Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  We would both be shamed in the world of archaeology, especially as I was steadily gaining a reputation for standing up against the theft of artefacts. I just couldn’t take the risk. I had a baby to think of now. Besides that, I came to realise if Tommy ever found out, he would never forgive me; and worse, the shock – rage – might bring on another heart attack.

  *

  The next day, I cycled down to the site while Tommy rested.

  ‘Hi. How’s it going, Aaron?’

  ‘Good. We’ve uncovered more of the fresco. I believe the picture is complete, but there’s still a long way to go. I’ve got some more really exciting news: I think this is the first floor. There’s another level below us.’

  ‘You really think we’re looking at the top floor of a two-storey building?’ I asked excitedly. ‘Oh, wow, that’s amazing! You know what this means? Anything that was on this level may have fallen down to the lower level over time. That would account for the sparsity of artefacts. I wonder what we’ll find hidden down there.’ I stared at his feet, thrilled at the prospect, and wishing I could stay and help with the excavation.

  *

  One sin always leads to another; I know that for a fact now. The theft of the dragonfly necklace led to the theft of the jug, and I knew I would suffer more sleepless nights because of that treachery, but what else could I do? Despite trying to think of an alternative, I seemed destined to live with the lies and deceit.

  Tommy was still sleeping when I returned from the site. The little jug still needed some restoration work and this gave me an idea. Knowing that the artefact would be hidden away and cared for in a private collection, probably only to re-appear when the owner died, was small consolation. However, if the artefact came to light in the future, it would simply be a beautiful old jug from thousands of years ago. In other words, it would have no provenance. Although its age could be proved, its origins would be unknown.

  Tommy had a micro pen and a magnifying glass somewhere. I found them in his desk drawer. In the smallest writing possible, I wrote on a paper label the date, longitude and latitude of the site, and B1, which was the find area. Then, for good measure, I wrote the phone number of the archaeological site. I stuck a strip of Sellotape on both sides of my note, and then cut closely around the information.

  I mixed a little Polyfilla and stuck the label to a section of webbing, already fixed into the belly of the jug. After filling inside and out, the information was undetectable. We usually left these sections blank, but I copied the pattern and painted in the small missing section. This made the jug seem complete and only an x-ray would reveal the mesh, infill, and the information inside.

  The charming little jug was pale cream with almost black calligraphy-like drawings of swallows on the wing, sacred lilies, and crocus flowers around the base. I sketched a copy into my notebook. Using a protractor and a ruler, I wrote down accurate measurements, and then took it outside to photograph.

  I hoped the buyer did not use x-ray.

  Early that evening, I made an excuse to go to the supermarket. On my way, I phoned Splotskey from a callbox.

  ‘I have something for you,’ I said, without preliminary greeting. ‘A small jug, Minoan era, from the temple. An offering vessel, quite exquisite, cream, decorated with birds and flowers. Circa two thousand BC.’

  ‘Bring it tomorrow.’

  ‘No, wait! I can’t bring it to Crete. Can’t you come here to collect it?’

  ‘It’s impossible – I have surgery, Bridget. Come on the first ferry and get the same one back.’

  ‘But I don’t have the money for ferry tickets, Doctor. We’re struggling here.’

  After a moment he said, ‘Borrow the money. I’ll give it back to you when you get here.’ He hung up.

  *

  ‘You seem preoccupied, Bridget,’ Tommy said when I arrived home.

  ‘Ah, do I? One of the church ladies is having a get-together lunch, over in Perissa tomorrow. It’s her birthday and she asked if I could go. I’m trying to figure a way out of it.’

  ‘You should go, take a break, enjoy yourself for once. Make the most of your freedom before the baby comes.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’d need to buy a present and we hardly have money to spare.’

  ‘I’ve got some coins in my top pocket. Take them, buy a present and go. Have a nice time.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  There I was, deceiving my husband again, the lie growing. Yet I believed this would be the end of it. I fell asleep going through my plans for the next day, and those thoughts must have distorted themselves into a dream-scene that involved Thira and her child, the girl who had just come of age. I felt Thira’s pride and joy for her daughter; mine would be the same. I had always secretly hoped for a little girl. I recalled where my dream had left off: Thira’s beautiful daughter was proud to stand next to her mother, the great Queen of Atlantis. The queen herself under enormous pressure to keep her subjects safe from the wrath of Poseidon. I thought that if Queen Thira could rise above her problems, then so could I.

