Perhaps I had left it too late with Mam, but I would not make the same mistake twice.
To imagine my father as a young man filled with passion and sacrifice was difficult. Currently, he could easily be described as a grumpy old git, but my heart swelled and I promised myself I would phone him the moment I left the hospital. Poor man, all alone because a year ago his wife returned to Greece without him.
Why did she do that, after all he seemed to have given up for her? Mystified and slightly disappointed, I hoped there was a logical explanation.
I tried to bring the subject up while my mother stayed with us in Sitric Road but she refused to talk about it, insisting she would explain everything when she could.
My throat hurt from holding back a sob; the letter had made me too emotional. ‘He must have loved you very much, Mam. In fact, I believe he still does.’
I gazed at her face, trying to understand, when a tear trickled from under her closed eye. Oh! I couldn’t believe it and, for a moment, I couldn’t move either. I bent over, my face close to hers. There was definitely a wet line from the corner of her eye to the bandages above her ear.
‘Nurse!’ I shouted, panic-driven, emotions exploding in my chest. I raced out into the deserted corridor, then turned back into the room and hit the red call button.
Moments later, the medical staff rushed in.
‘She’s crying, my mother, she’s crying!’ And I was crying too. ‘She’s waking up! She’s going to pull out of the coma, I know she is, she has to!’ I slapped my hand on my chest. ‘I can feel it in my heart. She’s going to be all right.’
The nurse touched my arm. ‘This happens sometimes. It’s not a reaction to you,’ she said sympathetically, pulling a bleeper from her pocket.
‘No, I was reading to her, something poignant, and she started crying. I saw it myself.’
‘Irini, she can’t wake up. Your mother’s in an induced coma.’ The doctor came in and strode over to the bed.
The nurse’s words tore away the hope that had engulfed me. I gripped her arm. ‘Then stop inducing the coma. Let her wake up! I know she heard me. She was emotional! Her brain is working!’ I was shouting – I couldn’t help it. They had to listen. They had to! Then I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t speak.
The doctor lifted my mother’s lids and shone a little torch into her eyes, then he folded back one sheet and put the stethoscope to her chest. I was drawn to a white spear-shaped scar across her breastbone that I had never seen before. Shocked, I couldn’t help thinking that the four-centimetre slash looked like a stab wound, or some kind of ritualistic tribal marking. I was still staring at it when the doctor straighted, shook his head and said, ‘I’m sorry.’
The room was spinning. My heart banged at my ribs. ‘What? No!’ I rushed over to the bedside, hardly daring to ask. ‘What do you mean . . .’ I choked, gulped, and tried again. ‘What do you mean, you’re sorry?’
‘I mean there is no change,’ the doctor said.
The relief was exhausting. ‘I thought you meant . . .’ I dropped into the chair. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make a fuss. It’s hard to deal with, that she might not wake up, I mean.’ Oh! ‘I know I have to come to terms with the likely outcome. You did warn me, but it’s difficult, mostly because I haven’t seen her for a year.’ I looked up into the doctor’s eyes, begging the forgiveness I needed from my mother.
I had always blamed her for our distance, but I’m an adult now. There was no excuse for my entrenched bitterness. I could have stepped towards her with my hands out. I badly needed to make things right between us.
The doctor was slim. Greek, I think. He nodded, a soft smile of absolution fluttering across his tired face. ‘Why don’t you take a break? Get yourself a coffee while we make your mother comfortable. Come back in half an hour.’ He spoke to the nurse in Greek.
She also smiled gently. Kind people, and me almost hysterical. ‘Come, I’ll show you where the café is,’ she said.
I bought a coffee, took it outside, and sat in a shady corner while thirty minutes ticked slowly by.
CHAPTER 11
BRIDGET
Santorini, 29 years ago.
A WEEK LATER, I saw Tommy through the glass doors as I approached the Heraklion hospital. My husband sat in a wheelchair, his few belongings in a bag at his side. I noticed how he had aged: bags under his eyes and lines on his forehead.
‘Oh, Tommy!’ I cried. ‘You look so much better. How do you feel?’ I stooped and kissed his cheek.
