Free Aphrodite's Island by Hilary Green Page A

above the door a painted sign.
Café Anonymou
. On the back Mother has written:
Stephen, me and Cressida outside the bar – Lapithos, 1974
. Was that child really me? Why is it that I have no recollection of that time or that place?
Café Anonymou
– the nameless café! Why did they call it that? Looking back, it almost seems a sign of impermanence, as if they had felt it was not worthwhile giving the place a name; like a child not expected to live. And why did Mother keep these pictures hidden away? Why have I never seen them before?
    I put the photograph down and pick up another. The same fair-haired man, much younger, in army uniform, with two others. They are laughing, leaning on each other’s shoulders, their eyes screwed up against the light. On the back, in a handwriting I do not recognize, are the words:
Self, Jonno and Dempsey – Famagusta, 1955
. So, my father served here as a young man, doing his National Service, presumably. Was that why he came back, with his wife and child? What was it that drew him back? And why did he wait nineteen years?
    I half close my eyes, struggling to fix a distant memory. Surely I must have a mental picture of some sort! But all I can recall is a tall presence and a hand holding mine as we walk along a leafy English lane. I shuffle the photographs back into the envelope, except for the one showing the three of us in front of the café. That I put into my handbag. Then I pick up my hat and head for the lift.
    Coming out of the hotel I draw a deep breath and my mood lightens. Later it will be very hot but at this hour the air is pleasantly fresh. A breeze sets the fringes of the sun umbrellas on the terrace fluttering and whips the waters of the harbour into a thousand small waves that reflect the sunshine in brilliant shards of light. A few dozen brightly painted fishing boats dance on the water and beyond them the honey-coloured bulk of Kyrenia Castle glows in the sunshine. I stroll along the harbour front until I come to the office of a car-hire firm. I arrange a car for the dayand when the formalities have been completed I say, ‘Do you have a map of the island? I want to find a place called Lapithos.’
    The man behind the desk frowns. ‘You mean Lapta. All the places are called by their Turkish names now.’
    ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Can you show me where it is?’
    He produces a map and prods a finger on a spot about fifteen kilometres to the west. ‘Here. You take the coast road. You will see the signs.’
    I collect the car keys and drive out of the town, relieved that in this erstwhile British colony traffic still drives on the left. Soon I am heading west on the coast road. To my right the land drops away to a sea patterned in sapphire and turquoise. To my left the narrow coastal plain is bounded by a range of mountains that rise almost sheer to a rampart of jagged peaks, like the broken teeth of a saw. In between the landscape is patched with the silver of olive groves and the umber of dry pastures and punctuated with the dark exclamation marks of cypresses.
    As I drive, I feel myself relax. The tension goes out of my shoulders and my hands cease to grip the steering wheel as if the car were some unruly animal. I have thought a lot about Cyprus recently but I never imagined this beauty. Was this what drew my father back, this brilliant light, this glowing landscape? Since finding the photograph of him in his army uniform I have tried to imagine why the island had such a lasting hold on him. Once, before she died, my grandmother let slip the fact that I had lived there as a small child but when I tried to get Mother to talk about it she always put the questions aside with a brusque ‘I really don’t remember’ and then changed the subject. Eventually I learned not to bring it up.
    Now, looking around as I drive, I begin for the first time to sense the magic that might draw a man back after twenty years. I find myself recalling the story of Odysseus and