Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘They will take me to Euromedica for overnight. I am waiting for the ambulance.’

  ‘You must be starved. I know I am. Shall I get you a coffee and a sandwich?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Am I safe? Will you scald me?’

  ‘No, no, really, I’ll be very careful.’ I caught a glint in his eye and realised he was being nice – or perhaps simply mocking me. ‘I am terribly sorry.’

  ‘You must stop saying that. Bring me Greek coffee, sweet, okay?’

  ‘I’ll be back.’

  Half an hour later, I returned from the chaotic café. ‘Sorry, the place is packed.’

  He thanked me and took the hot cup. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Dublin, Ireland. You?’

  ‘From here, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I almost snapped. Why was I angry with him? This was my fault. Be nice. ‘My first trip abroad by myself and I end up on the wrong island. The whole thing’s been a disaster.’

  He frowned, wrapped a hand around his beard and smoothed it down. ‘Crete is the most beautiful Greek island, and the beaches are also better than anywhere else.’

  I wanted to explain, unburden myself, feel the freedom of walking out of the confessional with absolution: My mother had an accident in Santorini a few days ago but I couldn’t get a flight, so I’m here, desperate to get to the island. If I’d been nicer, in Dublin, perhaps she would have stayed there. She wouldn’t be all alone, dying on a Greek island sixty-something miles away. I opened my mouth but the words wouldn’t come, they grew inside me, heavy in my chest, painful in my heart.

  ‘Do you want to use my phone?’ I said instead, forcing kindness into my voice.

  He nodded and thanked me. ‘You came here to work?’

  I tried to swallow rising emotion. ‘No, I came to be with my mother.’ I dropped into a chair and stared at the floor, misery dragging at my jaw. I’d really let her down.

  I looked up at the sound of Angelo’s raised voice; he appeared to be having an argument on my Samsung.

  I waited impatiently, wanting the phone back. I needed to call the hospital. I was still pushing back tears. The desire to be at my mother’s side came from deep inside me and I asked myself: why hadn’t my mother experienced this compulsion to be with me when I took my first communion, or my confirmation? If I had drowned that day in my childhood, would she have come to my funeral? Then I was ashamed of myself. What a disgusting thing to think, but I was the only child in class whose parents never showed at those important occasions. I recalled the sensation of abandonment while all my classmates felt special. Now, my mother was in a coma and not expected to survive. A fact I couldn’t change, but I had to be there for her.

  An orderly brought a wheelchair for Angelo.

  He handed me the phone and my fingers itched to call my mother’s hospital.

  I glanced into his eyes, remembering his smile at the airport, the connection we almost had. Clearly he was in a lot of pain. I wanted to reach out, but instead I clutched the phone, called the hospital, and listened to the ringtone as an orderly wheeled Angelo away. I was devastated that he had a broken arm, and I felt awful that it was my fault, but it would mend. My mother lay in a hospital bed, dying, and it was too late to get to her bedside.

  My bright, happy clothes had lost the power to lift my spirits. I stood like a despondent clown in the hospital’s monochrome surroundings and waited for Santorini’s intensive care unit to pick up.

  ‘Mrs McGuire is stable and peaceful,’ they said.

  My anxiety eased a little. After explaining my delay, I promised to see them tomorrow and they agreed to text me if there was any change.

  I was sick of speaking to strangers when all I wanted to do was talk to Mam. With all the expensive lifesaving equipment bought by the tax payer and used by the hospitals, you’d hope somebody would think of providing a simple pair of earbuds for those distanced and poorly. I wanted to tell my mother not to give up, I’d be there soon.

  We’ve had the technology to share our lives with friends and relatives for decades. Why is it kept from the dying? Being able to talk to loved ones for a few minutes a day would make all the difference to those left behind – my father, for example. If only he could say a few words to my mother. Old school friends could pop in too – ‘Remember that day when . . . ?’ – and lift spirits for a moment.

  Perhaps I could arrange for my dad to speak to her, but then I wondered if that would make him feel worse about not being there.

  Back at the hotel, the receptionist was sympathetic. She organised my ticket to Santorini, and a club sandwich in my room.

