Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  *

  When I opened my eyes, it was morning. The light was still on, everything bathed in electric energy, unreal, and the air so warm I could hardly breathe. I showered quickly, dressed quickly, locked up, and rushed to the bus station. Did I need more money? Should I have gone to a cashpoint? Was there one at the port?

  My fingers wouldn’t keep still. I plucked at the knee of my linen pants and stared aimlessly out of the bus window. Who was the woman? I didn’t even have a name, or an address. She had phoned my mobile, so at least I could call her if she didn’t turn up – and that was my greatest fear. I realised she must have the jug, and that was what she had phoned about. I recognised the surprise in her voice when I mentioned the dragonfly necklace.

  As soon as I had them in my possession, if indeed I got them back, I would phone Harry and tell him everything.

  Then I would call Tommy. I nearly broke down right there in the bus just thinking about the moment when I would give him the news. The relief, this torturous trial that we had suffered for more than twenty years, over. We could return to the way we were. No more sticking knives in each other. Peace and harmony for the rest of our days. So many wasted years!

  *

  The FastCat seemed interminably slow, and the jostle of tourists unbearable as I disembarked. I raced along the cement quay, dodging holidaymakers and cars, suitcases and children, as I headed for the ticket office. Breathless with palpitations, I rushed into the café. Tables and chairs in the foyer, almost empty apart from discarded plastic beakers and crushed drink cans. In one corner, a few overweight men, smoking, huddled over tiny Greek coffees. A couple of backpackers reorganised the contents of their rucksacks on the floor. A family with three young children running wild, and the parents yelling: ‘Get here now, or else!’

  No woman on her own.

  I bought a frappé. The caffeine hit made me even more jumpy. Despite the air-conditioning blasting away, perspiration prickled my brow. I stood and walked around, displaying my white-linen-ness, in case there was any doubt: This is me, I’m here, waiting. By the time half an hour had passed, I was angry. Really fucked-off angry. Me, who never swore, ever – I was fucked-off angry. This woman held it all. My peace, Tommy’s peace, Irini’s peace. My blessed release from over twenty years of torture was in her hands. She controlled my family’s happiness for the rest of our lives.

  I sat, stood, paced stiffly while listening to the sound of my own breathing. Doubt set in. Was there another ticket office, another café? Was the woman in that other place, about to leave, thinking I hadn’t turned up? My heart thumped with the idea. Needing space, I stepped outside and glared around like an aggressive kid in the playground: Come on, approach me, you coward! For a second the world seemed to stop, a photo snap of my surroundings, a frozen image of every car, every person. No sign of a lonely woman with a package.

  The scene snapped into fast forward. Vehicles hurriedly parking, people dragging their suitcases, parents rounding up kids, backpackers studying maps. Still no woman on her own. It occurred to me she may be sitting in one of the parked cars, watching, seeing me hunched and glowering, giving off hostile vibes. I took a breath, relaxed my shoulders, and wiped the perspiration from my brow.

  I’m here. I’m a nice, kind person. Approachable. Come to me. Put an end to my misery. I’ll help you do what’s right.

  Then it was all too much. I leaned against a pillar, dropped my head in my hands and wept. So close. Why hadn’t she come? Everything would have fallen into place and my wrongs righted.

  ‘Bridget McGuire?’

  I gasped, dropped my hands, and stared at the woman. Five feet tall at most. Late sixties. Bleached hair tightly permed and stiffly lacquered. Subtle, expensive perfume. Skin sun-wrinkled but expertly made-up. Professional French manicure. Pale blue eyes.

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ I whispered. ‘I thought you weren’t going to come.’

  ‘Sorry, but I had to make sure you were alone. Will you get in my car?’

  ‘Sure.’ I sniffed, emotionally drained. Her new but cheap 4x4 was silver, with a booster-cushion on the driver’s seat.

  She drove into Heraklion, hugging the sandstone city wall until we came to the Chania Gate, which she drove through, and then parked near a towering, simple wooden cross. We got out of the car and walked over a grassed area towards a rectangle of enormous granite blocks, crudely hewn and pushed together. At one end, a cream marble slab was simply engraved with three lines of Greek letters. She raised a hand, indicating the inscribed tombstone.

