Stephanos hated London. He missed the scent of wild thyme, almond and lemon. Most of all, he missed the blue sky and sunshine of his native Cyprus. The easy friendship of friends and family tugged his heart with homesickness.
A compensation was the aroma of warm, fresh bread, which pervaded his uncle’s small bakery and spilled out onto the dreary, rain-soaked pavement. He got to know the local geography quickly as he did his deliveries. The clientele was eclectic but, he tended to linger and chat with Greek customers.
On Sundays, he attended the Greek Orthodox Church service – the swinging, smoky censors emitting an aroma that tingled his nose, made him feel at home again.
Stephanos went to London as a young man, to work in his chain-smoking Uncle Vasos’s café in the East End. When he first alighted from the Tube in Whitechapel, he coughed as he breathed in the acrid air. The sky was grey, though it was hot and humid. He longed for the bright blue skies he had left behind and the fresh air. He was conscious however, of his father’s words. Years before, while sheep herding, his father had been approached by a tourist. With the aid of his phrase book, the tourist had said, “It must be paradise to live here, surrounded by beauty and smelling fresh wild thyme.”
His father had replied, “It can be hell to make a living here.”
He had a good ear for language and rapidly picked up Cockney English. Soon, he was saying at night to Aunt Ophelia, “I’m cream crackered so I’m off up the apples to the old ned.”
Tears of laughter would trickle down Ophelia’s face. She would cluck with disapproval, during the day, if told that Vasos had nipped outside again for ‘a laugh ’n’ joke’.
Vasos and Ophelia never missed a service in the nearby Greek Orthodox Church. It was there that Stephanos first saw Maria. She was sitting two pews ahead. Shining black hair tumbled to her shoulders from under her mantilla. There was a thump in his chest the day she half turned her head. He glimpsed her dark brown eyes. He wondered if he was imagining things as he thought he saw a flicker of a smile before she again faced the celebrants.
Normally self-confident, he hesitated to approach her for some weeks. Then, after service, she was standing aside on the church steps while her parents engaged in conversation with friends. He introduced himself, handed her a piece of paper with the telephone number of the café. “I would love to take you out; perhaps to the cinema. You can call me at this number.”
Her long eyelashes lowered. “I will think about it,” she said.
Mid-week, as he was busy serving diners, Ophelia called him. “You are wanted on the phone. It’s a girl. She sounds like a bubble and squeak. I wonder is it the one I spotted you talking to outside the church.”
The thump was back in his chest. His face reddened.
“Hello Stephanos, this is Maria from Sunday. I would like to go to the cinema with you. My parents, however, have not lost the habits of the old country and wish to meet you first.”
His choice of a sober outfit – white shirt, pale-blue jacket and conventional slacks rather than flares – helped get Maria’s parents on board.
Unselfconsciously, he found himself holding Maria’s petite hand in his as they made their way home after the show. Nine months later, they were married and Nikos was born within the year.
Vasos’s cough had become more severe and persistent. Ophelia confided in Stephanos that he had told her that he had coughed up specks of blood. A chest x-ray confirmed what they all feared. The lung cancer was too advanced for surgery so, he started a course of radiotherapy and chemotherapy. His health progressively failed.
Over the next six months, Stephanos and Maria helped care for him at home. When he died, Ophelia decided to sell the shop and move in with her married sister in Enfield.
Stephanos and Maria, after much discussion, decided to move back to Cyprus. With their savings augmented by money left to them by Vasos, they bought a combined taverna and food shop in a narrow side street, in Stephanos’ home village in the Troodos mountains. An elderly couple were renting the small living quarters over the shop. As prices were low, they could afford to set up home in a small stone-fronted house overlooking the main square.
Henry was an only child. His schoolmaster father was elderly rigid and fixed in his ways. His strictness was counter-balanced by his gentle wife, who showed great affection to Henry.
His father enrolled him in the junior section of the local library. That first day, as they walked through the library foyer, a friend of his father had approached them. He addressed Henry. “Who is your favourite author?”
Henry’s face flushed but his interrogator answered his own question saying, “Ballantyne or Jules Verne I suppose.”
Henry vowed to put matters right and became an avid reader. He became fascinated by Greek and Roman history. He won a scholarship to Manchester Grammar School. His grades were consistently good, keeping him in the A-stream.
One day, the headmaster addressed his form.
“This school has a great tradition in third level education. How many of you boys plan to attend University?”
Half the boys, including Henry, put their hands up.
“And who wants to go to Oxford or Cambridge, rather than a redbrick University?” asked the headmaster.
This time, only Henry and four others showed an interest.
“I will talk to you five individually in the next few days,” said the Head.
Henry’s knees were shaking when he got called. Hairs stood up on the back of his head. His armpits were wet. The Head was seated at his desk, holding his pipe. He motioned Henry to a red, button-back, leather-upholstered chair. He separated the pipe bowl from the stem and carefully cleaned it with a white pipe cleaner. A round-faced clock ticked loudly. Noise of boys in the playing fields came through the open casement window.
The Head fixed him in his gaze. “So, Morton, we need to plan this carefully. I am well aware of your academic record. With proper planning, we should get you a place in Oxford studying Classics. Of course, you will need to do well in your A-levels. If this is achieved, I will ensure you are fully coached for the interview, should you be offered a place. What do you think?”
“I am happy to be guided by you,” said Henry.
