The Summer of Secrets, page 3
‘I’m a freelance copy-editor and also the author of a reasonably successful Greek cookery book,’ I tell him. ‘I have a decent following of foodies on social media.’
‘What’s it called, this book of yours?’
I turn and grin at him. ‘It’s called: Smashing Plates, with the subtitle Flavours of the Greek Islands. It was a pleasure to produce and even more of a pleasure to recipe test. What a way to earn a living, eating! My long-term plan is to write a series: Greek food with a splash of posh.’
I drive in the direction of Brighton Marina and park on the sea front at Madeira Drive. We link arms and walk through the underpass that leads to the private gardens of Lewes Crescent. The Grade I-listed building has a white façade and glossy black wrought-iron railings.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ he mutters, gazing up at the building.
My grandmother, Sofía, had bought the top-floor apartment outright when she came from her Greek island. Even then, around seventy years ago, it must have cost a fortune. I wonder how simple people from a distant Mediterranean island could afford such a thing? Why they left Greece is another mystery. A taboo subject in our house. I don’t know the whole story and remind myself to quiz Uncle about it.
Once inside, he heads for the window and stares out over the gardens, to the sea beyond. ‘I love this place. What will you do with it, Olivia – move back in?’ he asks, sounding a little breathless.
I shake my head, taking two china mugs from the cupboard and filling the kettle as I speak. ‘The service charges are too high for me.’ Through no fault of my own, I lost my job recently. ‘Like I said, I’m working freelance right now, but the pay isn’t great. I’ll let the flat. The going rate will cover my mortgage in Hove.’ His eyebrows shoot up so I explain. ‘I have a small two-up two-down I bought with Andrew when we married. It became mine as part of the divorce settlement.’ I keep my voice light, trying to hide my bitterness on this sad day.
Something catches his eye on the windowsill as he turns. He reaches behind the heavy drape and picks it up. ‘Well, goodness me,’ he cries, peering at the old black-and-white photograph of two children. ‘I’d forgotten about this. It’s the earthquake girls!’
I frown and smile at the same time. Mummy had explained the picture was Granny Sofía when she was four years old and her older sister, María, at fifteen. María wears a flamboyant costume, which probably weighed more than she did and would account for the serious look on her beautiful face.
‘Is that the local costume María’s wearing?’
‘It’s her wedding dress.’
I gawp at him. ‘But she’s a child!’
He shakes his head. ‘Fifteen was the age when all the girls married – well, not Sofía, but that’s another story.’
‘What happened to María? Granny Sofía would never talk about her. Mum warned me not to pry, said it would upset her too much, so I didn’t. When I was younger, I imagined María died in some tragic accident, too horrible for Granny to speak about.’
‘I’ll tell you one day, but not just now. Too difficult, you see, especially today.’ Uncle stares at the picture for a long time. He says, ‘Tell me I can I have first refusal on the flat. I’ve always loved this place – it still feels like home and the photograph confirms that I belong here.’
I blink at him. ‘To tell the truth, that would be amazing. It would solve most of my problems, but would it be right for you? These flats have become terribly expensive, Uncle.’
‘I’m not exactly a poor pensioner, you know. We’ll see the estate agent together and ask about the charges.’
‘You’ll be shocked.’
‘It’s not a problem.’
‘Let’s agree to a fifty per cent reduction for family?’
‘Too much. How about twenty per cent?’
‘You drive a hard bargain, Uncle. Twenty-five per cent off the rent and I’ll throw in the furniture?’
‘Done!’ He turns and offers his slender hand, warm and dry in mine. We smile as we shake, both knowing Granny Sofía and Mummy would approve. The misery of the day lifts for a moment. Now I need to think about booking flights – to scatter my mother’s ashes over the sea, on the tiny Greek island of Castellorizo.
CHAPTER 4
MARIA
Castellorizo, Greece, 1926
AFTER THE EARTHQUAKE, THE WORLD held its breath. The detritus of a destroyed community floated over the harbour. They recovered the midwife’s body, then laid her to rest in the cemetery. Shattered planks – once brightly painted fishing boats – undulated gently on the dissipating wake of a grey patrol boat. Italian soldiers swarmed onto the island of Castellorizo like brown ants, small and fragile individually – formidable on mass. The soldiers erected rows of cream conical tents on every piece of flat ground, to the relief of homeless families.