  ‘I hope for nothing, I fear nothing, I am free,’ she quoted. ‘Do you know the works of Nikos Kazantzakis?’

  ‘I’ve read Zorba the Greek.’

  ‘You should read The Last Temptation of Christ.’

  I wondered why we were discussing books at a time like this. I couldn’t keep my desperation out of my voice any longer. ‘Why have you brought me here?’

  ‘I want you to understand the mentality of Nikos Kazantzakis. If you did, you would have some sympathy for my husband, and perhaps a little forgiveness for what he did.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean here on this hill, I mean why have you brought me to Crete? Do you have the dragonfly necklace?’

  She met my eyes and nodded.

  My relief was so intense, I dropped onto my haunches, my back against the granite, and placed my hands over my face again. The struggle to hold my composure was a losing battle.

  Oh! Oh!

  She gave me a few minutes to recompose. ‘I can see it means a lot to you.’

  I wiped my eyes and pulled myself together. ‘I made a terrible mistake many years ago and I’ve suffered for it ever since. Not just me. It caused a rift between my husband and I, and inadvertently my darling daughter too. If I can right the wrong that I did, then perhaps . . . I don’t know, maybe . . . we can all come back together. Start to heal.’

  We sat side by side on the granite. A sprig of vermilion bougainvillea wilted before the headstone, and the shadow of the cross fell in a dark stripe over our laps.

  ‘I see,’ she said after a thoughtful pause. Staring at the limp flowers, she said, ‘My husband died two weeks ago.’ She swallowed, frowned, her pain obvious. ‘He was obsessed with ancient history – his heritage, he called it – and he collected things. It started with a small bronze goblet his grandfather dug up in the olive grove half a century ago. My husband traded up, and bought inherited bits from other Greeks who were desperate for money and had no idea of the value of some old pot or piece of bric-a-brac. Fishermen too, they were happy to exchange a barnacle-encrusted sculpture of marble or bronze, which tore their nets, for more hard cash than their catch would earn in a week.

  ‘What started as an investment of a few thousand euros, ended up with a collection that I know is worth many millions. I found this hoard recently. He kept it locked away, a secret room, a mini museum for his eyes only. Now I’m trying to return the artefacts to their rightful places.’

  ‘That’s very noble of you, but why don’t you simply hand them over to a museum?’

  ‘He is . . . was . . . a very important person and, for the sake of his children and grandchildren, I don’t want his name sullied. That’s why I’m repatriating them myself. Anyway, my husband was a good man, but Minoan artefacts were his weakness, his temptation. Can I be assured they’ll go straight to a museum?’

  ‘I swear on my life.’

  ‘That might be relevant, because there are other people after them. Dangerous people. Someone who was supplying my husband has threatened me.’ She glanced around nervously. ‘This man seems to think I’m dealing. I’ve been approached . . . At my age it’s quite frightening. I think we’re safe here, and I’ll be glad to get rid of them.’

  ‘Who is this person? Do you have a name?’ I said, thinking of Harry. ‘We need to catch these dealers.’

  ‘No, I don’t have a name. But my husband bought a few pieces from someone excavating a secret site near Agios Nik
olaus, here on Crete.’

  ‘Not the Sacred City of Istron?’ I said quietly, thinking of my dreams.

  She looked surprised and nodded.

  ‘Please, tell me everything you know. I swear I will never involve you in anything,’ I said encouragingly.

  She jumped as some tourists approached. ‘Not now. Let’s go back.’ She glanced around nervously again. ‘This man, I don’t know his real name but he calls himself Delta. Since my husband died, he has called me several times offering to buy my husband’s collection. He says he wants to repatriate the artefacts, but I don’t believe him. To be honest, I’m afraid of him.’

  ‘I know somebody, a good man working for Interpol, he would take care of everything for you. His name’s Harry Edwards. You can simply hand everything over to him. You haven’t broken any laws, and you’d remain anonymous.’ I pulled Harry’s card from my wallet. ‘Here, tell him I gave you his number. You’ll be safe with him, I promise.’

