I turn to the next king.
‘Dear Goddess, the mountain shakes. The earth’s hot on the slopes and our vineyards are failing. Without wine, our people will become sick. The beasts are restless and their behaviour strange. I fear Poseidon’s turned the animals against us.’
‘I agree. My first concern is for the safety of our subjects.’ I stand tall. ‘Therefore, I have decided to evacuate Atlantis.’
A sharp intake of breath is followed by silence. The kings stare at each other.
I address Hero again. ‘Send an envoy to Crete. Take a vessel of gifts to King Minos for his temple at Knossos. Tell him we come in peace. Ask permission to store our treasures and people on his island until our homeland is tranquil once more.’
‘And if he says no?’
‘Then we go to war, sir.’
*
As the Santorini sun gained strength, I quickly finished writing and then placed the Book of Dreams on my bedside table. Spurred on by Queen Thira’s bold statement – that she would save her people from certain death – I knew what I had to do for my Tommy. The day would be dedicated to fundraising for his surgery.
CHAPTER 6
IRINI
Crete, present day.
THROUGHOUT TEACHER TRAINING, I had promised myself a proper vacation the moment I earned a suitable wage. Although years had passed since I started at Saint Mary’s, the opportunity to flee to warmer climes never arose. Jason’s love of motorbike racing meant holidays were spent traipsing across the country from one meet to another. Then I had my father to look after.
*
I refused to sit around playing host to misery. A hire car, a drive to the city, and a ferry to Santorini would hopefully get me to my mother’s side by the end of the day. My dad’s old suitcase lay unopened on the spare hotel bed. I should wear something strong and vibrant for my mother. I dived in and pulled out my latest creation.
A pair of shorts, made from stressed, charity-shop jeans, appliquéd with heavy white lace and a few pearls left over from my wedding dress. The top had also come from the Marie Curie shop. A fluorescent pink (great with my red hair) extra-large tee. I’d cut the neck into an off-the-shoulder boat, chopped off the sleeves, and split the sides to bring them around and tie in front. Love it or leave it! Clothes had the power to lift my spirits, especially my own designs.
At reception, I shoved my wild hair behind my ears and produced my driving licence.
‘It’s brand new,’ I said, determined to dwell on the positive. ‘Passed my test first time.’
She glanced up from the forms and smiled. ‘Well done, Miss McGuire.’
I wished my mother had said as much, been proud of me.
Oh, for God’s sake!
Time to face a few facts. The reason my mother never congratulated me was because I never bothered to tell her I was taking lessons. I could have written, emailed, texted, phoned. When I thought about my behaviour, I didn’t exactly make her life pleasant while she stayed with me. The truth was, my conduct had been quite unacceptable. I missed my evenings in front of the TV with Jason, objected to cleaning my father’s toothpaste out of the washbasin, and was irritated by my mother’s underwear drying on the radiators.
Petty stuff. I can’t imagine how my parents must have felt giving up their dream in Santorini for such a confined existence with their intolerant daughter. I’m sure they realised I wasn’t thrilled about them moving in. But the truth is, at first I was ecstatic.
Filled with longing, I desperately wanted us to bond and be loving towards one another. It felt like everything I’d ever wanted at last – the three of us together. I hoped to hear stories of their romantic adventure, of star-filled nights on an exotic island. So often, I dreamed of them sharing their lives with me. Days of wide smiles and hugs, joyful conversation and laughter.
In fact, our lives were a parody of that ideal. My parents barely tolerated each other. They sniped and snarled from morning until night. I wondered why they lived together when they could hardly stand the sight of each other.
A long list of minutiae gathered to aggravate us all. I could have been nice, and I did try, but there was no escape from the atmosphere in the house. The week dragged. Too much time was spent apologising to each other, and trying not to get under each other’s feet.
There were mixed feelings – relief and sorrow – when my mother abandoned us for Santorini a week later.
I picked up the Fiat Panda’s keys and towered over a good-looking Greek, who led me to the vehicle. Outside the air-conditioned hotel, a warm breeze welcomed me. Yellow umbrellas mushroomed around the pool, and below them tanned bodies soaked up the sun.
