Page 7 of Summer in Greece

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When Arthur and Sissy came home on leave, we sat around my brother in the parlour, enraptured by Arthur’s stories. He fed Mother all the best bits of army life, and kept the less savoury morsels for himself.

‘Greece is terrific, Mother, it’s easy to see why kings and queens go there to take the waters and watch plays by Sophocles and Euripides in the ancient amphitheatres.’ She would lower her embroidery hoop and gaze at him. ‘The great marble auditoriums are always outdoors, Mother, and on summer nights they’re filled with thousands of people. Their perfect design means everyone can hear the actors and music with no need for a single microphone.’

Mother’s eyes widened in wonder, Sissy and I exchanged gleeful glances.

‘Tell us more, dear brother!’ Sissy cried.

Arthur smiled softly at Mother and at that moment, I loved him more than ever.

‘Greece lay beneath a sky bluer than anywhere else in the world. Magnificent marble temples with columns double the height of this house strewn all over the city.’ He kissed Mother’s hand and bowed, as if she were royalty. ‘One day, after this war, I’m going to take you to see the Parthenon, a great temple on a mountain, right in the centre of the city of Athens, Mother.’ Enraptured, her face shone with love for her son. ‘I will take your hand and lead you down the centre aisle as if you are the Goddess Athena herself, the Queen of Athens . . . the Queen of Greece.’

When I look back, I remember poor Arthur’s hands trembled sometimes. A distant stare in his eye preceded an unexplained look of revulsion. Later, I discovered he was in torment, remembering the battle of Gallipoli. What a noble gesture, to fill our mother’s heart with glory when he was suffering horrors too diabolical for us to imagine.

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Both Sissy and Arthur came home for Christmas that year and we planned to have a wonderful time together. I had no true concept of what ‘war’ meant, or where it would lead, or how it would change our lives.

On Christmas Eve, a plane flew over and dropped a bomb on Dover. Mother and I had spent all morning baking mince pies for the carol singers when there was a terrific explosion outside.

Mother grabbed me and pulled me under the heavy kitchen table. She crossed herself and recited the ‘Hail Mary’ while I trembled with fear.

After a few minutes, Mother placed her hand on my cheek and whispered, ‘Don’t be afraid, we’ll be fine.’ She reached up and retrieved the cooking sherry, and there we sat for an hour, sipping the mince-pie-plonk. All my fear of being bombed was taken away by the wonder of my mother treating me like an adult . . . like an equal, for the first time in my life. For me, it was a wonderful moment of closeness that I’ll never forget.

‘Shall we go and look, Gertie, while we can still walk?’ We both giggled nervously, then rushed out and peered over the cliff to see if there was a German gunboat pointing its cannons at our home. There were no ships to be seen, but still, Mother rolled her sleeve up and shook her fist across the English Channel.

‘Don’t you ever dare frighten my daughter like that again, Kaiser Bill, you dirty devil, or you’ll have me to deal with!’ she cried, and I could hardly walk back up the path for laughing. Still, we managed to finish making the mince pies, and nobody seemed to notice the lack of sherry, or that the pastry lids were askew.

CHAPTER 3

SHELLY

Dover, present day.

‘YOU’LL BE LATE, GET AWAY with you,’ Gordon said gruffly, as Shelly came downstairs for work. ‘Can’t afford you slacking, and taking exotic holidays.’

She smiled, kissed his cheek, and hurried out, almost bumping into the postman.

‘Morning, vet. I’ve got a letter for you.’ He thrust it towards her and glanced into her face with a flash of adoration.

‘Thank you, Malcolm. Very kind of you to cycle all this way.’ A tinge of pink brightened his plump cheeks.

‘It’s nothing, m-miss.’

Shelly glanced at the envelope, saw the Cambridge postmark, and felt the blood drain from her face.

He’s found me then . . . after all these years, he’s returned to his roots.

‘Not bad news, I hope?’

Shaking her head a little too fast, she shoved the letter deep into her pocket. ‘Must run, Malcolm. Busy day ahead.’

‘Fancy a cuppa, Malcolm?’ Dad called.

‘I don’t mind if I do.’

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