away from everything familiar was an adventure.

  *

  Shelly slept on the plane and arrived, reasonably refreshed, at Athens international airport. Pleased to have packed all she needed into a cabin bag, there was no waiting around. She stepped out of the terminal at precisely midnight, that magical moment between yesterday and tomorrow. To her left, an enormous sign said, WELCOME TO ATHENS, to her right, the blue and white Greek flag, and the EU circle of gold stars fluttered side by side. The excitement of arriving thrilled her. The heat of the day, tucked away under the paving slabs for the night, still left the air around her snugly warm.

  Guided by an information board that promised to lead her to the coach terminal, she moved between pools of golden streetlight. Twenty minutes later, she was riding the coach past an enormous sculpture of the Olympic rings.

  ‘Madam . . . madam? We are here, the ferry terminal. I get your bag,’ the coach driver said.

  She must have fallen asleep. The deserted port was a blaze of light, with several small ferryboats, but no people. The driver took her case from the hold. The wheels made an obscene noise on the concrete.

  ‘You go to Kea? You have boat ticket?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she replied.

  ‘I take the bag,’ he said, taking it from her. ‘Is this ferry here.’ He nodded at a squat ferry, which it seemed had been waiting for the airport bus.

  ‘Thank you, you’re very kind. It’s lovely to be taken care of.’ She dropped a couple of euro into his hand. He beamed and put her bag on the ferry.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was enjoying a coffee and doughnut and the wide smiles of a waiter who insisted on bringing it to her table. She watched mainland Greece recede into the distance, and half an hour later, caught sight of Kea lighthouse.

  *

  At Popi’s Apartments, on the promenade, she turned her watch forward by two hours, and saw it was four in the morning, local time.

  She dumped her suitcase in the room, made coffee, then sat on the balcony. The ferry had left, the place absolutely silent and pitch dark. Then her eyes and ears adjusted. She saw the dense, star-spangled sky broken only by a pulse from the distant lighthouse. The gentle shush of wavelets caressing the beach below reminded her she would swim later.

  After some time, Shelly stuck a small bottle of water into her backpack and stepped out with camera and torch to photograph the sunrise. She walked along the water’s edge and inhaled the ozone-rich sea air. In Britain, the sea had a pungent, fish-and-chips saltiness, but the Aegean air was so salted-caramel she licked her lips. She sat on the warm sand, hugged her knees, and remembered the first time she had come to a Greek island. She was sixteen, on an adventure with the man she loved. Oh, David. How could she have known that one, self-indulgent week, nearly twenty years ago, would destroy so many lives?

  Shelly had dozed through the flight and now yawned and stretched, her head muzzy and eyes watering. The idea of staying up to capture the sunrise lost its appeal. There would be another dawn tomorrow. As she turned, her torchlight caught a row of deep, undulating paddle-tracks across the sand just ahead. Goosebumps rose on her arms and a rush of adrenalin wiped out her weariness.

  What good luck was this! She backed up a few metres and dropped to her knees, the sand damp under her shins. Turning the torch off after switching the camera on, she flicked the ISO to its highest setting. The picture would be grainy, but using flash under the circumstances was unthinkable. Her heart pounded. She made a conscious effort to breathe quietly and stared into the shadow of the low tamarisk trees. Apart from the first soft sounds of the dawn chorus and the gentle clack of rolling pebbles on the waterline, silence surrounded her. She felt at one with nature, like a wild animal herself.

  Perhaps the turtle had been and gone? She couldn’t make out a returning trail in the sand. Ten minutes passed. She feared her camera battery would run flat. Then, gathering light illuminated movement to her left and she heard the scrape – scrape – scrape.

  A magnificent loggerhead turtle, Caretta caretta, had finished laying and now shovelled sand over its hundred-plus eggs. Shelly stared in awe. Keeping her distance, she crawled up the beach a few metres, then stretched out on her belly, supporting the camera with her elbows in the sand.

  Glorious creature!

  The turtle, over a metre in length and weighing two hundred kilos or more, pushed mounds of sand into the nest-hole. Without looking back, and leaving nothing but a gentle dip to tell of her activity, the creature, which remained unchanged since prehistoric times, started her solemn pageant towards the sea. The shell, which at first appeared dull and crusty, caught the amber light of dawn and shone like burnished jewellery. Dragging her enormous weight, the loggerhead left a second, heavily scalloped track on its return to a life under the waves.

  When the turtle drew level, she seemed to notice Shelly for the first time. In three laboured steps, she turned and lumbered straight towards the camera. Shelly didn’t know what to do! To say she was breathless with excitement or fear sounded trite, but it was certainly true. She decided to keep photographing. The shutter clicked, obscenely loud in the silence. The closer the loggerhead came, the faster Shelly’s heart beat. When the creature filled the frame, she took a last shot then raised her head a little to gaze over the camera.

