Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  Mr Mavro sat up and blinked at me. ‘Have you ever thought you were psychic, experiencing your mother’s thoughts like that?’

  I almost laughed. ‘No, not at all. I’ve never believed in that stuff.’

  ‘Have you experienced any headaches lately?’ His eyes narrowed slightly and his expression changed to a look of concern.

  ‘Well, yes. I had a car accident on my first day here and the doctor said I suffered a little concussion, but nothing to be alarmed about.’

  He turned my mother’s notes over and wrote something on the back. ‘When you get home, you must take this to your doctor,’ he said, passing the notes over. ‘You should be tested, to make sure you don’t have the rogue gene. Now, your question. According to the latest research, there’s a suggestion that memories can be passed down to later generations, through genetic switches. This means offspring may subconsciously inherit the memory of certain experiences of their ancestors. New studies show it’s possible for some information to be inherited biologically, through chemical changes that occur in our DNA. So you may not be too far off the mark with your question. But from antiquity, you say?’

  I nodded, relieved he had taken me seriously.

  ‘I’ve never heard of anything like that, over such a time span. I can refer you to a specialist if it would put your mind at ease.’

  I shrugged, thinking of my depleted funds. ‘I’m not sure. Now that my mother’s gone, there seems little point.’

  *

  The next morning, my father, Quinlan, and I took the FastCat to Santorini. Everything about the island seemed disrespectfully vibrant and alive.

  My mother’s funeral was at three o’clock. Spiro picked us up from the port and then hurriedly helped arrange the front room to accommodate the coffin. I was weighed down by grief. At eleven-thirty the undertakers arrived at the hyposkafa with the casket. A stand was set in the front room, the casket lid removed and rested against the wall outside.

  My poor mother lay under a blanket of white chrysanthemums, with only her hands and face showing. She looked so serene with her auburn hair shining and lips plump and moist. I had the impression she would wake with a smile and thought it ironic that I’d never seen her look so beautiful in life.

  Female mourners, dressed in black, brought their own chairs and umbrellas, and sat around the patio perimeter. They talked quietly, crossing themselves often. Indoors, at one end of the room, stood a table covered in a white lace cloth. On it, flowers, candles, and pictures of the Holy Trinity surrounded an ornately framed photograph of my mother.

  A stream of people arrived. Each one lit a candle at the shrine and stood it in the box of sand next to the table. The number of local people that came to pay their respects, and their display of emotion, moved me. Local men and women spoke softly to Dad and me, then they worked their way around the patio, exchanging condolences and hugging friends. There were no smiles, no celebration of life; the sombre occasion reflected all the misery of death.

  At two o’clock, the casket was placed in a hearse. Mourners, led by my father and me, then Quinlan and Aaron, followed on foot. The austere pageant crawled through the town of Fira. Traders closed their doors and stood outside, heads bowed. Many left their shops and joined the procession.

  The church bell tolled the funeral knell above the Catholic church. One flat and depressing ‘dong’ every ten seconds. Inside, garish icons with doleful eyes looked down on the pews and crammed aisles. The service bellowed into the streets from a loudspeaker on the church tower. In the fishing harbour below, fishermen stepped off their boats and stood beside piles of yellow nets on the quayside, hands clasped and heads lowered. Melancholy hung over the town.

  Everyone knew Bridget McGuire the archaeologist, and everyone mourned her death.

  I tried to concentrate on the service, but my mother’s last words were still bothering me. They were important to her, or she would not have made the effort to say them.

  Secret. Game. Remember.

  After the service, we led a convoy of black Mercedes up the hillside towards the cemetery. The casket was closed and lowered into a white marble tomb. Mourners filed past, each one dropping a single white rose onto the coffin. The priest swung and clanked his thurible, and plumes of sweet frankincense hung sickly in the air.

  Overcome by tiredness, I leaned heavily against Aaron at the graveside. Quinlan was supporting my father.

  ‘What will happen now?’ I whispered as four burly men lifted the marble slab into place.

  ‘Not much,’ Aaron said. ‘They’ll close and seal the tomb, then say a few prayers.’

