Daughter of the Winds (7 page)

“
I am not angry,” said his perfect Cupid’s bow lips, even though his eyes were saying something entirely different.

“
Right. Look, I really would like to get into Varosha.”

“
There are parts of Famagusta you can visit which will get you closer but you will not be allowed into Varosha.”

“
Can I go over into Northern Cyprus on a day trip or something? Would that get me any closer?”

He sighed and looked at the sand.
“Of course yo
u
ma
y
go into Northern Cyprus, I cannot stop you, but you will still not see Varosha. It is off limits to everyone except UN Personnel and Turkish Military…”

“
Yeah,” I interrupted. “So you said.”

I felt deflated and let down once more.
It didn’t look like anything was going to go according to plan. I bit the inside of my cheek; there was no way I was going to cry again. Not here, and certainly not in front of a complete stranger.

“
I am sorry I cannot help you.”

“
Me too,” I murmured.

I busied myself searc
hing in my bag for an invisible item as I walked purposely away from him. If I looked up now there was every chance that the film of water across my stinging eyes would escape in the form of a teardrop and there was no way I was going to let that happen.

I bought crisps, a bottle of lemonade and some chocolate, which I placed carefully under the seat of my scooter and then I was ready to start her up. I’d gone for a vintage-inspired 125cc scooter and she (yes, it was a ‘she’) was beautiful. Top speed was 60 mph so perhaps it wasn’t that wild after all. I had been assured that it was a simple ‘twist and go’ moped with an electric push button start that even I would master within five minutes. As I looked appraisingly at her, I started to smile. It was just about the craziest thing I had done in a long time but she was gorgeous. I decided to name her Rita, as in Hayworth, and sat astride her.

I am not known for my rash behaviour.
I don’t make snap decisions, throw caution to the wind or believe in chance. I like words like “planning” and “certainty”. There’s nothing like a fast-paced fiendish Sudoku with a cup of Assam to reaffirm my sense of order in the world. No alternative answers, maybes or best guesses,just solid, hard numbers with th
e
righ
t
answer.

Even when I
’m cooking I’m a ‘numbers’ person. I’m more Delia than Jamie. There’s no “glug” of this or “handful” of that in my kitchen. If the recipe calls for a tomato to be peeled, I peel it. Tablespoons, millilitres and grams keep my kitchen shipshape. My soufflés rise to order; my steaks are pink to perfection. Chance is a dirty word and dirt isn’t tolerated in my kitchen. Or my life for that matter. I think that is one of the reasons that I love food and cooking so much. While you can just throw things together for supper, if you get stuck there’s always a cookery book to offer inspiration or to tell you exactly what to do. How many situations in life come with such a comprehensive manual? Just follow the recipe: weigh things out, use the right ingredients cook at the stated temperature for the correct time. What could be simpler? There is something so reassuring to following a recipe, knowing that by correctly following the steps you are led to a most sublime and delicious outcome.

Five minutes later I was back at The Pleiades unwinding the tension from my shoulders.
Instead of going through the main house I slipped off my cream domed crash helmet and skirted the side of the building. I had a spring in my step as I slipped down to the little cottage and to the awaiting view.

I hurriedly kicked off my shoes, almost bouncing with the exhilaration of a fear overcome.
Doing something daring and out of character was intoxicating. My head felt clearer, refreshed. I could no longer feel the sharp pains that had ridden my shoulders for the last few weeks. I poured myself a glass of lemonade and headed back outside to the bench with a bar of chocolate and a map under my arm. I spread the map out before me over the rough slats of the crudely fashioned wood that served as a table. It was a simple map given to me by the scooter hire company but it gave me enough of an impression of where I was in relation to the rest of the island, and Varosha in particular. As I cast my eyes over the plan in front of me I greedily stuffed the warmed, softening chocolate into my mouth. Simple pleasures. It only took a moment to identify my location and my proximity to the Ghost Town.

I really wanted to give Mum a call and find out exactly where Lakira Street was because it wasn
’t listed on the map. No place names or landmarks were shown on the faded section of the map that identified Varosha. Perhaps Mum could have given me some pointers, such as a school or a church. Which hotel were they close to? I hadn’t expected it to be this difficult to find their apartment. I had mistakenly thought that the difficulties would come later. I chewed at the hard skin on the side of my thumbnail, a habit I thought I’d grown out of years ago. I continued to stare at the map hoping that something would jump out at me. But neither was there an ‘X marks the spot’ over Lakira Street, nor was there a sign indicating a gap in the fence allowing for a covert entrance into the Ghost Town.