  Once we were in the car, the woman delved into her oversized Michael Kors and pulled out a carrier bag that seemed to be taped over a box. ‘Here, hide them quickly. I’ll take you back now and drop you. Airport or port?’

  ‘Port,’ I said, thinking of the security check at the airport.

  An hour later, at the ferry, I scurried across the clanging metal boarding ramp, buffeted by the draught of articulated lorries rushed aboard by stevedores. Clearly, everyone was desperate to make the departure time. Despite billowing diesel fumes on the car deck, and the pushing and shoving of eager passengers, I relished being aboard the ship.

  Almost light-headed with relief to have reached a safe haven, I took the escalator up to the air-conditioned lounge deck. This was the last boat of the day to Santorini – the slow ferry. Inside my tote was the package that I dared not open, not yet. I had to find a secure place and examine the contents in private.

  CHAPTER 32

  IRINI

  Crete, present day.

  BACK IN THE HOSPITAL ROOM, the doctor and nurse stood in the corner. I held my mother’s hand and noticed its coolness. Dad sat opposite me and held her other hand. We both gazed at my mother’s face, waiting for a sign.

  ‘Mam, we’re here by your bed. Me and Dad and Quinlan.’ My father was too upset to speak and my heart broke for him.

  Quinlan patted his back and said, ‘Come on, Tommy. Bridget knows you love her. Just because you’re a narky old bugger doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you. The woman’s worshipped the ground you walked on from the moment she set eyes on you.’

  Dad nodded, rummaged for his hankie and blew his nose. When he was done, I noticed my mother was breathing heavily, then a strange whisper escaped. My heart leaped, and I hoped, hoped, hoped the doctor was wrong. Would she recover?

  ‘Mam, it’s me, Irini. I want to tell you how much I love you. I understand everything now. I know you loved me, and I know what a sacrifice it was for you to make sure I was safe. I hope you can forgive me. I should have moved towards you when I was older instead of being so selfish and self-righteous.’ I said it in a rush, a panic, sounding both phoney and disrespectful, but I couldn’t think because my head was so full of hopes and wishes, and my heart was both exploding and mashed to bits.

  ‘I want to tell you, Mammy. When I was in the convent, there was a nun – Sister Bridget – and she had auburn hair just like yours too. I imagined she was you, secretly looking out for me, making sure I was all right. I built up a fantasy in my little head. Wasn’t that crazy? But you see, it meant I never forgot you, and always felt you were there near me. Sister Bridget loved me too, I felt it.’

  Mam’s lips hardly moved, but there was a soft sound whispering from her. Her face was completely still, yet I sensed that she smiled and I filled up with the saddest joy.

  I leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘Can you hear me, Mam? I’m really sorry.’

  Her eyes remained closed, but the sound came again. My throat was so painful I couldn’t speak, but then I remembered she might only have a moment. I put my ear over her mouth to catch every syllable.

  ‘Tell me, Mam, what is it?’

  ‘Forgive . . . Love . . . Love . . .’

  Oh!

  ‘I love you too. So does Dad. He loves you so much he can’t speak right now.’

  ‘Alone?’ The word hardly more than a breath.

  ‘The doctor and nurse are here. Me and Dad and Quinlan will stay with you. Don’t be afraid. We won’t leave you. We love you, Mammy.’

  ‘Secret . . .’

  ‘What secret? Dad has told me everything. There’s nothing to worry about. We’ll get the dragonfly necklace and the jug back if we can, I promise you.’

  ‘Secret. Game. Remember.’ She pants softly between the words. ‘Secret. Game. Remember.’

  What was she saying? I didn’t understand. ‘What game, Mam? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Try. Remember. Love . . . love. Forgive. Love you, Tommy.’

  My father found his voice. ‘I love you too, darling girl,’ he cried out.

  Mam panted three times, and then she was gone.

  Gone!

  Just like that. She seemed to melt into the sheet and the monitor on the wall flatlined.

  No, not yet, not yet! There is so much I want to say. So many words queuing in my head. Don’t go, Mammy . . . Please don’t go!

  Dad lowered his head so it was against the back of her hand and started sobbing quietly.

