Page 45 of The Silent Sister

Despite being exhausted after her long journey, Eléni didn’t sleep well the first night in Kefalonia.

She tossed and turned thinking about all the things she planned to do in order to find her uncle.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw an image of a middle-aged man with a tanned complexion and dark hair streaked with silver at the temples.

For some reason, it was the face of the waiter who’d served her at the bar where she’d had her coffee and baklavá earlier in the day.

She’d eventually drifted off to sleep only to wake in a panic when she dreamed about the same man, but this time in a coffin in the church she’d visited.

Along with other mourners she’d filed past the body, drawn towards unbodied images of her parents and grandparents lined along the altar steps and beckoning to him to join them.

She’d been drenched in sweat, her heart pounding.

Convinced it was her uncle in the dream, she wondered whether her visit to the island was worth it. What was the point if he was dead?

* * *

Eléni had forgotten to close the shutters and was woken a few hours later by a shaft of sunlight streaming into her bedroom at dawn.

She yawned as she walked to the balcony to look out over the silent, peaceful town.

The terracotta-tiled buildings gave a warm feeling in the pale sunlight and the strip of sea in the harbour glinted silver.

The sky was brushed with pale lemon and coral that promised to turn to a vibrant blue once the sun rose fully.

After she’d washed and dressed, Eléni made her way to the quayside where several fishermen were arriving with their hauls of fish.

‘It’s very early for the lady, I think,’ called one. He stopped what he was doing to flash her a wide grin.

‘The sun woke me up. I came to see people hard at work.’ Eléni laughed.

Even though there was blood and grime over his clothes and plastic apron, he was still very attractive.

For the first time since she’d vowed she was no longer interested in men after the accident, her stomach tightened.

For a split second, it reminded her of the effect Andy Smith had had on her.

‘Hey, Christós. Back to work.’ An older man pointed at his fishing boat.

Eléni watched as Christós heaved large plastic tubs of glistening fish from his fishing boat onto the quay.

Other fishermen sat mending their nets. Further along the quayside, small trucks were parking up.

Their drivers opened the double doors at the back of the vehicles and negotiated the prices of large trays of fish before loading them into the trucks.

‘From the restaurants. They have to be early to get the freshest fish, eh?’ A woman dressed head to toe in black stood by Eléni. She held an empty wicker basket over her arm. ‘Like me. I go to the market early to get the freshest goods. Kaliméra.’

Eléni watched as the old lady walked towards the market, before strolling back to her hotel in the opposite direction.

By then, breakfast had been laid out on long tables in the dining room for guests to help themselves.

It consisted of fresh fruits, natural yoghurt and honey, along with a wide selection of pastries, baklavá and large jugs of fruit juices in every colour.

She was led to a table in the window and gave her order for coffee.

Not having realised how much the strong smell of the fish had affected her, the sweetness of the fruit and pastries was just what she needed to set her up for the day.

After a delicious breakfast, she walked the short distance to the museum, which was part of the town’s library.

The library could be found through metal gates and up a flight of stone steps to a modern building rendered in its now familiar pale-blond colour.

Olive and oleander trees grew in the beautifully maintained gardens on either side of the steps.

The museum building was accessed from the side.

Eléni entered the cool interior and found a glass sign informing visitors where the different sections of the museum were housed.

She would view the early history and folklore of the island at another time, but for her first visit Eléni wanted to view the extensive collection of photographs depicting the aftermath of the earthquake and what the island had looked like before.

A smartly dressed man sat behind the desk at the entrance to the museum. ‘May I help you?’ He stood and walked out from behind his desk to speak with Eléni. His name badge informed her he was Otis Petrakis, the curator of the museum.

‘ Nai. Efcharistó. My family came from Kefalonia, here in Argostoli, and I want to find out everything about what it was like before the earthquake.’

‘You speak perfect Greek, but I think there is a hint of a British accent, eh?’

‘I learned Greek from my mother, but my father is Welsh. I live in Wales. We left after the earthquake.’ There was no point in explaining the full situation.

The man nodded and smiled. ‘Now the island is getting back on its feet, we have so many Kefalonians returning. This summer is going to be very busy with people returning for the twentieth anniversary of the earthquake. Please follow me.’

Eléni was led into a small room off the main display area.