‘They look like sow’s brassières,’ María claimed, pointing at two straight rows of six tents. She giggled hysterically, too young to appreciate the seriousness of the situation.
From across the channel, the benevolent Turks sent food, blankets and more water. The summer heat rose. Everyone’s discomfort made the wide-open spaces of Australia seem appealing. The broad-shouldered local men were adept at both sheep-shearing and sailing and, according to letters from friends, there were plenty of jobs awaiting hard workers. The few who still had a house standing started packing their possessions.
*
Mamá sat with her back against the trunk of the fallen rubber tree and took baby Sofía to her breast.
‘When I get married I’m going to have a hundred babies, Mamá,’ María said.
Her mother laughed. ‘You might change your mind after the first half dozen, María.’ She stroked her daughter’s long curly hair. ‘How are the men getting on?’
‘I’m going to the grandmothers’ house to see if they can sleep there. They say they’ll kill a chicken for dinner but they need help to catch it. Then I’m running errands for Babá and Uncle.’
She kissed her mother and the baby, then went to the grandmothers’ house in the bay of Mandraki, a short walk over the peninsula’s brow.
*
After tidying her grandmothers’ small house, María returned to her father.
‘Their back wall has the most damage. The lining-stones have slipped, Babá, breaking a chair and a few ornaments. Part of the ceiling has fallen too. But the outside’s all right.’
Trunks of sturdy pine stretched from wall to wall above the one-room house. Across these lay closely packed bamboo which supported dried grass, then a half-metre layer of wet clay that had baked hard, protecting the grandmothers from blazing summer sun and winter rains.
‘It doesn’t sound too bad. Can you see the sky from inside, María?’
‘No, luckily, only one patch of old bamboo collapsed. I’ve cleared the mess and dumped it outside. I’m sure you’ll be able to fix it in a few hours with Uncle’s help.’
‘Good. Much as I love them, I don’t want to listen to them snoring in the distillery all night.’
María giggled. ‘Is that where we’ll sleep, in the distillery?’
‘Exactly. Your uncle’s acquired half a dozen water cans. We’ve cleared our house pump, so we’ll fill the containers and take them up there as soon as we can borrow Mimi’s mule. Tonight, we’ll all sleep on sacks of myrtle leaves in the distillery.’
The long, rectangular building sat behind a row of pine trees at the back of the village. The elevated position meant it had an amazing view of the harbour. It housed three gigantic copper stills and all the equipment for making their famed precious oils.
Everyone was thirsty. Babá and Uncle Kuríllos pumped a little water up from the depósito, under our house for anyone with a cup. Word got around and soon a queue of desperately thirsty people reached across the square and down to the harbour.
A group of young Turks came to help. One, Mustafa, was the son of a merchant who traded with the people of Castellorizo and owned the most magnificent schooner that was anchored in the harbour.
Young Mustafa, a big, strong boy of sixteen, worked furiously at the head of a chain gang shifting rocks and rubble all through the night. The handsome youngster, liked by everyone, had rowed across the mile-wide strait between the Greek island of Castellorizo and the Turkish village of Kaş on the mainland. After eighteen hours of hard labour, he was both physically and emotionally drained.
Babá saw Mustafa stagger away from the rescue party and realised the boy was on the point of collapse. He caught sight of María carrying the family’s possessions to her grandmothers’ stone house.
‘Ela, María mou.’ Hey, María mine, Babá called. ‘Leave that for a moment and take this jug of water to the young Turk with his head in his hands.’ He gave her an enamel jug that had survived with hardly a dint.
María hurried over to the boy. ‘Here, my father sent this,’ she said, touching his shoulder and feeling embarrassed when he looked up, though she didn’t understand why. She wasn’t usually shy.
He smiled at her, which made her blink rapidly and feel slightly unbalanced. From his streaked face, it was clear he’d been upset. Quickly, she took the hanky from her apron pocket, dipped it into the water and wiped his cheeks.
