Such fear would not be measured by time, only by intensity. My first thought: was it a dream or did it really happen?
I placed my hands on my swollen belly. Thank God! Our baby was still safe inside me. Nothing would harm her there. As if sensing my worry, she kicked and rolled, and I felt a small knee or elbow push again my palm, then slide across to the other side. Was she afraid too? She must be able to hear my heart hammering.
The nightmare left me weak and trembling so violently that I could hardly stand when I slipped out of bed for a glass of water. I turned on the small lamp and stared around, looking for something familiar to anchor reality onto. I am terrified I’m going mad.
In the dream, I killed my little girl again! How many times must I go through this, and why? Is it my punishment for leading a life of deceit? Is this what my life has become – one big lie?
I stole the dragonfly necklace because I was desperate. I truly believe I had no choice. And the jug . . . Now I’ve only made matters worse by lying to the man I love.
*
I stared at my mother, horrified by what I had read. What was going on? The words were too much to take in. Why would she dream about killing me? What was the dragonfly necklace, and what was its relevance? Had she started shoplifting?
‘Mam, I don’t understand what I’m reading here. Who did you steal the dragonfly necklace from? Was it Yianni, the jeweller’s near the house? I met him yesterday. I told you, do you remember?’
I studied her face while searching my mind for an answer.
‘Did you really think you might kill me? You might actually kill me? Is that why you sent me away, Mam, because you feared you would harm me? You were afraid for my life?’ Oh! ‘And I grew up thinking it was because you didn’t want me . . . I thought you didn’t love me and couldn’t stand to share your life with me. I thought I was a pest and you wanted me out of the way.’
One page of writing had changed everything. Destroyed the certainty I had grown up with, that I was not loved, not wanted. The lonely child, confused by the affection I had seen other parents give to my school friends. Feeling different, always wondering: what was wrong with me? Ashamed.
I thought about it for a long time, considered what she had written, contemplated the years we were apart, analysed the startling fact that I had suffered all that misery through my childhood because of a dream?! The very idea made me furious.
Then I saw it . . . I couldn’t believe what had happened. Her thumb twitched. Just a slight movement, but then it happened again.
I hit the call button.
CHAPTER 13
BRIDGET
Santorini, 29 years ago.
THE NEXT MORNING, I hurriedly prepared Tommy’s breakfast and laid out his numerous pills. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, Tommy? I’ve ordered you a chicken pitta for lunch and I’ll be back around dinner time.’
‘Go, woman! Stop fussing. I’m not an invalid. Have a good time with your friends.’
I hurried to the square and caught the bus down to Athinios Port. At the harbour ticket office, I bought a single for the ferry to Heraklion, which I could see approaching the quayside at that very moment. I surveyed the curving clifftop along the landmass to the town of Fira. Tommy would be sitting on the patio, looking down at the ferry with no notion that I was about to board it. He thought I was on the bus to Perissa, on the south coast of Santorini.
I had never deceived him in such a way before. First the dragonfly necklace, and now the ancient jug and the lie about a birthday party. Sure that my problems would be over once Splotskey had this artefact, I boarded the ship. In a few hours I would be in Heraklion. Splotskey was going to meet me at the port with my return ticket. All I had to do was hand over the artefact and return to Santorini.
What could go wrong?
I told myself I was doing this for Tommy and our baby. I didn’t want my child born in a prison and growing up without a father, and I would rather die myself than have anything happen to either of them. The jug would hardly make any difference in the world of archaeology, but if Tommy had died, then archaeology would have lost a truly great historian who gave his life to the task of revealing the past in all its complicated layers.
The skyline of Heraklion came into view, a low hill of hotels and blocks of flats. Moored at the quayside, a row of ferry ships destined for other Greek islands. The fortress of Koules, on a mole that elbowed its way out to sea, shimmered golden in the midday sun. Dense shadows accentuated the castellated fortification. In one sandstone block, the relief of a lion was softly rounded by the winds of time. Next to the stronghold lay Heraklion’s traditional fishing port with its ubiquitous piles of yellow net and brightly painted boats.
