by Debbie Rix
‘Well, we normally have fish soup to start,’ said Rachael.
Mrs Roper wrinkled her nose slightly in disapproval.
‘And then,’ continued Rachael, ‘chicken or pork and stuffed cabbage, and afterwards pastries and more szaloncukor – little sweets.’
‘Well… as we’re doing the tree your way, I think we’ll do the meal my way – if that’s all right. Chicken and pork are all very well, but you need something different at Christmas, I always think. When I was young, we always had a goose, but turkey is very fashionable now, so I’m doing turkey this year – as it’s a special celebration. We’ll make a lovely stuffing and do roast potatoes and chestnuts and sprouts. I’ve already made the pudding and a lovely dark Christmas cake. But perhaps you and Angela could help me make mince pies this afternoon. I was just checking the recipe to make sure I’ve got enough currants and so on.’
Angela, delighted to be included, stood on a stool at Mrs Roper’s big kitchen table, mixing the currants, raisins, sultanas and brandy with a long wooden spoon. Rachael, meanwhile, rolled out pastry on a cool marble board. While the mince pies cooked, and the house filled with the scents of Christmas, Rachael felt a genuine sadness to be leaving this kind woman who had shown her so much kindness and affection.
On Christmas Eve, while George looked after Angela in the attic, the two women dragged the tree in from the garden and put it up in the parlour. Mrs Roper went down to the basement and brought up the box of decorations.
‘Here they are… all the lovely bits and pieces I’ve collected over the years. There are even decorations my son made as a child.’
She handed Rachael a little robin made of papier mâché, painted inexpertly by a child’s hand.
‘It’s lovely…’ said Rachael, climbing on a chair and fixing it to the tree. ‘See – he’s looking down on us now…’
‘Yes dear… that’s right. He’s always here with me, but especially at Christmas.’
Rachael climbed off the chair and gave Mrs. Roper a hug.
‘Thank you, dear,’ Mrs. Roper said, wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron. ‘Now, we’d better get this tree finished and when we’re all assembled, I’ll open a bottle of sherry and we can share our gifts.’
Rachael went upstairs and changed into a dark red dress before gathering up her few presents – a leather-bound notebook for her father and a couple of picture books and a simple jigsaw for Angela. For Mrs. Roper, she had made a doll – a six-inch high replica of a girl in Hungarian costume – dressed in a bright blue full skirt, an apron, an embroidered blouse and wearing a little cap over her dark hair.
Once the presents were arranged beneath the tree, Mrs. Roper lit the candles and she and Rachael turned out the lights. Following Hungarian tradition, Rachael shook a little handbell – the cue for George to enter the room with Angela in his arms. She shrieked excitedly as soon as she saw the tree. It was a magical sight in the darkened room – the flicker of candles, their reflections glimmering on the glass baubles and shiny ornaments.
‘Look, Angela,’ said her mother, handing her a present wrapped in coloured tissue paper. ‘See what the angels have left for you.’
George sat the child down on his lap and helped her open the parcel.
Shyly, Rachael picked up the gift she had made for Mrs Roper.
‘This is for you,’ she said.
Mrs Roper unwrapped the tiny doll, and turned it over in her hands, admiring the workmanship. ‘Oh, Rachael – it’s beautiful… did you make it?’
‘Yes… I thought it would remind you… of us.’
‘Well, I’ll never forget you – you can be sure of that. I’ve got something for you too.’
She handed Rachael a small parcel, expertly wrapped up in colourful red and green paper.
‘I don’t normally give presents to my guests. But… seeing as you’re leaving, and we may never meet again…’ She took a pressed white handkerchief from the sleeve of her best dress and dabbed at her eyes.
‘Oh Mrs Roper… I’m sure we will meet again. We’ll be back in a year… and maybe live here in the future. If not, I will come and see you – I promise.’
‘Yes… well. You open your present, dear.’
