The Girl Under the Olive Tree Read online

  To Crete: island of my dreams and heroes. Long may you prosper.

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013

  A CBS Company

  Copyright © Leah Fleming 2013

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Leah Fleming to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  HB ISBN: 978-0-85720-404-2

  TPB ISBN: 978-0-85720-405-9

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-0-85720-407-3

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Contents

  Part 1: DEPARTURES

  Crete, 1941

  Stokencourt House, Gloucestershire, April 2001

  Blair Atholl, Scotland, September 1936

  2001

  Stokencourt Place, April 1937

  2001

  Athens, 1937

  2001

  Athens, 1937–1938

  2001

  Piraeus Harbour, 1939

  2001

  Athens, 1940

  2001

  December 1940

  2001

  Part 2: CRETE

  May 2001

  May 1941

  May 2001

  Chania, May 1941

  2001

  20 May 1941

  Galatas, 23 May 1941

  2001

  25 May 1941

  Chania, 28 May 1941

  Galatas Beach, 2001

  Chania Harbour, 2001

  June 1941

  Chania, 2001

  July 1941

  2001

  Part 3: RESISTANCE

  2001

  1941

  2001

  November 1941

  2001

  December 1941

  Spring 1942

  Maleme, 2001

  Summer 1942

  2001

  November 1942

  2001

  Part 4: BETRAYAL

  Knossos, 2001

  July 1943

  2001

  March 1944

  Chania Harbour, 2001

  May 1944

  June 1944

  May 2001

  Agia Prison, June 1944

  May 2001

  Heraklion, June 1944

  Part 5: THE REUNION

  May 2001

  June 1944

  Souda, 2001

  2001

  June 1944

  June 2001

  June 1944

  June 2001

  September 1944

  2001

  June 1944

  2001

  Chania Airport, 2001

  Author Notes and Acknowledgements

  Some Further Reading:

  Part 1

  DEPARTURES

  There is no escape from Crete for those who have fallen under the spell of the mountain heart of the island and the hearts of the people who live there.

  Lew Lind, Flowers of Rethymnon

  Crete, 1941

  At the sound of gunfire it was time to retreat to the back of the dark cave, time to flatten herself against one of the recesses, hoping it was just another false alarm. She pressed herself into the damp rock wall as the volley of shots grew louder and bullets ricocheted off the metal canisters. Suddenly the dim light from the entrance was blocked by the rush of troops shouting ‘Raus . . . raus’, storming through as only conquerors can do.

  Flinging herself to the ground in one swift move, she tried to hide her presence, to play dead as they dragged out orderlies and the wounded to line them up on the rocks outside.

  Every second seemed an hour as she lay prostrate in the gloom, tasting the salty sand, the grit and the stench of dried blood on her lips, trying not to shiver. She sensed it would be only minutes before discovery, so this was not the time to waver. Be British, be brave . . . Oh, be damned with all that guff, she thought. All she was feeling was a cold fury in her gut. How could she leave when there was still so much to be done?

  Suddenly a pair of desert boots covered in mud appeared at eye level, a scarred hand jerked her upright. This was the test, the moment of truth and defiance. If she faced the enemy without fear, her bluff might just work . . .

  Stokencourt House, Gloucestershire,

  April 2001

  The nightmare woke me again. First the gun pointing at my head, then water was closing over me, my arms thrashing through the sheets to find the surface, ears bursting, lungs fighting for breath, struggling against bodies already sinking, grabbing at me for life, kicking out, tiring with the effort, my eyes opening in terror and then surprise. It was only a dream, but my heart was pounding in my chest. Each time it was harder to reach the surface. How many more of these will I survive? Nothing for it but to get up and face the day, I decided. Then with relief I realized for once I was not alone.

  Opening the gold damask curtains, I peered out into the morning. The Easter weather was holding up, the April sun warming the golden Cotswold stones on the south wall of Stokencourt House. The daffodils were almost over but there was a hint of blossom on the cherry trees and the scent of new growth in the air. Time for a quick tour round the herbaceous borders in my dressing gown to see how much Oliver, the young gardener, had overlooked in his rush to finish the strimming and be on his way to meet his girl.

  I was glad Lois was relaxing in bed, leaving Alex sitting in front of the TV, not demanding to be entertained. Later I’d order him to race round the small lake. My niece was still looking washed out after the trauma of her husband’s desertion last year, and desperate for a bolthole. To be honest I was glad of their company over the bank holiday weekend. Bank holidays were not my favourite time: cars blocking the lanes, strangers peering over the stone walls, leaving litter and dog mess. Stokencourt always warmed to the echoes of children’s noise along its rambling corridors and stone-flagged floors, its mullioned-window seats piled with discarded toys that Alex dismissed as babyish. The young grow up so fast these days.

  He did like taking Trojan, the latest in a line of wire-haired fox terriers, for walks through the village where our family had lived for generations. When Lois and Alex disappeared back down the M4 to London, I’d soon feel the chill of their absence.

