The Years That Followed Read online

  Already, Imogen can hear Iliada clattering around downstairs in the kitchen. Aiya has told her that Iliada is a little deaf and so she can’t hear the amount of noise she is making. Sometimes Aiya smiles when Iliada drops things and bangs about; other times she sighs. It depends on what sort of day Aiya is having—something that Imogen has learned to gauge by the look on her grandmother’s face. Some days she looks as though something is hurting her, and Imogen has asked a few times whether her knees are giving her trouble.

  Aiya has smiled in response and said: “Yes, sweetheart. That’s it. My knees are giving me trouble today.” Imogen has wondered why Aiya often puts her hand to her chest if it is her knees that hurt. But she has learned not to ask. Sometimes, Imogen thinks that grown-ups are very strange; they say one thing and mean another.

  Or else they don’t say anything at all, and that’s the kind of silence that is louder than any of the words they could use.

  Bapi Petros and Papa left last night to go to London. Aiya showed Imogen where London was on the map, and also showed her how close London was to Dublin. Mummy lives in London, and Imogen hopes that she goes often to visit Abi María-Luisa and Grandad Timothy, even if Imogen can’t, at least not yet.

  She taps gently now on Aiya Maroulla’s door. No answer. Imogen waits a moment, presses her ear to the wooden surface, taps louder. Then she calls Aiya’s name.

  Omiros comes out of his room. “Where’s Aiya?” he says. He’s already looking fretful. Omiros doesn’t like it when the things around him change.

  “She’s getting ready,” Imogen says quickly.

  Something is wrong. Imogen doesn’t know what it is, but the air in the house is strangely still this morning. She wants Omiros to go downstairs so that she can find out what it is. She knows it is part of her job as his big sister to look after him, to explain those things to him that he cannot understand for himself.

  “Can you ask Iliada to make breakfast? Tell her me and Aiya’ll be down in a minute.”

  “Why can’t you ask her?” Now Omiros is frowning, looking downwards and sideways in that way he has when he doesn’t want to do as he’s told. It always makes Aiya cross.

  “’Cause Aiya wants me to help her get dressed, that’s why.” Imogen takes a deep breath.

  “Can I play with my cars?”

  Then she exhales. Playing in the morning is only allowed at weekends, but Imogen can see that Omiros is not going to move unless she says yes. She nods. “OK—but go to Iliada first and tell her Aiya says we’re on our way.”

  Omiros runs downstairs, his dark hair standing up everywhere. And he’s still in his pajamas. Imogen hopes Aiya won’t be cross that their daily routine has so suddenly changed on a day when everything should stay the same.

  She pushes open the heavy wooden door. She can see that Aiya is still in bed. She lies on her side, facing the window. The white woven counterpane outlines all the curves of her body. She looks deeply asleep.

  Imogen approaches quietly. She doesn’t want to startle Aiya, but she needs to wake her or they’ll be late for school. So she coughs, once, twice, waiting for Aiya to turn over sleepily and say: “Good morning, sweetheart.” But she doesn’t. She doesn’t move at all.

  Imogen reaches the bed and stretches out one hand. She taps Aiya on the shoulder, gently. “Aiya?” she says. She comes closer and rests one hand on Aiya’s cheek, the way Aiya sometimes does to her. Imogen sleeps very deeply, Aiya has always said, and sometimes it takes a while to get her to wake up. Imogen presses her palm into Aiya’s cheek now, and then her forehead, puzzled at how cold she feels. The window is not yet open, and the air in the bedroom is warm. Why is she so cold?

  Imogen decides to try something different. She runs around to the other side, Bapi Petros’s side, and climbs up onto the bed. Aiya’s face is so white that Imogen feels afraid. She looks as though she is here but not here; it’s as though she has gone away from herself. Then Imogen begins to understand; it is an inside understanding, one that comes without the right words to name it. Frantic now, she pushes at Aiya’s shoulder with both hands. She kneels facing her grandmother and, with all her strength, shakes and shakes and shakes her, crying to her to wake up, wake up, wake up.

