Greek Island Escape Read online

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Patricia Wilson

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  More from Patricia Wilson

  Author’s Note

  Why I love Chania

  Copyright

  Praise for

  ‘Full of raw emotion’

  SUNDAY POST

  ‘I was engrossed and hanging on each and every word. This book will leave a lasting impression . . . [and is] one that I will find myself recommending to everyone I meet’

  REA BOOK REVIEWS

  ‘We race to the end with our hearts thumping . . . Terrific stuff ’

  LOVE READING

  ‘A beautiful, heartbreaking story of sacrifice and love in the face of evil’

  FOR THE LOVE OF BOOKS

  ‘Full of raw emotions, family vendettas, hidden secrets and three very strong women’

  THAT THING SHE READS

  ‘The perfect blend of fiction with historical fact’

  SHAZ’S BOOK BLOG

  ‘Day by day the story unfolds . . . secrets are revealed, feuds revisited and three generations of women reunited’

  PEOPLE’S FRIEND

  ‘Beautiful and evocative’

  IT TAKES A WOMAN

  ‘I loved it’

  ECHOES IN AN EMPTY ROOM

  ‘I absolutely LOVED, LOVED, LOVED this book . . . I can’t wait to read more from this hugely talented author’

  GINGER BOOK GEEK

  ‘A very dramatic novel, one you cannot put down’

  SOUTH WALES ARGUS

  ‘Thoroughly researched and very well written’

  THAT THING SHE READS

  ‘The author writes in such an evocative and emotional style that the reader cannot help but get totally lost in the book’

  KIM THE BOOKWORM

  ‘Attention to detail is second to none . . . I cannot praise this book enough and just hope that the author writes another book soon’

  BOON’S BOOKCASE

  For my sisters and brothers:

  Josephine, Elizabeth, Francis, Anthony, Mark and Gordon Wilson.

  With all my love.

  THE DRESS

  ‘To sleep, to dream,’ so Shakespeare says.

  And so, I drift back to our days.

  I dream of those romantic places

  Each of which my heart embraces.

  Remember the songs in our Pláka café

  The Acropolis, majestic, across the way.

  There, for a better Greece you planned

  All I wanted was hearts in the sand.

  On Balos beach, writing a song

  We sunbathed there, too long.

  Too long. Will I marry you

  One day, when Greece has

  Risen from this decay? I

  Cried, joyous, ‘Yes I will!’

  That moment in my heart still.

  You saw me in my lovely dress

  Wrapped me in your warm caress

  In the taffeta gown, I will curtsy low

  Damming tears with ambition to flow

  And in every theatre crowd’s applause

  The only clapping I hear is yours.

  I’ll find you in my dreams each night

  Feel your strong arms. Hold me tight.

  To the olive tree or the wishing well

  One day I’ll bring your child to tell

  Of wars fought against oppression

  Freedom was your big obsession!

  Your kisses soft as evening dew

  I recall at dusk, the night anew.

  Now the dawn begins to break

  How my lonely heart does ache

  And ache, to see the fading stars

  Remembering all that love, of ours.

  That love

  Of ours.

  Patricia Wilson

  PROLOGUE

  SOFIA

  Crete, present day.

  UNDER A SPREADING TAMARISK TREE on Chania beach, I woke in the ghost of my lover’s arms. It seemed a beautiful place to be – until reality reminded me of hot, sweet coffee and breakfast. The last wisps of night still cowered beneath the branches. I lay still for a while, smiling, enjoying the silence, enjoying a world at peace.

  The promise of a new day surged over the horizon. The sun rising like Aphrodite from the sea, bathing the island in soft light. The sky sifted through blushing pinks, the yellow of warm honey, and then the startling blue of another Mediterranean day.

  Sometimes I wonder if this deep appreciation of dawn is a by-product of very old age. Every new morning is a surprise gift. And every night holds the threat of a final farewell.

  I pulled myself up from the abandoned sunbed, plaited my long silver hair, then smoothed the dusty black dress that was past its best. The cool sand felt refreshing under my feet, but I cursed old joints that were reluctant to straighten.

  I had bathed after dark, away from prying eyes, in the warm Cretan sea. In the light of day, that sparkling turquoise water seemed to go on forever – like my life.

  Sometimes my memories have a similar clarity, enabling me to see a long way back, the pebbles of my past glittering in threads of refracted light. I remembered another time, another place – floating on the Aegean as a child, staring at an endless sky and wondering about the nature of eternity. My opulent childhood days filled with colour and laughter, food and friends and family. I wanted for nothing.

  Reaching for my shoes, I noticed a peculiar glint and scooped up a handful of sand. The grains slipped through my gnarled fingers, leaving a smooth nugget of sea glass. Something once flawless, now smashed beyond repair. Only a fragment of its former self. The gem rested in my palm – changed beyond recognition, yet still unique and beautiful in its own way.

  Was I, too, nothing but a piece of broken glass? A shattered remnant of a perfect life? Sometimes, I wished God would take me, and sometimes I prayed He would give me a little longer to achieve my quest.

