Secrets of Santorini

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Secrets of Santorini Page 24

by Patricia Wilson


  Irini was nine years old, and I missed her more than ever. We went back to Dublin and stayed at the convent with her every Christmas, and I tried to stay close to her through the year by writing every week. In my letters, I told her stories and snippets of life on the island that I thought she would enjoy.

  Dear Darling Irini,

  Manno’s donkey had a baby last night. It’s light brown with a black cross on its back. It also has very big ears and thin, wobbly legs. They have asked if you would like to choose a name for her.

  Anna’s turkey ate too many rotting apricots from under their tree and got so completely drunk it was falling over. Then it picked a fight with her pink moped and kept running at it with its wings out. Everyone came to watch and we all laughed a lot.

  Kiki has lost her two front teeth, like you, but the tooth fairy forgot to leave her some money, so her daddy took her out on his boat instead.

  Daddy sends you all his love.

  And lots of hugs and kisses from me too,

  Mammy XXX

  I longed for her to come back to Santorini, but I was still afraid for her wellbeing. Every Sunday, Quinlan collected Irini from the convent and took her out, and at teatime I would telephone her at his house, but although Quinlan did his best to get her to talk to me, Irini was withdrawn and hardly spoke.

  ‘Perhaps it’s better if you don’t phone, Bridget,’ he said one Sunday. ‘I know that seems harsh, but Irini gets a bit upset. She’s too young to understand, and I think the calls unsettle her.’

  Next to our telephone stood a school photo that Quinlan had sent me. Irini’s pale, freckled face stared blankly out, her fiery red hair a flounce of curls about her shoulders. I wanted to hold her so badly that I broke into tears after putting the phone down. Tommy relented and took me into his arms.

  ‘Now then, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, Tommy! My life’s not worth living. What’s life without love? It’s empty, worthless, pointless. I can’t go on.’

  ‘That’s not the way to talk, Bridget. Irini loves you . . . I love you.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like it.’ I leaned into his body, savouring the sudden closeness after so long. I wanted to stay in his arms forever, my head against his cheek, his body against mine.

  ‘I can’t help how I am,’ he said over my shoulder. ‘I can’t pretend, not with you.’

  ‘Will you ever forgive me, Tommy?’ I craved for him to utter words of absolution.

  He was silent for a long time, then after a long sigh he said, ‘I don’t know, Bridget. Even now, the wound is too raw. Perhaps it will heal, but I just don’t know.’

  *

  I lay in bed that night thinking about the past. If I could change it, would I? Could I have let Tommy die? Even if he hated me for the rest of his life, that life of his was worth saving. So, in the end, I concluded that I would not have changed a thing.

  Although, over the years, we slowly grew back together, a part of our love had died. We were changed. Like one of my broken pots, although all the pieces were there and everything cemented back in place, the cracks that destroyed its perfection were permanent.

  I continued to have vivid dreams, though not as frequently. Now that Irini was safe from harm, I stopped trying to change them. Once again, I developed a kind of empathy with Queen Thira. She had lost her husband and her daughter, and although mine were still alive, I felt their love for me was growing more distant by the day and I was helpless to do anything about it.

  This broke my heart and dulled my spirit.

  As in my childhood, Thira was my ally, my secret friend. I sensed that she understood my pain and sympathised when nobody else could. The dreams moved on. They took me past the horrors of Oia’s sacrifice to a time when Thira, like me, grieved for her daughter. Companions in misery.

  One night, I gave myself up to the desolation of losing a beloved daughter and a caring husband. Perhaps it was this acceptance that freed my mind, because the next morning, I woke with the conviction that what I had seen in my sleep, was not a dream at all. I had experienced an actual vision of what really happened to Thira, her ten kings, and the people of Atlantis.

  *

  My darling Oia has gone to Poseidon. I speak to no one, hardly eat, and drink only water. My misery is intense. The dragonfly necklace has not left my hand since it fell from my daughter’s neck when the kings carried her away.

  If only I could sleep through the night – but this is impossible. Once my guard is down and my mind relaxes, I find myself back at the altar, reliving the sacrifice. My spirit is broken.

