Aphrodite's Island Page 7

  ‘It wasn’t Greeks who owned it,’ I tell him. ‘The owners were English – my father and mother.’

  ‘You live here then?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t remember where it was.’

  ‘Your mother and father not remember?’

  ‘They’re both dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ His face softens a little. ‘That is sorry.’ He begins to wipe the table and it looks as if I have drawn a blank. Then he looks up, his eyes brightening. ‘English man and lady living here, in village. Old people. Maybe they remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Perhaps they might. Can you tell me where they live?’

  The route takes me back over a road I have already traversed but, as I draw up outside the house, I experience a shock of recognition. There are the three Moorish arches and the terrace, now empty of its tables and bright sun umbrellas. The sign above the door has gone, but I am in no doubt that this is the house in the photograph. As I walk up the path from the road, I have an uncanny sense of familiarity, almost as if I have become a small child again, wandering home after playing with friends in the village.

  My knock at the door is answered by a small, grey-haired man with a face like an elderly gnome and thin legs protruding from oversized khaki shorts.

  He greets me with a cheerful smile. ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’

  Suddenly I don’t know what to say. I have not given any thought as to how to introduce myself.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. My name’s Cressida Allenby and I think I used to live here once. I wondered if – if …’ I dry up. What do I want from these people? What did I expect to find?

  Surprisingly, his face lights up. ‘Allenby? Allenby? Come in, please, come in.’ He stands aside and beckons me in. ‘Come through to the back, where it’s shady. Can I offer you a drink? Beer? Lemonade?’ He leads me out onto a patio shaded by a large fig tree, and shouts down the garden, ‘Meg? Meg! Come up here. There’s a young lady called Allenby come to see us.’ Then, turning to me. ‘Do sit down. I’m sorry, what did you say your first name was?’

  ‘Cressida,’ I reply automatically. My brain seems to have gone into freefall. I have sat here, on that step, squeezing open the ripe figs, digging out the pulpy flesh with its crunchy seeds with my fingers. The green, earthy smell of the fruit comes back to me so strongly that I feel a sudden wave of nausea. I ate so many figs that my stomach was upset for days! Mother said … Mother was sitting at the table, shelling peas into a green plastic colander. Her hair was not mousy. In this light it was a complex, interwoven mass of amber and gold, hanging in a loose braid over one shoulder. I said …

  My host’s voice jerks me back to the present. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say? I was just …. This place brings back so many memories.’

  ‘Not to worry!’ He smiles at me cheerfully. ‘I can quite understand that. I said, you must have been very small when you lived here.’

  I stare at him. ‘You know when we left? I mean, otherwise …’

  ‘’74, wasn’t it? Must have been.’

  A tall woman with a rope of grey hair wound precariously on top of her head comes up from a lower terrace, carrying a trug full of cucumbers and tomatoes. The little man jumps up.

  ‘Meg, this is Cressida Allenby. Cressida, this is my wife, Meg. Oh, just a minute! I’m being stupid. I haven’t even introduced myself. My name’s Oswald Wentworth. Please call me Os, everyone does.’

  ‘How do you do?’ I say automatically. The sight of this tiny man beside his tall, large-boned wife makes me think of a Jack Russell terrier beside an Old English Sheepdog.

  Mrs Wentworth is saying, ‘Allenby? Did your people own this place when it was a pub?’

  ‘Yes, yes, we’ve already established that,’ her husband breaks in. ‘Where’s that box? Do you remember where we put it?’

  ‘Yes, I remember quite well.’ His wife has a grave serenity that contrasts with his excitability and reinforces the doggy image. ‘I’ll go and find it.’ She smiles at me. ‘Would you like a drink? I’m going to bring some lemonade for us, anyway. But perhaps you would rather have a beer?’

  ‘Lemonade would be lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Good. Do sit down and make yourself at home. I shall be back in a minute.’

  As we seat ourselves again, Os Wentworth says, ‘It’s such a pleasure to hear an English voice! We don’t get many visitors these days.’

  ‘Did you know my parents?’

