Page 3 of Summer in Greece

‘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.

*

Sunshine and smiles in the Med were like balm to her troubled soul. A week of photography and scuba diving would anchor her for another twelve months. They had been David’s two greatest pleasures, too. He and his best friend Simon used to dive wherever they could. It was an odd thing, but when she returned home, Shelly felt cleansed and guilt-free for a while. As if she had lived a small part of David’s dream. If she left the brochure on the table, Dad might realise how desperately she needed a break. He would never say he didn’t want her to go, but she sensed he was uncomfortable about being left alone for a week. Old age was catching up, and about time, he was eighty.

She closed her eyes and imagined sliding into the sparkling turquoise Aegean, the delicious tingle of saltwater cooling her bronzed skin. Then her shoulders dropped.

Gordon stared accusingly over his glasses. ‘I know what you’re thinking – that you can’t leave me alone for a week – but I’ll be fine, Shelly, honestly.’ He pushed his breakfast plate away. ‘I ’aven’t quite lost the plot yet, you know? You go while you can. God knows, you work hard enough all year. I can always get Bill Grundy to stop over for a few days if it will make you feel better.’

Shelly’s jaw dropped. ‘You will not!’

‘Why’s that then? You afraid we’ll have too much fun?’ His white eyebrows were bobbing. ‘Spoilsport!’

She stifled a laugh, then her heart melted. What was this, her dad making a joke? ‘I’m afraid you’ll use my pressure cooker to try and build a still in the kitchen again. You’re like a pair of naughty kids when you get together.’

Despite the banter, her concern remained. Last month, he had set fire to the chip pan and could have been badly burned if she hadn’t stopped him tipping blazing oil into the sink. Only a week ago, she had returned from an evening call-out and found he had gone to bed and left the back door wide open.

She tried again. ‘Think about it, Dad. It would do you a lot of good. When was the last time you went away?’

‘Bruges, on the coach with the club, just before . . .’ He stared at the half-eaten boiled egg with a sudden look of disgust, as if staring into a crystal ball, seeing the worst of his past right there in the golden yolk. Startled for a second, they glanced at each other, then both turned their eyes to the toast. ‘You know, your mum . . .’

‘That’s more than twenty years ago, Dad.’ Gordon Summer had never moved on from his wife’s death. Consequently, the widower’s wounds had never healed. She wondered if her father would consider going for some grief counselling, but the subject needed time and persuasion and she was already running late.

‘Is it really that long, Shelly love? Seems like yesterday.’ His voice faded to almost a whisper. ‘Still hurts like yesterday too.’ His wide eyes stared into the past. ‘I guess it must be. Same year as my sixtieth, wasn’t it? Remember that party she put on?’ He tilted his head to one side, eyes misted for a moment, then a look of intense joy filled his face. ‘Bloody marvellous, wasn’t it?’ he whispered. ‘Remember the cake? All my friends from Dover Homer Club . . . and me mates from the docks.’ He gazed around the kitchen, grinning at their ghosts, the light in his eyes shining right into Shelly’s heart.

She stood still for a few seconds, enraptured, and reluctant to distract him from the wonder of his daydream. Perhaps she should do a party for his eightieth. But the kitchen clock drew her attention and the moment faded.

‘Of course, that was when I still had a job, Shelly,’ he grumbled.

‘I’d better go, Dad. Busy day at the surgery. Lunch is in the microwave. Four minutes. It’s all set, just press the start button, OK?’ She kissed him on the cheek.

Reaching for his e-cigarette, he noticed the fluorescent-pink sticky-note on the microwave door. She caught his withering I’m not stupid look right between her eyes and decided to ignore it.

‘See you later, Dad.’

*

In the surgery later that morning, Eve ran an artistically painted fingernail down the appointment book. ‘Holiday all booked then?’ she called to Shelly.

‘I wish! Dad hates the idea of flying, and he won’t abandon his pigeons. I can’t leave him on his own for a whole week. God knows what catastrophe I’d come back to.’

‘Have you thought about renting him a room at The Rose and Crown?’

‘I did, but he’ll just go home once I’m on the plane.’

‘Can’t someone stay at yours?’

‘That’s what he suggested, but how would you feel about Bill Grundy scratching and farting in your bed?’