Page 1 of Summer in Greece

PROLOGUE

Dover, December 1916.

FROM THE LADDER OF HIS pigeon coop, Doctor Charles Smith gazed over white-frosted farmland. The sun peeped over the horizon, then slid into the full glory of a new day, setting dull clouds ablaze. Rich golden light painted the windows and thatch of a distant tied cottage where his patient lay sleeping – the family inside that humble home would treasure their baby boy for the rest of their lives.

After twenty-four hours attending a difficult confinement, the local midwife, Fanny Eccles, had sent the young woman’s father, Jacob Boniface, to knock the doctor from his sleep. In that vacant hour before dawn, Dr Smith saved the exhausted young woman’s life with a simple snip, and later, a few stitches. Now, mother and baby were sleeping peacefully. In a whimsical moment, the doctor imagined an angel heading for Bethlehem, stopping off to illuminate that humble dwelling in Dover. He yawned, then smiled, uplifted by the Yuletide scene.

He glanced across the frozen furrows of a turnip field and gave thought to all those men serving. Christmas or not, they’d be too busy killing each other with the newly invented machine guns in the Great War. He sighed wearily, hoping for an hour’s sleep before leaving for his surgery.

These days, too many of his call-outs were under more ominous circumstances. The gangrenous limbs of war amputees, or sepsis, were often the forerunner of yet another premature funeral. His morphine and syringe were always to hand.

He shivered, tugged at the corduroy collar of his waxed jacket and stared at the sky, searching hopefully for his best birds. A month ago, ten homing pigeons had left for the Somme in wicker baskets strapped onto the backs of British soldiers, the Pigeon Corps. Military leaders waited for the birds to carry crucial information home from the front line.

The trill of a bicycle bell broke his thoughts. Turning on the ladder, Dr Smith peered over a hedge. Albert, local telegraph boy, pedalled helter-skelter down Lighthouse Lane, his bright grin challenging the doctor’s frown. The doctor had delivered Albert fifteen years ago and had hardly seen him thereafter, yet this would be the fourth time the boy had thumbed the gate-latch in the past six months.

He turned and stared over the Dover cliff top, across the English Channel to the grey line that hid France, and beyond, Greece.

‘Doctor! Dr Smith!’ Albert shouted, abandoning the bell to wave a message over his head. ‘News from Athens!’ The boy wobbled, then clutched the handlebars and returned to bellringing.

He hurried down the ladder. Earlier in the year, Charles and Martha had dealt with the sudden sacrifice of their other two children, Arthur and Sissy. Two weeks ago, another telegram had arrived, this time concerning their youngest child, eighteen-year-old Gertie.

With deep regret we must inform you, after the sinking of HMHS Britannic in Greek waters, VAD Gertrude Smith is listed as missing, presumed drowned.

Those first three words hurt like a knife in his chest. He didn’t need more information, and was left stunned. But, as the days passed, he found he was desperate to know every detail of Gertie’s passing. He wanted to take his girl’s place, absorb her pain. His whole life had been spent fighting death, and he had won more battles than lost. Was this the grim reaper’s revenge? If he hadn’t been a doctor, would his three children be alive today?

This would be simple confirmation.

His heart squeezed. How would he tell Martha? She sat quietly in their empty home, torn between hope and despair, hardly having eaten or spoken for a fortnight. His throat stiffened again. He patted his pocket for the thickness of a freshly ironed handkerchief.

Albert skidded to a halt, his back wheel overtaking the front. He kicked out the bicycle-stand but after a tremulous moment, the heavy frame clattered to the ground. The boy ignored it and rushed up the path. ‘It’s just arrived, sir!’ He panted dramatically, delved under a clumsy gas mask in his box-satchel, then thrust a receipt book and pencil towards the doctor. ‘Sign here, please.’ The proud apprentice rubbed his knees, eyes sparkling with excitement, red cheeks glowing from his freckled face.

Hadn’t the lad realised, telegrams in wartime meant unwelcome news? Charles rummaged in his pocket for a halfpenny. Albert beamed.

‘Go!’ the doctor said, reluctant to read the dispatch while the boy gawped.

Martha appeared in the cottage doorway, her hair tied in rags and covered by a robust net that reminded Charles of the trout in Parley Brook. Her eyes had that same blank stare of fatality.

He would need to fish later, to be alone to cry, to come to terms, and to gather his strength to support dearest Martha.

‘Go,’ the doctor repeated. Albert lolloped back to his bike. As the gate slammed behind him, a cloud of pigeons took to the air, wings applauding. They circled, then settled in a discontented line on the roof, watching, waiting.

Charles ripped open the telegram, knowing it was futile to hope. He read the single line, then reached for his handkerchief.

Martha, face ghostly pale, rushed to his side. Her nails dug into his arm, clinging to hope and her husband. ‘It’s about Gertie?’ she whispered. Now, her eyes sparked with hope, or fear, he couldn’t tell which. She peered up into his face.

He nodded. His throat tightened so much he couldn’t speak. Despite his efforts, tears brimmed, then overflowed. Martha let out a howl so heavy with grief that the pigeons took to the heavens again.

Charles wrapped his arms around his wife and pulled her fiercely against his heaving chest. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and forced the words he had to say.

‘Don’t, Martha. Don’t. She’s safe. Our Gertie’s safe.’

CHAPTER 1

SHELLY

Dover, present day.

A WHITE CHURCH WITH BLUE domed roof dazzled against a backdrop of the Aegean Sea. The glossy travel brochure lay on the kitchen table. Shelly Summer placed a hand flat on her chest and turned away to suppress anxiety palpitations. At the kitchen window of her cliff-top cottage in Dover, she gripped the edge of the porcelain sink and peered out across the grey English Channel.