Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  Tommy’s older brother was a drinker who laboured on the Dublin docks, and his wife worked part-time as a sales assistant in the Thomas Brown store on Grafton Street. I doubted they could help.

  Tommy’s sister had three children and one on the way, and her husband had just lost his job thanks to a spate of redundancies at the Jameson’s whiskey plant. I imagined they had financial problems of their own.

  His youngest brother, Quinlan, of whom we were both very fond, was the most likely candidate.

  The situation did not look promising. Needing a distraction, I glanced at my essay for Archaeology Now and wrote: The Repatriation of Artefacts across the top. I thought about the Parthenon Marbles in London, and in Paris, the Venus de Milo – or Aphrodite of Milos, which was its proper name. This huge and controversial subject would take my mind away from the niggling problems of money for a while.

  One thousand words into the article, the phone rang. A woman’s voice spoke in Greek.

  ‘Mrs McGuire, Mr Splotskey would like to speak with you.’

  ‘Yes? My husband . . . is everything all right?’

  ‘Hold for a moment.’

  I waited.

  ‘Mrs McGuire? Splotskey here. Nothing to worry about, your husband is stable. I wanted to tell you we’ll be operating on Mr McGuire on Monday morning. I’ve booked the theatre and my team’s ready to go.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough!’

  ‘Sorry to be impolite, but I need to know you have the funds to cover costs. You don’t have insurance, as I remember.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor, it’s in hand. The estate agent’s coming to value the house today, then I’ll go to the bank for a loan using our property as collateral. The house is paid for, you see, so there shouldn’t be a problem.’

  After a long pause, Splotskey said, ‘Call me after you’ve talked to the bank. I have to pay for the theatre and anaesthetist. I need to be certain that at least you have the funds to reimburse me for those expenses.’

  ‘Would six o’clock be convenient?’

  *

  If anyone saw me pacing the empty room, muttering to myself, they would think I had gone mad. I searched for the right words to say to Splotskey. The estate agent viewed our little house and purely because of its location – the view, to be precise. They offered a pleasing valuation. I didn’t think there could be a problem when I offered the house as security for a bank loan, but I hadn’t realised the country was on the brink of a financial crisis. The bank had so many properties, from loan defaults, they would not take any more as collateral.

  There had to be another way to raise funds. I phoned Quinlan, the most sensible person I knew, but he had just tied his savings up in a five-year bond. However, he offered to transfer two hundred pounds if it helped. I accepted, promising to pay the money back as soon as possible.

  Sick to my stomach, I realised I had nothing else to sell. Even my wedding ring was only nine-carat gold. That thin band, the only lasting thing from my mother, was taken from her finger on the fateful day of the bomb. Tommy had slipped it onto my finger on our wedding day.

  Any spare money we had went on archaeology books and magazines. I took stock: I had the money from the church, and another two hundred from Quinlan plus my last two magazine cheques. Nowhere near enough and I’d be living on bread and water, but if that’s what it took to fix Tommy, so be it.

  Hoping for a miracle, I watched the clock tick around to six, then dialled Splotskey’s number.

  ‘Mr Splotskey has been called to a patient. Who can I say has called?’

  ‘Bridget McGuire. My husband’s in his care.’

  ‘Mrs McGuire, oh . . . wait a moment, please.’

  I heard muffled talking and guessed a hand was over the receiver. I strained to hear but only recognised that the words were sharp and urgent.

  A different voice came through the phone. ‘Mrs McGuire, Mr Splotskey will call you back shortly.’

  ‘Is my husband all right?’ My head was spinning with a sick feeling Splotskey was with Tommy.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t answer questions over the phone. Please wait for the cardiologist himself.’

  *

  I paced, and prayed to God. A tumble of magazines on the bedside table caught my eye and for want of something to do, I tidied them into a stack. A heavy envelope slid from between the magazine pages and fell heavily to the floor. I stared at it, questioning what was inside, then I recalled the morning of Tommy’s heart attack and the dragonfly necklace. When the ambulance arrived, I must have shoved it into my rucksack without thinking.

