Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘Holy God, Tommy, I can’t believe we might have found something metal after so many urns and animal bones.’ My throat tightened, and for some inexplicable reason my tears were rising. ‘I love you so much,’ I whispered.

  He looked up, our faces only inches apart, his clear grey eyes sparkling. ‘Don’t get too excited, we don’t know anything yet. There’s a chance it might be nothing at all.’ Nevertheless, he beamed with excitement and planted a firm kiss on my lips before returning his attention to the dirt.

  I nudged a snaking piece of silver towards two of the wings. ‘It’s an insect, do you think? Perhaps a butterfly?’

  ‘No, the wings are too narrow. Here’s a smaller pair; they graduate. It could be a necklace.’

  ‘I think . . .’ I slid the small wings next to the larger ones and added the simple curving piece. ‘I’ve got it, Tommy! It’s a dragonfly!’

  ‘Bravo, I believe you’re right!’ He pressed his hands against his cheeks and stared at the tabletop.

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘B3, behind the altar. I found it in the broken base of an urn, which is almost definitely early Minoan. There’re more shattered pots there too.’ He glanced at the cluttered trestle. ‘You’re going to be busy.’

  I flung my arms around his neck as he straightened. ‘You’re amazing, Doctor McGuire.’

  ‘I’ve always known it,’ he quipped. I sensed his desperation to get back to the trench.

  ‘Yes? Well, return to work, you lazy good-for-nothing,’ I ordered. ‘You’ve got half an hour before lunch. Find more jewellery while I put this dirt through the fine sieve.’

  With a grin and a nod, he rushed back into the maze of rubble walls.

  *

  Pleased with the morning’s work, I straightened and rubbed my back again. Although in pieces, the dragonfly necklace appeared to be complete. I stared at it for a moment before slipping it into the envelope that my cheque had arrived in. After lunch, I would measure, photograph, record, and report the find.

  ‘Tommy! Come and have a sandwich, it’s time for a break.’ I splashed water over my face and rinsed my arms and hands at the standpipe sink. Although desperate to see what else he’d discovered, I stuck to our policy of not interrupting each other while working. I pulled a plastic lunch box from my holdall and shouted again. ‘Egg mayo and crisps – your favourite, Tommy!’

  For our lunch break, we always used two folding chairs and a makeshift table, which was once a wooden cable reel, set in the shadiest corner of the site. Bottles of frozen water, packed that morning, had chilled our lunch and almost defrosted. Gulping cool water in the noon-day heat was one of life’s simple pleasures, but now all I could think about was the relic Tommy had found.

  Our fellow archaeologists – four boisterous Irish students – were away on a trip to the ancient site at Ephesus in Turkey. Tommy and I always enjoyed working alone.

  Where was he? Our lunch would soon spoil in the heat. ‘Tommy!’ I walked around the deserted buildings that were last inhabited four thousand years ago. A city of secrets we had yet to uncover.

  ‘Tommy McGuire, lunch is on the table! What’s keeping you?’

  The walls absorbed my words. I stopped to listen but the site was silent.

  Around the next building, I found my husband.

  Tommy lay on his back, slumped in a corner, eyes wide and pleading as he clutched his left arm.

  ‘My heart,’ he gasped, barely audible. ‘Help me.’

  CHAPTER 2

  IRINI

  Dublin, present day.

  I HAVE TO ESCAPE! My watch stopped at 9.15 a.m. and I feared I was stuck in a time warp with twenty fidgeting six-year-olds. The long morning, exacerbated by a fire drill and Layla’s cat being run over before school, had tested my patience.

  ‘Any questions, class?’ The lovable munchkins, restless for lunch, need their sugar-fix.

  ‘Is Chairman Meow in heaven, miss?’ Layla asked.

  I nodded, smiled, and glanced at the clock while trying to block the memory of Jason, last night’s yelling, tears, and anger, from my mind. Like Layla’s cat, it was all over with no possibility of going back. Layla’s lips curled and she stared out of the window. Feeling her sadness, I struggled to bury my own broken heart.

  Ryan Flynn shoved his hand in the air. ‘My mam says God made the sea and the earth and everything. Is that true, Miss McGuire?’

