by Debbie Rix
‘Ah, Rachael.’ It was Giles, walking purposefully towards her. ‘The professor sent me to find you… He’s going to be quite a while down at the site. He thought you’d prefer to see where you were going to live. Would you like to come with me to the house we’ve set aside for you?’
‘Yes… Thank you.’
The house was, just as Giles had promised, close to the main town. He drove the truck along the coast road, before turning sharply down a bumpy lane. Within minutes the single-storey house came into view. Painted apricot, it sat low in the landscape and was surrounded by scrubby vegetation.
Giles parked the truck in the wide driveway and led Rachael and Angela round to the front door. There was a large veranda, running the length of the house, which overlooked a terrace dominated by an imposing chimney with a wide opening at its base. A metal table and chairs stood invitingly outside.
‘Bread oven,’ said Giles matter-of-factly, gesturing towards the chimney, ‘rather handy, I’d have thought.’
Rachael looked around her. Beyond the terrace was a small garden, encircled by a low fence. A white gate led through to a modest copse of trees, and in the distance Rachael glimpsed the turquoise blue of the sea.
‘I can see the sea,’ she said delightedly. ‘Are we allowed to use it… the beach, I mean?’
‘Yes of course… I think the beach is officially public – but because the house owns all the land down to the shore, it’s effectively private to this house. We’ll go and have a look in a minute, if you like,’ said Giles, removing the keys to the front door from beneath a flower pot on the veranda.
The door opened onto the kitchen. There was on old black range against the end wall, a painted dresser arranged with some cracked china, a wooden table in the centre of the room, and set beneath a window overlooking the terrace, an old stone sink.
‘Bit of a smell of damp, but I’m sure once you’re installed that will go. Just needs the range lighting and the room airing…’
Giles led the way through the kitchen to a sitting room. An elderly sofa stood against one wall and a couple of chairs were arranged companionably on either side of a fireplace.
‘Do you want to see the bedrooms?’ asked Giles, pointing to the brick staircase in the far corner. Angela ran ahead, scrambling up the stairs. Following her, Rachael was delighted to discover two good-sized bedrooms and a small box room.
‘My room,’ said Angela, running around the tiny space.
‘Oh darling… maybe. Don’t you want to sleep with Mummy anymore?’
‘My room,’ the child repeated, stamping her foot.
‘Sorry about that,’ Rachael apologised to Giles, ‘she’ll be two in May and is rather determined about what she wants…’
The young man smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Not much in the way of indoor plumbing, I’m afraid,’ he apologised, ‘the island seems rather behind the times in that regard. But there’s a privy out the back, and I gather there’s a tin bath somewhere. The old range in the kitchen should produce quite a lot of hot water. I’ll make sure you’ve got enough wood and so on…’
‘Thank you; it’ll be fine,’ said Rachael, uncertainly. ‘It would be nice to have a bathroom, but if there are none on the island…’
‘Shall we go down to the sea,’ proposed Giles. ‘It was that which really sold the place to me.’
Angela, rested after her long sleep in the truck and the hotel, was now filled with energy. She toddled ahead of the adults and stood eagerly rattling the gate that divided the garden from the copse and the sea beyond.
‘Seaside, seaside,’ she chanted.
‘Wait, darling,’ said Rachael, ‘you must not go through the gate without Mummy.’
Giles opened the gate and Angela ran ahead giggling. Rachael ran after her, catching hold of her hand and swung the child up onto her hip. The path led through a little wood, but, within moments, they emerged from the vegetation onto a cove – quite private and secluded. An old boat had been hauled up on the beach and apparently abandoned.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ said Rachael.
‘Pretty spectacular, eh?’ said Giles, sitting down on the sand. ‘When I saw this, I thought… if I had a child, it would be rather a special place to live. But you’ll need to be quite careful with Angela. I presume she can’t swim yet?’
‘No… but I will be here all the time.’
‘It’s shallow enough near the shore, but it drops off quite sharply a few yards out.’