If my mission had not been criminal, I would have enjoyed the moment of arrival in Crete, but my mouth dried and heart raced. From my high position at the back of the ferry, I peered at the cement wharf as we reversed towards it, searching for Splotskey in the mill of people below. After waiting until the articulated wagons, trucks, and cars had disembarked, I hurried down three decks to the ship’s exit, which was packed with perspiring tourists and thick with diesel fumes. When the stevedore lifted the barrier, a mad rush headed for fresh air and the quayside.
Where was Splotskey? I didn’t have the money to buy my return ticket to Santorini! What if the doctor didn’t turn up? I scanned the waiting passengers and then hurried to the ticket booth. This was a disaster! I could not get back on the ship without a ticket. The whole plan was a stupid idea and I feared I should not have come. I raced along the quayside, behind the queue of cars and lorries waiting to board. Where was he?!
‘Bridget!’
Was that Splotskey’s voice? Confused that I couldn’t see him, I peered around wildly. People were already boarding. Stevedores swiped the air with a wide hand, hurrying vehicles over the boarding ramp and onto the ferry. I still had no ticket!
‘Bridget, over here!’
I stood on my toes, staring over people’s heads. A car flashed its headlights, Splotskey behind the wheel. I hurried over.
‘Dear God! I thought you hadn’t come!’ I cried in distress.
‘Have you got it, Bridget?’ He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a month.
I nodded and passed the box containing the artefact through the car window.
He placed it on the seat beside him and handed me an envelope. ‘There’s your ticket back to Santorini, and a little extra money to cover your expenses.’
‘Never again,’ I said. ‘You’ll never ask me to do this again, okay?!’ I spun around and headed straight back onto the ship without waiting for an answer.
*
Four hours later, I arrived home, flustered and guilty.
‘Did you have a good time?’ Tommy asked quietly.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ I avoided his eyes but the guilt in me would not go away. I went over and fell into his arms. ‘No, to tell the truth. I wish I hadn’t gone. I missed you.’
‘I love you, Bridget, you know that,’ he said. After a moment’s silence he stroked my hair and continued. ‘I’m so much older than you. There must have been times when you’ve craved the company of people your own age. It’s only natural. You can tell me, do you understand? I don’t want there to be secrets between us.’ He held me away from him, to look into my face. ‘Just promise me you’ll never leave me – and that you’ll always be discreet.’
It took a moment for me to understand what he was saying.
‘Tommy! You don’t think I’ve been with another man, do you?’
‘Haven’t you?’ He lowered his eyes.
‘What . . . ? I’m speechless!’ I stared, recalling the young professor I had fallen in love with. He was a little the worse for wear at the moment, but inside he was that same man and I would never even think of looking at another. ‘No, of course I haven’t. My God, I can’t believe you would think such a thing! You’re my world, you eejit.’
‘Oh, all right
, sorry,’ he said, looking confused and a little embarrassed. ‘Only, I know I’m not as young as I was, you’ll never get me dancing, and since the op, I haven’t had the urge to . . . you know, be very active between the sheets. So I thought . . .’
‘Tommy McGuire, you are mad. Whatever made you think such a thing?’
He stared at the floor for a moment. ‘Father Yeorgo came around this afternoon and he didn’t seem to know about any birthday party. It got me thinking. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I’ve fretted all day. Made me feel quite ill, imagining, you know?’
‘You really thought I’d gone off with some bloke? Tommy McGuire, don’t you ever think that of me. You’re my world. I’m shocked. Shame on you!’
‘Then what is it? I feel something’s wrong, Bridget. You’ve seemed so distracted lately.’
‘Of course I’m distracted, you lummox! You nearly died, Tommy; I’m having a baby; and these crazy dreams are driving me bonkers.’ I took his hand. ‘Let me expand on that. In the first place, I should have realised you weren’t well, and I didn’t. If I’d lost you, I’d never have forgiven myself. Secondly, my hormones are all over the place. And last of all, I’m desperate for a good night’s sleep without my weird dreams. It would be a miracle if I wasn’t distracted. Now, no more of this nonsense. I don’t want you worrying about me at all, do you hear?’
