Secrets of Santorini Read online

  Praise for

  ‘Full of raw emotion’

  SUNDAY POST

  ‘I was engrossed and hanging on each and every word. This book will leave a lasting impression . . . [and is] one that I will find myself recommending to everyone I meet’

  REA BOOK REVIEWS

  ‘We race to the end with our hearts thumping . . . Terrific stuff’

  LOVE READING

  ‘A beautiful, heartbreaking story of sacrifice and love in the face of evil’

  FOR THE LOVE OF BOOKS

  ‘Full of raw emotions, family vendettas, hidden secrets and three very strong women’

  THAT THING SHE READS

  ‘The perfect blend of fiction with historical fact’

  SHAZ’S BOOK BLOG

  ‘Day by day the story unfolds . . . secrets are revealed, feuds revisited and three generations of women reunited’

  PEOPLE’S FRIEND

  ‘Beautiful and evocative’

  IT TAKES A WOMAN

  ‘I loved it’

  ECHOES IN AN EMPTY ROOM

  ‘I absolutely LOVED, LOVED, LOVED this book . . . I can’t wait to read more from this hugely talented author’

  GINGER BOOK GEEK

  ‘A very dramatic novel, one you cannot put down’

  SOUTH WALES ARGUS

  ‘Thoroughly researched and very well written’

  THAT THING SHE READS

  ‘The author writes in such an evocative and emotional style that the reader cannot help but get totally lost in the book’

  KIM THE BOOKWORM

  ‘Attention to detail is second to none . . . I cannot praise this book enough and just hope that the author writes another book soon

  BOON’S BOOKCASE

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  More from Patricia Wilson

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Story Behind the Story

  Copyright

  For my darling grandchildren:

  Nathan,

  Florence,

  Olivia.

  Poseidon’s Final Destiny

  Waves that frighten

  Lighthouses

  Heave

  And

  Roll,

  Turbulent

  As your lovemaking

  Quakes our island, Atlantis.

  Mermaids’ sighs of pleasure echo

  Through pearly corridors in pink conch shells.

  As your eruption nears, our mountain heaves and boils.

  Discharge your fiery brimstone lusty God of tempest and terror

  For you and your kingdom may yet drown in the depths of Thira’s tears.

  Patricia Wilson

  A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,

  A phoenix, captain, and an enemy,

  A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,

  A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear.

  All’s Well That Ends Well, William Shakespeare

  PROLOGUE

  BRIDGET

  Dublin, 52 years ago.

  ODD, THE MEMORIES of a single day that stay with a child. I remember a list of things: the smell of tar filling my head like liquorice cough mixture; the fear of a smack on the legs if I got any on my clothes; the clanking road-roller and tarmac machines that left our street covered with pinkish pebbles; me and my friends poking sticks into the edges to try and get some tar while it was still soft; the dip we found at the kerb.

  The day, cold and damp. Boys in home-knitted balaclavas. Girls in stripy bobble-hats and scarves crocheted from oddments of wool. Friday, because Ma would get her first wage-packet and promised a treat. A sherbet fountain, gobstoppers, liquorice wood or coltsfoot rock? Ma wore her Sunday best that morning, and lipstick, and rouge. My friends said how lovely she looked when she kissed me at the school gate. My ma’s last kiss, forever on my cheek.

  Ma had a job in the new McDonald’s. ‘Might be late getting home, Bridget. I’m meeting Da outside the factory, after work.’

  Three of us – Margret, Harry, and me – played alleys at the kerb, flicking marbles into the dip. Mrs Doyle called me into her house. Told the others to run home, ‘Quickly now!’ She made me remove my shoes, leave them on her bright-red doorstep, then stared in despair at my greyish socks that were white last Monday. Mrs Doyle had two boys and no notion of how hard it was to keep white socks clean all week when you were eight years old. Saturday was bath, hair-wash, and clean clothes day; my socks were on their last legs.

  She told me to sit on the rug in the front room, then turned the TV on. The thrill – they had colour! I watched Wanderly Wagon. Wait until I told Ma: posh Mrs Doyle – front room, television! We had moved up in the street hierarchy because Ma had a proper job and dressed like a film star.

  Mrs Doyle’s doorbell played ‘Greensleeves’, the button placed so high us kids couldn’t reach it. People came, talked in the hall. Hushed voices. Problems, by the sound. I was hurried home. String pulled out of the letterbox with the door key tied on the end. Ma’s shopping bag stuffed with my clothes. Me confused, told to wash my hands and face. Hunger gnawing my stomach.

  Back at Mrs Doyle’s. The six o’clock news was about to start. She rushed in and turned the TV off. In her kitchen, I ate bread and jam, real jam with strawberries in, not the mixed fruit that Ma got from the Co-op. Then Uncle Peter and Aunty Agnes came to collect me.

  That night, in the strange bed, Ma didn’t make me say my prayers, and Da didn’t tell me a funny limerick. A bomb outside the Guinness factory had put an end to everything.

  CHAPTER 1

  BRIDGET

  Santorini, 29 years ago.

