The Photograph: A gripping love story with a heartbreaking twist

by Debbie Rix

  But Sophie wasn’t listening. She could think of nothing but the unfamiliar empty sensation in her womb.

  At one o’clock she was already in the hall, with her coat on.

  ‘It’s a bit early, darling,’ said Hamish, ‘our appointment’s not till two.’

  ‘Well I’m sure they won’t mind. I need to find out what’s happening.’

  At the clinic, the nurse tried to be as encouraging as possible.

  ‘It could be all sorts of things… try not to worry. You’ve been doing really well.’

  ‘When will we know?’ asked Sophie, holding back her emotions.

  ‘Someone will call tomorrow with the results of this blood test.’ The nurse smiled bravely, but Sophie had a sick, sinking feeling.

  She began to bleed on the way home. Just a little at first, but she knew what it meant.

  As the afternoon wore on, the bleeding became more profuse, and the cramps more severe – like the first day of her period. While she lay in bed, weeping, Hamish called the clinic.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ the doctor told him. ‘Just give her some pain relief – we’ll be in touch with the results tomorrow, but it’s not looking good.’

  Hamish lay next to her in bed, as she wept. There was nothing he could say. All he could do was be there…

  When the call finally came the following day, they didn’t need to be told the results. She had lost the baby.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said the receptionist. ‘If you’d like to come in and see the doctor, I can arrange something as soon as possible.’

  Sophie could barely speak through her haze of tears. They choked her, suffocating her. Somehow, somewhere, the baby had gone. But where? The idea of her child disappearing was a form of torture. Had she peed it out on the loo? Had it slipped out in bed, or as she stood in front of the cooker? She was only a few weeks’ pregnant - how small had it been? In her mind, she saw it as a complete child, a miniscule version of a human being. A tiny doll that had somehow been mislaid – like one of the figures who had inhabited her doll’s house when she was a child.

  Hamish encouraged her to stay in bed and rest. He covered her with a blanket, and lay next to her stroking her hair. Remarkably, after a little while, she fell asleep, exhausted by emotion.

  She dreamt vividly of the lost baby – a little girl, no bigger than a lentil… like Thumbelina. She imagined her tiny child adrift in the world, wandering alone through the garden, with blades of grass towering above her head, calling for her mother. But she couldn’t reach her. Couldn’t find her. In her sleep she lashed out.

  ‘Hey…’ said Hamish, smoothing Sophie’s hair away from her damp forehead. ‘Your mother’s not here, but I am. You’ve had a bad dream, that’s all. You’re too hot, darling… here… drink this.’

  He helped her to sit up in bed and handed her a glass of water. Her lips were dry and cracked. Her eyes hot, still stinging from the tears.

  ‘I lost the baby…’ was all she could say.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sant’Antioco

  October 1959

  As the day of the family’s departure from the island approached, Rachael’s life became a round of domestic tasks – packing up belongings, cleaning the cottage and ensuring their final bills were settled.

  She also had to prepare Angela for the family’s return to city life – the hustle and bustle of London would be so at odds with their rural existence on the peaceful island. The cottage and the garden beyond were Angela’s whole life. At nearly two and a half years of age, she spent many happy hours playing with a friendly lizard or a wriggling worm in the garden.

  ‘That child will be a scientist – or a doctor perhaps,’ George often said, as he observed his granddaughter. ‘She is obsessed with how things work… have you noticed? Yesterday, she found a worm that didn’t move. She brought it inside, put it into a matchbox and insisted that we “took its temperature”. The thing was obviously dead, and I didn’t really know what to say.’

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Rachael, packing a pile of George’s books into a cardboard box.

  ‘I held the thermometer against the worm’s lifeless body. I was in two minds as to what I should say: to pronounce it miraculously recovered, or to be honest and tell her it had died in spite of the best of care. I chose the latter and she accepted it quite happily. “We did our best,” she said, phlegmatically. Can you believe it? Extraordinary.’

