I wanted to say, ‘How can you possibly know!’ but I bit my tongue, cursing my overactive emotions.
‘Irini, your mother knows you love her. Don’t let the complications of life get in the way. There’s nothing stronger than the way a mother feels for her children. She will take your love with her, and leave her love with you. Nothing else matters in the end.’ He stroked my hair and a little of my anguish melted.
Perhaps he was right – I should stop dwelling on regrets. Safe in his arms, I turned my face up. ‘I want to thank you for coming with me. It’s made such a difference not being alone.’
He peered into my eyes. ‘Irini, I want to tell you—’
‘Iris! Iris!’
Angelo groaned as I pulled away from his embrace.
Spiro appeared. ‘You had good times last night, Iris, yes? Now we go to the airport!’
*
At eleven-fifteen we were in Athens arrivals.
‘Look, we have some free time,’ Angelo said. ‘Let’s go to the National Archaeological Museum and see the frescoes of Santorini, yes?’ His eyes sparkled like a kid at the fairground, lifting me out of my misery. He grabbed my hand, kissed the back of it, and led me to the taxi rank.
Outside the city, the taxi raced through areas of closed-down businesses, empty shops, and half-built houses. A sad sight to see.
‘Difficult times,’ Angelo explained.
In the vibrant city centre, I was thrilled to catch a glimpse of the Acropolis, with the Parthenon on top. I thought of Mam and her love of ancient history. Reminded that she would never come here again, I tried to see it with her eyes and feel her pleasure.
We pulled up in a No Parking area and Angelo had a huge argument with the taxi driver. I stepped back and let him deal with it. I wondered if my parents had visited the museum. I would take pictures to share with my father, knowing how much he would enjoy looking at the frescoes of Santorini again.
The National Archaeological Museum was a magnificent building, everything I imagined a Greek museum would look like. Granite steps the width of the front led to a wide, open, rectangular façade that was supported by four tall, white-marble columns with ornate capitals. The impressive frontage had wings of similar proportions and style, set slightly back to the left and right. The building was boldly painted in ochre, burgundy, and white. Above, taking centre stage under the sun’s spotlight, the blue and white Greek flag waved at the breeze.
In front of the building, a long green lawn was dotted with students and tourists.
After the bright sunlight, the foyer seemed gloomy, disorganised, and noisy. A gaggle of teenage girls on a school trip preened and giggled, their hormones sitting up and waving at boys. Nearby, a gang of adolescent with fuzzy chins and croaky voices cried ‘malaka’ every few words. Their teacher, in charge of the group, had the twitchy look of someone dangerously close to losing control. This all reminded me that school in Dublin started soon and my time in Greece was limited.
Marble sculptures lined the walls. Then we came upon a life-size bronze of a boy on a horse, which I could have stared at for hours.
‘What do you think?’ Angelo asked.
‘It’s the most magnificent thing. So much movement and drama, and detail. Unbelievably beautiful, apart from the tail. It doesn’t quite look as though it belongs to the horse.’
‘Very good! You are more observant than most.’ He lifted his hand towards the bronze. ‘The original tail was lost at sea and this was added recently.’
Ridiculously pleased with myself, I slipped my hand into Angelo’s. His eyes narrowed as he glanced my way.
‘Three times – phew!’ he whispered.
I blushed like crazy and lowered my eyelids. ‘Behave!’
‘We must hurry,’ he said, grinning.
In the next hall, I stopped and stared. There stood Poseidon, as sketched in my mother’s Book of Dreams. The larger-than-life bronze, muscular and magnificent, about to hurl his trident. The other statues were cold, pale marble, but this had the warmth of burnished bronze. Light played over the curves, giving the impression he was about to move, about to breathe. I stared at the perfectly sculpted feet and recalled my mother’s notebooks. The figure was so life-like! It seemed to put meat on the bones of her dreams . . . such a weird thought.
‘Speak to me,’ Angelo said. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Poseidon, about to throw his trident,’ I whispered, overawed. ‘Look, he’s perfect.’ My gaze travelled down the bronze, and avoiding a comment on the smallness of the god’s manhood, my attention came to rest, once again, on his feet. ‘Look at that – so perfect you get the impression he’s about to wiggle his toes.’
