The Santorini Summer Read Free Page B

sleep under canvas at the edge of the site.
    We four girls were deposited outside a small, white-painted house with vivid blue shutters. The Professor had rooms elsewhere. No doubt she was to be given a deluxe version of our accommodation, which was clean but very basic. But we didn’t care; we were glad not to have the Professor breathing down our necks. She left us with an admonition to get some rest, and to remember to adjust our watches to local time; our first lecture was scheduled for 9:30 the next morning.
    Despite being exhausted, I lay awake for a long time, not being accustomed to Maureen’s snoring and the amazing volume of sounds produced by the cicadas. I felt strangely free; I had left behind my mother’s anxiety and distress, which should have made me feel guilty, yet I felt the complete opposite.
    After a breakfast of yoghurt and honey, warm, fresh bread, over-sweet orange squash and strong coffee, we gathered outside our lodgings to await the Professor’s arrival. It was already sweltering. I was wearing, as instructed, an Aertex shirt, my unflattering culottes and a pair of sensible sandals. I had tied a headscarf around my hair, peasant-style, because I had no hat and my mother had insisted that I must cover my head. We were all dressed much the same; pale, delicate-looking English girls who stuck out like a sore thumb.
    So there was a collective drawing-in of breath as the Professor appeared with a trio of tall blonde girls in her wake, all dressed like cowgirls in denim jeans and gingham shirts.
    ‘Good morning, ladies. Here are some of your American colleagues, Cindy-Lou, Mary-Jane and Carlotta. This is Maureen, Sarah, Melissa and Olivia. Now, if you’re all ready? It’s a ten minute walk.’
    ‘Hi, there,’ acknowledged the Americans, more or less in unison, gaping at our clothes as we gaped at theirs.
    The Professor set off, oblivious of our reactions. We fell in behind, rolling our eyes at each other as the three shapely, blue derrieres swayed before us. We must have entered camp like ugly ducklings trailing after three glamorous swans. Sarah was determined not to be outfaced, however, and as we took our places in the stuffy tent which served as the Lecture Hall. She managed a murmured aside to Carlotta: ‘Didn’t your mother get the letter about the clothes to wear in camp?’
    I forgot my embarrassment as one of the Greek professors introduced the first slides, and the history of Sir Arthur Evans’ discoveries unfolded. We had been given the revisionist version of events by the Professor, of course, who held Sir Arthur’s methods in some contempt. But on hearing the story while in situ , seeing pictures of objects which had been found only yards away from our chairs, I was filled with excitement and perfectly willing to take a romantic view of it all. There was, perhaps, no proof of his theories, but there was also no proof that he was wrong. Suppose he really had found the palace of King Minos? Suppose the legend of Theseus and Ariadne was based on fact? Bull-worship was certainly part of Minoan life; that was obvious from the decorations on the jars and frescoes, and someone had designed a labyrinth of corridors. I liked to think of the crafty Daedalus and his unheeding son Icarus, building the maze and then planning their escape.
    We were to visit the site immediately after the lecture so as to avoid the midday heat. My mother was always telling me that impatience was my greatest fault, and I had great difficulty in waiting politely for Professor Makropolous to switch off the projector and gather up his notes. Maureen irritated me by asking him another question about the reconstructions, and the American girls caused yet more delay by asking to visit the bathroom. This confused everyone. Most of us thought they were enquiring about King Minos’ plumbing arrangements about which there was much controversy amongst archaeologists, and it was some time before Professor Margerison said,