  It was a couple of hours later that I looked up from my weeding to see Lois blinking into the morning sunlight, and I caught a glimpse of her mother, Athene, at that age, so tall and willowy, like all the Georgiou women who thrived in open air and sunshine with their olive skin and blond hair.

  ‘Happy birthday, Aunt Pen!’

  I paused, puzzled, and then sighed. ‘Thank you but at my age birthdays are surplus to requirements. It’s quite enough to wake up each morning still breathing.’ I silently cursed myself. Why did I always sound so sharp and ungrateful?

  ‘I knew you’d say that, but it’s a big old birthday. You hate being remind
ed but you do so much for us, letting us stay here. Since Adam left . . .’ She tailed off, still bereft by his desertion. ‘My dear, you’re the only living relative I have who is not stuck in some home away with the fairies. Why you bother with an old biddy like me, I’ll never know.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject,’ smiled Lois, standing her ground. ‘Happy birthday with love from Alex and me.’ She pulled an envelope from behind her back and shoved it into my hand.

  ‘What’s this then?’ I was fishing in my gardening apron for my reading spectacles.

  ‘It’s a card and a brochure. I thought you might like to come on holiday with us. I’ve booked a villa in May when Alex is on school holidays.’

  Instinctively I shook my head. ‘That’s a kind thought but definitely not . . . Lunch at the Royal Oak will be quite sufficient, if you must remind me how ancient I am now.’

  ‘It’s not what we’re going to be doing this year. You’ve been more than a mother to me since Mummy died.’

  ‘What does an old woman wish for but the company of the young? That’s gift enough,’ I replied. It was the truth.

  I turned away, back to the kneeler pad to get on with the irresistible urge to tidy away all the winter’s detritus. ‘I’m sure you’ve got a friend you’d prefer to spend your holiday with, someone who can go at your pace.’

  Lois was not so easily dissuaded and pressed the brochure on me. ‘Look at it; you don’t even know where I’m taking you. The villa I’ve chosen is on Crete. There’s a Eurostar train to Paris, another down to Rimini and Ancona, ANEK ferries across the Adriatic. We can stop off in Athens and take Alex to see the Acropolis. You could revisit the Archaeological Museum, and we could take the night ferry from Piraeus to Crete.’

  At the sound of those long-forgotten cities my heart lurched: Italy, Greece; I’d not been back since the war. ‘Why should I want to go back?’ I snapped, shocked by Lois’s machinations behind my back. I’d lived too long alone to be able to hide my feelings.

  ‘To show us around. I know it’s a special place for you. Why else would this house be so full of pictures of olive trees, mountains, woven rugs and ancient bits of pottery? You ought to return and make your peace. Besides, I thought you’d like to go to the sixtieth anniversary reunion. There might be people there you know.’

  I have never liked surprises. ‘Not at all . . . For goodness’ sake, the people I knew will be all dead by now,’ I said sharply, hoping it would put an end to this discussion.

  ‘Rubbish, and you know it. That time has always been a closed book – Grandma told Mummy when you came home from the war it was as if it had never happened, not a word about your adventures to anyone – and of course, I don’t want to pry. I just thought you’d like to pay your respects, that’s all . . . or we could just have a holiday under the Cretan sun.’

  ‘Since when did I ever lounge about sunbathing? It’ll be too hot and tiring at my age,’ I replied, choosing to address the last thing she’d said.

  Lois was prepared, batting off each of my excuses. ‘Nonsense, you are fitter than I am. You can walk for miles with Trojan. And we won’t be sunbathing all the time, just taking in the sights. I’d love you to show me the Palace of Knossos. Who better to guide us round? Holidays are a bit of a nightmare, if you really want to know.’ she sighed. ‘Alex misses Adam now he’s in Saudi. I’ve got permission for him to leave early for half term to attend this historic memorial event. They are doing the Second World War in history . . .’

  ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ I said, eyeing my great-niece, whose dark eyes were now glistening with tears. I rose gingerly, hoping my hip wouldn’t seize up, stunned by her crazy idea. I didn’t want to upset her, but even after all these years I wasn’t sure I was ready to return to Crete.

  ‘Darling, I’m really not sure at my time of life this would be sensible.’

  ‘When were you ever sensible, Aunt Pen? Granny used to say you always ploughed your own furrow, and I know you caused such a furore in the family when you bolted.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but it’s such a long time ago. Look, if you must do this holiday, we could go to Scotland, take a trip to the Fair Isles. But all the way to Crete – I think not.’

  ‘But Alex ought to know something of the Georgiou heritage,’ Lois argued, before changing tack. ‘I never took you for a coward.’

  I had to laugh at this direct assault. The young didn’t mince their words and she had a point. If only Lois knew how old age was creeping through these creaking limbs and sapping my confidence to roam far from home, let alone revisit the dangerous past. ‘Our Greek ancestry was back in the nineteenth century. My mother made sure we were as English as a cup of tea. This needs some thinking about. You mustn’t rush me.’