  ‘No, sorry. Never met them. Heard them spoken of, but never actually ran across them. We were living in Nicosia then. We bought this place when I retired six years ago – bought it from the Johnsons, who bought it from your parents when everything calmed down after the invasion – sorry, “peace operation”. We wanted to be sure that it had always been in English hands, pre ’74, you see. Dodgy business buying anything expropriated from the Greeks. If we ever get a settlement they might come and demand it back – with some justification, I suppose. And recently the chances of a settlement seem to be rather better.’

  I feel lost and stupid. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I really don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You don’t?’ He looks surprised. Then, ‘No, of course, why should you? It’s all ancient history to you. Very much part of everyday life to us here, I’m afraid.’

  His wife calls from the house, ‘Os, can you come and carry this, please? I can’t manage the tray and the box.’

  He jumps up with a murmured ‘Excuse me a minute’ and scampers into the house, to return a moment later carrying a tray with a jug and glasses. Meg follows him bearing a rather battered and discoloured cardboard box, which she places on the table in front of me.

  ‘We found this when we moved in, in the little box room that Os now uses as a study. I suppose the Johnsons put it in there out of the way, in case anyone came for it. We didn’t know how to contact you – or your parents, rather – so we just tucked it in the bottom of a cupboard.’

  I look inside the box. There is an A4-size notebook with faded maroon board covers and a sheaf of papers that appear to have been torn from a loose-leaf pad. I open the book and glance at the first page.

  ‘It’s my mother’s writing!’ I scan the opening lines. ‘It seems to be some kind of journal. I had no idea she ever kept one.’

  ‘Well, they were exciting times, in a way. Perhaps she felt she wanted to keep a record of what was going on,’ Meg Wentworth replies, in her calm, easy voice. ‘Then, I suppose, in all the panic of getting out, these got left behind.’

  ‘Panic?’ I query. ‘I’m sorry, I feel I should know, but I don’t. What happened?’

  ‘That was when the Turks invaded. This strip along the north coast was a war zone for several days and all the ex-pats were evacuated. It was chaotic at the time. I’m not surprised things got left behind. You don’t remember anything about it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. At least … vaguely. But I’ve always thought it was just a bad dream.’

  Meg leans over and pats my hand. ‘I’m not surprised. It was a nightmare for all of us.’

  ‘Were you evacuated too?’

  Os chuckles. ‘No, not us! We stuck it out. We’ve been here right through the whole lot, haven’t we, Meg? Right from ’55.’

  ‘’55?’ The date sparks a recollection. ‘That was when my father was stationed here, in the army.’

  ‘Ah well, then you’ll know all about it,’ Os says.

  ‘No, he never spoke of his time here – as far as I can recall. What happened?’

  ‘The Greek-speaking population wanted independence from Britain and to be governed from Athens. What they called enosis – union with the motherland. There was a very active terrorist organization that went by the name of EOKA – Ethniki Organosis Kyprion Agoniston. Your father was probably sent out here to fight them.’

  ‘So was it still going on in 1974, when we came back here?’

  ‘We had a quieter spell after independence but then it all started up again,
with EOKA B, as they called themselves. Of course, the Turkish minority didn’t want to be ruled by Athens. It was when the Greeks looked like going ahead with enosis despite them that the mainland Turks invaded.’

  ‘And the island has been divided ever since?’

  ‘Sadly, yes.’

  ‘Why did you stay, if there was so much trouble?’

  ‘It was my job. I worked in the Governor’s Office until independence. When that came we didn’t fancy going home. We’d made a life here, and come to love the place in spite of everything. I got a job with the British Consulate and we stayed on. Then, when retirement came, we bought this place. We’ve always wanted to be here on the north coast, even though it did mean crossing the border.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Meg says, ‘your parents decided to go home. Where are they now?’

  ‘I’m afraid they’re both dead.’

  ‘Oh no! Oh, I am sorry!’

  ‘But your father got out all right, didn’t he?’ Os says. ‘I mean, I remember there was a problem of some sort. That’s why the name was familiar. We had some dealings with your mother at the Consulate. He was missing, wasn’t he – just before the invasion?’