Rachael undid the ribbon and removed the wrapping, revealing a bright blue swimsuit. She had never owned a swimsuit before, but recognised what it was from pictures she had seen in magazines. Nestling beside it was a smaller one for Angela - pale yellow edged in white broderie anglaise.
‘Oh Mrs Roper… that’s so thoughtful. They’re beautiful.’
‘Well, I’ve never been to Italy, but I know it’s hot there and the sea is lovely. So I thought… it would be wonderful if you could go for a swim. I got them at Derry and Toms. They’re good quality. I’m sure if they’re the wrong size they’d change them for you.’
‘They’re perfect… thank you.’
She hugged Mrs Roper, who in turn wrapped her arms around Rachael.
‘I shall miss you very much,’ she said, running from the room.
Part II
‘My course is set for an uncharted sea’
Dante Alighieri
Chapter Nine
Sardinia, Italy
January 1959
The overnight sea crossing from Rome to Cagliari, the ancient capital of Sardinia, would take over eight hours. George, Rachael and Angela boarded the dilapidated ferry just after sunset, shared a late picnic supper in their cabin and settled themselves in the two narrow bunks – George in one and little Angela and her mother in the other.
The acrid scent of diesel oil caught in Rachael’s throat, and the rolling of the craft, as it chugged through the waters of the Mediterranean, triggered waves of nausea as she closed her eyes. Angela slept peacefully on the inside of the bunk, sandwiched between the metal wall of the cabin and her mother, her eyelids fluttering wildly as she dreamed. Rachael lay uncomfortably on the outside, holding onto the edge of the bunk, fearing she would roll out if she lost her grip, and yet reluctant to move in case she disturbed her daughter.
Exhausted, she finally fell into a deep sleep, but woke with a start just before dawn. Peering through the porthole, she saw, with relief, a delicate golden glow on the horizon. A new day had begun.
Still wearing the wool skirt and jumper she had slept in the night before, she swung her legs out of her narrow bunk, laced up her brown shoes and opened the cabin door as silently as she could. Angela stirred slightly, moaned a little in her sleep, and rolled towards the edge of the bunk. Anxious the child would fall onto the floor, Rachael took a towel from her suitcase and, rolling it up, placed it between her daughter and the edge of the bunk. Then, confident that Angela was safe, she slipped out into the corridor.
The engines of the ferry throbbed deep in the bowels of the ship. As she walked along the narrow metal corridor, grabbing the handrails on either side to steady herself, she heard the sound of male voices – sailors, she presumed – shouting instructions to one another. She clambered up a narrow ladder that led to the upper deck. At the end of the corridor, she found a heavy metal door. Yanking it open, she was assailed by a blast of chilly sea air, causing her to stagger backwards.
Out on deck, she walked unsteadily towards the prow of the ship, unnerved by the roll of the ferry as it ploughed through the water. One or two other passengers had clearly had the same idea and she joined a small gaggle of weary but excited people gathering at the front of the ship to watch the sun come up over their destination.
They approached the island from the south-east, its coast shimmering gold in the morning light. Rachael could make out tiny villages dotted along the shores of the isthmus that jutted out into the dark turquoise sea. As the ferry skirted the southern edge of the island, heading for Cagliari, green hills rose up from the sea, sprinkled with the pale yellow and apricot of little hamlets, villages and farms.
As the sun rose, she rushed back to the cabin, hoping to bring her daughter up on deck to share her excitement. She
found her wide awake and sitting up in bed next to her grandfather. There were times when Rachael was struck by Angela’s extraordinary resemblance to József. Her daughter’s mass of unruly curls reminded Rachael so much of her husband’s mop of blond hair. Only her grey-green eyes were inherited from her mother. As for her personality, Angela appeared to have the character traits of the male members of her family – in particular, the impish grin and keen intelligence of her grandfather.
‘Papa, Angela – good you’re awake!’
‘We wondered where you’d gone… are you all right?’
‘Yes, Papa, I’ve been watching the sun come up over Sardinia… Come – let’s go upstairs.’
