My Map of You (12 page)

Three beers and two hours later, Holly had decided that she would have liked her Aunt Sandra very much. Annie had no idea how many gaps she was filling with her anecdotes, but Holly was positively lapping them all up. She discovered that Sandra spent a large part of the year making all the traditional costumes for the annual island carnival, which took place over two weeks in late February and early March. ‘If anyone wanted anything making, they'd always go to Sandy,' Annie told her, in between hearty swigs of Mythos. ‘She did hundreds of costumes on that tiny machine of hers. She worked until her fingers had blisters, but she never complained.'

‘I like to make clothes too,' Holly admitted, the beer loosening her tongue.

‘Well, that's just lovely,' Annie smiled sideways at her. ‘You must get that from her – after all, your mum
was
her twin sister.'

Twin sister? Holly almost spat her mouthful of beer out across the sand. She'd had no idea that her mum had been a twin. Just why and how could Jenny have allowed her own twin sister to become a virtual stranger? Why the hell would she have cut Sandra out of their lives for so long?

‘Do you still see your dad?' Annie's question crashed through Holly's racing thoughts like a sledgehammer on a frozen lake.

‘Oh no, he … er,' she spluttered, caught off guard. She had grown up thinking that her dad was a freedom fighter that her mum had met while she was travelling the world. According to Jenny, he was a bit of a renegade and had ended up in a foreign jail, which was why he couldn't come and visit them. She'd heard the story so often over the years that she'd never thought to question it, and a father wasn't anything she'd ever really craved, in any case. Before Jenny started drinking, she had been a wonderful mother, and the two of them together had always felt to Holly like a little team.

‘I still see my stepdad sometimes,' she said, stumbling slightly on the white lie. ‘He's called Simon. My mum dumped him when I was about eight, but he still comes to see me from time to time.'

Annie was looking at her a little oddly now. Holly got the impression that she had been about to say something but had stopped herself.

‘He lives in Canada now,' she added. ‘We write to each other.'

Simon had flown back to the UK when he heard about Jenny's death, and he and Holly had been the only two people in the crematorium on the day of her sad, lonely funeral. Holly hadn't known how to contact any other remaining family, because Jenny had always said she was the only one left, and Simon was none the wiser, either. He'd tried awkwardly to reach across and hold her hand
during the short reading, his glasses balanced right on the end of his thin nose and his hair curling around his ears.

Holly had wanted nothing more than to throw herself on to the cheap laminate floor by his feet and wail, but she'd found herself paralysed. Simon had waited a week to see if she would thaw, but eventually he had to fly back and get on with life with his new family. Holly never resented him for that, but she did miss him. She wondered now if he had ever known about Sandra, and if so, why he would have kept it from her.

Holly was distracted from her thoughts as Annie chattered on, oblivious to the effect her words were having. As well as being the seamstress of the island, it seemed that Sandra had also volunteered at the local veterinary clinic – Aidan's clinic – and had become foster mum to a number of dogs and cats while new owners were found. Caretta had been a stray, Annie told her, but for some reason Sandra fell much harder for the enormous black and white cat than she had for any of the others. ‘He would follow her up and down the hill, like a dog,' Annie recalled. ‘Sometimes she'd sit at one of my tables, watching the sun set, you know, and he'd perch up on her shoulder.'

No wonder Sandra and Aidan had been such good friends, Holly thought. It sounded like her aunt had been a bona fide Mother Teresa when it came to animals.

After the third empty beer bottle was nestling in the sand by her bare toes, Holly plucked up the courage to ask the question she'd been wanting to ask all afternoon.

‘Did you ever meet my mum?'

Annie looked surprised. ‘Oh no, I didn't arrive on the island until 'ninety-two.' She must have seen the shadow of disappointment cross Holly's face, because she quickly added, ‘But I have heard some tall tales about what her and Sandra used to get up to.'

‘Oh?' Holly tried her best to remain nonchalant.

‘They were a right pair of tearaways, is how I heard it. Skinny-dipping down at Porto Limnionas and drinking all night in town. There was no mum and dad around to keep them in check, I suppose, so they just had a few wild months.'

Holly was smiling at the thought of her mum being happy and free. By the end of her life she'd turned so grey and immobile – like a caged bird, trapped behind the bars of her own destructive habit. Then again, it was her own fault, Holly told herself sternly. Jenny Wright only really had herself to blame for what happened to her.