  On a whim, I slipped the glass into my pocket, then looked up and saw Ioanis spreading his orange nets on the beach.

  He settled cross-legged on the sand, his blunt needle and yellow twine shuttling back and forth, replacing lost floats along the fishing net’s edge. If I could cast my nets and recapture all those I held close in my heart, I’d embrace them one last time, tell them how much I loved them, and beg their forgiveness . . .

  Ioanis shouted the tra
ditional greeting for the first of the month: ‘Kalo mina, Yiayá! ’

  Good month, Grandmother! Most people call me grandmother because of my great age.

  Now, at the outset of spring, his words seemed doubly poignant. Wild flowers bloomed. Sunny days had replaced the pallor of winter with bronzed faces and wider smiles; the prospect of a busy summer added an air of excitement in tavernas and shops.

  A swallow dipped and dived over the water’s edge, chasing the last of dawn’s mosquitoes. It reminded me of another bird, flitting in through the prison bars of a broken window, then returning outdoors, preferring freedom. That was on the day my baby was born – the day I began to crochet.

  If it was a good month, in the following weeks I might find my child. Just the thought made my tired heart skip.

  I pulled the lemon shawl and crochet hook out of my cloth bag and plucked at the silken thread, working quickly despite my arthritic fingers. The shawl was my talisman, started with my first contraction nearly half a century ago. Later that day, with tears still wet on my face and my spirit as broken as the sea glass, I prayed to God that one day I would hold my daughter again, free to explain that I was her mother, and tell her that I had never stopped loving her. On that day, I would cast the final knot in my baby blanket.

  A new month? I pulled at the last loop, found the end and rewound the ball of silk. Round and round the thread raced as four weeks of delicate shells and flowers unravelled. This month, I told myself. This month, I would complete the shawl.

  I stared at Ioanis. My daughter must be about the same age as the fisherman now.

  Ioanis ambled over to the beach taverna where his wife laid faded gingham cloths over wooden tables. He disappeared into the kitchen, then returned to my side with a bread roll still hot from the oven and a fried mullet on a paper napkin.

  ‘Here, Yiayá, get some breakfast. You look starved.’ He thrust the food at me. ‘It’s fresh – I caught it this morning.’

  I wished to say ‘Thank you!’ but of course I could not, so I tapped my belly, nodded gratefully and held out one of my notes written in neat Greek letters.

  ‘I know, Yiayá, you can’t speak,’ Ioanis said sympathetically, before returning to his taverna.

  I sat up straight and picked small mouthfuls of food, despite the growling hunger in my stomach. No excuse for bad eating habits. Mama’s words of wisdom came back to me. Always remember, manners tell a lot about a person, Sofia.

  When Ioanis had returned to his restaurant, I feasted on the fresh fish.

  *

  I had arrived from Athens, where I lived, on the twelve-hour ferry the morning before. The packed ship transported two thousand tourists, families and students to Crete for the carnival weekend. Surely my daughter would come to watch the parade?

  On the great ship, I took the lift to deck four and hurried to the front lounge. Quickly, I spread my belongings across three cushions under a window and laid my tired body down. Fellow passengers, also unable to afford a cabin, searched for a comfortable place to spend the night. Nobody would disturb a sleeping pensioner.

  Oh, the luxury of resting on soft upholstery.

  Although the voyage took twelve hours, I started my task at once. These days, everything takes longer. When my fellow passengers had settled, I sat up, drew a bundle of narrow strips of paper from my carpet bag, and started writing the same sentence, again and again.

  I wrote long into the night, only stopping when cramp gripped my hand and I had to pull my fingers straight. Once or twice tiredness overtook me and I dozed for a while. At one point, the barman placed a cheese pie, coffee and a glass of water in front of me. I held a hand on my heart and silently bowed my thanks.

  When everyone slept, I found the public bathroom, took a hot shower and washed my hair. The single braid that hung down my back had never seen a pair of scissors or felt the tender stroke of a man’s hand since the most wonderful – and terrible – day of my life.

  Sensing the approach of dawn and feeling the excitement of another new day, I reached into my bag, withdrew my crochet hook and yarn, and began to work steadily on my daughter’s shawl.

  As the light gained strength, passengers stirred. I left my belongings on the seat and passed out the slips of paper. As usual, tourists unable to read Greek thought I was begging. Some handed over a little money; others turned away, trying to ignore me. I didn’t mind. The Greek people read my note, then peered at me, crossing themselves. They said kind words and placed a few coins in my hand.

  On the bus from Chania’s port to the city terminal, I took a seat by the door and passed my notes to everyone who got on.

  A young foreign woman asked her companion, ‘What does it say? My Greek’s not so good yet.’

  He read, ‘“I am Sofia, searching for my daughter, born in Korydallos prison, Athens, 1 November 1972. Can you help me?”’

  She glanced at me, then turned to her boyfriend. ‘That’s so sad. I wonder what happened.’

