Aphrodite's Island (18 page)

The man who stands outside is a complete stranger. He is a little above middle height, solidly built, thickening slightly round the waist. I guess he is somewhere in his mid forties. He has a mane of hair that must once have been silver-blond but has faded to the colour of straw and the softening of the flesh along the jaw line cannot obscure the perfect regularity of his features. I stare at him. A stranger – yet there is something about him that I feel I ought to recognize. His good looks and smart suit make me painfully aware that I am wearing ancient, sagging jogging bottoms and a stained sweatshirt and that I have no make-up on and my hair, which has started to grow back, is once again badly in need of washing.

I see the shocked expression that I have come to expect and say abruptly, ‘Yes?’, then regret my lack of courtesy. I push a strand of hair back behind my ear and add, ‘Sorry. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

He is visibly disconcerted. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I should have telephoned. It was thoughtless of me.’ His English is perfectly
correct but there is a faint hint of a foreign accent.

I moisten dry lips with a tongue that feels like a piece of old carpet. ‘Did you want something?’

He hesitates and clears his throat. ‘You are Cressida – Cressida Allenby?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

‘I’m sorry.’ In my head I am going through a card index of old acquaintances – ex-colleagues, old friends from university, casual pick-ups at parties …

He goes on, ‘Of course, why should you? You were only a small child.’

I feel the solid floor lurch under my feet. ‘It’s you! You’re Evangelos – the angel boy!’

He laughs suddenly and the intervening years evaporate. ‘Yes, that is what your mother used to call me.’

I have to reach for the edge of the door for support. He comes into the hallway. ‘You’re not well. Can I get you something – a glass of water, perhaps? Would you like to sit down?’

His concern recalls me to my duties as a hostess. ‘I’m sorry. Please come in. I’m so glad to see you. Would you like a drink?’

But I sway as I move towards the sitting-room door and he catches my arm and supports me into the room. When I am seated he murmurs, ‘Stay still. I will find some water.’

A moment later he is back with a glass. I sip gratefully and get myself under control.

‘I’m sorry about the state of the place. I’m – I’ve been ill.’

He looks down at me, his brow wrinkled with concern. ‘I hope it’s not serious.’

‘No, no. Just a nasty bout of flu, that’s all.’ It is the lie I usually tell to shopkeepers or other strangers. ‘Look, please sit down. Or wait – just a minute. I think there’s a bottle of white wine in the fridge. The glasses are in the cupboard above. Would you mind?’

‘Of course.’

While he is out of the room, I try to order my thoughts. His sudden reappearance has shaken me. It is as if my own recollections of that long-past time have conjured him out of thin air.

He returns with the wine and pours out two glasses. He sits down opposite me and raises his glass. ‘Here’s to a speedy recovery!’

I take a tiny sip and find my voice. ‘I don’t understand. How did you track me down?’

He leans forward, nursing his glass between his hands. ‘You don’t know? Surely you must have guessed that I am not just the boy who helped out in the bar at Lapithos.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I found you because you wrote to my mother.’

‘Your mother?’ My brain struggles to process the information. ‘You are Ariadne’s son?’

‘Yes. But not just hers. You still don’t know?’

‘Know what?’

‘The letters you sent her were written by my father –
our
father.’

Suddenly that phrase in my father’s letter comes back to me.
‘Of course he has no idea who I am
.’ ‘Our father? You mean, Ariadne had a child with my father?’

‘Yes. I am Stephen Allenby’s son. My stepfather gave me his name, so I am called Evangelos Charalambous – but that is who I am.’

‘That makes you … my half-brother!’

‘Exactly. I am so happy to meet you at last. Though of course we did meet, more than twenty years ago.’

‘Did you know – then?’

‘No, I had no idea. It was only when … only several years later that my mother told me the truth. It was kind of you to send the letters. She asked me to come and tell you how grateful she is for all the trouble you took to find her.’

‘You came all the way from Cyprus?’

He laughs. ‘No, no. I live here, in London. I own a restaurant in the Fulham Road.’

‘Oh, I see.’

For a moment neither of us speaks. Then he says, ‘You didn’t know that my mother was pregnant when our father disappeared?’

‘No, I had no idea.’

‘You spoke to Ferhan. Didn’t she tell you?’

‘No. She must have known, I suppose, but she never mentioned it. But I think she felt quite protective of Ariadne. I’m sure she blamed Dad for abandoning her. Is that why she was sent to Athens and married off to a man she had never met?’

‘No doubt.’

I feel myself flush. ‘I’m sorry. That was tactless of me. Of course, you must have grown up thinking of that man as your father. Was … was it a happy marriage?’

