The Years That Followed Read online

  It is the first time she has ever seen the woman on the back foot. Good. Keep her there. Time to seize the advantage. “Good evening, Sister. How nice to see you again.” And Pilar smiles.

  “Is it indeed, Señorita Domínguez? I seem to remember that you couldn’t wait to shake the dust off your feet as you left us. I seem to remember your ingratitude above everything else.” Pilar watches as the nun begins to warm to her theme.

  She fixes her smile in place. “That’s all a very long time ago, Sister. A lot of water under the bridge since then.”

  “What do you want?” The nun’s posture is stiff, alert to insult. “I presume you do want something, given that you have graced us with a visit. I’m busy. Make your request.” She half turns towards the desk, shuffling the busy papers that lie there.

  Pilar keeps her irritation in check. “I’m actually looking for Sister Florencia,” she says.

  “May I ask why?” Sister looks taken aback.

  No, Pilar thinks. No, you definitely may not. “It’s delicate,” she says. “I understand that Sister Florencia helped some families to adopt babies in the past. My brother and his wife are, sadly, without children . . . and so I thought of her. I was hoping—my whole family is hoping—that Sister Florencia might be able to help them adopt a child.”

  The nun’s face fills with suspicion. “Who told you that?” she says. “Who told you Sister Florencia would be in a position to help you with that?”

  Pilar’s answer is careful. “I can’t remember. I’m here, Sister, only because I wish to help my brother and his wife. They will make good Catholic parents. I promised them I would make inquiries on their behalf. This seemed the best, the most natural place to start. I don’t wish to cause any trouble.”

  Sister María-Angeles smooths the skirts of her habit. She does not look at Pilar. “Sister Florencia serves God elsewhere,” she says finally. Her voice is flat. “She is no longer in Madrid.”

  Pilar feels hope fall away from her. “I understand,” she says. “I thought that might be the case. And so I’ve come to you, a woman in authority. I hoped you might be able to help me find her.” Perhaps a little flattery might not go astray, in the circumstances.

  But Sister María-Angeles shakes her head. Pilar can see the undertow of triumph in that movement, in the expression that crosses the woman’s face. “I’m afraid I cannot possibly give out that sort of information.”

  Pilar nods. “Then perhaps you might be able to ask her to contact me instead? If I leave my name and address? My brother and his wife are most anxious to have news.” She sees something struggle across the nun’s face. Duty, Pilar reckons: duty doing battle with revenge. Revenge wins.

  “Why should I? Why should I do that? Why should I help you?” She’s warming up again.

  Pilar meets the older woman’s gaze. “It’s not about helping me,” she says. “It’s about helping a young and unhappy, childless couple. But I might have known. No kindness, no compassion, no understanding.” Pilar prepares to leave. “You’re consistent, at least, Sister; I’ll grant you that. The bishop will be keen to hear about how you treat good Catholic families.”

  Pilar turns and walks steadily out through the door.

  But at least she now knows. While Sister María-Angeles would not meet her eye, she, Pilar, had time to glance quickly at the weekly duty roster that was always displayed on the back wall of the office. Sister Florencia’s name was nowhere to be seen.

  It was worth a chance, but Pilar is sure Sister María-Angeles is telling the truth. She will have to look for Sister Florencia elsewhere. It is as Pilar has expected. She refuses to be defeated.

  She has her list. She has her names, her addresses, her telephone numbers. Pilar will continue to work her way through all of them. This is a setback: a small, anticipated setback.

  She is, after all, just beginning.

  calista

  London, 1974

  * * *

  Calista hesitates, and moves closer to the street lamp. She checks the number again. Thirty-seven: a large, Edwardian house, solid and comforting. It reminds her for a painful moment of home, Dublin home. Right now there is no other. Home and family are a concept that has gone missing, a longing, an empty space waiting to be filled. Their absence is like a breath intaken, a stilled heartbeat of loss. She must telephone Dublin as soon as she can.

