Aftershock (8 page)

His pupil was doing well; which had to say something about the teacher, too.

The following Sunday morning, Makis and his mother went to the Cathedral; and on the way back, the hoarding at the corner of the High Street caught their eye. It was advertising Canada Dry Ginger Ale. Makis recognised those four words in English. They had the same meaning as on the advertisement back home in Metataxa Square.

‘Look at that!' he said. ‘Canada Dry Ginger Ale.' Then he said it in English.

What would his mother think? Would seeing the advertisement from the past make her sad, or— ‘

‘Canada Dry Ginger Ale,' she said in Greek. And repeated what he was saying in English – ‘Canada Dry Ginger Ale' – with understanding in her voice.

Makis showed the palms of his hands, like a conjurer after a trick. Perhaps he'd be a teacher one day, if he couldn't be a fisherman.

What a different atmosphere the house had!

Mr Laliotis was given a smiling welcome when he came later that morning; and he was geniality itself. His white hair was fluffed up like a maestro, and in Sunday mood he wore a woollen pullover knitted in geometric patterns – eye-catching enough for Makis to stare at.

‘I wear it for the Greeks!' Mr Laliotis said, waving at the designs. ‘Isosceles, Euclid, Pythagoras!'

‘Mathematicians,' Sofia said.

‘I wondered if Makis might help me,' the musician went on.

But how could Makis help Mr Laliotis? It wouldn't be fish boxes he'd want scrubbing out, the way Makis had helped his father; and he wouldn't be hauling in a full net.

‘Mrs Laliotis is organising a musical evening at the Acropolis restaurant. She's going to play piano. Together we shall play a violin and piano duet. The men will sing, and I shall play balalaika. But…'

But, what?

‘I remember a song from Kefalonia that speaks to all Greeks of their homeland.' He looked hard at Makis. ‘I wondered if you knew it from your father?'

He could ask my mother, Makis thought, but for some reason he's asking me. ‘What song is that, Mr Laliotis?'

‘Do you know, “To Taste the Assos Honey”?'

‘Oh!' Sofia gasped, and made a small sound in her throat. She looked as if sadness had come in through the door like a winter wind. ‘Spiros…'

Makis jumped in quickly. ‘Yes, I know it.' People kept bees all over Kefalonia, but the bees from Assos produced the best on the island.

‘Then please will you come upstairs with your mandolin and help me?' Seeing Sofia's sudden look of sadness Mr Laliotis seemed embarrassed, but with a jut of his chin he went on. ‘Please?'

Makis looked at his mother.

‘Of course you must go,' she said.

Makis went upstairs feeling that he was on two missions at once: for Mr Laliotis, and for his absent father.

Mrs Laliotis was there today; but instead of being third musician, the tiny woman stayed mainly in the kitchen where she was cooking. From time to time Makis could hear her humming along quietly.

After tuning their instruments and a short practice with ‘The Cuckoo Sleeps', Makis found the pitch and a starting chord for ‘To Taste the Assos Honey', and slowly he picked out the notes of the chorus – making mistakes, going back, correcting – but finally, putting confident words to the island song.

I cross the blue Ionian Sea,

the blue stripes flying at our stern,

but when my sands are running out

to Kefalonia I'll return

to taste the Assos honey.

‘Bravo!' Mr Laliotis had joined in as Makis went on. ‘Again.' And together they played the chorus once more, bringing it up to something like its proper tempo.

‘Well done!' came from the kitchen.

They worked on the first and then the second verse; and after Mrs Laliotis had come in to play the notes on her piano keyboard, Makis wrote the words of the verses and the chorus on a sheet of music paper.

‘Sweet and simple!' Mrs Laliotis said. ‘The Acropolis is going to be delighted when Yiannos performs this beautiful song.'

‘Yes.' And thinking of his father, who had never performed but simply played and sung, Makis was suddenly overwhelmed by sadness, the way his mother had been when he'd found her cuddling the Gibson mandolin.

But in his moment of sadness, he realised how well she was doing, slowly pulling herself up from that deep unhappiness.

It was Makis's week of weeks. In the classroom it was easy to ask to be a book monitor and to hide the next few Colour Spot readers in his desk. School books never went home. They were stamped with the London County Council stamp, counted often, and called ‘stock'. History and Geography and Nature Study books were given out for each lesson and checked back into the cupboard by monitors, but readers and arithmetic books were always being changed in the different divisions of the class. So in his desk, ready for his mother, Makis had hidden the Orange Spot and the first of two Colour Spot Story Readers –
Robin Hood
and
The Man Who Ran to Sparta
.