Accepted by Oxford, he read Classics and four years later, graduated with a First. As he collected his parchment, he smiled down at his parents, both beaming with pride. His Greek professor offered him a place in the PhD stream and he accepted. A friend invited him to join him sailing on the Norfolk Broads. Henry looked forward to this break before he would immerse himself in study again.
Completely unexpectedly, the letter calling him up for National Service arrived within a week of his graduation. On the advice of his professor, he applied for exemption but was promptly refused. He considered appealing or asking for a deferral. Then he looked again at the faded sepia tinted photo in a silver frame on the piano. His grandfather looked like a boy in uniform. The inscription on it read, “From your loving son”.
He had heard many times that his grandfather had survived being gassed, only to die going over the top when returned to the front. ‘Perhaps I should just get on with it,’ he thought.
His PhD place was deferred for two years. Though he disliked the tedium of parade duty, he enjoyed the comradery of his mates. To his delight, his platoon was informed that they were being deployed to an unknown destination overseas. After they sailed again on the troopship, after a stopover in Gibraltar, they were informed that they were to be deployed in Cyprus. Stationed in Akrotiri, on the south coast.
His first three months were close to idyllic. Routine patrols took him west, to Paphos and north, to the Troodos mountains. His fluency in Greek made for easy interaction with Cypriots. He came to love visiting the mountain villages, with the smell of baking bread in the outdoor ovens built into the hillsides.
In one village, he came across a taverna serving feta cheese, olives and peaches that tasted of honey. The owner spoke English with a Cockney accent.
On his second visit, the owner said, “My name is Stephanos and this is Maria, my wife or, as they say in the East End, my trouble and strife!”
She looked at him and they both laughed as he embraced her.
“Come with me to the square and I will show you our son”.
They walked together up the narrow street, footsteps echoing, breathing in the scent of jasmine and almond. Boys were noisily kicking a ball about the square, with its off-centre fountain.
“See the boy in the yellow T-shirt? That is our son, Nikos”.
“He’s a fine lad. You must be proud of him,” said Henry.
Henry visited them often. Soon, he was invited to play Backgammon in the back room of the taverna, surrounded by the smell of feta cheese and pine-scented retsina. While they played, Maria would serve them tiny cups of Cypriot coffee.
Stephanos could see the change in Maria since they moved back. Though her black hair was now flecked with white, her tanned face had filled out and the frown lines, so prominent when they lived in London, had almost disappeared.
It was rumoured that Makarious would soon be released from exile. He wondered if he should ask Henry, was there truth in the rumour, but decided against it.
The political situation worsened. Patrols in the urban areas got more dangerous as EOKA and its leader, Colonel Grivas, gained support. Curfews were imposed in the big towns but outside of these, the islanders were largely unaffected by the British forces. Rank and file soldiers remained on friendly terms with the locals.
Then, two soldier’s wives were shot dead in Famagusta while out shopping. Twenty-four hours later, Henry’s platoon was ordered out on patrol. They stopped and questioned some Cypriot men but released them without charge. Some premises were searched in small towns. Nothing incriminating was found.
The platoon continued inland. Henry recognised the next village. At its entrance, the commander ordered the men to dismount from the troop carrier. The tramp of heavy boots echoed back from the stone walls. They entered the empty square. A shot rang out and the sergeant major barked, “Get down. Sniper fire.”
A lone Cypriot youth with a rifle rapidly took shelter behind a distant roof parapet. The sergeant major shouted again, “Terrorists in house to left.”
He ordered Henry to pull the pin from his hand grenade and throw it into the open window of the house. Henry hesitated then stood and lobbed the grenade. As it arched forward, he saw a family seated at a table, eating their evening meal. Stephanos stood and appeared to smile in recognition just before the explosion.
The platoon jumped aboard the troop carrier and, wheels spinning, it roared out of the village. Many lit up cigarettes and congratulated each other on their first taste of combat. One turned to Henry and said, “Well done, Mate. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Henry fell to his knees and vomited on the metal floor. Green bile burned his throat. Tears blinded him. His throat tightened. “Why, oh why?” he shouted but his cries were drowned out by the revving engine and the singing of his mates.
The Papadopolis family were buried in the local graveyard. The graves were dug, with difficulty, at the back of the church. The gravediggers grumbled. The hard soil matted with poplar roots made their job more difficult than usual. Amongst themselves, they muttered that the ground seemed reluctant to open up and accept these apparently innocent people.
When finally interred, a robed priest prayed for an extended time over the graves. Women in black huddled together like crows, murmuring in time with the priest and then, extending his obsequies.
All agreed that the Papadopolis family would have been better off staying in London. The killings seemed inexplicable. Rumours abounded. Could they have been British spies? If so, why would the British kill them? This version got traction when the frequent visits to the taverna by an off-duty British soldier were recalled. Sipping their pale beer or anise-flavoured ouzo, wrinkle-faced men concluded it must have been a deliberate assassination by the British, to protect some secret intelligence.
The archaeological group had spent the first three days in the Famagusta area. They had received special permission to visit the part of the town in Northern Cyprus. They were now headed west by bus.
The white-haired professor sat in the front seat. He identified sites of interest and outlined their historical significance from Roman times, through the Venetian Empire and the Crusaders. He discussed the Turkish invasion of Northern Cyprus.
A blonde, fresh-faced, ponytailed female student came forward and sat next to him. “How come you know so much about the island?” she asked.
“I knew it before independence.”
“How come?”
“I was here on National Service.” He fell silent.
The student pressed him. “Did you enjoy your time?” she asked.
“I did my duty,” said Henry.