Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  The life-size painting filled a wall. Muted tones of ochre, wine-red, and cobalt depicted a regal woman on a throne with handmaidens and monkeys in attendance. Several pieces were missing – a hand, a foot, one shoulder and the neck of the woman on the throne – nevertheless, the fresco was almost complete and a fine example of Minoan art. It would remain in place while we searched for the missing pieces, which we believed lay in the dirt below the painting.

  The scene in the fresco seemed familiar. It drew me, and for a second I was in my dream again. Surely this was my mind playing tricks. Lack of sleep, confused hormones, worry about Tommy, and my pregnancy, all played a part in my strong sense of déjà vu.

  Tommy had mixed feelings about the missing pieces of fresco, desperately wanting to see the painting complete, yet knowing that when it was, it would be taken away and eventually displayed in a museum. The students had already started digging a trench and sifting through the dirt below the wall. If the missing pieces had fallen though to a lower level, it would be years before we found them.

  It seemed appropriate to discover the mural now, in spring, when the landscape of Santorini became an impressionist painting of yellow and blue wildflowers daubed over hill and vale.

  I stepped back to admire the fresco, but my foot twisted on uneven ground. A piece of broken pot – the bottom of a plate or dish – had unbalanced me. I lifted it out of the dirt and stared at the enigmatic symbols in the centre of the base. Some were vaguely recognisable ancient scripts, other shapes were more mysterious, perhaps the Phoenician alphabet, but I had never seen the different alphabets mixed in this way before.

  ‘What have you got there?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Not sure. A base, symbols, mixed alphabets, perhaps.’

  ‘Hardly likely.’

  ‘Maybe it was written in a transition period, when all three alphabets were being used to some extent somewhere, or perhaps inscribed by several potters who were new to the area and didn’t use the same system,’ I suggested, while pushing down on my expanded belly.

  Tommy studied me, his concern clear. ‘Are you all right, Bridget?’

  ‘Heartburn. It feels like your daughter has an elbow in my ribs. Little minx. I’ll be glad when she’s in my arms.’

  He smiled and placed his hand below mine. ‘Is she kicking?’

  ‘Not so much these days. No room, I guess.’

  ‘You should take it easy,’ he said. ‘Anyway, about your theory, as we’ve no record of the Minoan language, we can’t possibly understand what the strange letters say, can we? You’re heading for disappointment if you think you can decipher it.’

  ‘Nevertheless, do you mind if I try?’

  ‘Go ahead, make it your project; give me a bit of peace, won’t it?’

  ‘Cheeky devil!’ I laughed, watching his back as he returned to a trench across the site. I studied the symbols again, excitement racing through me. Perspiration trickled between my breasts, and the hairs on my arms lifted as if a cocoon of static enfolded me.

  Who had last held this piece of pot? Could it be an offering dish? What might the cyphers tell us?

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the scene on that very spot when the bowl broke into pieces. Was the act of smashing it deliberate? Could it be a sacrificial artefact, after all, I was standing in the temple? We knew very little about their religion. What other clues to this ancient civilisation lay hidden in the dirt beneath my feet?

  Music drifted over the archaeological site from a festival taking place in the distant forecourt. I recognised the syrtaki, Zorba’s dance. Young men and women wearing national costume entertained tourists with a display of Santorini’s culture. Visitors would taste the local food, partake of the island’s fine wine, and hopefully buy replicas of the antiquities. I, and my fellow archaeologists, were desperate for funds.

  Hot, tired, and dusty, I placed a hand on my swollen belly once again. The dull ache in my back had started on my frantic walk through town at dawn. Now the pain intensified and fresh perspiration beaded my brow. Only one month to go, then I’d give birth to my child, our wonderful daughter.

  As if invited by thoughts of childbirth, a pain, fierce beyond measure, ripped through me. I fell to my knees, clutching the jagged dish to my chest as my waters broke.

  ‘Tommy!’

  CHAPTER 16

  IRINI

  Crete, present day.

  I HURRIED ALONG A MAZE of corridors in the University Hospital of Heraklion. Corridors filled with bustling people. When the door of my mother’s room closed behind me, I stood for a moment in the oasis of silence, then pulled a chair to her bedside.