  That night, in the dark, my white cotton sheet felt like a shroud. I wondered what happened to a person’s soul when they were unconscious and near death. Did it hover, waiting to go to God? And the big question: is there really a God? Any God? I was a religious teacher, I should have felt confident in these things, but sometimes I had doubts.

  Mrs McGuire is stable and peaceful.

  Her daughter was torn apart and desperate.

  *

  At the Heraklion port, I discovered there was nothing feline about the FastCat ferry. A monstrous navy-and-white catamaran, angular as origami, waited at the quayside. The glass-enclosed, arrowhead-shaped platform bridged two canoe-shaped vessels that kept the passenger deck clear of the sea. Power roared from the revved engines and a hint of diesel drifted by. Four hundred people hurried on board and searched for their seat number. Once underway, the captain announced we should remain seated and keep our lap-straps fastened. He told us we were travelling at twenty-eight knots – it felt like ninety miles an hour.

  The vessel rushed onward, bucking and banging against the swell. We lurched in our seats. Someone was vomiting noisily. The man next to me ate a greasy cheese pie and I found the sour smell nauseating. I stared at a couple of flakes of pastry stuck to my thigh thanks to the blasting overhead air-con, which I feared would give me brain-freeze. Most of the passengers were gaming on their mobiles. A baby cried. The seating arrangement reminded me of class and I tried to distract myself by thinking of the children. I hoped somebody had given Layla a kitten.

  A wave slammed against my window, making me duck. Stupid. For a second, it seemed we were underwater. My thoughts raced back to the Liffey estuary and I was in a seven-year-old’s panic, but the glass cleared like a soapy shower screen. We ploughed headlong over and through the undulating Aegean.

  Breathe. Only one hour and thirty minutes to go. Breathe.

  I closed my eyes against the streaming window and tried to divert my attention by counting backwards from six thousand in threes. Sensing the catamaran had slowed, I looked out again.

  Santorini loomed from a flat pond of deep turquoise water – a broken brioche topped by startling white icing. The crescent of red, copper, and black rock surrounded us. The cliff ahead was divided by a dramatically zigzagging path that led from port to summit. With a sense of urgency, the crew moved quickly from bow to stern.

  Passengers fell silent as the roaring engine noise faded to a purr. An air of relief and wonderment filled the vessel. Most of the tourists lifted their phones towards the windows.

  The scene changed again after docking. We shuffled down the wide gangplank in dazzling sunlight. Noise and chaos surrounded me.

  ‘Donkey! Donkey! Four euro!’

  ‘You want room? Very cheap room, best view on island! This way, madam!’

  ‘Taxi! Taxi! Come, I take you anywhere, beautiful lady!’

  Dizzy with the relief of standing on dry land, I surveyed the clamouring tourists. Eager to distance myself from the boat, and desperate for a cold drink, I was jostled by people dragging cases and shushing their children.

  Thirty minutes later, I was standing outside the new Santorini hospital in my paisley sundress and wide straw hat, ready to see my mother.

  I paid the taxi and rushed past a stone-wall façade and tall white pillars that gave the entrance a Greek historical look. O
nce through the automatic glass doors, I headed for the desk under a sign that said Enquiries in three languages. The receptionist wanted me to sign forms. They were in Greek. I told her I needed a copy of the paperwork in English before I would sign anything.

  ‘I’d like to see my mother now.’

  She sighed, annoyed about the paperwork, but then softened and led me to Intensive Care. The building was spotless, modern, and very different from the overcrowded Cretan hospital of yesterday. I followed the overweight nurse along a marble-floored corridor until we arrived at the IC unit. She paused at the door.

  ‘Lady, I want you to be prepared for what you see. Your mother is not in pain, but her injuries are serious. We induced a coma, but she may be able to hear you. It is good to talk. Tell her your news, share your memories, tell her you love her.’

  She led me into the room. I was determined to keep my emotions in check, yet a sob escaped and I clasped my hand over my mouth when I saw her.

  Mam was alone in the two-bed room. Screens over her bed displayed lights and graphs that spoke a language only the medical staff understood. There was a chair with a well-worn cushion between the beds. The nurse pulled it around to my mother’s side. I couldn’t take my eyes off my mother’s gaunt face.

