Secrets of Santorini

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Secrets of Santorini Page 35

by Patricia Wilson


  It was a bastard Jason moment, a fuck the inequality and disrespect second. Anger rose inside me and exploded, boosting my strength and determination to do this job to the best of my ability. I would not have my dreams destroyed by some spunky kid who thought he owned the women around him.

  I turned to Simone and shouted, ‘I’ll not be the bar-banter and brag of that twat in trousers!’ In a flash of anger, I pointed at the culprit and yelled, ‘You! Get your kit off too! Every stitch! Let’s have some real equality around here!’

  The guy’s grin fell and he paled. Now all eyes were on him.

  Simone beamed and muttered, ‘That’s my girl. Go for it!’ She turned to the offending guy and ordered, ‘Yes, darling, get them off right now or you’re fired!’ And she rubbed her hands together and grinned.

  Everyone froze, staring at the guy in his mid-twenties. He looked like he was about to throw up. ‘No way! You’re kidding me, right?’

  Simone pointed at one of the other guys. ‘You, drive him back to the accommodation, quickly as you can. He’s fired. The rest of you men . . . boys – apart from Andrew, who’s staying – walk that way.’ She stuck her left arm out. ‘Do not hesitate; do not look back. Keep going until you get to the beach taverna one kilometre away. Stay there until I phone! Got it? Disobey me, look back just once, and you’ll not get another chance in this industry, ever. Believe me!’

  They started walking, shoulders slumped, heads down. Simone lit a long pink cigarette and inhaled deeply, watching them for a minute. ‘Wankers!’ she muttered, and then stretched her neck and smiled.

  ‘Right, let’s get a move on, girls. Here’s your chance to prove you can do their jobs! Irini, for God’s sake drop the robe, be proud of your body, own it. If you really feel you can’t do it, we’ll all take our clothes off just to make you feel better, but I’m wearing my Tena pants, so that could be embarrassing.’

  Everyone giggled.

  ‘I just want to get the best possible shots, Irini,’ Andrew said, lifting his camera. ‘But I’ll go if you feel uncomfortable with me here.’

  I shook my head. It took me a while to relax enough to do the job but, eventually, I understood what Simone wanted and my confidence built.

  CHAPTER 38

  IRINI

  Santorini, present day.

  I LAY IN BED, relishing the luxury of a work-free day. Images of the week flicked through my head. Posing naked had changed me, made me stronger, proud of my body. Owning it, as Simone had said. Paula was right – if she had revealed what was expected at the start, blushing, respectable, religious-teacher me would have said: ‘Naked?! No way!’ This newfound inner strength bolstered my confidence. Now I could accomplish anything I put my mind to.

  An hour later, impatient to get to my parents’ house and eager to see if I could find something that made sense of my mother’s dying words, I said my goodbyes.

  Tourists were already flocking into town. I struggled up and down kerbs with my suitcase as the heat of the day intensified. Sweating and flustered, I reached the house, then realised I had forgotten the key! At the tin table, I fell into a chair and caught my breath, glancing at the pure, piercing blue sky. I recalled my mother’s shadow, stretched across the patio when she sat in the same chair. Dad’s astonishment as he stared at Google Earth made me smile.

  With the intention of enjoying the view, I stared across the caldera, but recollections of Angelo and that night returned like a huge chasm to swallow me whole. I hugged myself, wishing with all my heart things had been different. That night, we were one person, lost in each other, a union of souls. Such a night would never happen again, but that part of him – could I call it a spark of eternal love? Whatever, it would always be with me, a precious interlude in the tragedy of my mother’s death. I had no regrets.

  My daydreaming reminded me of the spare key. Had Angelo replaced it, or left it inside? I used all my weight to tip the urn carefully, knowing I couldn’t hold on if it tilted too far. With the front a couple of inches off the patio, I slid my foot under and flicked it sideways. The big old key and a small, startled gecko slid out. We blinked at each other, me feeling honoured to see this pretty creature.