  I PLUMPED PILLOWS AND PULLED the mosquito net over our bed’s four corners while recalling that magical moment on the threshold of consciousness. The dream, vivid and thrilling, lingered in my thoughts. Uncle Peter had much to answer for. His fantastic tales adapted from the works of Plato used to fill my young mind with the glory of an ancient civilisation. Ever eager to hear more each night, I let his words melt into a continuation of my dreams.

  Remembering his nightly introduction to those stories of splendour made me smile.

  ‘Close your eyes and imagine,’ he would whisper dramatically. ‘You, the amazing Queen Thira, rule over your ten kings and an entire nation. Beloved by your people in a happy, wealthy land where bellies are full, you can sleep in late, and nobody wants for anything. Outside your marble palace, with its roof of silver and floors of intricate mosaics, swallows duck and dive between majestic lilies. The sun shines on a lan
dscape painted with aromatic herbs and drifts of lilac crocus. From a crystal sea, bright-eyed dolphins leap into the warm air, laughing in their clicking, effervescent way. “Hello, my Queen,” they cry in rapid Morse-code before diving back into the mysterious deep.’

  And me at eight years old, soaking up every word, allowing Uncle Peter’s tales to wash away the reality of our humble Dublin home and my poor, dead parents. Those stories kept me alive in my darkest hours, helped me rise above the heartbreaking truth of my young life, and they ignited a passion for the classics, ancient history, and the Greeks.

  While my classmates were destined to be shop workers, waitresses, nuns or nurses, I imagined digging deep into the Greek soil, unearthing proof of a past worthy of my uncle’s chronicles of Atlantis.

  I blinked the dream away, turning my attention to the morning’s chores and the day ahead.

  ‘Tommy, will you rinse the mugs before we leave?’ I called through the front door. ‘And close the shutters or we’ll roast in here later.’

  He lowered his newspaper and raised his greying eyebrows. ‘My God, you’re a bossy mare, Bridget! Can’t a man have a blessed moment to himself?’

  ‘I’ve things to do. Get a move on.’

  Outside, I turned on the hose, splashed water over my bare feet, and saturated a terracotta urn that overflowed with salmon geraniums. When I soaked the warm concrete terrace, the surrounding air cooled – delicious – but I knew it wouldn’t last. Enjoying the moment, I stopped and gazed out across Santorini’s caldera. My dream returned, a flashback to a time drenched in opulence and drama on this island that had become our home.

  The view from the patio took my breath, never ceasing to amaze me. Tommy and I were living the dream, as we had for almost twenty years.

  A cruise ship slid towards the quaint port of Kato Fira, three hundred metres below the house. Santorini was the fashionable destination for a new breed of tourists. Wealthy cruisers arrived daily, much to the glee of shopkeepers and tradesmen. The sleek white liner left a dissipating fan of ripples in its wake. I imagined excited, middle-aged, middle-class passengers gazing at the tall cliffs topped by a town of church domes, bell towers, and canvas-sailed windmills.

  A sudden racket made me turn. The local donkeys, hooves clattering against the cobbles, appeared in the side road and headed for the six hundred steps down to the port. A sight the tourists adored. Many cruise-ship passengers enjoyed the cliff-climbing ride in the saddle of an unfortunate beast. Through the heat of the day, donkeys lugged overweight visitors with their cameras and guidebooks up to the town.

  I caught the eye of a young jenny and fancied we shared a second of understanding. Do donkeys dream? I mused. Green pastures, shady trees, and buckets of clean water? A life of toil in the raging sun probably left them too exhausted for flights of fantasy.

  The herdsman cried, ‘Yah! Yah!’ and swiped the animal’s rump with a stinging switch. The sound took me back to a day at school when I received three cane strokes. That evening, Uncle Peter caught me crying under my bed.

  ‘Come out from there, me little colleen,’ he coaxed. ‘Now tell your worried uncle what’s causing those terrible tears.’

  The reason for my beating was long forgotten, but I still recalled Uncle Peter’s solution.

  ‘Straighten your back and stretch your neck, regal as the queen, now. Always remember this.’ He tapped the side of my head with two fingers. ‘You have the good Queen Thira in there to guide you. Call on her for help whenever you need it, right? Do as she would and you’ll be fine, my lovely.’

  From that day on, Queen Thira was my soulmate and constant companion.

  The memory made me smile.

  ‘All done,’ Tommy said, rushing out. ‘Look at you standing there, away with the fairies while I slave indoors. Are you ready to go at all, or will I get another chance to read the news while you daydream?’

  I grinned, loving the Dublin lilt that had never left his words despite our decades living far from the Emerald Isle. ‘You can put the bikes outside the gate while I lock the door.’ I gathered my auburn hair, tied it in a knot, then slipped my trainers on.

  ‘I’ll catch you up!’ I called propping my bike against a lamppost in the main street. Tommy lifted an arm as he continued down the hill and out of town.

  Minutes later, with my rucksack on my back, I freewheeled after him, heading towards the archaeological site. With the breeze in my face and the sun on my back, anticipation gathered in the pit of my stomach. What would we find on this glorious morning? Would this be a day of great discovery when the archaeological site chose to reveal its secrets?

