One August Night Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Victoria Hislop

  The right of Victoria Hislop to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2020

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 784 25

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Book

  About the Author

  By Victoria Hislop

  Praise for Victoria Hislop

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Afterword

  Note on Leprosy

  Acknowledgements

  About the Book

  Beloved author Victoria Hislop returns to Crete in this long-anticipated sequel to her multi-million-copy Number One bestseller, The Island.

  25th August 1957. The island of Spinalonga closes its leper colony. And a moment of violence has devastating consequences.

  When time stops dead for Maria Petrakis and her sister, Anna, two families splinter apart and, for the people of Plaka, the closure of Spinalonga is forever coloured with tragedy.

  In the aftermath, the question of how to resume life looms large. Stigma and scandal need to be confronted and somehow, for those impacted, a future built from the ruins of the past.

  Number one bestselling author Victoria Hislop returns to the world and characters she created in The Island – the award-winning novel that remains one of the biggest selling reading group novels of the century. It is finally time to be reunited with Anna, Maria, Manolis and Andreas in the weeks leading up to the evacuation of the island . . . and beyond.

  About the Author

  Inspired by a visit to Spinalonga, the abandoned Greek leprosy colony, Victoria Hislop wrote The Island in 2005. It became an international bestseller and a 26-part Greek TV series. She was named Newcomer of the Year at the British Book Awards and is now an ambassador for Lepra. Her affection for the Mediterranean then took her to Spain, and in the number one bestseller The Return she wrote about the painful secrets of its civil war. In The Thread, Victoria returned to Greece to tell the turbulent tale of Thessaloniki and its people across the twentieth century. Shortlisted for a British Book Award, it confirmed her reputation as an inspirational storyteller.

  Her fourth novel, The Sunrise, about the Turkish invasion of Cyprus and the enduring ghost town of Famagusta, was a Sunday Times number one bestseller. Cartes Postales from Greece, fiction illustrated with photographs, was a Sunday Times bestseller in hardback and one of the biggest selling books of 2016. Victoria’s most recent novel, the poignant and powerful Those Who Are Loved, was a Sunday Times number one hardback bestseller in 2019 and explores a tempestuous period of modern Greek history through the eyes of a complex and compelling heroine.

  Her books have been translated into more than thirty-five languages.

  Victoria divides her time between England and Greece.

  In 2020, Victoria was granted Honorary Greek Citizenship by the President of Greece.

  By Victoria Hislop

  The Island

  The Return

  The Thread

  The Last Dance

  The Sunrise

  Cartes Postales from Greece

  Those Who Are Loved

  One August Night

  The Last Dance and Other Stories

  Praise for Victoria Hislop

  ‘Storytelling at its best and just like a tapestry, when each thread is sewn into place, so emerge the layers and history of relationships past and present’ Sunday Express

  ‘Intelligent and immersive’ The Sunday Times

  ‘Fast-paced narrative and utterly convincing sense of place’ Guardian

  ‘Beguiling. Her characters are utterly convincing and she has perfected her knack for describing everyday Greek life’ Daily Mail

  ‘Vivid, moving and absorbing’ Observer

  ‘Fascinating and moving’ The Times

  ‘Excellent’ Sunday Telegraph

  ‘Captivating and deeply moving’ Look

  ‘Stunning . . . Intricate, beautifully observed’ Express

  ‘Wonderful descriptions, strong characters and an intimate portrait of island existence’ Woman & Home

  For my beloved mother

  Mary Hamson

  to whom The Island was also dedicated

  28 May 1927 – 17 March 2020

  Chapter One

  FOR SOME WOMEN, pregnancy is a period of good health and joyful expectation, but for Anna Vandoulakis it was a time of misery and nausea. The doctors insisted that she was confined to her bed for the first three months, telling her that it was the only way to save the baby. During these interminable weeks, she lost her vitality along with her porcelain-smooth complexion and her long, glossy curls, which fell out in handfuls.

  Once the obstetrician had confirmed that the pregnancy was stable, Anna’s husband, Andreas, invited all the estate workers to enjoy a glass of his best wine. More than a hundred of them gathered in front of the house in the Elounda hills to toast the forthcoming baby. Everyone was aware that the arrival of an heir was long overdue and the continuing health and prosperity of such a vast estate as owned by the Vandoulakis family was dependent on the continuation of the line. It was a matter of concern to them all that Andreas and Anna Vandoulakis should produce some offspring.

  Anna did not make an appearance. Instead she watched through the fine gauze of her bedroom curtains, noting that her husband’s cousin Manolis was the first to arrive and the last to leave. She could not take her eyes off him even for a moment and was certain that he regularly glanced up towards her. Even this did not allay her greatest fear: that he had forgotten her.

