The Girl Under the Olive Tree
To Crete: island of my dreams and heroes. Long may you prosper.
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013
A CBS Company
Copyright © Leah Fleming 2013
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Leah Fleming to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
HB ISBN: 978-0-85720-404-2
TPB ISBN: 978-0-85720-405-9
EBOOK ISBN: 978-0-85720-407-3
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Stokencourt House, Gloucestershire, April 2001
Blair Atholl, Scotland, September 1936
Author Notes and Acknowledgements
There is no escape from Crete for those who have fallen under the spell of the mountain heart of the island and the hearts of the people who live there.
Lew Lind,
Flowers of Rethymnon
At the sound of gunfire it was time to retreat to the back of the dark cave, time to flatten herself against one of the recesses, hoping it was just another false alarm. She pressed herself into the damp rock wall as the volley of shots grew louder and bullets ricocheted off the metal canisters. Suddenly the dim light from the entrance was blocked by the rush of troops shouting ‘
Raus . . . raus’
, storming through as only conquerors can do.
Flinging herself to the ground in one swift move, she tried to hide her presence, to play dead as they dragged out orderlies and the wounded to line them up on the rocks outside.
Every second seemed an hour as she lay prostrate in the gloom, tasting the salty sand, the grit and the stench of dried blood on her lips, trying not to shiver. She sensed it would be only minutes before discovery, so this was not the time to waver. Be British, be brave . . . Oh, be damned with all that guff, she thought. All she was feeling was a cold fury in her gut. How could she leave when there was still so much to be done?
Suddenly a pair of desert boots covered in mud appeared at eye level, a scarred hand jerked her upright. This was the test, the moment of truth and defiance. If she faced the enemy without fear, her bluff might just work . . .
April 2001
The nightmare woke me again. First the gun pointing at my head, then water was closing over me, my arms thrashing through the sheets to find the surface, ears bursting, lungs fighting for breath, struggling against bodies already sinking, grabbing at me for life, kicking out, tiring with the effort, my eyes opening in terror and then surprise. It was only a dream, but my heart was pounding in my chest. Each time it was harder to reach the surface.
How many more of these will I survive?
Nothing for it but to get up and face the day, I decided. Then with relief I realized for once I was not alone.
Opening the gold damask curtains, I peered out into the morning. The Easter weather was holding up, the April sun warming the golden Cotswold stones on the south wall of Stokencourt House. The daffodils were almost over but there was a hint of blossom on the cherry trees and the scent of new growth in the air. Time for a quick tour round the herbaceous borders in my dressing gown to see how much Oliver, the young gardener, had overlooked in his rush to finish the strimming and be on his way to meet his girl.
I was glad Lois was relaxing in bed, leaving Alex sitting in front of the TV, not demanding to be entertained. Later I’d order him to race round the small lake. My niece was still looking washed out after the trauma of her husband’s desertion last year, and desperate for a bolthole. To be honest I was glad of their company over the bank holiday weekend. Bank holidays were not my favourite time: cars blocking the lanes, strangers peering over the stone walls, leaving litter and dog mess. Stokencourt always warmed to the echoes of children’s noise along its rambling corridors and stone-flagged floors, its mullioned-window seats piled with discarded toys that Alex dismissed as babyish. The young grow up so fast these days.
He did like taking Trojan, the latest in a line of wire-haired fox terriers, for walks through the village where our family had lived for generations. When Lois and Alex disappeared back down the M4 to London, I’d soon feel the chill of their absence.
It was a couple of hours later that I looked up from my weeding to see Lois blinking into the morning sunlight, and I caught a glimpse of her mother, Athene, at that age, so tall and willowy, like all the Georgiou women who thrived in open air and sunshine with their olive skin and blond hair.
‘Happy birthday, Aunt Pen!’
I paused, puzzled, and then sighed. ‘Thank you but at my age birthdays are surplus to requirements. It’s quite enough to wake up each morning still breathing.’ I silently cursed myself. Why did I always sound so sharp and ungrateful?