Rachael gazed out at the turquoise water nearest the shore. Fifteen or twenty feet out, the colour of the water changed quite suddenly to a deep emerald – almost as if a line had been drawn across the bay.
She sat down on the soft white sand next to Giles and pulled Angela onto her lap.
‘You were right. This is a wonderful place. A magical place. I’m sure we can make the house nice. And if we can’t have a bath very often – we can always bathe here in the sea, can’t we Angela?’
The child grinned at her mother and, wrapping her arms around her neck, kissed her.
Chapter Ten
Gloucestershire
December 2016
Sophie and Hamish were eating a rushed breakfast at the kitchen table when Dr Boulderstone’s receptionist rang to arrange an appointment later that morning.
‘If you’d like me to come along, I could try to see if someone could stand in for me?’ he said, cramming toast into his mouth. ‘But it’s a bit last minute – and I’ve got a long list in surgery.’ The cat had wrapped itself around its master’s feet and yowled furiously as Hamish struggled to stand up.
‘No, don’t worry,’ said Sophie, ‘what’s the point? She’s just going to tell me the results. What good is it you being there?’ She bent down and picked the cat up, which growled at being removed from its comfortable nesting place beneath the table.
‘Well… OK, if you’re sure,’ said Hamish, throwing his jacket over his shoulders, and swilling down the rest of his coffee. ‘Text me, obviously… when you know the results.’ He pecked Sophie on the cheek, scratched the cat now lying proprietorially in Sophie’s arms, under its chin, and was gone. Within minutes Sophie heard the roar of a car engine, as Hamish swept down the drive.
She couldn’t help thinking that Hamish was secretly relieved that he couldn’t attend the doctor’s appointment. She knew that he found this medical intervention into their reproductive lives irritating… distressing even.
At ten o’clock, Sophie sat, anxiously, in the doctor’s waiting room.
‘Mrs Mitchell…’ the receptionist called her name without looking away from her computer screen.
Sophie walked along the corridor to the doctor’s office. She felt sick with nerves, as if she was waiting for a diagnosis of cancer… or worse.
‘Ah, Mrs Mitchell,’ said Dr Boulderstone.
‘Sophie please…’ said Sophie, sitting down.
‘So, how are you?’ asked the doctor, with disconcerting friendliness.
‘That sounds ominous.’ Sophie shifted uneasily in her chair. ‘I always think it must be bad news when a doctor asks you how you are…’ She smiled weakly.
‘No… not at all,’ said the doctor, as casually as she could. ‘Let’s just take a look at these results, shall we?’
The doctor brought the scan up on her computer and turned the screen so that Sophie could see it more easily.
‘Now, here is a scan of your womb and fallopian tubes.’
‘Is there a problem – a blockage? I knew it,’ said Sophie, tears welling.
‘No… not at all,’ said the doctor, briskly. ‘I wanted to show you the scans, because it all looks perfectly healthy. No sign of endometriosis, no blockages… nothing.’
‘So that’s good – yes?’
‘Yes… in many ways it is.’
‘So why am I not pregnant? Is it Hamish?’
‘No, at least it doesn’t appear to be. His sperm count is not massively high – but it’s not low
either. Motility of the sperm is adequate. It’s possible you might be producing antibodies that reject his sperm, but that’s unusual. I suspect what we have here… is a case of what we call – rather inadequately in the medical profession – “unexplained infertility”. About fifteen per cent of cases are like this. There’s no obvious problem. And that’s a good thing – it means there is no reason for you not to get pregnant. But perhaps you need to consider reducing stress, eating well, drinking less, not smoking…’
‘I don’t smoke. And I hardly drink at all anymore. I eat like a… health freak. We have just moved house and my husband’s changed his job, so stress is a bit inevitable. But short of spending my entire life in bed, hiding under the duvet, I just don’t know what else I can do?’
