Summer in Greece

by Patricia Wilson

  He scratched the back of his head and squinted sideways. ‘Mm, two months back we had a client and nobody available to take him. But diving just for fun – for me – perhaps two years ago.’

  She grinned at him, in their shared understanding. ‘About the museum, brainstorming’s pretty good, at least you get to see who’s really interested and enthusiastic.’ She took a breath. ‘I could give you a hand when I get back home. I mean, I don’t have to be here to help set up a website and I’ve just finished my latest online study. You could have it up and running by the time I come back.’

  ‘You’re coming back?’

  An intense moment passed between them. ‘Possibly, for the turtles.’ She saw a question in his eyes as they met hers. And maybe for you, she mused, but didn’t say. Her eyes narrowed as a soft smile dusted his mouth. He knew – and she was glad, they were on the same level.

  *

  Word spread that Shelly was the great-granddaughter of one of the surviving nurses from HMHS Britannic. Everyone treated her like a celebrity. The dive video was fascinating. She longed to go down and see the enormous wreck for herself, but the preparation made it impossible for the moment. Perhaps next time. However, Harry did have a surprise for her.

  He took her for dinner at the highest point of the island, the village of Ioulis. ‘Ee-oo-lees!’ he said, pronouncing it for her. The small town was pedestrianised. Square houses with small windows and red-tiled roofs clustered over two hilltops, these were also sprinkled with belltowers and churches. ‘So pretty,’ she murmured as they wandered along narrow streets marked with little painted arrows on the cobbles to guide the visitors. The ground floor of some houses had been converted into shops and all manner of handcrafted gifts were on sale. She bought a beautiful silk scarf hand-painted with magnolia flowers and local birds for Eve, knowing she’d love it.

  ‘I paint this,’ the woman said while patting her chest.

  ‘You did it?’ Shelly was astonished. Harry took a photo of Shelly and the woman, Despina, with the scarf held up between them. Then Despina led them to a café across the road where her sister served them with coffee and a type of shortbread smothered in icing sugar.

  After, they wandered down arched passageways lined with more interesting shops, and bought a jar of honey in one emporium simply to stop the owner almost force feeding them various bee products, including several tots of honey rum.

  They turned their attention towards the churches and the view out across the Kea channel towards mainland Greece.

  ‘It’s all so pretty,’ Shelly exclaimed as they came out of the church of Agios Spyridon.

  Harry beamed, proud of his island. They wandered down narrow streets with brightly painted shutters, under arches, and up and down steps.

  ‘I’d never have found all these special places by myself,’ Shelly said, pointing her camera at another bright pink door flanked by urns of fiery orange nasturtiums with leaves of shamrock green.

  ‘This is so perfect,’ Shelly muttered. ‘I’m drunk on the glorious colours.’

  ‘Ah, nothing to do with three tots of honey rum then?’ Harry joked.

  As evening fell, he slipped his hand around her waist and ushered her through a doorway. She found herself in a charming taverna where the host led them to a small, jasmine entwined, balcony with a view down the mountain.

  ‘Smell that perfume.’ She gazed at the tiny, white flowers that dripped from the trellises around them. ‘Such dainty flowers, but the scent’s intoxicating, it’s so powerful!’

  He plucked a sprig and placed it behind her ear, his fingertips lingering on her neck. ‘Happy birthday,’ he said.

  She gazed down the mountain, towards the darkening, cobalt sea, and watched occasional headlights snake up the road from the port. Delicious aromas drifted from the taverna kitchen, making her realise how hungry she was. To the sound of tinkling bouzouki music, they ate local food. Starting with a mezze, bite-size pieces of local sausage and a variety of cheeses, before lazily moving on to the main course. Shelly ordered lobster spaghetti, one of Kea’s most popular dishes, according to Harry. He had rooster in wine sauce. They fed each other forkfuls to try, both claiming they had the better dish.

  ‘Absolutely delicious,’ she said, placing her knife and fork together. ‘Who’d think there would be such a gastronomic delight at the top of a mountain on a tiny island?’

  ‘Tell me about the Lusitania. I’d have given my right arm.’