‘So, are you a bit of a wild one, like your mum was?' Annie pressed.

Holly considered the question and thought back into her past. She'd certainly gone off the rails for a while after her mum died, staying out as late as possible on her own in bars and clubs. Anything to avoid going back to the place where it had happened. For a few months, Holly had been on a mission not to think about anything, not her mum, not her future and certainly not herself. She'd told herself that all the drinking and all the men was her right – something she deserved after years of struggling to look after her mother, but of course it had only left her feeling more empty in the end. It wasn't a time that she
was proud of, and she had no intention of telling Annie anything about it.

‘I've never been too crazy,' she gave Annie a half-wink. ‘I'm afraid that I'm very sensible and boring these days.'

They both looked down at the stack of empty bottles by their feet and started to giggle.

‘Okay, okay!' Holly held up her hands. ‘Maybe I still have the odd moment.'

The two of them sat there chatting until the sun started to slip towards the water and long shadows crept along the sand. Holly was at last starting to feel like she had a better idea of who her aunt had been, but she'd also been left with so many other questions: why had Jenny and Sandra fallen out so badly? Why had her mum left Zakynthos if she had been so happy here? And why did Sandra wait until after it was too late to get in contact?

And if she was honest with herself, Holly realised, as she made her way slowly back up the hill, she was also now seriously questioning the identity of her father for the very first time.

Thursday, 22 September 1987

Sandy!

Are you surprised? I saw this in Kostas' shop the other day and it made me laugh so much that I had to buy it, but then I remembered that I had no one to send it to! Idiot!! I used to love writing you postcards when I was away travelling, so I thought, why not? Holly has drawn you a turtle as well. Well, she told me it was a turtle, but it looks more like a green scribble to me. I still find it
hilarious that ‘turtle' was her first word, but then she never puts that little glass one down, does she? Oh God, I love her so much. I love you all so much. I'm so glad we made Zakynthos our home. Now put the kettle on, will you?

Love Mummy Bear xxx

Holly
opened her suitcase and rummaged through the jumble of clothes until she found the straps of her mum's rucksack. Along with the little ornament of the house and a creased photo of Holly's grandparents on their wedding day, this rucksack had been the only personal possession Jenny Wright had left when she died. Holly had only thrown it in her case at the last minute and couldn't quite remember now why she had, but here it was – battered yellow canvas with badges sewn all across the front. One of them, Holly realised with a start, was a Greek flag.

Jenny had travelled the world after losing her parents, she'd said as much, so Holly had always known that this rucksack and its contents meant a lot to her mum. Inside there was a rolled-up map of the world with holes where the younger Jenny had once planted pins. One day she'd sat on the sofa with Holly by her side, retracing her own steps with a finger and teaching Holly the names of all the places she'd visited: China, Sri Lanka, Thailand, Indonesia, Bali – the list seemed to go on for ever, and Holly, wide-eyed and naive on the cushion next to her, had begged in earnest for the two of them to go back to all these places together. It was in the days before Jenny's blue eyes had lost their sparkle, and she'd smiled down at her daughter and promised that yes, of course they would go on an adventure together.

It was the morning after her chat on the beach with Annie, and Holly was in the process of rereading the letter from Sandra for at least the twentieth time.

… I'm ashamed to say that a combination of cowardice and hope stopped me from finding out the truth until recently. I hoped that she had simply forgotten me, given up on me, perhaps. It was all I deserved, in the end.

Why? Why was it all she deserved?

… I know you must have so many questions. Questions about me, about your mother, about why I never got to see you grow up – but I fear I have run out of time to answer those questions. I am hoping that if you come to Zakynthos, to the house where it all began, then you will find some truth in the wreckage that I have left behind.

But where? Where was this truth and these answers? Holly had been through every drawer in Sandra's bedroom and turned out every cupboard in the house, but her search had turned up nothing.

She sat now on the hard tiled floor with her back against the bed, Jenny's world map unfurled across her bare knees. Running a finger down through Europe, she snaked her way south until the tip of her nail found the hole where Zakynthos was marked. She could probably go to all the places on this map bearing pinholes and not find any answers – it was here, on this island, that she knew the truth was waiting. And she didn't want to wait another day to find it.