  The boyfriend lowered his voice. ‘Seventy-two was one of the darkest times in our history. The junta controlled Greece and thousands went missing. Martial law, torture, executions . . . nobody wants to talk about it.’

  ‘Good grief! That’s not so long ago.’ From her accent, I figured the girl must be a British student. ‘I’ve got my dad’s record collection from the seventies – Elton John, Michael Jackson, Queen. Hard to believe stuff like that was going on here, in Europe, at the same time. It’s a bit close to home, don’t you think?’

  I studied the handsome youth. He bore a resemblance to the man I married, with his shoulder-length dark hair, intense brown eyes with flecks of gold and strong, lean body. I had loved – still loved – him passionately. I touched my throat, longing to explain how brave and noble my husband had been. How he’d suffered for his country and its people, always putting them before himself.

  Leaning back in my seat, I closed my eyes, and allowed my imagination to flesh out the bare bones of my memories. Images from my past returned with great joy and great pain.

  CHAPTER 1

  ZOË

  London, present day.

  ZOË JOHNSON WOKE ON A damp pillow, clutching at a dream as it slipped away.

  Her first thought was: Megan, where are you?

  She flipped her pillow. The touch of cool cotton against her cheek brought her back to reality. A simple trick to stop the terrible lurch towards soul-destroying thoughts of what if . . .

  Her throat ached; she was coming down with a bout of acute sadness. The duvet held her in a half nelson, tempting her to submit and stay in bed. She closed her eyes, reminded herself she was due in court later and pulled herself out of bed.

  After slipping into her robe and slippers, she headed towards an ordinary day. Two aspirins and a caffeine hit should help improve her mood.

  After seven months of worry, her search for her daughter Megan had nowhere to go. In the month after she had run away, leaving nothing but a note behind, Zoë’s heart had leaped with every phone ring or door knock – but this had changed recently. Coping, people called it. Coming to terms. But how could they possibly understand a mother’s turmoil when she didn’t know the whereabouts of her teenage daughter?

  Zoë sighed, and tried to dampen the emotions fired up at the sight of the date on her phone.

  She recalled the explosion of joy, on a rainy Wednesday morning exactly seventeen years ago, when Megan had drawn her first breath. Each year that followed, Megan had closed her eyes and scrunched her face with the seriousness of a birthday wish. Sixteen birthday cakes. Zoë remembered them all. Teletubbies, Pingu, Peppa Pig . . . They had sliced through colourful fondant together, Zoë’s hands over Megan’s, the knife big in her child’s dimpled fists.

  Zoë hugged herself, wishing she had held her daughter more often in the last few years. Knowing that teenagers wanted freedom, not cuddles, she had stood back, her heart bursting with love and pride.

  Now she paused in the kitchen, tear
s itching, Megan’s seventeenth birthday filling the day. Another cake, red-and-white-iced L-plates on chocolate fondant, awaited collection at the bakery. Her birthday gift would be driving lessons.

  If Megan came home.

  She had to come home today.

  Zoë tried to think of happier things, and cast her mind back to this time last year. The day after Megan’s birthday, they’d set off for Crete. It was their last holiday as a family, just weeks before Frank’s election campaign. Just months before Megan disappeared.

  They’d cycled through traditional villages, enjoyed the company of locals in ethnic kafenia, and joined in the Greek dancing. They had planned their vacation to coincide with Greek Easter, as that year it fell within the British school holidays, knowing that Megan would love the local processions, bonfires and fireworks of Crete’s greatest four-day festival. Even thirteen-year-old Josh was determined to make the most of the holiday. Walking the Samaria Gorge was something Zoë would never forget.

  *

  At the edge of a dull plateau, the Samaria Gorge started with astonishing suddenness. They were faced by a great cleft opening right before their brand-new hiking boots. Across the way, in spitting distance (as Frank so elegantly put it), rose the gaunt face of Mount Gingilos. Megan picked up a pebble and hurled it at the mountain and Zoë squealed, fearing she would lose her balance and fall into the deep canyon. At 6 a.m. the freezing air had them bellowing steam like angry bulls.

  ‘Come on, let’s get going before it gets too hot,’ Zoë said, her voice echoing in the stillness, over a thousand metres above sea level.

  They gripped the handrails and started down log steps, zigzagging to the base of the gorge. Half an hour later, they drank cold water from a spring and admired the view, then followed a stream that gushed and gurgled through lush vegetation. The air warmed; butterflies and dragonflies chased each other over wild flowers that fringed the brook. Hours later, they stopped to bathe their hot feet in icy water, Megan and Josh splashing each other, children again in the privacy of the canyon. Two of the national park’s wardens, hardened hikers, had passed, reminding them to fill in a questionnaire at the end of the trek. Then the four of them were alone.

  Zoë needed the loo, and the constant sound of running water didn’t help. The guidebook told of a WC in the abandoned village of Samaria, a couple of kilometres ahead, but she couldn’t wait.