The Santorini Summer (8 page)

My due date arrived and nothing happened. Nothing happened the next day or the next. I had been told that first babies often came late, but I was starting to panic that the birth would coincide with my Finals.

I was in our corner shop buying milk when my waters broke. Mrs Chakri immediately took charge, calling her husband in from the storeroom at the back and telling him to bring their car round.

‘Give me your mother’s phone number,’ she said, ‘A woman needs her mother at this time.’

It was easier to comply than to try to explain. But I also asked her to phone the College and get a message to Maureen.

No amount of reading prepares you for labour. Neither the manuals nor the classes even come close to describing the pain. I had somehow persuaded myself that an intelligent woman who knows exactly what is happening and why, would sail through labour in complete control of herself. But when the time came, I was just another sweating, screaming mother-to-be, begging for more gas-and-air and squeezing poor Maureen’s hand so tightly she was black and blue for days afterwards. On and on it went, hour after hour, until I was reduced to begging for a Caesarian, which made the nurse smile grimly.

‘Oh no, my dear, you’re going to do this the hard way.’

Maureen was in tears. ‘I’m never going to have a baby, never. They should show films of this to schoolgirls. There’d be no more illegitimacy. Oh, damn, Olivia, I didn’t mean –’

But I didn’t care what she did or didn’t mean, I just wanted this to end. I was screaming with no restraint when I heard the one voice I longed to hear, ‘Hang on, darling. It won’t be long now.’

My mother was standing in the doorway. I held out my other hand to her and howled, ‘Mummy’, just like a child who’d scraped her knee. She sat down across the bed from Maureen and wiped my face with her handkerchief. So, together, the three of us saw labour eventually come to its natural conclusion.

When they gave him to me to hold, I saw the tiny Christos nose and his little rosebud mouth, and just like that I forgot the hours of agony. We were all crying – me, Maureen and my mother. When he opened his eyes and stared at me, I felt a physical shock, as if he had just claimed my heart. It was even more overwhelming than the moment I first saw Christos. It seemed as if everything that had happened was meant to be – the ecstasy of love, even the agony of loss, had all been worth it to produce this tiny human.

At visiting time mother was back with flowers, a cashmere shawl for the baby and a pretty bed jacket for me. She took Christopher in her arms and the look on her face told me that I would not be needing the maternity nurse after all.

She sold the house in Basingstoke and bought another in a village just outside Cambridge, with a garden for Christopher to play in and a bus stop outside the door to enable me to get to College. Although I didn’t get my First, I got an Upper Second and the Professor persuaded the Dean that in the circumstances I should still be allowed to take an MA.

We got along famously, the three of us. Mother was a doting grandmother and Christopher was a charming, delightful child who kept us both amused and exhausted. Maureen was his godmother and a frequent visitor. I never saw my father again. I heard that he and Susan had had a child and moved to Weybridge.

*

‘Nan!’ Alexa comes into the courtyard waving. ‘Have you had a good day?’

‘Yes, thank you. Have you?’

‘It was
so
interesting. I’ve got all these postcards, look, and I bought this for you.’

She hands me a reproduction of a jug, miniaturised, with a cream glaze, red sprays of barley and a pair of erect nipples just below the spout.

‘I couldn’t resist it, Nan. It’s to do with fertility, right?’

‘It’s the sort of ewer used when making offerings to the goddess,’ I reply. ‘Very important in Minoan culture.’

She has bought postcards of the frescoes found in Akrotiri. ‘My favourite is the young man with the fish. Isn’t he gorgeous?’

‘He’s known as an adorant. He’s making an offering of fish to the gods. We know this because he’s naked, and Minoan males are never shown naked unless in the act of adoration.’

‘I love his blue hair. How cool is that?’

I laugh. ‘I think it’s a priestly headdress, actually.’

‘Do you know, Nan, I think I’d like to do my Dissertation on Minoan Art. You’d help me, wouldn’t you?’

Alexa has just finished her first year of a History of Art degree, so it is perhaps a little early for her to be choosing her Dissertation subject, but I am delighted for Christos’ sake to think she might specialise in the art of Crete and Santorini.

‘You’d have to spend a lot of time here and in Crete.’

‘Well, that would be no hardship. I wonder if I could get a summer job at the Museum? I could show the English-speakers around or something.’