  But even as she does, Imogen has already begun to know that nothing is going to make Aiya Maroulla wake up ever again.

  * * *

  On the day of the funeral, lots of people come and go. Imogen has never seen the house so full. Everyone is dressed in black, and the ladies are all wearing hats. Bapi Petros has gotten smaller in the last few days. Imogen thinks he has somehow grown downwards. His back has become stooped, and his hands have begun to make her feel afraid: they are suddenly so very different from the way they used to be. Once soft and big and generous, they now look as though the fingers have grown longer. Veins stand out on the back like thin, tight, blue-colored ropes, and the fingernails look sharp and yellow. It’s as though Aiya Maroulla has taken all of Bapi Petros’s fleshy bigness away with her.

  “I loved her,” he keeps saying. “I never loved anyone else the way I loved her. What am I going to do without her?”

  Papa’s eyes, too, are red with crying. Imogen has not been able to cry, not yet. Secretly, there are times—whole hours, even—when she doesn’t believe that Aiya Maroulla has gone away forever. Imogen remembers how she once thought Mummy had gone away forever, too, and then she came back again, although that’s still a secret. Imogen will keep her door open and her heart open, just like Aiya Maroulla always said she should. You never know what might happen.

  “She’s gone from us, sweetheart,” Papa had said, shaking his head at her. “Do you understand? Aiya has been taken away from us.” He and Bapi had arrived late that afternoon, the day Aiya died. They got home after the doctor had been and after Iliada had put clean sheets on the bed and candles and flowers all around Aiya. Imogen had never seen Papa cry before—him or Bapi—and the deep, tearing sound of their sobs had frightened her, but there were no arms to run to except Iliada’s, and Imogen did not feel like running there. Iliada always smelled of fish and garlic and kitchens. She didn’t have Aiya’s soft, soapy smells or Mummy’s clean, lemony perfume.

  Imogen let Papa talk to her that night, even though he said the same things over and over again. It was as though he was talking to himself and she just happened to be standing beside him. Imogen already knew how huge the thing was that had happened; she was the one who couldn’t waken Aiya Maroulla, after all, the one who ran down to tug at Iliada’s sleeve, who told Omiros he could play with his cars and his toy garage all that morning. There was no misunderstanding that day; Iliada’s tears and Dr. Simon’s sad shake of the head told Imogen that Aiya was not coming back to them.

  That had been the first of several busy days, with everyone coming and going. Aiya had never liked that sort of day: a day of too much coming and going. The house always seemed to be full: Iliada and Mirofora were always there, Bapi and Papa never stopped talking to people. Uncle Yiannis, Uncle Ari, and Uncle Spyros were all there, too, along with Aunt Eva, Aunt Dorothea, and some of the girl ­cousins.

  Imogen knew she had to be very careful, with all these people in the house, never to speak about Mummy. Above all, she could never speak about their secret meetings, or Papa would be very angry indeed. It was her secret, hers and Mummy’s alone, and Imogen knew she could not be the one to let the cat out of the bag.

  Mummy had had to explain that to her, and Imogen remembered how she and Mummy had laughed and laughed at the notion of a cat struggling and spitting and scratching and mewling and wanting to be let out of its bag, just like their secret.

  And so, on the days that surrounded Aiya’s funeral, Imogen spends lots of time in her bedroom, because sometimes it feels as though all that knowledge, all those secrets, are fighting with her. She is afraid they will somehow explode their own way out into the air, and then Papa would be cross as w
ell as sad, and it would all be her fault.

  Uncle Yiannis came to her, though. He sat on the side of her bed and told Papa he could go back downstairs if he liked, to see to all the people who were still everywhere, all around the house.

  “Are you sure?” Papa hardly ever read Imogen a bedtime story, but he said he would on that night, the night of Aiya’s funeral.

  “Certain. Imogen is a brave girl. She looked after Aiya very well. I’d like to thank her in person.” And Uncle Yiannis smiled.