  The poor gecko was clearly petrified. I bent to scoop the little thing up and put it over the wall, realising that I would normally be too squeamish to do such a thing. The last few weeks had made me a stronger person. I could deal with new things and difficult situations because my timidity, like the robe, had fallen into the sand on a distant beach.

  Taking a breath, I bent over the sandy-coloured lizard, but as I brought my hands together at its sides, the little gecko’s tail shot off, startling me. I jumped and squealed. The tail leaped and spun with a life of its own. I couldn’t take my eyes from it, my stomach rolling.

  Horrified, I backed off until I hit the chair. What had I done? Why couldn’t I have left the thing alone? The tail continued to flick and twitch and flip over. How could it?! Coming to my senses, I looked for the gecko and just caught sight of her on top of the wall. She glanced over her shoulder, then scurried out of sight.

  My heart pounded as I tried to comprehend what I had seen. Had I witnessed a deliberate defence by the small creature? If so, it had certainly worked.

  Inside the house, nothing had changed. I stood in the centre of the room, trying to catch the essence of Mam, imagining her life here. In the bedroom, the sheets were still tousled from my night with Angelo. I stripped the bed and banished the sheets and the echo of our lovemaking to the washing machine. Where would I find clean bedlinen? Under the bed, I discovered a suitcase stuffed with winter clothes and thought this was as good a time as any to sort things out. The task was never going to be easy.

  Armed with a couple of rubbish sacks, I went through the clothes, separating them into give-away-able and trash.

  Halfway through, I found the Oxo tin.

  Suddenly, all the dots connected. Oxo – noughts and crosses! I eased off the lid. Perhaps she’d written a letter? Dad would be elated! This had to be what my mother was trying to say: remember the game.

  Inside I found nothing of value, just bits of paper and knick-knacks. Nevertheless, perhaps there was something in the contents. One by one, I lifted them out: dice that probably came from a Christmas cracker, a small silver horseshoe from a wedding cake, plastic rosary beads, and a bingo ticket with one number circled in red. A couple of playing cards lay at the bottom of the box – an ace and a king. Under them, I found a carefully written letter, sent by me twenty years ago. It had faint watermarks on the paper. Were they my mother’s tears? I held it to my cheek, the knot in my throat so hard and painful.

  Oh, Mam!

  The letter was, I supposed, normal for a nine-year-old. The weather in Dublin was fine, school was okay, Uncle Quinlan had taken me to the circus. I liked the clowns and ate a toffee apple.

  I never said: I miss you or when are you coming over? Or when can I come home? No. Just: Love from Irini.

  I sat on her bed and wept.

  *

  A mug of strong, sweet tea got me back on track. I replaced everything and tucked the Oxo tin into my suitcase. Back in Dublin, I would have more time to study the contents.

  After dealing with the gecko, the emotional tug of my mother’s clothes, the letter, and the disappointment of the Oxo tin, I desperately needed a break. With my tote slung over my shoulder, I locked the door and set off for a walk across town.

  *

  In the narrow streets of Fira, gift shops and eateries bustled with tourists. I continued to the cemetery. A bunch of wilted roses lay on Mam’s tomb. I wondered who they were from. For a while, I sat there with a feeling I should do or say something, but after the events of the morning, I was quite drained of emotion. The other tombs were cluttered with silk flowers, ornately framed photographs, little oil lamps, and even toys. I pulled the necklace souvenir that Aaron had given me out of my tote.

  ‘This belongs to you, Mam,’ I whispered, and hung it over th
e simple marble cross that was inscribed with: Bridget McGuire. Archaeologist. Rest in peace. ‘I feel terrible for not having more faith in you when it appears that you made the most painful sacrifice to keep me safe, Mam. Can you forgive me?’ I felt unmoored, lost in a sea that had always been the sadness and disappointment of my childhood. Negative feelings had been real, solid, unchangeable, and in an odd way I was secure in them. Now the ropes were cut and I had no anchor. Floating in the harbour of my mother’s love, free to head for the solid ground of happiness. My tears were falling and I was not ashamed of them. I sniffed hard and swiped my eyes. ‘I love you, Mam.’