  ‘Hi, Mam. It’s me, Irini. We’re in Heraklion now, on the island of Crete. You’ve been here before, when Dad had his heart surgery. Do you remember?’ I sat next to the bed and took her hand. ‘I phoned him last night and he told me about it.’ I sat there, silent for a while, wondering how long it took for her damaged brain to absorb information. Wondering if it could. Hoping against hope.

  ‘I wasn’t going to read your books on my own, but the ferry was such a long journey – nearly four hours – so I finished the first Book of Dreams.’

  She had written that book almost thirty years ago, and now I wondered if she remembered what was in it. ‘I want to tell you that—’

  Before I could say more, the doctor and three interns came in and asked me to leave. My mother was about to have the various tests necessary before tomorrow’s scan. I worried about her, and the costs, and wondered again whether she could really hear me.

  Defeated by everything, I realised that I had to make a plan, concentrate on the logistics. I had to get a job, even though I had no idea how long I’d be in Greece. Perhaps there was a temp agency on the island. I should register, though heaven only knew what for. Teaching English might be an option. Could I give private lessons? Or work as a care person? I could honestly say I’d done jobs before. If push came to shove, I would wait on tables or clean hotel rooms, anything that might help fund my mother’s recovery.

  I had arrived in Greece expecting nothing more than to hold her hand as she slipped peacefully away, but now everything had changed. We had grown closer. I understood things. And, more than anything in the world, I wanted her to get better.

  My grief was so intense, I stood in the corridor and prayed for a miracle.

  Desperate for a cup of tea, I made my way to the hospital café, which was packed. I spotted an empty chair, the table occupied by a slim woman about my own age.

  ‘Hi. Do you mind if I sit here?’ I said, hoping she spoke English.

  The woman nodded her raven bob. ‘Feel free. On holiday?’ she asked. I detected a north-west English accent.

  ‘Not really, my mother’s poorly. They brought her over from Santorini for an MRI.’ I glanced around the café. ‘This place is manic, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re not kidding. I slept on a gurney in a corridor last night. Unbelievable.’ She pointed below the table. ‘Broken tibia. Idiot tourist knocked me off my scooter last night. Hurts like hell. What happened to your mum, then?’

  ‘There was an accident, a wall fell . . .’ I stopped, frowning, still uneasy about my father’s words and Spiro’s story of my mother believing she was followed off the ferry. ‘At least, they say it was an accident, but the more I think about it, I’m starting to wonder.’ Surprised I had said those words aloud, and to a stranger, I studied her face for a reaction, but she didn’t seem fazed at all.

  ‘God, sorry about your mum. That’s a pretty crap thing to happen. You know they’ve got vendetta here?’ I shook my head. ‘There was this bus driver last year, in Agios Nikolaos, whose mother was run over and killed. The old girl doddered across the national road at night, wearing all black. I mean?! Nevertheless, the son went out and ploughed his bus into the culprit’s car. Killed him stone dead, like.’

  ‘Good grief! You’re kidding?’

  She shook her head. ‘According to the Cretans, justice was done.
’

  I winced, remembering that I was an idiot tourist that ran over a Greek cyclist. Would he come after me intending revenge?

  ‘Where’re you from?’ I asked.

  ‘Liverpool. I work here through the summer, though I’ll probably lose my job now. My bloody phone’s in the scooter too, so I can’t even call my boss. I’m Jane, by the way. Where you from?’

  ‘Dublin. I’m Irini. Is it hard to find work? I was just thinking . . .’ Her brow furrowed and I realised she wasn’t listening. Too many problems of her own. ‘Do you want to call work?’ I held my phone out, glanced at her leg, and wondered how the Greek was coping with his broken arm.

  ‘Brilliant, thanks! He’ll go ape-shit when I tell him I can’t work tonight, but what can I do?’

  I thought about my finances again. I needed a roof over my head. I had the hotel room for a few more days, but then I was on my own. Suddenly it dawned on me: I couldn’t go back to Dublin if my mother was still in a coma by the end of August. What would I do? How much would an air ambulance to Dublin cost?