‘There are people I know who might help with that, but I’ll make no promises until I’ve spoken to them.’

‘If I did come back next summer, would you come with me, Nan? I’d be glad to have your advice and you could help with research and … I think I’d be pretty lonely here on my own.’

I am touched that she wants me around. ‘I doubt that you’d be lonely for long, Alexa. And it’s far too early to be making such plans, but we will think about it. You would need to improve your photographic skills and brush up your Greek.’

But I am already thinking of places to take her and books to buy for her, feeling excited about a project which would keep me in Santorini and close to the memory of Christos. Leaving the island is always a painful experience, knowing he is here and wondering if I shall return, whether I will live long enough to return.

‘Nan,’ she says hesitantly, ‘you haven’t finished telling me your story. I don’t want to pry or upset you too much, but I do want to hear about my father.’

I patted her hand. ‘You have a right to know, Alexa. Just be patient with me, because telling you is like living it all over again.’

‘Did you and Christos split up because you were expecting a baby?’

‘No, no. Christos would never have left me because of that. He never knew about the baby.’

‘Oh, that’s terrible! What happened?’

I try to find words to explain it to her. I still have difficulty explaining it to myself. Did I do the right thing? Or did I let the priest persuade me? Would it have made any difference if I’d chosen differently? And, more importantly, did I do what Christos would have wanted?

Chapter Six

Each day the men took the
Ariadne
out, but the sea was still unsettled and the usual fishing grounds were not yielding much, so each day they ventured further away from Santorini, hoping to have better luck elsewhere. This made their trips longer and they returned exhausted and unhappy with their meagre catch.

Flour for the bakers normally came from Fira on donkey carts, and the paths were still blocked, so bread was unavailable. Meat was in short supply. It was difficult to find enough to eat from the vegetable patches which had survived. The tomato crop, not yet fully ripe, had been damaged by the earthquake and many of the Oians were talking about hard times for months to come. The relief promised from the Army seemed to be concentrated on Fira, which made the Oians angry.

No-one was angrier than Stavros. He made his displeasure clear when Niko and Christos showed him what their catch amounted to, bellowing at them to try harder, to find new fishing grounds. Or did Niko want his wife and child to starve? He spent his days prowling the town, looking for news or gossip about the Army’s progress. Dissatisfied with what he could find out, one day he announced that he was going to Fira to see for himself. His wife pleaded with him not to go, for it meant walking most of the way over paths that were still unrepaired and dangerous. But Stavros had never regarded his wife’s opinions before, and his sons and son-in-law knew better than to argue. So he set off, leaving his wife and daughter weeping and wringing their hands. I was merely a by-stander to the drama since Stavros rarely spoke to me. He had made it clear at our first meeting that he disapproved of Christos marrying a foreigner.

It was three days before he returned and his mood had not improved. He wasted no time in calling a meeting of those men he regarded as reliable and they gathered in Stavros’s front garden, shooing the women away into the house. So we did not know what was going on until we heard Christos’ raised voice. I rushed outside to greet him, disregarding Stavros’ shout of annoyance, so relieved was I that my love was back from his trip safely. I found Christos facing a circle of angry men.

‘Christos, what’s going on?’ I asked, anxiously.

‘Go inside, Olivia, this is not a place for you,’ was his reply, but his eyes never left the faces of those who encircled him.

Bristling, I glared at him. ‘Don’t you treat me like a Greek wife! I want to know what’s happening!’

He looked at me then, and spoke more gently. ‘You must not interfere here, Olivia. This is men’s business.’

Shaking my head in fury, I marched back into the house, where the other women were huddled in an anxious group, appalled at my effrontery but agog to know what was going on.

Irini took my arm. ‘Olivia, come and sit down. You must not make my father angry. Christos is not polite to shout like that in my father’s house.’

‘Why is Niko not helping? And Dimitrios? I thought they were Christos’ friends.’ I was furious that they were allowing him to be bullied, no matter what the issue.

‘Perhaps they do not agree with Christos. Perhaps they think my father is right.’

‘Right about what? What is it all about?’

Irini shook her head and turned away. The other women lowered their eyes, and muttered together.

For the first time I felt unwelcome. I was a foreigner, and whatever it was that was causing the uproar was Oian business. No-one would talk to me and I was not allowed to talk to Christos. It was infuriating.

