Angelo was still grinning at my smalls when he picked up. After talking for a couple of minutes, he replaced my underwear and the phone. The men tugged on mooring ropes, and the boat slid towards the quayside.
‘It was a man,’ Angelo said. ‘He is boarding a flight with your father and he will phone again later.’
The hull hit the wharf and I toppled back. My head, which was still tender after the car accident, whacked against the cabin. I yelped, touched my scalp, fearing my stitches had split. Before I could get my bearings, two men hauled me onto the cement and Sofia attacked me with the powder and brush. I found it hard to stand still and swayed slightly, my sea-legs not immediately adjusting to dry land.
Angelo’s smile rapidly lost its charm. I wanted to give him a slap. The cheek of the man, waving my underwear about for all to see. When Sofia had finished, he came over.
‘This man with your father, he said they will arrive at nine o’clock. He’s your boyfriend?’ He peered questioningly, then glanced at his plaster cast. He was remembering my underwear and I longed to say something smart. However, it seemed I had lost the power of sarcasm, so I kept my mouth shut and shook my head.
By seven, the shoot was over and I headed for the Portakabin. Angelo passed me a bottle of water. ‘Come with me. I have something to show you.’
From the corner of my eye, I saw Paula slam her fists to her hips as she watched us.
Angelo led me out of the harbour and onto a concrete wall that reached out to sea, protecting the marina. The scruffy anchorage contained a rusting dredger and long-abandoned, half-submerged boats. Huge concrete blocks were scattered like thrown dice.
‘This way,’ he said, leading me along the top until he stopped at an elbow where the wall changed direction. ‘Here, sit.’
I did, wondering what this was about. Perhaps they didn’t need me any longer. Working for Retro Emporio had been a great adventure, but if my modelling career was over, so be it. Anyway, it seemed rough justice. With my mother critical, I shouldn’t be having such a great time. But then, I fretted about the money.
I glanced down to the detritus of washed-up plastic. A pretty white church stood on the flat rocks to my left, the sort of chapel you see on Greek posters. The immediate coastline stretched away with a length of empty, sandy beach. Further along the shoreline, a giant Ferris wheel loomed from the condensed tourist area of Malia, and offshore, kite-surfers sped back and forth. The dazzling colours of their kit glinted in the low sunlight like jewels scattered over the sea. A small island supported another little white church, a destination for tourists in their pedalos and canoes.
Angelo took my water, opened it, and handed it back. ‘Is he your boyfriend, this Quinlan?’
None of your business. ‘No, he’s my uncle.’
‘Ah.’ He gave a small smile. ‘You seemed distracted today. You did a good job, but I think your mind was elsewhere.’ He stared at the horizon. ‘Tell me your problems. How is your mother?’
A seagull sailed through the air close to the water, its white reflection undulating on the turquoise sea. I followed the lonely, searching bird with my eyes. ‘I’m worried about her.’ I couldn’t speak for a moment, not sure if my emotions would allow it.
‘Tell me.’
I took a deep breath, glanced into Angelo’s face for a second, and then absently returned my attention to the gull. ‘My father and uncle have come to say goodbye to my mother. She may, you know, let go . . .’ I had to stop, take another calming breath. ‘My mother’s condition is hard enough to deal with, but if my father wants her to be buried in Ireland, then I need her passport, and I’ve stupidly left her papers in the house in Santorini. Then there’s money. I have to be out of my hotel tomorrow. I’m working for you through the day – thank you for that – and the pub in the evening, but it’s still not enough to cover the hospital bills. And most of all . . . most of all . . . I don’t want my mother to die. I don’t. I can’t even stand the thought.’
Everything welled up, and then I was sobbing against his chest. His arms held me, lightly, as if hovering on a boundary.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I said after a moment, pulling away and swiping my eyes, horribly aware that we were in clear view of Paula and the crew. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
‘Look,’ he said, pointing his chin towards the skyline.
The sun was a huge fiery ball just touching the horizon. A shimmering path of red was reflected on the wavetops reaching all the way across the sea, ending below our feet. Overawed by the scene, I stared in silence. I was watching my mother’s light go out, her life slipping below the horizon, her echo dancing across the waters to touch me one last time.