  ‘No . . . Oh no . . .’ he whispered. ‘My Bridget, my life.’

  Now tears raced down my face. Poor Dad. Poor Quinlan.

  Oh, Mam!

  We stayed by her bed while the doctor did various tests, then he wrote on the clipboard at the bottom of her bed: Time of death – 11.59 p.m.

  Dad wouldn’t let go of my mother’s hand.

  CHAPTER 33

  BRIDGET

  Crete, present day.

  MY JOURNEY IS ALMOST OVER. Would I have changed anything, knowing what I know now? Well, yes, but I don’t know what. The people I love will put my body to rest in Santorini; and my mind, too, seems to have found peace at last. If I know my daughter, I believe she will find the dragonfly necklace before Tommy comes to join me in the afterlife, and he will feel a weight lifted from him when that happens.

  Poor Tommy. His bitterness was simply because he blamed himself for the wrong I did.

  I look down on my empty body. Irini, Tommy, and Quinlan are so terribly sad. They grieve for me and I ache for them. I hope they have learned from my mistakes. The lines between past, present, and future melt away, and my sadness for Irini lifts because suddenly I know she has great things ahead of her. She cries now, but her burden will ease with the joy and happiness of a wonderful life that awaits her.

  My last few days of mortal toil were worth every moment. In this timeless, endless dimension, I feel a hand slip into mine, and I glance sideways. Thira is beside me. Her serenity overwhelms any anguish I may have experienced on my own.

  She smiles softly. Don’t be afraid, sister. You are at peace now, and your people will travel the path of their destinies, holding the memory of you close in their hearts.

  I turn back to my family and recall the last few hours of my struggle to put things right.

  CHAPTER 34

  BRIDGET

  Santorini, one day before the accident.

  THE PORT OF HERAKLION had given me an uneasy feeling. I felt eyes on me, and malevolence warmed the air. Once on the ship, I rushed to the Ladies room and stayed inside a cubicle until I felt the ship leaving port. I planned to stay there for the entire trip, but soon found it impossible. Only two toilets, and no sooner had I opened my bag, someone was knocking urgently on the door. Unable to see who was there, I was too afraid to come out. With my nerves at snapping point, I listened to my neighbour as she vomited noisily. I could hear women chatting and realised the small Ladies had filled. Again, someone knocked urgently. I flushed the loo and rushed out.

 
I had to open my valuable package in private.

  With the tote strap over my shoulder and the bag clutched fiercely under my arm, I went below decks and marched down narrow corridors of cabins, which made me feel trapped. Back on the passenger deck, I noticed a door marked Mother and Baby. Inside, I found a changing table, a nursing chair, and a toilet cubicle. Once inside the WC, I locked the door. Although I longed to splash cold water over my face, the urgency of the moment gripped me.

  The carrier was taped around a large plastic sandwich box. Inside lay a pale-pink scarf printed with gold feathers. Barely breathing, I folded back the fabric. There it was. The little jug, swathed in bubble wrap. Oh!

  Someone had come into the changing room. A baby cried. The mother there-there’d her infant.

  I thought of Irini. Of everything I’d missed. Could I turn the clock back? No, but perhaps I could undo some damage.

  I coughed, letting the stranger know I was there, unsure why; it seemed a courtesy. The ceramic jug filled my palm. I stared for a moment longer, then replaced the bubble wrap and returned it carefully into my tote.

  If my heart would stop racing . . . if I could breathe . . . if the rest of my life was not suspended by the gossamer thread of the next few seconds. I lifted the next layer of scarf.

  Sometimes, there are no words to describe a feeling. Overawed is at least succinct.

  The necklace was attached to a cream velveteen display stand from a jeweller’s window. My hands trembled. I almost touched it, wanting to confirm it was real. Then I withdrew my fingertips and placed them over my mouth.

  I glanced around the cubicle, almost expecting to see Thira. According to the frescoes, the Goddess of the Marches actually wore that very same necklace four thousand years ago. There was the link that Tommy had hoped and prayed for. The proof that our Atlantis suspicions were finally a reality.

  The necklace was smaller than I remembered, the string of filigree dragonflies more delicate, more beautiful.