‘The labels and explanations are in English as well as in Greek, but I don’t think you will need them. If I can be of any more assistance, please let me know. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Eléni. Eléni Beynon. Efcharistó. ’

The photos were dated in order and the main difference was the style of the buildings.

The tall and elegant Venetian-style houses had crumbled like packs of cards.

They had been replaced by lower, sometimes just single-storey ones.

She found a photograph of the original church she’d visited and lit candles in.

While she looked, she made notes and annotated drawings in her sketchbook.

She looked at each display, searching for one name. Byron Street.

She was about to move on to another part of the exhibition when she noticed a photograph of an elderly lady dressed in traditional black, with a headscarf covering her white hair.

She was covering her face with her hands.

The hairs on the back of Eléni’s neck stood up and her pulse raced.

The caption underneath the photo read, Grief on Byron Street.

A yiayiá awaits. Whose yiayiá was it? Who was she waiting for?

It was the street where Eléni had once lived.

The devastation in the background was the scene Cassia and her friend Sophia would have experienced.

Not for the first time, guilt washed over Eléni when she relived the row with her parents.

Her eyes burned as tears formed along her eyelids.

She would have perished in the rubble of that street if it hadn’t been for them.

‘Is everything all right?’

Eléni hadn’t noticed the curator standing beside her. She brushed away her tears with her hand.

‘ Nai, efcharistó . It’s a shock to see how horrific it was.’

‘I know. So many people perished on that awful day twenty years ago. That street was hit particularly badly.’

Eléni brought out the card that the address was written on.

‘I know,’ she whispered. She showed the card to Kyrios Petrakis. ‘It was my home. I survived. Everyone else was killed.’

Guilt consumed her again. This time it was guilt that she had survived and the rest of her family had been wiped out.

‘Oh, my dear. I am so sorry. These photographs must be very harrowing for you to see.’

Tears spilled over, wetting her cheeks. At first all Eléni could do was nod.

Then she took a deep breath. ‘I was taken to Wales as I had no other family left. Before I came here, I was given this address, but I can find no street of that name on the map. I’d like to go there and see what it’s like now. ’

‘Ah. Come with me.’

Kyrios Petrakis led Eléni back to the foyer and a large table topped with two detailed maps of Argostoli set under glass.

They were titled Before and After the Earthquake .

‘See here.’ He pointed to a street on the first map.

‘There’s your street. Byron Street. But if you look for it on the second one, it’s not there. See if you can find its equivalent.’

Eléni compared the two maps. ‘Elpizō Street? Elpizō means “to hope”, doesn’t it? But why give it a new name? I don’t understand.’

‘Very few people living in that street survived and it was decided no one would want to live where so many had lost their lives. What if the street was doomed as the planners had said? So they renamed it Elpizō Street, and built shops and businesses there.’

Eléni could see that the long street led into the central square and was parallel to the one where her hotel was situated. She’d walked down there. Walked over the place where her parents and grandparents had lost their lives! She shivered.

‘It isn’t unusual to rename streets in a new town. In fact, we have one street named after the British ship that came to the rescue of the islanders so early on. HMS Daring .’ He pointed to the map. ‘Daring Street.’

Eléni was ready to leave. ‘Thank you for your help.’

She felt drained from viewing the shocking images and strolled back into Argostoli in the sunshine.

She walked to the harbour and found a table at the taverna she’d visited on her first day.

There was no sign of the handsome Christós, as the fishermen had all long gone for the day.

It was good to sit with a coffee and survey the boats coming and going, dropping off tourists or taking them on excursions around the island.

Taking her sketchbook from her bag, Eléni jotted down what she had seen and learned that morning. She sketched the scene in front of her, capturing the busyness of the moment with people milling round, stopping to look at the more expensive yachts and schooners moored along the quayside.

Afterwards she made the long walk to the lighthouse at the top end of the Argostoli peninsula.

The gleaming white construction was a replica of the original that had been destroyed in 1953.

She clambered over the rocks and found a place to sit and draw.

After mapping out the construction of its circle of white columns, Eléni used coloured pens to finish the drawing.

‘There you are, Gabbie. Is this enough colour for you?’ She smiled as she spoke aloud and thought about her friend back home in Wales.

The turquoise and blue inks glowed on the thick watercolour paper of her sketchpad and helped her forget about the harrowing scenes in the museum photographs for a little while.