  ‘Many religions claim God made everything, Ryan.’ I reminded myself that 2B were too young to be subversive, yet I sensed a tricky question.

  ‘Please, miss, if God makes all the dogs and cats and cows and people . . . where does He get all the meat? And, miss, you know the trees, where does the wood come from?’

  ‘Ideas, anyone?’ Could I stall until the lunch bell?

  Tiffany O’Leary, class know-it-all, pistoned her hand. ‘Miss, miss, miss!’

  ‘Go on, Tiffany.’

  ‘eBay, miss. My da’s a builder and he gets everything off the internet. It’s cheaper but delivery can be . . . extortionate.’ She nodded emphatically, then frowned. ‘What does extortionate mean, miss?’

  There was a knock on the classroom door and secretary Mrs Cut-Above O’Kelly entered. All eyes fixed on the grey M&S suit, white tailored blouse, and heavy gold jewellery.

  My pupils stood and chanted, ‘Good morning, Mrs O’Kelly,’ and I was proud.

  ‘Good morning, class. Sit down, put your hands on your heads, and no talking.’ She turned, glanced disapprovingly over my latest outfit – a retro dress of Laura Ashley fabric, with puff sleeves and a dirndl skirt. The creation had pleased me immensely but, under her glare, my clothes felt shabby and homemade. She seemed to sense my disappointment and her brittleness softened. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’ She swallowed, squinted around the room, then returned her attention to me. ‘Reverend Mother wants to see you. I’ll stand in for ten minutes.’

  My end of term reports were almost finished, it had been a difficult week and I had spent too many evenings crying, sewing to take my mind off things, avoiding anything to do with school, including fellow teacher Jason.

  I faced the children. ‘I want to hear good things when I come back, class. Don’t let me down. Ryan, you can ask your question to Mrs O’Kelly.’

  In the corridor, I reached for the office door handle, my nerves tingling like static. After a calming breath, I entered Reverend Mother’s office.

  Mother Superior looked up from her desk. ‘Take a seat, Irini.’ Her eyes were also restless, then they settled on me and she sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Irini, it’s bad news.’

  I’m going to lose my job . . . Redundancy? Perhaps this was the push I needed to break away from the school. The truth is, I never really wanted to be a teacher. I loved the children, but longed for a greater challenge.

  As if reading my mind, she shook her head and said, ‘It’s about your family.’

  ‘Oh . . . not my father? But the doctor said it was just the flu, he was improving.’ I hadn’t seen Dad for a couple of days.

  ‘No, they haven’t told Mr McGuire yet. The home received a call from Greece yesterday and Matron telephoned me this morning. They couldn’t get hold of you.’

  ‘Ah, my phone’s turned off. My fiancé . . . we broke up.’ I went to twist my engagement ring but it was not on my finger. She glanced at my hands, which I separated, quickly pressing the palms against my knees.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Sorry to hear it, Irini. Matron thinks you should break the news to your father. You see, it’s about your mother, God save her soul.’ She stared at the desktop while the comment sank in.

  My mother, God save her soul . . . Oh!

  Reverend Mother was talking. Words seemed to float between us and I could not catch what was being said. The room smelled of soap powder, which didn’t make sense. Dust motes danced in a shaft of light that splayed through the window. Time hung. I forgot to breathe then gasped suddenly, startling us both.

  ‘Sor
ry, sorry, can you repeat . . . I didn’t . . .’

  Reverend Mother blinked at me, then her words rushed out with disrespectful speed. ‘A serious accident, Irini, at the archaeological site yesterday. I regret to say that your mother is critical. She’s peaceful, in intensive care. I’m terribly sorry, but they don’t think she will survive.’

  She reached across the desk and took my hand. I stared at it, blinked, almost cringed with awkwardness. Sensing my discomfort, she let go and withdrew. Then she spoke slowly, her words full of concern. ‘The incident happened suddenly, Irini. They said she didn’t suffer. Our thoughts and prayers are with you both.’

  I should have felt something – panic, emotion, tears – but all that came was a great negative void. I hadn’t seen my mother since she turned up in Dublin with my father a year ago. She left a week later. He was home for good; silicosis made breathing, and even walking, difficult for him. My mother returned to her precious archaeological site in Santorini, claiming if she stayed in Ireland another day she would go stark staring mad.