  Was anyone interested in my fantastic wedding dress yet?

  When I looked up, Jane was pleading into the phone, then she ended the call.

  ‘That’s the best paid job I’ve ever had, and now I’ll lose it if I don’t find a replacement. How can I, stuck in here with a gammy leg?’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a barmaid in the Shamrock, in Malia. It’s an Irish bar, plays rock.’

  ‘Hard work, behind a bar. I worked in the Raglan Road for three years, pulled pints all through uni.’

  Jane’s eyes lit up. ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘No, it’s true. I still help out now, saving for my wedding . . . or at least I was.’

  We stared at each other for a second, both seeing a solution to our individual problems.

  She grabbed my hand, her eyes pleading. ‘Stand in for me for a couple of nights, please, I’m begging! Just while I find a replacement.’

  I wanted to say yes. But what about my mother? What if something happens and I’m not there? I needed the money, but my mother needed me too. I hesitated, buying time to think.

  Jane took my hesitation as a yes. ‘Let me tell Jack I might have somebody. Quick, give me your phone,’ she said, and after a moment, I handed it over. While talking to her boss, she looked up and asked, ‘What do you do now?’

  ‘I teach religious studies in a Catholic school.’

  Jane blinked at me for a moment, then said into the phone, ‘She does PR work for a consortium based in Rome.’ After a couple of beats, she rolled her eyes. ‘No, Jack, not for the mafia! Nine o’clock then.’ She returned the phone.

  For a second, I felt manipulated, and her grin made me angry, but then I realised Jane had just solved a great chunk of my problems.

  ‘You’ve got the job!’ she said triumphantly.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. This is all so sudden, Jane. I’ll do it for a week, then we’ll see, okay?’

  *

  The drive to Malia after my last motoring experience was scary. To make things worse, I had never driven in the dark before. The roads were busy, but I told myself: if all these people can drive at night, then so can I. Hunched over the steering wheel, constantly dazzled by oncoming lights, I eventually lurched into the 18-30s resort.

  The town was buzzing. Jane’s advice – to pull into the first car park I came to and walk – was simple enough. I got out of the car and took a moment to catch my breath and calm down.

  A group of women ahead wore bikini tops, bunny ears, and black stretch shorts with fluorescent pink letters across their bottoms: Bride, Bridesmaid, Sister, Friend, and so on. A handful of guys, bar-hopping, invited the hen party into a club. Music thumped into the street. Outside another bar, a mechanical bull bucked and turned under a frantic guy while his beer-swilling mates laughed raucously.

  I had never seen so many tattoos and piercings, or so many people in so few clothes. The air smelled of pizza and burgers, and reminded me of Dublin on a Saturday night.

  I walked quickly, reminding myself I was only twenty-nine, yet I felt horribly out-of-place and overdressed.

  The Shamrock was just off the main drag, opposite a closed-down supermarket with a small car park in front. The stylised Irish pub had an ornate green and gold fascia, with beer-barrel tables and high stools on the cobbled forecourt. An A-frame billboard in the shape of a leprechaun advertised: Happy Hour 9–10.30 p.m. on one side and: Draft Guinness & Poteen on the other.

  From a speaker over the Shamrock door, Annie Lennox blasted: I Need a Man.

  She was not the only one!

  I hugged myself, warming to the place that was an escape from the misery of hospitals. The pub’s front, quarter oak-panelled, had stained glass windows that depicted two emerald-green shamrocks. I took a breath and pushed through the swing doors.

  Inside the dimly lit pub, it was extraordinarily quiet.

  An elderly man sat in the corner with the dregs of a pint. ‘Happy hour doesn’t start ’til nine, love.’

  ‘Yes, I read the billboard. I’ve come in place of Jane. She’s had an accident. Are you Jack?’

  ‘Ah, no, Jack’s changing a barrel.’ He pointed at the floor. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Irini McGuire. Yours?’

  ‘Fergus McFadden. You can make yourself useful and get me another half a Guinness while you wait, Irini, me love.’

  I laughed and it felt good. ‘Thrown in at the deep end, am I?’

  Behind the bar, I orientated myself and then pulled Fergus a half. I wiped his table and gave him a clean beermat before setting his drink down.