After that escapade, I concentrated on getting Tommy fit, and I looked after my own pregnancy until the day my baby was born. To my relief, Tommy never mentioned the incident again, nor did I hear from Splotskey.
*
Tommy’s recovery was slow but steady. Once he could manage the steps, he took it upon himself to get the bread each morning, but after only three trips, he gave up. News about the baby spread quickly. Beaming men grabbed Tommy in the street and shook his hand vigorously; some even hugged him and kissed his cheeks.
After one such occasion, he returned and cried, ‘I thought my scar would unzip and my heart pop right out!’
‘Our friends are lovely, aren’t they?’ I said. ‘They share their feelings so openly. I wonder when we north Europeans became uptight about showing affection, thinking it’s good to mind our own business? I prefer the Greek way. They were all quite amazing while you were in Crete, Tommy. Each one went to our hospital and gave blood, so we had less to pay for your transfusions, and I found eggs or fruit or vegetables on the table each morning. Also, Anna and Spiro brought me a meal every evening so I didn’t have to cook. They’re so incredibly kind.’
Tommy smiled, and then appeared sad.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘I nearly died, Bridget. I keep wondering what would have happened to you, with our baby on the way. How would you have managed? Would you have gone back to Ireland? And darling girl, I’ve been feeling so ill I haven’t asked you – what on earth did you do about the cost of the operation?’
‘Look, I have a roof over my head, and a little income from the writing. My life is here, Tommy. Besides, you’re not allowed to die, not now after all that palaver. As for the medical bill, it’s taken care of, and I don’t want to discuss it right now. Just get yourself fit, and go back to work when you’re ready, okay?’
‘But I can’t help worrying about the money, Bridget. Don’t shut me out.’
‘All right. I sold my grandmother’s gold watch, the church donated a lump of cash, and your Quinlan lent us some, which I’m paying back in dribs and drabs. On top of that, the surgeon took pity on us because of the baby, and reduced the cost of the operation. So you see, there is absolutely nothing to fret about.’
‘Everything’s changed. I feel like a different person. I keep seeing myself as a father with a child looking up to me. We’ve responsibilities. It’s never too early to consider our child’s education. Let’s think about the future and make plans instead of living day to day, lost in the dig, as we do now. I want to be prepared for our child and give it the best start in life, okay?’
I nodded. ‘I love you, Tommy McGuire. You’ll be the perfect father.’
*
I received another commission to write a regular column, this time for an Australian magazine. Other archaeologists kindly contacted me with information about missing artefacts, which I passed on to a contact I now had at Interpol. Following these leads, some artefacts were recovered, and although I was not involved directly, a little of the credit landed at my door.
While working on just such an article, Tommy interrupted my thoughts.
‘I’m so bored. I can’t wait to get back to the site. Bridget, I keep meaning to ask: what happened to that dragonfly necklace we found?’
My skin seemed to shrink over my body. I didn’t look up from my writing, ignoring the question while I thought. How could I explain? He wasn’t ready for the anger that would explode when he discovered the truth. Tommy would never excuse my actions – they were criminal and I knew it. That I had no other course to take did not make it any less wrong.
‘Bridget, are you listening? That dragonfly necklace – what happened to it? Did you find anything else?’
‘Oh, sorry, I was miles away. False alarm, Tommy. It was nothing but a modern trinket. Made in China was stamped into the back of the last dragonfly.’ I kept my head down so he wouldn’t see the colour rise in my cheeks. ‘It probably belonged to one of the students and snapped while they were working. Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart.’
My head ached, throbbing so fiercely I had to close my eyes for a moment.
‘That’s a shame. I hoped upon hope the thing was ancient. Impossible to tell in the first instance, of course. I’m desperate to find something that connects the site to . . . erm . . .’
I knew why he hesitated. Tommy was thinking the word we never used. The word that would be laughed at and make us look like one of the many glory-hunters or sensationalists that had gone before. Archaeologists or historians that were so often purveyed as crack-pots.
