YANNIS (Cretan Saga Book 1) (59 page)

‘The weather’s worsening, Manolis. You ought to leave whilst you can still get back.’

With a resigned shrug of his shoulders Manolis rose, bent and kissed Flora’s hand. ‘I’ll talk to you the next time I come over,’ he promised.

He called Father Minos to join him, pointing to the sea and sky by way of explanation. Yannis watched as they made their way over to the shelter of the mainland, the tiny boat being tossed like a cork as the wind caught her sails until Manolis finally lowered them and began to row. Involuntarily Yannis shivered. He would never forget the first time he had been caught in a storm with his uncle, how sick and knotted his stomach had been with fear. He turned to see Phaedra waiting by the steps and walked towards her.

‘Who was that man?’

‘The schoolteacher I shared lodgings with. We were good friends, could talk for hours about history. Now all he can think about is politics. Even when I asked about his wife and baby he was hardly interested.’

‘So what did he want?’

‘I’m not sure. He said he wanted to help us, but I felt there was more to it than that, something he wasn’t telling me. I probably imagined it.’ Yannis put his arm round Phaedra and squeezed her. ‘He’s laid a ghost for me. I’d kidded myself that one day I would be able to return and everything would be just the same. Now I know it wouldn’t be, and I’m not so sure about wanting to return.’

‘You ought to go in and get dry,’ Phaedra warned him, wanting to distract him from a dangerously depressing train of thought.

Yiorgo Pavlakis sat at his desk in the schoolroom and scowled at the children. It seemed hardly any time at all since Yannis had been an eager face amongst such a crowd. Yiorgo had been proud of him for gaining the scholarship, so delighted to be the bearer of such good news to his family, and now the brilliant scholar sat in a make-shift hut on a wind swept island, shunned by all except his fellow sufferers. He pushed his hair back and wiped his hand down his trousers.

He found it difficult to keep his mind on the lesson he was giving. His thoughts continually reverted to the island and he shuddered inwardly. Whatever he managed to do for them he never wanted to visit that island again. By the time he had finished teaching for the day, eaten and made his way to the Town Hall where the meeting was to be held, he had a plan clearly in his mind. It would need all his cunning to get his fellows to agree to his proposals before the full implication of his plan was realised. He shuffled his papers and cleared his throat nervously.

‘Fellow councillors,’ he began, ‘Some most disquieting information has come to me, something which is in our power to rectify immediately, and in rectifying it we shall earn the respect of our fellow men for ever more.’ He pushed the lock of hair from his eyes. ‘I should like you to imagine for one moment that your wife, your son or your daughter was declared an incurable. What would be their fate? As it is unlikely that this terrible illness has ever crossed your path you will not know.’ Yiorgo glanced round his audience, noting those who were avoiding his eyes or biting their lips in concern.

‘I would never have known myself, had it not been for a priest who is well-known in this town for his merciful deeds. Father Minos came to me, not to beg for the unfortunate or the destitute, he came to ask me if I could persuade you to give him permission to live on Spinalonga.’ Each and every man drew in his breath. ‘He has permission from the medical authorities to visit whenever he wishes and I suggested that he moved to Aghios Nikolaos and visited daily. It was not the simple solution I had thought. The only income he has is from his parish, so he could not afford to live away from it. I suggested his friends on the island contributed to his keep, but that again is not possible.’ Yiorgo paused to gauge the effect his words were having. ‘He told me those who had been sent to the island do not have a lepta between them. Their food is sent over from the villages, paid for by the government, and that is all. I found it hard to believe, thinking Father Minos was trying to gain my sympathy, but it is true. I have seen with my own eyes the way these sick and suffering people live.’

Yiorgo raised his voice. ‘I visited the island, in the company of the priest, and I was appalled.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘It was wet and windy. I had on my overcoat. I asked why those people were not wearing theirs and I was told they do not have any. They do not have an overcoat! Think about that. It is as cold and wet there as it is here, yet they do not have a coat!’

