In other circumstances, she would by now have faced, coldly and rationally, the options open to her. She would have gone to a doctor – of course she would – and have done what everyone did these days. It was her right, was it not? More than that, it was the right thing to do. She had her life before her – her course at university, everything – and there was no room for a baby, at least not yet. Accidents could be dealt with, clinically, discreetly.
But it was not like that now. There had been no mistake, no regretted moment of rash intimacy. She had been chosen, singled out; it was an annunciation. She would remain pregnant, she would have the baby, here in Italy. And then? She would keep the baby. She could not give away a gift such as that, an angel child.
Signora Sabatino had to know, and it was not difficult to tell her. The old woman sat silent for a moment, and then she rose and embraced her, weeping, stroking her hair, muttering to her words that she did not grasp.
Then: “I shall look after you. I shall move into the big house. That will be better.”
She did not argue.
“I will make sure that everything is ready for the baby. I will fetch the midwife – there is a woman nearby who can look after all that. I will invite her some days before.”
She felt herself absorbed by the plan, taken over by a female freemasonry of women and childbirth. This was nothing to do with men; this was an affair that was just for women. And this knowledge was reassuring. These women would not ask questions; they were concerned only for her and for the baby.
“Do not tell anybody about the father,” she found herself asking. “Let others think he was just an ordinary boy.”
Signora Sabatino nodded, holding a finger to her lips in a gesture of silence.
“It is not right to talk about angels,” she said. “They are shy, and talk would frighten them off. But the father will probably come to see his child. He will know.”
The next week, she resumed her walks to the church and the vineyard. She felt no anxiety, as she did not expect to see him. She stopped at the church, slipping the coin into its abyss, and then retraced her steps down the hill. She saw the place where they had sat for their picnic, but she did not approach it; nor did she linger outside the farm where she had at first thought he might live.
In the afternoons, she lay in her bedroom, in the cool, and read. Only later, when the sun was almost behind the hills, would she come downstairs and speak to Signora Sabatino, or sit outside and listen to the screech of the cicadas. She was aware of the child now; she sensed its fluttering movements within her, and she was thrilled by the feeling. She invited Signora Sabatino to place a hand against her stomach, and when the old woman felt the movements she crossed herself rapidly.
The months passed easily. By October, she was beginning to feel slow and heavy, and she donned the shifts which Signora Sabatino had made for her. She had gone to see a doctor, on Signora Sabatino’s insistence, and she had examined her carefully, prodding at the child, who kicked back, making her smile. Everything was in order, she was told, but she might wish to have some tests. Abnormalities could be so easily detected. She listened, passively; they could test her if they wished, but they would never guess, with all their scientific sophistication, how this child had been conceived.
Signora Sabatino went with her to the hospital in Siena.
They sat, mutely, on a bench before she was called into a sterile white room where they dressed her in a loose robe and then placed her on a table. Instruments were wheeled in, and there were explanations, but she paid little attention. And then, suddenly, they showed her the child on a screen, a small, confusing circle, which pulsated before her.
A doctor peered at the screen, and left the room. He returned, with several other doctors, who looked carefully at the image and spoke to one another under their breath. Then they performed other tests. She was placed before an X-ray screen and told to stand this way and that, while the doctors strained their eyes and pointed.
At the end of it all, with Signora Sabatino beside her, they broke the news. They did it gently, and one of the doctors touched her arm lightly as he spoke.
“We’re terribly sorry,” he said. “It will be very disappointing to you, but we think that your baby is deformed.”
She said nothing, but Signora Sabatino spoke angrily.
“There is something on its back,” one of them said. “We cannot really tell exactly, but there is some sort of growth. These things happen. And we think that you must now very carefully consider bringing this pregnancy to an end, even if it is rather late.”
They looked at her expectantly. She glanced at Signora Sabatino, whose eyes had narrowed. Then the old woman leant forward to tell her something.
“This is what one might expect,” she whispered. “It is an angel child, remember. It has wings. But don’t tell them. They wouldn’t understand. Let’s just leave.”
She nodded her agreement.
“Thank you,” she said, turning to the doctors. “I will think about what you have told me.”
She rose to her feet, and one of the doctors sprang forward to take her arm.
“You must not go just yet,” he said. “You should stay. Then, tomorrow, when you have thought about it we can … we can arrange things.”
She stared at him. The gown made her feel ridiculous, vulnerable, and it was hard to resist them. But she knew that she could not agree.
“No,” she said. “I shall be going home now. Thank you.”
She wrote to her father: “This is something which I find very difficult to say. All I ask of you is that you do not try to do anything about it. If you do, then I’m sorry but I shall have to go away somewhere. I mean that.