In my mind, I was saying goodbye, trying to be brave and let her go. Like the sun, she was going anyway.
With just a sliver of red remaining above the horizon, I could not look away. Those last precious moments. When the sun had gone, the sky became rich burned orange. I turned to Angelo, but the sun had fixed its ghost to my retina and I saw a smudge of red wherever I looked.
‘Irini, we all have to watch our parents grow old and die. It’s the way things are, but I am sad for you. My own mother died when I was a boy and it hurt me deeply, so I understand.’ His big brown eyes stared into the distance and I wondered what he was thinking. My ringing phone broke the silence between us.
I answered, and after a short conversation, ended the call.
‘The hospital?’ Angelo asked.
‘No, someone’s interested in my wedding dress.’
‘Your wedding dress? You are married?!’ He seemed alarmed, so I elaborated.
‘No, I make clothes and sell them on social media.’
‘Ah, we have competition?’
‘Hardly. I haven’t even got a proper website. In fact, I’ve only just acquired my own labels.’ I found myself sitting up, proud of the achievement, reminding myself to tell my mother all this. ‘Rags to Riches. My designs are mostly made from upcycled clothes.’
‘Upcycled clothes?’ His mocking smile was in place, but behind it, I sensed genuine interest and it uplifted me. ‘What is this? Tell me more.’
‘I’d love to, but I’m already running late. I have to get changed, collect my family at the airport, visit my mother, and then go to work at the Shamrock.’
‘Keep the dress,’ he said. ‘It looks good on you. Visit your mother, then go straight to work. I will send my driver for your father and uncle, and take them to my hotel.’
His hotel?
For a moment, words escaped me. ‘You’re too kind, but . . . your hotel?’ I stuttered.
‘Well, my father’s hotel, in Elounda. Five stars,’ he said with pride. ‘The models always stay there when we work in Crete. You will too. I think Paula has booked you in from tomorrow night. So no more worries, Irini. No more tears.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much . . .’
‘Nothing,’ he said with a shrug.
Horrified, I noticed the state of his shirtfront. ‘Oh my God! I’m sorry, you’ve got mascara all over your shirt.’
He glanced down. ‘My new shirt. You are a catastrophe!’ He looked at my face and touched his nose. ‘You have snot.’
The embarrassment! I swiped under my nose and sniffed hard.
He laughed and then after a moment’s thought said, ‘Tomorrow we don’t work. I will take you to Santorini to get your mother’s papers. I haven’t been there for a long time. Your father and uncle will be at the hospital all day I think, so no worries, okay?’
Speechless and overwhelmed by his kindness, I nodded.
‘Now, you must go and see Sofia. Your face is a little mess.’
In the Portakabin, I stared at my reflection. I had panda eyes on my tear-streaked face.
‘What yous cry for, lady?’ Sofia asked with a resigned sign. ‘Yous make much works for mees.’
‘Sorry, Sofia. How do I say sorry?’
‘Συγνωμη.’
‘
Sig-no-me?’
‘Goods.’
She cleaned my face and then I set out for the pub.
*
At dawn the next morning, I packed my case, checked out of my holiday hotel, and drove to Elounda. Quinlan and my father were waiting in their hotel lobby, and our reunion was an emotional struggle. Poor Dad was still tired after the journey. He hadn’t slept well and seemed disorientated. I told them all my news and why I would not be with them. Quinlan approved, explaining that perhaps Dad could not talk freely in front of me.
‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘What does he have to hide?’
But my uncle would not elaborate.
As I waited in the car park for Angelo, one tragic scene after another arrived at A&E. People with broken limbs and bloody wounds. I would be glad to get away from the place for a while.
Angelo arrived in a silver, chauffeur-driven Mercedes. ‘Lock your car and leave it here,’ he said as he got out.
‘I have, Quinlan needs it to get back to the hotel.’