  The turtle appeared sad with its turned-down mouth and tears spilling like molten gold in the rising sunlight, but she knew they were only salt secretions, expelled from seawater it had swallowed. The loggerhead peered at Shelly with round, ET eyes. She feared it would snap at her hand or face. The hard, bony mouth had jaws capable of crushing lobsters, hefty crustaceans . . . or her precious camera. The turtle, much heavier than her, could do serious damage if it felt endangered
.

  I’m not a threat to you or your eggs. Return to the deep, amazing turtle. Go in peace.

  She fancied the turtle heard her thoughts. After a moment, the creature turned her head towards the waterline and the gathering light on the horizon. Shelly smiled and for a moment, tears pricked the backs of her eyes. Exhaustion, or perhaps pleasure, made the turtle pause when the first wave touched her front flippers.

  ‘Go, go!’ Shelly whispered. ‘Your work’s done here. Goodbye, old girl. Stay safe.’

  She swiped away a tear.

  Torn between racing back to her room to study the pictures or staying on the empty beach to enjoy the peace, an enormous sense of miracle filled her chest. She glanced back towards the nest site. The gentle basin and ribbon-loop of tracks in the sand led from the waterline to the base of the low, cement promenade and back again. They were clearly visible in the morning light. An open invitation to curious kids and egg hunters.

  She hefted several large stones and piled them against the cement behind the nest. After levelling the dip, she hurriedly kicked the flipper tracks flat and added her own footprints. No evidence of the turtle remained. She sat on the edge of the cement and scrabbled in the detritus at the bottom of her rucksack for a pen or marker. She found a bottle of scarlet nail varnish that Eve had insisted she try. Perfect! After making sure no one was paying attention, she daubed three large dots of polish onto the wall to mark the spot. She would return.

  *

  The town still slept, apart from some activity and subdued light coming from an alley that led off the quayside. Beach-side café lights went on. The smell of fresh bread reached her and she imagined the baker tipping racks of crusty cobs off oven trays. Moments later, a door opened, and the baker, rotund and wrapped in an enormous white apron, hefted a wicker basket of bread into the street.

  ‘Ela, psomi! Come, bread!’ he yelled. On hearing the cry, lights went on and women appeared, taking one or two loaves.

  ‘Kaliméra,’ they called to each other, their smiles as bright and sincere as their well wishes for a good day.

  The scent of fresh bread made Shelly’s mouth water and her brain cry out for strong, rich coffee. In the shade of a magnificent mulberry tree, Shelly drank from a bottle of water to soothe her throat.

  Again, she recalled that first holiday on the island of Syros, only remembering her childish delight of building sandcastles with her father. He had her running up and down the beach with buckets of water for the moat. There were ice creams, and warnings about not eating her dinner if she had one more! And of course, the sea. But if she really concentrated on taking her mind back, remembering how it was, then perhaps the hay fever that made Gertie sniffle and her eyes water was not hay fever at all. Did Gertie really go to her room every afternoon? Shelly suspected she would have to visit the island of Syros to find out the answers to her questions, or perhaps Gertie would reveal all on a later cassette.

  Flat water in Kea’s bay glinted with a web of refracted sunlight, like a giant turquoise dreamcatcher holding down nightmares. Shelly could imagine Gertie’s terrible experience here, screams of terror and fear. In a blink the image disappeared, leaving nothing but peace and beauty.

  The taverna owner’s eyes shifted her way as he unlocked the restaurant door, clearly surprised to see a stranger at his table before eight in the morning.

  ‘Kaliméra!’ he called, which she knew meant good morning. ‘One moment, I come.’

  She nodded. The excitement of the last couple of hours still buzzed through her. She wanted to voice her experience, share the thrill, tell of the turtle, yet she knew the importance of discretion.

  A ferry rounded the lighthouse. She watched it reverse skilfully up to the quayside by the harbour wall, the tailgate down long before it reached land. The minute the mooring lines were hefted over the stanchions, passengers and vehicles poured onto the island. Cars raced up from nowhere, parking randomly, dragging boxes from the ferry and cramming them into their cars and pick-ups. People kissed, hugged, hurried, and everyone shouted. Cafés filled, and suddenly Kea had come to life.

  CHAPTER 14

  GERTIE

  Greece, 1916.

  OUR LIFEBOAT ROCKED VIOLENTLY. The desperate call to Mother had hardly reached utterance when a deafening noise tore through the air. I slammed my hands over my ears. The propellers ground to a halt. Rebounding waves sent our rocking lifeboat scudding violently against the side of the long ship – away from that bloody finale.

  Gasping and sobbing with disbelief, everyone stared at the bronze fins looming over us only yards ahead. Although they receded, I half expected them to resume turning with their murderous intent.