  ‘Aaron, you know when I was little and my mother brought me to the site, do you remember what games I used to play?’

  He frowned and shook his head. ‘It’s a long time ago. Let’s see. Mostly you would draw or paint, but if you got restless one of us would play a board game with you. Sometimes Tommy would play noughts and crosses in the dust. You didn’t understand the game, but Tommy would always shout: “You won! You won again, Irini!” when the last square was filled in. We could hear him all over the site and we would laugh too.’

  I smiled, imagining the scene. Poor Dad. He was punishing himself now.

  ‘Look, Irini, that’s the guy that came looking for your mother.’

  I spun around, staring in the direction he was pointing. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘When Bridget came back, a year ago, it was because he came to the site looking for her. I’m sure that’s him.’

  My heartbeat raced. ‘Where? Which one?’ I asked peering at the crowd that had come to the cemetery.

  ‘No, over the road, behind the cars.’ He glanced at me, then turned. ‘Oh, he’s gone.’

  ‘So, somebody was looking for my mother? Is that what you phoned her about just before she left Dublin?’

  He nodded. ‘Bridget seemed eager to meet him.’

  Who was he? Did he have something to do with my mother’s accident? If only I’d seen where he’d disappeared to. I stood on my toes trying to spot him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a young man said, distracting me. ‘Are you Bridget’s daughter?’

  I nodded.

  He held out a hand. ‘I’m Nathan Scott. I just wanted to say that your mother was a marvellous person and I’m proud to have known her. She inspired me even before I met her, then I wittered on to her about archaeology all the way on a flight from Athens to Santorini, a year ago. I didn’t know it was her. She must have thought I was nuts, but she was very kind. When I found out who she was, I could have died, really. Over the past twelve months, she taught me so much. It has been a great honour working for Bridget McGuire, I’ll never forget her.’

  A few simple words of condolence, yet they made me incredibly proud. Aaron slipped his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze.

  I swallowed hard and smiled at the young man. ‘Thank you, Nathan, that means a lot to me,’ I whispered, unable to hold back my tears any longer.

  *

  A few days later I was back in Dublin. I returned to teaching and also to my old bar job at the Raglan Road in the evenings, to help clear my credit card debt. At seven o’clock on Saturday, I entered the pub and threw a cheery smile towards Brian, the landlord.

  ‘Irini, you had a call from Crete just now. Angelo, he said – sounded foreign.’

  Angelo! Oh, how often I had longed to be in his arms again. I could banish him from my bed, but not from my heart. My feelings for him were as strong as ever, and I hated myself for wanting him. There were moments when I found myself hoping, dreaming, and then getting angry with myself. Women have affairs with married men, they do, but could I? No, not under any circumstances. I couldn’t do that to Sofia, or myself. Not after how Jason had hurt me. I had to leave Angelo in the past. I was destined to nurse my broken heart, hoping one day my scars would heal and I could move on.

  ‘Any message?’ I asked matter-of-factly as I started to bottle-up the fridge. My heart thumped as I lifted
beers from the crate and shelved them in the chiller behind the bar.

  ‘Nope.’ Brian squinted sideways. ‘He said he’d been trying to call you, but your phone was always turned off. Anyway, he’s going to call again later.’

  I wondered how Angelo had the pub’s number. Fergus McFadden, who had taken to frequenting the Raglan Road since his return from Crete, winked at me and I suspected the old man had been up to mischief.

  Although the bar kept me busy, I jumped like popcorn whenever the phone rang, but Angelo never called.

  *

  That night, I tossed and turned in my bed.

  Thoughts of Angelo kept me awake. I had to accept it was over, even though it had hardly begun. I tortured myself, hoping all sorts of things, but he was married and that was the end of it. I had made a mistake. Now it was time to leave the past where it belonged and move on.

  I only wished my heart would listen to my head.

  The next morning, I decided to accept any work Retro Emporio offered, not that I had any choice as the retainer had already gone towards Mam’s hospital bill. Nevertheless, despite working for his company, I would cold-shoulder any romantic advances from Angelo.

