Page 2 of Summer in Greece

Shelly knew how people saw her: a busy vet who was respected and admired. But she needed an escape – to be alone for seven days, to lie on a sunbed and lose herself in a good book. To swim in the warm Mediterranean and dive to an abandoned wreck. If only she could come to terms with what happened . . . She tried, really she did, but it still haunted her. She could not forgive herself, and wondered if David would, if he could. But, it was too late for that. Twenty years too late.

She would embrace Greece, love every moment of her great escape; the beaches, villages, food, music and perhaps even find a little romance. Then return home refreshed, ready to face the obligations of another year.

Now, there was an added complication. Her father, Gordon, always grumpy in the morning, was becoming so forgetful. He was a constant worry, and perhaps even a danger to himself.

Gordon ignored the brochure and set about consuming his boiled egg. The only sounds were the clock ticking towards 8 a.m. and the wind whistling under the kitchen door.

Shelly kicked the old sausage dog draught-excluder into place, then sat at the table.

‘Sleep all right, Dad?’

He grunted and without looking up, asked, ‘You going away, then? ’Oliday, is it?’

He’d spotted the brochure.

‘It’s Eve’s. She said I have annual leave from last year and I thought, perhaps, a week in Greece. Will you come?’ A flurry of wind and rain hit the window. She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to get some sun on your shoulders, Dad?’

Gordon didn’t reply.

‘It sounds really lovely. Listen to this . . .’ She flipped the brochure open and read from a random page, injecting a wistful tone into her voice.

‘The island of Syros, heart and soul of the Cyclades, sits under the blue brilliance of a Greek sky. Crystal-clear water and deserted beaches await. More traditional than its famous neighbours, Santorini and Mykonos, Syros is a working island that preserves the glamour of a bygone age. Villages nestle in the natural landscape. Alleyways wind around white houses where plumbago and bougainvillea emblazon picturesque hamlets.’

She glanced at him. He’d stopped eating.

‘The capital, Hermoupoli, is dotted with churches and cathedrals, both Orthodox and Catholic. Majestic buildings of outstanding beauty and architecture tumble down the hillside and look out over the warm Aegean Sea. Among sponge divers and shipbuilders, and fishermen and florists, tavernas await with their gastronomic delights and amazing hospitality.’

She looked up again. ‘I’ve just thought, wasn’t Syros the island we all went to when I was a little girl?’

His eyes narrowed, peering into the depths of a distant memory.

‘My first holiday, Dad. You and Mum nearly wet yourselves laughing when Gran Gertie tucked her skirt into her knickers and held my hand while we paddled. Don’t you remember? I tripped and grabbed her skirt and nearly pulled her pants down.’ Shelly stopped and smiled. ‘There’s a photo somewhere.’ She studied his face, looking for some recall. ‘You bought a white hat that said KISS ME QUICK.’

A smile spread over Gordon’s face. ‘Oh . . . yes.’ The toast popped up.

‘I couldn’t read “quick”, remember, Dad?’ Overwhelmed by the happy memory, joy had been a rare visitor in that kitchen for so many years. She slathered her toast with butter and jam. ‘You’d ask, “What does my hat say, Shelly?” and I’d read so carefully, spelling it out. “Kiss – me—” and you’d sweep me up and kiss me all over and blow raspberries on my belly until we were all exhausted from squealing with laughter.’ Amused, then saddened, she remembered the big, generous man with a wide smile that her father was in those days.

They sat, lost in reminiscences, lonely in the brick cottage until Shelly continued. ‘I told Mum she looked like a film star in her white bikini and she said, “Thank you, you look like a princess in yours.” I can hear her voice . . .’ Silence united them again then Shelly said, ‘It’s an odd thing, Dad, but I’ve forgotten almost everything from before . . . you know, and then that holiday comes back as clear as day.’

Gordon grunted. ‘It was Gertie who insisted we went to that island, Syros. It was really important to her, like she was on a pilgrimage. On most days, she’d disappear after lunch, and return all red-eyed and clearly upset at dinner time. Your mum tried to get her to drink a strong cup of tea, to calm down.’

‘Wouldn’t she say where she’d been?’ Shelly asked.

‘No, not a word – but wait, I haven’t finished tellin’ yer. Gertie nabbed the waiter and said, “Young man! Forget the tea. Bring me a double gin!” with no notion of foreign measures. When the Greek waiter, who seemed to be rather fond of her, asked, “What would you like in your drink, madam: orange, lime or tonic?” Gertie would say, “I’m partial to a splash of lime, but that would be fresh lime, young man, like we had on the Britannic, not that cheap cordial they serve in the bar, thank you.” He would make a little salute, then bow, which cheered her up a lot. He’d go to a tree in the street and pluck a lime especially for her.’

‘The Britannic? Never heard of it. What is it, an island?’

His head came up with a slightly surprised look. ‘No, it was the largest hospital ship in the world, ever.’

‘A hospital ship? You’ve lost me. Was she taken ill abroad or something?’

‘No, she was a nurse in the First World War. Anyway, Gertie always refused to talk about where she’d been on those afternoons, but she repeated the same routine every day.’

‘I don’t remember any of that, but I was very young. What a mystery. I wonder where she went.’

‘So did we. When I offered to follow her, your mother insisted we respect her privacy. Every morning she’d come to the breakfast table, take aspirin, drink strong black coffee, and squint murderously at us all, but she never divulged where she’d been.’

‘How would she even know where to go?’