  ‘The doctor will come and answer your questions as soon as he has a moment,’ the nurse said. ‘There’s an emergency call button here, and a vending machine down the corridor if you want—’

  I shook my head. She nodded sympathetically and left.

  In the silent room, I gazed at my mother, the famous archaeologist. Her head was heavily bandaged and I wondered if they had shaved off her beautiful auburn hair. A tube was taped to her nose and a wire pegged to her finger. A bag of clear liquid hung above, drip-feeding into a vein. Another bag of yellow liquid hung below the bed.

  Her eyes were closed behind lids that appeared translucent. Her sun-bronzed skin had an unnatural yellowish pallor. My heart rushed out to her. I wanted to hold her, feel her body against my chest, hear her breathe in my ear, yet I could not move. In the sterile room, I had never felt so alone, or so ashamed of allowing that giant rift to come between us.

  ‘Mammy,’ I whispered. ‘It’s me, Irini.’

  CHAPTER 9

  BRIDGET

  Santorini, 29 years ago.

  I LONGED TO TELL TOMMY my glorious news. He simply could not die when his child was growing inside me, not after waiting so long and hoping so hard! The ferry to Crete would leave in a few hours. I stood, felt nauseous, and plopped down again. Pregnant . . . It gave a whole new dimension to everything. A child of our own after all this time. Surely that was proof: miracles do happen. Everything would be all right. It had to be.

  Distracted from stuffing things into a bag by the ringing phone, I stared at it for a second, and then grabbed the receiver.

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

  My mouth dried again. I stared ahead, seeing nothing but the image of Tommy as I had left him in the Cretan hospital.

  ‘Hello, Bridget. Splotskey. I’m sorry to tell you, your husband had another heart attack in the early hours of this morning.’

  No . . . Another heart attack!

  I held my breath, suspended in the moment. Time seemed to go on hold too. Perhaps the earth had stopped turning.

  ‘Hello, are you there?’ Splotskey said.

  ‘Yes, I’m here. Is he . . .’ No! No! No! I can’t stand it. Don’t give me bad news, not now! I hardly dared ask. ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s resuscitated and sedated – and stable for the moment – but you should come over as soon as you can. Please inform any of Mr McGuire’s relatives that his condition is considered serious. They may want to be with him.’

  I refuse to let my Tommy die!

  ‘Please, Doctor, is there something you can do? I . . . I’ve just discovered that I’m pregnant. My husband’s waited all his life for a child. Please, please help us.’

  After a long silence, Splotskey sighed into the phone and said, ‘I know somebody who buys Greek antiquities.’ Another silence. ‘If you have anything that might interest him?’

  I started to speak, but then realised my hand was over my mouth. ‘I will . . . I do . . . I’ve an artefact – a silver necklace of a dragonfly. It’s in pieces but it’s beautiful, priceless. At an educated guess, I’d say it’s about four thousand years old.’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right,’ he said hurriedly, as if not wanting to hear the details. ‘I’ll contact him. Bring it over and I’ll try and help you.’

  ‘I’ll be there before three o’clock. Please, don’t cancel the operation!’

  After a mad dash to catch the ferry, I arrived at the hospital, sickened to discover I had missed my chance to see Tommy before he went into theatre.

  Since Tommy’s heart attack, I had worried so much that, although my body eventually fell asleep at night, my mind would not lie down. Fear, hope, and the unknown tormented me until dawn. Each morning, I dragged myself from bed feeling more tired than when I first slid under the sheet. In the hospital room, I curled into the Lloyd Loom-type chair and allowed my mind to relax. Tommy was being taken care of. He would recover.

  My long-running dream of ancient Santorini drifted in like a loved book, opened to reveal a place I needed to be, the print fixed to the page, unchangeable and safe. I wondered if my dreams were fixed too, or did my actions influence the story that unfolded? I willingly lost myself in the otherworld, escaping from the dreadful possibilities of these hours in the Cretan hospital.

  *

  After feasting and merrymaking, the guests disperse and I am alone with my kings.