  ‘Was he?’ I stare at him. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Well, of course, you wouldn’t remember anything about it. But I’m sure there was something … We even had troops out looking for him. But anyway, he did get out, when the evacuation came?’

  ‘Well, yes, he must have done. I remember him coming back to England with us. At least, I remember him in England, when I started school.’

  ‘How did he die?’ Meg asks gently.

  ‘I don’t know. I was only six years old. I just remember my mother telling me that he was never coming back. He travelled a lot, you know, as a foreign correspondent. Journalism was his proper job, not running a pub.’ I don’t want to talk about this so I turn to the box in front of me. ‘Thank you so much for keeping this all these years. I shall really enjoy reading my mother’s journal.’ I pick up the sheaf of loose papers again. ‘I don’t know what these are. They seem to be written in Greek.’

  ‘May I see?’ Os reaches out a hand and I pass him the yellowing pages. ‘Yes, it’s Greek script all right.’

  ‘It’s odd. I’m pretty sure my mother couldn’t even speak Greek. Let alone write it.’

  Os hands back the papers. ‘Look, I don’t think I should pry into these. I’ve just glanced at the first one and it’s pretty obviously a love letter.’

  ‘A love letter? Who to – and who from?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. The first one just begins “my only beloved”. There isn’t a name.’

  ‘You understand Greek?’

  ‘Yes. It was part of my job to translate documents.’

  I free the first few sheets from the sheaf and turn them over. Were they letters addressed to my mother? If so, who from? Then I look at the bottom of the page.

  ‘There’s a signature here. Stephen! They’re from my father. But why would he write in Greek?’

  I look from Os to his wife. Both return my gaze with widened eyes and lifted eyebrows. Their expressions say as clearly as words, it’s none of our business. I finish my drink and shuffle the papers together.

  ‘Look, I really must be going. Thank you so much for the drink, and for these.’

  ‘Won’t you stay for some lunch?’ Meg asks. ‘It’s only a salad, but you’re most welcome.’

  Suddenly I want very much to be alone, to think. ‘It’s very kind of you but I can’t stay. I promised to meet someone.’ The lie comes easily.

  ‘Well, come and see us again while you’re on the island. How long are you staying?’ Os gets to his feet and begins to shepherd me back towards the front door.

  ‘Just ten days. Thank you. I’d like that.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to look round the house, see if it brings back memories,’ Meg suggests.

  ‘Yes, I would, another time. Thanks again.’

  They escort me to the car and wave me off, calling, ‘Don’t forget. You’re welcome any time.’

  I head downhill towards the sea, but I have only gone a few hundred yards when I become aware of a sudden trickle of fluid from my nose. I put the backs of my fingers to my nostrils and they come away with a bright smear of blood. Hastily, I pull the car in to the side of the road and scrabble in my bag for a tissue. There is only one, and that so worn and crumpled as to be almost useless. Clasping it to my nose, I scramble out of the car. After the air-conditioned interior, the heat almost takes my breath away. A few yards further along an ancient fig tree leans over the wall of an abandoned garden. I stumble into the shade and bend over, supporting myself with one hand on the wall. Heavy drops of blood splash onto the ground and are swallowed up almost immediately by the parched soil. I feel dizzy. I pinch my nostrils to staunch the flow and sink to the ground. At that moment I feel the tremor of a distant explosion.

  I am a child again, screaming as the noise rips the air just above my head. There is a crash like thunder, very close by, and huddled against the protective wall I feel the earth shudder, while the tree above my head is shaken by a great wind which sends leaves and unripe figs showering down upon me. Sobbing, I cry out ‘Mummy! Daddy!’ but the sound is lost as the sky splits open with another roar. There is a blinding flash and another crash which sends me cowering against the earth, my hands over my ears. Then my arm is seized and I am lifted to my feet. A voice shouts something incomprehensible but I recognize the face. It’s the angel-boy who comes to visit my mother sometimes. His face is streaked with dirt and his golden hair is matted with sweat, but he smiles reassuringly and I cling to him as tightly as I can as he picks me up. He begins to run with me up the lane towards my home. The terrifying roar comes again, this time accompanied by a sharp rattling noise. The boy gasps and checks his stride for an instant, and I see that the sleeve of his shirt is suddenly red with blood, but he keeps his hold on me and runs on. Watching the blood run down his arm, I notice that he is carrying something – some rolled-up bits of paper. I wonder why he doesn’t drop them. Then we are at the gate, running up to the terrace and in, under the archway, to the cool darkness of the house.