“I am expecting a baby in three months. I don’t want to tell you how this happened, or who the father is. I ask you not to ask me about that, ever. If you love me, you’ll accept this, and not say anything about it. I don’t want you to try to get me to do anything; I don’t want you to try to interfere in any way at all with the arrangements I have made. In particular, don’t phone me. If you want to see me, then come out here, but don’t try to do anything. Nothing you do will change anything anyway.”
She expected that the letter would take four days to reach him, and that he would appear on the fifth day. In fact, he came on the sixth, arriving in a rented car from Pisa Airport, streaked in dust from the drive. She watched him from her window as he parked the car outside, and carried his bag up the steps to the front door. She heard voices downstairs as he spoke to Signora Sabatino, and there was some shouting.
Then he was at her door, knocking perfunctorily before he turned the handle and came inside. Then he paused, and she saw that he was weeping, and that tears had run down from his face to make dark stains on his shirt front. She felt tender towards him, and ran across the room to embrace him.
“My darling,” he sobbed. “My dearest. My girl.”
“I’m all right, Dad. I’m fine – I really am.”
“What happened? What happened to you? How did this thing …”
She placed her hand against his face, against the wet cheek.
“Nothing bad happened. I’m pregnant, that’s all. It’s not a big thing these days, you know.”
He lowered his eyes.
“You should have told me before … much earlier.”
“So I could have got rid of it?”
He lowered his eyes. “If necessary.”
She looked at him carefully. “I’m keeping this baby. Do you understand that? I’m keeping the baby.”
He turned away from her, dabbing at his eyes with a crumpled white handkerchief.
“I think you owe me some sort of explanation,” he said, struggling to control his voice. “You can’t just present me with this and say nothing about it!”
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, the father, of course. Who’s the father? Where is he?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “He’s gone away. He
’s no longer here.”
“His name? At least give me his name, for heaven’s sake!” His voice was raised, full of misery, cracked with sorrow.
She looked at him glumly, and slowly the awful realisation dawned on him. His voice was quiet now, almost inaudible: “You don’t know … You don’t know, do you?”
She said nothing, but she took a step towards him as he seemed to crumple before her. Instinctively, he drew back, recoiling in horror, and she stood quite still, shocked at what she had done to him, at his pain.
He stayed for three days. They spoke about it the next morning, when he accepted the conditions which she had stipulated in her letter.
“I won’t ask you any more about it,” he said. “But in return, please reassure me that you will never, never hesitate to come to me if you want to talk about it again. I will do anything for you, darling, anything. You know that, don’t you?”
She ran towards him and flung her arms around him.
“I promise you,” she whispered. “I promise.”
“I have spoken to Signora Sabatino,” he said, speaking slowly, as if the words were costing him pain. “And she told me one thing which has set my mind at rest. She tells me that you weren’t … you weren’t attacked. That’s all that I really wanted to hear. I don’t mind about the rest. It’s just that – that one thing – that a father can’t bear. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“So now we should discuss how I can help you. Are you sure you want to stay here? Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come home?”
“I want to stay,” she replied. “I really am happy here.”
“Very well. What about a nurse? Can I arrange for a nurse to come, say, a few weeks before the baby’s due?”
She shook her head. “Signora Sabatino’s looking after me. She’s tremendous.”
He looked doubtful. “She’s getting on a bit …”
“She’s fine.”
There was silence for a few moments. “Where will you go? Will you have the baby in Siena?”
“Maybe,” she said. “We’ll see what the doctor suggests. There’s a midwife apparently. She could come out here. I’d prefer that.”
“You’ll listen to what the doctor advises, though?” His voice was anxious, and she patted him on the back reassuringly.
“Of course, Dad. I’m not stupid.”
Afterwards, they relaxed. She thought that he had come to terms with the situation now, and they talked about other matters. He promised to come out again, as soon as he could, as soon as his business would allow him, and she promised that she would telephone him every week. They parted fondly, and she stood in the driveway watching his car disappear down the road towards the town, waiting until it was no longer visible and she was an adult again.
In the last few weeks, she felt lazier and more passive. She had had an easy pregnancy, with little discomfort, and she found it difficult to imagine how this feeling of fulfilment could change so suddenly to pain. And when the first warning came, and she felt the jolt, even then it seemed to be sufficiently remote not to cause her distress. She called Signora Sabatino, who immediately hurried to the telephone to summon the midwife. Then she returned and led her to the bed, holding her hand as she lay there.