His audience shifted uncomfortably. They did not want to be reminded that a group of people had been virtually abandoned for the misfortune of falling prey to a disease. Yiorgo held up his hand.

‘Now, I’m not asking you to send them all overcoats. I am asking something far simpler. When these unfortunate people were admitted to hospital, either here or in Athens, or Thessalonica or wherever, they handed over all the money they possessed, borrowed from relatives, lent to them by friends, or saved diligently during their healthy, working years, to pay for their hospital treatment. When they were sent to the island that money was not sent with them!’ Yiorgo leant across the table and looked at the assembly of men. ‘What I am asking is, if that money was not sent with them, where is it now?’

He waited for his words to take effect. ‘I know where it should be. It should be in the hospital safe, the amount duly recorded and the amount taken for expenses during the patient’s stay also recorded, but it is not. All the money was taken by the government to pay for sending food to the island. Some of those admitted handed over vast sums, far in excess of their needs, and where is it now? Distributed amongst various accounts that bear no relevance at all to the sufferers. Used by the government to balance their accounts wherever there was a shortage. This is a criminal misuse of hospital funds and I feel sure that if it reached the ears of some people there could be an outcry that would topple the government both here and in Athens. I suggest that we act before such a disaster occurs. I do not want to use this money to buy all those on the island an overcoat. I have a far better idea. The money should be placed in a bank account where it will gain interest over the years, and from that money I want to send each of these destitute people a small remittance for the rest of their lifetime. They will be able to buy their own overcoats!’ Yiorgo resumed his seat and waited.

‘How much money is there?’

‘We would never be able to get it back.’

‘If there is any to get back!’

‘How can we find out?’

‘We can ask to examine the hospital account books. We are within our rights to do so.’

‘The medical authorities will claim they’re owed money for treatment. We’ll never get a lepta from them.’

Yiorgo rose to his feet again. ‘I agree with you. I am sure that the books will balance and requesting an examination would only cause trouble for us. What I am suggesting is that we run a lottery. We advertise that it is to provide comforts for the incurables and also appeal for anonymous donations. I’m sure people would give a little if they knew it would help a member of their family and there was no risk of their name being mentioned. We can then present it as a gift from the government.’

The men around the table murmured together, some making little calculations on the notepads before them, until one finally looked up.

‘I propose that we accept this suggestion, but before we decide how much we are able to give to each person, we would need to know the numbers involved. We can’t make promises until we have all the facts. I also propose that we only distribute so much per month. In that way the capital can stay in the bank earning interest.’

Yiorgo Pavlakis nodded. ‘May I propose that we take a vote on the idea?’

The men nodded their assent and raised their hands.

‘I should like it minuted,’ Yiorgo spoke to the clerk. ‘Mr Y. Pavlakis proposed etcetera and it was decided etcetera.’ The clerk began to write assiduously. ‘Now the next item I have on my agenda again concerns Spinalonga. It is a request by Father Minos that he may be given permission to live on the island, to give what little comfort he can to the sick and dying.’

‘Who would pay for that?’

A silence fell. Yiorgo cleared his throat and pushed back the lock of hair. ‘No doubt his friends would find accommodation for him and he would be able to have a share of the food that was sent out, apart from that, I suggest he has the same allowance as is finally decided upon for the other occupants of the island.’

‘Sounds fair! If he wishes to live with them he should be prepared to live like them.’ The elderly man spoke with a conviction that brooked no disagreement.

‘Wouldn’t we have to ask the Bishop over this one? He probably has the final say.’

‘Only a fool would want to go there!’

‘He must surely stand more chance of catching it if he’s there all the time.’

‘Maybe we should send him there anyway.’

‘Why?’

‘He could already have it and be passing it around the city.’

They nodded in agreement.

‘I propose that Father Minos be granted his request to live on the island of Spinalonga, subject to the approval of the Bishop.’

‘I’d like to amend that. He must stay on the island permanently, otherwise he risks contaminating others.’

Again the men nodded in agreement.

‘May I tell the priest of your decision?’

