Rhodes, Greece, Present day.
Naomi shut the heavy door and slipped through a crumbling archway that spanned the street. She stood for a moment, eyes closed and face turned to the sun. Perhaps she shouldn’t leave her grandmother alone, but Bubba was sleeping and Naomi, desperate for some fresh air, would return in twenty minutes.
She tossed her dark hair back and power-walked along the village side road, pumping her arms and heading for the beach. Wild ox-eye daisies, poking from cracked kerbstones, nodded in welcome as she rushed by.
Sandstone walls lined her way, time-worn, dull and dusty. Pastel masonry broken by startling blocks of colour – her neighbours’ courtyard doors. Blue, mauve, turquoise, crimson and green.
A motley assortment of pots pinched the road into pedestrian narrowness. The containers housed a riotous collection of flowers: salmon geraniums, cerise dahlias, and top-heavy Easter lilies that exuded an exotic perfume. Vermillion bougainvillea, vivid and impenetrable, reached over a high stone wall halfway down the street, providing a much-needed patch of shade across scorching cobbles.
Nearer the beach, a web of familiar smells surrounded Naomi. She inhaled the scent of summer and the sea, and childhood scenes with their inseparable perfumes rushed into her mind.
She recalled piles of yellow net on the seawall, drying in the noon sun. The cement wharf was spattered with translucent fish scales, glinting harlequin sequins in the harsh light. Weather-worn canvas sails that had scooped endless journeys out of the wind ended their days hanging heavy and exhausted over harbour railings. On her arms, briny crystals sparkled like carnival face paint. When she licked the prickling salt off her skin, she tasted pure Mediterranean and longed to dive into the sea.
When she was five years old, Naomi helped to scrub sacks of blue-black mussels with her mother, on the deck of her father’s boat, inspecting each one carefully before dropping it into the bucket. Side-by-side, content and silent, her parents exchanged wide smiles, which only now Naomi realised were full of pride. She recalled leaping off the pier with her school friends, bombing the water, howling with laughter when they broke the surface.
Rowdy birds had screamed and jostled behind her father’s laden boat on its return to port each morning. Before school, Naomi would race along the shore parallel to the vessel, waving and calling, ‘Papa! Papa!’ over the sea.
On the beach, a row of weathered men with their arsenal of long fishing-rods, laughed and encouraged her. ‘Run, Naomi, Run!’ Papa would sound the foghorn in her honour and wave back.
Ten treasured years of love and laughter with her parents. Then Rebecca was born, and everything changed.
Naomi loved the sea, its sounds and its basic salty shape-shifting aroma – despite all it had taken from her.
She found the beach empty, apart from a lone fisherman who sat on an upturned bucket and stared out over the Mediterranean. Naomi had seen him there before, clean shaven, weathered face, well-worn expensive clothes. She returned his nod as she passed.
Smooth grey stones spliced by veins of white marble, clacked and slipped underfoot. She hurried towards a ribbon of wet sand, skirting the waterline. In the distance, a magnificent cruise ship headed for Kos, and she imagined her husband serving dinner in one of the sumptuous dining rooms.
At dawn, The Royal Sapphire had berthed in Rhodes Town. When Costa finished work, he had slipped home.
‘Surprise!’ he called, barging through the door with a bunch of yellow roses thrust at her.
‘Costa! Oh, Costa!’ She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him fervently.
Costa, a head taller than Naomi, lifted her off her feet and said, ‘You drive me crazy, Naomi love. I had to come.’
She stuffed the bouquet in a jug of water, and then grabbed his hand. With two months catching up to do, they rushed upstairs and spent the entire afternoon between the sheets. Tumbling and fumbling, laughing and loving, never needing to say how much they still cared for each other.
After, they showered together, kisses tasting of toothpaste, bodies slippery with bath foam. Scrubbing each other’s backs, they made plans for the winter, talked about their boys at university, the olive harvest, and what type of sofa to buy.
She glanced at the ship. I love you, Costa.
The day’s boisterous waves had abated and a path of orange light reached across the Mediterranean from the setting sun.
Startled when a white bird darted, arrow-like, from the bamboo thicket, Naomi pulled up. The little egret pursued a dragonfly, then folded its angelic wings and returned to the dense shoreline vegetation.
Stunned by the magical scene, Naomi thought of her sister in London. She longed to share the precious moment and imagined telling Rebecca what she had witnessed. Would Rebecca experience such beauty in the big city? Did Rebecca realise what she was missing and how much she was missed, or had the magic of Rhodes faded from her memory forever? Her life was probably full, with her handsome husband and the chaos of young children.