‘Tolerable, I think. My stepfather was a good man.’

‘Stephen … our father … didn’t leave of his own free will. You know that now. I’m so glad your mother got the letters. I wanted her to know that he never forgot her.’

He looks at me in silence for a moment. Then he says, ‘You wrote that your own mother died recently. I’m sorry. I liked her very much.’

I say, ‘What I don’t understand is, how did you come to work for my parents all those years ago? Was it pure coincidence?’

Evangelos shakes his head. ‘Oh no, far from it. But it’s a long story. Perhaps you don’t feel up to it tonight.’

‘No, please! I want to hear. It’s all been such a puzzle and I’d like to know the full story before … before you go.’

‘You know a little of what was going on, politically, at the time your mother and father brought you to Cyprus?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard about that.’

‘My mother had two brothers …’

‘Iannis and Demetrios. I know. They are mentioned in the letters.’

‘Ah yes, of course. So you know that my Uncle Iannis was involved with EOKA B, the terrorist organization.’

‘Yes.’

‘He was a fanatic, Uncle Iannis. He gave his whole life to the struggle for
enosis
. When my stepfather brought us back to live in Cyprus, I was seventeen. Iannis talked to me about the cause. He persuaded me that I should do my patriotic duty by joining EOKA. I was impressionable and he seemed a very glamorous and exciting figure. The outlaw! The freedom fighter! I joined and swore an oath that neither torture nor the threat of death would force me to disclose what I knew. At the time, I thought I was doing something fine and noble. I discovered very soon that it was neither of those things.’

He takes a sip of his wine. His expression has darkened and he seems for a moment to have forgotten my presence.

‘Go on.’

‘When our father returned to the island and began asking questions, Iannis was convinced that he had come to spy for the British army. He told me to go to the bar when he was away and offer to help. I was to try to find out everything I could about him – where he was going, what he was doing …’

‘Did Iannis know who you were?’

‘Of course. That was the real reason behind it. He needed me to act as a decoy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He intended all along to kidnap your father – partly to find out what information he had been passing back to the authorities but partly, largely I think, as revenge for what had happened with my mother.’

‘So, how did he do it?’

‘Iannis told me that he needed to talk to your father but he couldn’t be seen going to the bar himself. I was to tell him that someone wanted to meet him, secretly, and then take him to an old church up in the hills.’

‘Not the church of St Antiphonitis?’

‘Yes! How did you guess?’

‘It’s just a coincidence. I was there not long ago. Go on.’

‘Of course, Stephen thought that his messages had got through
to my mother and that she wanted to meet him. He came with me and Iannis was waiting for him, with two other men. They held him at gunpoint, tied him up and drove him to a cave up in the mountains.’ Evangelos gazes into his wine glass. ‘He looked at me, just once, and I knew I had betrayed him. I have never forgotten that look.’

‘You weren’t to blame. Your uncle deceived you, as well as him. And you did try to look after him, didn’t you? He wrote about that in his letters.’

‘I did what I could. I would have let him go, if I could, but there were always a couple of Iannis’s men on guard.’

‘But you did get him paper and a pen.’

‘Yes, that was one thing I could do for him. Then, when the invasion started, Iannis and his men rushed off to fight and I was able to get him out of the cave. He was very ill by that time. I got him on to a donkey, somehow, and took him to a farm. There was total chaos by then – heavy fighting along the beaches and on the road between Kyrenia and Nicosia and Turkish planes coming over all the time, bombing and strafing. It was particularly heavy all round Lapithos and anyway I didn’t think Stephen would make it that far. It was hard enough keeping him on the donkey even for a short journey. The farm was owned by Turks and I could see that the Turkish forces were going to win, so I reckoned he’d be safe there.’

‘So it was you who left him there.’

‘I felt bad about just leaving him,’ Evangelos says. ‘But I was afraid that, under the circumstances, the owners might decide to make me a prisoner of war.’

‘Just a minute,’ I interrupt. ‘I remember you rescuing me when the bombs were falling. Was that before or after you left my father at the farm?’

‘After. Your father had made me promise to deliver his letters.’

‘But they were for your mother, not mine!’

‘I know that now. But when he first asked me for paper he said they were for his wife. Then he got delirious with the fever. I
suppose he intended eventually to tell me the full story but once he got ill he really didn’t know what he was saying. I had no reason to think that the letters were for anyone but your mother. It was night time when I left him. As soon as it got light the next day I set off for Lapithos. That’s when I found you under the fig tree. Your mother was desperately trying to pack and half out of her mind with worry about your father. You must have wandered off. I took you home and gave her the letters but the Turkish army was advancing and I didn’t dare stay. I could see myself being shot, either as a spy by the Turks or as a deserter by my own side.’ He pauses and looks at me. ‘It was a great relief to know you got back to England safely.’

