Summer in Greece Read online

  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

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  More from Patricia Wilson

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Copyright

  For nurses everywhere

  ODE TO BRITANNIC’S BELL

  Beneath a sea of turquoise karma

  Lies a wreck with silenced drama,

  HM Hospital Ship Britannic sleeps alone.

  Crusty groupers watch and wait

  Like Churchill, tired of the debate,

  Did mine or missile send this fated lady home?

  Gone are those for whom we weep

  Those great explorers of the deep,

  With tanks and fins and masks carefully cleared.

  We’re thrilled, quite blown away,

  How well-preserved Brit is today,

  She fights the rusticals that scientists had feared.

  To raise her up they say

  Would not be the proper way

  To remember all those souls so sadly drowned.

  In a sea, that’s salt with tears,

  On sands of time for countless years,

  With coral garlands she is gloriously crowned.

  Inside, explorers carefully glide,

  Find safety doors are open wide

  In firemen’s tunnels like a giant yawn for breath.

  The current’s pulling like a gale,

  The diver’s fins against it fail,

  Another tragic ghost remains there after death.

  Now time has trickled by,

  ‘Where’s the ship’s bell?’ the diver’s cry.

  More than a hundred years have very slowly passed.

  Then we hear a diver screech,

  For lying just below his reach,

  At great depth he found Britannic’s bell at last.

  Patricia Wilson

  PROLOGUE

  Dover, December 1916.

  FROM THE LADDER OF HIS pigeon coop, Doctor Charles Smith gazed over white-frosted farmland. The sun peeped over the horizon, then slid into the full glory of a new day, setting dull clouds ablaze. Rich golden light painted the windows and thatch of a distant tied cottage where his patient lay sleeping – the family inside that humble home would treasure their baby boy for the rest of their lives.

  After twenty-four hours attending a difficult confinement, the local midwife, Fanny Eccles, had sent the young woman’s father, Jacob Boniface, to knock the doctor from his sleep. In that vacant hour before dawn, Dr Smith saved the exhausted young woman’s life with a simple snip, and later, a few stitches. Now, mother and baby were sleeping peacefully. In a whimsical moment, the doctor imagined an angel heading for Bethlehem, stopping off to illuminate that humble dwelling in Dover. He yawned, then smiled, uplifted by the Yuletide scene.

  He glanced across the frozen furrows of a turnip field and gave thought to all those men serving. Christmas or not, they’d be too busy killing each other with the newly invented machine guns in the Great War. He sighed wearily, hoping for an hour’s sleep before leaving for his surgery.

  These days, too many of his call-outs were under more ominous circumstances. The gangrenous limbs of war amputees, or sepsis, were often the forerunner of yet another premature funeral. His morphine and syringe were always to hand.

  He shivered, tugged at the corduroy collar of his waxed jacket and stared at the sky, searching hopefully for his best birds. A month ago, ten homing pigeons had left for the Somme in wicker baskets strapped onto the backs of British soldiers, the Pigeon Corps. Military leaders waited for the birds to carry crucial information home from the front line.

  The trill of a bicycle bell broke his thoughts. Turning on the ladder, Dr Smith peered over a hedge. Albert, local telegraph boy, pedalled helter-skelter down Lighthouse Lane, his bright grin challenging the doctor’s frown. The doctor had delivered Albert fifteen years ago and had hardly seen him thereafter, yet this would be the fourth time the boy had thumbed the gate-latch in the past six months.

  He turned and stared over the Dover cliff top, across the English Channel to the grey line that hid France, and beyond, Greece.

  ‘Doctor! Dr Smith!’ Albert shouted, abandoning the bell to wave a message over his head. ‘News from Athens!’ The boy wobbled, then clutched the handlebars and returned to bellringing.

  He hurried down the ladder. Earlier in the year, Charles and Martha had dealt with the sudden sacrifice of their other two children, Arthur and Sissy. Two weeks ago, another telegram had arrived, this time concerning their youngest child, eighteen-year-old Gertie.

  With deep regret we
must inform you, after the sinking of HMHS Britannic in Greek waters, VAD Gertrude Smith is listed as missing, presumed drowned.

  Those first three words hurt like a knife in his chest. He didn’t need more information, and was left stunned. But, as the days passed, he found he was desperate to know every detail of Gertie’s passing. He wanted to take his girl’s place, absorb her pain. His whole life had been spent fighting death, and he had won more battles than lost. Was this the grim reaper’s revenge? If he hadn’t been a doctor, would his three children be alive today?

  This would be simple confirmation.