Despite wearing a white linen shift and a straw hat, I sweltered in the sun. Angelo held the door open for me. I welcomed the vehicle’s cool interior. Greek music played softly from hidden speakers. ‘Everything okay?’ Angelo asked, once he was sitting beside me.
‘Yes. Thanks for this, it’s really kind of you.’
‘No worries. We’ll go to the port and take the FastCat.’
After a length of silence, I tried to make conversation. ‘Your hotel’s beautiful. How come you don’t work there too?’
‘That life is not for me. My father and my brother, Damian, do the job very well. I like more the art and fashion, so I have this business.’
‘I’m confused, you mean it really is your business? In the hospital, you referred to “the boss”. Then later, when I met Paula, I brought . . .’
He laughed. ‘Sometimes she thinks so too, and one day she will become my partner – but that is the future. Now it is my business.’
‘I love fashion too. I have a passion for fabric and design. My uncle, the one who’s here now, he makes costumes for the main theatre in Dublin and sometimes I help. I wanted to take art and fashion at college, but the nuns persuaded me I’d be better off as a teacher. It’s a secure job.’ I thought of all the pleasure I got from making and selling my designs. ‘I started taking a college course in the evening, but then my parents came home and I had to give it up to look after my father. I have a fashion portfolio that I still work on, but it’s only a hobby, really.’
‘You must submit it to my company office in London. We’re always looking for fresh talent.’
I knew he was only being nice, but the gesture was kind. I was suddenly overwhelmed by this man’s thoughtfulness. Even with his frowning smile he somehow managed to cheer me up.
I turned and said, ‘Look, the accident, it wasn’t your fault because you were on your phone. I’m the one who drove on the wrong side of the road. We both got away lightly.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘You think I am doing this because I feel guilty?’ He stared at the traffic ahead, but I saw the furrowed smile in place and it made me feel better.
*
At the port, I took in the scene as Angelo went to buy our tickets. Golden sunlight poured from a deep azure sky, refracting with blinding flashes on the gently undulating seawater. A wooden caïque, painted in primary colours and piled with yellow fishing net, rounded the harbour wall, interrupting the tranquil scene. An entourage of gulls dipped and soared over its foamy wake, screaming and jostling for tossed fish guts.
The little boat chugged towards the fishing harbour, next to a sandstone fort. Waiting on the quayside, a line of stooped old women, head-to-toe in black, stood like vultures, greedy eyes set on the approaching trata boat and its fresh fish. A traditional village scene in a big city. Although I didn’t know the place very well, I got the feeling a lot of ethnicity still lingered in modern, bustling Heraklion.
Further along the port, coaches, taxis, and lorries seemed ant-like in the shadow of a majestic cruise ship, several ferries, and a container ship. The vessels loomed like giants over the quayside.
Suddenly, Angelo was beside me. ‘Look, here she comes.’ He nodded towards the approaching FastCat. The ship appeared like a floating bridge and had an aura of immense power. Dockworkers secured the vessel to the quayside, and then there was bedlam. The tickets had seat numbers, so why was everyone pushing and shoving to get on?
‘Have you been to Heraklion before?’ Angelo asked, once we were strapped in.
I shook my head. ‘Never even heard of it before.’
‘Ah, but you have, you just don’t know it.’
Puzzled, I glanced at his way and once again I saw pride shining from his face.
‘Candy, candied peel, sweets – they all originated from here, from the city’s old name, Candia.’
I had a feeling I would learn a lot on this trip to Santorini.
‘You must understand, the Cretan people are your first upcyclers. They waste nothing, never have. But they had a problem with one thing. They grew much citrus fruit, but even the goats and chickens would not eat the peel, so they soaked it in honey and strung it up to dry. It became very popular, this peel from Candia, so they did it with other fruit, and the stems of umbellifers like angelica, finding that it stored for a long time. These sweetmeats soon gained popularity and were exported as far as America. “The sweet that came from Candia” was eventually shortened to “candied-peel”. Because of this, most sweet things in America were later referred to as “candy”.’
He went on to tell me many surprising things about his homeland, until two hours later, we slowed and entered the caldera of Santorini.
