‘Where’s your trolley?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve my daft head on today; things on my mind. You know?’
The frown and smile reappeared and I blinked at him stupidly. A ‘Jason’ spark rose inside me. That flutter of excitement and an instinct to step closer. This man had the most beautiful eyes, accentuated by his hirsute face. Then, recent heartbreak flashed across my mind, vivid as a danger sign. Feeling tired and vulnerable, I looked away.
He lifted my case onto his trolley and we walked towards the exit. ‘Someone is meeting you?’ he asked, breaking the silence between us.
‘No, I’ve a coach transfer to Agios Nikolaos.’ Like the travel agent, I pronounced it, Eye-oss Niko-loss.
‘Then I will leave you the trolley.’ He slung the rucksack onto his back.
I grabbed the trolley but it swung right. I tugged hard and cringed when a wheel rolled over his foot. We both stared at a grey dust-and-chewing-gum stripe that ran over his blatantly expensive shoe, the only opulent thing about him.
‘Oh lord, sorry, I’m such a catastrophe!’
He stared at his shoe, then at me. ‘Enjoy your stay,’ he said, before heading towards the car park.
I took a few steps towards my coach and then turned to watch the stranger. He stopped, bent slightly to examine his shoe, then looked my way.
I hurried onto the bus.
*
I finally arrived at the Cretan hotel too tired to do anything but fall into bed.
The next morning, after phoning the hospital and hearing there was no change, I rushed down the Hotel Mediterranean’s black granite staircase and headed for the restaurant. Everything in the hotel was new and shiny, and I thought about my mother and her dusty life in the Santorini dirt.
At a table on the restaurant’s balcony, I attacked my breakfast-buffet selection but, after a few mouthfuls, my appetite disappeared. I felt guilty for almost enjoying it, and then guilty for leaving it. My mother was dying. The thought, those words, made the food in my mouth taste stale. I was grieving for her already, and wasn’t that stupid? Perhaps there was a chance, the smallest possibility, that she might recover? I held my own hand and imagined it was hers. I could give her strength, and I would. Thank God she hadn’t passed away in the night. A great feeling of emptiness and regret filled me. Why didn’t I visit her in the last school holidays? Inconvenience, fear of rejection, lack of funds? I couldn’t come up with an honest answer. I had the power to heal a rift between us and I did nothing but sulk and feel sorry for myself. It was too late to start beating myself up for never visiting.
I stared across the sea and imagined the coffin lid being closed on my mother. The fear that I wouldn’t get there for her – for me – gripped me. An age of regrets, the broken link in life’s chain letter, an unfinished dispute that could never be resolved, unspoken words left to hang in the ether for eternity.
I had to get to her bedside and tell her I loved her.
The beautiful view drew me away from my heavy heart. I soaked it up, hoping it would help me understand my mother, and the reason she needed to be in this country. I guessed the travel agent’s poster had been over-Photoshopped, but the sky really was saturated blue, the sea an iridescent turquoise with a gloss that defied belief. I turned my back on it and took a selfie for my dad. Some photos to look over later would help us both to talk, because I knew I was not always going to feel as dismal as I did today. It was no good regretting the past, I had to learn from it, move on, and hope it was not too late to take a step closer to my father.
But it was no easy task to get over the hurt of my mother dismissing me from her passion. I understood that Greece and archaeology were her passion, and I understood about having such dedication – I felt that way about designing clothes – but my appetite for haute couture would never get in the way of my relationship with the people I loved, and certainly never come between me and my child. I did appreciate she loved me, and in her own way she cared, but knowing that did not lessen the pain or make sense of my past.
So much was lost. But as an adult I should have made an effort to bridge the gap between us. Why didn’t I try to understand more in the week she was with me, rather than avoid my parents’ strained relationship and dream of having my own space back? I’d been selfish and had no right to lay all the blame for our estrangement on my mother. If I could turn back time . . .
My father and I were never close, but perhaps deep down he yearned for my affection just as desperately as I longed for my mother’s. This concept had never occurred to me before. Although I took care of Dad as best I could, it was in an insular way, never allowing my feelings to surface.