  ‘After one full moon, we shall have our River Festival. My daughter shall take her place beside me on the royal dais. This will be our last jubilee before we leave for Crete.’ I turn to Hero. ‘My noble envoy, have you heard from King Minos?’

  Hero stood. ‘King Minos thanks my Queen for her generous gifts. He offers two choices for settlement. The first is known as the Pillars of Hercules, on the extreme north-west of Crete.’

  ‘I know of this place: two jagged peninsulas, uninhabited and barren. Not a good area for grazing or cultivating, and the sea between them can be turbulent.’

  Hero nods. ‘The other is to the north-east, near the municipality of Lato and the coastal city of Olous. The area of Istron is in a bay known as Mirabello. A fine area to build a port.’

  ‘Our ships will be laden and difficult to handle. North-east Crete is where we are likely to meet land. Istron is perfect.’ I sense this is too easy. ‘What does Minos want?’

  Hero smiles. ‘You are astute, my Queen. He wants the founding secrets of our much-prized metal.’

  I stiffen. ‘Orichalcum?’

  Hero nods again.

  I will never reveal our smelting technique. ‘We can discuss that at our next meeting. King Eildon, how is the ship-building?’

  ‘One hundred galleys are in the making, and I plan four hundred more. Wood arrives daily, pitch is in short supply but we can paint the ships later. One thousand looms weave the strongest sailcloth, and artisans carve oak oars as we speak. Our fields of papyrus and hemp are harvested and the rope-smiths toil day and night, twisting warps for the lines and sails. More papyrus is arriving from our brothers in Egypt. The blacksmith has melted every scrap of iron to forge a new type of anchor for the vessels.’

  ‘Excellent!’ I turn to the lord of livestock and market gardens. ‘King Alpheus, from this day, only the oldest animals will be killed for food. The young stock will go with us to Crete.’

  The kings exchange glances and I sense a conspiracy. ‘Is there a problem?’ I ask Hero.

  ‘No problems . . . no problems . . .’ The words drift around the room, becoming louder and clearer.

  *

  ‘No problems. No problems . . .’ The voice was Splotskey’s. I sucked in the chlorine-scented air as the surgeon touched my sh
oulder. Still wearing his green bloodstained scrubs, he stood over me, his face paler and more pinched than usual.

  ‘Stay seated, Bridget. Sorry, did I startle you? You’ll be pleased to know the operation was a success, as far as we can tell. Mr McGuire is in the recovery room.’

  ‘Oh, thank God . . . Thank you,’ I muttered, overwhelmed with relief.

  Splotskey’s sour face lifted slightly. ‘I suggest you get some proper sleep now and return tomorrow. Mr McGuire will be under sedation for some time. Come back in the morning, after we’ve checked him over.’

  I nodded, resisting an urge to hug him.

  ‘Do you have a room?’

  I shook my head, biting my lip, unable to speak.

  ‘Do you have a piece of paper?’

  I delved into my pockets and pulled out the ferry ticket. He wrote a phone number on it.

  ‘It’s a rent-rooms establishment my interns use. Cheap and basic, but clean. Tell them I sent you. Now go, eat, and get a good night’s sleep. In your condition, you need to look after yourself.’

  *

  In the small room that overlooked dustbins, I listened to a dog barking and recalled the surgeon’s green apron spattered with Tommy’s blood. Tomorrow, I had to go to the hospital and give half a litre of my own blood. Aaron and the other archaeologists would do the same, like all our friends in Santorini. They were good people and they knew this action would reduce my hospital bill considerably. With an image in my mind of friends queuing at the hospital’s blood-donor room, I fell into a deep sleep, where my dreams, so often connected to real life, continued.

  *

  In the sacrificial hall, a line of young women wait to offer their blood. My handmaidens have shaved the girls’ heads, apart from four fat tendrils that have never been cut. Their raven locks are waxed and coiled, and their smooth scalps and ears are painted blue.

  When ready, each maiden is covered by a long veil and led, barefoot, to me, the Goddess of the Marches. I prick their heel and catch a few drops of blood in the sacrificial dish, then the veil is turned back and the necklace of womanhood clasped around each girl’s neck.