Selfie-sticks were raised all around us, like a unified salute to the island. As we approached the small port, I looked up to the main town of Fira and thought about my mother’s house. With sadness, I realised she would probably never see it again.
‘Irini! Irini!’ I recognised Aaron’s voice on the bustling quayside. He lumbered towards us. ‘You father called me. Asked me to meet you.’
I introduced him to Angelo. ‘Aaron’s an archaeologist, and a fellow countryman.’ There was an odd moment as the two men weighed each other up, then they shook hands. We squeezed into the front of Aaron’s battered pick-up and zigzagged our way up the cliff.
Aaron dropped us close to the house. He promised to collect us after lunch and take us to the archaeological site, which Angelo was also eager to see. When Aaron had gone, Angelo and I stood on the patio and took in the view. I imagined my mother in Angelo’s place, and wished with all my heart that she could return to her little house one day. Perhaps in her mind, she did.
‘This is amazing,’ he said after a moment, breaking my thoughts. ‘Can you imagine living here? To see this every day?’
‘I know. It’s beautiful. My parents loved it here.’ The urge to beat myself up for never visiting rose in my chest. Distracting myself, I unlocked the front door and handed him a bundle of official-looking letters that lay on the table. ‘Would you mind going through these and telling me if there’s anything I need to deal with? I can’t read Greek.’
He settled on the wall, and for a second I watched him flipping through the letters. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of our first few meetings, I was beginning to enjoy his company. And I couldn’t deny that the haircut and shave had certainly done wonders for his appearance . . . Telling myself to stop it, I returned to the lounge. The air was warm and musty. I searched for my mother’s passport and any other documents I might need.
Just when I thought I had everything, I heard, ‘Iris! Iris! You came back!’
Spiro rushed onto the terrace and practically swept me up in a hug as I came out of the door. He had not noticed Angelo in the shade.
‘Let go of me, Spiro, or I’ll tell your wife!’ I cried.
‘Tonight, I take you dancing, Iris. We will live like there is no tomorrow. Don’t worry about my w
ife. She can beat me, but you are worth the black and bruises!’
Angelo cleared his throat and Spiro recoiled, before swinging around.
Angelo held out a hand. ‘Angelo Rodakis.’
Spiro’s eyes widened. ‘Boyfriend . . . Iris no tell me she have boyfriend! I am Spiro, the best taxi on Santorini. You want taxi, you call me, okay? I make very good trip around the island. Special price for you, my friend.’
Angelo spoke to him in Greek and the panic left Spiro’s face.
‘I’d like to do that next time, Spiro,’ I said. ‘But we are only here for today. We’re taking the evening FastCat back to Crete.’
‘How is Bridget?’ he asked quietly.
I looked at the ground and shook my head, not wanting to break this news to him. ‘They can’t do anything for her, Spiro. My dad has come over to say goodbye.’
Spiro laid his hand on his chest. ‘May God forgive her sins. Sorry for you, Iris. I thinks your heart is breaking. Bridget, she talks about you all the time while you were away, when you grow up, but you know that, yes? She shows me pictures of when you have birthdays, when you do things in your church, when you get your university papers. She is very proud to be the mother of you, Iris.’
I turned away, stared over the caldera, fighting back tears.
‘But tell me this, Iris, I am confused,’ Spiro said. ‘Bridget, she never calls you Iris, she always calls you: “My Irini”. My Irini this, my Irini that. Why she calls you Irini?’
‘It’s my name, Spiro. I am called Irini.’
‘Then why you tell me Iris?’
‘No, I said I am Irish.’
‘So you are Iris, not Irini?’
Angelo was grinning. He said something in Greek to Spiro and the taxi driver’s eyes widened.
‘Ah, you make big mistake, Iris. You should say you are from Ireland, not that you are Iris, you understand.’
‘Spiro!’
The taxi driver cowered. ‘My wife! I must go. Give my regards to Tommy. He is very good man, like a brother to me. I will see you next time you come, Iris.’ He nodded at Angelo. ‘You no have to worry about me, sport. Me and Iris, we are just good friends,’ he said earnestly, before scurrying away.
Secrets of Santorini Page 21