‘Some say it’s Zeus, about to hurl a thunderbolt.’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘It’s Poseidon, Lord of the Seas, God of Tempest and Terror.’
Angelo nodded, looked at his watch and said, ‘Come on, the frescoes.’
We hurried on to the Santorini section.
The first fresco that took my breath away was of two gazelles. Beautiful life-size creatures painted with grace. A black calligraphy outline on cream plaster, lines flowing to suggest movement, although they had all four hooves on the ground. We stared at it in silence, taking in the artistry.
Next, we looked at the fresco of the boxing boys.
‘See how each child only wears one boxing glove,’ Angelo said. ‘And the boy with the paler face wears jewellery – earrings, and bracelets on his arm and ankle. The other has none. Why is that? And think about this, Irini: there is nothing to say they are boys, they might well be girls. How’s that for equality?’
‘Look at the shaved heads, painted blue. My mother talked about that in her Book of Dreams.’
Angelo glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll come back, sometime in the future. I don’t want to miss the plane.’
*
On the flight, he held my hand, occasionally stroking the back, or giving it a little squeeze. I guessed, like me, he was remembering our night together. I longed to be in his arms again, taste his kisses, his body against mine, whispered words of love in my ear.
Back in Crete, Angelo and I rushed from the airport to the photography shoot, and when we arrived, the relief shone from Paula’s face. I was hurried through make-up and dressed in record time. I didn’t think anybody noticed the surreptitious glances that passed between Angelo and I. All through the shoot, I tried not to look his way, but his presence was undeniable, always there behind Nick. To be honest, I tried a little harder because of it.
The afternoon ran smoothly and we were finished by seven o’clock.
Angelo wanted me to eat with him, and once again I longed to feel his embrace, but these were my mother’s last days and I was desperate to get to her side.
CHAPTER 27
BRIDGET
Crete, present day.
WHERE AM I?! What’s happening?! I know this is not one of my Atlantis dreams. Time and space are lost to me, yet I experience a floating sensation and recognise that I am surfacing from the darkest black. Oh my God, perhaps I have died? I can feel myself rise through a fog of emotional glue. I want to cry out, but can’t. Anguish is surrounding me without shape or form. I am floating towards a spark of consciousness and sense that something important awaits.
That ‘something’ is pain. A fiery pinprick between my eyes is gathering strength, like an explosion in slow motion. Without the relief of a scream or the ability to flinch away, this agony quickly becomes intolerable. I find myself descending back towards the sanctuary of deep unconsciousness. Yet on that slippery return, I can hear a voice – distant, but recognisable.
‘Hello Mam. It’s me, Irini. You’re in hospital, in Crete. You’ve had an accident.’
Oh, Irini! Are you really near me? Hospital? An accident? Are you holding my hand, Irini? There is so much I want to say, but if I can’t, will you understand the clues I’ve left you?
In those few lucid moments, I soar above the pain. I c
an hear and think, but my body seems dead. Crete? I’m in Crete? Can I feel my daughter’s hand in mine? I try and try to concentrate. I have to tell her about the dragonfly necklace, that I know where it is! That if she thinks hard enough, she will know where it is too. She must find it and do the right thing. Give it to Tommy, then he’ll forgive me. He will never find peace until he does. I’ve lived with his scorn for such a long time, I can’t bear it any longer. I wish I could tell him. I wish . . .
If only I could open my eyes! I want to clutch the presence of Irini to me and hear her speak kindly. How I have yearned for that over the years. I longed to take the place of one of her little friends in the convent; have her smile at me; whisper secrets in my ear; hug me if I tripped and hurt myself. All I have is her voice, flitting like a butterfly in the darkness of my brain. I am desperate to grasp hold of her words and reply.
My chemically induced slide into oblivion has no handrails. Helpless, and incapable of holding on to reality, I am falling back into that blank space where time has no meaning, and then I am descending into another era.