  Calista moves towards the garden gate and waits for a moment. She watches the way the light filters through a chink in the curtains of the downstairs bay window. It’s almost midnight. Somebody is still up; but shouldn’t she wait until tomorrow? Find a hotel somewhere? Who needs a stranger calling at midnight?

  The front door opens and a tall, slender woman steps out. A small dog yaps, dashes past her ankles, hurtles through the garden, and flings itself at the gate, tail wagging, barking furiously. The studs on its collar glint with malice. “Be quiet, Raffles,” the woman says, hurrying to his side. She leans down to put a restraining hand on the dog’s collar. Raffles growls.

  The woman looks up. Green eyes, Calista notices, luminous in the light of the street lamp. Her mouth goes dry, and she is unable to speak. The woman speaks first. “May I help you?” she asks. Her voice is low, pleasant. English. Calista falters. She must have gotten the wrong house.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice sounds odd; it is a hollow echo inside her head. It is the first time she has heard herself speak since she left Yiannis late this afternoon. On the plane, she had turned her head away from all conversational assaults, feigning sleep. She didn’t want to talk about politics, about war, about the future of Cyprus.

  It seemed that the whole world was filled with bitter people fighting one another. Just two short months ago, Calista’s heart had stilled when the TV screen in her own kitchen had erupted with images of Dublin and Monaghan, their centers ripped open by massive explosions. Horrified, she’d watched the streets she knew, the places she loved, all filled with screaming people, mutilated bodies, thick palls of smoke. She’d sat through the night, Maroulla at her side, and tried over and over to phone home. The lines were jammed; meanwhile the news kept getting worse: ten dead; twenty; then twenty-three. A baby about to be born. Hundreds injured. It was four in the morning when Calista finally got through to María-Luisa. Maroulla had held her as she wept for hours, terrified that somewhere out there, someone she loved had died. Someone whose loss had yet to be revealed to her.

  And today, traveling to London, Calista had not wanted to talk about war—that war or the war she was now fleeing. Above all, she hadn’t wanted to talk about the life she was leaving behind. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I think perhaps I have the wrong house.”

  “What number are you looking for?” the woman asks. She has lifted the dog up into her arms, and Raffles has finally quietened under the firm pressure of her hands.

  “I’m looking for number thirty-seven Broomfield Close. For Aristides Michaelides.”

  The woman looks surprised. “Then you’ve found us,” she says. “That’s my husband. May I ask—”

  But she gets no further. Calista breaks, grief and relief unraveling her at last as she stands in this suburban street, undone by a kindly voice. For an instant she wonders what this woman must be seeing: a grubby, distraught stranger. A stranger clutching a well-worn leather bag, wearing a thin cotton dress and sandals, with hair that has worked loose from its combs several hours earlier. Calista has no interest in brushing it. She no longer cares what she looks like.

  She rubs one hand across her eyes, fighting to compose herself. “Please,” she says, “forgive me. I’ve come from Cyprus. I arrived late this evening.” She stops, knowing that not much more will be possible; she must choose carefully. “Yiannis Demitriades sent me.”

  “My dear,” the woman says, opening the gate. “Do come in—let me get you a glass of water—come in and sit down and take your time. Ple
ase, come with me.” All the while, the woman has one hand under Calista’s elbow and is steering her towards the open front door. Once inside, she leads Calista into a formal drawing room and gestures towards a deep, sea-green armchair. “I’ll be back to you in just a moment.”

  Calista sinks into the chair and leans back, exhausted. She’s made it. She’s here. She breathes deeply. Behind her eyes, there is a parade of images that she is powerless to halt. Scenes from Imogen and Omiros’s earliest months and years unfurl before her.

  She cannot see her children’s faces; instead, she sees images of their childhood. She sees beaches fringed with blue water; picnics with ice cream and lemonade; small, sturdy bodies tumbling down a grassy slope. But it is as though all of this has been recorded with a silent, shaky cine camera like the one her father used to have, the one he wielded at family celebrations, First Communions, Christmas dinners. There was no hiding from him. But Calista can no longer be sure what it is she’s seeing: her and Philip’s childhood, or the childhood of her own son and daughter?