‘That’s better,’ she said, matter-of-factly, feeling more at home being bossy. ‘Now get some water inside you and you’ll feel all right.’
He smiled wearily. ‘What’s your name, little one?’
‘I am María Konstantinidis.’
‘Ah, Konstantinidis, the perfume people?’
‘Well, not exactly just now. My mother had a baby yesterday, just as the earthquake ended. Anyway, it’s not perfume we make, it’s the precious oil that’s used in perfume.’
‘I know, my father and I take it to sell in Europe. I am Mustafa. My father has the three-masted schooner, the merchant sailing ship Barak. You must have seen it in the harbour. How old are you?’
‘María!’ Babá called.
‘Almost twelve. Look, I have to go. Will you take the jug back when you’re finished? My father’s the one dishing out water to that long queue.’
He nodded, eyes sparkling. ‘I’ll thank your father for his kindness.’
*
Two months passed before Mustafa and his father were back on the island of Castellorizo with a cargo of charcoal and oranges from Crete. Mustafa searched for María around the harbour, afraid she had been promised already, in which case she would be hidden away until her wedding day. A girl with such beauty was surely betrothed on her twelfth birthday to be married at fifteen, as was the Greek custom. Why hadn’t he asked her father when he had the chance?
Then he spotted her coming out of the bakery wearing the white headscarf of the virgin girls. ‘Hey, you there, princess. Take me to you father!’ he called.
María laughed. ‘I’m not a princess!’
She took his breath away. ‘Do you remember me?’
She nodded, cheeks burning as she peered, shyly, from under long lashes. ‘My father’s helping Mamá in the distillery.’
‘I see, then perhaps we can walk there together?’
‘Why do you want to see him?’
‘I have come to do business.’
‘It’s usually your father,’ she said as they walked up the steep narrow road between hurriedly rebuilt houses.
‘I’m learning my father’s trade, as I believe you are learning yours. Do you have a favourite precious oil, María?’
He wanted to take her hand as they walked but it was too soon and she was still too young. It would be improper to touch her. His father and her father had to make a betrothal contract and the dowry money must be agreed before he could even touch her hand.
María smiled at the Turkish merchant. ‘You are right. I am learning to make the precious oil.’ Feeling he understood her, she confessed a secret. ‘I want to mix a new perfume, although I haven’t managed to find exactly the right combination of oils yet. I’ll keep trying until I perfect the recipe.’
María’s heart raced, excited to recall her dream of a scent that made people love each other. An elixir that brought an end to all conflict. She wanted to tell him about it, but he’d think she was mad, so she said nothing.
‘How old did you say you were?’
‘I’m twelve, Mr Mustafa.’ María blushed again, lowering her gaze, intrigued and flattered by the attention of this handsome buccaneer. He made her heart race so much, she dared not look him in the eye. Anyway, since donning the white scarf a month ago, she was forbidden to look any man in the eye, that was a fact.
She smiled shyly, liking the way he spoke to her, as if she were more than just a child. She glanced his way and correctly guessed his age to be sixteen. Oh, how he made her heart race! Then, quite suddenly, she was afraid for no reason that she could say. She turned back and called, ‘I have to go. Goodbye, Mr Mustafa!’
With her heart pounding and a fire burning in her cheeks, she hurried back to her grandmothers’ dwelling on the chicken plot.
*
Over the next months, the Castellorizo people continued to rebuild their houses and life steadily returned to normal. Babá and Uncle Kuríllos loaded stones from their destroyed home on the square into a barrow and pushed them up the hill to rebuild against the front of the family’s distillery. A door was knocked into the back wall, so the women didn’t have to go outside to enter the distillery.
The two grandmothers, too old for physical labour or child-minding, finished María’s linen and started crocheting for the day that little Sofía would be married off. The men had made baby Sofía’s dowry chest from the best olive wood on the island.
CHAPTER 5
OLIVIA
Brighton, England, present day
TWO WEEKS AFTER MUMMY’S FUNERAL, I stride into Brighton with the tickets for Greece in my bag. I plan to collect Granny Sofía’s ashes which are still in Mummy’s attic. The urns should stand side by side as the two women had in life. We’ll soon be on our way to their homeland – a charming lump of rock that can’t even decide on its own name. Castellorizo or Kastellorizo or Megisti? The birthplace of my mother, Granny Sofía and Uncle.
