The fishing boat’s thudding engine drifted over the sea, louder as I put my ear nearer the water, drawing my attention towards the horizon. The red and blue boat rounded the lighthouse. My heart skipped. Without even thinking about it, I primped my hair and smoothed my uniform, which the kindly Yiayá had washed, starched, and ironed while I lay on my bed. Even the rip where Sissy’s watch had been was neatly stitched.

My thoughts went to my parents; they must have heard about the ship going down. I should send them a message right away. Let them know I’m safe. The fishing boat didn’t seem to be moving, so I walked around the harbour to the kafenion.

‘I want to send a telegram to England,’ I said very slowly to the kafenzies. ‘Tel-e-gram.’

He lifted his chin, showed his palms to the ceiling, and shrugged.

I poked the table several times, mimicking a telegraph operator. ‘Dot, dot, dot, dash, dot, dash . . .’

‘Ah!’ the old man said. ‘Tilegrafo? ’

‘Yes, yes, tilegrafo!’ I cried excitedly.

He shook his head. ‘We no have.’

‘How do you send urgent messages?’

His eyebrows puckered as he unravelled the foreign words, then pulled his hands into his shoulders and wiggled his fingers. ‘Poula! Poula! Athina!’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, shaking my head.

He repeated the episode only this time shouting at the top of his voice.

A teenage boy raced into the kafenion and a boisterous conversation took place before the lad turned to me and said, ‘You have urgent message for England?’ I nodded. ‘I am Pavlo, my father is the mayor of the island.’ He did a head waggle. ‘We can send a pigeon to Athens with few words. They send a ticker tape to England. Arrive tomorrow.’

‘Good! Thank you, young man. Who do I see?’

‘Come, come, we go to the mayor, my father.’ Another head waggle. ‘He plays the tavli.’

I followed him, away from the harbour. We tramped up compact earthen streets, so narrow they’d barely take the width of a robust donkey, never mind a coach and four. The mayor was involved in a game of backgammon outside a small house. A number of villagers sat in a semi-circle around the two competitors, eyes riveted on the game. I squinted at the mayor. The man had a very relaxed mode of clothing but a perfectly waxed and curled moustache of some grandeur.

This was 1916. The world was at war and people were fighting and dying for their country. Yet here, in this little pocket of Greece, the head of the island played a board game in the street. A small pocket of normality in the chaos that was the world today. The scene gave me hope that one day all of Europe would return to normal. It reminded me what we were fighting for. The simple freedom of village life, tradition, and family values.