  ‘Ha, yes, I have a few extra qualifications and they got me onto the team.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You’ll find this painfully boring. Zoology was part of my six-year veterinary degree. Once I’d qualified, I did a one-year Open University course in Marine Biology. I started to study for my Ship’s Safety Officer certificate because, sometimes, I found myself concerned by the relaxed attitude on dive boats. Afterwards, I completed a paramedic science course, which took a year. I’ve just finished the last stage of the follow-on, which qualifies me as a paramedic. It’s really fascinating and I love it. Plus, of course, I have a fair number of deep dives under my belt.’

  ‘What’s next, pilot’s licence?’ he said in a sarcastic tone.

  Her head snapped up, ready for a rebuff but he was grinning, and she laughed. ‘I’m a bit sad, aren’t I? It’s just, well, it’s only a couple of hours study each evening, then I end up with a real qualification. I’ve done it since uni. Prefer a challenge to nights of monotonous TV and social media. I mean . . .’ She shrugged.

  ‘What was the Lusitania like?’ he asked again.

  She hesitated.

  ‘It was the most dangerous dive I’ve done, and not that wonderful. So many missiles down there, and the visibility poor.’ She turned her mouth down. ‘How about you? What’s your favourite so far?’

  ‘I plan to show you one of my favourite dives tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness, you’re spoiling me!’ She had wondered why he ordered water with the meal, now she understood.

  ‘I hoped to dive while I was here, so this is too good to be true, thank you, Harry.’

  ‘Well, it’s me that should thank you. You made me think when you said we end up working for the wrong reasons. I haven’t had a recreational dive for a long time. It’s always business, you know?’

  She nodded. ‘Where are you taking me? I must confess; I only know a little information about the Britannic. I didn’t have time to research.’ She felt overwhelmed. ‘I’m so excited! Please tell me where, and all the details.’

  ‘It’s the Burdigala. Three kilometres out, seventy metres down, upright, on her keel. She sank just seven days before the Britannic, and there’s only two miles between them. Also, and you’ll love this, she was the second largest ship in Greek seas, only the Britannic being larger.’

  ‘What a lot of coincidences.’ They both stared out into the dark, their eyes drawn to the distant beam of the lighthouse. ‘Was there . . . I mean, did anyone die?’

  He nodded. ‘A young engineer, French, killed by a broken steam pipe.’

  ‘Poor kid.’

  He nodded. ‘Awful. But the same questions remain. Did the Burdigala hit a mine or was she torpedoed?’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a mystery, and for that reason, my favourite dive.’ He grinned. ‘You’ll love it.’

  The excitement in his voice, matching her own thrill, sent shivers through her. ‘I’m sure I will, thank you so much. I can’t wait. Where was she destined, Lemnos?’

  ‘No, the other way. Heading for France to take on troops. At 10.45 a.m., same time as the Britannic, a midships, starboard explosion, identical to the Britannic, and like the Britannic, sank within the hour.’

  ‘Good heavens, surely that’s too many coincidences to be a coincidence? What do you think? You must be intrigued by it all?’

  ‘I think we should consider a pudding.’

  ‘A man after my own heart.’

  ‘I am.’ Her head snapped up. What was he saying? ‘Intrigued by
it all,’ he said, seeing her fluster and laughing. ‘Let’s get the dessert menu.’ He raised a hand.

  ‘According to the report, a periscope was spotted,’ he said, then turned to the waiter and waved the menu away. ‘Baklava and ice cream.’

  Shelly glanced down the menu. ‘Yogurt and honey with local walnuts, please.’ She returned her attention to Harry. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Even though the ship was sinking, the Captain ordered the Burdigala’s gunner to fire at the periscope. Fifteen cannon rounds were deployed, but who knows if they were successful? We’ve never discovered a submarine wreck.’

  ‘But that same submarine may have sunk the Britannic a week later?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Was the channel known to be mined?’

  He shrugged, held his hands out, palms up. ‘How could they know? It was a busy sea lane, but the other ships were smaller, therefore not so low in the water.’