  Rachael smiled. ‘She is extraordinary. I think she is very like her father – don’t you? There is so much of József in her. She has passion, a desire to rush in and be involved – just like him. But you’re right – she is also very analytical. I think she gets that from you…’

  He nodded ruefully. ‘Possibly,’ he said, a little smugly.

  On the surface, Rachael appeared to have accepted her separation from Tommaso. She went about her chores – she cooked, cleaned, shopped and packed. But he was never far from her thoughts. With every box she filled, her mind wandered to their last days together. Whenever she went into the garden to pick tomatoes for lunch or to sit on the veranda soaking up the last rays of autumn sunshine, she was aware of the little gate leading down to the water’s edge and the rope Tommaso had put there to protect her child. The rope was a little frayed now, but it remained a constant reminder of his kindness and love to her and her daughter.

  One afternoon, she and Angela were sitting on the veranda preparing vegetables for supper when she heard the familiar sound of a scooter winding its way down the lane. Convinced it was Tommaso, she stood up abruptly, knocking the chopped fennel to the ground; she removed her apron and smoothed her hair, in anticipation of him appearing at any moment. He had come to whisk her away, she thought – to tell her he had broken his engagement and defied his family. But it was only a young couple, searching for an accessible beach.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she told them, ‘this beach is private – just for the house.’

  When they expressed surprise, she shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘There’s a public beach further along the coast you can use… just follow the signs to Spiaggia.’

  She felt relief as she watched them disappearing up the lane. The idea of strangers lying on the beach, gazing at the view, was unbearable. It was the place, after all, where Tommaso had rescued her baby, where he had first kissed her, where they had said their final goodbye. It was his beach… their beach.

  As the family’s final twenty-four hours in the cottage approached, Rachael began to feel a sense of desolation that she would never see Tommaso again. Her spirits were so low, she struggled with even the simplest task.

  On their final day, she lay on her bed, the shutters closed, surrounded by boxes of possessions. Angela, bored by her mother’s inaction, clambered on top of her.

  ‘Mama… Mama… let’s go beach.’

  All right,’ Rachael said weakly, struggling to her feet. ‘Give me a minute to change. You go and put your costume on.’

  Downstairs in the kitchen, she filled a basket with towels and made a small picnic with the last of the bread and a couple of plums.

  At the cove, they paddled in the warm water and explored the rocks at either end of the beach. But Angela was determined to have one final swim.

  ‘Lesson, Mama,’ she said, running into the water. Rachael followed her, and stood guard next to her daughter, as she swam a few strokes of doggy paddle.

  ‘Good Angela,’ she said, encouragingly, her hands hovering beneath the child’s body, ready to catch her. Suddenly, over the sound of splashing water, she heard the familiar sound of the Lambretta.

  ‘Angela, darling…’ she said, urgently, ‘come – we must go back to the house… quickly.’

  ‘No, Mama – I’m swimming… look.’ The child refused to get out of the water.

  Rachael was desperate to get back to the cottage and see if Tommaso had come at last. It would be so like him to want to say goodbye. She tried to drag Angela out of the water, but the child
kicked and screamed. Rachael heard the sound of the bike as it roared away again up the lane. When she finally persuaded Angela back to the house, there was no sign of anyone.

  Opening the door, she saw an envelope on the kitchen table, addressed to her. As she tore it open, a photograph fell out. It was of Tommaso, leaning against his boat. He was smiling but there was sadness in his eyes. Rachael held the photograph to her breast, before tucking it into a side pocket of her handbag. To have missed him, and this final last chance to say goodbye, seemed so unfair. She began to weep silently, taking some onions from the basket on the dresser and chopping them at the table, to disguise her tears.

  ‘Why you crying, Mama,’ asked Angela, kicking her legs against one of the chairs as she ate some bread and butter from the picnic basket.

  ‘It’s just the onions,’ Rachael answered.

  At six o’clock, as Angela concentrated on a jigsaw puzzle at the kitchen table and Rachael stirred a pot of risotto for dinner, she heard the sound of Giles’ truck coming down the lane. She should invite him to stay for dinner, she thought – it would be an act of friendship on their last night. She checked inside the pot – there was just enough for four people.