I was shown the indicators, reverse gear, and lights. The car smelled of lavender polish, and the scent reminded me of my father stuck in the home. I felt bad about leaving him alone, poor thing, but what was the alternative? I opened the windows and the memory of his misery was replaced by fresh air. This was my first proper break from Dublin, so despite the terrible circumstances, I was not going to carry excess baggage. I needed to leave my problems behind, gather my strength, and focus on my mother. The trip felt more urgent by the minute.
Most women my age would nurse a hangover on a sunbed all day and party all night, but my alabaster skin and low tolerance to alcohol meant that, even in happier times, this would not be an option. Besides, I was not very good at making new friends. As for the pool, an incident that took place when I was seven left me terrified of water.
Uncle Quinlan had taken me for a picnic on the riverbank. I went to paddle on the sandbar while he read. The outgoing tide swept me off a sandbank into the Liffey estuary. In an instant, the memories of those horrible, desperate moments returned. Frantically attempting to doggy-paddle up to the water’s surface. The seabed sloping away below me. An outgoing riptide pushing me further and further away from safety. The blurry, sand-speckled water sucking me down again, and again, and again.
I remembered seeing an old bicycle on the seabed and pushing my feet hard against it to launch myself up, but my foot slid between the spokes and I couldn’t get free. Trapped, struggling for my life, I stretched my arms over my head, unsure if they broke the surface, desperate to catch hold of something and pull myself up. The need to breathe in hurt. My lungs were bursting. Terrible pressure built in my chest and head.
The water in front of me exploded. Uncle Quinlan lifted the old bike and my head came out of the water. I gulped air, shaking, crying, clinging to his neck while he freed my foot.
Later, Quinlan said a sensation of foreboding made him look up from his library book. Horrified when he couldn’t see me, he raced along the bank shouting my name. He spotted my hands, leaped into the sea with all his clothes on, and saved my life.
Despite the passing years, every detail remained clear and terrifying as on that afternoon. The lasting phobia meant I never learned to swim, and I usually avoided any form of boat travel. Now I had to organise the trip to Santorini and, considering hospital bills and funeral costs, another expensive flight was an extravagance I could not afford. I glanced at the fuel gauge: quarter full. First stop – the petrol station.
Blinded by dazzling sunlight, I slid my new sunglasses on. After a kangaroo start, I attempted to familiarise myself with the vehicle. Although I had not driven since my test, two months ago, I hoped it would all come back, like riding a bike. I drove across the hotel’s forecourt, remembering my instructor’s mantra: ‘Mirror, indicate, mirror, manoeuvre.’ After a quick glance in the mirror, I flicked a lever and the windscreen wipers came on.
Idiot!
I wished I’d had a little driving practice after passing my test. I thought about asking reception for a New Driver sticker for the back window, but then I wondered if they’d refuse me the car on hearing I had never driven on my own before.
Tourists in open 4x4s passed. I lurched ungracefully out of the forecourt, fumbled for the gear stick, which I forgot was on the opposite side, and tagged onto the c
onvoy’s tail. When sure of myself, I planned to drive into the city and buy a ticket for Santorini. With no notion of where the convoy was headed, I stayed close. We passed a sign pointing the way to Elounda village. The road climbed and the view became spectacular. Steep bare rock rose to my left, a sheer drop to my right. The jeeps pulled into a viewpoint near the summit.
I stopped and got out of the car. A deliciously warm breeze was perfumed by local herbs, reminding me of Quinlan’s Greek salad. I wondered if lunchtime neared. The beach curved, resembling a giant sandy shepherd’s crook, dividing an azure sea from a picturesque fringe of villages and towns clinging to the coastline. Squares of grey-green olive groves preceded high mountains of red rock and pine forests, which became sparser as they neared the peaks.
Lost in the beauty of it all, I suddenly flinched with a stab of pain at the thought of losing Mam. I could see her on the doorstep in dull, damp Dublin a year ago.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. I caught a sparkle in her eye that contradicted the downturn of her mouth. Yet, it may have been the glint of a tear. I can still hear her voice as she stepped away from me. ‘Goodbye, Irini.’