  CHAPTER 12

  IRINI

  Santorini, present day.

  MAM’S TEARS WERE FIXED in my mind, and despite taking time over a sweet tea in the hospital café, they were all I could think about. When I returned to the ward, the nurse led me to the doctor’s office. He explained the details of an induced coma. His team would keep my mother in that state for a while, to see if her brain started to repair itself. The damage was so intense, he doubted there would be a change and, in that event, they would have no choice but to turn off the life support and allow her to die peacefully. They had the power to do that, but would rather have my permission first, of course.

  I made my reluctance clear. Miracles did happen.

  Relieved to find a taxi outside the hospital, I slid into the front seat.

  ‘Can you take me into town, please?’ I asked the overweight Green in his late fifties.

  ‘Yes, madam!’ He grinned. ‘I take you anywhere you want. You English?’

  ‘I’m Irish.’

  ‘Hello, Iris, I am Spiro. Welcome to my island!’

  ‘Irish.’

  ‘Yes, Iris. Me, Spiro.’ He poked himself in the chest with a thumb. ‘Holidays?’

  I couldn’t be bothered to correct him and shook my head. ‘No, my mother lives here. She’s unwell so I came to visit.’ I nodded towards the hospital.

  ‘Ah, quick recovery to her,’ he said. ‘Who is your mother? I knows everyone.’

  I found that hard to believe. ‘Bridget McGuire, the—’

  ‘No! The archaeologist! This is my lucky day, to have Bridget’s beautiful daughter in my taxi.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Later, I will buy a lottery ticket. I am very big friends of Bridget. She comes to my house to eat when there is festival. Mrs Bridget is a good lady.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘I am sorry for her. She was buried, yes? I heard this.’

  For the first time, I realised I had no notion of what happened at the site. ‘I don’t have any details yet, Spiro, but she is in a coma. The doctor doesn’t think she’ll make it.’

  ‘What will she not make?’ He put the car into gear, glanced at me, then looked sheepish. ‘Oh, I understand. Sorry. Sorry!’

  He paused, staring out of the stationary car, clearly upset. ‘I hope she has no pain. You must tell Bridget I will light many candles for her.’ He sighed and then pulled off without looking, almost hitting a passing scooter. ‘Malaka tourist!’ he muttered. ‘They hire the bikes but they don’t know how to drive!’

  His ebullience washed over me and I felt some of the tension fall from my shoulders.

  ‘You must come to my house, Iris. My wife is very good cook! She speak perfect English too, like me. Come, eat, be happy for a while.’

  ‘Aw, thank you, Spiro, but I’m exhausted right now. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.’

  He was driving with one hand, the other hung out of the window. We squeezed down narrow streets and
bumped down a step into a pedestrian area. The street was busy with tourists and Spiro honked his horn merrily. He pulled up outside a double-fronted jeweller’s shop. Gold necklaces and diamond rings glinted from the windows.

  ‘This is as close as I go. You pass through the shop, out the back door, and down the steps opposite. Otherwise, you walk all the way down the road to the next corner, then all the way back along the road below this one. Is too narrow for my taxi down there.’ He stuck his head out of the window and yelled, ‘Ela, Yianni. Is my friend here, see, Bridget’s daughter, Iris from England!’

  I should have corrected him, but I was simply too tired. ‘What do I owe you, Spiro?’

  ‘No! No!’ he shouted, flicking his fingers at me. ‘I no take your money, Iris. I am happy to have you in my taxi. Here is my card. You want anything, you call me, okay?’

  I smiled and nodded. ‘Thanks, Spiro. It’s wonderful of you to be so kind.’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Now, I go buy Lotto ticket. My lucky day. The gods smile on me. I will light a candle to the Blessed Virgin for your mother. She likes me a lot, the Blessed Virgin, so she may listen to my prayers. And if she is in a good mood, perhaps she will use her holy finger to poke the right balls out of the Lotto machine. Who knows?’