  The moment had escaped my memory with all that happened later.

  Over the years, we had uncovered exquisite pottery bowls, urns, and jugs with delicate paintings of swallows and lilies. Oh, those finger-trembling seconds when an artefact made its first appearance, the slight change in the sound of the trowel as it scraped, or when an uneven surface bulged under the brush. Heart-thumping moments as the roll of a rim or the turn of a handle was uncovered. Breath held, eyes fixed, as more of the relic exposed itself. They were the highlights of the archaeologist’s life, the thrill of the dig, when long-buried things from a secret civilisation were brought back into the light of day.

  The dragonfly necklace was a whole new adventure, quickly overshadowed by Tommy’s heart attack. I hadn’t even mentioned the necklace to the students when they returned, such was my distress about Tommy. I sat on the edge of the bed and gazed at it, then I stared at the envelope and remembered the article I had written.

  Antiquities theft, the subject of my essay, was an evil we were both passionate about. There is no excuse that justifies robbing mankind of its historical artefacts.

  The phone rang. I lowered the envelope onto the bed and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Splotskey here. How are you, Mrs McGuire – sorry, Bridget, isn’t it?’

  ‘How’s Tommy, Doctor?’

  ‘Hum, yes, yes, he had a little relapse. A minor problem considering what he’s been through, but serious nevertheless. It’s important we proceed with the operation on Monday. How was your meeting with the bank?’

  I told him how much I had raised, then, knowing it wasn’t enough, I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t say more.

  ‘Take your time, Bridget.’ For the first time, I heard kindness in his voice, but it only made me more emotional.

  ‘Oh, sir, I’m so sorry. Poor Tommy. What am I going to do? I tried, but the bank . . . the bank said they had problems of their own. I don’t know who else to ask. I have nowhere else to turn.’

  There was a long silence. I heard him swallow and sigh.

  ‘Please can you help us?’ I begged. ‘I’ll sign part of my house over to you, even pay you double, only you have to save my husband’s life.’

  ‘Have you any other assets, Bridget? A car?’

  I sniffed hard and shook my head. ‘No, I’ve tried everything I can think of. I receive a cheque each month from an archaeology magazine, but that’s all.’

  ‘Archaeology? Ah, yes, yes, your husband mentioned . . . Is there nothing, you know, you could sell?’

  Shocked by the suggestion, I stammered, ‘No, it’s impossible, against the law, against all we stand for. Tommy would go crazy. Please don’t suggest such a thing to him. God knows how he would react.’

  ‘Yes, I see. I understand,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. Under the circumstances, I’ll have to cancel the theatre.’

  ‘But wait . . . What will happen to my husband without the operation?’

  ‘There is always a chance,’ he said. ‘I’ve known patients live for several years if they take life slowly. Nature can be unpredictable, and hopefully smaller veins and arteries may compensate and take over the job of damaged ones.’

  ‘But if they don’t?’ I whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bridget.’

  *

  Broken-hearted, I stood in the doorway and leaned against the solid frame, imagining it was Tommy. With my
eyes closed, I recalled how it was when we fitted that door. We mixed a bucket of cement and fixed the frame into the hole. The next day we hung the door and realised our mistake. The frame was askew. How we laughed! For weeks we were shaving a bit off here and a bit off there, until finally we could shut the door.

  Oh, Tommy! Somehow we will get over this too.

  Out on the patio, I watched an old wooden schooner in full sail drift towards the sunset. The early evening light turned the square sails into sheets of gold. Tourists aboard the vessel would be thrilled. From below, the sound of a beautiful melody played on a lyra drifted up, adding to the scene. A clopping on the pebble path that rose from the port made me turn. The donkeys were heading home, heads drooping, eyes dull, step weary.

  I rubbed my forehead, trying to erase the headache that had plagued me for a couple of days now. Perhaps I had some aspirin in the bathroom. Tired out, I went indoors and poured a glass of water. If I could get a full eight hours sleep for once, I might be able to think more clearly tomorrow and come up with a solution for Tommy.