  Except for those glimpses from an upstairs window, Anna had not seen Manolis even once during the pregnancy. How could she be seen by someone she wanted to impress when she looked so plain? She resented all that the baby was taking away, even before it arrived.

  In the final few weeks she became ill again and was confined to bed. The baby was lying the wrong way round in the womb, her back against Anna’s spine, and the birth itself was painful and traumatic. The scrawny infant did not make herself any more welcome when she screamed, almost without pause, throughout the day and into the night. The exhausted Anna then declared that she found breastfeeding repellent, and a wet nurse had to be found.

  The birth b
rought Anna no relief from her self-loathing. Almost overnight, she went from being bulky to looking gaunt, and she could not bear the sight of herself in the mirror. For someone who had previously spent several hours a day admiring herself in one, this was a significant change. Anna was unrecognisable from the radiant and beautiful woman she used to be. Andreas was dismayed by what had happened to her, and when he asked his mother, Eleftheria, whether this catatonic state of depression was normal after pregnancy, she had to admit it was not. It was not so long since Andreas’s two sisters had given birth, and both of them had been immediately caught up in the joys of motherhood. Eleftheria had expected Anna to be the same. She was particularly surprised that her daughter-in-law had turned down the idea of inviting her father to come and see the new arrival. Although they had never really extended any hospitality to him, Eleftheria found it strange that Giorgos Petrakis was not being given the opportunity to see his first grandchild. Surely, she thought, he deserved a little happiness, given that his other daughter, Maria, was a leprosy patient on Spinalonga, the island where his wife had died some years before. It was Anna’s choice, however, and she was not going to intervene.

  When the baby was around ten days old, Andreas came in one evening a little later than normal. As usual, Anna turned her head away when he leant to peck her on the cheek.

  ‘I went to see the priest,’ he announced. ‘To fix the date of the baptism.’

  Anna could not object. She had been refusing to leave the house, so Andreas had been obliged to make the arrangements alone. In the Vandoulakis family, a child was always baptised within a few weeks of birth. Any later than that broke with tradition.

  ‘I have also been considering who should be her godparent,’ he said bluntly. ‘I think we should ask Manolis. He’s already part of the family and I can’t think of anyone else who will always be there for our daughter.’

  Manolis was the obvious choice for nonós, given that neither Anna nor Andreas had any close friends, but Anna had been reluctant to suggest it herself. She could scarcely suppress her joy.

  ‘That’s a lovely idea,’ she said. ‘Will you ask him tomorrow?’

  It was the first time Andreas had seen his wife smile for many months.

  That night, she steeled herself to look in the mirror. She recoiled. Her skin was dry and sallow and the shadows under her eyes were purple. The hair that she had once been so proud of was thin and matted, and her body had lost its contours. It was a shock, but now that she had an incentive, she resolved to regain the looks that she had prized so much, the looks that had made her such a prize. The baptism would be the first time she would encounter Manolis after many months, and also the first time that she would be seen by other acquaintances and family members.

  It was more than enough to motivate her. She began to eat better, to take fresh air, to apply the best face creams, to massage olive oil into her hair until it gleamed again, and quickly summoned the dressmaker to make her a new outfit for the occasion.

  As soon as she began once again to pause in front of mirrors rather than avoid them, her vanity returned in full. Although she was still slightly slimmer than she had been in previous years, her breasts became plump again and she enjoyed the contrast with her new, smaller waistline.

  She threw herself into the practical preparations for the baptism, organising the feast, the flowers, the music, the various robes for the child and favours for the guests. It was to be a grand event, with as many people as could be crammed into the Elounda church for the service and hundreds more invited to the festivities afterwards.

  When the date finally came in late September, Anna felt ready. She was renewed and excited about the day. The dress she had had made accentuated her hourglass figure and flattered her regained curves. It was made of crimson silk.

  She and Andreas arrived with the baby to an already full church. In the front rows sat all the members of the Vandoulakis family. The patriarch, Alexandros, upright and dignified; Eleftheria, his wife, elegant and expressionless, determined not to betray the slightest emotion, even on this special day for her granddaughter. Olga, the elder of the two sisters, and her husband, Lefteris, sat with their four unruly children between them. Eirini, the other sister, sat with her two-year-old daughter on her lap, nervously looking around for her husband, who eventually arrived halfway through the service.

  The others at the front of the church were the numerous lawyers who serviced the needs of this wealthy family, the bankers who managed their riches, and the mayors and town councillors of Elounda, Agios Nikolaos and Neapoli, effectively the capital of the region. This contingent was formally dressed, the men in suits and the women in tailored dresses. Behind them were those who worked on the estate, the land managers, the suppliers of agricultural equipment and livestock and so on. There was an almost visible line to be drawn between the two groups. They were differentiated by the quality of cloth, the fineness of the fabrics worn by those in the front rows being in stark contrast to the rougher weaves at the back.