‘Hello, darling girl. It’s lovely to see you.’ He sighed. ‘I feel a bit rough, but I’m really looking forward to sleeping in my own bed.’
‘Come on then, there’s a taxi waiting. The ferry for Santorini leaves in two hours.’
Splotskey approached. ‘A word at the desk, Bridget. Some papers to sign. It won’t take a minute.’
I followed him across the lobby and signed everything he put in front of me.
‘Mr McGuire will have to report to the Santorini hospital in a week’s time, and if all is okay, once a month for a check-up. I want him to have complete rest for a fortnight.’
I nodded. ‘We’re so grateful, doctor. Without your help, I don’t know where we’d be.’
‘Yes, yes. I’ll be keeping an eye on his progress, but I must remind you, there are still some bills to pay.’
‘Bills? You mean I still owe you money?’ I said in alarm.
‘No, no, not me, Bridget. I just assisted you in your hour of need. I don’t usually get involved in such things, but with you having a baby on the way, well, I wanted to help.’
‘And I’m eternally grateful, but how much do we owe?’ I glanced over at Tommy, who was watching us.
‘The trinket covered the operation, but there’s intensive care, the room, x-rays, blood tests, various other tests, nursing, meals, and so on. I’m afraid it adds up to a substantial amount.’
Trinket! Horrified by his description, I found myself stunned for a moment. ‘I see . . . Do I have to pay it immediately?’ I stuttered once I’d recovered enough to speak.
‘No, no, but as soon as you can, otherwise it puts me in an awkward position, you understand?’ He glanced around nervously. ‘I have to think of my reputation here. If it got out that I’d done favours for a patient, well . . .’
‘I understand, I do. I’ll deal with it as soon as I get home,’ I said hurriedly. Was there no end to my money worries? The cash from the church had gone on ferry tickets and taxi fares, and I’d sent Quinlan his money back, thinking I didn’t need it and not wanting to be in his debt.
*
The trip home exhausted us both. Between my concern for Tommy, tiredness caused by my pregnancy, and my financial worries, I just wanted to lie down and sleep. My last dream had looped my mind all day. Like a radio tune, it wheedled into my thoughts and interrupted logic to the point of distraction. I was glad to arrive home and unlock our front door at nine o’clock that night.
Tommy was worn out. I made him a mug of strong, sweet tea, which he claimed to be the best in a week, then I got him into bed. A kindly neighbour brought us a plate of warm cheese pies, and we settled on the bed in our underwear, eating supper and drinking from a bottle of cool water.
I lay awake worrying about my husband, the hospital bills, and my piece for the magazine. I had discovered writer’s block – every sentence led into a blind alley. With Tommy’s heart attack came the realisation that at any moment, our perfect life could change dramatically. More so now with a baby on the way. For the first time in my life, I felt helpless and afraid for our future. Happiness was such a fragile thing.
*
A week later, Aaron came to see Tommy and pass on some amazing news from the site.
‘How’s your heart now, Tommy?’
I could see more than Aaron’s usual good humour radiating from his face. Tommy assured Aaron he was on the mend. After sitting opposite him, the young archaeologist leaned forward and rested his
forearms on his knees. Excitement danced in his eyes.
I hovered, sensing an important revelation.
‘Right, well, you had better try and keep calm, Tommy,’ he said. ‘Listen to this. We’ve discovered the top of a fresco in room three! The colours are wonderful. We think it covers the entire wall. Right now, we are about twelve inches down, but it appears to be intact. Everyone’s so excited. We’ve all worked from dawn to dusk while you’ve been poorly.’
Tommy’s jaw dropped and I felt my own excitement rising. ‘What do you see?’ I asked, conscious of the tremor in my voice.
‘Well, you must understand we’re hardly into it, but there’s a frieze along the top, and today we uncovered the start of a head – a woman, I think. Looks like coiled black hair, perhaps waxed.’
Tommy took my hand and squeezed. ‘Could this be the start of something big?’ he whispered.