What was the name of that place Annie had mentioned yesterday, where her mum and Sandra had gone skinny-dipping? Porto something? Rolling the map back up and stowing it carefully inside Jenny's old rucksack, Holly went downstairs and retrieved their hand-drawn map from underneath a heap of discarded scraps of material on the kitchen table. Opening it up, she scoured the scribbled names along the coastline: Porto Koukla, Porto Roxi, Porto Limnionas … That was it! It was the very same place where either her mum or her aunt had taken the trouble to draw a big heart, so it must be important.

Holly opened her guidebook to the map page and compared the two. She was no expert in map reading, but Porto Limnionas didn't look like it was that far away, perhaps a few miles further than Kalamaki, but on the south-west side of the island rather than the south-east. According to the instructions in the book, all you had to do was follow the signs heading north to a place called Kiliomenos, and Limnionas would be signposted from there. How hard could it really be?

Buoyed by her plan and eager to get out into the sunshine, Holly threw a few essentials into a bag, scribbled the place names on her hand in biro and grabbed her moped helmet from the back of the sofa. If her mum could go gallivanting off on adventures, then Holly could damn well do it too.

Porto Limnionas turned out to be a natural inlet situated at the base of a very long asphalt road. Holly had to trust her instincts as she navigated the twists and turns slowly, because the cove itself wasn't visible until she was right on
top of it. According to the guidebook, the place had been kept secret from visiting tourists for many years and as such had remained largely unspoiled, the raw, rugged beauty of the landscape and the ocean beneath exactly as nature intended.

At the top of the cliff edge, looking out over the sea and the flat, polished rocks below, was a smallish taverna with painted white walls and faded gold tiles on the roof. As Holly pulled up outside rather unsteadily and removed her helmet and sunglasses, she could see that a number of the outside tables were occupied, and waiters were dashing in and out of the main building. The stones beneath her trainers were a clean, bleached white and there was an incessant humming chorus coming from all the crickets that had set up home in the surrounding trees.

Walking past the taverna entrance, Holly peered down the side of the cliff and gasped. Below her was a boot-shaped cove with rocks either side and the most brilliantly turquoise water she had ever seen. Even from up here, she could tell that the sea below her was beautifully clear. There were darker patches where the water became deeper, and it was into these Prussian blue pools that a group of young Greek boys were taking it in turns to jump from the neighbouring side of the cliff.

While her head was urging her to nip into the taverna and quench the thirst she'd built up on the forty-minute drive over, her heart would not allow her to resist that water. Slinging her bag across one shoulder, she picked her way down the sloping stony path until she reached some steps that had been crudely cut into the side of the cliff. She was glad that she'd chosen her trainers over her
flip-flops, because with every step a new shoal of pebbles went scuttling down ahead of her. It was hard to focus on your feet when there was such beauty to take in, and Holly took her time making her way right down to the bottom.

The sun had just reached its highest point and most of the visitors had headed up to the taverna for lunch in the shade. She was glad of the relative quiet, save for the odd yelp from the group of cliff-jumpers, and wasted no time in slipping out of her clothes and stretching out on a flat rock in her bikini. In just the past few days, her skin had turned a darker shade than Holly even knew was possible. She wondered idly what Rupert would think of her tan, then thought about Aidan, his freckly skin burned light pink.

She tried to picture her mum here, naked and giggling as she leapt into the water. Who had Sandra and Jenny been skinny-dipping with? Or had they simply dared each other to strip off? Holly felt a pang of jealousy as she pictured the scene – she'd never had a brother or sister, of course, and barely anyone close to resembling a best friend. If she had, she wouldn't have been as careless with them as her mum and aunt had been. How could twins allow themselves to become so distant?

She hadn't really thought about what she'd discover by coming here, distracted as she had been by everything she saw on the drive over. Fields of goats, acres of forest and villages that seemed to erupt from the landscape out of nowhere and disappear just as quickly as she passed through. But she had hoped that she'd feel something when she arrived – a renewed closeness to her mum, perhaps. Holly was loath to admit it, even to herself, but she
could still feel a lingering and deep-rooted hatred towards her mother. Both the adults she'd spoken to about it – namely Simon and a grief counsellor named, rather ironically, Joy – had urged her to let all those feelings go. She had nodded and smiled and told them that she would, but she never did.

‘Yassou!'