Naomi recalled Rebecca’s giggle whenever they got up to mischief, her self-effacing humour, the playful glint in her eye. The downturn of her mouth when she contemplated the less fortunate. Saddened that her sister was now lost to her, Naomi regretted not knowing her nieces or nephews.
She reached her turning point, a cement bunker in the shallows, remnant of the last war. It faced the Turkish mountains, visible across the sea. Although tilted by shore erosion, the grey pillbox appeared indestructible. Naomi sat on a rock. With her eyes on the cruise ship, her thoughts returned to her only sister.
At least Rebecca wouldn’t have money worries. London was a place for the wealthy, where people lived in luxury that they took for granted. Naomi hugged herself, wondering if she would ever see her sister again. She wished old wounds would heal and that they could exchange a few words occasionally.
No one doubted Rebecca and her husband were in love. If only Bubba had explained the reason for her wrath . . . perhaps Rebecca wouldn’t have retaliated with such vehemence. A decade had passed since Rebecca’s departure. Ten years of a crowded house, growing boys, exams and overstretched finances. But now, with Naomi’s sons settled at university, and Costa back on The Royal Sapphire for the cruising season, her home felt echoingly empty.
She turned and retraced her steps. On the way, she peered into the bamboo. The egret had vanished. Such a beautiful bird, yet there was no sign it had ever existed. Just like Rebecca, she thought.
Ten years was a long time, and Naomi and her sister used to be so close. Naomi could start peace talks, why not? Someone had to try and bring the family back together.
Yet Rebecca’s fair-haired Austrian husband was the problem. No, that wasn’t quite true. Naomi’s grandmother had caused the split. Naomi suspected that Bubba, who was Jewish, had too many wartime memories buried in the recesses of her mind. If she was right and those recollections resurfaced now in Bubba’s feeble state after the stroke, Naomi didn’t want to contemplate the consequences.
A wave broke over her trainers. Naomi stared at her wet shoes and, for the first time in many years, found herself hurled back in time to that same beach on the worst day of her life.
*
Rhodes, Greece, November 1984.
Bubba yelled up the stairs, ‘Put your coat on, Naomi. Let’s go before it gets worse. I can’t sit here feeling useless. I have to look myself!’
Naomi, ten years old, ran down the stone steps as her grandmother, with Rebecca bundled in a shawl and clutched to her chest, called out, ‘I’m taking the baby across the road, child.’
‘I’m coming, Bubba.’ Naomi followed her grandmother into the blustery street. Her red coat danced around like a gleeful puppy but Naomi was in no mood for games. She struggled to get her arms into the sleeves.
Bubba passed the infant to the priest’s wife, promising to return soon. The priest, Papas Yiannis Voskos, came to the door. He dropped to his knees and fastened Naomi’s buttons. She had never seen him look so downcast, his eyes bloodshot and restless in his hirsute face. He would usually grin and say, ‘How’s my big girl today?’ and in a flash, produce a sweet or a cent from behind her ear. On the day of the storm, fun had abandoned him.
‘Any news?’ he said to Bubba, gripping the wooden crucifix that hung against his chest.
Bubba shook her head. In a voice shrill with worry she said, ‘I can’t stand the wait. It’s driving me to madness.’
Papas Yiannis glared at the black thunderous clouds. ‘God, keep them safe.’ He rested his hand on Bubba’s shoulder. ‘Be careful on the beach, woman. It’s dangerous down there.’
Bubba and Naomi leaned into the wind and hurried towards the shore. The roar of the sea met their ears long before the water came into view.
They rounded the corner, hammered back by the gale as huge waves rode on the shoulders of a fearsome swell. Tumultuous foam crashed onto the sand, terrifying Naomi. She clutched her grandmother’s hand and stumbled along the slope of pebbles. They stayed high on the slippery stones, yet her shoes were soon soaked through.
The squall whipped Naomi’s clothes around her almost knocking her off balance. She tried to yell, ‘I’m scared, Bubba!’ but the wind stole the words from her mouth. In the racket made by rolling pebbles, roaring breakers, and the gale howling in her ears, she peered out to sea.
Although barely five o’clock, black clouds scudded across a full, December moon, throwing the scene into eerie darkness. Then, shafts of brilliant moonlight broke through and illuminated the tempest.
Naomi thought of her grandmother as a bucket of hugs and kisses waiting to be delivered. But the gentle expression had gone, leaving Bubba’s face pinched and bitter. Her eyes narrowed to slits and her jaw thrust forward as they peered through spume and spray, desperate for a glimpse of Elevtheria, her parents’ boat. The sea kept coming at them, driving them even higher up the wet stones.
Mama and Papa should have sailed home that morning after a night’s fishing.