‘It’s big, believe me!’ Aaron stood and paced. ‘Judging by the hair, the image is life-size. We’ve cleared all the way along on the same level and not found anything else in the picture at that height. This means our figure is above whatever else is in the picture. You know what that suggests?’
Tommy’s grip on my hand tightened. ‘You’re probably revealing a ruler, a king or queen, perhaps even a deity.’
‘Exactly. Do you want me to pick you up in the morning, take you down there for an hour or two?’
‘Is the pope Catholic? For a well-educated young man, you ask some pretty stupid questions,’ Tommy replied, then turning to me, he said, ‘Bring some beers out, Bridget. This calls for a celebration!’
‘The doctor said no alcohol, Tommy. Are you completely mad?’
‘Cobblers! One beer won’t hurt now, will it?’
So uplifted by Tommy’s mood, I relented and gave them a beer each. ‘If you drop dead because of this, Tommy McGuire, I’ll kill you myself!’ I told him. ‘Now I’m going indoors to work on my article. Can I trust the two of you to behave?’
They grinned and nodded.
*
I had my head down, still struggling with my piece on antiquities theft when the phone rang. Was this the call I dreaded? I glanced through the doorway at the men, talking in a shady corner of the patio.
‘Hello, Bridget McGuire,’ I said.
‘Bridget, it’s Splotskey. How’s your husband after his journey home?’
I turned my back to the patio and spoke quietly. ‘He’s fine, Doctor. A little tired, but glad to be back in Santorini and sleeping in his own home.’
‘Good, good. Sorry to bother you, but I’m under pressure here. Can you tell me when you’ll have the funds to cover Mr McGuire’s medical costs?’
I gulped. ‘Well, it’s difficult. I mean, I’ll pay, but it’s going to take me some time to gather the money together.’ There was a long silence. ‘Doctor, are you there?’
‘Yes, yes, but I’ve a problem, Bridget.’ Another lengthy pause before he continued. ‘I thought the dealer had underpaid for that necklace, so I tried to ease your burden. I asked if he could let us have a little more money.’ Splotskey’s aloof tone had gone. He sounded nervous. No, more than that – afraid. ‘Now he’s threatening me . . . blackmailing me. If I don’t provide another antiquity, he’ll not only expose me as a dealer in artefacts, which I’m not, but he’ll make sure the authorities know you sold an antiquity from the archaeological site.’
My knees gave way and I had to cling onto a chairback, then I jumped when Aaron touched my arm.
‘Is everything all right, Bridget?’ he asked quietly, nodding to the phone in my hand. ‘You look pale.’
‘I’m fine. It’s one of the archaeology magazines I write for,’ I said, waving the receiver.
‘What are we going to do, Bridget? I’m out of my league here,’ Splotskey was saying when I put the phone back to my ear.
Aaron nodded and I watched him continue through to the bathroom before I whispered to the surgeon, ‘Look, I’ll find something. Give me your private number and I’ll contact you from a call box in a couple of days.’
*
I fretted all night. What was I going to do? If I came clean, called the police and confessed to selling the dragonfly necklace, both Tommy and I would never be allowed to work in archaeology again. There was also a strong likelihood of a prison sentence. Tommy would never forgive me. Our baby would be born in prison and taken away from me. We would lose everything.
There seemed only one solution. I had to give Splotskey something else. I hated myself for even thinking about it, but what could I do? Once I had made my decision, a weight lifted from me and I fell into a restless sleep, but then my nightmares returned.
In the dream, I had given birth, and my baby – a little girl – lay naked on her back in the cradle, trying to catch her toes. I watched her and laughed.
‘Will you get on with the dinner!’ Tommy shouted, jealous of the constant attention I gave our child.
Furious with my husband, I continued preparing food. I lifted a sharp knife, plunged it into the chicken’s breast, venting my anger by roughly disjointing the poultry, but then realised I was dismembering the baby. I stared at the pink meat and small bones in horror, then scooped them up and threw them in the casserole.
Instantly, I found myself surrounded by a mob of angry people. I tried to run, but my feet wouldn’t move. I was herded towards a noose that hung over Santorini’s caldera. My arms were pinned down, my eyes blindfolded.