Preparations for the evening meal were beginning and I now knew enough about Greek cuisine to be able to take my share of the work, although my thoughts were anywhere but on the tomato salad. When we have eaten, I thought, Christos and I will go back to the beach and he will explain to me what is wrong.

But Christos was absent from dinner that evening. When I asked where he was Niko shrugged and Irini would not look at me. I went to bed still frustrated, concerned about what Christos would eat and where he would sleep.

Early the next morning I rose and packed some food for him, helping myself to anything I thought he would like from the leftovers of last night’s meal, and gave it to Niko. I presumed they would be fishing together as usual.

‘Please, Niko, give this to Christos with my love’, I said, and Niko nodded without looking me in the face.

During that day, I noticed the other women collecting their bits and pieces together, and murmuring to Irini’s mother as they slowly left Stavros’ house. The men, too, had disappeared.

‘Where is everyone going?’ I asked Irini.

‘Oh, they are going to look after their affairs,’ she said vaguely. ‘It is time to …’

‘To what?’

‘To start again.’

I could get nothing more out of her. She and her mother spoke quietly together and then Irini fetched a basket which she gave to me.

‘My mother says please will you go and gather
horta
for our lunch?’

I could do nothing but nod politely and leave, knowing that I was being got rid of, because since the earthquake there were no wild greens to be found. I walked up to some high ground from where I could see the sea and sat on a rock, thinking about Christos. It seemed to me that it was time we left Oia and make our way to Acrotiri. It was clear that we were no longer welcome at Stavros’ house, and Niko and Irini were embarrassed. I could not bear to see my Christos treated badly. We would leave first thing tomorrow.

I made my way back down into the town to tell Irini of my decision, but as I approached Stavros’ house I was bewildered to see clouds of dust rising from the garden and hear what sounded like demolition work. A pile of household goods lay in the street. More were stacked on a donkey cart tethered a little way away. Irini and her mother stood beside the cart, weeping.

‘What’s happening?’ I cried.

‘It is for the best,’ Irini sobbed.

‘What is?’ But then I caught sight of Stavros and his sons wielding heavy hammers as they systematically destroyed the front of the house. ‘What are they doing?’

‘My father says we will get compensation, like the people in Fira,’ Irini whispered. ‘If your house was destroyed in the earthquake they give you money to build a new house.’

Now I understood what the arguments had been about. Stavros had been encouraging the Oians to destroy what was left of the town so that the government would pay compensation. Christos, with his love of tradition and architecture, his sense of historical accuracy, had been horrified. The old houses, particularly the Captains’ houses, were part of Oia’s legacy. To knock them down, needlessly, was nothing more than vandalism.

But the front of the house was crumbling before my eyes and still the hammers rained down upon the stonework.

‘Can’t you stop them? This is dreadful. Where will you go?’ Even as I spoke, I knew that neither Irini nor her mother, however heartbroken at the loss of their home, would ever intervene in their men’s decisions. All I could do was go down to the harbour and wait for the
Ariadne
to return.

Instead of my usual joyful anticipation of seeing her sails appear, I sat on a coil of rope dreading the boat’s return. I knew how Christos would feel when he learned of Stavros’ actions and even if he could make him change his mind, it would be too late to save the façade of the house. I wished we had not stayed so long in Oia but had made our way to Acrotiri immediately after the earthquake, or before the earthquake. By the time
Ariadne
entered the harbour I was wretched with anxiety on Christos’ behalf.

‘Olivia! What’s wrong?’

Of course Christos could see, even before the boat was tied up, that I was unhappy. I shook my head miserably and waited until he’d jumped ashore, leaving his friends to man the ropes.

‘Are you unwell? Hurt? What has happened?’

It was a comfort to be in his arms, but I hated to tell him what Stavros was doing.

Although I spoke in English, I could see Niko and Dimitrios looking at each other and I knew then that they had known what was going to happen while they were away fishing.

Christos said something in Greek which was obviously a curse, before starting up the steep hill with me in tow and the others following behind trying to be conciliatory.

‘Christos, begged Niko, ‘wait!’

But there was nothing he could say which would have abated Christos’ fury and, although he was out of breath by the time we reached the house, Christos pushed me towards Irini and dashed across the garden, shouting Stavros’ name.