‘Well, there are a few options. You could opt for IVF. And… I’m happy to say that, given your age,’ the doctor referred to the notes on her desk, ‘you’re thirty-three aren’t you?’
Sophie nodded.
‘Good – then I’m happy to say, that I am able to recommend you for one cycle of IVF on the NHS. I’m sorry it can’t be more, but that’s what the CCG – the Clinical Commissioning Group – here in Gloucestershire allow. Technically, you should have been trying for three years – as in seriously making an effort to have a baby. But I have in my notes that it’s more like two?’
She looked up expectantly at Sophie.
Sophie’s mind was a blur… she was being offered IVF – at last.
‘Yes… two. But I’ve actually been off the pill for nearly three years now.’
‘OK, so we can cross that hurdle,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ll write the report, and you’ll be hearing from a consultant soon, I suspect. They will manage the process from here on in – but if you have any worries, or questions, do please give me a call. Or email me…’
She smiled and stood up, indicating the appointment was over.
Sophie, stunned slightly, by the news, remained seated.
‘Well…’ said the doctor expectantly, ‘if I can give you any more advice… do please get in touch.’
Back inside her car, Sophie sat with her fingers hovering over her mobile phone. She wanted to text Hamish. She felt a curious combination of excitement and… something else. What was it? She felt upset. It was so confusing. She knew enough about IVF to realise that it was no magic wand. But at least she had a chance now…
Hi… she typed, good news. Call me?
She deleted it. She really wanted to hear his voice, but he wouldn’t take a call now; he’d be in the middle of his operating list and up to his ears, almost literally, in blood and gore. Instead, she dialled her mother. It was a Thursday, her mother’s day off.
‘Hello, Mum…’
She tried to sound cheerful, but Angela could sense something was wrong.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said.
‘Nothing,’ said Sophie between sobs.
Her mother, always calm in the face of adversity, waited patiently for the sobbing to subside. ‘Sweetheart… tell me… Shall I come down?’ she asked sweetly.
‘Oh Mum… I’ve just been to the doctor. She says there’s no reason why I can’t get pregnant,’ Sophie wailed down the phone.
‘Oh darling… well that’s good news! Really it is. Why are you crying?’
‘I don’t know…’ sobbed Sophie.
‘Is it the relief? Or are you still worried about why it’s not happening? I know it’s frustrating, but think how much worse if you had blocked tubes. That, at least, is one problem you can cross off your list.’
She paused, hoping for a response, but could hear only sobbing.
‘Oh Sophie,’ she went on, ‘it’s so hard, isn’t it? Do you want me to come? I could jump in the car right now and be with you by mid-afternoon.’
‘And what about your patients tomorrow?’
‘Yes… well, I could see if one of the others could stand in for me,’ Angela said uncertainly.
‘No… you mustn’t do that. I know how understaffed you are. I’ll be fine, Mum. It’s good news really. The doctor says I qualify for one round of IVF on the NHS.’
‘Well, that is good news.’
‘But you know as well as I do, that one round is rarely enough…’
‘I also know, darling that sometimes it is. You just need to believe and stay calm; go along with the process and don’t overthink it. What does Hamish say?’
‘He doesn’t know yet. He’s working today… he couldn’t take the morning off to come with me.’
‘Well tell him tonight.’
‘I will.’
‘You don’t sound that happy, darling. I’d have thought you would be over the moon.’
‘It’s just…’ Sophie began to cry again, ‘up till now I’ve sort of convinced myself that I was normal… that it would happen anytime soon. But now… it’s official; I can’t do it on my own. I need intervention. Do you see?’
‘Oh sweetie… I do understand. But you must… must stay positive. This is your chance. Do the course, keep the faith.’
‘I know… thank you. I love you…’
‘Love you too, angel…’
That afternoon, Sophie’s sister-in-law Victoria rang to discuss plans for Christmas. Sophie and Hamish had invited her whole family down to spend the holiday at their new house.
