'What!! Why are you saying all this? It's not true. Can't be.' I was stammering.
Tears covered Auntie's face, 'It is true! Poor Godfrey. It is true. Pani was your Dad.'
I pulled my hands away and stood up. I felt betrayed, humiliated, isolated. My mind was a void. Then came the images, short and vivid. I tried to place memories in context. It was too complicated to comprehend. I wanted to get as far away from there as quickly as possible.
'Well, who the hell am I? Now don't tell me you're my mother.'
'No, lad. I wish I were,' I went to walk away. 'No. Godfrey, wait. You'll never forgive yourself if you walk away now. If you still don't want to know after I've told you everything, all well and good. But hear me out first. You owe it to Pani.'
I turned and stood with my back to her, unable to look at her, shaking and staring through the window, seeing nothing.
'I had known Pantelis for several years. I'd met him in the theatre, and introduced him to your mother. It was obvious to everyone they were meant for each other. A few weeks before they were due to marry, you were born prematurely and your poor mother was too weak to recover from the trauma of your birth. Pantelis rushed to be by her side from somewhere abroad, but she died before he arrived. He was a wreck. Heartbroken. Crushed. I was there. I saw everything. He screamed at all the doctors and nurses, even though he knew it wasn't their fault. He wanted to take you back to Greece with him because he wanted you near him. Then we agreed he had to keep working and if you were to have the best start you would need the warmth of a loving family. After we talked and argued all night he stormed out of the hospital and I didn't know what to do. After a while he came back, his eyes were raw, he picked you up, cradled you in his arms and gently kissed you. You were all he had left of a family. He could not speak at first then he told me he had decided you should stay in England and be educated there. He would provide. When you were old enough, he'd let you decide where you might live. It would be up to you.'
'Why wasn't I told earlier? So many years. How could he be so cruel?'
'Don't you dare say that!' She sprang to her feet, 'You were loved! Your father was never, ever, cruel to you or anyone. Never a day went by when he wasn't going to tell you, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it.'
'And why not?'
'Because he never stopped loving your mother. He couldn't accept the reason she had died. And she died giving birth to you.'
'He resented me?'
'At first I suppose he did, but every time he looked at you, he saw your mother's eyes and knew she lived in you. Try to understand, lad, when things have gone on so long, it's hard to break them down. Don't forget, he had been a bit wild, almost a criminal in some eyes, and now he had a son who gave him the chance to make amends. He was proud of you and he didn't want to hurt you. More than anything he didn't want to lose your respect.'
'So where do you fit in?'
'Godfrey, we all loved you like we loved your mother. We all wanted to take care of you and as you know, I wasn't just your mother's sister, I was her best friend, so in order to ensure your well-being and make everything legal, I married Pantelis and we adopted you. You are my legal son.'
'What next? I suppose you'll say you didn't love Pantelis?'
'No, not like that. Not at first. But respect him? Oh, yes, with all my heart and after a while we did fall in love but now, he's gone,' she fell silent and looked away.
I shut my ears. It was too sudden. I couldn't get it straight. I refused to accept more bedlam. I didn't know how to think in there. I had to get out and about and away from the house to try and get things straight. I had to try and make sense of the fact that I was not who I thought I was. All my life I had been someone else.
I stormed out of the villa, charged around the houses and along the lanes until I reached the gravel area, so breathless with anger and fear I thought I was going to pass out. I steadied myself against a wall and squeezed my eyes tight shut, panting and gasping and seeing Uncle Pani - my father - standing before me, shaken, waiting, confused. For seconds, nothing else happened and then we embraced and when we stood back, gently he began to smile and I began to cry. People gathered, waiting for the bus.
Refuge. I had to find some refuge; a place to be alone and time to find myself again. Around a corner, at the end of a passageway, was an old broken down doorway, the door having long fallen from its hinges. I crossed the threshold, stumbled over the rubble of this derelict house and found myself looking down through a hole in the back wall toward the sea below. I climbed through and made my way towards a flat rock-like platform that may have once served as the backyard. I was sure it would crumble beneath my feet and I'd be slipping and sliding on the broken stones and turning cartwheels down and down into the distant waters and once or twice I did lose courage which was just enough to make me take more care, to slow down and inch my way across.
At last I was alone with myself. My different self? But what was my self? If I were a book, essentially I'd have the same pages and the story would be the same, well, almost. Just that now I had a different introduction - that was all. The characters, the middle and the story so far were all the same but with some slight adjustments. I supposed it was all down to interpretation. Like life, we all live it, but we live it through our individual interpretation of our experiences. I looked down at the waves and the constant changing patterns. The sea was drenched in the shadow of the hilltops and just like me, a paradox. Like everyone. We're all alone until we come together. And at least I was in good company alone.
