Page 40 of Summer in Greece

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I kept thinking about the dolphin and its incredible strength. Why had it done such a thing to save me? But even before that, there was a chain of exceptional events that led to me escaping death.

If Mrs Pankhurst hadn’t made Sissy such a feminist, she would not have longed to work. She would not have been in the munitions factory when the photographer came around, or have had her photograph in that book. If I had not gone back for it, Matron and I might not be alive now, because we would have been in the first lifeboat. Perhaps this was all an act of God? Was there a greater reason behind my survival? This thought – that I might be part of a greater plan – was even more terrifying. Of all the people on that ship, I was the one that deserved to die. If I hadn’t lied about my age I wouldn’t have been on the ship. If I hadn’t disobeyed orders – hadn’t opened the portholes – the Britannic would have gone the extra mile and made it to port. Perhaps dying was too easy. Was I destined to live out my atonement on earth? With this in mind, I dreaded to think what punishment lay in store for me.

At that moment, I swore to God that, for the rest of my life, I’d sacrifice whatever was most valuable to me to compensate for my wrongdoing, in the hope that nobody else would get hurt.

Manno came to my side again. He placed a finger under my chin and lifted it. ‘Are you well now?’

‘I’m sorry.’ I turned away and took a deep breath, appreciating the value of air. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I mean . . . it’s all so incredible. It was the dolphin. Why did it save me like that? In all my life, I’ve never heard of such a thing.’ I searched his face for the answer, but how would he know? ‘The priest said it was a miracle.’

‘Be calm, I will take care of you. You are safe with me, koukla, no worries,’ he said, patting my hand. ‘What do you mean? What dolphin?’

I stuttered the events of the past hour. Confused and exhausted, not sure what I actually said and what was simply a vision in my head. I pressed my belly, the tight ache confirming my rescue, confirming the dolphin and the reality of the moment.

‘Ah, you met Delphi.’ He peered into my face again, then turned and stared over the sea. ‘Stay here, I will come back to you.’ Then he said, ‘You are so beautiful the flowers on my island will wilt in your presence.’ Thrown off balance by this nonsense, I felt a spark of anger at his frivolity in the circumstances, then I found myself defeated and gawping after him. He left to help the other survivors, occasionally glancing my way. He threw a smile, setting my face aflame. I blushed again, caught watching him, my heart fluttering every time our eyes met. What was this damned foolishness? I cursed him, cursed myself, cursed my belly that became more swollen and painful by the minute. My day was already too eventful.

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The quayside thronged with Rubenesque women wearing long, dark skirts; embroidered aprons, and white petticoats. They bustled everyone into the harbour kafenio where honey-sweetened herb tea and homemade biscuits were handed out. Names were taken, papers looked at, and lists drawn up. The locals made a general fuss of their visitors, shouting, patting cheeks reassuringly, and nudging people into chairs that lined the room.

‘They seem very organised and not shaken at all by this,’ I said to my cabin mate, Josephine, who seemed fully recovered as she passed me a cup of the strange tasting tea.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ She lifted her chin towards the window. ‘The very same thing happened here last week. The SS Burdigala sank in almost the same spot.’

I made no sense of it and stood alone in the midst of my friends, fellow VADs, and orderlies. My uniform soon dried on the outside, yet garments that lay next to my body were damp and heavy, mouldering against my skin. How I longed to remove them, and how delicious it would be to swim in the pale, iridescent water of the bay – but my marvellous swimming costume had gone down with the Britannic.

Who could I speak to about what had happened? I wished for my father. The sudden urge to tell all rose inside me again. I should confess that my actions had caused who knew how many deaths. I searched for the priest but when I found him, the awful words wouldn’t come. I trembled and kept my mouth shut.

In the end, who would be receptive to my story, and would I be able to stand their disparaging air when they all knew the truth?

The room became stuffy as more people came inside for the meeting. After a loud clanging, a man in a crumpled suit spoke in Greek. He stared at me for a second and not understanding his words, I felt accused. Manno translated. ‘The mayor would like to welcome everyone to the town of Korissa on the island of Kea.’

A uniformed ship’s officer that I had not seen before addressed the room telling us of the current situation.

‘HMS Scourge and HMS Heroic, the two ships that came to assist, had no more deck space for us. They are taking our good fellows and countrymen, survivors that they picked up at sea, to Piraeus, which is the port for Athens. If you haven’t already put your name down on the register, please do it now; one hundred and fifty of us await collection here on the island. The ships have signalled our presence to the admiralty and we await transportation. There are several casualties and they are being treated in the school room at the back of this building, which has been transformed into a temporary hospital. Any questions?’

One of the men stuck up his hand. ‘What happened to the Britannic, sir?’

‘We don’t know yet, and I’d suggest you don’t speculate.’

Feeling trapped and restless in that crowded room, I drifted outside again and stared over mounds of yellow fishing net and lobster pots. Beyond the lighthouse, the two grey ships that had stopped where the Britannic went down were sailing away. I guessed they had finished collecting bodies and survivors. A chill ran through me. Could I really be hung for going against orders and causing all those deaths? I gripped the only lamppost, clutched my throat, and imagined the ground opening under my feet, falling, falling, waiting for that final, neck-snapping moment.

I should have drowned while I had the chance.

CHAPTER 17

SHELLY

Greece, present day.

SHELLY WANDERED ALONG THE EMPTY beach uplifted and glad of the solitude. She came upon the site of the turtle nest, sat by the daubs of red nail polish and placed her hand flat on the sand. With her eyes closed, she imagined a hundred beating hearts below her palm and felt her chest expand with the glorious miracle of nature.

Stay safe, little turtles.

The rich blue sky faded to pale mauve, then streaks of red and wisps of pink; colours and patterns mirrored in the perfectly flat water, giving the illusion that the lighthouse promontory hovered above the sea’s surface. She reminded herself why she had come: Gran Gertie’s story of tragedy, and she supposed, triumph. There must have been triumph, because she remembered her great-grandmother as a happy, and more importantly, a contented person. If Gertie had planned to spend the rest of her life atoning for her sins . . . had she done that? What happened to ease her conscience? Now, Shelly regretted not listening to all the tapes before her arrival, but there hadn’t been time. How had Gertie restored balance to her life after such a catastrophe? Shelly wondered what price had she paid?

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