  On Sunday evening in the pub, the phone rang – louder, it seemed, than usual.

  ‘Raglan Road public house, can I help you?’ I said.

  ‘Irini McGuire?’

  ‘Angelo?’ The eyes, the voice, the smell of him, the weight of his body.

  His wife, his son, his marriage.

  ‘Ah, you remember me then?’

  I dampened my feelings and injected impatience into my voice. ‘Yes, of course, but I’m at work . . . What can I do for you?’

  ‘I am very sorry about your mother. I would have gone to Santorini for the funeral, but I had big problems with my family—’

  ‘I know, Sofia told me,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Sofia? What is Sofia telling you?’ The smile left his voice.

  ‘She told me everything, Angelo.’ Tell me it’s not true. Tell me that night meant as much to you as it did to me.

  ‘Everything?’ Several seconds of silence, then: ‘I have to see you. I’m in London and there’s a flight to Dublin tonight.’

  My heart sank. He didn’t even try to deny it. I had clutched at a grain of hope when there was none.

  ‘No, it’s impossible,’ I whispered.

  ‘Why? Because of my family?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Do you think it doesn’t matter?’

  ‘Irini, I have to see you, to explain.’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain. Go back to your family. Goodbye, Angelo.’ I hung up, my hands shaking.

  I sat on the stool and stared at the phone. It couldn’t end like this, after so much – and so little.

  I hurried into the Ladies, wanting to hide my misery. I had just splashed cold water onto my face when someone knocked on the door.

  Brian called, ‘Irini, your phone’s ringing!’

  I’d forgotten to turn it off for work. I hurried out, stupidly hoping it was Angelo.

  ‘Hi, Irini, it’s Paula. I’ve been trying to call you! I’ll keep it short. I checked half-term, and we’re working the weekend to accommodate you. I’ll book your flight first thing. Call me tomorrow at five for the details. Make sure you save this mobile number. Oh, and yes, the publicity team loved the fashion shoot, and we all love your portfolio. Any questions?’

  ‘No. Well . . .’

  ‘Okay then. Talk tomorrow. Ciao.’

  I stood there, blinking like an idiot.

  ‘Well?’ Brian said. ‘Spit it out.’

  Fergus came out of his corner and struggled onto a barstool to listen.

  ‘They want me to fly off somewhere for a week and model for them.’

  ‘Great.’ Brian grinned. ‘Looks like you’ve made it into the big time, at last.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can. What about my father, and the school, and the bar?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I can manage for a week, and so can Tommy.’

  ‘What’s a guy got to do to get a Campari and soda around here? Dance naked on the bar?’ Quinlan’s voice came from behind Fergus.

  ‘What a ’orrible thought,’ Fergus said.

  ‘You all look happy. Good news?’ Quinlan asked.

  I poured his drink. ‘They want me to model again, Quinlan. And Paula said they love the portfolio. I’d never have finished it without your support. I’m sure those fabric swatches of yours made all the difference. Thank you.’

  Quinlan’s mouth spread into a smile. ‘Rubbish, lovey, you nailed the job, and the theatre isn’t going to miss a few scraps of cloth. You’re heading for the recognition you deserve and we’re all thrilled for you, it’s that simple.’

  A small voice in my head asked if this latest development was all too good to be true.

  *

  After school, I hurried through town, delighted with an excuse to spend a little money on myself. I wished my mother was with me. Shopping with your mother must be one of those intimate, womanly things that both sides remember joyfully. The sudden burst of glorious autumn weather added to my excitement.

  The sadness of my mother’s death had given way to more pleasant memories, and quite often I imagined her at my side, sharing a moment or two. Yet on other occasions, grief would unexpectedly slap me hard and I would struggle not to break down. Dad also suffered and I tried to be with him whenever I could.

  At five o’clock, I sat on a bench in Grafton Street and called Paula.

  ‘Paula, it’s Irini. How are you?’

  ‘Ah, Irini.’ She ignored the question. ‘Have you got a pen? Take this down.’

  I scrabbled in my bag. ‘Okay, go ahead.’