  I was giggling as I got out of the taxi.

  Spiro observed my mood change, nodded, and pulled away. He scattered pedestrians with his car horn and boomed his greeting, ‘Yiassas!’ to several shopkeepers as he proceeded down the arcade.

  Yianni, the jeweller, shook my hand and bowed slightly. ‘Welcome, Iris,’ he said.

  I could not believe the man wore a suit and tie. Heat shimmered off the cobblestones and penetrated the soles of my shoes. Yianni led me through his shop, which I likened to a gilded and highly polished fridge.

  ‘You want anything, you tell me. My back door is always open, Iris,’ he said as he pulled it ajar and ushered me through. ‘I am a very good friend of your mother.’

  A jeweller’s with the back door always open? That had to be unique. The people of Santorini must be incredibly honest.

  *

  The next morning, I pulled on a pair of white linen shorts, a baggy yellow shirt, and my white, wide-brimmed sunhat. I once heard it said: You can’t see yellow and not feel happy. I hoped it would work on my mother. Would she open her eyes today? Was it futile to hope? To pray? To dream the impossible dream? I was clinging hysterically to myths and legends and miracles, which my logical mind told me where highly improbable.

  On my way to the hospital, I stepped into a fournos for a fresh loaf and a spinach pie. For a moment, I was lost in the warm, yeasty smell of the bakery. Shelves of cooling bread lined the walls, and before me was a counter covered in trays of donuts, buns, and pies. The woman behind the counter looked exhausted. I handed her a small brown loaf and pointed at a donut-shaped pie made from flaking filo pastry.

  ‘Cheese and spinach,’ she said, smiling shyly. ‘You English?’

  ‘I’m Irish,’ I said. ‘I’ll take the pie, please.’

  ‘Ah, Iris, Bridget’s daughter. Yes, of course, the red hair. Spiro told me you were here.’ She seemed oblivious to the elderly locals forming an untidy queue behind me. ‘Welcome to Santorini, Iris.’ She shoved the bread and pie into a carrier and addressed the people now filling the shop.

  Unsure of what she said, I caught the words: ‘Iris’ and ‘Bridget’, after which everyone surged forward and I was taken back to a game we used to play in the school yard. We all pat the dog; we all pat the dog; ee, eye, addio, we all pat the dog! I was heartily slapped on my back, shoulders, and arms. Nodding people with wide smiles surrounded me. ‘Welcome! Welcome!’ they cried.

  ‘Thank you, thank you very much,’ I replied. Some of them spoke to me in Greek and I was bewildered as how to answer, so I smiled and nodded. Someone shook my hand vigorously.

  ‘English! English!’ the baker cried, and I guessed I would have to get used to that little irritation.

  I tried to give her a five-euro note, but she thumped herself in the chest twice, then held her hand towards me. ‘You no pay! Is a gift from me,’ she yelled. ‘Well wishes for Mrs Bridget!’

  And everyone cried, ‘Yes! Yes!’

  I had a bizarre feeling I was trapped in some kind of farce. After a hurried thank you, I squeezed out of the shop and marched towards the hospital.

  There was an air of excitement in the day. School children called, ‘Good morning, lady,’ and giggled, jostling each other playfully. Older folk nodded and smiled as they passed by. At one of the churches, two men with a step ladder were hanging bunting around the forecourt, and short, rotund women dressed in black appeared with wide baskets of glossy-crusted bread.

  The church doors were open and I glanced inside as I passed. The interior was nothing like the sombre misery of Catholic churches in Dublin. The walls were a riot of primary colours, clearly a celebration of life. Frescoes of life-size saints and holy scenes covered every inch of plaster. The ceiling was like a vivid cartoon of the Sistine Chapel. Sunlight blazed through high, stained glass windows, streaming a rainbow of dazzling colour diagonally through the air.

