The Island of Missing Trees(77)

‘I have money,’ Defne said, opening her handbag. ‘Please, this is all I have. If it’s not enough, I’ll work and pay you, I promise.’

He took a long, ragged breath. ‘Put that back. This is not about money. Our medical practices are closed. We are not authorized to work. Both my nurses have already returned to England and I’m leaving tomorrow morning.’

‘Please.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I have nowhere else to go. My family will never forgive me.’

‘I’m sorry, I cannot take your case,’ he said again, his voice thickening.

‘Doctor –’ She started to explain, but then she stopped, something constricting her chest. With a curt nod, she clutched her handbag, turned her back and walked towards the door, the room suddenly too small to contain her.

He watched her for a few seconds, pressure building behind his eyes, pulsating.

‘Wait.’ Dr Norman gave an inward sigh. ‘There’s another plane in two days’ time. I suppose I could take that one.’

She stopped, her face etched with something like relief, though not quite. She reached for his hands, crying, all the tension she had been storing up inside finally finding its way out.

‘My child, calm down.’

He made her sit; gave her a glass of water. A clock down the hall ticked away steadily, each stroke a heartbeat.

‘I have a sister who went through a similar ordeal when she was about your age.’ His forehead wrinkled as the memory surfaced. ‘She was madly in love, planning to get married. It turned out the man had a family already – he had a wife and five children, can you believe? When he heard she was pregnant, he cut off all ties with her. It was the week before the 1950 general election, wintertime. My sister didn’t tell me anything, not until later. She visited some kitchen-table surgery on her own. They treated her roughly. She had life-changing complications afterwards. She could never give birth again. I want to help you because I fear that if I don’t, you will end up in a backstreet den.’

Listening to his words, Defne felt dizzy.

‘There’s one issue, though,’ Dr Norman said, his voice still gentle but with a new intensity. ‘We have been ordered to close all offices. I will hand over the keys this evening. I cannot perform the procedure here.’

She nodded, slowly. ‘I think I know of a place.’



The next day, early evening, the back room of The Happy Fig had been transformed into a makeshift clinic. Yiorgos and Yusuf had tidied away the chairs, put three tables side by side and laid newly laundered tablecloths over them, trying to make everything as clean and comfortable as possible. It had been a whole week since the doors of the tavern had closed to customers. Despite the reports of military clashes and civilian casualties, the exodus of populations from each side of the island and rumours of a permanent partition, the two men, partners for long years, had stayed put, unable to leave Nicosia. Given that they did not want to part ways, where would they go – north or south? The faster the chaos around them swirled, the deeper they had sunk into a state of torpor. When Defne told them about her predicament, they instantly offered help.

Standing in the middle of the room, Dr Norman prepared the chloroform he planned to use as an anaesthetic. He wasn’t going to give Defne the usual dose, she was too pale and shaken, and he feared that her frail and stressed body might not withstand it. As he sterilized his instruments, she began to cry.

‘My child, be brave,’ said Dr Norman. ‘It’s going to be all right. I’m going to sedate you; you won’t feel a thing. But please consider one more time, is this really what you want? Is there no way you can talk to your family? Maybe they’ll understand.’

She shook her head as the tears kept rolling down her cheeks.

‘Oh, darling Defne, don’t c-c-cry.’ Yusuf, by her side, caressed her hair. ‘You d-d-don’t have to do this. Look, we can r-r-raise the baby. You’ll always be the mother, people don’t need to know. It’ll be a s-secret. Yiorgos and I will take care. We’ll f-find a way. It’ll be all right. What do you s-say?’

But his kind words only made her cry harder.

Yiorgos loped off into the kitchen and returned with a glass of carob juice. Defne refused it; the mere sight of it reminded her of Kostas.

They closed the windows, then opened them again, the heat suffocating despite the ceiling fans. The air outside smelled of citronella, planted to get rid of mosquitoes. Meanwhile, Chico, locked in his cage so that he would not disturb anyone, squawked words picked up from happier days.

‘Hello, kiss-kiss! Oh la la!’

And that was when they heard the sound of an engine. A car was approaching, its tyres crunching on the gravel. Then, another one. Customers never drove this far as the tavern was nestled between olive groves, they preferred to park in the clearing about a hundred feet away and walk up the hill.

‘I’ll go and check,’ said Yiorgos. ‘Probably one of our regulars hoping to sneak in for a tipple on the sly. I’ll tell them to come back another time.’

‘Wait for me,’ said Yusuf as he joined him.

But it wasn’t loyal customers craving a drink at their favourite watering hole. It was a group of strangers – young, grubby, sullen men driving around, blowing off steam, spoiling for a fight, alcohol on their breath. They left their cars – all except one. In their hands, they had sticks and clubs, which they held awkwardly, as if they had forgotten why they had taken them.