‘Fly . . .’ he whispered into her ear, unable to say more.
Poppy wasn’t heavy, but Markos’s tears had unmanned him. He struggled, distressed and ashamed that he couldn’t carry his dead sister to her resting place.
‘I’m sorry, Papa, sorry . . .’
Markos’s father climbed out of the grave, took Poppy from him and laid her on the grass. He pulled Markos to his chest and held him tightly. Neither spoke; their grief racked both of them with shuddering sobs.
Finally, they managed to lay Poppy on Mama’s other arm.
Papa rested two coins on Isabella’s eyes for the ferryman.
‘Safe journey, my darling wife, darling mother of my children,’ he whispered.
Together, they shook out Mama’s best embroidered bed sheet and placed it over their cold, dead family. Markos opened the sack of myrtle branches he had collected that morning and spread them over the sheet. With each shovel of earth, the sweet scent of crushed herbage rose on the air.
*
In the narrow tunnel, Markos mourned the innocent lives destroyed by Churchill’s bastard plot. The British leader was determined to restore the loathed Greek monarch, George II, to power. Like Churchill, King George hated the communists and despised their ideals.
Churchill had forgotten how Markos’s older brother and his comrades had fought and died for the British during the war in Greece and Albania. Some were still fighting, facing death to support the Allies. And the British leader repaid them by bombing the homes of their families while they were away.
The tables were about to turn. He thought about the British warlords, sitting in their comfortable theatre seats above his head.
Markos felt the tug of wire and rolled in the stinking muck to release another loop from around his waist. He slid along with renewed fervour until he came to the explosives. They filled half the tunnel. His heart thumped and his head reeled from the putrid air in such a confined space. After wriggling out of the last metres of fuse wire, he pulled the negative and positive wires apart, attached a detonation cap to each, then stuck them deep into the dynamite putty. His task almost completed, he had to return to the alley without snagging the wire and pulling the caps out of the explosives.
Before he started his long crawl back, he crossed himself.
This is for you, Mama. For my baby brother, for little Kiki, for Marina, and for Poppy flying on her angel’s wings.
*
Sofia, Athens, 1944.
The auditorium fell silent as the curtain went up. I was expecting Mama, but instead a compère stepped forward and made a long and tiresome speech, welcoming the British dignitaries. Crouched in the cramped space, my legs tingled. I longed to stretch out, to move, but the usher remained at the top of the aisle, blocking my chance to creep down to Papa and the boys. Finally, the master of ceremonies ended his monologue. The spotlight died. I held my breath.
In the darkness, the orchestra struck up with a few bars of Mahler’s Third Symphony. The gentle notes drifted through the theatre.
Then came the moment I had waited for.
The spotlight blazed down again, a cone of light, centre-front of the pitchblack stage. Mama stepped into that circle and my heart soared. Applause thundered. I rested on my haunches and clapped so hard my palms burned. Mama, in her wonderful dress, appeared to bow to the foreigners, but I knew the curtsy was intended for my father and brothers behind them. Then she bowed to the audience, who clapped even harder. She acknowledged the conductor. He lifted his baton. Silence fell.
The orchestra played the introduction to Mama’s latest refrain, and my skin tingled. I took a breath and mouthed the words as she sang them.
Mother, you are life’s sweet song,
Without you, it’s hard to be strong.
But you live in my heart
Even though we’re apart,
So, I’ll sing for you life’s sweetest songs.
My child, you were life’s sweet song,
Though you were not with me for long.
I glimpse your empty chair,
Through tears, see you there,
Lullabies are now your sweetest songs.
Oh, lover, you are life’s sweet song,
I’ll see you again before long.
Angels, wings give you flight,
Every star-spangled night.
My love, you are life’s sweetest songs.
Mama sang that long last note, and I felt tears on my cheeks. I pressed my back to the wall and stood, no longer caring if they threw me out. A second spotlight played over the spectators as some people rose from their seats, applauding. Mama raised her eyes from my father’s row and glanced over the auditorium. At the back, I waved my white hankie high above my head. Mama held her hands in my direction. She had seen me! Her final word of the refrain, ‘songs . . .’ went on and on as she gazed at me.
Then the audience were standing, blocking my view. Applause thundered. The lights went up a little to show the audience’s appreciation, and I imagined Mama’s joy, her deep bows and her wide smile.
Grinning and crying at the same time, I ducked back down behind the seats and knuckled my eyes. The barley sugar Big Yiannis had given me fell from my pocket and rolled under the seat. I flattened myself to reach for it.
And then—
CHAPTER 4
MEGAN
Manchester, present day.
‘HELL, EMILY, IT’S THE RAINIEST day ever!’
Megan stared at the reflections of red-brick Edwardian buildings in the wet pavement. Manchester alternated between being magical and morbid, and Megan missed home.
She had hardly known Emily a week, but they quickly became friends and the aching loneliness of homelessness had eased a little. If only she could go back to her family . . . but she had caused too much trouble already. She could imagine the headlines – it would all come out. What if someone had taken photos and was just waiting for the right moment to sell them to the press? Her parents’ careers would be over. She could see the headlines: The underage daughter of prominent MP involved in scandalous sex party and drug abuse.
Mum and Dad would never forgive her. Better if she just disappeared. Let them get on with their busy schedules and dynamic careers.
She thought of Josh guiltily. He must miss her. She missed him.
Megan held a plastic bag over her head and jogged after Emily.
‘Manchester must be the wettest place on earth, and I’m bloody starving!’ she cried.
‘There’s a hot dog stand round the next corner,’ Emily called over her shoulder. ‘Pete’s Dogs.’
Megan saw the white van, overtook Emily and raced towards it as the shutter lowered over the counter.
‘Stop, stop!’
The side rolled halfway up and a broad man in a grease-spattered overall said, ‘Watcha, girls. I’m shuttin’ shop.’
‘We’re so hungry,’ Megan pleaded. ‘Have you got anything left? Scraps, anything at all? Please.’
A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. ‘Why don’t you come inside and get warm, girls?’
‘Fuck off,’ Emily said, and then staggered sideways with the force of Megan’s punch against her arm.
‘Please, mister, we’re starved,’ Megan pleaded, widening her eyes.
‘Yeah, don’t suppose you’ve any money either?’
They shook their heads.
‘Dirty beggars, get yourselves some work, why don’t you?’ He took a plastic bag and tipped the contents of his heated tray into it, threw a couple of buns on top and held it out. ‘I don’t want to see you girls round here again, right?’