The villa stood alone. My aunt paused on the threshold then pushed the door ajar, guiding me inside, 'Welcome to our love nest.'
My first impression was the scent of flowers. It filled the room. 'I pick some every day and if I can find them, a few violets too. He loved violets and scattered them round the house whenever he could.'
She folded back the shutters and straight away, the room was awash with sunlight. I could sense his spirit everywhere. Colour and comfort. Wood and stone. The big airy room with its flowers and scattered overstuffed loungers, the simple kitchen in the corner, the basil giving off a faint whiff of cat pee and the photographs all over the walls. There were books everywhere, in Greek and English, maps and charts, a boxed set of CDs by a Dhimitri Roumeliotis and a framed 78, signed across its paper envelope by his hero, the famous Rembetika musician, Vassilis Tsitsanis and of course, a piano.
'Look at this. These are the lyrics of a song Pantelis wrote and wanted to record but never did. Eventually, he put it in a frame and sang it to me on our anniversary. The words bring back our courting days. For me it begins with a cough - him clearing his voice.'
The seagull's sound is soft to me,
they do not screech but sing;
and bring to mind soft summer's nights
we could not sleep but cling.
And they would fly in dark blue night,
all white with stars behind,
whilst soft, your lips caressed my chest,
pure song caressed my mind.
But here, soft night sky's silent now
no seagulls sing outside.
In lonely room and dark awake,
I drown in turning tide.
On a table were three musical instruments. I recognised the bouzouki but the others I did not know. I picked up a small, chamois pouch containing half a dozen plectrums, 'Put it in your pocket, nobody will need them now.'
In the centre of the floor was a pebble mosaic, a masterpiece in stones forming two huge circles, one enclosing a six-pointed star and six concentric circles; the other showed a two-headed eagle. All the shelves, table tops and chair backs were protected with embroidered white linen and above us, a wooden beamed ceiling.
'Have a look upstairs, choose a room. I think you'll like it here, bright and airy.'
Groaning old wooden stairs led to a gallery with two rooms with a lavatory in between. The furthest room was wide with a far window that opened onto so much blueness at first I thought it was a painting. The WC was primitive but functional. I was happy to see it was just like the one at the Anessis - a wetroom with a window. On a marble-topped table lay a basin which was filled from the shower rose hanging from a hook on the wall; when you'd finished washing, you simply emptied it into a small circular grating in the floor. In fact you could shower sitting on the loo if you were in a hurry. The other room, at the top of the stairs, was a corner room with an extra window overlooking the mountain pass. I threw my bags on the bed in there. Each room had its own little stone balcony and chair; I wondered why we don't have balconies in England.
She was washing her face in a small bowl on the hard-worked kitchen table. Carved into the wood at one end were two initials, A & P and a heart, very faint now.
'Which room, laddo?'
'The corner room.'
'Ha. I won't say anything. I'll let you guess.'
'I can guess.'
'Well, welcome to our home,' she swallowed. Our pride and joy.'
I put my arm around her shoulders, 'Auntie, look, this isn't the best time to be here. Why don't we leave all this for now? I'll walk you back.'
She took me by the arm, 'Come and sit on the couch, there's something you have to know.' On the table was a snap of Pantelis with me sitting next to him on the fence in front of their cottage in Cornwall. In my arms I'm holding his favourite bouzouki, not the one with the inlaid mother-of-pearl flowers he holds in all his stage photographs, but his most treasured possession, the one he'd had since Piraeus, the delicate one; the undecorated one. There's a protective arm around my shoulders while I'm trying to look cool.
My aunt closed her eyes and opened her mouth but nothing came. She shook her head. Her chest rose and fell and she lowered her face and I thought she was going to faint. I knew something very serious was on her mind. As I put my arm around her, she took my hand and told me to brace myself, 'I'm so sorry, lad, you're in for quite a blow.' Her face dropped, she straightened her skirt, fidgeted with her cushion and played with the edges of the table. She gave a long sigh and covered my hands with her own. 'I don't know where to begin.'
I waited, fearing I knew not what. She looked at the violets and rubbed her nose.
'Godfrey, my lad, there's something I've been trying to tell you ever since Pani died but it was never the right time. Just listen and try, please try, not to interrupt and, oh God, please don't be angry with me. I'm so very, very sorry.' The tears came again. She wiped them away with her sleeve and took a deep breath, 'Godfrey, P...,' her voice was strained, thin and shrill. She was broken. 'Pantelis Lambrakis was your father.'