A menu was plonked down in front of her and she smiled up at the young male waiter. She had stayed down in the glorious cool water until she could see that the taverna was emptying, and then made her way back up the stone steps – which turned out to be far easier than the descent had been.

She gave the list a cursory glance, but she already knew what she wanted: water, frappé and a Greek salad. There were a number of other items that almost tempted her into breaking what had become a serious tomato and feta cheese habit: fresh grilled sardines, octopus in vinegar, village sausage and hearty meatballs, but she resisted for now. There would be plenty of time to try all those things over the next ten days. As she sipped her sweet, cold coffee and waited for the food to arrive, Holly dragged her eyes away from the view and watched the hive of activity going on inside the restaurant.

Having a very old lady in charge of the till seemed to be a commonplace in Zakynthos, but Holly observed that all the people ferrying around food and drinks here were male. There were Greek children of various ages running around and getting under the feet of the waiters, most of whom merely laughed and pretended to scold them.

One little girl of about five, her dark hair in two plaits and with a scrape on one knee, was sitting up on one of the tables eating an enormous chocolate ice cream, an adorable look of utter concentration on her face. Holly smiled. As she watched, an older Greek man with a neatly trimmed beard and a grey shirt stepped across to the little girl and wiped a napkin under her chin. Holly could hear him muttering what sounded like endearments. As he turned to go back into the kitchen, he noticed Holly staring over at them and she looked away quickly, embarrassed to have been caught gawping. When she sneaked a glance back a few seconds later, he was still staring – in fact, he seemed unable to tear his eyes away.

‘Blatant, much?' she giggled to herself, pulling her vest on over her bikini top and turning her head back to look out across the ocean once again. A wide veranda containing more tables, each one with four wicker-seated chairs and a small vase of wild flowers, ringed the outside of the restaurant. There were vibrant patches of bougainvillea hanging down over the edge of the roof, the pink petals contrasting deliciously with the white painted walls and the light-dappled expanse of sapphire ocean below. Holly's ears had grown accustomed to the symphony of the crickets, and she could now hear the faint sound of waves pitching up against the rocks.

The Greek salad arrived and she continued to watch the view as she ate, letting her senses savour their own individual moment.

‘Yassou.'

The little Greek girl with the ice cream had sauntered over to Holly's table and was peering at her shyly. One of
her plaits was starting to come loose and she was clutching a pink plastic straw in one hand.

‘Yassou.'
Holly's limited Greek vocabulary didn't let her say much more, so the two of them just smiled at one another in companionable silence for a few minutes.

‘England?' the little girl asked eventually. It came out as barely a whisper.

‘Yes!' Holly beamed at her. ‘My name is Holly.' As she said it, she gestured to herself, feeling a bit ridiculous.

‘Holly,' the girl repeated. She furrowed her brow for a few seconds, chewing on the end of her straw, before touching her own chest and whispering, ‘Maria.'

‘Maria is a beautiful name,' Holly told her, hoping that at least the sentiment of what she was saying would be understood.

The little girl squirmed a little, still gazing at her, then very carefully placed her chewed straw on the table and skipped off in the direction of the kitchen.

Holly stared after her for a few seconds and then continued to fork up some red onion. What an amazing place to grow up, she thought, looking around at all the other boisterous and contented children who were skipping around. She often found herself feeling sorry for the morose-looking kids she saw trudging around London, the unknown dangers of the city ensuring they were never allowed more than a few feet away from their parents. The children here must have so much more freedom and spend so much more time playing outside, as opposed to being stuck in high-rise blocks of flats or those grotty after-school clubs.

Holly didn't have much contact with children back in London. None of her and Rupert's friends had kids yet
and, aside from the odd person at work bringing their new baby in for a visit, Holly rarely encountered them. It wasn't that she disliked children – in truth, she thought they were adorable – she'd just never had any desire to have any of her own. She wondered now whether or not Rupert had thought about the two of them having a baby. They'd never discussed it, and thankfully none of his friends had mentioned it yet. They were all having far too much fun going out socialising most nights to think about kids.

Holly had always thought having a baby would be a bad idea, after what had happened to her mum. Could it have been that the stress of having Holly was what drove her to start drinking in the first place? She'd told Holly many times in those last few dark months that she hated herself, that she was a bad mother, that she'd failed both of them. There was no way that Holly was ever going to risk that happening to another child.