Page 38 of The Silent Sister

While Eléni recuperated at home, Gabriella’s prediction she would soon be able to speak again came true.

There was no more tension in the house regarding the row she’d had with her parents before the car accident.

She and Bronwen spent a lot of time looking at her sister’s teenage magazines and watching television together.

The more Eléni relaxed, the more the words flowed.

Not many to start with, but once she was able to converse with her family, she knew it had been just a temporary setback.

She thought back to when she was a little girl and how frustrated she’d been, dreading going to school, enduring the name calling, seeing the annoyance on the teachers’ faces just like the expression she’d seen on the ward sister’s face in the hospital.

Gabriella was a frequent visitor too. She kept Eléni up to date with all the gossip of the town, mainly about who was going out with whom. One afternoon, the conversation turned to Andy Smith and the fact he’d been seen riding around Porth Gwyn on a pushbike.

‘Getting used to it before he gets banned, I suppose. My mother heard the Mini was a write-off.’ Gabriella smiled as the two of them chatted away.

‘Oh, it’s so good to have the old Eléni back.

Mr Williams told me to tell you he’s looking forward to having you back in the shop on Monday.

Nine o’clock sharp. You know what he’s like. ’

They both laughed. Eléni’s boss was a stickler for punctuality but, as he’d proved during the last few weeks, he was very kind and thoughtful.

He came into the shop to cover Eléni’s absences himself, even though he was supposed to be semi-retired now and left the running of the shop in their capable hands.

‘I thought I’d go into town this afternoon and see him.’ Eléni stood and brought over her sketchbook to show her friend her latest pen-and-ink drawings. ‘At least having this time on my hands means I’ve been busy with these. Thank goodness I hadn’t broken my drawing hand. What do you think?’

‘Oh, these are fab, Eléni. The detail is amazing. I’m sure Mr Williams will be interested once these are framed. The more local to Porth Gwyn the subject is, the better. I love this one of the Rock Park Pavilion. Look at all the scrollwork under the roof.’

‘Thanks. I’ve been building up a portfolio of them and concentrating on local scenes. I’ve been experimenting with coloured inks too, but I’m not sure.’ Eléni held up a drawing of the boathouse at the lake she’d drawn in green and blue inks, as well as her usual use of traditional black.

Gabriella’s mouth gaped open. ‘Oh, I love it. You know me and colour.’

Eléni smiled as she thought back to the kaleidoscope of colours in Gabriella’s wardrobe.

She gathered up her sketchbook and placed it in a canvas bag.

‘Come on, I’ll get my coat and walk back into town with you.

You’ll have to help me get it on and button it for me, if you don’t mind.

And could you carry the bag for me, please? Thanks.’

The two friends walked into the hallway and Eléni handed Gabriella her coat from the bentwood coat stand. After Eléni had slipped her good arm into its sleeve, with some manoeuvring, Gabriella fastened her friend’s coat over her sling.

‘I’m counting the days until this bloomin’ cast can come off. It’s itchy as hell, too.’

The two continued chatting as they walked into town from Eléni’s house.

They passed a terrace of red-brick houses with neat, narrow front gardens.

Most of them were illuminated with clumps of vibrant daffodils and crocuses that showed spring had finally arrived.

This was further evidenced when they passed a wide sloping field where a few baby lambs gambolled around their mothers, their tiny tails wriggling as they sought milk.

‘I love this time of year,’ said Gabriella. ‘All the awful grey of winter has gone.’

It was true, thought Eléni. Now the cloud of not being able to speak had lifted, her monotone mood had faded too.

Seeing the vibrant spring colours seemed to reflect her frame of mind.

She hadn’t told a soul, not even Gabriella, but she was more determined than ever to travel to the country of her birth and find her uncle.

She would make plans and when she was ready, she would tell everyone then.

Before long, they were walking along the main street into Porth Gwyn.

Opposite the late Victorian hotel where Eléni was hoping to get work, they turned into a road to the left.

Siop Crefft , the Welsh craft shop, with its large picture bay windows gleaming on either side of a wide glass door, was situated a little way up from the halt sign.

‘I’ll come with you to carry the bag in and then I’ll leave you to it. After my shift tomorrow, perhaps we can go to Smoky Joe’s for a coffee?’

The bell rang as they opened the door. Mr Williams looked up from behind the counter and when he noticed Eléni, he smiled. ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you, bach . Your good friend here has been keeping me up to date with what’s going on.’

‘I’ll put the bag here. I’ll be off, Mr Williams. See you for a coffee tomorrow, Eléni.’

‘Okay, Gabriella. There’s nothing to report.

I’m expecting a new delivery of the Welsh love spoons tomorrow, so if you’ve got time to unpack them and price them, that would be fine.

Trade’s been very slow today, but it would appear there’s a coach tour due in across the road tomorrow, so we should get more customers in then. ’

‘Bye, and thanks, Gabbie. I’ll see you then.’

Eléni enjoyed the days when the shop was busy. Talking to the customers about the Welsh crafts on sale was what she loved most about the job. She made it her business to find out as much as she could about the artists and craftspeople who exhibited there.

Mr Williams brought a fold-up chair from the stockroom for Eléni to sit down.