  ‘Proper job,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed. Nice to have another authentic Irish accent in the place. Where’re you from?’

  ‘Dublin itself, Mr McFadden.’

  ‘Well, isn’t it just a small world we live in? I’m from the fair city myself, and Ma and Pa before me.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Sláinte. Will you tell me about Jane’s accident? Is she fine now? I guess not or you wouldn’t be here at all, now, would you?’

  ‘I’m afraid she has a broken leg and some bad scrapes and grazes.’

  ‘What do you do in Dublin, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  I remembered Jane’s job description and smiled. ‘I teach religious studies at Saint Mary’s.’

  ‘Well, God bless us, isn’t that the very school Jack went to?! He’s me nephew. I comes out here for three weeks every year, I do. The warmth helps me rheumatics. I’ve had a knee and two hip replacements.’ He chuckled, clearly happy to talk. ‘They calls me the bionic man at the infirmary. Ah, look now, here’s the very person himself.’ A trapdoor in the bare wooden floor opened and a portly man in a green apron climbed out. ‘Jack, here’s yer new barmaid. A lovely colleen all the way from Dublin’s fair city.’

  Jack wiped his hand down his apron, then offered it to me. ‘Jack McFadden. You must be Irini. Thanks for helping out.’

  I shook his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr McFadden.’

  ‘Jack, please. Can I get you a half while we go through the ropes?’

  ‘Very kind, I’m sure, but I’m driving later.’

  ‘Time for me to go,’ Fergus said. ‘Will I open the doors, Jack?’

  *

  After a hectic night behind the bar, I stood outside the Shamrock while Jack locked up. I rubbed my forehead and inhaled the cool night air. Odd flashbacks of my mother’s dreams had returned through the evening, accompanied by my father’s warning and Spiro’s words.

  I should follow my mother’s example and write everything down. See if I could make any sense of my father’s concern for my safety.

  Longing to be back in my hotel room, I closed my eyes for a moment. Jack’s hand on my shoulder made me jump.

  ‘You all right to drive, Irini?’

  ‘Sure, just having a mental moment, don’t worry about it.’ My brain was muzzy and my skin tingled. Music and laughter drifted
down the street, but at three in the morning, I was tired of revellers and needed my sleep.

  ‘You did a good job, Irini. Thanks. I can see you’re truly knackered. It’s been a long night.’

  ‘Never worked so hard behind the bar in Dublin, Jack, but it was fun. I don’t get out much back home.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Too many commitments. For the past year, I took care of my father. He’s just moved into the residential home. With homework to check, and a little online fashion business I started last year, there aren’t enough hours in the day, really.’

  ‘That reminds me. Tomorrow, I know it’s short notice, but could you do the two-to-nine shift?’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’ Hopefully the work would take my mind away from the MRI scan.

  ‘Thanks. I’ve an appointment and I’d rather not leave my father in charge. We’ve a fashion company doing a photo shoot in the forecourt, so you might find that interesting. They’ll need soft drinks, perhaps tea and coffee, and use of the loo. Apart from that, it won’t be busy.’

  *

  After a sleep filled with more jumbled dreams of my parents, the collapsing archaeology site, my mother’s MRI, Jason in bed with Calla, and the bank manager snapping my Visa in two, I pull the sheet over my head. Held by the beautiful fresh bedlinen, with the sun streaming through white muslin curtains, I felt painfully lonely.

  I had no real friends, that was my problem. Never had much time for a social life, but I missed my fellow teachers. To be honest, I missed Jason. Apart from being lovers, we were great mates, always laughing together. I didn’t remember laughing much since we broke up.

  Enough! I was on a Greek island in an amazing beach hotel. I would make the most of it!

  After throwing myself at the bathroom, I raced into the hotel restaurant moments before the ten o’clock deadline.

  ‘Sorry, sorry!’ I apologised to the waiter.

  He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, be happy.’

  I want to be happy . . . The words formed in my mind, but before they reached my lips he had turned away and I was alone again.

  The English breakfast was somehow not quite authentic, but nevertheless delicious. Once the first pangs of hunger abated, my thoughts returned to the past.