Don’t go, Mam! Wait for me!
My heart rolled over and tears stung my eyes. This amazing view, the warmth, the scent; these were the things that my mother had to come back to. But there must be more because, for her, the pull of Greece was stronger than beautiful scenery and lovely weather. Stronger that the love of her husband and only child. It hurt. Why did she keep so much of her life from me? What damage would it have done to let me in?
Could I discover what captured her soul . . . and would that thing ensnare me too?
I continued behind the 4x4s until Elounda came into view. The village fringed a calm bay. Opposite, a causeway connected a barren island of softly rolling hills to the landmass, and three sail-less windmills stood on the isthmus.
Where the bay met the sea, towering mountains belittled Spinalonga islet, a Venetian stronghold that became a leper colony. I had read the population moved to London’s Hospital of Tropical Medicine in the fifties. Brightly coloured trip boats moored along the islet’s shore, and more vessels shuttled across from the village. I imagined old ghosts watching the tourists with their smartphones capturing the crumbled remains of so many ill-fated lives.
The travel agent had raved about the area before she knew the reason for my visit.
‘You simply have to snorkel there! You can see remains of the Sunken City of Olous. Truly amazing!’
Too horrified to speak, I wondered how a whole city came to sink.
She had continued: ‘Thousands of years back, Daedalus and his son Icarus lived in Olous and built a great temple.’
I peered down and imagined ancient walls and columns inhabited by octopuses, sea horses, and brightly coloured fish.
‘That was before Daedalus designed the labyrinth at Knossos, of course.’ She had caught my blank look. ‘You’ve heard of the Minoans? King Minos and the Minotaur, half man half bull, and the palace of Knossos? You’ll love Crete, it’s fascinating.’
Perhaps there was a ticket office in Elounda.
Just before the village, a petrol station loomed into view.
Mirror, windscreen-wipers, damn, indicator. I pulled into the forecourt.
‘Full, please.’
‘Open fuel tank, lady.’ The Greek had an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth.
‘Uh? Sorry, it’s a hire car.’
He yanked the door ajar, reached under my legs, and muttered, ‘Very nice.’ There was a clunk, then he came up, grinning.
I ask you, why can’t they teach these things in driving school and save the likes of me this embarrassment? My phone pinged with a text. The hospital? I pulled away from the pumps, stopped, and checked the message. Relieved to see it was from my fashion page; a woman interested in a gothic net and brocade ball gown I’d put together and offered for sale. I knew someone would love the wickedly strong design.
The skirt came from a yellowing, meringue-type wedding dress, dyed black. This was stitched to a heavy charity-shop, lace-up corset that I had carefully covered in dyed curtain brocade. Replacing the back-fastening lace-up with a string of black glass beads had added to the glamour. The finished creation was powerful and had tons of WOW factor. Valentino with a twist.
With a full tank I drove onto the empty highway. Bright sunlight flashed through the windscreen when the road swung south. Still thinking about the ball gown, I navigated the bend and reached for my sunglasses, but they slid across the passenger seat. I unclipped my seatbelt and stretched over.
Bang! Crash! Blackness . . .
*
Out of the dark came confusion. My body was thrown about, my head slammed against something hard. Blinding pain, flashes, lightning, glimpses of folk running. Above all, an acute sense of danger all around me. Real, but not real. A blonde in my ball gown, running; the car hire guy riding a zebra, spinning a lasso, buildings toppling around them. I was in a nightmare, hurled to the ground. Images queued in my head, waiting to be analysed – fact or fantasy? I sifted through my thoughts and discarded the impossible.
Someone was speaking.
I knuckled my eyes, stared at the blood on my hands, realised I was in the hire car. Everything blurred, tinted pink and red. White dust hung in the air. A hand touched my shoulder. I jumped, startled.
‘Mademoiselle?’ A French voice, well spoken.
Reality drifted back, followed by pain. A tightening band around my forehead. The dust made my throat itch. I smelled pear drops, expensive aftershave, burning rubber.