I was reasonably sure that Mum and Eddie
’s old apartment had been by the sea. Mum had mentioned how she used to be able to see and hear the sea from her balcony. I searched the map again. “Urgghh!” I thumped my palm down on the table in frustration, which caused the table to wobble on its uneven legs. In a split second my glass was on its side and rolling towards the edge of the table.

Without hesitation my arm shot out with viper-like accuracy and snatched it before it exploded on the ground.
Relief turned to dismay as I saw that the content of my glass pooled in decreasing puddles across the map.

“
Shit! Bugger! Bollocks! Arseholes!”

I tried to shake off the sticky bubbles but they seeped into the paper and hung heavily upon the printed grids.
With its foot in the door, self-pity entered stealthily into my mind where it took hold with a vice-like grip. My ‘can-do’ attitude of barely ten minutes ago had fled and left me wondering what the hell I was doing here. I flung the sodden map to the floor and retreated into the cool shell of my room. I threw myself on the bed and squeezed my eyes against the anguish of my uselessness.

A cool breeze carrying the strong smell of lavender caused me to open my eyes.
At the doorway stood Antheia’s eldest girl, chewing on the end of one of her plaits.

“
Oh!
Yasou
,” I said as I sat up. “I was just lying down for a minute.”

She continued to stare at me and I sat and looked back at her.
Her hair, the same brown as her eyes, was in unruly plaits by the side of her face. They were bracketed with red ribbons at the top and bottom. She was about twelve years old, judging by her size, but something in her eyes suggested that she was older than she looked. Her blue and white checked dress reached the top of her dirty and bony knees and she wore white ankle socks with her sandals. We looked at each other for a long time before she nervously slid into the room. I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging nod and smile and she abruptly hopped up onto the bed beside me taking me by surprise. She grinned and starting telling me the most elaborate story in Greek.

“
I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t speak Greek.”

She nodded at me.
“
Endaxi
,” and then continued with her story. It seemed that I didn’t need to be able to understand her for her to have an audience. She was an exquisite creature and despite myself, I reached out and stroked her hair as she talked. The touch of her hair hit me like an electric shock and she opened her eyes wide as if she had felt it too. I blinked away any sense of sentimentality and continued to nod encouragement at what I hoped were appropriate moments.

Eventually she stopped and placed her hand on her chest.

“An-na.”

“
Hello Anna. My name is Leni.”

She nodded at this and then continued with her story.
I was sure this small brown girl and I were going to be great friends.

Chapter six

Cyprus, 1974

When Pru opened her eyes the whole room was buttery with late morning sun. Was the older woman still asleep? She flicked through her recollection of the previous night but couldn’t remember her name although Pru could picture her face perfectly and recall her scent of perfumed talcum powder that made her feel nauseous. Since she’d been pregnant her nose picked up every aroma with a veracity that a sniffer dog would be proud of.

There were other name
s from yesterday that she had no trouble recollecting. The man was called Reverend Joy. The name didn’t suit him. Pru saw his granite face as soon as she stepped into the sitting room clutching her cup of tea like a shield.

“
Mrs Clarke?” he asked unnecessarily. Pru’s eyes were drawn to this man’s cavernous nostrils under his hawkish beak. Wiry hair protruded from dark hollows above his thin top lip. He seemed nervous, she noted, as he swallowed noisily and his jutting Adam’s apple bobbed in his scrawny neck. She recognised him from the Easter service on the base but she wasn’t a regular church goer.

“
Would you like to sit down?” He motioned with long bony fingers to the armchair. His fingernails were too long.

“
No, thank you, I’ll stand.”

Pru and the vicar continued to stare at each other, neither
of them much impressed by what they saw. The roaring silence became unbearable and the Reverend cleared his throat to speak.

“
Ehem. Yes. We’ve received a message from your mother. I went to your apartment but your landlady said I’d just missed you. I had quite a job to track you down actually.” He smiled then. It was an insipid smile that showed no teeth and no warmth. Pru felt no compulsion to return the bogus grin.

She
waited for him to continue. Pru could tell she was making him feel uncomfortable and she enjoyed the feeling of power she had over this man of the cloth. Seconds, as marked by the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, ticked loudly by. Before today, she had never noticed how slow seconds were when you stopped to count them. Pru raised the hot cup to her dry lips so that she had an excuse to break eye contact with the clerical man. His watery eyes were blinking too often and made her own start to twitch.