  Eurydice tells me that Hero requests an audience, but I instruct her to send him off. Hero can take charge; rule the kingdom in my absence. Overcome by my grief once more, I throw myself onto the palace floor and sob, my body shaking with anguish. Then I realise the movement is not coming from me, but from deep below the ground.

  ‘No! Poseidon, you fiend of the deep, don’t you dare betray my trust!’

  I can hear Hero shouting outside my chambers. He bursts through the doorway and pulls me to my feet. ‘Forgive me, my Queen! You must get ready quickly – the people need you. Great trouble is upon us.’

  He orders Eurydice: ‘Bathe and prepare your queen immediately. We have a council meeting. The kings await.’ Then back to me: ‘This is extremely urgent!’

  Once in my regal refinery, I grudgingly enter the council chambers. The kings are downcast. Hero speaks for them.

  ‘Queen Thira, Goddess of the Marches and Supreme Ruler, we all agree you were right. We must evacuate the island with great haste.’

  ‘I never doubted it, Hero, but what brought this change of mind?’ My voice is dull and tired. I don’t care if I was right or not. I only care that my darling daughter has gone to Poseidon.

  ‘The shepherds have a cave on the side of the mountain where they ripen cheeses. It has become so hot, their produce is ruined. Also, a strange, dirty air is seeping through cracks in the rocks. Several lambs, kept in the cave overnight, were all dead by dawn. Now smoke rises from fissures near the top and the earth is hot underfoot. The oracle warns the massif will soon explode like an olive pip in the embers.’

  ‘My daughter has gone because of your misgivings. The sacrifice of Oia is irreversible, and we still have to surrender our island to Poseidon.’ I stare each in the face until they lower their eyes. ‘Start the evacuation. We leave for Crete immediately.’

  *

  I felt Thira’s pain so intensely. Sending Irini to board with the nuns was hard enough, but the memory of that first Christmas was almost unbearable. Tommy and I stayed at the convent. Irini had grown so much in six months, and that alone broke my heart. I stupidly expected to see the little girl I had left digging her heels in and crying my name. Her last words had played in my head over and over: Don’t leave me, Mammy!

  When they brought her to us, she was quiet and, for a terrible moment, she didn’t recognise me. Shy, withdrawn, good as gold, but her unselfconscious affection had disappeared.

  She was already slipping away from me.

  After mass, we took Irini and Rabbs to the park. She fixated on the slide. Up the ladder and down the slide, with Rabbs clutched between her knees. I wanted her to smile, squeal, show some emotion, but she simply repeated the circuit over and over, her serious little face never showing pleasure.

  We bought ice cream from a van, and then went to feed the ducks. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she solemnly made sure each duck got a little bread.

  ‘Can we go home now?’ Irini asked when we were done with the ducks, and for a moment I was startled. ‘I want to play with my friends,’ she explained parents.

  The next day, when we returned to the park, Irini asked if her friends could come too. Tommy and I sat on a bench and watched them play, running and laughing together. We were shut out, redundant parents.

  Clearly, Irini was happy in her new home. Later, we looked at her school work and were proud to see she was near top in her
class. I hoped to return to the convent at Easter, and the summer holidays, but after our Christmas visit, Irini had withdrawn, her schoolwork had fallen off and she had started bed-wetting. The convent advised us to give her more time before we came again.

  CHAPTER 26

  IRINI

  Crete, present day.

  ‘IT’S YOUR TURN TO TELL me about yourself,’ I said to Angelo.

  ‘I have an apartment in London. It’s where my business is based. My father and brother run the family hotel, in Crete, and they are busy building another very lux hotel not far away.’

  I found my eyes drawn to him. He wore smart jeans with a scruffy, dog-eared leather belt, and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A dangling strand of cotton told me he’d cut the cuff of one sleeve in order to get his cast through.

  I stiffened my jaw to stifle a yawn.

  ‘You are tired now. Come, let’s go to bed.’ He grinned and bobbed his eyebrows.

