by Debbie Rix
‘Is that why he left?’
‘Yes… I asked him to go. I could see what was happening between you. He will break your heart, Rachael, and I won’t allow it.’
She felt a wave of pain, fury and regret at what she had done, what she had felt and given away. She had opened her heart to Tommaso, given him her body. She had trusted him with her child. She could not believe it… He would not use her so, would not humiliate her in this way. It could not be true.
‘I don’t want to hear this,’ she shouted, ‘besides, it has nothing to do with you.’ She moved Angela off her lap and onto the ground, and ran back into the house. George heard her bedroom door slamming and the sound of her sobbing filtered down from her room above the veranda.
Angela began to cry and ran to her grandfather. He picked her up and pottered into the kitchen holding Angela’s hand, soothing the little child.
‘There, there… let us see what there is to eat?’
He found some bread and a piece of cheese, which he shared with the little girl. When they had finished he took her upstairs and put her to bed. He knocked on Rachael’s door.
‘Darling… please can I come in?’
He pushed the door open and found Rachael lying in the dark, her face to the wall. He sat down next to her.
‘I don’t think he meant to hurt you. I believe he thought he could persuade his family to release him from this bond. But it seems that is not possible. I am sure his feelings for you are sincere. I have watched him with you and I can see how much he loves you. He is a good man, a sensitive man. But we cannot put him in this position, where he must choose. It would make his life so hard, make your life together impossible. The people here would never accept you. You must see that.’
‘He could come with me to London,’ said Rachael, sitting up, trying to take control of the situation.
‘Darling… he’s a fisherman. What would he do in London?’
‘If he loved me – and he does,’ she spat the last phrase out, ‘he would find something. We came to London – you and me; it wasn’t so hard.’
‘I was a university professor – not so hard for me to get a good job.’
‘So it’s all right for a clever university professor but not for an ordinary man – is that it?’
‘Rachael, he would have to leave everything behind… He has no education. He would struggle – think about it. Can you imagine him trying to support you and Angela?’
‘We’d manage somehow. I could work.’
‘Doing what – baking?’
Rachael’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Is that all you think I’m good for? Baking…’
‘We have to be practical. You have no profession. You have a child. You are so intelligent, but you gave up full-time education…’
Her father was flustered, sweating. Rachael knew in her heart that he would not deliberately hurt her feelings. But, nevertheless, he had. She had always thought her father to be her greatest supporter, her champion. He had always made her feel special for the way she looked after him. Did he, in fact, despise her for her domestic prowess, for her lack of schooling? She felt a wave of regret for her teenage years, when she had chosen a life at home over an education, when she had clung to her domestic sphere, finding solace in the polishing and the tidying and the cooking. She had thought it marked her out; as a homemaker – someone to replace her missing mother. But maybe what she had done wasn’t important after all. She couldn’t even earn a living, so she was useless. Even her own father thought she was nothing more than a helpless child.
‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings,’ he said – sensitive as ever. ‘This is a difficult situation. If he was free to marry, if he was a doctor, or a man with a profession that could transfer to London – it would be fine. But he is not, Rachael, and you must be realistic about what you could achieve. And more importantly perhaps than your own feelings in this matter, we cannot come to someone else’s country and impose our views and desires on them. We must respect their customs, Rachael. This man does care for you, but he has another destiny.’
She lay back on the bed, wiping her eyes. The adrenalin of her earlier anger subsiding. She felt exhausted. She knew her father was right.
‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘think… think, Rachael, of the dig.’
She sat up once again, alert, her anger welling up again. ‘Is that what this is all about – your beloved dig?’
‘No… no,’ he protested. ‘But there’s no doubt the people would be rightly angry; how would I ever be able to come back here, to finish what I’ve started.’
‘I don’t care about the dig. I don’t care if you ever come back. I only care about him. He loves me!’ shouted Rachael. ‘I know it… and I love him.’
‘Yes… I see that. But sometimes, Rachael, sometimes… love is just not enough.’
Chapter Sixteen
Sant’Antioco
October 1959
The summer and autumn months were desperately hot. Rachael somehow stumbled through the days of July, August and September in a haze of heat and misery. She stayed indoors in the mornings, hardly troubling to dress herself or Angela properly. She clung to the shade of the veranda, listening constantly for the whine of the Lambretta. But it never came. When she went into town to shop for food, she looked for Tommaso wherever she went. But it seemed he had simply disappeared. In the afternoons, she cooked and she taught Angela to swim. But each time she went down to the cove, the sight of the boat languishing on the beach brought a physical pain to her heart.
George hoped fervently that she would soon recover. He was determined to finalise his work at the dig and get them home to England as soon as possible. The students had finally unearthed the second tomb and its inscription was now visible, but its meaning was ambiguous.
VIRUS BONUS IN PACE BONUS
‘It makes no sense, sir,’ said Giles. ‘Good man in peace, good man. It’s rubbish.’
‘Not rubbish exactly – it means something, but I agree that it does not indicate exactly who is buried here… I had thought perhaps…’
‘What, sir?’
