I walked around to the back of the school with Manno. Although the village was a somewhat ramshackle affair – created with no apparent sense of planning, order, or even straight lines – the pigeon loft was a complete contradiction. The coop was a marvellous, symmetrical, construction on stilts. The wooden building had a red-tiled, A-frame, roof and a platform that ran around the outside with a stout wooden ladder for access.

‘What a beautiful loft, Manno,’ I said.

‘All the small islands have them.’ He stuck out his chest in such a way I almost expected him to start strutting around me, cooing and bobbing and dragging his tail feathers. The thought brought heat to my cheeks and I wished I could find a way to stop blushing.

Manno spoke to the mayor for a moment, then he turned to me. ‘We’re going to return Aphrodite to Athens. Aphrodite, she is the goddess of love; you know this?’ He bobbed his eyebrows.

The damn blush! I bit my lip and nodded.

‘Athens will send a telegraph to England, so now, we go to write your message in not many words,’ he said.

Back in the kafenion, I constructed my letter to Father. I had to reduce it to as few letters as possible, which was difficult. Eventually, I settled on: Dr Smith. White Cot. Lighthouse Ln. Dover. UK. I am unharmed. Safe in Greece. Love Gertie.

Mama would be in tears. Papa’s stern face would hide his emotion. My parents would embrace, silently, unable to voice their relief.

*

I watched as the boy wrote in tiny letters on a cigarette paper. Manno rolled the fragile note so gently with his big fisherman hands, then slid it into a small tube, and fastened it to Aphrodite’s leg. There was a sense of ceremony in the air as they released the pigeon. The sturdy bird flew in a low circle over the houses, orientating herself, then she set off, gaining height until she disappeared into the deep blue sky. For a moment, silence fell over the village as everyone’s eyes followed her.

I told Manno, ‘My father’s a doctor, but he keeps pigeons too. He used to race them, but now he works for the government.’

‘Your father works for the British government?’ He frowned and pulled in his chin.

‘Yes, his pigeons are taken overseas and return with messages for the military. Last year, one of his pigeons, Geronimo, saved the lives of fifty soldiers.’ I smiled, proud of my father and pleased to relate the story.

‘Holy Mother!’ Manno crossed himself again. ‘Tell me how a little bird could save so many men.’