Page 77 of Summer in Greece

‘Anyway, you kindly came up with the hundred pounds and I went to Greece with David.’ Silence fell over the cottage, each of them lost in their heartbreak.

‘I borrowed it off Bill,’ her father said quietly, breaking the hush with his hurt. ‘I’d just been laid off because of me lungs, but the pension wasn’t enough for all the extras of yer mum’s funeral. They just about cleared me out.’ He sighed as his shoulders slumped. ‘Someone must have informed social services that I was finding it hard, cos they came a-knockin’, wantin’ to come in and see how we lived.’ He swiped his hand across his face and stood straighter, proud, his voice harder. ‘I didn’t want their charity! I wasn’t going to be beholden to anyone so I told them to piss right off. Then Father O’Donnell came to visit so I told him he could piss right off too. They didn’t bother me after that.’

Shelly stared at him. Her father never swore. She had no idea he’d struggled with his finances until he told her about her mum asking for the taxi money on Christmas Eve. It simply never crossed her mind. Knowing how proud her dad was, she could just imagine the scene at the door. Poor social workers. Poor priest. Poor Dad.

‘Anyway, to shorten the story, everything went wrong on that holiday, didn’t it? What a tragedy. Then, nine months later I had a baby boy, DJ, who went straight to his adoptive parents. Broke my heart. I never forgot him, my baby, my child, but I never saw him again – until today.’

Gordon turned from the window and stared at her but she couldn’t read his expression, and she desperately hoped she wasn’t making another mistake.

‘He’s nineteen, of course, studying marine biology at Cambridge. It’s got nothing to do with me, but I can tell you, I’m so proud, Dad. Do you think I could invite him here for Sunday lunch?’

Gordon made a short gurgling noise, a hiccough of sorrow that drew her attention. His hands came up to cover his face, and his shoulders shook.

‘Dad, oh, Dad!’ Shelly jumped up and went to place an arm around his shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry, honestly, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

He shrugged her off, scurried across the room with his face turned away from her, then left for his loft. Shelly started to go after him, but then decided he needed space to deal with his demons.

*

An hour later, Gordon came back into the kitchen and slumped into the dining chair.

Shelly sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t want to upset you, I wanted . . . hoped, you know, that we could all come together as a family, at least once.’ It was her turn to get emotional. ‘I’ve been so lonely.’ She studied her hands.

‘I wish it was gone, all this pain,’ he said.

‘Mum wouldn’t want us hurting like this either.’ She looked up. ‘It’s incredible that my son, your grandson, has found us. Let’s make the most of it, please.’

Gordon was silent for a while, then he spoke gently. ‘I genuinely thought I was doing the right thing, Shelly. You do understand that, don’t you? I had so much pain, and I was at war with the world for the injustice of Maggie’s death. Then you, my little girl, up the duff. Of course it was my fault. I knew I’d driven you away when I should have been there to support you. But I’m human too. We’ll never know if I made the right decision, because we can’t know how things would have turned out for you both if you’d kept the baby. It’s just . . . you were so young, Shelly.’

Shelly recalled the giggling girls in the café. That’s how she must have appeared to her father and in that moment, she understood him completely. She got up, placed her arms around him, and kissed the top of his head. ‘You made the right decision, Dad. In your position, I’d have done exactly the same.’

He sighed and hung his head for a moment. ‘You don’t know what that means to me, Shelly love. All right. Invite him here on Sunday for a roast.’

‘I’m on call next weekend, so the Sunday after, will that be all right for you, Dad?’

He stared at his knees silent for a moment. ‘Well, I’m not sure about that. I’ll have to consult me social calendar, won’t I?’ Then he looked up. Smiling sadly. ‘Of course it’s all right, daft girl.’

CHAPTER 32

GERTIE

Syros, 1916.

WANTING TO SEE A LITTLE more of Syros, we hurried down the gangplank and discovered the town had an energy that we had not experienced before. The place was very different from the sleepy island of Kea.

The town appeared to be a steep hill that ran down into the dark, blue sea. This hill was topped by an imposing, angular building which covered the entire peak. Strong, straight, unembellished walls of sun-bleached yellow were pierced by rows of small rectangular windows, and before it, the largest of many ornate bell-towers.

‘What is that place at the top of the hill, it looks like a prison?’

Josephine looked up and laughed. ‘No, it’s the Catholic monastery of St George. You can walk up there if you want, it’s beautiful inside.’

‘Quite a climb, though, perhaps I’ll save it for next time.’

The rest of the town displayed intense architectural contradictions. Majestic Venetian captains’ houses, and Cyclades white-cube dwellings complemented each other. A town of cathedrals, churches, and chapels of every size and colour from baroque to byzantine, neoclassical to modern. Yet between these painted walls of blue, yellow and white, there existed an air of harmony. Styles of great splendour or simplicity, stood side by side dominating an occasional scramble of vermilion bougainvillea. Each building appeared to have a unique view of the harbour and simply slotted into its own comfortable place.

Josephine and I hurried up and down the steep roads that were mostly steps. We admired the splendour and robust colours of Orthodox churches, and lit candles in ornately carved sand-troughs next to stout oak doors. At the entrance of the sombre Catholic church, we felt minute in the solemn vastness of the building. With no time to explore further, we hurried back down the perilous steps that led to the port and our ship.

*