  Standing before the cabinet, I studied myself in the mirror. I looked as jaded as I felt. When I pulled the cupboard door open, a box of sanitary towels fell into the basin. For a solid minute, I stared at it. When was the last time? It had to be more than two months ago! I turned on the shower, ripped off my clothes, and quickly washed. The chemist closed at 9 p.m.

  *

  At midnight, I swung my legs out of bed and stared into the dark room. I was pregnant. After all this time, and at the worst possible moment, we were going to have the child we yearned for. Fate was cruel; my glorious pregnancy could not have come at a worse time.

  I wondered if this miracle was what Tommy needed to set him onto the road to recovery? Exhausted from the stresses of the day, I lay down again, closed my eyes and allowed my mind to wander away from the money, the lifesaving operation, and my desperation. I deliberately took myself back to Queen Thira and her ten kings in the council chamber, wondering how they would deal with their enormous problems. If Thira found a solution and saved her people from impending disaster, then perhaps I could find a parallel that would guide me in the right direction. I could not see how but, left with nothing but hope, I was eager to discover how things would work out for the Atlanteans. Perhaps because of my heightened emotional state, the dream was even more vivid than usual. I flew through the darkness until I found myself on the throne in the council chamber, my ten kings before me.

  *

  King Hero nods. ‘Then we will go to war with Crete, my Queen.’ He returns to his seat.

  I address the overseer of festivals, palaces, and the arts. ‘King Dalus, gather your finest artists. I want frescoes painted on the insides of every building. Start with our temples and citadels, and continue down to the factories, potteries, and harvest rooms.’

  The kings stare curiously.

  ‘The paintings must be so lifelike, Poseidon thinks our lives go on as normal. If He decides to take Atlantis into his watery domain, I want the record of our lives in full view.’ I pause while the nobles digest this information.

  ‘Also, gather all the maidens with their first blood-show in the room of adoration. I intend to prepare a sacrifice and offer it to Poseidon at sunset. Gifts will be showered on their families, land and livestock will be theirs. The populous will rejoice.’

  I turn to the ruler of sailors and ship-building. ‘King Eildon, increase our labourers twentyfold. Build as many of your magnificent oak ships as possible. Work day and night, for I fear we do not have much time.’

  *

  At dawn, hugging Tommy’s pillow, I woke from my dream with a sense of urgency. Thira’s words tumbled around in my head: I fear we do not have much time. Although no closer to a solution, I was convinced she was sending me a message. Something had to turn up and resolve Tommy’s critical situation. We were going to have a baby!

  CHAPTER 8

  IRINI

  Crete, present day.

  ‘I HAVE TO APOLOGISE to the man on the bike. A broken arm, my God!’ I said to the Frenchman.

  When I tried to stand, emotions rushed through me – helplessness and confusion, but above all, the horrid realisation I might have killed somebody. My stomach cramped and hurled my breakfast in an embarrassing mess onto the road. My eyes watered, nose ran, everything spun away again. I had to clutch the side of the car.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, very undignified. My head’s spinning.’ I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘Will you help me get to the poor man?’

  ‘There is nothing you can do.’ The Frenchman held onto my shoulder. ‘I think you shouldn’t speak to ’im. Better to stay still, sit in the car and wait for the ambulance.’

  Adrenalin with nowhere to go morphed into anger. ‘You’re wrong – I have to apologise. What are you, one of those professional accident people? No claim no fee, is it?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Oh! What am I saying?’ I pulled away, dizzy with remorse and afraid I couldn’t walk without the Frenchman’s help. ‘God, I’m so sorry, that was unforgivable. I didn’t mean to be so rude.’ I looked into his eyes and saw kindness. ‘I’m really grateful, you being so helpful and all.’

  His smile was gentle. ‘It’s the shock, mademoiselle. It affects us all differently. Don’t worry.’

  ‘But I’m not like that. Please, I have to see how the poor man is and apologise.’

  ‘Come on then, let’s take it slow,’ the Frenchman said, slipping an arm around my waist and supporting me.