  ‘You fly six-thirty, Dublin to Athens, flight number BA556. Hand baggage only. I’ll send the ticket to your phone. One of us will meet you at the other end. Don’t forget your passport, some euros, and lightweight clothing. You’re flying on to Crete and they’re having a late heat-wave, so pack sun cream and glasses.’

  I scribbled the details. ‘Crete?’

  ‘Yes. See you Saturday. Ciao.’

  ‘Ciao,’ I answered, then realised the ridiculousness of mimicking Paula.

  I hurried from Next, to Dunnes, to Brown Thomas, bought a few bits, and a lovely turquoise evening dress with a matching rose strategically placed at my cleavage. In the fitting room, I’d imagined Angelo’s admiring eyes on me. I wanted him to want me, but why was I torturing myself? It wasn’t going to happen, I wouldn’t allow it!

  CHAPTER 36

  IRINI

  Dublin, present day.

  AT FIVE, I RUSHED to the nursing home to see Dad. I told Matron about the modelling job at half-term, and she seemed pleased.

  ‘It’ll be good for the residents to have their own celebrity to talk about. Write everything that’s happening on Facebook and post lots of pictures.’

  ‘Of course I will. Thanks, Matron.’

  In a day room that smelled of disinfectant and mothballs, I found my father dozing in front of the TV.

  ‘Hi, Dad. How’re you doing?’ I had an urge to open a window.

  He blinked slowly, then patted the chair next to him. ‘Irini, we have to talk. I know you can’t stay long, you’re always in a hurry, but there are things I have to tell you.’

  There was a strange, desolate look in his eyes. ‘Shall we go and sit on the bench out front, get some fresh air?’ I suggested.

  ‘Give me a pull up then,’ he said breathlessly. I remembered how well he was in Greece, despite the awful circumstances.

  ‘How’re you feeling, Dad?’ I asked when we were settled in a sunny spot.

  ‘I’m weary, Irini. Tired of life.’ He rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out his inhaler. ‘There’s stuff I have to tell you. I promised Bridget.’ He knuckled his eyes. ‘I can’t stand living without her. She was my life, even when we were apart, even when I was angry. I was always angry.’ His head drooped and his hands hung limply ov
er his knees. ‘It all started before you were born, with my heart attack. Have you read all your mother’s notebooks?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s been hectic since we came home. What with school, homework, and the bar, I haven’t had a chance.’ And besides, I hadn’t been ready.

  He went on to repeat the saga of the dragonfly necklace, clearly having no recollection of telling me when we were in Crete.

  ‘You see, the dragonfly necklace is the only proof that the frescoes depicted actual events in the city that we excavated. It showed that the images on the walls were life portraits, not decoration. That’s why it was so important.’ He sighed. ‘Your mother knew it too. I think it was the guilt she felt that caused her nightmares.’

  ‘No, Dad. The tumour caused her to hallucinate – the specialist told me.’

  He shook his head. ‘Read the rest of her books. Some of her visions were random horror, I grant you, but most were connected to the demise of real people who lived in that ancient city. I truly believe that.’

  I promised myself I would read the rest of my mother’s books. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Dad?’

  ‘If I had my health, I’d go and find the place she called the Sacred City of Istron, in Crete. That’s where Bridget believed the migrants from Santorini settled.’

  ‘Why don’t we search Google Maps?’

  ‘Eh? What’s that then?’

  ‘Satellite images of the earth. I’ll bring my iPad tomorrow and we’ll look together.’

  His eyes lit up for the first time since the funeral. ‘You really think you can find Istron? Your mother’s laptop’s in my room. I haven’t used it since I came back; the battery might be flat.’

  ‘If Istron exists, we’ll find it for sure!’ I felt his hope, his excitement, and it pleased me. Five minutes later we were back in the dayroom, his laptop plugged into the mains. I pulled up Google Earth, and searched for Crete. My father’s face was a picture.

  ‘I can’t believe you haven’t looked at this before, Dad.’

  ‘Not my job. I was always in the dirt, digging and scraping, then proofreading your mother’s articles.’