  For some reason, on hearing that my mother was dying, I had a horrible, horrible feeling it was my fault.

  Reverend Mother broke the silence. ‘I’ve got a Greek number.’ She handed me a fluorescent Post-it note. ‘Sign off for today, Irini, and come back in September. There’s less than a week to the holidays. Is there anything I can do?’

  I shook my head, stuttered, ‘Thank you,’ as I stood and turned away.

  ‘Oh, while I remember,’ she said awkwardly.

  I reached for the door handle, eager to leave the room.

  ‘Sorry, Irini, but the end of term reports?’

  *

  After a restless night of weird dreams that lingered like the smell of burned toast in my kitchen, I sat at the breakfast bar with a thumping head and a mug of sweet tea. July had been the worst month ever. My wedding – cancelled; Dad so ill he couldn’t stay on his own; and now my mother dying on a Greek island. This was not how life should be. I needed time with my mother; we hardly knew each other.

  I must fly to Greece. The Archaeological Association offered to take care of everything in Santorini, and promised to keep me informed of my mother’s condition. ‘Little hope,’ they said, preparing me for the worst news on my arrival. I told them I would get a flight ASAP.

  If only we had been closer, Mam and I, but in truth, a normal mother–daughter relationship had never existed. I don’t think Bridget McGuire had a maternal bone in her body. My helplessness and regret were not exactly for my mother, but for what might have been. Perhaps her distance was my fault? The room went cold. I glanced around, wondering if she’d gone – perhaps her soul loitered in the corners of my kitchen, listening to my thoughts. I ignored her, as she had done me through most of my childhood. Then, ashamed of thinking such an awful, bitter, thing, I muttered, ‘Sorry, Mam.’

  Money was a problem. All my savings had gone on driving lessons and non-refundable wedding deposits. Even my credit card was maxed-out because of a new wardrobe and a few home comforts for my Dad when he moved into residential care. Also, I splashed out on a high-tech smartphone for us both. The gifts for my father were not simple generosity, they were driven by guilt, because when I say moved into residential care, I mean I actually forced him to go.

  I had tried, and I cried, and I begged social services for more help. In the end, I admitted that I couldn’t cope with the incontinence, poor health, and dangerous forgetfulness of my father. It wasn’t fair on either of us. Dad wasn’t getting the care he needed. While I worked, I constantly fretted about him all alone in my little house in Sitric Road.

  Yesterday afternoon, I went to the care home and gave my father the awful news about Mam. The recent bout of flu had taken its toll, making him appear more fragile than usual.

  ‘Poor Bridget.’ Too upset to say more, he stared out of the window, tears creeping down his deeply lined face. I sat next to him and took his hand. He squeezed tightly before letting go, rather like our relationship.

  ‘Dad, Mam was doing exactly what she loved, what she’s done all her life, the very thing that brought you two together,’ I told him. ‘They say she didn’t know anything about it. A wall toppled and knocked her unconscious immediately. She hasn’t suffered any pain at all.’ I took his hand again. ‘They’ve induced a coma. They say there’s a small chance her brain might repair itself, but it’s unlikely.’

  ‘Small? How small?’

  I stared at the floor. ‘Very slight, almost none, but despite her age she’s very strong and fit.’ Was it cruel to give him hope when they implied there wasn’t any? My heart went through the shredder. ‘Miracles do happen, and she’s a fighter, Daddy. Some people . . . against all odds . . .’

  ‘I know,’ he said, patting my hand.

  I longed for them to love me, and I wanted to love them, but we had all lived our lives in a kind of mysterious limbo. We were only together for a week after my father came back. Days filled with tension and aggravation. My parents bickered from dawn till dusk. I knew they didn’t want to be dependent on me. They both missed the outdoor life, the sunshine of Greece, and their archaeology – and also space from each other.

  From them, I had wanted explanations, affection, and despite a youth spent coveting the closeness of other families, I found myself desperate for some privacy in my own home. The overcrowding situation eased when my mother returned to Greece, but despite Daddy’s continual grumbling, I knew he missed her.

  ‘Perhaps they did it,’ he muttered. ‘She should’ve let me die, then everyone would be safe.’