  In a flash, my mind went back to the most exciting moment in our kafenio. A local described a decorated terracotta urn, found by a shepherd on the hillside. When that same pot was brought to us and we suspected it was early Minoan, we persuaded – bribed – the shepherd to show us its location. A series of events followed, leading to a carbon-dating result that confirmed our suspicions. The urn was Minoan. Six months later, two weeks after our wedding, we received official permission to dig. On that same day, we paced the barren area with a surveyor and knocked rods into the soil, marking the boundaries.

  I recalled grinning stupidly as Tommy and I broke the earth together, each of us with one foot on the spade, my adorable professor staring at the ground expectantly as we lifted the first sod.

  *

  ‘What took you so long?’ Tommy asked when I arrived at the site.

  ‘Post office.’ I waved the envelope before opening it. He watched my face, then matched my grin.

  ‘Good news then?’

  ‘That American magazine’s publishing my article!’ I cried.

  ‘What did you decide to call it in the end?’

  ‘The Crime of Antiquities Theft. Look, Tommy, I’ve got a cheque for sixty dollars. Enough money for a a month’s food.’

  ‘Well done you!’

  ‘God bless Archaeology Now,’ I muttered, glancing through the accompanying letter. ‘They’ve asked if I’ll do a regular column on the same topic.’ I hope they remember to send me a copy, I’m dying to see it in print. I slid my arms around Tommy’s waist. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘Of course you could.’

  I shook my head. ‘Nobody was taking my essays seriously until you recommended me to that magazine editor, Tommy. Thank you for that.’ I slipped the cheque into my purse.

  ‘Nothing to do with me or God, darling girl. You’ve earned your reputation, and I’m proud of you. Anyway, you’ve freelanced for long enough; it’s time someone recognised your expertise. Let’s celebrate with a jug of plonk and a chicken gyro for supper. My treat.’

  ‘Spoiling me again, Tommy?’ I kissed his smiling mouth. ‘I should start another article this evening, but one day won’t make any difference, so yes, let’s celebrate.’

  ‘Right, better get some work done then!’ He pecked me on the cheek, then hurried away.

  *

  Later that morning, the July heat shimmered off every flat surface. A cricket chirruped somewhere on the rubble walls, sounding like my bicycle freewheeling downhill. Under a dusty canvas awning that shaded the trestle and tea corner, I pieced together a small pottery jug. An ache in my lower back forced me to stop and stretch. I scratched the prickling sweat from my neck. Clay gunk under my fingernails reminded me of an ancient potter’s hands working at the wheel.

  Who had thrown the little jug? The exquisite object had a slender handle and delicate spout, a symmetrical body with fine images of birds and flowers painted onto its belly. Had that artisan also roasted under the Santorini sun? Perhaps the vessel had once held milk, olive oil, fruit juice or wine. Or perhaps rich almond oil to massage into the golden skin of aristocracy.

  I imagined a bare-breasted maiden with long black hair, kneading the muscular back of a victorious sea captain who had returned from the wars with Libya.

  The site lay silent, holding its secrets close. I sensed our dus
ty, abandoned city had seen so much and was withholding that knowledge from Tommy and I, until the earth felt we were ready for its fantastic revelations.

  We had dug deep and sifted hard for years, loving our Santorini adventure as much as each other. Despite uncovering an ancient metropolis buried in thirty metres of volcanic pumice, to date we hadn’t found a fragment of what the public would regard as treasure. The prehistoric capital appeared far advanced of anything else in the country. However, we suspected that before the island erupted, the population had left with their treasures.

  Shortly before midday, Tommy rushed forward and thrust his cupped hands towards me. ‘Look at this!’ he cried, making me jump.

  My skin tingled to hear such exhilaration in his voice. ‘What is it?’ I stared at the mound of dust and grit he held out.

  ‘It’s broken, but it appears to be jewellery. Dare I hope we’ve found an adornment from antiquity and not a modern retro trinket.’ He lowered the dirt to the table and drew his hands apart. ‘We won’t know for sure until we’ve cleaned and analysed it, but I feel hopeful!’

  We pulled up chairs, peered and speculated.

  ‘I think it’s silver,’ Tommy said, poking the pieces of filigree metal towards each other. ‘The shapes . . . they appear to be in pairs, see?’

  ‘Wait.’ I grabbed the empty envelope from Archaeology Now and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. ‘Best not touch it.’ I picked out the larger pieces of fine tracery and placed them on the white paper.

  Tommy nodded, pulling gloves on himself. I tore my gaze from his, concentrated on the bits of metal and fished more fragments out of the dust. Our heads met above the table. Tommy was breathing hard.

  ‘They remind me of seed pods from a maple tree,’ he said.

  ‘Me too! The helicopter ones.’ I grinned at the pieces, drinking in the delicate artwork. If it wasn’t ancient, it was certainly more exquisite than anything else we had discovered. Then I found a different shape. ‘What’s this? What’s this?!’

  Surely, he had discovered something of incredible historical value. Could this be the very moment we had dreamed about on that day when we first broke the earth together?