  There is a noise at the living room door. Calista’s eyes snap open. A man stands before her: big, barrel-chested, with thinning dark hair and a luxuriant mustache. His hands are in his dressing gown pockets. He looks wary.

  Calista stands up. She extends her hand. “Mr. Michaelides,” she says, “my name is Calista Demitriades. Yiannis is my brother-in-law. I had to leave Cyprus suddenly, and he told me to come to you.” She hands him the piece of paper on which Yiannis had written the London address and a hastily scribbled greeting. “He said you would help me.”

  The man glances down at the piece of paper and smiles. “Aristides, please,” he says, shaking her hand. He turns back towards the doorway, where the kindly woman and her dog are standing. “And this is my wife, Anne.” Then he clicks his fingers, and the dog comes trotting over to lie at his feet. “Raffles I believe you have already met.”

  Calista nods. The warmth of his handshake has already begun to make her feel a small seep of optimism. The living room door closes with a click.

  “Please, Calista, sit down. My wife has gone to make us some tea.” He regards Calista gravely. “Although I think you could do with something stronger. Give me a moment.” He stands up and leaves the room, Raffles at his heels.

  Calista fights to control the sob that clutches at the underside of every breath she takes.

  Aristides returns and stands at Calista’s elbow. “Here, take this,” he says, and hands her a glass. “My best Metaxa.” He smiles.

  “Thank you.” For a moment, Calista is unable to meet his eye.

  “The situation is indeed very bad,” Aristides begins. “But somehow I don’t believe it is politics that has driven you away from Cyprus.” He settles himself into the armchair opposite Calista and waits.

  Calista looks over at him. At that moment, Anne comes back in, angling a tray around the door. Calista is struck by how familiar this is, and how distant: the china teapot, the floral cups and saucers, matching milk jug and sugar bowl. She has a momentary vision of María-Luisa. She feels suspended between two worlds and can belong in neither: the war-torn territory that has been her more recent life, and the land of bone-china cups and cucumber sandwiches. She is now a stranger to both.

  “You’re right,” she says. “That is not why I left. I would let nothing keep me from my children, if I had the choice.”

  Anne offers her the plate of thin sandwiches. “Eat something,” she says. She glances at her husband as she does so. “Can’t this wait until the morning? Calista looks exhausted.”

  “No, please,” Calista says quickly. “You deserve an explanation, and it’s a relief to talk.”

  Aristides’s gaze never wavers. Calista feels that she is being scrutinized, summed up, weighed and measured.

  “Yiannis is my oldest friend,” Aristides says quietly. “You are welcome on that account alone. No explanations are necessary.”

  Calista manages to smile. “You are very kind.” She pauses, pushing aside images of her children’s bedtime, of babies fragrant and warm with sleep.

  “I married Alexandros, Yiannis’s youngest brother, eight years ago. I met him at home, in Ireland. I was seventeen; he was thirty. We have two children. For the past six years, he has been violent towards me.” Calista sips at her brandy. She needs to wait until the wave of shame recedes; it washes over her and makes her words falter somewhere beneath her voice. “It became unbearable, and I tried to leave with my children. He had me stopped at the airport and took Imogen and Omiros from me. I have not seen them in almost a week.”

  How neat it sounds, this narrative, Calista thinks. How empty of despair and hope and denial. It sounds like a life belonging to someone else.

  “And Yiannis?”

  “He tried to get permission for me to see my children, but he couldn’t. The last thing I knew, Alexandros had taken them to Platres, where Petros and Maroulla have a house. I wanted to follow them there, but then everything changed. Makarios was deposed, and life became . . . volatile. Everything was dangerous, and I had nowhere to go, nowhere to live, and no money. Yiannis insisted I leave Cyprus for now. He was afraid the airport would be closed and that I’d be trapped. He told me to come to you, that he trusted you.” She stops. She can see that Aristides has begun frowning.

  “Petros is involved in this? I know Alexandros hardly at all, but I have always found Petros to be a man of honor. Stubborn, mind you, but decent and fair.”

