Lesley Walker — Kyria Eleni

She sat leaning against the creamy white stone wall, waiting. Her hair, flecks of grey at the temples, tied up and back in a soft black scarf wound around her throat and knotted roughly at the back of her head.

 Her once black dress hung loosely on her spare frame, faded, washed and worn to a grubby charcoal grey, a touch of white flesh at her throat, the collar held by a jet black brooch .

 But it was her hands I noticed as she sat there, still as a sentinel, waiting, waiting. Her left hand was a fist, drawn to her mouth and cheek, almost punching into her face as if to stop the scream that was clearly also waiting. Her eyes were like half-closed shutters, hiding the fear from those who were also watching, waiting. She had heard muttered whispers as the boats started to return, one by one, the bells ringing out from St Nickolas and St Stephanos in welcome relief. She caught glances of pity, hastily concealed, hands hiding soft words and she knew. She was waiting in that terrible place of not knowing, of hoping, of praying, of uncertainty where life was still possible. Waiting for a miracle.

Then she saw his kaiki and heard the chug of its engine as it rounded into the harbour. It was laden with dun-coloured sponges strung in long heavy loops from the cross trees, a bountiful harvest. Men and boys were standing wide-legged on deck as it approached. She screwed up her dark eyes, trying to find him among the figures, her brow wrinkled in desperate concentration.

 As the Aghios Nikolaos came alongside the harbour wall, she sensed the women, like a mute tragic chorus, moving towards her. Her left hand, still tightly clenched against her mouth and cheek could no longer hold the silence and one loud desolate scream pierced the evening sky. 

 Ο γιος μου, ο Νίκος μου.