Page 14 of Summer in Greece

‘Why did it happen, Dad? Why us? Why Mum? Teenage boys don’t drive into women standing alone at bus stops on Christmas Eve; they crash into lampposts, they crash into other cars, they don’t crash into other people’s mothers.’

Dad swiped a finger under his eyes. ‘I ask myself that same question every day, love; and the answer is, I don’t know. He was drunk, the boy. His first job, first car, first Christmas as an adult. At first, I wanted to go out in my car and find him. Revenge, you know? Then I wanted to find his parents and bust my knuckles on their faces. The consequences of not being a disciplined parent, of not teaching your children right from wrong, are too high. His parents are partly to blame, and the barman, and his mates. And me . . .’

‘How could you be to blame. That’s nonsense, Dad. It was my present she was going for.’

He took a gulp of his cocoa and stared ahead for a moment. ‘Funny, don’t you think, that in a moment of acute crisis you remember all the small details? Things that don’t matter at all stay in your head forever.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘I was in the garden, filling that cream enamel colander with sprouts for Christmas dinner. I remember a chip near the handle. It would go rusty there and I’d have to give your mum the money for a new one.’ He shook his head, staring through the table top into the past. ‘Money-wise, that year was difficult with me being laid off from the docks. Yer mum refused to skimp on Christmas. “I’ll go without all year, Gordon, but Christmas is Christmas, so don’t make me call you Scrooge in December, dear,” she’d warned me.’ He dropped his head into his hands and hauled in a great breath. ‘God, how I miss her!’

Shelly’s heart ached. She reached for the kitchen roll, tore off a couple of squares and pushed them into his fist. He dried his face and stared at the table for a long time.

‘It’s all my fault, because—’ His tears gathered again. ‘You see, what you don’t know is – what I’ve always been too ashamed to tell you is – your mum came down the garden and asked me for the taxi money. She was running late and the buses might have been on Sunday service, with it being Christmas Eve. And the thing is . . . the thing is . . . I refused. It was me, you see, that told her to get the bus. Too bloody mean to give her five pounds for a taxi, but what was the real cost? I’ll never forgive myself—’ He squeezed the tissues tightly and punched the table so hard, Shelly feared he might have broken something.

‘Dad, stop! It wasn’t your fault, or my fault, or even the boy’s fault. If we’re going to heal, we have to stop looking to blame. I just want the hurt to stop. It’s not fair; and it will never be fair no matter how hard we try. I want to help you, but I have other demons to deal with, remember?’

Gordon’s mouth turned down. ‘I might not talk about it, Shelly love, but I haven’t forgotten what happened after your mother’s death. I just want to say one more thing tonight.’ He looked up, straight into her eyes. ‘I am truly sorry, Shelly. Perhaps I made a mistake, but it was with the best of intentions. I couldn’t see any other solution.’

Shelly dropped her head into her hands and gave up trying to hold on to her composure. Eventually, she got up, wrapped her arms around her father, and kissed his wet cheek. ‘Thanks, Dad, that meant a lot to me. I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too long. Night, now.’

*

Although emotionally exhausted, Shelly went back to bed feeling lighter than she had for years.

She lay on her back, and imagined herself floating on the flat, turquoise water of the Aegean. Under a cerulean sky, the dazzling sun warmed her to the bones and the softest breeze whispered over her skin.

A lone seagull flew overhead. From the distant shore, she could hear bouzouki music drifting towards her from a beach taverna. Delicious smells perfumed the air – succulent lamb chops roasting on charcoal, pungent garlic bread sprinkled with fresh oregano, toasted to the point of perfection. She imagined crispy Greek salad with fat, sweet olives and salty fetta. She always fell into a deep relaxed sleep long before pudding.

*

Morning broke with memories of that awful Christmas Day. Gordon returned from somewhere – the police station or the mortuary, she didn’t know – and ripped down all Mum’s lovely Christmas decorations. He stuffed them into the wood burner and set fire to them, all the time sobbing and shouting obscenities. Instead of opening presents, an endless stream of Mum’s friends and neighbours passed through and said how sorry they were.

Shelly snapped out of her recollections when her dad wandered into the kitchen wearing a bewildered expression. ‘I’ve lost me glasses.’

‘On your head.’ She turned and picked the phone up on its second ring. After a minute, she bid the caller goodbye and hung up. ‘Sorry, I have to go in early, Dad. A dog in collision with a car, poor thing, needs emergency surgery.’ She pulled the dresser drawer open and handed her father a box and a booklet. ‘Here, have a read of this while I’m out. If you get Alexa to understand your voice, you’ll find it useful while I’m away. It’s fun too. You can ask her absolutely anything you like.’

*

After dealing with the unfortunate dog, which was beyond surgery, Shelly returned to her car. Delving into her pocket for the key, her fingers touched the unopened letter. Before she turned on the ignition, she stole a moment for herself and tore it open. Her suspicions, aroused by the Cambridge postmark, were correct. It was from him, DJ. She had left DJ in Cambridge nearly twenty years ago, and had never seen him since. However, she’d never forgotten him, or stopped loving him.

CHAPTER 6

GERTIE

Dover, 1916.

AFTER MY INDUCTION TRAINING, I had the dreaded interview before a selection committee. Two men and two women, all very stiff and even older than my father. That afternoon, I returned home to await the result. If they rejected me, at least my parents would be pleased.

I washed the dishes while Mother pegged out the bed linen, Tuesday was Mrs Cooper’s day off. The postman came through the gate. Mother abandoned the laundry, took the post, and came indoors.

‘This might be it, Gertie,’ she said, holding out a white envelope – her smile tight – her face pale.

I reached for it, but she kept hold of the corner and in a desperate voice said, ‘I’m sorry. I know how badly you want to go, but I hope they don’t need you, darling.’

I opened the envelope carefully, raced down the letter searching for the words accepted or rejected, but saw neither. Confused, I read through it quickly until reaching the line: Report for duty . . .

Overloaded with emotion, I couldn’t speak and felt a tear trickle down my cheek.