‘Well, an old man must have his dreams,’ said George, his thighs aching from sitting too long on his haunches in the cramped space. ‘I had thought maybe it was the long-lost burial ground of Emperor Titus. But there is no name here to confirm that. The signs are so ambiguous. Jewish symbols, Latin inscriptions. I must do some more research when we get back to London.’
They had been due to leave Sardinia after Christmas and the students had been eager to experience an Italian festive holiday. But one evening in October, when Giles and Peter dropped George off at the cottage, he invited them in.
‘Let’s sit on the veranda; the nights are getting cool, but we must enjoy this view as long as we can – we won’t be here much longer.’
Together they gathered around the long table and watched as the sun dipped behind the horizon.
‘We should be proud of what we have achieved,’ George said, as Rachael poured wine into their glasses. ‘We’ve uncovered a pair of tombs of some significance; they are clearly of Roman origin. I suggest we barricade them up again to prevent further damage. I shall write up our notes and we will publish when we get back to England. You’d better to write to your families and tell them you are coming home in time for Christmas.’
Giles glanced across at Rachael, who was sitting silently on the other side of the table.
‘How do you feel,’ he asked, quietly, ‘about going home?’
She merely shrugged her shoulders and went back into the kitchen.
Her silence on the issue, George took as acquiescence. Without discussing it with her, he wrote that evening, to Mrs Roper.
My dear Mrs Roper,
I write to give you news of our sojourn in Sardinia. Rachael and Angela are well – Angela is learning to swim, thanks to your beautiful present. My work here is nearly finished and it is time for us to return to London. Might you have room in your attic fo
r two old friends?
The reply from Mrs Roper arrived two weeks later. Rachael, recognising the hand-writing, studied the envelope all day, desperate to rip it open and find out why Mrs Roper had written to her father.
She handed it to George as soon he arrived home.
‘You have a letter – from Mrs Roper… why is she writing to you?’
He tore open the airmail envelope and scanned its contents, nodding with satisfaction when he had finished.
‘She has space for us in the attic – her present tenant is leaving at the end of the month. So we can return home… She sends her love…’
He put the letter into the top pocket of his shirt and sat down at the table on the veranda.
‘When did you decide this?’ Rachael’s cheeks burned with indignation, angry not to have been consulted.
‘You knew that we have to go soon – we’ve been discussing it…’
‘You need to go. But I will not go. I shall stay here. You can go to London without me.’
George looked bemused. ‘Go without you…? Don’t be ridiculous, Rachael. How will you support yourself and Angela?’
‘I will find something to do…’
‘How will you pay the rent on this cottage? The university covers our costs at the moment. You are living in a fantasy if you think you can afford it. You have no money worries at the moment, but once the dig is closed, the funding will stop. Do you understand?’
‘Of course I understand… I am not stupid.’
‘I know, darling… I never said…’ George put his head in his hands and began to weep.
Rachael, who had been pacing the garden throughout their conversation, ran across and knelt down beside him. He looked suddenly so old and frail.
‘Oh, Papa, Papa… I’m so sorry. I do understand. It’s just… I cannot bear to leave him.’
‘I know, darling… but he has already left you. You have to accept it.’
He held her face in his hands and kissed the tears away.
‘You have a future, Rachael – but it’s in London. And who knows who you will meet, where you will go next? But we must leave here soon. Once we are back in England, you will forget… I promise. Love does not hurt forever. I know.’
Rachael spent most of October packing their few belongings into boxes to be sent back to London. The sun was still warm during the day, but a cool breeze blew in from the sea overnight. One afternoon, Angela came down wearing her tiny yellow swimsuit. She had grown tall in the months they had lived on Sardinia and the suit now stretched uncomfortably over her tanned frame.
‘Swimming, Mama,’ she said, hopefully.
‘OK,’ said Rachael. ‘We’ll go swimming – let’s hope the sea isn’t too cold.’
She removed the rope that bound the gate, and as her fingers worked the knot to untie it, she thought of Tommaso and how he had made it safe that day, after the accident. She held Angela’s hand as they walked through the little copse; the sun was filtering through the trees and glinting on the water.
At the cove, she lay a towel on the sand, and they sat together looking out to sea. It was a perfect day – blue sky, the sun high above. But something was missing… the boat; Tommaso’s boat was not there. When had he collected it? She began to cry – at the thought that he had removed this last vestige of his presence in her life.
Angela stood up and faced her mother. She wiped the tears away with her chubby little thumbs. ‘Don’t cry, Mama…’
She threw her arms around her mother’s neck and clung to her.
‘It’s OK,’ said Rachael, into her daughter’s blonde curls, ‘I am just sad that we’re leaving this lovely place.’
She kissed her child, stood up and carried her to the water’s edge, where she paddled, kicking the water up with her feet, watching the spray catch the light, sparkling like diamonds. As Rachael waded further into the sea, the child wriggled to be allowed to swim.