‘I knew you’d say that, but it’s a big old birthday. You hate being reminded but you do so much for us, letting us stay here. Since Adam left . . .’ She tailed off, still bereft by his desertion. ‘My dear, you’re the only living relative I have who is not stuck in some home away with the fairies. Why you bother with an old biddy like me, I’ll never know.’
‘Don’t change the subject,’ smiled Lois, standing her ground. ‘Happy birthday with love from Alex and me.’ She pulled an envelope from behind her back and shoved it into my hand.
‘What’s this then?’ I was fishing in my gardening apron for my reading spectacles.
‘It’s a card and a brochure. I thought you might like to come on holiday with us. I’ve booked a villa in May when Alex is on school holidays.’
Instinctively I shook my head. ‘That’s a kind thought but definitely not . . . Lunch at the Royal Oak will be quite sufficient, if you must remind me how ancient I am now.’
‘It’s not what we’re going to be doing this year. You’ve been more than a mother to me since Mummy died.’
‘What does an old woman wish for but the company of the young? That’s gift enough,’ I replied. It was the truth.
I turned away, back to the kneeler pad to get on with the irresistible urge to tidy away all the winter’s detritus. ‘I’m sure you’ve got a friend you’d prefer to spend your holiday with, someone who can go at your pace.’
Lois was not so easily dissuaded and pressed the brochure on me. ‘Look at it; you don’t even know where I’m taking you. The villa I’ve chosen is on Crete. There’s a Eurostar train to Paris, another down to Rimini and Ancona, ANEK ferries across the Adriatic. We can stop off in Athens and take Alex to see the Acropolis. You could revisit the Archaeological Museum, and we could take the night ferry from Piraeus to Crete.’
At the sound of those long-forgotten cities my heart lurched: Italy, Greece; I’d not been back since the war. ‘Why should I want to go back?’ I snapped, shocked by Lois’s machinations behind my back. I’d lived too long alone to be able to hide my feelings.
‘To show us around. I know it’s a special place for you. Why else would this house be so full of pictures of olive trees, mountains, woven rugs and ancient bits of pottery? You ought to return and make your peace. Besides, I thought you’d like to go to the sixtieth anniversary reunion. There might be people there you know.’
I have never liked surprises. ‘Not at all . . . For goodness’ sake, the people I knew will be all dead by now,’ I said sharply, hoping it would put an end to this discussion.
‘Rubbish, and you know it. That time has always been a closed book – Grandma told Mummy when you came home from the war it was as if it had never happened, not a word about your adventures to anyone – and of course, I don’t want to pry. I just thought you’d like to pay your respects, that’s all . . . or we could just have a holiday under the Cretan sun.’
‘Since when did I ever lounge about sunbathing? It’ll be too hot and tiring at my age,’ I replied, choosing to address the last thing she’d said.
Lois was prepared, batting off each of my excuses. ‘Nonsense, you are fitter than I am. You can walk for miles with Trojan. And we won’t be sunbathing all the time, just taking in the sights. I’d love you to show me the Palace of Knossos. Who better to guide us round? Holidays are a bit of a nightmare, if you really want to know.’ she sighed. ‘Alex misses Adam now he’s in Saudi. I’ve got permission for him to leave early for half term to attend this historic memorial event. They are doing the Second World War in history . . .’
‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ I said, eyeing my great-niece, whose dark eyes were now glistening with tears. I rose gingerly, hoping my hip wouldn’t seize up, stunned by her crazy idea. I didn’t want to upset her, but even after all these years I wasn’t sure I was ready to return to Crete.
‘Darling, I’m really not sure at my time of life this would be sensible.’
‘When were you ever sensible, Aunt Pen? Granny used to say you always ploughed your own furrow, and I know you caused such a furore in the family when you bolted.’
‘That’s as may be, but it’s such a long time ago. Look, if you must do this holiday, we could go to Scotland, take a trip to the Fair Isles. But all the way to Crete – I think not.’