It was impossible for the man to hear above the noise of the hammers and the consequent falling of stone, so Christos grabbed Stavros’ arm and pulled. The older man dropped his hammer and turned, his surprise turning to anger as he realised who was impeding him. I could not follow the Greek as he and Christos tussled, yelling at each other, but both were furious. Stavros’ sons went to stand behind their father, allowing him to deal with this interruption, but ready to leap forward if necessary.

Niko went across and tried to take hold of Christos, but was briskly brushed aside. Stavros took advantage of the distraction to bend and retrieve his hammer, facing his opponent now with greater confidence and menace.

‘Christos!’ I shouted in terror, ‘Be careful!

I was sure that Stavros was angry enough to use the hammer, and Niko evidently thought so too because he made another grab for Christos, pulling him away. Christos’ fury was now directed as much towards Niko as Stavros and he swung his arm around, snarling something which must have been deeply insulting because I saw Niko’s eyes widen in disbelief as he shoved Christos roughly away from him.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion then. Christos stumbled backwards, his feet catching on the broken rocks, and he hit the ground, head first.

I ran to him, but Niko got there first and began hauling Christos to his feet. Then he stopped, stared, and slowly, very slowly, lowered him back down again. Stavros started forward, but noticing Niko’s face, stopped.

There was a long, strange moment when nobody spoke or moved.

‘Christos!’ I cried, trying to get past Niko, but my way was blocked first by Niko’s back, and then because he had turned and locked his arms tightly around me. He pulled me to him, and I could feel he was shaking.

‘Let me go!’ I yelled. ‘Let me go to him!’

Dimitrios, who had been nervously hanging back, now rushed to kneel beside Christos. Then he turned and looked wide-eyed, first at Niko, then at me.

‘Christos!’ I yelled again. Then, struck by the behaviour of the two men Christos had called his friends, I stopped struggling. ‘Christos? Christos?’

‘Come away, Olivia,’ whispered Dimitrios. ‘There has been an accident.’

*

They took me to the priest’s house. Maria was devout and the priest knew her well as one of his faithful parishioners. There was a conversation which I barely heard, and the priest’s wife was called. She took my arm and led me to a bedroom, before asking me to lie down. I asked for Christos. She swallowed, then tried to smile, and asked me to lie down again. Feeling too shocked to defy her, I obeyed.

After some minutes she brought me something to drink. It was both sweet and bitter and as I drank it I wondered if I was being drugged, but I truly did not have the strength to protest. Somewhere in my mind I knew that something awful had happened, and I did not care to think about that. I slept.

When I woke I could not think where I was or what had happened. Then the unwelcome memory returned and the chilling realisation ran icy cold through my veins. Christos. What had happened to him? Where was he? I remembered the journey to the priest’s house, his wife making me lie down. It could only have been something terrible. I began to cry, without knowing exactly why. After a few moments the door opened and the priest’s wife came in.

‘What’s happened?’ I cried. ‘Where is Christos?’

Through the open door I could see Irina and her mother hovering. ‘Irina!’ I shouted. ‘Where is Christos?’

Irina entered the bedroom with lowered, red-rimmed eyes. Her mother came to stand behind her. The priest’s wife stood at the foot of the bed. I was surrounded by women who would not meet my eyes.

‘What’s happened?’ I demanded. ‘Irini! For God’s sake!’

Irini tried to take my hand but I pulled it away. ‘You must tell me what has happened. Why am I here? Where is Christos?’

‘Olivia,’ she began, tears flowing down her cheeks. ‘There was an accident. It was an accident.’

‘Is Christos dead?’ I watched her face carefully. ‘Is he dead?’

She nodded. Maria muttered a prayer. The priest’s wife glided silently from the room.

‘Christos is dead?’ I had to keep saying it, to force myself to believe it.

‘He fell,’ said Maria firmly. ‘On the stones.’

‘No!’ I shouted. ‘He was pushed. Niko pushed him. I saw it!’

‘Olivia,’ Irini begged. ‘You must not say this. It was an accident. Niko never meant to hurt Christos.’

‘We must call the police,’ I said grimly, now fuelled by burning rage. ‘They must come. Christos was killed.’

‘No, no!’ Irini pleaded, cradling her belly. ‘Please, Olivia! It was an accident. The men were angry and shouting. It was Christos’ fault, too.’