Page 8 of Summer in Greece

Shelly hurried outside into a bright, blustery morning. She watched a gull out over the cliff, wings spread, heading into the wind. Almost stationary, it floated on air, free, determined to be where it was. Captivated by the magnificent views and the dramatic light of stormy weather, she was reminded of her good fortune.

With her father’s help, White Cottage had been mortgaged for the funds to get her through college. Evening education followed, while she gained experience as a low paid junior veterinary. The property was also surety for the funds she needed to open the practice and although people sometimes commented about their high veterinary bills, they had no idea of the costs involved.

Nevertheless, business was good and she would soon be in the clear, reaping the benefits of her many sacrifices.

Before turning the ignition, she squandered another precious minute gazing back at the cottage. It had once been The White House, a grand, five-bedroomed family home built by an ancestor. She could imagine horse-drawn carriages, and Model T Fords pulling up outside.

In the Second World War, a bomb caused dangerous cracks in the masonry and a portion of the house had to be demolished. With post-war austerity, the family decided the building was adequate with three bedrooms, so the brickwork was tidied up and the house renamed White Cottage.

She pulled the envelope from her pocket and stared at the handwriting, presumably his, DJ’s. Shelly pressed it against her cheek.

Oh, if only she could see him again!

But she had to think of the long-term consequences; what good could come from digging up the past and all the pain that went with it? She had enough to deal with. What effect would it have on her father – after all, it was his fault that DJ went away. Returning the correspondence to her pocket, she started the car. Perhaps she would open it this evening, depending on how she got on with the spare-room spring-clean.

*

Years back, Shelly had made a feeble effort to empty the crammed wardrobe, but within ten minutes, she was in tears. She promised herself then, she wouldn’t try to sort her mother’s things until she had forgiven herself for that terrible Christmas. Her mother’s elegant dresses brought back many beautiful memories, but each one loomed like Marley’s ghost, pointing the finger at her. A room full of hobgoblins and heartache.

She was only sixteen, when it started, and by the time she was seventeen she had lost three people she loved more than life. Now she would have to face the first of them, in the dust and gloom and memorabilia of the spare bedroom.

Perhaps the time had come to put everything right. Starting that very evening.

Shelly stood tall, ready to face her demons. She needed to move on and live her own life, free to love again, and be loved.

She set to work. Boxes of jumble that her father had shoved in there over the years were destined for the charity shop. She dragged cartons onto the landing, making space to investigate. The Women’s Institute ladies had come over after her mother’s funeral and packed Mum’s stuff away.

Memories tumbled into Shelly’s head, she must have been six or seven when her great-grandmother would gather herself up and struggle onto Shelly’s bed. There, they would listen to story tapes, transported into the worlds of Jungle Book, The Borrowers, Charlotte’s Web, and The Snowman.

Those stories were sorely missed when Gran Gertie went into the residential home. She felt a rush of love, tinged with pain at the memory.

With sudden yearning to hear Gran Gertie’s voice, she fetched the tape player and listened to the next episode of her great-grandmother’s memoirs.

*

Half an hour later, stunned by what she had just heard, Shelly sat on the edge of the old bed and gawped at the cassette player.

CHAPTER 4

GERTIE

Dover, 1915.

AFTER THE MINCE PIE INCIDENT, Father had the cellar cleared out and put a few essentials down there, like water and candles and a couple of old chairs just in case Kaiser Bill got more accurate with his mortars. The exercise meant that Mother could rest assured; whatever the war brought upon us, her husband and children would be safe.

When another explosion rocked our house a week later, Father ordered, ‘Everyone down to the cellar, we’re being attacked!’

We lifted the trapdoor and hurried down the wooden steps. After an hour with no more disturbance, Mother, Father, Mrs Cooper and I emerged with a list of things we needed if the worst happened again. A primus stove, books, crayons, paper, a jigsaw, blankets, a bucket, another jug of water.

That incident had been the first of nine thousand German bombs that fell from planes onto British soil in the Great War.

*

Who could have foreseen the way our lives changed over the next two years? The war gained momentum. Fokkers and Zeppelins flew over Britain dropping their payloads of bad-will and bombs. National conscription started. The government insisted that all able-bodied men join up, and Sissy’s dream of being a nurse became a reality. Her letters were terrifically inspiring. Whenever I felt lonely, I’d go and sit under the big oak tree and study her correspondence. Her sense of glee shone off the page as I read.

Gertie, you’re terribly lucky! How everything is changing for us women. We can become anything we choose, and isn’t that absolutely spiffing? Can you imagine how terrific it would be to drive a bus, Gertie? You must imagine, yes, imagine, because that is the first stage of accomplishing your dreams. Or, you could learn to be a welder, dear sister, or a brick layer, or at worst, go and work in a factory. Stay away from the munitions factories, though. They’re awfully dangerous.

I carried her letters around in my pocket and read them over and again. How could women do welding, were there no end to our skills? Just the idea made my skin tingle. Some women cut their hair, some even wore trousers! We joined together in support for our men and our country and succeeded in surprising even ourselves.