  ‘Look, I . . .’

  ‘I sleep on the sofa, you sleep in the bedroom.’ An understanding smile appeared. ‘You don’t have to worry, you have my word I will behave like a gentleman. But with such a beautiful woman in the next room, it will be hard, Irini.’

  He grinned and lifted his eyebrows again, making me laugh, and I remembered his arms around me on the quayside. ‘You’ve been very kind. Thank you. Good night then.’ For a second, I struggled with the notion I should kiss his cheek, but I didn’t want to send out the wrong signals, so I left for the bedroom and closed the door.

  *

  I wondered if Angelo was awake. The windowless back room was unbearably stuffy and I feared I would suffocate if I didn’t let some air in. My parents must have slept with the adjoining door open. I turned on a side light and saw it was four o’clock in the morning. Angelo would be asleep.

  I dragged my damp hair away from my face. The door was closed by a simple latch, similar to the one on my back gate at home. Soundlessly, and holding my breath, I eased the bar out of the hook.

  Concerned that my light might wake him, I turned it off before slipping through the door. The living room was pitch black. The open front door, hung with a mosquito net, appeared like a rectangle of grey back-lit by the night sky. I remembered the small table in the centre of the room and stepped blindly around it. In a moment, I was outside in the pleasant night air. Such bliss!

  The bottle of water from the fridge stood on the table and I couldn’t resist making use of it. After taking a few gulps, I poured it over my head, allowing the water to run down my face and soak my damp T-shirt. I wiped the sweat from my face, and felt the cool liquid run down my bare legs. The pleasure was immeasurable.

  ‘You’re hot.’ The voice came from behind me. I spun around and saw him sitting on the low wall with his back against the house. ‘Me too,’ he said with a smile in his voice.

  I stood there, gawping like an idiot.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying: it’s been difficult working with you this week. You are incredibly beautiful, Irini.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ I waved his words away. ‘I thought you were sleeping. You did promise you wouldn’t give me any trouble,’ I said, trying not to sound as breathless as I felt.

  ‘But then I didn’t know you would stand before me in a wet T-shirt and little else.’

  I looked down, mortified to realise what he meant. I crossed my arms over my chest.

  ‘No worries, you are safe – I gave you my word. But you make it hard for me again.’

  I wondered if he understood the double meaning of his words. ‘It’s too stuffy in that back room. I’m really hot.’

  ‘I see it.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Behave, Angelo!’

  He laughed softly and came to sit at the table, so I took the other chair and we both looked up at the night sky. ‘I don’t want you to go back to Ireland. I would like to get to know you better, Irini, without the stress of work or the worries you have with your mother.’

  I shook my head and, unable to think of anything to say, I found myself staring at him. The scant moonlight silhouetted his profile, which appeared perfect. When he turned to me, his face fell into darkness, yet I knew he was still smiling. I loved that smile. The half-closed eyes and sweeping lashes – they were both affectionate and mischievous, and made me happy for no other reason. Heat returned to my face as I found myself gazing at him again, glad he couldn’t see my blush.

  My eyes became accustomed to the dark. The night was clear and beautiful. I stood, moved towards the wall, and stared out over the empty caldera. What sadness brought me here, what emotions I had suffered these past two weeks. Yet these things fell away and, in this uncomplicated moment, I felt I could breathe again.

  Then he was standing in front of me. We were an inch apart, two at the most. As if attending an overcrowded party, I could not move away from him, yet the patio was empty. I felt his breath on my mouth, soft as the beat of butterfly wings, and I caught the scent of cinnamon, canned pears, Christmas, and summer. Overwhelmed by many feelings, the jangled, tangled emotions of recent times, I had an urge to cry . . . and why? Why? I didn’t know.

  Then his body was against mine, and I wanted to resist, honestly . . . God knows how my arms came to be around his neck, and his around my back, holding me against him. Everything left me except for the desire to stay in that safe place forever. His lips touched mine and I lost myself in his embrace. Offering myself up, melting into him, drawing him into me, for the rest of my life. Or at least for that night. I needed to love, to be loved, to lose myself in the ecstasy of erotica, fly on the wings of Aphrodite. Forget everything. A reprieve from the pain and anguish and my soul-eating loneliness.