‘Atlantis?’ I whispered, looking up. Thank goodness there was nothing to suggest that very thing. It would have killed Tommy if the necklace had made any connection between the site and Plato’s Atlantis, and I had lost it.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘I have a migraine coming. I’ve had a few lately. Probably the stress, or hormones.’
‘Why don’t you take yourself away to the chemist, see if she can give you something? Little point in being a martyr to yourself.’
Relieved the subject had changed, I said, ‘I’d better not, with the baby and all. Can’t be too careful, can we? It’ll clear soon.’
‘I can’t believe that we’ll become parents after so long. I’m more thrilled than I can say.’
‘You have mentioned that once or twice. Just get yourself a hundred per cent fit, Tommy McGuire!’
‘Have you thought about a name at all, Bridget?’
‘I have indeed. If it’s a boy, Thomas Plato McGuire. What do you think?’
‘Poor little bugger! What about Peter, after your uncle?’
I smiled. ‘That’s kind of you, Tommy. I like it. I was thinking on the same lines. If it’s a girl, I’d like to call her Agnes – but it’s very old fashioned. I thought about this island that means so much to us. What about Irini?’
*
I filled out as my pregnancy developed. Thanks to the latest technology, we were thrilled to discover my hoper were correct: we were having a little girl. Tommy continued to make a steady recovery, and a month after his return from Crete he was back at the site, sifting and sorting every day. The summer students returned to Ireland, but Aaron stayed, deciding to take a year out before his finals. Tommy and I both knew the truth. He didn’t want to go home.
He kindly collected Tommy and I at seven-thirty each morning, returning us home in time for our two o’clock siesta. Another magazine – Canadian, this time – asked me to write for them, and I added them to my list of regular earners. I was now referred to as an expert on t
he subject of antiquities theft. Tommy was so proud of me, but every time I saw my words in print, my heart gave a jolt. If anyone ever found out . . .
Only my dreams changed. The fantasia of regal Atlantis seemed to decompose, leaving awful nightmares from which there was no escape. I will always remember the first vision that brought me complete horror. Until then, my sensory experiences of the past had fascinated me, adding to my archaeological enthusiasm.
That particular day was like any other. We worked hard in the hot sun and returned home for our siesta. Beside Tommy, I closed my eyes and drifted away, recalling my last dream of Atlantis. I returned to the council chamber and my ten kings, yet, as I slid into sleep, pleasure seeped away and I sensed danger. In those seconds before total immersion, I wanted to wake, pull myself away from whatever awaited me, but I sank deeper into the experience, unable to hold on to reality.
*
King Hero stands. ‘Dear Queen, Supreme Ruler of Atlantis, may I speak with you alone?’
Nine kings leave the chamber and the doors are closed. By myself with Hero, my heart races with foreboding.
‘My Queen, this is difficult. The people of Atlantis will not leave the island unless we consider every possible plea to Poseidon. We have no choice but to offer him our highest-ranking maiden on the sacrificial altar.’
Knowing what he means, I can’t speak, so turn away, frantic to think of a justifiable response.
‘No, this cannot happen, Hero. The highest-ranking maiden is my daughter! How can I consent to such a thing?’
‘You are the Goddess of the Marches, blessed by the deities, stronger and more noble than us mere mortals. We fathers give our sons’ lives in war for the sake of our country. This is no different. You will find the strength to do what is needed, my Queen.’
‘They ask too much.’ I have to stop this protocol, which has not been invoked since my grandmother ruled the island.
‘Why do you think the Gods blessed you with a daughter?’ Hero asks. ‘Consider she was born to save the populous. Isn’t it better for one mother to give her child to Poseidon than all mothers to lose their children in the most horrific way? To sacrifice Oia will appease our god, and show the people you are prepared to suffer the greatest loss a mother can, for their sake. The population of Atlantis will follow you to the gates of Hades if you asked them.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I think it’s important that you carry out this task after the River Festival, which is sure to be the most joyous day in Oia’s life.’
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