‘Now, then, bach . Are you sure you’re ready to come back to work?’

‘I am. I can’t wait to get back.’

The look on the elderly man’s face was one of relief. ‘Well. If you’re sure, how about you just work a few hours in the morning next week and I take over from you in the afternoons? There are no coach tours booked in so you shouldn’t be too busy. How does that sound?’

Eléni beamed. ‘Perfect, Mr Williams.’

Together they looked at her new drawings and, as Gabriella had predicted, he was very interested.

‘These are your best yet, bach . All the local scenes will sell. The visitors can’t seem to get enough of the lake and the Rock Park, so I’ll buy these six from you.’

‘Oh, thank you. That’s wonderful! I haven’t wasted my time at home then.’

It would all help with building up her savings ready for her trip to Kefalonia.

After speaking to Mr Williams, Eléni made her way across to Porth Gwyn Library.

The solid red-brick building was set back from the street in the immaculate town grounds, which were set out in lawns and gardens.

The focal point was the war memorial on which were the names of those who had lost their lives in the two world wars.

Eléni’s baba had never missed an armistice parade each November if he’d been home on leave when they’d lived in Cardiff and did the same in Porth Gwyn, remembering men like himself who had been members of the armed forces protecting their country.

She entered the quiet building and approached the desk where a grey-haired woman was busy sorting the books from a shelf marked returns .

‘Excuse me. Where would I find a section with old newspapers, please? 1953 to be precise.’

The woman stopped what she was doing and turned to Eléni.

‘If you go through the double glass doors on your right, you’ll find the archive section in there.

They’re arranged in year order. The Celtic Chronicle , the Welsh daily paper, is in the centre of the room along with the main British dailies.

All are displayed alphabetically. If you have a particular date in mind, I can take it to a table for you to examine.

Of course, if you want a wider search, you can use the microfiche on the screens there. I’ll come with you.’

Eléni now knew the woman as Margaret Harris. Mrs , from reading her name badge.

‘Thank you, Mrs Harris. You’ve been very helpful. As it happens, I do know the exact date. It’s the twelfth of August 1953 and maybe a few from the days following.’

The librarian retrieved the Celtic Chronicle from that date and some from the days after.

She placed them on a large table and invited Eléni to sit down.

‘I’ll give you these to start and maybe a couple of nationals as well.

The Times and maybe this tabloid. Just be careful as you handle them, please. ’

‘Thank you. That’s great.’ Eléni looked at each front page and it was the Celtic Chronicle alone that ran the story as a lead.

It was dated 13 August, the day after the earthquake had happened.

The name of the reporter was Rhodri Jones.

She’d heard that name before. Yes, it was the reporter’s name that had accompanied the missing-child advert, with what she believed was a photo of her.

The same reporter who’d written the article dated 15 August that she’d found in her mother’s journal, with the photo of a woman she believed to be her mother. She read the article carefully.

A day after the devastating earthquake razed most of this beautiful island to the ground, help is at last getting through.

The British Royal Navy vessel HMS Daring arrived this morning from Malta and already essential food and medical supplies are reaching the homeless and injured.

Across the bay, the town of Lixouri is now being referred to as ‘The Death Town’.

I spoke to one woman waiting outside a pile of rubble that had once been her home.

She told me, ‘I won’t leave him. Until he comes out.

Dead or alive. I wait.’ She couldn’t say any more.

Her sobs took away her heartfelt words. I didn’t ask who ‘he’ was.

Husband, father, son, grandson. There is so much heartache and so much grief here on these hot streets.

A Greek Earthquake Appeal has been set up. Please give what you can, no matter how small. You may donate via your local branch of the Midland Bank.

Eléni sat back in her chair. I lived through that! The emotion was overwhelming when she realised how close she had been to dying along with her birth parents and grandparents. If it hadn’t been for her father and his fellow sailors, she wouldn’t be alive.

It wasn’t a long article but it was accompanied by several photographs, including mounds of rubble in the streets, damaged buildings and lines of people handing along boxes of supplies.

At the end of the line nearest to the camera was a lone woman.

This photograph was clearer than the one in the newspaper cutting from her mother’s journal.

Eléni knew then that she’d been right. The woman was her mamá.

Seeing the images as evidence of the disaster was far more powerful than a full page of text.

Eléni was drained. She’d known some things about what had happened from what her parents had felt obliged to tell her after she’d confronted them, but seeing the evidence for herself in picture form made her sick to her stomach.

Her mother had also experienced the terror of it and her father had been the one to rescue her.

No wonder they wanted to forget and protect her from the horror of what had happened.

In her head, she heard her angry words again and saw the hurt look on her mother’s face. She felt ashamed.

She took out a small writing pad from her bag and rifled through the rest of the contents to find her pen.

She made a note of what she could see in the photos.

She would return with her sketchbook and record what she saw in pen and ink.

The other national papers had shorter reports on their inside pages, but it was Rhodri Jones’s report that had made headline news.

She was still going to travel to Kefalonia.

She had to. But now she would talk to her parents and try to make them realise why — she needed to find out her true identity.

She would not be betraying or rejecting them.

I know Baba will understand. I just hope I can go with my mother’s blessing, too.