‘Dear Jesus, what happened?’ I rasped. Beyond the cracked windscreen, an ornate lamppost had crumpled the Fiat Panda’s bonnet.
‘You’re in an accident,’ the Frenchman said. ‘Your ’ead is bleeding. You were knocked out. We ’ave called the ambulance.’
I tried to rewind the last few minutes: blinding sunlight . . . unclipped seatbelt . . . reached for sunglasses. I blinked slowly, a flash behind my eyelids – nonsensical images, heartbreak and pain.
Suddenly, I felt close to my mother, as if she was in the passenger seat. I blinked at the empty space, wanting to reach out, feel safe in her arms. If only I could be with her, just for a moment, and say all the things I never said. I remembered nights in the convent when I wished she was there. Time had no measure to a young girl: One day, when my mother comes for me . . . My childish plan had been to become a great ballet dancer and surprise her with pirouettes in my sequined tutu. I wanted to make her proud, so proud she would never leave me again.
I closed my eyes and tried to invoke her, but she had gone. A dream, back-slapped into my consciousness by the crash. Dizzy and trembling, I held my head; it rattled like rocks in a bucket, leaving me with the reality of the situation.
‘What’s that?’ I asked the Frenchman, clearing my throat and flapping my hand at the dusty air.
‘Powder from the airbag. ’Ow do you feel, miss? You banged your ’ead. Can you sit up?’
I moved my legs and arms, fearing the agony of fractured bones, but I seemed to be okay.
‘Is anyone hurt?’
‘I am afraid yes,’ the Frenchman said. ‘The cyclist ’as a broken arm.’ He stood and peered behind my car. ‘My wife is making ’im comfortable. Are you in pain?’
‘What happened?’ I stared at the blood on my fingertips.
‘You pulled out of the petrol station on the wrong side. I tried to beep, but didn’t find the ’orn until too late.’ He nodded at the white convertible across the way. ‘It’s an ’ire car. They forgot to say where the ’orn is.’
The information sank in. ‘You mean I caused the accident?! Me? All this chaos?’ I struggled to get out of the vehicle. The world spun, throwing me off balance and I slumped against the bonnet.
CHAPTER 7
BRIDGET
Santorini, 29 years ago.
MID-MORNING, I HURRIED TOWARDS the cathedral of Saint John, fou
nd the priest, and explained Tommy’s situation. In turn, the priest had a word with the Bishop of Santorini. The church offered a donation of two hundred thousand drachmas towards the operation.
In the silence of our little house, exhausted by the emotions of the day, I struggled to accept the reality. I hadn’t enough money for the operation. Our only surety was the small house, bought for cash when we first arrived on the island. Flush with money from the sale of Tommy’s semi in Dublin, we were captivated by the view the moment we saw it. The simplicity of the two-room dwelling, which had a decent front patio overlooking Santorini’s caldera, thrilled us both.
I stepped outside and sat on the low wall. The local estate agent would make a valuation after noon. What we actually bought, all those years ago, was little more than a cave with a toilet, a crude shower, and one large room carved out of the soft volcanic rock. How in love we had been, and what an adventure we were on.
Such dwellings, called hyposkafa by the locals, were common on the island. We christened our property The Love Nest, and purchased cinderblocks, cement, and a spirit level, which were delivered by donkey. Our only furniture consisted of a bed, a gas burner, a tin table and two chairs. For a whole month, we camped in the cave, making plans by candlelight and reading snippets from archaeology magazines and history books to each other.
Life was harmonious, every day a glorious adventure.
With the help of neighbours, we built a larger room on the front of our hyposkafa, into which we placed our table and two chairs, a sofa and a bookcase. Then we built a simple kitchen along one wall. Most of the year we lived outside, on the terrace with an amazing view. We painted the inside white, and the outside sizzling orange, with a Santorini-blue door and window shutters.
Apart from our childlessness, life was wonderful. We had learned Greek together, and cycled around the island talking to locals, searching for the likely location of hidden archaeology.
I put these memories to one side and decided to call on what little family we had left in Ireland.
Secrets of Santorini Page 6