  He eased away, trembling slightly. ‘Irini, I . . .’

  So I made it clear. I pressed myself against him, and interrupted his words with a kiss that left no doubt. I was both euphoric and exhausted. Too tired to play games. I wanted to stay in his arms. I needed his kisses, and yes, I admit it, I wanted so much more. In a moment, we were back in the house. After a frantic struggle with buttons and wet T-shirts, our clothes abandoned us. In the glorious sensation of flesh against flesh, I lost myself in an overwhelming sense of desire.

  *

  I woke a few hours later, feeling the effect of too much wine, the bleariness of morning, and damp and tangled sheets. Angelo flung the door open, then returned to the bed.

  ‘Good morning, Goddess of the Night,’ he whispered. ‘Come, let us watch the sunrise, forget our worries, and be happy for what little time we have left.’

  An alarm fired off at his words. What ‘little time’? Surely, if we chose, we could have more occasions like this? Why was our time together limited? I peered into his sleepy eyes, searching for an answer, but before I could speak, he kissed me gently on the mouth and pulled me into his arms. Our limbs tangled around each other in a prelude to love. His lips danced on my lips, on my breasts, on my belly.

  ‘Oh my holy God! I’ve gone to heaven.’

  He grasped my buttocks with such masculine strength that I melted against him. Time slipped by, or stood still, I had no notion, until I found myself whispering, ‘Make love to me, Angelo, I want you so badly.’

  Lost in this intense physical pleasure, my worry and fear disappeared. He was an oasis in my troubled life. I wanted to stay locked in the safe haven of his arms, our bodies heaving and rolling in a glorious and sensual dance. The words he whispered with such urgency became passionate demands and my desire exploded, again and again, until I was calling out his name.

  Then he was holding me tenderly, whispering endearments, kissing unexpected tears away and telling me he loved me. My infinite longing was satiated as I cried out in ecstasy.

  We lay together, drifting in and out of sleep. I could shower and dress, or lie in his arms and enjoy the last moments of our time together in Santorini. The power was mine.

  I arched my back, kissed him softly, whispered, ‘Angel
o,’ and in my thoughts he was already mine once again. I slipped my hands behind his back and traced the triangle at the base of his spine. His soft groan was a surrender, the sexiest sound of his weakness and my strength. He caught me and held me against his body, and again I was filled with the need for self-absorbing love. His mouth became wet on my neck; he tasted my flesh with a hunger that sent shivers through me.

  I would shower later; there would be other sunrises.

  *

  Not only did we miss the sunrise, but we had missed the damned ferry again!

  At nine o’clock, Angelo paced outside, yelling into his phone. ‘We’ll be there for the afternoon shoot. No worries, Paula!’ Definitely not a morning person.

  I phoned the hospital, desperate to get there. After a quick shower, I dressed, left my wet hair loose, and stuffed all the things I needed into my holdall. Angelo continued on his phone, then barged into the house.

  ‘We take the ten-thirty flight to Athens, and the two-thirty to Crete, okay? The shoot starts at four. I’ll call Spiro. Are you ready?’

  I nodded and called Quinlan. ‘I’ll be at the hospital at eight this evening,’ I told him. I didn’t want to go there. The situation was too horrible to think about. With my father, my uncle, and myself by my mother’s bedside, everything was set up for my mother to die. Like we were orchestrating the end of her life, giving her permission to go. I placed my hands over my face, trying to accept the inevitable.

  Angelo’s arms slipped around my shoulders. He pulled me to his chest.

  ‘I don’t want her to die, Angelo. Why couldn’t I have found the time and money and the need to be with her before she was in this state? I could have bridged our fractured relationship if I’d made the effort but I didn’t. Too busy with my own life. And the tragedy is, now it’s too late. There’s so much I want to say, too many things we never did together. I’m her daughter, yet I hardly know her.’

  ‘I know.’ He rocked me gently.

 

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