‘Hi Sophie…’ Victoria said cheerily. ‘I just thought we ought to touch base about Christmas. Simon and I are so excited to see the new house. So – when do you want us, and what I can do…’
Sophie sniffed on the other end of the phone. It was clear she’d been crying.
‘Are you all right?’ Victoria asked. ‘You sound a bit miserable, sweetie…’
‘I’m OK,’ said Sophie. ‘I’ve just come back from the doctor…’
‘You’re not ill, are you?’
‘No… I don’t know if you knew… but we’ve been struggling… to get pregnant.’
There was a pause on the other end.
‘I didn’t know… no,’ Victoria replied uncertainly.
‘We’ve been offered IVF – just one round.’
Another silence.
‘Well, that’s good isn’t it?’ Victoria said, trying to sound optimistic. ‘It can work terribly well these days, I hear…’ she trailed off.
‘I suppose…’ said Sophie, ‘it just seems a bit sad to have to resort to medical intervention. Would you do it?’
Victoria took a deep breath. ‘Maybe?’ she said. ‘I think you’d do what you have to.’
When they hung up, Sophie had a curious sense that Victoria had not been her normal bubbly self; perhaps she was simply upset for her sister-in-law, but it was almost as if something had been withheld during their conversation.
When Hamish came home that night, Sophie had supper prepared and a bottle of wine opened on the kitchen table.
‘Something smells good,’ he said, throwing his jacket over the back of the chair. He picked up the bottle of wine, studying the label. ‘That’s rather a good one… where was that hiding?’
‘I bought it today – in Cirencester. I went there after the… after the doctor.’
‘Oh, of course – God, I’m sorry; I’d forgotten. How did it go?’
Sophie pushed aside her disappointment that he had forgotten her appointment and began to tell him about the consultation; she tried to sound upbeat and positive about the course of IVF.
‘That’s great!’ Hamish said, kissing her. ‘It’s what we wanted… isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she said, beginning to cry.
‘Darling, what’s the matter?’
‘I know it’s silly – it just makes it all so… real somehow. It just seems so tragic that we need medical treatment to get pregnant. I’m just sorry that I’m so useless.’
‘Sophie – you’re not useless. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault – it’s just one of those things. And it will be fine, you’ll see. Just try to relax and when we start the whole thing, we’ll cope
– we always do.’
Chapter Eleven
Sant’Antioco
April 1959
As the milky grey skies and cool nights of winter turned to spring, Rachael and the family settled into the cottage on the cove. While Angela napped in the tiny box room upstairs, or played in the kitchen, Rachael scrubbed the house from top to bottom. She learned how to coax the old range into life, riddling it each morning to empty the ashes and filling it with just enough fuel overnight to keep it alight.
Giles was true to his word and regularly chopped wood for her, which he stacked neatly outside the kitchen. He collected her father each morning in the old pickup and took him to the dig. If Rachael needed anything from the shops, she would ride into town with them, and then either wait for Giles to give her a lift back at lunchtime or walk home along the coast road with Angela. It took thirty minutes, but on a sunny day was a good way to give the little girl some exercise.
One morning, she came out of the vegetable shop in town, her basket filled with early spring vegetables – celeriac, artichokes and wild asparagus – and looked around for Giles. Neither he, nor the pickup were anywhere to be seen.
‘Come on, sweetie,’ she said to Angela. ‘We’ll walk home.’
She took the little girl’s hand and, as she walked out of the square, the dark-haired young man from the cafe roared past on his scooter. He raised his hand in salute, before slowing down and circling back.
‘Vuole un passaggio?’ he asked her, smiling.
‘I’m sorry – mi dispiace, non ho capito…’ she said, blushing with embarrassment at her poor Italian.
She took Angela’s hand and set off once again along the road. The young man followed her, his feet dangling on either side of the bike, the engine idling in order to keep pace with her. She looked over at him and smiled quizzically. He held out his hand and pointed towards her basket. She handed it to him and he put it on the footwell of the bike.