  Delirious with relief, I started to laugh, and laugh, before tears raged down my face. How fine is the line between life and death? At any second, everything could change. Who held our fate in their hands? Our Captain, God, Satan, throwing dice on who would get our souls? We had to get away from there immediately.

  ‘She’s alive!’ someone at the front yelled, breaking my erratic train of thought. Several men heaved a woman in nurse’s uniform out of the water. Oh God, it was Josephine, my cabinmate, Josephine, alive! The boy scout slid down the rope and swam on his back, away from the ship, legs frogging it, arms like windmills, the adult’s lifesaver keeping him buoyant. Far above us, we could see other lifeboats being lowered. Our boat drifted away from the propellers, towards the front of the vessel. Then I realised the current of water pouring into the front portholes, the ones I had opened, was pulling us along.

  Someone shouted, ‘The ship’s gonna roll, pull hard, lads!’

  Our skipper ordered, ‘Take us clear of the funnels or we’re damned for sure!’

  I stood, placed my palms against the metal hull and pressed for all I was worth. The skipper pushed his oar against the ship’s side too. Suddenly, the lifeboat seemed to break the suction. We lurched away with such abruptness I lost my balance. In an instant, I tumbled over the side, hit the water, and was going down. The cork lifesaver was no match for the weight of my long uniform.

  Through my blurred, underwater vision, I could see the clinkered bottom of the white lifeboat, the red-brown antifoul below the Britannic, sunlight reflecting through flotsam and dismembered bodies on the surface. Father’s voice resonated in my head: Promise you’ll never give up, Gertie!

  The tapes of my lifesaver floated before my face and I realised I hadn’t tied them properly. I grasped for them, feeling a sharp stab of pain in my wrist, then a wisp of blood before my eyes. I looked towards the seabed. In a shaft of refracted sunlight Sissy’s watch glinted and flashed, beckoning me to follow as it spiralled down, out of reach. Down, into the unknown.

  Dragged under by my blue serge dress, long apron, and petticoat, I struck out in an effort to swim to the surface. Up, up, up towards air, a breath, a chance, but despite kicking hard, the skirt hindered my legs and the weight of my uniform was too much for my feeble arms to battle against. I won’t give up, Papa! The lifesaver was under my chin. I struggled to pull it down, but it seemed determined to leave me. I remembered my father’s hand over my face pushing me under the water and I kicked with all my might for he who had tried to teach me this lesson.

  *

  I believe I was still plunging downward, my eyes fixed on the blurred, glinting shape of Sissy’s watch as it danced a zig-zag path into the depths. I recall thinking I must keep trying, or I would go past the point of no return. At that moment, I glimpsed a slick grey torpedo shape loom out of the darkness and race towards me. Now I was done for.

  My thoughts went to my dead siblings, sure I was about to join them. The lifesaver passed over my face and headed for the surface. Hit hard in the belly, then pushed helplessly through the water at inescapable speed, I saw air bubbles, lifeboat wreckage and body parts fly by. Everything was so confused, I didn’t know which direction I was going, up or down? How could I be travelling at this terrifying speed?

  Shock hit me when I broke the w
ater’s surface in an explosion of foam, my arms and legs flailing and my scream finding voice in a most unladylike way. Shocked, I realised whatever thrust me through the sea with such alarming urgency was a living thing. How was that possible? The strength and speed by which I’d been forced upward, racing towards a life-saving breath, was impossible to comprehend; and by an animal . . . a creature that I sensed had exceptional power and intelligence.

  They hauled me back into the lifeboat. Hands tugged at my clothes, people groaning under the weight of me, my ungainly clumsiness as nurses and crew manhandled me back to my seat.

  I shook violently, teeth chattering, another scream trapped in my chest while I tried to grasp what had happened. The priest yanked his jacket off, having had the forethought to put it on over his lifesaver. He kindly wrapped it around my shoulders.

  ‘You’re safe! Praise be to God! That was a glorious thing, to be sure,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it!’ He crossed himself and raised his voice. ‘We prayed for a miracle, dear brethren, and Our Lord delivered. Trust in Him and thou shall be saved!’ he cried over the boat, taking full credit for my rescue.

  Sobbing and coughing up seawater, I curved myself into the strong, safe arms of the baker. ‘What happened?’ I gasped when I could finally speak. ‘At first, I thought it was a torpedo. It hit me so hard in the belly and lifted me. I was drowning . . . going down . . . down.’

  ‘A dolphin,’ the priest cried over the racket now coming from the ship. ‘Brought you clean out of the water. I never would have believed such a thing if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.’ He struggled to his feet and raised his hands. ‘Glory be to God!’ Then he wobbled a little and plopped back onto his bottom.

  For a moment, everyone stared at the spot where the creature had disappeared. Somebody started clapping, then everyone joined in, whooping and hollering in a manic kind of joy. Yes, miracles do happen, and everyone on that lifeboat understood they had witnessed one.