Patricia Wilson - Secrets of Santorini

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

SHAZS BOOK BLOG

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

PEOPLES FRIEND

Beautiful and evocative

IT TAKES A WOMAN

I loved it

ECHOES IN AN EMPTY ROOM

I absolutely LOVED, LOVED, LOVED this book ... I cant 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

BOONS BOOKCASE

Contents

For my darling grandchildren:

Nathan,
Florence,
Olivia.

Poseidons 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 Thiras 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.

Alls Well That Ends Well, William Shakespeare

BRIDGET

Dublin, 52 years ago.

O DD, 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 mas last kiss, forever on my cheek.

Ma had a job in the new McDonalds. Might be late getting home, Bridget. Im 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 Doyles doorbell played Greensleeves, the button placed so high us kids couldnt 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. Mas shopping bag stuffed with my clothes. Me confused, told to wash my hands and face. Hunger gnawing my stomach.

Back at Mrs Doyles. The six oclock 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 didnt make me say my prayers, and Da didnt tell me a funny limerick. A bomb outside the Guinness factory had put an end to everything.

BRIDGET

Santorini, 29 years ago.

I PLUMPED PILLOWS AND PULLED the mosquito net over our beds 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 landscape 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 Peters 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 uncles chronicles of Atlantis.

I blinked the dream away, turning my attention to the mornings 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 well roast in here later.

He lowered his newspaper and raised his greying eyebrows. My God, youre a bossy mare, Bridget! Cant a man have a blessed moment to himself?

Ive 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 wouldnt last. Enjoying the moment, I stopped and gazed out across Santorinis caldera. My dream returned, a flashback to a time drenched in opulence and drama on this island that had become our home.