My uncle once told me I have hundreds of relations from Castellorizo living in Australia too. My mother, Tsambika, or Sammy as everyone in Brighton called her, wasn’t interested in discussing her roots or relations. ‘No good comes from digging up the past, thank you,’ she would say. ‘Best leave it dead and buried, where it belongs.’
Uncle lets me into the apartment and kisses my cheeks. ‘My dear girl, you don’t know how delighted I am to see you,’ he exclaims, his eyes crinkling in a most charming way. He turns towards the window. ‘Come and look at the light on the water today. It’s simply poetic.’ He raises his hand, gesturing the view. ‘Coming from Castellorizo, I simply must see the sea. Brighton’s promenade is special, isn’t it, darling girl?’
‘You’ve settled in then?’ I ask.
‘I certainly have. The architecture and the pier, the Pavilion, the gardens, the museums, all together it’s the most captivating city. I’m not sure you know this, but I lived with Sofía for a while, after I’d heard about your grandfather’s death. I was very happy here. Your mother was a beautiful child and I loved her very much.’
‘What made you leave?’
‘I moved to the Broads when your mother got married.’ He shakes his head sadly. ‘I wanted to stay, but there really wasn’t room for us all. There was a bit of a rift, you know?’
‘A rift? You mean you fell out over something?’
‘Sad, isn’t it? A silly squabble between me and Sofía. I can’t even remember what it was about now. If we hadn’t been so overcrowded, it wouldn’t have happened. Your parents in one room, you and Sofía in another and me in the third.’ He shrugs and sighs. ‘We were all too proud to take the first step towards reconciliation, until she fell ill.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He smiles softly. ‘I’ve been absolutely everywhere this week – alone, of course – retracing the walks I took with your grandmother so many years ago.’ Sadness flickers across his face before he smiles again and pulls a chair out from the round oak table at the window. ‘I’ll just make the tea. Here, help yourself to cake. It’s home-made parkin and I have some wonderful Irish butter to spread on it.’ He is thoroughly pleased with himself.
‘Uncle, I have a surprise for you.’ I try to contain my childish grin. ‘Close your eyes and hold out your hands. No peeping now.’ He stares for a moment, then does as asked, his thin eyelids twitchy, like he is trying to see through them. I place the tickets in his hands. ‘OK, you can look.’
His face is a picture.
‘Oh, goodness, is this what I think?’
‘Certainly is. Two weeks in Greece. Rhodes and Castellorizo, to be precise.’
For a moment, he stares, disbelievingly, then he swallows hard. ‘So kind of you, Olivia. I’m really touched. Thank you for organising these precious tickets. How much do I owe you, darling girl?’
‘Absolutely nothing. This is my treat, paid for by the advertising fees I saved on the flat. No . . .’ I lift my hand when his mouth opens. ‘No protesting. Let’s go to Castellorizo, deal with the ashes and have a lovely holiday, all right?’
His sparkling eyes tell me he’s too emotional for words. I give this dear sweet man a hug.
*
Teetering on top of the ladder, I rummage in Mum’s small attic for Granny Sofía’s ashes.
‘It’s so musty up here!’ I call to Uncle who’s surrounded by boxes and sacks at the bottom of the steps. ‘Ha! I can see the urn.’
‘I’m worried you might fall, Olivia.’
‘I’m fine, there’s something in front of the urn, a box of some kind . . . no, it’s an old photograph album. Here, can you take it?’ I grasp on the trapdoor frame and gingerly pass the book down, though it’s so heavy it starts slipping through my fingers. ‘Quick, I’m going to drop it!’
Relieved of the album, I stretch for the urn. ‘I’ve nearly got it.’ I just get my fingertips to it but can’t get a grip. ‘This is nuts. I just need another six inches.’ I’m on tiptoes, reaching, when the ladder wobbles. I squeal, Uncle drops the album and grabs a rung to steady it. I spread my elbows so at least I’ll be hanging by my armpits rather than crashing down to the floor if the ladder tips. ‘Oh, God! That was close.’ My heart’s hammering.