The hangman shouted in my ear, ‘Wake up, Bridget! Open your eyes!’ I struggled against him. The rope was around my neck and I was forced towards the edge of the caldera, closer and closer . . . I dug my heels in and pushed back, but the weight of people behind me would not budge.
‘Thief! Thief! Thief!’ they chanted.
‘Don’t let me go, Tommy! Don’t let me go!’ I cried, my voice so thick the words hardly formed.
In a moment of confusion, between sleep and wakefulness, I was falling, quite sure my neck would snap in the next second and my life would end.
Tommy shook me. ‘You’re dreaming, Bridget. You’re having a nightmare.’
Then I realised it was the mattress at my back and Tommy’s arms enfolding me.
‘Oh, dear God, I think I’m going mad,’ I whimpered against his chest. ‘The dream was so real, so horrible!’ Then I remembered his operation and pulled away. ‘Sorry, did I hurt you with my thrashing about?’
He shook his head.
I slipped out of bed and lit a candle. ‘I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. Do you want one?’
He didn’t answer, his eyes closed and his breathing slow and even. While I waited for the kettle, I wrote down the terrible nightmare.
*
The next morning, Aaron picked us up. I was frantic about Tommy climbing the steps, and although it was a long process, he eventually reached the road and Aaron’s pick-up.
At the archaeological site, Aaron led us to the all-important fresco. Tommy was beside himself with glee, and I should have been too, but all I could think was: what can I steal? At the trestle, I studied pieces of pottery. The little jug lay where I had left it.
‘Sorry,’ Aaron said. ‘I haven’t had time to do anything at the table. It’s all labelled with its provenance, but that’s about it.’
I stared at the jug, my insides trembling. Would it settle my debt and get rid of Splotskey?
‘Don’t worry, Aaron. I’ll take some home to work on. I don’t want to leave Tommy on his own at home.’
‘What about help?’ Tommy said. ‘Anyone coming from the archaeology schools?’
‘Yes, good news, we’ve got another group starting on Monday: ten students from the Irish Institute of Hellenic Studies in Athens. They’re staying for a month.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’ I said, carefully packing the jug pieces. ‘Students can be difficult.’
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and for a second, I fancied that he was blushing.
‘It’s my dream, Bridget. To be in charge of a dig at my age, it’s remarkable. I’m so grateful to you and Tommy for trusting me with all this.’ Aaron came from a bad family in Ireland, who were both violent and involved in various crimes connected to drugs. Over the years, he had sort of adopted us, and we were both very fond of him. The short-tempered kid with a chip on his shoulder had grown into a fine young man eager to take on responsibility. Now he spread his arms and grinned bashfully. ‘If I have any problems, I’ll come to you straight away. Meanwhile, feel free to concentrate on getting Tommy fit again.’
*
The nightmares and headaches were driving me crazy. Half convinced they were God’s punishment for the wrongs I had done, I decided to go to confession on Saturday and atone for my sins. The Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist was not far from our house. Despite my worries, the beauty of the building thrilled me.
An ornate clock tower rose above the church itself, both painted yellow with sky-blue reliefs and corners. The typical Santorini church dome was white, as opposed to the royal-blue gloss of Orthodox churches.
I stopped on the narrow approach road and gazed through an arch that framed the building and tower perfectly. To my left, more religious buildings competed for space amongst the jungle of dwellings, boutiques, and tavernas. To my right, a sheer drop down to the caldera, with its cruise ships and the smouldering mass of Burnt Island in the centre.
I knew the Catholic priest very well, as he did me, yet we remained invisible to each other with the confessional screen dividing us.
‘My child,’ the priest said kindly after I had admitted everything. ‘You have to get the dragonfly necklace back and return it to its rightful place.’
‘But, Father, I can’t. It’s impossible.’
‘Then you must go to the police and tell them what’s happened. Pray to God they’ll understand and be lenient with you, then your sins will be forgiven.’
I couldn’t go to the police. I had wanted to say a few rosaries and receive absolution. If I went to the authorities, I knew I would go to prison, my baby would be taken from me, while Tommy, whom I constantly fretted about, still needed my special care.
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