Alone until a head bobbed up some way below me; there was a man steadily and carefully climbing up towards my platform, whistling some jolly tune. On his back was a rucksack and he wore climbing boots. Occasionally, he lost his footing but he kept on climbing and whistling and then he saw me, 'Kalispera. Hello. Beautiful day.'
I could not believe my ears or my eyes. I nodded, A beautiful day.”
He began to speak in Greek then stopped. 'You're English, aren't you? Signomi ... er, excuse me but are you alright? You look a little upset.
I ran a hand over my face, 'I'll be OK.'
'How do you do? Hayden Peel, wanderer and would-be gardener.' He touched the brim of his cap and gave a polite short laugh. 'So sorry, didn't mean to disturb you. I suppose you're wondering what I'm up to appearing out of nowhere like this, poking my nose in, well I've been collecting a little, er, soil. I take a handful from every place I visit. I went down there because it's least likely to be contaminated with plastics and other man-made stuff. The purer the better.'
'Hi. I'm sorry. I just didn't expect to see anyone below me on the cliffs above the sea, you were quite a surprise.'
'I've been backpacking around the islands. I come here every year. I went to Tunisia once but just spent the whole time wondering what was going on in Greece. Anyway the soil here is magical - historic.' Was he insane? 'You must think I'm mad but some time ago I was waiting for my return ferry after a day cruise across the channel to Brittany when I happened to let my gaze fall to the ground. I saw soil and thought to myself, 'Gosh, when you think of all the wars that have been waged over that soil, it just doesn't make sense.' I picked some up. It was dark and rich and smelled of beetroot. I don't know why but I popped it into a plastic bag, shoved it in my pocket and forgot all about it. I brought another sample back from my travels the next year. Word got round and my friends started sending me samples and bringing soil home from holidays. Couldn't be easier; cheapest presents around. Now, I've got loads of soil from all over the earth. One day I'll be too old to travel physically but I'll be able to look at my collection and let my imagination take me away.'
'You're not mad. More a typical English eccentric, if you don't mind my saying so.'
'Everyone thinks I'm eccentric at first, but if they think about it, there's no difference between my obsession and anyone else's. After all, if there were lots of people with my hobby, it would be normal. If only one person ran up and down a field kicking a ball for 90 minutes at every opportunity they'd be considered eccentric too.'
'It depends on your point of view, I suppose.'
'And I always bring some with me from my garden, in case I get homesick.'
So with the sea below us and the sky above us, and really nothing left to worry about, I looked at this man and he looked at me and we shook hands. He stood.
'I'm going home tomorrow so I'll wish you all the best. By the way, don't forget some soil for your pocket.' And then he was gone.
I was washed out, panting my way back up like an old dog stumbling through the rubble, watching every step, until I came to the threshold where I almost bumped into a couple of men blocking the doorway. I was quite taken aback and shot upright just in time to catch myself reflected in two pairs of mirrored lenses before reeling into two pairs of maroon shorts and almost passing out. I steadied myself and apologised, but as they brushed past I was sure one of them gave me a nudge. I staggered and to save myself from falling, shot a hand inside a thorny bush by mistake. They didn't look back but strutted on down the street. So I stood there like a twallop, swaying in the sunshine, cursing my bad handling of the whole situation and prising tiny, bloody needles from my hand. This mild intimidation was over in a minute but for some reason it was unsettling. You don't expect rowdies in paradise.
Yet I felt light. Strangely, I really felt light. I was smiling and then came the overwhelming desire to cheer. I wanted to make a silly noise, simply for the deep sense of optimism I felt because I realised that somehow I'd changed. Ebby was right. There was nothing really wrong with me at all. When I left the broken old house, I turned and saw the village spreading itself around me and realised where I was. I felt immensely proud that my mother loved my dad, that my father was my hero, and they made me who I am. I began to run. I had to tell my aunt I was OK now, everything was fine. At each corner there came welcome after welcome through the open doors; small, honest, one-roomed dwellings, amazing, ornate, with the beautiful picture-pebble floors and strong, beamed ceilings. Home-spun linen embroidered with prayers and messages of love hung from walls amid shiny, coloured plates. Holy icons and family photographs displayed their obligations. All was colour and grace around the ubiquitous flickering television set. Arranged along one wall there'd be five or six chairs covered in more spotless linen, ready for visitors and friends. The raised sleeping area at the side of the room looked comfortable and kind. I was in my village and its treasures were my inheritance.
And then, something else struck me. Stephanos is a long way from Cornwall. Pantelis could have turned his back on me and walked away. My aunt might not even have been interested, after all she had her career, but they stood by me. I could have been orphaned, left alone in the world. I got to the house and walked through into the sunlit room. She hadn't moved from the couch.
I looked at my Aunt Agnes and saw the lovely love in this little woman and sat down beside her, folded her in my arms and closed my eyes, 'I'll still call you Auntie, you know.'
'That's alright, lad. You're less of a responsibility when you're my nephew. And anyway, I could never love you less.'