The midwife arrived and busied herself with preparations. She was a large woman, with sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, masculine arms. She applied a sharp-smelling liquid to her hands and arms and measured Emma’s pulse against a watch which she took out of her pocket. Then she asked for towels to be boiled and sat down on a chair beside the bed.
“I delivered a baby in this house once before,” she said. “It was a long time ago. It was a very large baby.”
She closed her eyes. The pain was returning, the fire that was licking at her body; but she was not afraid. The light had come back; she could feel it; and it was all about her. It overcame the tearing of the flesh; the agony. The light.
And then, the fire rose to a great roar, and the light was almost too bright to bear, and she heard the cry. The midwife was back at her side, and Signora Sabatino was behind her. There was a white bundle, and another cry, and she saw Signora Sabatino bend down, take the bundle from the midwife, and pass it to her, into her arms.
“A boy,” said Signora Sabatino. “Your little boy! Eccolo!”
She held the child, and saw its wrinkled face and the eyes, now open, trying to focus. She wept, and the midwife passed a cloth across her cheek.
“Well done,” she said. “Brave girl. Brave girl.”
Then she reached into the wrappings of towels and exposed the baby’s body, the skin in tiny folds, so red. She felt the tiny limbs, which moved under her touch, and her hand went to his back. There was two slight bulges, smooth to the touch, but wet, as if moist skin had been folded against skin. She looked up at Signora Sabatino, who had come between her and the midwife.
“Yes,” whispered the old woman. “He has them. He has the wings of an angel.”
She dressed him in gold, in the robes made for him by Signora Sabatino; for his father would come soon, she felt, and he must be appropriately attired. The child, who had slept so silently for the first three days of his life, who had woken only to suckle, now lay in his crib, with the two women about him, one on her bed, the other in a chair, sewing.
He came in the evening. Suddenly there was a light outside, and the sound of wind. Signora Sabatino rose wordlessly to open the door and he entered the room. He, too, was in robes of gold, a light blue belt about his waist. She turned her face to him and smiled, and he came towards her and held out a hand to her cheek. Then, without saying anything, he walked to the crib and took the child into his arms. Signora Sabatino had dropped to her knees now, and had reached out to touch the hem of his robe as he walked past.
Two other angels entered, two women, in dresses of silver. He passed the child to one of the them and then he turned to face the mother.
“You will see him again one day,” he said. “He will not be far away.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“You are not unhappy?”
“No, I am not.”
He gestured to the two angels in silver, and then he himself moved towards the door. For a moment he hesitated, as if he wished to say more, but then he stepped out. For a while there was still light, both in the room and without, but this soon faded, and the night returned.
HEAVENLY DATE
AND OTHER FLIRTATIONS
ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH is the author of over fifty books, including the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series of novels, which has sold over 2.5 million copies in the US alone and has been translated into twenty-six foreign languages. In 2003 he was the winner of the UK’s principal award for humorous writing, the Saga Award, and in the same year he won the Glenfiddich Award for Writing. Alexander McCall Smith lives in Scotland.
Praise for Alexander McCall Smith
and THE NO. 1 LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY:
“Smart and sassy … Precious’ progress is charted in passages that have the power to amuse or shock or touch the heart, sometimes all at once.”
LOS ANGELES TIMES
“One of the most entrancing literary treats of many a year … A tapestry of extraordinary nuance and richness.”
WALL STREET JOURNAL
“The Miss Marple of Botswana.”
THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW
“Deals with issues of the human heart as much as with high crime. With this intimate approach, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency is a quiet joy, a little gem of a book set apart from the genre by the quality of its writing, as well as by its exotic setting.”
BOSTON GLOBE
“Gentle but incisive commentaries on Africa, men and women and life in general. They are not to be missed.”
SEATTLE TIMES
“Like Conan Doyle [McCall Smith’s] characters observe the smallest clues but also see the bigger picture of the complexity of people’s lives.”
&
nbsp; BRUNSWICK TIMES RECORD
“General audiences will welcome this little gem of a book just as much if not more than mystery readers.”
PUBLISHER’S WEEKLY
“Highly amusing, intelligent and heart-warming.”
SCOTLAND ON SUNDAY
First published in the UK in 1995
by Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh, EH1 1TE
This digital edition first published in 2008
by Canongate Books Ltd
Copyright © Alexander McCall Smith, 1995
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on
request from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 84767 371 8
www.meetatthegate.com
Table of Contents
WONDERFUL DATE
NICE LITTLE DATE
BULAWAYO
FAR NORTH
INTIMATE ACCOUNTS
CALWARRA
FAT DATE
MATERNAL INFLUENCE
HEAVENLY DATE
Heavenly Date and Other Flirtations Page 18