  Shelly thought for a moment. ‘I’m guessing mines would be held by a cable or chain to an anchor, yes.’ He nodded. ‘Even if the depth was two hundred metres, it would be a difficult and time-consuming operation for a German ship to lay a series of mines at that depth, unseen, in a busy channel. Anyway, there seems little point in such a risky operation for one or two mines.’

  ‘Good thinking, Shelly.’ Harry grinned.

  ‘Elementary, my dear Harry.’ Shelly laughed. ‘Your English is very good.’

  ‘British education. Bristol uni.’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘Harry, if both sides were eager to brag about their destructions, well, we know why Germany wouldn’t want to say they torpedoed the Britannic – because it was a hospital ship – and there was an international agreement. But, why wouldn’t they want to say they torpedoed the Burdigala? Unless . . . it wasn’t the Germans?’

  Harry raised his eyebrows and smiled quizzically.

  ‘No . . . you’re not saying . . . that someone was after the submarine and inadvertently torpedoed our own ship?’ She shook her head. ‘Twice? I don’t think so. Or . . .’ She sighed, sensing she was on to something, but didn’t know what. ‘I’ll give up on that for the moment. Are there any other mysteries connected to the wreck? Any First World War nurses walk the Kea beaches on the night of a full moon, for example?’

  Harry laughed. ‘No, but there is the ship’s bell. The prize of all bounty divers. A huge thing, situated up the radio mast. Reached by a spiral staircase inside the mast. Would have sounded the distress signal. Every dive has a look for it, but no luck so far.It’s my quest, my passion, to find that bell. It’s all so fascinating, don’t you think?’

  ‘I won’t be able to sleep now, thanks very much!’ she admonished him playfully.

  On the dark balcony, the night-flowering jasmine opened fully, surrounding them with small white stars. The scent increased, heady and intoxicating. Twinkling village lights illuminated the town’s cluster of red-tiled roofs and domed churches. Couples strolled along the cobbled streets below. When the breeze changed direction, she caught the aroma of barbecued lamb being turned on a spit, or warm honey, basil, or cinnamon. Far away, she could see the lights of great container ships and crude-oil tankers slipping through the Kea channel. She wondered if the taverna had existed when the Britannic went down, because the event would have been clearly visible from such a vantage point.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I’m trying to decide if this is the best birthday I’ve ever had.’

  He smiled right into her eyes. ‘Don’t decide yet. The night is still young. What would you like to do next?’

  CHAPTER 18

  GERTIE

  Kea, 1916.

  THE SCHOOL ROOM THRONGED WITH nursing staff and crew, yet I could only see two men in coal-blackened vests. I remembered the firemen’s change of shift. That endless tramping of feet on the spiral staircase behind my cabin, down into the belly of the ship. There must have been many stokers to fuel such an enormous vessel. Were they drowned in the bowels of the boiler room, trapped inside as she went down, or picked up by the rescuing battleships?

  I remembered the trundling racket of the watertight fire doors opening for the change of shift, but I don’t recall hearing them again. Perhaps in the panic, I’d missed it. Please God don’t let all those poor, coal covered men still be in the boiler room at the bottom of the sea.

  I rushed around, searching for Matron to ask. My heart was thumping and my tears queuing up, waiting for the first chance of release. I saw Nurse Josephine across the room and squeezed through the crowd.

  ‘Please, Nurse Josephine,’ I called.

  She stopped and turned around. ‘Gertie, thank goodness you’re safe, I was concerned.’

  ‘Can you tell me if all the firemen got away safely? It seems there are only two here.’

  She shrugged. ‘I think they all escaped. They got into trouble for lowering a boat and rowing away from the ship without orders. The Sergeant ordered them back and made them pick up drowning people. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, I was worried they might be trapped. What happened to the poor engineer who lost his foot, the patient we hauled out of the water? Did he die? I gave him some of my blood.’

  ‘It was you? Everyone’s talking about it. Why are you crying?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Josephine . . . I really don’t know. I want to go home.’

  I kept myself busy with the other VADs, as we became accustomed to this strange place. We tore a sheet into strips for bandages, helped local women cut up bread and cheese, and washed cups and jars as they became empty. Several of the survivors needed medical attention, like the boy scout who had deep rope-burns on his hands. The surgeon, pale and tired, his long, sensitive fingers scrubbed to within an inch of their lives, was talking to Matron. The local doctor, short and round and brown-skinned, was attending to Perkins, clearly unconscious and stretched across three café tables.