  On my way back to the house, I wondered what would become of my parents’ home. I didn’t want to sell it. Perhaps if Dad’s health improved, I could bring him back for a holiday.

  *

  That evening, I hauled my case onto the patio and dragged the little table and two chairs inside, before I locked the house. When would I return? The week had been an adventure and I had gained a lot from it. I sat on the low wall and waited for Spiro, drinking in the view for the last time.

  ‘Iris! Iris! Are you ready?’ Spiro cried as he hurried down the steps. ‘Here, I brought Bridget’s mail. Her post-box is full; it’s from before her accident.’ He thrust a pile of mail at me and then started lugging my case up the steps while I shoved the correspondence into my tote.

  On the way to the airport, I told him about the little gecko.

  ‘Ah, he has a very smart ass, yes.’ I giggled. ‘While the crows and cats try to catch the jumping tail, the gecko is forgotten and he runs away. Is a good lesson to us, yes?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I was still trying to stifle my laughter.

  ‘You are holding much sadness. I throw something crazy before you, to flip and wriggle and make you laugh, and for a while, your sadness escapes, yes?’

  Oh, Spiro, you kind, kind man.

  *

  I stared out of the plane’s window at an evening cloudscape turned orange by the setting sun. When the seatbelt sign went out, I reached for my tote under the seat in front. I should go through the mail. There were another two electric bills, what looked like a couple of phone bills, three archaeological magazines, and a letter from Dad.

  The kid behind me was kicking the seat, and my overweight neighbour hogged the armrest. The plane bumped and bucked, and the seatbelt sign lit up again. Three and a half hours to go.

  I opened the letter first.

  Dearest Bridget,

  Darling girl, I thought I had better write to you and let you know my new address. I’ve moved into the residential home. Irini couldn’t cope with my weak bladder and forgetful head any longer. It’s been difficult for her looking after me this past year. Poor thing, having us landed on her when she should have had the privacy she needed with her fiancé.

  She tried her best, and I want to thank her and tell her how much I appreciate all that she does, but you know me, not great at telling my feelings, am I? I didn’t want to go to the home, but it’s for the best. Things came to a head when I forgot I’d put the chip pan on and fell asleep in front of the TV. I might well have burned the house down.

  Perhaps I’m going senile in my old age. She doesn’t deserve that dumped on her.

  Irini tries hard, always juggling her time trying to fit everything in, and not having a moment to herself. I’m proud of her, but with the school, homework, her sewing, and the bar, she has hardly any time to look after me (or herself, for that matter).

  I’m pleased to tell you her wedding is off! I never liked him, that Jason. Nevertheless, Irini is broken-hearted and that makes me very sad. But she was too good for him. Like any father, I only want the best for my little girl. On the good side, you will be pleased to know that you won’t feel obliged to come back for a wedding.

  I want to comfort her. It makes my heart ache to see her so sad, but like I said: I’m hopeless at finding the right words. Poor girl. I’m not sure there is a man on the planet good enough for her, but if there is, I’m hoping he will come along soon and I live to see that day.

  You should write to her, Bridget. Please do. I know just the mention of her name breaks your heart, and you think it’s better if she forgets you, but you’re wrong. It would mean so much to her.

  Write back, darling girl. To get a letter from you would be a ray of sunshine in this place of plastic teeth and old farts. There are things we should talk about.

  I think about you all day, every day. As you know, you are always in my heart. I hope you are happy.

  Tommy XXX

  I read the letter twice, deeply saddened and also surprised. I had no idea Dad was in contact with her before she died. Perhaps he wasn’t and this was his first attempt at communication.

  Next, I opened the magazines. They were American and I quickly found my mother’s column. In the first monthly, she wrote how Interpol were pretty much the only official force that attempted to track antiquities and catch the villains. I moved on to the second magazine and saw the publication date was next week. It must have just arrived.

  So shocked by what she had written, I read through it three times.

  It gives me great pleasure to announce that one of the most important artefacts, looted from the archaeological site of Santorini, has been recovered and will shortly be on public view.