  Papa just nodded. He kissed Imogen on the forehead and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Then Uncle Yiannis did something that Imogen did not expect. He took an envelope out of the inside pocket of his black jacket and handed it to her. He kissed her cheek and took one of her hands in his: warm, comforting hands. He had kind eyes; warm, brown eyes that smiled at her, too.

  “This is part of your secret,” he said. “Your mummy asked me to give you this. She is sad she can’t be with you tonight, but she will be very soon.”

  Imogen looked at him without speaking. The whole room seemed to freeze. Even the walls were bewildered.

  Was this a trick? Was Uncle Yiannis trying to get her to say something she shouldn’t?

  Uncle Yiannis seemed to read her mind. “Your mummy has sent you something to show that, from time to time, I can be part of your secret, too. We want to make it easier for her to visit now that Aiya can’t be with us. Do you understand?”

  Imogen was afraid to nod, in case that would let the cat out of the bag.

  Uncle Yiannis took a small photograph out of another pocket and handed it to Imogen. It was a picture of Monkey sitting on Mummy’s knee. She had one of Monkey’s paws in her hand and was making him wave at Imogen out of the photograph. Across his chest, Monkey had a sticker that said: “Lots of love to Imogen. Mummy and Monkey.”

  “Can I keep it?” Imogen asked. Her voice sounded strange, as though it wasn’t really hers.

  Uncle Yiannis nodded. “Of course. It’s yours to keep,” he said.

  “Another secret.”

  He nodded. “For now,” he said. “But your mummy hopes you won’t need to keep secrets for too much longer.”

  Imogen thought Uncle Yiannis’s face looked sad. Even sadder than before. Whenever Aiya looked sad, Imogen would ask for a story. It usually worked. Aiya would sit on the bed and use funny voices for all the different animals and people in the story. She’d forget to be sad for a while.

  “Will you read me a story, Uncle Yiannis? The one Aiya liked best?”

  And he smiled. “I’d be happy to,” he said.

  Imogen pulled The Jungle Book from the pile beside her bed. She thought she was much too grown-up for The Jungle Book, but Aiya always loved reading it to her. And Imogen didn’t really mind; she had a sneaking fondness for King Louie. He reminded her of Monkey.

  Uncle Yiannis sat just where Aiya used to sit, and he began to read.

  It worked, Imogen thought. He looked happier.

  Grown-ups were funny creatures. She’d never get to understand them.

  * * *

  Weeks later, when everything is over and Papa and Bapi move around the house like ghosts and Eleni comes to take Imogen and Omiros home from school, something happens.

  Imogen is not sure what it is, except that she has been waiting for something like this without knowing what it might be. The moment she steps through the front door, Imogen feels that the air has become charged with something that feels both light and dark and dangerous.

  Papa comes out of Bapi’s study, the one Bapi disappears into at night or at weekends when he doesn’t want to go to the office with the big desk and the swivel chair. “Imogen?” Papa says. Omiros runs towards him, but Papa stretches out one hand, stopping him. “Not now, Omiros,” he says. “I need to speak to your sister. I’ll be out to you soon.”

  “But you promised to take me to—”

  “I said not now.” Papa’s voice is sharp, the way it used to be at night when Aiya Maroulla argued with him.

  Omiros’s face falls; his chin crumples. Slowly, he turns away, dragging his rucksack across the floor instead of carrying it. Aiya always used to tell him not to do that.

  “Come inside, Imogen. I need to speak to you.”

  Imogen leaves her rucksack in the cupboard under the stairs and hangs up her school jacket. She is aware of time passing slowly. She does everything Aiya taught her to do, hoping this will somehow take away the sad tightness that has taken over her father’s face as though it belongs there for good. She steps into Bapi’s study, and Papa closes the door behind them.

  Across Bapi’s desk, photographs are strewn and pages and pages covered with Mummy’s writing—handwriting that Aiya used to call “distinctive”—all loops and curls, big letters that Imogen had begun to find easier and easier to read for herself, with just a little help from Aiya.

  “I’m not angry at you,” Papa begins. “I just need to know . . .”