  Three of the largest crystal chandeliers I had ever seen hung above the nave. The aisles had easels supporting ornate, gilded frames that surrounded silver or gold etchings of the holy family. The door was flanked by intricate wooden cradles of beeswax candles. In sand-filled troughs above them, thin tapers of many different lengths flickered candlelight into the shady church. I sensed it would be easy to find peace of mind inside that building.

  So uplifted by the scene, I was tempted to slip in and say a prayer for my mother, but I hurried on.

  Outside town, a car skidded to a halt beside me. Spiro in his taxi.

  ‘Iris! Good morning! Come, I will take you.’

  I could see the hospital. Ludicrous to get into the taxi, but I did.

  ‘You brought me good luck, Iris!’ We veered dangerously close to the kerb as he grinned at me and I was so glad the road was straight with no lampposts yet.

  ‘Mind! Oh!’ I slapped my hand to my chest, my own recent accident still vivid in my mind. He jerked the taxi back on course. ‘Don’t tell me you won something on the Lotto, Spiro?’

  ‘Three numbers I needed, Iris. Just three. But if I got those three and won the millions, I would not be driving my taxi today and you would have fried in the sun. Bridget would not have been happy with me if I let you cook, and you would have been in terrible pain. My wife would have wanted new everything, and my friends would not play poker with me if I was such a winner. So you see, I am very lucky I did not win!’

  I was laughing again. ‘One day, Spiro, I’m sure you’ll win.’

  My laughter died as I entered the hospital and hurried down the hospital corridor, impatient to see my mother and read more of her letters. Infused by the kindness and joviality of the locals, I felt a little more positive. After all, they did say there was little hope for my mother – not, no hope at all.

  *

  No change in my mother’s health, but she was stable and, as far as I knew, without pain. I told her about Spiro, and the locals in the bakery who sent their good wishes. I had placed her notebooks in the drawer of her bedside locker. This was to stop me from reading them on my own, at the house. I wanted to share this journey of discovery with her. We had never shared anything before.

  In the pink ribbon of letters, I found an envelope with RETURN TO SENDER stamped across the Irish address. In smaller letters it said: The recipient no longer resides at this abode. I opened the sealed envelope carefully and recognised my mother’s handwriting.

  My dearest, darling Tommy,

  Please don’t go to Greece without me! I love you more than life itself! Don’t break my heart, Tommy McGuire! I want to be by your side, always. I dream of us discovering great things together. You can’t leave me this way.

  You’re all I want, all I wish for. University is a complete waste of time if you are not
there, because I cannot concentrate on anything but you. I did well because I wanted to please you and you alone. You are my life.

  I know you say I am too young for you, but what is age when we have true love? Such a thing must be a once in a lifetime gift from God. We cannot abandon our hearts. I cried all night, and I will cry every night until we are together again.

  We are destined to be happy together because we belong to each other. You can teach me all I need to know, and I don’t just mean about archaeology.

  Please, please, please, reply immediately. End this torture. Stop the tears of my broken heart. Change your plans to include me and, I swear on my life, I will never let you down.

  All my love, forever,

  Your broken-hearted Bridget xxx

  I stared at the page. Daddy had already left for Santorini and never received the mail. They were so in love, and this made me wonder what happened to turn them against each other later. I thought back to my time with both of them in Dublin. This passion was nowhere in sight. It had been replaced with resentment and bitterness.

  Why didn’t they separate? Better to be apart than together with the animosity I had seen every day in Dublin. Yet underneath that display of discontent, I wondered if it was the memory of their love that kept them together. Although they had lived apart for the past year, I knew my father ached for Mam. Sometimes he would look at me, and I knew he was thinking of her. I decided, whatever happened to my mother, I would take the letter home and read it to my father. I opened the Book of Dreams and start reading quietly.

  *

  It happened again last night. How can I go on like this? I know Tommy tells me they are only dreams, but when they happen, they are so real! I had the worst nightmare ever last night. Eventually I woke, drenched in sweat. Terrible dread had turned my body to lead. I couldn’t move. Suspended in horror, I had no notion of where I was. That’s how tangible the nightmarish experience felt. In those initial moments of waking, I don’t know how long it took to gather myself together and realise I was still in bed in our hyposkafa.