  *

  By late afternoon, word passed around that we would be collected in a day or two. The local schoolmaster, Mr Pantalies, spoke English. He took charge of the situation, billeting the Britannic’s medical staff and crew with various local families.

  I found myself in the care of an elderly woman, wizened yet spritely, with dancing eyes paled by cataracts. Her house, standing directly on the harbour, consisted of a single room, a spacious white cube with small shuttered windows and one door that opened onto the quayside. Leaning against the front of the cottage were an upturned row-boat, heaps of yellow fishing net, and a single chair with a sagging, rush-mat seat. A tall iron anchor stood rusting by the window and, next to that, a donkey with a rope connecting one front leg to a hind leg. A chipped enamel bucket of water stood next to the beast and a hammock of greens hung from a nail in the wall of the house.

  The blue front door was in two parts, the top hooked open. The woman in black led me inside, and I was surprised to see the room had a compacted earthen floor, a quarter of which was taken up by the largest raised mezzanine bed I had ever seen. Three wide wooden steps, flanked by polished cupboards and drawers, led up to the sleeping platform. The small space on either side was filled by rough-plank shelves stacked with neatly folded linen.

  Two feet below the beamed ceiling, another rough shelf fringed the room crammed with bric-a-brac. Gaudy painted plates, exotic flowers made of starched linen, feathers, and pine cones; china figurines, Jesus pictures complete with bleeding hearts and crowns of thorns, a silver crucifix, and ornate oil lamps that I doubted had ever been lit.

  On crocheted doilies that hung, limp as Dali’s clocks, over the edge of the shelf, stood the most bizarre collection of fishing memorabilia. A spider crab, open claws raised towards the ceiling as if waiting to hug God, and a giant clamshell, pale as a dead circus clown, grinned lifelessly towards the door.

  Below the shelf, even more out of sync with everything, hung a metre-wide tapestry of a Swiss scene depicting swans on a lake surrounded by snowy mounta
in peaks. Next to the tapestry, the contents of a dark-wood frame drew my attention. Outlined in chalk and charcoal, on heavy grey paper, was a simple, classical drawing of a naked young man with what appeared to be a pair of real white bird’s wings outstretched from his shoulders.

  ‘Icarus! ’ the old woman yelled in a squeaky voice when she noticed my interest. ‘Icarus! ’ She wagged a crooked finger at the picture. I recalled my father and his pigeons at home and longed to hear him yelling at me in his loud, bombastic way.

  The room smelled of mothballs, bees wax, and basil.

  The petite woman, clearly proud of her home, banged a fist against her heart. ‘Yiayá! ’ she cried.

  I nodded, made a little bow, and mimicked her, thumping myself in the chest. ‘Gertie!’

  She pulled in her chin and frowned. ‘Tee? ’

  I smiled and nodded, pleased to connect with the grand lady. ‘Tee . . . yes, all right, that’ll do.’

  *

  Night fell quickly, as if God had his fill of this terrible day and drew the drapes. I ventured onto the quayside and sat on the old chest. Moments later, Manno appeared.

  ‘Are you OK now?’ He dropped his head to one side and thrust his hands into his pockets.

  I glanced into his eyes and then looked away. ‘Yes, thank you.’ I wanted to be bold, in control, yet in his company my insides quaked. He reduced me to something fragile and slightly frightened.

  ‘Come, walk with me around the harbour,’ he said.

  Flustered, I hesitated. In my medical training, I learned that patients came with instruction labels pinned to their chest, telling the nurse what to do. Also, we were told how to behave in certain situations. At that moment, I thought all men should come with an instruction book. Young women of a certain age and class would benefit from hints on how to handle unpredictable behaviour. How to deal with the forward ones, the men who took liberties, and those who melted a girl’s heart. Life was difficult enough without having to analyse every word uttered by exuberant young men. Was Manno asking me to walk out with him in a formal manner, or simply being friendly? ‘Um . . . I . . .’