‘They’ll be all right, Bubba,’ Naomi tried to say. Papa was the perfect sailor and she never doubted his sea-faring skills. He’d told her many exciting stories that involved stormy nights on the boat. Tales of waves as high as the house, mermaids, and sea monsters, and she would glance sideways at him, unsure which parts of his story were fact and which were fiction.
Bubba, stick thin but strong as a mule and just as stubborn, was beaten back by tiredness and gale-force winds. They returned home reluctantly. Papas Yiannis said he would pray for them. Bubba’s tears ran like red rivers on her pale, salt-dried face. At first, Naomi thought they were tears of blood.
Embarrassed to see her grandmother weep, she didn’t know where to look. Bubba sat next to Rebecca’s wooden cradle, rocking the newborn and staring at nothing. Every once in a while, her chin shivered with a fresh bout of crying. She placed her hand on Naomi’s cheek and said, ‘Child, you’re so like your mother. My poor, sweet, Sonia. Pray to God she’s safe.’
Even now, when Naomi looked in the mirror, she saw the classic Greek features of her mother and, she guessed, of her grandmother too when she was young. Small in stature, olive skin, brown eyes, and a thick tumble of dark curls.
She tried to make Bubba feel better, brushing her tears away, hugging her and kissing her cheeks, exactly as Mama did when Naomi grazed her knees.
The show of affection only made Bubba worse.
Naomi was more worried about Bubba than her own parents. Her father was the best sailor in the world. He would have found a safe haven somewhere. She knew all about ‘safe havens’ because they featured in most of his bedtime stories.
‘Remember, Naomi, no matter how bad the storm, you can always find a safe haven, a calm place to shelter until things settle and it’s safe to go on.’
Later that evening Bubba crept out of the house. Naomi, mature for her years but still not realising the seriousness of the situation, worried when she didn’t return. Remembering Bubba’s earlier distress, she suspected the old lady had returned to the beach. She checked on baby Rebecca, who was sleeping in her cot, then followed her grandmother to the shore.
The storm had abated. The moon slid behind thick clouds, and the wind complained moodily. Alone in the dark, Naomi grew scared, sensing evil in the night, but then Bubba’s shriek ripped through the darkness. For a moment, afraid of the Bogeyman, Naomi shouted, ‘Bubba!’ into the stiff breeze, desperate for her grandmother to hear her.
Bubba’s wailing made Naomi think the Bogeyman had her. She didn’t know what to do. What if Bubba had fallen, broken a leg, and lay screaming in agony? Naomi had to help but her trepidation mounted. Monsters and demons returned to her imagination and dampened her bravery once more.
‘Bubba!’ she shouted again, running across slippery stones, fast as she could, because everyone knew the Bogyman couldn’t run very well. ‘Bubba, where are you?’ She stopped, enveloped by the night, twirling around because the Bogeyman was always behind you . . . or under your bed . . . or wherever you could not see him. But he looked for you, and you daren’t even breathe in case he heard you and pounced. Now he was on the beach, in the dark. She sensed his presence, looming.
A shape lurched out of the night. Naomi squealed and cowered, unable to move her feet. Bubba staggered towards her, clutching a splintered plank that Naomi recognised as part of a wrecked fishing boat.
‘Are they home, Naomi? Are they safe?’ the old woman wailed.
‘No, I haven’t heard, Bubba, but they’ll be all right. Papa’s a good sailor.’ Overcome with relief, she was ready to deny, even to herself, she had been scared.
Naomi took Bubba’s gnarled hand and led her back to the house. ‘Shush, you’ll wake the baby,’ she said, quite the grown-up one. Her parents would be proud. When they returned, she might receive a pocket-money rise. ‘You dry your eyes and wash your hands, and I’ll make you some cocoa,’ she told her grandmother, because that was what her mother would say when Naomi got upset about anything.
The next morning, haggard and red-eyed, Bubba rocked Rebecca to quieten her crying.
‘Get dressed, Naomi. We must go to the chemist for baby formula,’ she said.
*
Naomi flung a flat stone across the water and counted four bounces before it disappeared. Although her memories were painful, there was something pure and cleansing about them.
The fisherman was re-baiting his hook. ‘Any luck?’ she called.
He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ she said encouragingly.
He smiled, eyes crinkling in the corners, rugged features lifting. She had the impression he didn’t smile often enough.
Naomi arrived home, pushed open the blue front door, and stopped dead.
Sweet old Bubba sat on the edge of the bed, crying, struggling with a gun in her good hand.
Naomi leapt forward. ‘No!’
In a flash, she imagined a deafening explosion with grotesque consequences. Everything frothed up inside her like milk on the boil and she almost vomited on the pebble mosaic floor.
She lunged, desperate to grab the weapon before her grandmother could pull the trigger.