  ‘You do that and, talking of tea, I’ll put the kettle on.’ Lois darted off towards the kitchen door. ‘Breakfast in the garden?’

  ‘I only said I’d think about it . . .’ I shouted to her back. ‘And there’s Trojan to think about, too.’

  Lois stopped and turned back. ‘There is such a thing as a kennel, or one of your friends might have him. It’ll be for only two or three weeks.’

  ‘If I go on holiday he goes to a pet hotel,’ I said.

  Lois’s dark eyes were flashing in triumph as she pointed to the wooden hut in the corner of the lawn. ‘I’ll bring breakfast over to the summerhouse.’

  Then my legs wobbled. I had to sit down on the old bench under the cedar tree that shaded the lawn and looked down to the lake. I could just see Stokencourt Place, the former Georgiou family house, across the lake, now developed into luxury apartments. All that was left of the estate was this smaller dower house, closer to the village boundary wall. I was the last of the three siblings to survive. Since my retirement fifteen years ago this was home, too large, too empty, too full of ghosts. But it’ll see you out, a voice inside me said.

  Dear Lois had no idea what this surprise gift was stirring up. But I couldn’t let her down. Lois’s mother, Athene, died far too young and now that Evadne, my own sister, was gone, she needed someone’s support.

  Alex was suffering too. The three of us were the last link to the George clan and Lois regarded me as a grandmother substitute. It seemed cruel to refuse and yet . . . How could I face going back to the island even though it was a lifetime ago? How could it be sixty years since those troubled times?

  Even now, with the very thought of that place such fearful memories arose. The best and worst of times indeed: savage cruelty, suffering, hunger, and yet it was also the time of my life, a time filled with the exhilaration of danger and the overwhelming kindness of strangers. There were many things about that time that I could never tell anyone.

  Lois was calling Alex from the TV, clattering a breakfast tray of cups and glasses as she trundled across the lawn, yet she did not entirely break my reverie. Why was my heart racing at the idea of a return to the island, that first reluctance to go back weakening by the minute?

  Why shouldn’t they know a little of my story? Who else is there left to pass it on to now? Who is there left to harm? Someone should know what really happened before all my precious secrets are buried in the ground with me for ever.

  At my age each day was a bonus not to be squandered. Though I balked at the idea of sharing some of my past, a part of me knew it was time to let go of so much that had burdened my heart over the years. The young had a right to know just how it was then. We endured terrible times but embraced them too, and discovered parts of ourselves not known before.

  Boys like Alex should learn that war was not all computer games, all swash and buckle gung-ho. It was a bloody, filthy affair. Men and women gave their lives so he could live free from fear; he ought to know that. So many of my friends hadn’t lived long enough to enjoy the comfortable retirement I had. The battle for Crete was long forgotten now; just a page in dusty textbooks.

  How can I go back and face all those ghosts and all the emotions locked within that
sacred island? How can I survive the remembering, the nightmares and the dream?

  Perhaps then, old girl, it’s time you set them free? the inner voice niggled at me.

  So I picked up the brochure and made my way slowly to the comfort of the old summerhouse chairs where Lois was waiting.

  That night he came to me again, the bronzed man of my dreams in the shadowy half-remembered figure of his youth. He wore a black shirt, crisscrossed with a leather bandolier, cavalry jodhpurs, leather knee boots scuffed with dust. Round his forehead hung the lace bandana, and always there was that twist of his lips into a sardonic grin. His presence blazed through the morning mist and I smelled again the rosemary and thyme on the grey-white rocks of the White Mountains. I was running towards him with longing but then his face changed, the roar of the guns carrying my cry away. The dust and sand thickened, screening him from me. I couldn’t reach him . . . Then I woke, my eyes wet and blurred, the only sound the sheep calling to their lambs on the morning air through the open window.

  Who was calling me back to the island, back to those scents of sage and lemons, back to our Mediterranean nights? ‘Didn’t every love have its own landscape?’ I once read somewhere.

  But that was not where it all began, oh, no, I sighed, lying back on the pillow. To make sense of this journey one had to begin in another, far northern landscape of mountain streams and heather moors, recalling that first unpromising glimpse of what might be . . .

  Blair Atholl, Scotland,

  September 1936

  Penny Georgiou sat on the damp heather, spying out the land with binoculars for a sighting of the old red stag that the laird’s gamekeeper had earmarked for the cull. She loved being out on the moors, ‘glassing the hill’, as they called it, lying hidden in the heather with binoculars searching for the quarry, pretending she was one of the boys, stalking in the hills around Blair Atholl.

  The sun was high and the hills sparkled purple, falling away in every direction like a vast sea of rolling waves as far as the eye could see. She loved the thrill of the stalk, the hikes on rough tracks, the scrambles over scree. The gillie said she was so fleet of foot, her long legs could outpace many a man, but when she’d told her mother about this compliment, it had not gone down well. ‘I didn’t breed you for mountaineering in breeches, get out of those nasty things and make yourself presentable,’ she’d demanded.