We are silent for a moment. Then I say, ‘It must have been a shock for your mother, hearing from my father … our father … again after all those years. A voice from the grave!’

Evangelos makes no reply but after a moment he says, ‘It doesn’t upset you, that he had a love affair with someone else, before you were born?’

‘It did, very much, to begin with. Now – now I just feel terribly sorry for everyone. I hope those letters have given your mother some comfort. And I’m so glad to have met you again before –’

I stop myself but after a pause he says, ‘This illness – it’s not just flu, is it?’

I shake my head. ‘No. I’ve got leukaemia.’

‘Oh no! I’m so sorry! But that’s treatable, isn’t it? Have you seen a specialist?’

‘Yes, I’ve been having chemotherapy and it seems to have helped. But it’s only a temporary remission.’ I look at him. Here, out of the blue, is the blood relative I thought I would never find. Dare I ask for his help? I empty my wine glass. ‘What I need is a bone marrow transplant from a donor whose genetic make-up is close enough to mine …’

‘Like a brother, or a half-brother,’ he says at once. ‘They can test for that, can’t they? When can you arrange for me to be tested?’

‘Very soon, I should imagine. But, Angel, are you sure you
want to do this? It means an operation – not the nicest sort of process …’

He interrupts by taking both my hands in his. ‘Cressida! You’re my little sister. Of course I want to help, if I can. Ask your doctor to arrange the tests – please.’

‘All right. I have to go for a check-up the day after tomorrow, as it happens. I’ll ask about it then. How shall I contact you?’

‘Here.’ He takes a business card from his pocket and writes quickly on the back of it. ‘That’s the restaurant – and I’ve written my personal number and my mobile on the back. Ring me as soon as you hear anything.’ He gets up. ‘I’m going to leave you now. I think you’ve had quite enough for one evening. I can see you’re very tired.’

‘I wish I could entertain you properly. It’s awful, meeting you again and not being able to invite you to a meal or something. There’s so much I want to ask you.’

He presses my hand. ‘We’ll find the time. God willing, the genes will match up and soon you’ll be well again. Then we’ll have a big celebration at the restaurant. Do you like Greek food?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘Then that’s something to look forward to. I’ll call in again, soon – but this time I’ll telephone first.’ He hesitates, then bends and kisses me lightly on the cheek. ‘Don’t bother coming to the door. I can let myself out.’

When he has gone I turn the card over and look at the name of the restaurant. It is called The Tree of Idleness.

At the outpatients clinic I tell them about Evangelos and ask them to arrange a test, so I am not surprised when I receive a call from the hospital giving me an urgent appointment with the consultant. I walk into the room buoyed up by a tremulous
optimism
, but that is immediately dispelled by the expression on Dr Prentiss’s face. I sit down opposite her and she folds her hands and leans forward.

‘So. How are you feeling?’

‘Not too bad, actually. I went through a very low patch but I seem to have come out the other side.’

‘That’s good.’

‘You did get the message – that I’ve discovered I have a half-brother? Do you think there’s any chance that he might be suitable?’

‘It’s possible. But there is something else we have to discuss first. Did you know that you are pregnant?’

‘Pregnant!’ I stare at her. ‘I can’t be.’

‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it. It shows up clearly in your recent test.’

‘But you told me the chemotherapy would make me sterile.’

‘I said it might. And you told me that you were not in a relationship at present.’

‘I wasn’t. I’m not …’ I stumble into silence. I don’t want her to think that the pregnancy is the result of some casual encounter. ‘I thought it had finished but it started up again.’

There is a pause. Then the doctor says in a gentler tone, ‘I’m sorry if this is a shock to you. But now you have to make a decision.
If your potential donor turns out to be a good enough match, there is no question of going ahead with the transplant while you are pregnant. You are going to have to decide if you want this baby.’

I press my hand to my forehead, as if the physical pressure could still my churning thoughts. ‘I don’t know. How can I make a decision like that on the spur of the moment?’

‘I didn’t mean that. Of course you must have time to think. But we can’t afford to leave it too long. Do you know when the child was conceived?’

‘Yes, exactly. It would be almost six weeks ago.’

‘Then we have a little time – say another five weeks. That is, if you decide to go for an abortion.’

I force myself to breathe deeply. After the initial shock my brain is starting to work again. ‘Is there any chance that it could have been … harmed by the treatment I’ve had?’