  The dragonfly necklace, as seen worn by the Goddess of the Marches in the Santorini frescoes, and also a small jug, were stolen twenty-nine years ago. They were returned to me personally when the owner of an illegal collection of Minoan antiquities, in Crete, died recently. The man’s wife did not realise the significance of her husband’s treasures. When she had them valued, crucial information was discovered hidden inside the repair work on a reconstructed jug from the Santorini excavation.

  The artefacts will shortly go on display in the Museum of Prehistoric Thira in Santorini, before being transported to the Thiran collection in the National Archaeological Museum of Athens, where a four-thousand-year-old fresco depicts the Goddess of the Marches wearing this very same dragonfly necklace.

  This piece of ancient jewellery proves beyond doubt that the frescoes were actual portraits of life in the ancient city, and not just simple decoration. The eminent archaeologist, Dr Thomas McGuire, and his dedicated team have spent a lifetime attempting to prove that very thing. This artefact adds credence to Dr McGuire’s theory.

  The frescoes, including the goddess fresco showing the dragonfly necklace, are portrayed in an informative book: The Frescoes of Santorini by A Flint, a highly respected archaeologist who has worked at the Santorini site for thirty years. The book is available on Amazon and in all good bookstores.

  I stared at the page, wanting to turn the plane around and see if the necklace was, in fact, in the museum. Surely Aaron would have known and said something? But then again, as far as I knew, Aaron didn’t know that the dragonfly necklace actually existed. The modelling trip had been so sudden and hectic that I had not spent a lot of time with him, but he had my phone number. There was nothing I could do but wait until morning, then contact Aaron and the museum.

  *

  I arrived home in Dublin at midnight, but then remembered the two-hour difference and felt better realising it was only ten o’clock. A mug of tea and a microwaved burger filled a gap. After stuffing my clothes into the washing machine, I took a quick shower and fell into bed. I had school the next day, then Dad to visit. I was desperate for some food shopping, and needed to iron my clothes. Also, I had homework to mark, and longed to investigate the Oxo tin further.

  Was my entire life destined to be one long rush of duty and domesticity?

  *

  Lunchtime the next day, I had playground duty. We were not supposed to use our phones, but I could not wait any longer. I called Aaron.

  ‘Hi Aaron. I can’t talk for long, but something has come up.’

  ‘Is it about the article I’ve just read in Archaeology Monthly?’

  ‘Yes. Have you seen thes
e artefacts? Are they in the museum?’

  ‘No, I checked first thing. I’ve been trying to call you all morning. I mean, I can’t believe it. Does she mean the actual necklace in the fresco, the one I copied? Holy shite!’

  I tried to keep my voice calm. ‘Could you check the house? The spare key is under the urn.’

  ‘Of course I will. This is remarkable!’

  ‘Call me this evening if you find anything. My phone’s off in lesson time,’ I said.

  ‘Okay. I can’t tell you how excited I am, Irini. At last, a connection! Tommy must be ecstatic!’

  *

  That evening at the home, I was bursting to tell my father the news.

  ‘Dad, I hope you don’t mind that I read this.’ I handed him the letter. ‘I wondered if there was a mention of something I should take care of while I was in Santorini. Such lovely, kind things you said.’

  ‘I was trying to . . .’ He sighed deeply. ‘You have to understand, your mother and I, we didn’t have a lot of use for chat. We talked about archaeology in depth, but apart from that we knew each other so well, like one person, really. It would be like talking to yourself, you know?’

  He unfolded the letter on his thigh and smoothed it down gently, caressing it over and over with the palm of his hand, and I knew he was thinking of her.

  ‘Like I said, without archaeology, your mother and I had little to say to each other in Ireland. Sometimes I know we just sounded like a couple of old grumps.’ He looked into my eyes. ‘I’m so glad she got the letter, Irini. It’s really uplifted me.’

  ‘I’m sure it made her very happy, Dad.’ How could I tell him she had never received it? My lie was a gift that brought him a little peace.

  He squeezed my hand and nodded.

  ‘This magazine had just come, too. I think you might want to read the last article Mam wrote.’

  He fished in his shirt pocket for his glasses while I opened the magazine on the relevant page.

 

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