The family joined the throng of people now waiting expectantly on deck. Most were Italians: islanders returning home after a visit to the mainland, or people visiting relatives on the island. Many had slept on deck surrounded by their simple possessions – boxes of provisions, and bags of shopping. Some even had livestock – chickens in bamboo cages, and cats and dogs in baskets.
‘Cagliari, venti minuti. Cagliari, twenty minutes,’ the tannoy suddenly announced.
George and Rachael looked out to sea expectantly. The main capital city of the island was visible now. It rose up imperiously from the dark emerald green water – a collection of buildings piled high atop the series of small hills that surrounded the ‘Bay of Angels’. Every house or apartment building was painted a subtly different colour; yellow ochre, apricot, pink and peach, all mingling together. These ice-cream-coloured buildings looked so inviting – their windows edged with white coping stones, framed by dark shutters. Protruding from the red rooftops were the silvery grey domes of churches. Even in the chilly winter’s air, the sky was a shade of brilliant blue, a startling contrast to the warm tones of the buildings beneath.
As the ferry drew near to the port, George picked his granddaughter up and swung her onto his shoulders. He pointed at the spiky palm trees that fringed the harbour’s edge.
‘Look, Angela – now you know you are truly in the Mediterranean.’
From her high vantage point, with her blonde curls blowing in the salt breeze blowing in off the sea, Angela kicked her legs, delightedly. She grinned broadly, and chuckled to herself, her little pudgy hands wrapped around her grandfather’s forehead.
‘Come on,’ said George, setting Angela down on the deck, ‘we’d better get back to the cabin and pack up our things.’
As the ferry docked, they joined a line of people loaded down with their cargo, heading towards the exits. As they walked down the metal gangplank onto Sardinian soil, there was a shout from the dockside.
‘Over here, Professor.’
A young man wearing a dark brown duffle coat and stout hiking boots was calling out to the family.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Rachael.
‘It’s Giles… one of my students. They came on ahead. They’ve come to meet us.’
Giles and Pete were two of George’s keenest students. In their early twenties, they had been on Sardinia for just over a week, sorting out lodgings for the party of archaeologists who would soon descend on the island of Sant’Antioco. They had hired an old flatbed truck for the duration of their stay, and now they guided the family towards it. As they threw the family’s belongings into the back of the truck, they were full of chatter and restrained excitement.
‘Not a huge amount of room, I’m afraid, in the old girl,’ said Giles, patting the truck affectionately, ‘but she goes at quite a lick. If Pete jumps in the back with you, sir?’ Giles said, gesturing to a long narrow wooden bench that ran down one side of the open-topped truck, ‘there should be room for your daughter and her little girl up front with me… in the cabin. If that’s OK?’
Rachael had never met any of her father’s British students before. She was impressed by their politeness, but also by their easy charm – so different to József and his friends, who had been such intense, passionate young men.
The drive from Cagliari took them along a winding road through the southern part of the island of Sardinia. They drove across empty plains, through little villages and hamlets, occasionally passing groups of women, carrying wide baskets on their heads, filled with produce. Rachael craned her neck to see what they contained.
‘Is that bread they have in there?’ she asked Giles.
‘Yes probably. Bread, or cakes. They cook them together in one big oven in the smaller villages – once a week, I gather. A bit like my mother and the WI.’
‘WI?’ Rachael looked mystified.
‘Oh… sorry… Women’s Institute. It’s a sort of meeting place for the ladies back home. They make jam and cakes and that sort of thing. Very important part of village life in Britain!’
Rachael was fascinated by the women she saw on the road. With their long colourful skirts in simple primary colours, headscarves, white blouses and embroidered waistcoats, they reminded her of the dolls in Hungarian national dress she had made for Angela and Mrs Roper. As the truck rumbled slowly past, one woman in particular caught Rachael’s eye. She carried a sleeping child – bigger than Angela – in her arms, while at the same time balancing a huge basket of bread on her head.
‘Could you stop please…’ she asked Giles. ‘We should offer them a lift.’
He came to a halt at the side of the road and jumped out of the cabin.