‘I’m afraid there is that possibility. Did the conception take place before or after we stopped the chemotherapy?’

‘Afterwards. About a week after.’

‘Well, that’s something in our favour. If you had still been having the treatment the chances of foetal deformity would have been very high. Even now I can’t guarantee that there won’t be a problem. There is also the possibility of a miscarriage.’

‘Can we find out? If the baby’s OK, I mean?’

‘We can do a scan and later, after sixteen weeks, an amniocentesis. But even then we can’t be sure of picking everything up. But that is not the only, or indeed the primary, consideration.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I would be failing in my responsibility if I did not warn you that if you go ahead with the pregnancy you could be putting your own life at risk. If the leukaemia returns to the acute phase we should not be able to treat you with the same drugs without endangering the child. Have you considered that?’

I hear myself say, ‘I suppose I shall just have to hope that the remission lasts long enough for the baby to be born.’

‘And if you succeed in carrying the child to term and
successfully delivering it, at the expense of your own life, what happens to the baby?’

This is more than I can deal with at this moment. ‘The father might … he might want … I don’t know. I suppose there are always people wanting to adopt, aren’t there?’

‘Well, if that is your decision, after you have had time to consider all the factors, I shall respect it, of course. We can start you on a course of alpha-interferon, which should slow the progress of the disease and will not harm the foetus, and I’ll refer you to a colleague of mine in the gynaecology department. We’ll monitor your progress and hope for the best.’ She smiles, and the professional mask is replaced by a warm humanity. ‘Whatever decision you come to, you can rely on my support.’

The scan shows nothing abnormal and as I enter the flat the phone is ringing. It is Evangelos.

‘Have you arranged for the tests?’

‘Yes – but there is something I need to talk to you about.’

‘Fine. I want you to meet some people – my family, my wife. Will you come to the restaurant?’

I almost refuse. Going out means such an effort and I am in no state of mind to be sociable but I need to talk to him.

‘Yes, thank you. I should like that.’

‘Tomorrow evening, about seven?’

‘Yes, that would be fine.’

I dress with care. I have been eating better lately and with the application of some make-up I look a little less ‘like death warmed up’, as my mother would have put it. I call a taxi and find that the prospect of the evening ahead is not as daunting as I expected.

The restaurant is sophisticated, with modern, uncluttered decor and subtle lighting. It is obviously successful, since most of the tables are occupied although it is still early.

Evangelos is waiting for me at the door. ‘Cressida! You look beautiful! Come upstairs. We will eat
en famille
, not in the restaurant.’

He leads me to the back of the restaurant and up a narrow flight of stairs and through a door into a hallway, where a huge vase of fresh flowers stands below a large framed photograph of Kyrenia harbour. Then he stops and turns to look at me.

‘Cressida, I haven’t been entirely truthful. I said I wanted you to meet someone, and it’s true that I want you to meet my wife and kids, but before that there is someone else you should meet. Please, this way.’

He opens a door and ushers me into a comfortably furnished sitting room. A small, plump woman whose dark hair is streaked with grey rises from a sofa as we enter. Evangelos takes me by the arm and leads me over to her.

‘Cressida, this is my mother, Ariadne.’

The solid earth seems to disintegrate beneath my feet. This little old lady is the seductress who stole my father’s heart? This is the enchantress who spun a thread that kept him captive all his
life? This is Circe? This is Calypso?

‘Cressida, my dear! I am glad to meet you at last.’

I stammer like a schoolgirl. ‘Ariadne – Mrs Charalambous – I’m sorry … I had no idea. I thought you were in Cyprus.’

‘So I was, until a few days ago. Then, when Angel telephoned, we knew we had to come. Please, sit down.’ She indicates a place on the sofa beside her. ‘It is tragic that we have had to wait until you are so ill. Thank God we have found you before it is too late! How are you feeling?’

‘I’m … a little better at the moment, thank you.’

There is a knock and a waiter comes in with a tray bearing glasses and a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. Evangelos says, ‘Forget sickness for a moment. We must celebrate finding each other again.’

Ariadne says, ‘I was so touched that you sent me those letters. I think many women would have burned them.’

‘Oh no,’ I reply. ‘They were my only souvenirs of my father. I never really knew him, you see.’

‘Did you miss him very much, while you were growing up?’

‘I suppose I did but children accept things, don’t they? It was really only after my mother died that I realized what a … well, what a hole there was in my life. It wasn’t that my father was dead, but that I knew so little about him. My mother wouldn’t talk about him, you see, and she must have destroyed everything that reminded her of him, except a few photos I found at the bottom of a drawer.’