The dutiful daughter saying the right words.
I had lost Jason after being together for two years and the hurt was awful. Plagued by sleepless nights, I wondered what was wrong with me. Hating him. Hating myself. Going over precious moments and wondering why they couldn’t last. Telling myself he didn’t deserve me. Fearing I wasn’t good enough. I started to realise how Dad must have felt after Mam’s leaving. They had spent decades together.
My father always kept his emotions to himself, seldom laughing, or getting angry. Had he lain on the other side of my bedroom wall at night staring at the ceiling, wondering if it was his fault that Mam left; his poor old heart in bits? The young adventurous man with dreams of finding Atlantis, the crazy professor who ran away with his beautiful student, he was still in there somewhere.
I had to find the Tommy of old and bring his lost soul back to remember that happiness.
CHAPTER 5
BRIDGET
Santorini, 29 years ago.
TWO DAYS LATER, I was back at Tommy’s bedside in Crete. I had a pillow and sheet, and Tommy’s shaving things. I planned to sleep in the chair next to his bed.
‘You’ll have to get yourself better, Tommy McGuire. I can’t be doing with all this back and forth!’
He gave me a weak smile. His pallid skin and dull eyes broke my heart. I made a terrible job of shaving him. Thank God he couldn’t see the state of his chin. I felt myself blush when the surgeon entered the room, stopped in his tracks and stared disbelievingly at my husband’s chewed stubble.
‘Mrs McGuire,’ he said in English, his eyes wide as he turned to face me. ‘I’d like to speak with you . . . when you’ve finished here.’
I exchanged a glance with Tommy, gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then nodded at the doctor. Brought up to revere the dedication of medical practitioners, priests, and nuns, I had complete faith in the cardiologist’s skills.
In his office, I glanced at the surgeon’s white, scrubbed hands and imagined them delicately holding a scalpel to slit open human flesh. I could almost feel the slippery internal organs through his thin, latex gloves, and see his mask pulsing like a heartbeat over his mouth with each breath. I sensed his daily determination to drag someone back from the valley of death. A tournament with God for the life of his patient.
Through the lonely, dark hours of night I had pestered Our Lord repeatedly, begging Him to spare the life of my darling husband. Thumping myself in the chest, I promised to give anything, do any penance, but God must not take my Tommy. A worrying memory of Rumpelstiltskin stories came to mind, which I dismissed immediately.
I stared across the desk at the specialist, Splotskey. Not a Greek, perhaps Russian. The cold eyes and twitchy mannerisms of this sharp-faced man with collar-length hair made me nervous.
A hundred thousand drachmas, about two hundred Irish pounds, were tucked away in an envelope at the bottom of my handbag. All I had received for selling my grandmother’s watch, even though I thought it was worth much more.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I said, shaking his slender, long-fingered hand. Should I simply pass the money over?
Splotskey nodded. ‘Your husband needs open-heart surgery, Mrs McGuire. I’m sorry to be indelicate, but the procedure is expensive and I understand you don’t have insurance. I need to know that you are ab
le to raise funds for the operation.’
‘Please, call me Bridget.’ I dived into my bag, retrieved the envelope, and slid it across the desk towards him. ‘There’s a hundred thousand drachmas to start with.’
Splotskey’s eyes never left my face. ‘Bridget, even if there are no irregularities, in the end, you may need ten times that amount.’
I stared at the envelope, fear and shame heating my face. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find it.’
The air seemed to leave the room. Where could I get that sort of money?! Splotskey was talking about the surgery, his face bright, his voice enthusiastic, but all I could think about was the cash. My own heart thumped and a strange buzzing sounded in my ears. I forced myself back to the present and concentrated on the surgeon.
‘If all goes well, Mr McGuire will be back on his feet in a week.’
‘A week! Goodness. If all goes well . . . ? You mean there might be problems?’
‘No, no, but surgery always involves some risk.’
I shivered, cold with fear. Nothing was more important than Tommy’s life, but now I realised that his life came with a price-tag.