  The only member of the family who was talking animatedly to various guests was the nonós himself. Unlike other members of the family, Manolis was as happy chatting with the bankers’ wives as to the workers on the farm.

  As soon as Anna entered the church, all eyes turned to look at her.

  ‘Panagía mou, what is she wearing?’ Olga whispered behind her hand to her sister.

  Eirini was equally aghast. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she murmured.

  ‘It’s so vulgar for such an event, don’t you think? Bright red?’ continued Olga.

  ‘I agree entirely,’ said Eirini. ‘But not exactly out of character . . .’

  Anna had chosen scarlet because it suited her perfectly. She had never looked more beautiful and she knew it. The rich colour was a daring contrast with her pale skin and chocolate-dark hair, and the cherry lipstick was a bold touch that few women could have worn as well.

  She saw no one but Manolis. It was so long since they had met, and even from a distance this reunion was having an effect on them both. He stared at her, transfixed.

  Andreas wanted to hand the baby to its mother.

  ‘Anna, I think it’s customary . . .’ he said, holding out the little white bundle to her.

  His wife was distracted for a moment and did not respond.

  ‘Anna?’

  She was gazing into the distance.

  ‘Anna!’ insisted Andreas, irritated by her lack of response now.

  Flustered, she took her daughter and cradled her in her arms, her legs shaking so much she could scarcely stand. Manolis was approaching, ready to play his central role in the most important spiritual moment of this child’s life.

  He touched Anna lightly on the arm and leaned in to kiss the baby’s cheek.

  She breathed in, inhaling his scent. Soap? The fields? The brand of sweet tobacco he favoured? If her arms had not been full, it would have been impossible to resist touching his hair, but feeling the sensation of his jacket on her bare arm was enough for now, as they paused before their walk down the aisle.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Manolis take a sideways glance, and knew it was a look of admiration.

  ‘I think it’s time,’ said Andreas impatiently. ‘They’re waiting.’

  Clad in ornate gilded robes and a tall hat embellished with elaborate stitching, a priest stood waiting at the font. He had a beard that almost reached his waist and held a golden crook. His two assistant priests, more modestly dressed, flanked him. They were dwarfed by his majestic height and imposing presence.

  The trio began to process down the aisle, Anna in the middle as exquisite as a rose in full bloom, on each side of her a man, handsome, almost aristocratic, in a dark suit. Dressed in this way Andreas and Manolis were even more disconcertingly alike than usual.

  Tucked up in Anna’s arms and swathed in white lace, the baby was sleeping, blissfully unaware of the trauma shortly to come. It began soon enough: the stripping-off of her clothes, re
peated plunges into the font, the coating with oil, the cutting of her hair, before she was dressed again and carried round and round with candles flickering close by. Being passed from parent to priest to nonós accompanied by the constant sound of unfamiliar chants and wafts of strange smells was enough to terrify the child, even without the additional rituals.

  Sofia, as she was baptised, screamed loudly for the first part of the ceremony, with only the occasional phrase of the liturgy audible above her wails. The first moment of respite was when Manolis fastened a pretty gold cross around her neck, his official gift to her as godfather.

  Anna smiled. Perhaps she likes pretty jewellery, she reflected, just like her mother. She hoped that Manolis had noticed she was wearing the earrings he had given her for her saint’s day.

  For much of the latter part of the ceremony, Manolis held the baby in his arms. She was much quieter then and gazed up at her nonós as the priest unfurled a white ribbon to encircle them both. After ninety minutes, it was finally all over and the great crowd filed outside and milled around noisily in the sunshine, happy to be out of the stuffy church and looking forward to the socialising that was to follow. For many it was the first time they had seen Sofia, and the women in particular wanted to get a closer look. They clustered around Manolis, who held the now tranquil bundle with enormous pride.

  ‘Lovely brown eyes, just like her father,’ several of them said.

  ‘And she’s definitely going to have her mother’s luxuriant hair,’ said one.

  ‘Yes, look at the curls she has already!’ agreed another.

  ‘She’s beautiful!’

  ‘So pretty!’

  ‘What a perfect baby!’

  ‘Ftou, ftou, ftou!’ responded Manolis. Any kind of compliment might attract the Devil’s attention, and pretending to spit was the customary way to deflect it.

  From a short distance away, Anna watched him. At the same time, she was talking to her father, Giorgos, trying to encourage him to come to the party planned for the evening. He was reluctant, given that he always felt uncomfortable in the presence of the Vandoulakis family. It was not merely his status as a humble fisherman. The far greater issue was the taint of leprosy. The death of his wife on Spinalonga had been hidden from Anna’s in-laws at first, but his younger daughter’s diagnosis and departure to live there could not be concealed. Even if they had managed to bury their prejudice where Anna was concerned, this grand family made no effort to conceal their disdain for her father. It was only sensible to keep him at arm’s length, they agreed.