‘And were you angry, when you found out that he had had a love affair?’

‘Yes, I was initially. It broke my mother’s heart, you see. Not that he’d had another love, but that he’d never got over it. But then I began to realize that you must have suffered too. Ferhan told me how your father sent you to Athens, to marry a man you hardly knew. It must have been awful for you.’

Ariadne lays her hand on my arm. ‘Being separated from your father was awful, but I was lucky in many ways. My husband was
a good man. I never loved him but he was always kind to me and he never threw my sin back in my face.’

‘You think of it as a sin?’

‘In the eyes of many people it was a sin. But to me? No. I could no more have stopped myself from loving your father than I could have forbidden the waves to break on the shore.’

‘Was he very good-looking?’

‘Good-looking? Oh yes, he was beautiful. Tall and fair as a young god. But it was not just his looks that I fell in love with.’

‘What was it then?’

‘It was his smile, and the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners when he laughed – and his kindness.’

‘Was he kind? He wasn’t very kind to my mother.’

‘You are still angry with him, then?’

‘No, not any more. I think he did his best but he just couldn’t forget. Why didn’t he marry you?’

‘He would have done, if it had been possible. My family would never have permitted it. He asked me many times. What happened was not his fault.’

We are talking as if we have known each other for a long time. I look into her dark eyes and see in them the pride and tenderness that must have enthralled my father.

‘I don’t think it was anybody’s fault,’ I say.

Somewhere out of my line of sight a door opens and Evangelos says softly, ‘Cressida, look behind you.’

I turn and see that a second man has entered the room. He is tall and lean and silver-haired and his face is as lined and tanned as the leather of a well-worn brogue, but the blue eyes are as vivid as a boy’s. He stands still and looks at me across the width of the room.

‘Cressida?’ His voice cracks slightly. ‘Don’t you know me?’

I get to my feet. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion, as if in a dream.

‘Dad? But you can’t be! You died. Mum told me you were dead.’

He comes towards me, both hands held out. ‘My darling little
girl! If only I’d known sooner. I can’t bear it that you’re so ill!’

I shrink back from his touch. ‘I don’t understand. What are you doing here? Where have you been?’

He drops his hands. ‘Yes, you’re right. I owe you an explanation. Sit down, please. Let’s talk this through.’

I sink back onto the couch and realize that Ariadne has moved in order to make room for Stephen beside me.

He says, ‘Years ago, soon after we got back from Cyprus, when you were only a small child, I realized that your mother and I had come to a point where it was impossible to go on living together. I had already given up my teaching job and was making a living as a journalist. It gave me a reason to be away and I thought perhaps if we gave each other some space things might come right. But each time I came home it was worse. In the end I only came back in order to see you. Do you remember that at all?’

‘You brought me a clockwork monkey. I remember that.’

He smiles briefly. ‘Oh, that monkey! I’m glad you remember that.’

‘But then you went for good.’

‘Yes. You’ve spoken to Ferhan. You know that she used to write to me? One day I got a letter telling me that Ariadne’s husband had died and giving me her address.’

‘She told me she had written, but she said you never replied.’

‘No, that was remiss of me. But all I could think of was that Ariadne was now free and I could go to her. At last I could explain why I had left her without a word and tell her how I felt.’ He turns and stretches a hand to the small woman who was sitting on his other side. ‘And she, God bless her, forgave me and took me in.’

Ariadne says softly, ‘There was nothing to forgive.’

‘And you have been living together ever since?’

‘Yes, ever since.’

‘Then, those letters … I need never have sent them.’ The confusion of thoughts and emotions threaten to overwhelm me.

‘I’m so glad you did! Without that I should never have known where to find you.’

‘But why did you let me think you were dead, all these years?’

‘That was your mother’s wish, not mine. When I wrote and told her that I wanted her to divorce me she said that she would on one condition – that I must give up all right to see you and let her tell you that I was dead. She said it would be better for you to think that than to know that I had left you both to live with another woman. I don’t know if she was right. Perhaps I should have fought her on that point. But she convinced me that it was best for you. Believe me, it was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.’

‘It was a choice between us, Mother and me, and her.’ The words are choking me. I glance towards Ariadne. ‘You could have chosen us.’

‘Yes, I could. But your mother and I couldn’t live together peaceably. Would it have been good for you to grow up in the middle of our rows? And I had a debt to Ariadne, too, and to Evangelos. Don’t forget I had another child to think of.’

‘Why did you marry my mother if you didn’t love her?’ Finally I arrive at the crucial question.