*
Back in Tommy’s room, I did my best to draw us both away from the current situation.
‘I was telling Aaron how we met. Quite a story, really, now I look back.’
‘Not something I’m particularly proud of, enticing a young girl away from her studies.’ The words were dragged out, the effort and Tommy’s fatigue both apparent. Nevertheless, I rejoiced to hear his caustic sense of humour returning.
‘Nonsense! You taught me more than I’d have learned if I’d stayed in Dublin. Besides, I was – and still am – in love with you. Remember when I turned up in Santorini, you were furious and made me continue with my thesis? You said I had to prove the Island of Atlas, Plato’s Atlantis, was more than a fictitious place, and that Plato only used the bare bones of the story to make a philosophical point.’
An old twinkle, which brought joy to my heart, returned to Tommy’s eyes. ‘An impossible task?’
‘Perhaps, you old git, but I was determined to see it through. I’ve still got that dissertation, and you know what? When I have the money, I’m going to do an OU course and submit it.’
‘I’m proud of you, darling girl. But talking of money . . .’ His voice trailed away and he closed his eyes for a moment.
‘Don’t change the subject. I’m telling you now that three times Plato’s cousin, Critias, claimed the stories of Atlantis were true.’
Tommy fell silent, his mouth a familiar determined line, set for battle, but I would not be put off and continued.
‘Critias said he heard the story of Atlantis from his great-grandfather, Dropides, who in turn heard them from the remarkable truth-teller and law-maker, Solon.’
Tommy’s smile twitched. He opened one eye, shut it again and tested me. ‘And where did Solon get this tale from?’
‘Solon himself heard it during a trip to Egypt.’
‘You’re hanging this whole tale on Solon? Very weak, Bridget. I’m disappointed.’
‘Wait, I haven’t finished. Crator, the scholar, went to Egypt to check Solon’s facts and, on his return, claimed the story was based on real events.’
‘Rubbish! Plato’s timeline and location were complete bollix. Explain that, my darling girl.’
‘Plato was writing a fable, a lesson to be learned through fiction. He claimed Atlantis existed nine thousand years earlier, but at that time, we were just coming together in the first Neolithic settlements. So, we know the timeline was wrong, probably for dramatic effect. He exaggerated the location too, making it more mysterious. These discrepancies can be attributed to poetic licence on Plato’s part.’
Tommy’s smile widened, then he straightened his face. ‘You haven’t convinced me at all. Check your timeline, expand your argument, and come back with something more plausible, miss.’
I laughed. ‘My God, just like the old days. You really were hard on me, Tommy.’
‘Mm, I guess I was.’ Above dark circles, his eyes narrowed mischievously.
*
I returned to Santorini that evening, glad to lay on my own bed, but sleep was held back by my memories of Tommy and his teaching in those early days. ‘Prove it!’ he would yell jubilantly, knowing I couldn’t. Then I would research some more, eager to go back at him with my theories. ‘Rubbish! Don’t quote Plato to me. The man was a liar. He wrote fiction, and fiction is lies from cover to cover. Give me facts, Bridget Gallagher! Give me proof!’
‘But my Uncle Peter claimed—’
‘Bah to Uncle Peter too. The man clearly thought you were a mushroom. Kept you in the dark and fed you bullshit!’
‘What about Solon? He went to Egypt—’
‘Don’t give me words! Words are misinterpreted and numbers are fudged! Show me evidence of canals that ran in concentric circles. Show me solid evidence of the Queen Goddess that ruled the island. Show me an artefact that binds the story together!’ he would yell, smirking with glee, loving the debate, himself believing that one day we would find that proof.
The thrill, and the hope, sparked inside us every day that we went down to the site. That very day might be the one when we found a vital link. Something that verified that Plato’s Queen Goddess, ruler of Atlantis, really existed. An artefact that connected the story, the mythology, with fact. We dreamed of unearthing the all-important relic, proof positive that Tommy and I dug in the dirt of Atlantis. An artefact that demonstrated beyond doubt that we were right all along. The saffron gatherers, the smelters of orichalcum, the ship builders who invented the anchor and lived in the shadow of a volcano so enormous, it wiped out their island domain. Perhaps with that proof, we would also find clues as to where they went.