Falling, falling, back through the stars, the sun reverses its orbit, time and space suck me down, eons fly by, until that ancient time grows stronger and more real on each return. I arrive at the place that holds my spirit, when my destiny was written. I transform into Thira, ruler of Atlantis.
*
I, Queen Thira, Goddess of the Marches, stand on the palace terrace and survey the scene below. From my viewpoint, I observe the Sacred City of Istron in our new homeland of Crete. I can see all the way down to the port and out over the rolling, turquoise sea beyond. Our great wooden ships, the envy of King Minos and the Cretans, stand in a magnificent row the length of the harbour. We have the finest vessels of all nations. The city flourishes, and the new temple is almost complete.
I turn and gaze over the fields, inland of the city. They stretch away to the mountains, a rich patchwork of leafy vineyards, citrus-fruit orchards, olive groves, and vegetable plots. The livestock flourishes, and with that, so do my people. They are happy and safe.
I think of Oia and my heart is heavy. She went to Poseidon one harvest back. Although her sacrifice was ultimate, we Atlanteans still had to leave our homeland, but at least we now live in peace. Every full moon, I send a ship back to check on the situation at home. My sailors report that the mountain grows hotter by the day.
My people have settled here at Istron. Clearly, they enjoy the stability of their new homeland. Hero comes and stands by my side.
‘We have a council meeting later, my Queen,’ he says quietly.
‘I wish Oia was here to see this.’ I lift my chin and look over the town.
‘We must thank her for our peace, and you, my Queen, for your sacrifice.’
‘Do you think she’s happy, Hero? She was so young and had so much to look forward to. I am left alone and broken-hearted.’
He sighs. ‘One day, when we reach the Elysian Fields, we will know everything. Until that time, we must put our faith in the Great Gods of Olympus. I believe Oia is happy in her new domain.’
We gaze out at the distant sea, at peace, silent for a moment. A fishing boat is heading for shore. Seagulls bump and squabble in the air behind it, their plaintive calls reaching us through the warm summer air. The boat is low in the water, telling of a bountiful catch.
‘Poseidon feeds us,’ Hero says. ‘The populous will eat well tonight.’
Women, with woven baskets on their heads, walk down to the harbour, hips swinging, infants on their backs. Others hold the hands of skipping children; they gossip and laugh as they walk. The town is filled with contentment and I am happy and proud to see my people living this way. Someone is strumming a laouto. They pluck the strings and a melody that fits the scene perfectly drifts over us.
A distant sonic boom vibrates the air and fear thumps through my body, aching in my neck and pulling my mouth down. My tranquillity turns to fear.
‘Look, Hero.’ I point at the horizon. ‘What is that?’
We stare, mesmerised by a thin black line dividing the brilliant sky and the sea.
People rush from their houses, climb onto their flat roofs, and watch the strip of darkness grow thicker with every heartbeat. Dogs bark, as if they know something we don’t.
‘It’s our homeland, Hero!’ I know in an instant that the mountain has exploded. ‘The God of Tempest and Terror has finally claimed Atlantis. Praise Zeus we are safe here in Crete.’
Hero stands behind me and takes me into his arms. ‘So you did the right thing to persuade us to leave. The people, all of us, owe you our lives.’
I watch a crowd gather around the palace. The dark line grows, thickening, slowly rising from the horizon, while at the same time it seems to float over the water towards us. A tower of black smoke reaches for the sun and the people of Istron find themselves in semi-darkness. My concern grows; foreboding engulfs me.
‘Hero, it took the ships one day and one night to reach Crete. How long will it take the poisonous black air of Atlantis to reach this island and smother us all? Tell the people to gather in the warehouses immediately! We need to protect ourselves in case the inferno’s evil reaches Crete! Remember, the bad air inside the mountain – it killed the lambs. If it reaches here, it will kill us too!’
‘Immediately, my Queen.’ Hero bows and rushes away.
The urgency of the situation strikes everyone at the same time. Word spreads quickly. Mothers gather their children and workers come in from the fields. They take water, food, and blankets into the great stone warehouses and hunker down between the icons and treasures.
