Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction by Suzanne Goldring

Author:Suzanne Goldring [Goldring, Suzanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781838881788
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2020-01-21T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Forty-Six

June 2007

Amber

I never did find the right moment to tell James about Inge’s story. I came back that day wanting to tell him and yet feeling I’d been entrusted with a secret too precious to be tossed away in an idle conversation, with him only half listening as he busied himself in the kitchen. I wanted to savour it, hold onto it until he could appreciate the importance of what had been entrusted to me. And in the days that followed he was utterly preoccupied with prepping dishes and cooking for the restaurant, so I knew it would be some time before he could listen and fully appreciate the danger and bravery that story entailed.

But, in the heat of the market in the centre of Corfu Town, I couldn’t help remembering what she had said. I hadn’t really wanted to go in that day, but James had insisted, saying, ‘On top of sending snails instead of sea urchins, they haven’t delivered the samphire. I’ve got to have some today. You’ll have to go into the market for me again.’

The days were getting hotter. At the beginning of June, there was still a freshness in the air each morning, but the sun soon grew fierce, so I preferred visiting the market very early in the day. I parked near the harbour in a sliver of shade cast by the oleander bushes, then looked for a moment at the Old Fort that towered above the sea. Now I knew its terrible history, as told to me by Inge in her husky, smoker’s voice, still echoing in my head since my visit, I could no longer visualise its romantic Venetian past, only its more recent, more terrible function.

Although it was only 8.30 a.m., the market was already crowded with local people buying the best of the fish and fresh vegetables. Before I reached the covered stalls, I passed an old lady in black, waving me to piles of garlic in baskets at her feet. Next to her was a man with plastic flagons of golden liquid. I used to slow down to look more closely, wondering whether it was oil or vinegar, but James always pulled me away, saying, ‘I wouldn’t touch it. There’s no way of knowing what he’s put in it.’

My favourite olive stall lay in the centre of the market, where the different olives were piled in trays, some large and black, others green, marinated with garlic, chillies or various herbs. Bunches of dried oregano and thyme were always stacked at the back of the stall. And after I’d bought James’s vital sea urchins, I saw the woman with the samphire. She had a large plastic tub of the green fronds, smaller than those we’re used to eating in England, and she threw handfuls into clear plastic bags, charging what always seemed like pennies.

I found her so quickly, I thought I had time to stop at the market’s little cafe. It consisted of nothing more than a ramshackle veranda

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