  The bike was a wreck and the man, in a blue Lycra cycling outfit, worse. His face turned towards the road as he gripped his arm. I saw dirt in his shoulder-length hair, and one of his sleek cycling shoes seemed to be missing.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Are you in much pain?’ I felt awkward talking to the back of his head. His knees and elbows oozed blood and, from the unnatural angle of his arm, I guessed it hit the car and snapped in two. I felt sick again.

  The woman started unfastening the cyclist’s helmet.

  Her husband spoke to her in French. She stopped and left the helmet where it was. ‘They will be ’ere soon, mon cheri.’

  The Frenchman turned to me. ‘I’ll see if there’s a triangle in the car to place around the bend.’

  I sat on the road next to the casualty. ‘This is awful. I didn’t see you at all. I’ve only had the car ten minutes. Everything happened so quickly.’ I rested my hand on his.

  When he turned his head, I recognised the man from the airport. He stared at me. ‘Oh, no. Not you again. Are you a crazy woman? You nearly killed me!’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Yes. Go back to England!’

  I bit my tongue. I weren’t even from England!

  He tugged his hand away and went back to gripping his broken arm.

  I turned to the woman. ‘Where’s the ambulance? It’s clear the poor man’s in agony. Can’t we take him to the hospital ourselves?’

  The Greek’s eyes widened. ‘No, no, no! You stay away from me!’

  The French woman shook her head. ‘Better not to move ’im. Listen, is that them?’ The sound of sirens drifted up the mountainside.

  Minutes later, a police car and ambulance raced around the bend, nearly killing us all.

  *

  One of the medics helped me into the ambulance, where I sat until they had immobilised the Greek’s arm. I avoided his eyes when he sat beside me. The medic fastened our lap straps. I found myself trembling.

  ‘Speak English?’ the medic said. I nodded. He took my pulse, then handed me a wad of dressing. ‘You hold against your head, okay? You feel cold?’

  ‘I’m fine, really.’

  ‘No, you have shock. We will be at the hospital soon. You no sleep, okay?’

  The Greek cradled his arm. ‘What’s your name?’ he said.

  ‘Irini. Yours?’

  ‘I am Angelo Rodakis.’ He said it
as if I should know the name. Perhaps he was famous. He didn’t look familiar to me.

  ‘Look, I really am terribly sorry.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

  *

  In the hospital, I had two stitches in my head, a blood test, a tetanus jab and an x-ray. The policeman breathalysed me, took details of the accident, and asked for my driving licence and passport, which he photographed with his phone. The form-filling was laborious. He asked for my mother’s name, and my mother’s maiden name. I wanted to tell him all about my mother, the reason I was there. I wanted him to understand. I was stressed, sad, afraid I might miss the last moments of my mother’s life.

  He asked for my father’s name, my parents’ address, my address, my hotel address, the car hire address. He had a problem spelling McGuire and, in the end, he copied it from my passport. After a long wait in the overcrowded hospital, the doctor turned into the corridor but, before he reached me, he was stopped by the very old, and the sick, and the lost.

  ‘Madam,’ the doctor said, glancing at my name on his clipboard. ‘You have mild concussion. Nothing serious. If you feel dizzy or sick, you come back, okay? Not much driving, yes, and you take it easy for a few days.’

  I never wanted to drive again. I asked about the cyclist and the nurse told me he had his arm plastered. She pointed to Orthopaedics.

  On a bed in a busy corridor, I found Angelo, groggy from painkillers.

  ‘I’m really sorry for what happened. Is there anything I can do at all?’

  ‘Yes, you stay away from me.’ He muttered something in Greek and then said, ‘You nearly killed me. They said I am lucky not to need surgery. Why were you on the wrong side of the road? You should not be driving a car, you cannot even drive an airport trolley!’

  ‘It was a mistake. I didn’t . . .’ I wanted to tell him not to be horrible to me, that I have enough problems; but I only lowered my eyes and muttered, ‘I’m mortified.’

  ‘I am more mortified than you, that is true. The boss will go crazy. My phone is smashed. I can’t even tell her what has happened.’

  ‘Let me help. I’ll call and explain it’s my fault. Are they keeping you in?’