  His heart squeezed. How would he tell Martha? She sat quietly in their empty home, torn between hope and despair, hardly having eaten or spoken for a fortnight. His throat stiffened again. He patted his pocket for the thickness of a freshly ironed handkerchief.

  Albert skidded to a halt, his back wheel overtaking the front. He kicked out the bicycle-stand but after a tremulous moment, the heavy frame clattered to the ground. The boy ignored it and rushed up the path. ‘It’s just arrived, sir!’ He panted dramatically, delved under a clumsy gas mask in his box-satchel, then thrust a receipt book and pencil towards the doctor. ‘Sign here, please.’ The proud apprentice rubbed his knees, eyes sparkling with excitement, red cheeks glowing from his freckled face.

  Hadn’t the lad realised, telegrams in wartime meant unwelcome news? Charles rummaged in his pocket for a halfpenny. Albert beamed.

  ‘Go!’ the doctor said, reluctant to read the dispatch while the boy gawped.

  Martha appeared in the cottage doorway, her hair tied in rags and covered by a robust net that reminded Charles of the trout in Parley Brook. Her eyes had that same blank stare of fatality.

  He would need to fish later, to be alone to cry, to come to terms, and to gather his strength to support dearest Martha.

  ‘Go,’ the doctor repeated. Albert lolloped back to his bike. As the gate slammed behind him, a cloud of pigeons took to the air, wings applauding. They circled, then settled in a discontented line on the roof, watching, waiting.

  Charles ripped open the telegram, knowing it was futile to hope. He read the single line, then reached for his handkerchief.

  Martha, face ghostly pale, rushed to his side. Her nails dug into his arm, clinging to hope and her husband. ‘It’s about Gertie?’ she whispered. Now, her eyes sparked with hope, or fear, he couldn’t tell which. She peered up into his face.

  He nodded. His throat tightened so much he couldn’t speak. Despite his efforts, tears brimmed, then overflowed. Martha let out a howl so heavy with grief that the pigeons took to the heavens again.

  Charles wrapped his arms around his wife and pulled her fiercely against his heaving chest. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and forced the words he had to say.

  ‘Don’t, Martha. Don’t. She’s safe. Our Gertie’s safe.’

  CHAPTER 1

  SHELLY

  Dover, present day.

  A WHITE CHURCH WITH BLUE domed roof dazzled against a backdrop of the Aegean Sea. The glossy travel brochure lay on the kitchen table. Shelly Summer placed a hand flat on her chest and turned away to suppress anxiety palpitations. At the kitchen window of her cliff-top cottage in Dover, she gripped the edge of the porcelain sink and peered out across the grey English Channel.

  Shelly knew how people saw her: a busy vet who was respected and admired. But she needed an escape – to be alone for seven days, to lie on a sunbed and lose herself in a good book. To swim in the warm Mediterranean and dive to an abandoned wreck. If only she could come to terms with what happened . . . She tried, really she did, but it still haunted her. She could not forgive herself, and wondered if David would, if he could. But, it was too late for that. Twenty years too late.

  She would embrace Greece, love every moment of her great escape; the beaches, villages, food, music and perhaps even find a little romance. Then return home refreshed, ready to face the obligations of another year.

  Now, there was an added complication. Her father, Gordon, always grumpy in the morning, was becoming so forgetful. He was a constant worry, and perhaps even a danger to himself.

  Gordon ignored the brochure and set about consuming his boiled egg. The only sounds were the clock ticking towards 8 a.m. and the wind whistling under the kitchen door.

  Shelly kicked the old sausage dog draught-excluder into place, then sat at the table.

  ‘Sleep all right, Dad?’

  He grunted and without looking up, asked, ‘You going away, then? ’Oliday, is it?’

  He’d spotted the brochure.

  ‘It’s Eve’s. She said I have annual leave from last year and I thought, perhaps, a week in Greece. Will you come?’ A flurry of wind and rain hit the window. She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to get some sun on your shoulders, Dad?’

  Gordon didn’t reply.

  ‘It sounds really lovely. Listen to this . . .’ She flipped the brochure open and read from a random page, injecting a wistful tone into her voice.

  ‘The island of Syros, heart and soul of the Cyclades, sits under the blue brilliance of a Greek sky. Crystal-clear water and deserted beaches await. More traditional than its famous neighbours, Santorini and Mykonos, Syros is a working island that preserves the glamour of a bygone age. Villages nestle in the natural landscape. Alleyways wind around white houses where plumbago and bougainvillea emblazon picturesque hamlets.’

  She glanced at him. He’d stopped eating.