“
I’m afraid I have some distressing news for you,” Reverend Joy continued with a well-practiced frown of concern etched between his overgrown brows. “Your father has passed away.” The ticking of the clock faded away. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

Pru felt the world
tilt on its axis and the force of cold air rushing into her ears. Her cup of tea left her fingers as if they were no longer made of anything substantial. She watched as the rosebud patterned cup twisted towards the floor and bounced off the carpet in front of her. Pru felt oddly removed from the scene as she watched amber beads of tea arcing through the air in impossibly slow motion. As the scalding liquid splattered on her bare toes, Pru abruptly came back to her senses.

“
Oh God! I’m so sorry. Let me clean that up. Where can I get a cloth? I don’t know what happened then. One minute I was holding it and then...”

Sturdy arms stopped her mid-bend as she stooped for the cup with arm outstretched.

“Prudence. Leave it, pet. Are you okay?” Soft tones soothed in her ear and Pru turned with puzzlement to the woman she’d forgotten was there.

“
It was the shock, that’s all, it doesn’t really burn at all now.” Pru’s voice faded out as the two women locked eyes and Pru saw the dumfounded look on the other woman’s round face.

“
It’s nothing but a bit of spilt tea. Pay no mind. I’m talking about your dad, love. Why don’t you sit down?”

“
Of course.” Pru knitted her brows together. She was still wondering how she should react to this news.

“
I need to pack though. Again. I’ll need to go home for the funeral and what have you.” She looked quizzically at her trembling hands. When she looked up, Reverend Joy was pursing his lips into a thin, grim line.

“
Your mother wishes me to inform you that the errr... The, erm, funeral was last week and that there is no need for you to make the trip, especially in your condition.”

“
Right,” spat Pru, balling her hands into fists at her side and feeling her strength rush back through her veins.
“
In my conditio
n
? Did she really say that?”

“
Well, it was implied in her missive, I think. I’m sure she was only thinking of your safety and that of your child.”

“
Then you don’t know my mother, Reverend.” She suddenly felt nothing but hate for the woman who had given birth to her, though the fire soon dissipated and Pru sank to the chair in defeat.

Silence expanded between them until Pru spoke, quieter this time.
“Did the letter say how he died?”

“
Yes,” Joy said, pleased to be able to impart some important information. “She did. I’m afraid he finally lost his battle with cancer.”

Pru began to laugh mirthlessly and it was only the shocked look on the Reverend
’s face that stopped her.

“
That doesn’t happen overnight, does it? Cancer? I mean, she knew didn’t she? And she didn’t tell me? Well, that just about says it all.”

“
Well...” the reverend began, flustered and blinking rapidly.

“
Right. If that’s all then, I think I’ll lie down for an hour or two. It’s been quite a day.”

Pru didn’t actually remember getting to bed. The two large brandies she had swallowed without tasting had helped round the edges of her grief. She sat up in the bed stiffly and looked about her through puffy, half-closed eyes. It reminded her a bit of Eddie’s parents’ house, but even friendlier somehow. There was a scallop-edged crocheted mat under the figurine on the drawers. The figurine itself was of a woman in a bonnet holding a basket over one arm and in her other hand she held the hem of her dress, revealing her underskirts. On the window ledge there was a pomander in the shape of a pink, heeled boot. There were no signs at all that she was in Cyprus. There had been no attempt to embrace the local style.

A cold cup of tea from the night before lay untouched on the bedside table and she took a sip to wet her lips.
The familiar presence of a full bladder suddenly made its mark on Pru’s consciousness and she eased herself from the bed to search for the bathroom. Her attempt to open the door quietly was floored as she opened it directly into her protruding belly and then swore loudly.

“
There’s a lav just through the kitchen there, pet. I’ll get the kettle on.”

Pru jumped and took a moment to spot the originator of the soft Geordie accent.

“Thank you Mrs....?”

“
Betty.” And then each one of those lines on her face creased in a warm smile as she walked ahead of Pru into the kitchen.

Pru followed as quickly as she could but it always took a while for her hips to wake up in the morning and the aches were something else today.
Once, quite early on in her pregnancy, she had vowed never to walk like a pregnant woman. She was sure that the pregnancy duck-waddle wasn’t a necessary part of the process. Now, nearing the end of her pregnancy, she realised that the choice wasn’t hers to make.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Betty was at the cooker melting a huge lump of lard in the frying pan.

“Not for me, thank you. I don’t eat breakfast,” Pru said as she tried to slip away, embarrassed at the state of her un-combed hair.

“
Ya do now. Sit down, I’ll make you a brew.” Betty laid three rashers of bacon side by side in the misshapen and grease-coated pan and reached for the white-shelled eggs. Uncharacteristically, Pru didn’t even consider arguing with her and instead sat at the kitchen table to watch Betty at work. She was exhausted and spent.