  His words stung me. ‘What? Who did what, Dad? Why should you die? What are you talking about?’

  My seventy-five-year-old father shook his head, his face pale and stony. ‘Leave it, Irini. I can’t talk about it now, not with Bridget at death’s door.’ His lips trembled. ‘Will I ever see her again?’ He sucked on his inhaler. ‘It should be me on my deathbed, not your poor mother.’ His damp eyes met mine, then he turned away. ‘I miss her.’

  My heart rolled over. Why couldn’t we be a normal, happy family? Why couldn’t we talk things through? They couldn’t even talk to each other civilly. There was so much I didn’t understand about my parents and, try as I did, I could never get them to open up.

  ‘What do you mean, it should have been you? It shouldn’t be anybody at all, Dad! You’re just feeling a bit rough after the flu. It’s knocked you back hard. She’ll understand you’re not up to travelling yet. Give it another week and you’ll feel much better.’

  He dragged a crumpled hankie over his face. My father was fifteen years older than my mother. Professor Thomas McGuire was Bridget Gallagher’s tutor at university, where they shared an obsession for Minoan archaeology. According to my Uncle Quinlan, it was a real love story. A fascination for ancient history consumed them both, sucking them into the vacuum of overpowering love for each other. I like to believe that in the heat of that fiery romance, they abandoned university and ran away to Santorini on a quest to find Atlantis. In truth, I don’t know a lot about my parents’ past.

  ‘Don’t go, Irini,’ Dad said. ‘I can’t, I’m not well enough to travel right now. Let the Archaeological Association take care of things. Poor Bridget has no clue what’s going on. By the sounds of it she probably won’t wake up, and there’s nothing we can do to change that.’ Although I heard a ring of bitterness in his words, his voice was also heavy with sadness. His eyes flicked to mine, then away. ‘What if I’m not here when you get back, you know?’

  Oh!

  ‘I can’t not go, Dad. You’ll be fine for a week – you’re much better already. She’s my mother, and if the worst happens, I can’t let her die all alone. I’d never forgive myself.’ I glanced into his eyes, saw the grief that was suffocating him, and the struggle to hold on to his pride as his tears rose again. Why? They seemed to hate each other a year ago, yet here he was trying to hide so much inner pain.

  ‘She’s not alone,
not at all. What’s his name . . . Aaron, that’s it, he’ll do what needs to be done. He’s like a son to her, been there since before you were born, Irini. We’re powerless in the great scheme of things, you have to accept it.’ Dad’s battle with grief made his voice hard. I felt his devastation and wanted to hug him, take away some of his pain. When his eyes met mine, I sensed he felt the same way towards me, yet still, that big old wall stood between us. The inability to open up isolated us both.

  He’s like a son to her? Why couldn’t I be like a daughter to her?

  I sighed, still not understanding what happened between them when my mother left us in Dublin and returned to Santorini a year ago.

  Quinlan had told me that my parents had married in the Catholic cathedral in Fira, Santorini’s capital. Later, I was born there and they named me after the island, Santorini, Saint Irini, due to the miracle of my survival. Reluctant to breathe, they said. Dad claimed I had the luck of the Irish. Mam, a staunch Catholic, said it was down to my guardian angel.

  At the age of five, I was brought to Ireland and boarding school at the Dublin convent. I always wondered why they sent me away, and last year, when they returned to Dublin, I asked Mam that very question.

  ‘Look, Santorini’s a small island. There’s no choice of schools so to speak, you just get the one that’s there.’ She glanced at Dad who turned his eyes to the ceiling and shrugged.

  As usual, I was excluded from their telepathic communication.

  ‘We didn’t want you missing out on a good education, like some others I could mention, Irini,’ Dad said, squinting at Mam.

  ‘I had the best, Tommy McGuire,’ Mam said quietly.

  For a split second, a glint flashed from his eye. I wasn’t sure if it was anger or joy; then he scowled and returned to his newspaper.

  I hadn’t wanted a good education; I wanted a family.

  ‘She should never have gone back to Santorini!’ my father cried, breaking my thoughts. ‘She’s brought this on herself, it’s her own fault and we’re left to pick up the pieces again!’