  ‘The capital, Hermoupoli, is dotted with churches and cathedrals, both Orthodox and Catholic. Majestic buildings of outstanding beauty and architecture tumble down the hillside and look out over the warm Aegean Sea. Among sponge divers and shipbuilders, and fishermen and florists, tavernas await with their gastronomic delights and amazing hospitality.’

  She looked up again. ‘I’ve just thought, wasn’t Syros the island we all went to when I was a little girl?’

  His eyes narrowed, peering into the depths of a distant memory.

  ‘My first holiday, Dad. You and Mum nearly wet yourselves laughing when Gran Gertie tucked her skirt into her knickers and held my hand while we paddled. Don’t you remember? I tripped and grabbed her skirt and nearly pulled her pants down.’ Shelly stopped and smiled. ‘There’s a photo somewhere.’ She studied his face, looking for some recall. ‘You bought a white hat that said KISS ME QUICK.’

  A smile spread over Gordon’s face. ‘Oh . . . yes.’ The toast popped up.

  ‘I couldn’t read “quick”, remember, Dad?’ Overwhelmed by the happy memory, joy had been a rare visitor in that kitchen for so many years. She slathered her toast with butter and jam. ‘You’d ask, “What does my hat say, Shelly?” and I’d read so carefully, spelling it out. “Kiss – me—” and you’d sweep me up and kiss me all over and blow raspberries on my belly until we were all exhausted from squealing with laughter.’ Amused, then saddened, she remembered the big, generous man with a wide smile that her father was in those days.

  They sat, lost in reminiscences, lonely in the brick cottage until Shelly continued. ‘I told Mum she looked like a film star in her white bikini and she said, “Thank you, you look like a princess in yours.” I can hear her voice . . .’ Silence united them again then Shelly said, ‘It’s an odd thing, Dad, but I’ve forgotten almost everything from before . . . you know, and then that holiday comes back as clear as day.’

  Gordon grunted. ‘It was Gertie who insisted we went to that island, Syros. It was really important to her, like she was on a pilgrimage. On most days, she’d disappear after lunch, and return all red-eyed and clearly upset at dinner time. Your mum tried to get her to drink a strong cup of tea, to calm down.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she say where she’d been?’ Shelly asked.

  ‘No, not a word – but wait, I haven’t finished tellin’ yer. Gertie nabbed the waiter and said, “Young man! Forget the tea. Bring me a double gin!” with no notion of foreign measures. When the Greek
waiter, who seemed to be rather fond of her, asked, “What would you like in your drink, madam: orange, lime or tonic?” Gertie would say, “I’m partial to a splash of lime, but that would be fresh lime, young man, like we had on the Britannic, not that cheap cordial they serve in the bar, thank you.” He would make a little salute, then bow, which cheered her up a lot. He’d go to a tree in the street and pluck a lime especially for her.’

  ‘The Britannic? Never heard of it. What is it, an island?’

  His head came up with a slightly surprised look. ‘No, it was the largest hospital ship in the world, ever.’

  ‘A hospital ship? You’ve lost me. Was she taken ill abroad or something?’

  ‘No, she was a nurse in the First World War. Anyway, Gertie always refused to talk about where she’d been on those afternoons, but she repeated the same routine every day.’

  ‘I don’t remember any of that, but I was very young. What a mystery. I wonder where she went.’

  ‘So did we. When I offered to follow her, your mother insisted we respect her privacy. Every morning she’d come to the breakfast table, take aspirin, drink strong black coffee, and squint murderously at us all, but she never divulged where she’d been.’

  ‘How would she even know where to go?’

  ‘Well, she’d spent time in Syros before. During the war.’

  ‘Gran Gertie was a nurse, on a ship, in the First World War? Well, you live and learn. I’m quite shocked that I didn’t know.’

  ‘Why should you know? Most people don’t know what their grandparents did, never mind their great-grandparents.’

  ‘That’s fascinating, don’t you think? I’d love to go back to Syros, wouldn’t you, Dad? Will you come with me – please?’

  He sniffed hard. ‘I’m not up to it, Shelly. Not without your mum. It’s no good hoping. You go, love. Have a smashing time, you deserve it. You don’t want a miserable old beggar like me tagging along. Besides, I can’t leave me birds,’ he said, bringing her back to Dover and his precious pigeons on a miserable Monday morning.

  ‘I see . . . never mind. I might not go. It was just an idea. A silly whim.’ No point in making him feel bad if he didn’t feel up to it, she thought. Nevertheless, she tried one last time. ‘It’s just . . . well, the brochure looked amazing after all the rain we’ve had.’ Her eyes flicked up to his face. The silence stretched out and the room closed in. Shelly had to get away before she suffocated.