‘Eurydice!’ She is at my side instantly. ‘Call the kings to council, immediately. The meeting will be here on the terrace, so we can observe the situation as we talk.’ She rushes away and, as I wait, I watch the sailors batten-down ships and secure vessels to the quayside with extra ropes, before they join their loved ones in the warehouses.
*
Tommy is here. I can hear the worry in his voice. There’s so much I want to say, but all I can do is listen. If only I could tell him how much I love him, how I have always loved him, and that I always will. I want to say I’m sorry but I simply could not allow him to die all those years ago. Instead, I turned him into the grumpy and bitter man he is today.
Tommy’s voice reaches me through the darkness and my mind soars. You’re near, my darling, Tommy. Do you know what that means to me? I long to be in your arms again, but just that you are close is wonderful. You’ve always been enough. Whatever crumb you throw my way satisfies my hunger.
It’s the truth. From the very beginning, I never wanted more than you. Remember our song, It Started With a Kiss? But no, the corny thing was, it started with a ping-pong game. I’ve loved you since that first moment. My heart fluttered so wildly I could hardly hold the bat on that day that changed my life.
‘Bridget, I don’t know if you can hear me. The doctor told me that you might, but I’m not even sure you understand what’s happened.’
He sniffs and I wonder if he’s become emotional.
‘I should have gone to the police, Bridget, but I couldn’t stand to get you into trouble, especially as I knew you’d done it for me. And now you’re dying, Bridget, and I want to die with you. How can I live without your life in my thoughts every day; thinking about you in Santorini and wondering what you’re doing? I’ve always loved you, though sometimes I’ve almost hated you, but in an odd way, even that was an honour. Oh, my darling girl . . . my darling girl . . . I’m sorry for every unkindness.’
He’s sobbing, and I’m grateful to Uncle Peter and his definition of crying. ‘Tears, they are God’s way of washing out the soul.’
So, I’m dying. There is some relief in hearing that, and understanding what’s going on. It’s all right. We all die, and I’m glad to have these moments with you, Tommy, before I go. You’re an old man now, and not in good health. I can see you clearly in my mind, and you’re always i
n my heart. I remember the first time I walked into the lecture room and there you were, the man I’d played ping-pong with.
‘Decided to join us, have you?’ you said. I cringed, late for the lesson, embarrassed and self-conscious.
‘Sorry, I got lost.’
‘There’s a place in the front row. Can you find that, miss . . . what’s your name?’
‘Bridget Gallagher, sir,’ I said, blushing.
‘Right, Bridget Gallagher, do you know what your surname means?’
‘Yes, sir.’ There was a moment of silence between us and I caught the glint in your eye, you devil. ‘Foreign helper, or lover of foreigners, sir.’
‘Very good. Sit!’
Your lecture was Sir Arthur Evans and Minoan art at Knossos, in Crete. You gave me an A+ for my paper with no knowledge that I had already fallen in love with you. You took every opportunity to pick on me. You’re a git, Tommy McGuire. What are you talking about now?
‘Bridget, I don’t believe what happened in Santorini was an accident. I think you were knocked unconscious and then the wall pushed over you. I’ve got no proof, it’s just a feeling. I get befuddled sometimes so I may be wrong, but there are too many coincidences.’
You’re holding my hand, Tommy, or am I imagining it? I’m trying to move my fingers. I want you to know I can hear you. I want to tell you you’re right. There was somebody at the site that day. They found out what I had done and came after me.
Aaron had gone to get petrol for the generator when I heard a noise. I didn’t see who it was, but the sun was behind him, and I saw his shadow along the ground coming out from behind a wall. I was staring at it when I saw the shadow of the scaffolding bar as it swung towards me.
I think it was the man who had threatened me earlier.
I don’t know what happened after that. It wasn’t Splotskey, I’m sure. I never heard from him again, and they told me at the hospital he had died. This was a big, strong man with wide shoulders. Next thing I knew, I was surfacing from a fog in a hospital bed. I feel I’ve been sleeping for a long, long time and just can’t open my eyes. You know how it goes, that pleasant, safe feeling just before you wake up fully, except that this feeling is always followed with pain so intense I can’t stand it. Then I think they drug me again.
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