“
How ya feeling, pet?”

Pru
thought carefully before answering the question.

“
I’m fine, thank you. I think it’s normal to be tired this late on in the pregnancy.”

“
I wasn’t talking about that. I was meaning about your–”

“
I know” interrupted Pru, effectively closing that line of conversation.

After a few moments
of silence in which Betty studied Pru, the older woman shouted over the sizzle and hiss of the bacon, “Eddie looked in on you this morning. He didn’t want to wake you but said he’ll be back for dinner, mind. Poor bairn looks tired. Did you manage much sleep? Get all the rest you can now because as sure as eggs is eggs, that wee bairn will be keeping you on your toes when it’s born. They don’t care if you’ve had a bad day or a late night.”

Reliev
ed that the conversation had moved on to a topic she didn’t mind talking about, Pru asked, “How old are your children?”

“
Mine? Oh no hinny, I don’t have any.”

After a momentary pause while Betty poured an amber stream of hot liquid into another rosebud cup
, she said, “Turns out that it wasn’t in the plan for us, no matter how much we wanted it.” She looked over her shoulder at Pru’s uncomfortable expression and handed her the tea. “Now if I don’t feel bad about it, pet, you certainly shouldn’t! You’ll never hear me complain about it. I’ve got the best life I could hope for, thank you very much. And it means I get to keep my hourglass figure too.” And she laughed while turning her ample hips from side to side in an exaggerated figure of eight.

“
Nah, I was a bit past my best when me and Bern married. He’s a bit younger than me, see? Got meself a toy boy! By the looks of it you can only have a few weeks to go. Not the best time for war, eh? It’ll be over before we hear any shots fired, though, you’ll see.”

“
What happened though?” asked Pru. “I don’t understand. The Greeks and Turks are friends, right? They work side by side, they live side by side...”

“
Do they?” Betty raised her eyebrows as she flipped the hissing bacon over.

“
Well... Yeah,” said Pru, less certain this time.

Pru leant her elbows
on the table and held her cup of tea against her lips as she thought about Betty’s question. At the army stables where Pru was a regular visitor, even though her pregnancy stopped her from riding, both the Greeks and Turks worked together, but now she stopped to think about it, the Greeks had the slightly nicer jobs while the Turks shovelled the manure. But she had never seen any animosity between them. She realised now that she didn’t know many Turks. The restaurants that they ate in were mainly Greek-owned; the woman they rented their flat off was Greek; the family she bought fruit off at the side of the road was Greek; all their local acquaintances were Greek rather than Turkish.

“
I still don’t get it. It’s plainly stupid,” she said finally, making up her mind that they must all be idiots.

“
Well, the Turkish were unhappy, we all knew that, but I’m not sure them Greeks expected this. But then, if you poke a hornet’s nest, you get stung.” The older woman sighed as she placed cutlery and a bottle of HP sauce on the table. “There’s been trouble fer years and it’s finally boiled over. Eat up.”

“
But why aren’t the British army doing anything?”

“
Oh I dunno, pet, but what
can
they do?” Betty asked kindly. “If we side with the Greeks now and have war with the Turks, we’ll be in all kinds of hot watter. It isn’t our country, pet. This is a politicians’ war. Let them do the talking and in the meantime, we’ll pray that not too many young’uns lose their lives because of some old men’s hunger for power.”

“
That simple?” asked Pru through a mouthful of salty bacon.

“
Let’s hope so, pet. I’ve no desire to get back to Newcastle just yet. Now get that inside yer,” she nodded at the plate in front of Pru. “And then get dressed. I want yer help oot in the garden.”

Conversation over, Pru w
as left alone to finish her breakfast. She resented the fact that Betty expected her to do some gardening but she was softening towards the other woman. And, she had to admit, it was nice to be eating proper, lard-cooked bacon again. Betty had even cut off the rind and fried it separately so that it could coil into crispy spirals.

The news from last night was tapping at her subconscious and she knew she would have to let it in at some point.
She was well aware that she should feel something over Dad’s death and the fact that she didn’t get to say goodbye to him. She pushed her bacon around her plate, smearing brown sauce across the circumference and strained to remember that last time she’d seen Dad. It would have been the morning of her eighteenth birthday. She remembered that it had been sunny, despite the chill in the air.

She opened her presents at the breakfast table over bitter marmalade-dressed toast.
She clearly remembered the slender oblong box that Dad slid over to her from beneath the red knitted tea cosy. By the twinkling in his eyes she knew that he was pleased with the gift so she was expecting something special.