  Calista can hear the question in what he says. “I believe he is all of those things,” she says, “but Alexandros has convinced him that I was unfaithful.”

  Calista sees Anne glance towards her husband. But neither of them will ask.

  “I was not,” she says firmly. “I know now that I put up with much more than I should have from Alexandros, but I stayed for the sake of my daughter and son. I would never have done anything to risk losing them.”

  A silence settles over the room.

  After a moment, Aristides nods. “I believe you,” he says. “And clearly Yiannis does, too. I have never had any reason to doubt him.” He takes his wife’s hand in his.

  “And you’ve been friends for over forty years,” Anne adds, smiling back at him. “Ever since they were tiny children,” she says to Calista. “Their two families grew up together.”

  Calista feels grief grow again, a bewildered, physical ache as she watches the way Anne’s hand lies in Aristides’s. If only Alexandros had been kind. If only.

  Aristides nods, almost to himself. “It’s good that you have managed to get out. We will help you, of course, Anne and I. You can stay with us until everything is”—he waves one hand in the air, an almost embarrassed gesture—“clearer; that much at least.”

  Anne stands up. “Come with me, Calista. Let me show you where you can sleep. That’s enough for one night. You’re done in.”

  Aristides stands up at once. “Good night, Calista,” he says. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”

  “Good night,” Calista says. “And thank you.”

  She follows Anne up the stairs, conscious that there is only one more thing she needs to do tonight.

  Just put one foot in front of the other, one in front of the other, until she reaches the top.

  Then, at last, she can sleep.

  imogen

  Platres, 1974

  * * *

  Imogen wakes early. This house feels strange: it is not her house, not even her room; everything here belongs to Aiya Maroulla and Bapi Petros. Imogen usually likes to come here to the mountains during the summer, and sometimes at Easter, because the cousins from Athens are here then, too, but she doesn’t want to sleep over again. It’s been three whole nights. She wants to go home. The bedclothes smell funny, and her room isn’t pink. It’s a big person’s room, and big people usually don’t like pink all that much, or so Mummy told her,
but Imogen doesn’t really understand why that is. How could a big person not like pink?

  Imogen hears the sound of a car starting. At exactly the same moment, Omiros begins to wail. Imogen struggles into sitting and pulls up the blind above her bed. She looks down and sees Papa’s big black car drive out through the gate. Omiros’s cries become louder, as though he knows Papa is driving away from him, although he can’t, not really, because the room where Omiros is sleeping is over at the side of the house, where the terrace is, and the swimming pool. So he can’t see Papa’s car, and he probably can’t hear it either.

  Imogen hears Aiya Maroulla’s voice getting closer as she comes up the stairs. She is nearly there; Imogen can even hear the way she’s breathing, louder than she usually does.

  “Aiya’s here, Omiros. Aiya’s here. Don’t cry, my love.”

  Aiya Maroulla goes in to Omiros first. That’s OK; he’s the one who’s crying, after all, and Imogen is older, so she doesn’t cry as much—hardly at all, if you don’t count that night when the bald men were mean to Mummy and Papa shouted at her in the car. It must be time very soon for Mummy to come back home.

  Imogen runs out onto the landing and sees Aiya Maroulla with Omiros, still in his pajamas with the dancing elves on the front. He is sucking his thumb again, and his free hand is holding on to Aiya’s.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” Aiya says, and smiles at her. “Did you sleep well?”

  Imogen nods. “Is Mummy back yet?”

  Aiya’s face changes; it’s as though her mouth can’t make up its mind whether it’s OK to smile. “Come downstairs, dear, and we’ll talk about it.”

  But Imogen feels mutinous. She doesn’t want to come downstairs. And she doesn’t want to wait. She’s already waited three whole nights, and that’s enough for anybody. She shakes her head. “I don’t want to,” she says. “I want my mummy.” And then the tears come back, and there is nothing she can do about it, nothing at all. They just fall and fall, without making any noise. Imogen wraps her arms around herself and hugs her body close; she’s not nearly as soft as Monkey, but she’ll have to do.