‘Just going to see if the ladies need a lift,’ he called back to Peter and George.
Minutes later, three women, a sleeping child and their huge baskets of freshly baked bread were installed in the back of the truck, heading for the next village.
George, who spoke good Italian, chatted amiably with them all throughout the journey. When they arrived at their village, the women climbed out, and handed George and the young men a couple of loaves of bread as recompense. As the truck drove away, in a cloud of dust, they waved enthusiastically to their new friends.
The truck ground on, taking the potholes in the road and almost absent cambers in its stride. As the road rose up and over a low mountain ridge, Rachael marvelled at the snow-covered peaks, tinged pink by the sun. From time to time, the truck nearly skidded off the edge of the road, but Giles always managed to haul it back.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, smiling. ‘The roads here are simply frightful – worse than at my parents’ place down in Devon – and that’s saying something.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Rachael.
‘Your little girl doesn’t seem to mind,’ said Giles, gesturing towards Angela, still sleeping peacefully in Rachael’s arms.
‘No… she can sleep through anything.’
Finally, they descended once again onto the plain, heading towards the long winding causeway that crossed the narrow straight to Sant’Antioco. As the truck skirted the edge of the water, Rachael had her first glimpse of the little island that she would call home for the next year.
The town of Sant’Antioco wrapped around the water’s edge – a smaller version of the capital, Cagliari. The houses were painted the same ice-cream colours of gold, yellow and apricot, their red roofs standing out against the bright blue sky. Little fishing boats nestled against the harbour walls, rocking gently in the breeze.
‘I’ll take you to your hotel,’ said Giles, as the truck wound its way up the cobbled streets of the little town. ‘It’s right behind the Basilica di Sant’Antioco, the island’s most famous church and the site of our dig, so it’s pretty convenient. But we’re hoping to get some lodgings in the town in the next week or so. Pete and I have already found a little house to share; we move in tomorrow. And I’ve also found somewhere more permanent for the professor and yourself. It’s a few minutes’ drive out of the town, but has a lovely view of the sea…’
As the truck roared into the village square, Rachael got her first view of the basilica, the site of the archeological dig. It was surrounded on three sides by shops, one or two houses, and, on the far side of the square, the hotel.
Although modest, the
hotel appeared to be clean and quite comfortable. Rachael and George had been assigned two rooms on the first floor, and a small cot had been assembled in Rachael’s room for Angela.
‘Rachael,’ said George, excitedly, as soon as their bags had been delivered to the room, ‘I am desperate to see the site… will you be all right here while I go? It’s just on the other side of the square, so you can come across later when Angela wakes up.’
Angela lay fast asleep in the small cot bed.
‘Yes… you go. It’s fine. I’ll unpack and sort things out here… We’ll come over later.’
Rachael and Angela emerged from the hotel an hour or so later. Hand in hand, they walked over the cobbles around the side of the basilica. Rachael gazed up at the seventeenth-century façade painted a dark shade of apricot. Angela, refreshed after her long sleep, wriggled her hand out of her mother’s grasp and began to run around the town square, laughing. Her mother chased after her and, with her daughter in her arms, sat down at a table at a little cafe next to the church.
A tall young man with dark curly hair that tumbled over his brown eyes came out holding a notebook.
‘Dica, signora?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rachael, blushing, ‘my Italian is not good.’
The young man looked blank. He clearly spoke no English.
‘Mi scusi,’ she said, eventually, trawling up the little Italian her father had taught her over the last few weeks, ‘non parlo Italiano bene… ma… posso… avere un café con… latte? E cioccolata per la bimba,’ she gestured towards Angela, who beamed at the young man.
‘Benissimo, signora,’ he said, smiling.
He returned a few minutes later with the coffee and hot chocolate. He placed them on the table and left the bill tucked under Angela’s cup. He smiled again, revealing large white teeth, and stroked Angela’s golden hair, cupping her chin in his hand. It was a gesture of such sweetness that it took Rachael’s breath away.