  I open my eyes. The air is still and the only sound is the rasping of cicadas in the long grass. I am soaked with sweat and there are bloodstains down the front of my shirt. I struggle unsteadily to my feet and get into the car. All I can think of is an urgent desire to get back to the cool security of the hotel.

  CHAPTER 8

  Back in my room I shower and change my clothes. Then I sit down in front of the dressing table and study my reflection in the mirror. What happened back there under the fig tree? Did I doze off and dream the explosion and the boy with the angel face? Did I pass out – faint at the sight of my own blood? Surely not. I, Cressida Allenby, who can party all weekend and still arrive for work bright eyed and bushy tailed on Monday, ready to inspire even 4WZ with an interest in Macbeth or the poetry of Wilfred Owen. Behaving like a Victorian lady with an attack of the vapours? What was that all about?

  I examine my face. My mother’s doctor said I looked washed out. It’s true. I am pale. Pasty, Mother would have called it. There are blue shadows under my eyes. I run my fingers along my jawline, aware for the first time of a softening and loosening of the flesh – the first faint signs of inevitable deliquescence and decay. Twenty-eight. In just over a year I shall be thirty. Already there is a faint tracery of lines at the corners of my eyes. At my age my mother was married, with a child. Well, so what? That was expected for her generation. But being unmarried is one thing. It is altogether different being single, unattached, unspoken for. For a moment Paul’s face floats into my memory, but I close my mind to it. It is over; finished.

  I open the box the Wentworths gave me and take out my mother’s journal. As I open it the same faint odour of damp and decay that the photographs have comes to my nostrils, and with it the ghost of Je Reviens. Or is that my imagination? I turn a page or two, then clos
e the book and put it back in the box. I can’t face it now. What I need is some lunch and perhaps a swim.

  It seems the tour party has not returned, so I eat lunch on the terrace in solitary splendour. Afterwards, I change into my swimming costume, lather my limbs with sun cream and stretch out on a lounger by the pool. Sometime later I come to with a headache and an uncomfortable feeling that my legs have been too long in the sun. There is movement and voices nearby and I see that the other guests have returned and are settling themselves around the pool. A couple nearby smile and nod in a friendly manner but I don’t feel inclined to chat, so I smile back and get up and dive into the pool.

  I have always thought of myself as a strong swimmer and I have made a habit of going to the local baths at least once a week. I set out to swim twenty lengths, an easy target, but by the time I have accomplished five my legs feel heavy and my heart is thumping. Is it really possible to lose condition to such an extent in a few short weeks? I press on grimly for another three but finally have to give in. Even the effort of hauling myself out of the water makes my head swim and for a moment I have to double over at the side of the pool.

  ‘Miss Allenby? Are you all right?’

  I straighten up as quickly as I can. Karim Mezeli is standing beside me. His hand is outstretched as if to take me by the arm, but as I look at him he apparently thinks better of it. Instead he says, ‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water?’

  I force a smile. ‘No, really, I’m fine. Thank you. Just a bit too much sun, I expect.’

  He nods gravely. He is casually dressed in a polo shirt and jeans but there is something formal and restrained in his manner. ‘You must be careful. English people so often fail to understand how powerful the sun is here. It can be dangerous, especially for someone as fair as you.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be more sensible from now on. I think I must have fallen asleep.’

  There is a pause, and I sense that we are both trying to find a way of prolonging the conversation. Embarrassed, I turn away and sit down on the sun-lounger. He says, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to …’