Sofia was keen to go on with the series. In Kefalonia, she'd never pulled a face at anything because it was new. Makis knew boys whose mothers wouldn't listen to new singers on the radio or buy a modern style of dress. They were the ‘old' village – as much part of it as the ancient stone houses. But Sofia Magriotis would always try new things – just coming to England to make a new start showed the kind of person she was. So for the past couple of weeks she'd been doing her homework like a student who wanted to get top marks. And now, how about that second story book –
The Man Who Ran to Sparta
? Wouldn't she love a good Greek story?

And the same week, although Makis hadn't played brilliantly in the matches so far, he was picked to play in the semi-final of the Fred Barrowman Trophy. With Pearson back at school, Denny Clarke was chosen as reserve to travel, giving him another excuse to shout abuse.

‘Rotten Greeks! All over Camden Town like a plague of rats! Magriotis gets to be teacher's pet just because his house fell down. Well, so did mine, in the war – but my mum didn't push herself on other people.' After the team sheet had gone up, Clarke made so much fuss in the corridor that Mr Davies came out of the staffroom and sent him to stand in the hall during playtime – which gave Makis a little lift. And for the first time, seeing his name on the sheet didn't make him feel all mixed up. He might not go home afterwards to ten green bottles on the table, but he was pretty sure he wasn't going to find his mother crying in her bedroom.

It wasn't often that several sides of his life looked up at the same time. Back in Kefalonia, he might have had a good day in school, and in the afternoon he might have dived for an octopus among the rocks for his mother to fry – but then he'd drop a fish-cleaning knife overboard and he'd be scolded. But this week in Camden Town, even Mr Laliotis was giving him a boost.

That night, with his violin case still tucked under his arm, he came to invite Makis upstairs for a rehearsal of the Kefalonia song. And after a good session, with Makis's fingers surer and surer on the mandolin, he quietly dropped a big surprise.

‘You know, I think you could play this with me at the Acropolis.'

What?
Makis could only sit there and stroke the small chip on the Gibson.

‘I mean it. Our two voices, with mandolin and balalaika – they'll be a special item at the concert. This old man, living here a long time' – he lifted his balalaika to identify himself, the way musicians do – ‘playing alongside the newcomer from a tragic island…'

Hearing this, Makis wondered if he should lift his mandolin. He didn't, because Kefalonia might be tragic now but it hadn't always been, and one day it wouldn't be again. But what an honour! To perform a duet with a man whose BBC violin was heard all over the world! To play his father's mandolin with such a man! How proud Spiros Magriotis would have been. His pride would have lifted those Argostoli stones from his trapped body and freed him…

With tears in his eyes Makis said, ‘I'll do it, if you think I can.'

‘Oh, I think you can. Certainly. Just keep those fingers supple, exercise them, protect them – musicians have a duty to their hands – and at the Acropolis we're going to make a few men cry.'

Like me,
Makis thought – but they would be happy tears, because he was so proud for his father.

The semi-final against Griffin Road that Thursday was on the same pitch at Chase Fields. Makis thought Griffin Road must have played against a few easy teams in the Cup so far, because they weren't all that good. And Imeson Street might be playing in dyed vests, but the Griffin Road team turned out in any old shirts and blue team bands, with the captain wearing them crossed – as if it was a games lesson. But nothing could detract from the way Makis played against them. From the start, all David Sutton had to shout was ‘W' or ‘M', and Makis and the other forwards would switch their formation and have the Griffin Road boys tied up over who was marking whom, chasing the ball about and tripping over in confusion.

And somehow the size of the ball, the fit of his boots, and the passing with both the insides and outsides of his feet all felt natural to Makis. He obeyed his captain, but he wasn't afraid to do his own thing. He'd never felt so much in control. He was the player who saw where the openings were – and calling for the ball, he made the best of them. Even with most of the Griffin Road team surrounding him, he could beat the tackles today and make the passes that scored goals. He didn't score himself; he didn't need to, because whether it was in a ‘W' or an ‘M', or a chase-the-ball ‘S', the game was easily won, five-nil.

‘Well done, the Reds!' shouted Mr Hersee; and he made the team shake the hands of all the Griffin Road players. ‘First time Imeson's ever been in the final!'

‘Good luck to you,' the Griffin Road teacher said. ‘You've got a good little inside-forward there.'

‘Magritis.' Mr Hersee
still
hadn't got Makis's name right. ‘Greek lad from one of the islands. I've been bringing him on, nurturing the boy.'

‘Well done. He'll probably win the Cup for you.'

And Mr Hersee walked over to shake Makis by the hand –
actually to shake his hand, man to man.