‘Better to avoid the man.’

‘We’ll send him a letter. Phrase it formally.’

The clerk nodded. He hoped there would be no reply that he would have to handle.

‘Now, the next item…’

Father Minos sat in the vestibule, nervously awaiting his audience with the Bishop. He had the treasured letter recommending that he took up residence on Spinalonga in his pocket. All he needed now was the permission of the Bishop. He rubbed his hands down his long black robe, hoping the sweat would not show. It seemed an age before the secretary opened the door and beckoned him into the presence of the eminent man. Father Minos made an obeisance before him and stood silently, waiting for permission to speak.

‘You requested an audience of me?’

‘Your Lordship, I crave your indulgence whilst I speak.’

The Bishop nodded permission.

Father Minos swallowed hard. ‘Some few years ago a young man came to me. He was in dire terror and distress. When I had calmed him he confessed that he thought he was an incurable. I persuaded him to visit the hospital for diagnosis. I did not hear from him again. I dismissed him from my mind as a forgetful youngster, whose fears, once allayed, had forgotten me. It was only later when his young cousin, also a church man, came searching for him, that I discovered he had been admitted to the hospital for treatment.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Please, your Lordship, I have to tell you the whole story. I went to the sick young man’s parents and told them the sad news. On the very day that I had discovered that their son had been admitted to hospital he was being transferred to the hospital in Athens. I could not tell them the address or any other details. I felt I had failed my fellows in my calling.’ Father Minos bowed his head.

‘You require absolution?’

‘No, your Lordship. I atoned for my sin of negligence by visiting the hospital here and taking whatever succour and comfort I could to the unfortunate sufferers. I found out the name of the hospital in Athens where they were sent, but once again I was too late. The young man in question had been moved once again. This time to the island of Spinalonga. I visited the island and I cannot describe to a man of your sensibilities the conditions I found there. They defy description! To say it is Hell on earth falls far short of the truth.’

The Bishop shifted uncomfortably in his chair. This was beginning to sound suspiciously like a plea for the return of this young man to the mainland.

‘I have visited the island on a number of occasions, taking whatever comfort I can to the poor souls who have been condemned to live out their earthly life there and I have become determined upon a course of action. I have been called, called as clearly as I was when I first turned to the Holy Church for orders. I actually heard a voice,’ Father Minos’s eyes began to glow with enthusiasm. ‘I was praying for guidance when a voice spoke to me so clearly that for a moment I thought I was not alone.’

‘And what did this voice say, my son?’

‘He, it was Him, said, “You cannot heal the lepers, but you can help them”. He spoke the truth to me. I can help them, I beg of you to let me help them.’ Father Minos fell to his knees, prostrating himself before the Bishop. ‘I wish to go to the island; to live amongst them, as one of them, to help them with prayer and faith to overcome their misery and despair. This is my calling. I have permission from the medical authorities, I have permission from the government, but I need your permission, my Lord.’

The Bishop relaxed. If only all his priests were to make such simple requests. ‘My son, when did you first hear this voice call you?’

‘Some years back now. When the young man was first sent to Athens and I felt I had failed in my calling.’

‘And you did nothing?’

‘I went to the hospital. I spent long hours listening to the confessions of those who were too sick to be moved to Athens and trying to comfort those who did not wish to leave Crete.’

‘And this is not enough for you?’

‘It is no longer sufficient when I know there are others in greater need. Any priest could take comfort to those patients who are hospitalised, but I wish to share their privations and discomforts. To be truly one of them.’

‘Do you still bear a feeling of guilt for failing this young man when he needed you?’

‘Yes, your Lordship.’

‘Is this your way of setting yourself a penance? A penance that once undertaken can never be taken from you?’

‘I do not see it as a penance. My penance is to have to live here, in comfort, whilst they have so little materially and nothing spiritually.’

‘And have you given any thought to who would carry on your good work here if I allowed you to leave us?’

‘Your Lordship, I am sure that anyone could fulfil my duties.’