Memories of those debates also brought me deep sadness. Tommy had loved the lectern. He ranted at students, fired up debates, bullied and cajoled in a good-humoured way. Teaching was his lifeblood and he missed it terribly. He gave up university so that I could finish my degree, and I hadn’t – not yet, anyway.
Uncle Peter, God bless him, knew somebody at the college and managed to send books and papers out so I could continue my studies. I worked hard, eager to prove I wasn’t simply an irresponsible runaway.
Despite Tommy’s disparaging words about Uncle Peter’s stories, I had grown up with the legend of Queen Thira, Supreme Ruler of Atlantis. Without Thira to guide me, I, timid Bridget, would not have developed and had the courage to rule the archaeological site. I learned to speak to the students with authority, and I lost my shyness.
If ever I was unsure of myself, I still closed my eyes for a moment and imagined myself as the noble ruler of Atlantis. Thira would fill me, stiffen my backbone, lift my chin. I stood taller, dealt with authorities head-on, and demanded self-discipline and good timekeeping from the young scholars. In return, I knew I was highly respected.
I turned on my side and pulled Tommy’s pillow towards me. The scent of him – dusty, musky, and masculine – reminded me of those early days when I would fall asleep with my head on his chest and his arms around me. He would stare at the ceiling with a lost look on his face and sometimes I wondered if it was regret.
My life was an exciting adventure. Everything thrilled me, and I was completely in love. Now I look back, I suspect Tommy was worried out of his mind.
Eventually, I fell into a sleep filled with dreams of the distant past, Atlantis and its queen. My mind needed a distraction from current problems. The moment I woke, I sat on the patio and wrote in what I had decided to call my Book of Dreams, recalling the details of my fascinating flight into antiquity.
I suspected I could learn something important from my night-time fantasies. Pleased that the necklace Tommy had unearthed on the day of his heart attack had once again appeared in my vision, I reminded myself I still had to clean, record, measure, and photograph it, then register the find. However, for the next half an hour, I was content to sit quietly and doc
ument the lucid experiences of my sleeping hours.
*
My attendants bathe me, dress me in silks, wax and coil my raven hair. Then they place the sacred dragonfly necklace around my neck and heavy gold rings through my earlobes. When I am satisfied with my appearance, I enter the great temple of Poseidon.
‘Lord God of the Sea, why do you frighten my people? Has your watery kingdom become dull and jaded? Do your nymphs no longer excite you?’
Standing on his gold chariot, drawn by six winged horses, Poseidon is represented by a magnificent bronze. He stares ahead, following the line of his outstretched arm. Balanced in his other hand, the immense golden trident is pulled back in aim. The figure is both awesome and terrifying, this God that holds our destiny, but I am bold in his presence, feeling his disdain for weakness.
‘Great Lord of the Seas, stop this aggravation.’ With a mixture of awe and fear, I gaze at the gigantic figure about to hurl his three-pronged spear.
I touch the sacred necklace at my throat. Dragonflies, born from the water to fly free as the air, like mankind at the beginning of time; like every baby emerging from the womb. The spirit of life for all things emanates from water.
The towering doors of the council chambers are opened to reveal the assembly. My ten kings await. They stand until I take the throne, then all but one sits. A broad-shouldered man with a silver beard.
Since my husband’s death ten years ago, Hero, one of the ten kings who serve me, has taken his place as speaker for the council. He is my closest friend, and like a father to Oia.
‘King Hero, you have the damage report?’
He bows slightly. ‘Revered Goddess, the canals are breaking. Poseidon destroys our waterways. The pillars in the grand palace have cracked. I’m afraid the next tremor will bring the roof down.’
‘Instruct the stonemason to cut new columns of granite.’
Hero bows again. ‘How can we appease Poseidon, my Queen?’
Our eyes meet. ‘We shall offer fresh virgins’ blood on the altar, and decorate his temple with orichalcum and silver.’
Secrets of Santorini Page 5