  But Imogen hears no more. Papa’s bald head reminds her of the horrible men on that horrible night who stopped them from going to visit Abi María-Luisa. And Imogen can’t help herself. Sobs arise from deep inside that heart-place which has been feeling numb since Aiya died. Imogen sees her mother; she sees her aiya; she sees the secret visits to the villa. She cries and cries and doesn’t even care that she can hardly breathe and that Papa has discovered her secret and will be angry with her all over again.

  “Don’t,” Papa says. But his face isn’t black. It looks weak and sorry, and its shape keeps changing as though it doesn’t know what kind of face it’s supposed to be anymore.

  From nowhere that she can name, something pure and clean and angry rises in Imogen and spills out of her mouth before she can stop it. “Mummy wrote those letters to me,” she cries. “They’re mine! Aiya promised they were our secret. Hers and mine and Mummy’s.”

  She watches as Papa moves back from her as though she has slapped his face, or is about to. “You are right,” he says. “I am profoundly sorry—very sorry indeed.” His face is calm, serious. “I did not go looking for your secret. But I have the task of looking after Aiya’s papers. I found these without meaning to.”

  And then something astonishing happens. Papa gathers together all the pages and photographs and puts them back into Aiya’s secret box and hands the box to Imogen. “These are yours to keep,” he says.

  Imogen does not know what to say. It’s as though all of her words are locked up in the box in her hands, along with the letters and the photographs. Papa kisses her on the forehead. “It seems that Aiya knew best. Aiya was the one who did what was right for you.” His voice trembles, and he stops. Imogen thinks he is finding it hard to say all the words. But she doesn’t break the silence, because she knows it is still his turn to speak.

  Then Papa sighs and pinches his eyes shut with his thumb and middle finger. It makes his nose look really big. Imogen hears him swallow a sob that is trying hard to escape. “I think . . .” he says. “I think it’s time we arranged for you and Omiros to spend some proper time with Mummy. What do you think?”

  Imogen clutches the box of secrets to her chest. It feels as though her inside-place has finally blown wide open. Her heart has started to beat again. She looks at her papa’s face, and it has a bright shadow of something she saw once before, a long time ago, on that summer day when he’d taught her to sail.

  Then she’s laughing and crying all at the same time. “Promise?” she says.

  Papa crushes her to his chest. “I promise,” he whispers. “I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.” And he smiles.

  calista

  London, 1977

  * * *

  Yiannis comes to find her at Aphrodite. Calista is surprised to see him. It is shortly after Maroulla has died, and the brothers—Yiannis, Ari, Spyros, and Alexandros—have
all had their hands full trying to manage Petros.

  “My father has just given up,” Yiannis tells Calista over the phone a couple of weeks after his mother’s funeral. “He says he doesn’t want to live without her. He doesn’t sleep, barely eats. We’re trying to invent ways to keep him busy. I think it’ll be another month or so before I can get back to London. Will you be OK?”

  Calista smiles at that. “Of course. I miss you,” she says. “But Petros needs you. I’ll be fine; just come when you can.”

  And so she’s surprised to see Yiannis cross the threshold of the gallery little more than a week later.

  “Close early,” he says. “I’ve cleared it with the boss.”

  “But how?”

  Yiannis takes both of her hands in his. “I’m taking you to lunch, at Alexandros’s request. We can go wherever you choose. I have some good news.”

  Calista is almost too terrified to hope. “Tell me,” she says, her mouth suddenly dry. She can feel her hands start to tremble. “I’m not moving one more step until you tell me. Can I see my children—both my children?”

  Yiannis’s smile tells her everything. “Yes. Yes, you can. Your daughter gave Alexandros a piece of her mind. My father supported her. Alexandros has agreed that you can come to Limassol and spend a full week with them. He will take them to you. Let me tell you all about it over lunch.”

  * * *

  At the end of April, Calista flies to Limassol. She has booked into the Asteria Hotel, her room there crowded with memories. Alexandros drives Imogen and Omiros to meet her on the afternoon of her arrival. Calista is nervous. She knows she must give Alexandros no reason to change his mind.