Page 32 of Summer in Greece

‘I take the bag,’ he said, taking it from her. ‘Is this ferry here.’ He nodded at a squat ferry, which it seemed had been waiting for the airport bus.

‘Thank you, you’re very kind. It’s lovely to be taken care of.’ She dropped a couple of euro into his hand. He beamed and put her bag on the ferry.

Fifteen minutes later, she was enjoying a coffee and doughnut and the wide smiles of a waiter who insisted on bringing it to her table. She watched mainland Greece recede into the distance, and half an hour later, caught sight of Kea lighthouse.

*

At Popi’s Apartments, on the promenade, she turned her watch forward by two hours, and saw it was four in the morning, local time.

She dumped her suitcase in the room, made coffee, then sat on the balcony. The ferry had left, the place absolutely silent and pitch dark. Then her eyes and ears adjusted. She saw the dense, star-spangled sky broken only by a pulse from the distant lighthouse. The gentle shush of wavelets caressing the beach below reminded her she would swim later.

After some time, Shelly stuck a small bottle of water into her backpack and stepped out with camera and torch to photograph the sunrise. She walked along the water’s edge and inhaled the ozone-rich sea air. In Britain, the sea had a pungent, fish-and-chips saltiness, but the Aegean air was so salted-caramel she licked her lips. She sat on the warm sand, hugged her knees, and remembered the first time she had come to a Greek island. She was sixteen, on an adventure with the man she loved. Oh, David. How could she have known that one, self-indulgent week, nearly twenty years ago, would destroy so many lives?

Shelly had dozed through the flight and now yawned and stretched, her head muzzy and eyes watering. The idea of staying up to capture the sunrise lost its appeal. There would be another dawn tomorrow. As she turned, her torchlight caught a row of deep, undulating paddle-tracks across the sand just ahead. Goosebumps rose on her arms and a rush of adrenalin wiped out her weariness.

What good luck was this! She backed up a few metres and dropped to her knees, the sand damp under her shins. Turning the torch off after switching the camera on, she flicked the ISO to its highest setting. The picture would be grainy, but using flash under the circumstances was unthinkable. Her heart pounded. She made a conscious effort to breathe quietly and stared into the shadow of the low tamarisk trees. Apart from the first soft sounds of the dawn chorus and the gentle clack of rolling pebbles on the waterline, silence surrounded her. She felt at one with nature, like a wild animal herself.

Perhaps the turtle had been and gone? She couldn’t make out a returning trail in the sand. Ten minutes passed. She feared her camera battery would run flat. Then, gathering light illuminated movement to her left and she heard the scrape – scrape – scrape.

A magnificent loggerhead turtle, Caretta caretta, had finished laying and now shovelled sand over its hundred-plus eggs. Shelly stared in awe. Keeping her distance, she crawled up the beach a few metres, then stretched out on her belly, supporting the camera with her elbows in the sand.

Glorious creature!

The turtle, over a metre in length and weighing two hundred kilos or more, pushed mounds of sand into the nest-hole. Without looking back, and leaving nothing but a gentle dip to tell of her activity, the creature, which remained unchanged since prehistoric times, started her solemn pageant towards the sea. The shell, which at first appeared dull and crusty, caught the amber light of dawn and shone like burnished jewellery. Dragging her enormous weight, the loggerhead left a second, heavily scalloped track on its return to a life under the waves.

When the turtle drew level, she seemed to notice Shelly for the first time. In three laboured steps, she turned and lumbered straight towards the camera. Shelly didn’t know what to do! To say she was breathless with excitement or fear sounded trite, but it was certainly true. She decided to keep photographing. The shutter clicked, obscenely loud in the silence. The closer the loggerhead came, the faster Shelly’s heart beat. When the creature filled the frame, she took a last shot then raised her head a little to gaze over the camera.

The turtle appeared sad with its turned-down mouth and tears spilling like molten gold in the rising sunlight, but she knew they were only salt secretions, expelled from seawater it had swallowed. The loggerhead peered at Shelly with round, ET eyes. She feared it would snap at her hand or face. The hard, bony mouth had jaws capable of crushing lobsters, hefty crustaceans . . . or her precious camera. The turtle, much heavier than her, could do serious damage if it felt endangered.

I’m not a threat to you or your eggs. Return to the deep, amazing turtle. Go in peace.

She fancied the turtle heard her thoughts. After a moment, the creature turned her head towards the waterline and the gathering light on the horizon. Shelly smiled and for a moment, tears pricked the backs of her eyes. Exhaustion, or perhaps pleasure, made the turtle pause when the first wave touched her front flippers.

‘Go, go!’ Shelly whispered. ‘Your work’s done here. Goodbye, old girl. Stay safe.’

She swiped away a tear.

Torn between racing back to her room to study the pictures or staying on the empty beach to enjoy the peace, an enormous sense of miracle filled her chest. She glanced back towards the nest site. The gentle basin and ribbon-loop of tracks in the sand led from the waterline to the base of the low, cement promenade and back again. They were clearly visible in the morning light. An open invitation to curious kids and egg hunters.

She hefted several large stones and piled them against the cement behind the nest. After levelling the dip, she hurriedly kicked the flipper tracks flat and added her own footprints. No evidence of the turtle remained. She sat on the edge of the cement and scrabbled in the detritus at the bottom of her rucksack for a pen or marker. She found a bottle of scarlet nail varnish that Eve had insisted she try. Perfect! After making sure no one was paying attention, she daubed three large dots of polish onto the wall to mark the spot. She would return.

*

The town still slept, apart from some activity and subdued light coming from an alley that led off the quayside. Beach-side café lights went on. The smell of fresh bread reached her and she imagined the baker tipping racks of crusty cobs off oven trays. Moments later, a door opened, and the baker, rotund and wrapped in an enormous white apron, hefted a wicker basket of bread into the street.

‘Ela, psomi! Come, bread!’ he yelled. On hearing the cry, lights went on and women appeared, taking one or two loaves.

‘Kaliméra,’ they called to each other, their smiles as bright and sincere as their well wishes for a good day.

The scent of fresh bread made Shelly’s mouth water and her brain cry out for strong, rich coffee. In the shade of a magnificent mulberry tree, Shelly drank from a bottle of water to soothe her throat.

Again, she recalled that first holiday on the island of Syros, only remembering her childish delight of building sandcastles with her father. He had her running up and down the beach with buckets of water for the moat. There were ice creams, and warnings about not eating her dinner if she had one more! And of course, the sea. But if she really concentrated on taking her mind back, remembering how it was, then perhaps the hay fever that made Gertie sniffle and her eyes water was not hay fever at all. Did Gertie really go to her room every afternoon? Shelly suspected she would have to visit the island of Syros to find out the answers to her questions, or perhaps Gertie would reveal all on a later cassette.

Flat water in Kea’s bay glinted with a web of refracted sunlight, like a giant turquoise dreamcatcher holding down nightmares. Shelly could imagine Gertie’s terrible experience here, screams of terror and fear. In a blink the image disappeared, leaving nothing but peace and beauty.

The taverna owner’s eyes shifted her way as he unlocked the restaurant door, clearly surprised to see a stranger at his table before eight in the morning.

‘Kaliméra!’ he called, which she knew meant good morning. ‘One moment, I come.’