Rachael put Angela into the water and held her hand beneath her tummy, as she always did. Angela suddenly floated off and began to swim, clumsily, supporting her own weight. Rachael walked next to her anxiously, in case she suddenly sank. But the child swam several feet quite unaided, before she realised she was not being held and began to cry.
Rachael scooped her up out of the water and kissed her.
‘You did it! You can swim… my clever, clever girl.’
She carried the child back to the beach and they sat on the towel, eating plums from the tree in the garden. Amidst the sound of the sea lapping the shore, the seagulls screeching overhead came the unmistakeable pulse of the outboard motor. Rachael looked hopefully out to sea and there was the outline of Tommaso’s boat with its distinctive pale blue paintwork.
He roared inland and slowed the engine as he approached the shore. He leapt out in the shallows and pulled the boat onto the sand, then ran across to Rachael and Angela.
‘You’re here,’ he said, throwing himself down beside them. He kissed them both, ruffling Angela’s hair.
‘Where have you been?’ said Rachael, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I’ve missed you…’
He put his arms around her and kissed her neck. ‘I’ve missed you too. I’m so sorry.’
Angela picked up a little basket.
‘Are you going to get me some shells?’ Rachael asked her.
The child nodded and pottered down the beach towards the edge of the cove.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were engaged?’ Rachael asked Tommaso.
He blushed and looked away, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
‘Because… I don’t love her. Because I hoped that I… not have to marry her. I try to talk to my mother. But she is angry. I love you, Rachael.’
‘Then don’t marry her. Marry me!’ said Rachael.
‘I cannot. I promised. I… so sorry.’
He got up, stumbling slightly, wiping his eyes.
‘Don’t leave yet,’ begged Rachael, ‘please.’
He went over to the boat and came back with a small parcel, tied with a ribbon. He gave it to her…
‘For you.’
She untied the ribbon. Inside, nestling in tissue paper, was an intricately woven byssus bracelet. Not a narrow thread like the little one Angela had been given that day at Italo Diana but a beautiful piece, with a little pearl button to tie it in place.
She looked up at him. ‘It’s lovely…thank you.’
He fixed it in place, kissing the inside of her wrist as he did so. ‘Like gold…’ he said, lifting her wrist up to the light, so the bracelet glistened.
‘Yes… like gold. Thank you,’ she said.
‘To remember me… good luck for you.’
‘It’s not good luck if I’m leaving you,’ she said through tears. ‘How can I ever have good luck again? You were my luck. My chance to be happy…’
He held her face in his strong hands and kissed the tears away.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice breaking with emotion.
He got up and walked across to the boat, returning with a leather box.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, wiping her eyes.
‘Camera…’
He took it out of the case. ‘I take photograph… Please.’
He took a photograph of her sitting on the sand in her blue swimsuit. And a second with Angela on her lap.
He offered her the camera – ‘You take picture of me?’
He leant against his boat, putting on a false smile. She clicked the shutter and caught his expression forever. She handed him back the camera. He put it carefully back inside the case and into the boat. But when he turned round, she had gone, leaving a trail of footprints behind her in the golden sand.
Chapter Seventeen
Gloucestershire
December 2016
As Christmas Day dawned, Sophie woke, her mind buzzing with lists of ‘things to do’. Presents needed to be arranged under the tree, breakfast laid out for the family, as well the preparation for the
main Christmas meal. But this normally happy sense of activity and anticipation was overlaid with a feeling of shame and embarrassment at how she had reacted to her sister-in-law’s ‘happy’ news.
Climbing out of bed, and pulling on her dressing gown, she made a decision to put the previous day out of her mind, and instead throw herself into her role as hostess. The family drifted down gradually and accepted offers of tea and coffee. Eggs were boiled and poached. Racks of toast laid out on the table alongside home-made marmalade and jam. Hamish even opened a bottle of champagne.
‘Fizz, anyone?’
‘Not for me,’ said Vic, before glancing nervously at Sophie, who smiled encouragingly at her sister-in-law, determined to demonstrate that she had recovered from her outburst.
‘None for me either, darling. I’ve got too much to do,’ she said, standing at the sink peeling potatoes. ‘Maybe later.’
When the turkey had been put into the Aga, and the vegetables prepared, the family gathered round the tree to open their presents.
‘Darling,’ said her mother, putting her arm around Sophie’s waist, ‘it’s all perfect – the tree, the house – it looks fabulous. Granny would have been proud to see her decorations looking so beautiful.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Sophie, trying to take comfort from her mother’s words. But she couldn’t help feeling just a little nagging regret that if both she and Victoria were pregnant, the day would really have been perfect.
The smell of cooking turkey wafted through the house. The cat lay proprietorially in front of the Aga, as if hoping he could somehow prise the door open and eat the contents. Potatoes were basted, bread sauce was stirred, the pudding was put on to steam. Hamish kept up a steady flow of champagne and wine, but each time Vic refused a glass, or Simon patted his wife’s stomach affectionately, Sophie struggled to suppress her instinctive feelings of sadness and, if she was honest, envy.