  The truck came to a halt outside, and Rachael heard the sound of raucous male laughter. She moved the pot to one side of the range, so it wouldn’t catch, wiped her face and hands with her apron, before taking it off, and went out onto the veranda. A group of young men stood excitedly around their professor.

  ‘Ah Rachael,’ George said cheerfully, ‘I’ve brought all the students back for a little supper – as it’s our last night.’

  She looked at the group of cheerful, happy young men and smiled politely, pulling her father into the kitchen.

  ‘What do you expect me to feed them on?’ she whispered. ‘We have hardly anything left. We are leaving tomorrow. The cupboards are bare. I have a small pot of risotto for supper – nothing else.’

  George looked slightly perplexed. ‘Can’t we make more risotto?’ he asked logically.

  Giles came into the kitchen, sensing a domestic crisis.

  ‘Is there anything I can do…? I realise things might be tricky – what with you leaving tomorrow. Pete and I have supplies at our place. Let me go and bring what we have. I’m sure we can concoct something edible for them. They’re all just so keen to show their appreciation to the professor…’ He looked hopefully at Rachael, seeking her approval.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, at last, smiling. ‘Of course they can stay. I’ve got a little risotto here. I can perhaps make some more, but I don’t have much else – some tomatoes in the garden and a bit of fruit…’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Giles, enthusiastically. ‘I’ll bring the rest. Oh, and there’s a large bottle of local wine on the table – we picked it up in town before we came over.’

  The bottle, wrapped in raffia, was poured into glasses and handed round. Giles roared off up the lane and returned thirty minutes later with a large salami, fresh bread, tomatoes and a hunk of local cheese.

  As Rachael lit candles and arranged them down the long table, she observed the young men – laughing together, sharing memories of their experiences on the island and toasting George. In spite of her sadness, she felt pride in her father and what he had achieved. When the meal was finished and the glasses replenished, George rose to speak.

  ‘When we left Hungary – my daughter and I – little did I realise what opportunities awaited me in London, nor that I should have such a remarkable second chapter to my career and be privileged to teach such intelligent and enthusiastic students. But what I really never anticipated was that I would be given the opportunity to lead such an important dig once again in the autumn of my days. So, please raise your glasses: here’s to you – my young compatriots, my fellow archaeologists.’ He raised his glass, and the group cheered and whooped.

  ‘To us!’ the group shouted.

  ‘And we should not forget the lady who brought us all here in the first place. Here’s to Queen Berenice and her mystery burial partner…’

  ‘To Queen Berenice,’ they chorused.

  ‘I should like to say one more thing,’ George continued, when the cheering had died down. ‘I would like to thank my daughter Rachael – without whom I would almost certainly be dead – lying starved, like a shrunken corpse, next to my beloved Berenice…’ He smiled impishly, and the young men roared with laughter.

  ‘Darling Rachael,’ he continued, holding his glass up to her, ‘without you, this trip would have been impossible. Thank you for coming with me, for feeding and caring for me, and for the joy you bring to me and everyone who knows you.’ As he looked around at the young men gathered at their table, his gaze fell upon Giles, who had tears in his eyes. ‘To Rachael,’ George said.

  ‘To Rachael,’ echoed the students.

  The following morning, as Rachael turned the key in the lock for the final time, replacing it beneath the pot of geraniums, she felt as if she was saying goodbye to a dear friend.

  As Giles and George loaded the family’s luggage into the truck, she wandered one last time down through the copse to the sea. She scanned the cove for signs of Tommaso – but the horizon was clear. Walking back through the garden, she automatically tied the rope around the gate. Passing the veranda table, her fingers trailed across it, reflecting on all the happy times they had spent there. As they drove through the village, past the shopkeepers she had come to know, past the atelier where women sat outside in the autumn sunshine, carding and spinning, she waved quietly, wiping tears from her eyes. At the cafe in the square, she scanned the area for any sight of Tommaso, her heart beating fast. She wanted so desperately to see him, to embrace him and beg him to allow her to stay. But he was nowhere to be seen.

  They drove on down the steep cobbled street that led to the market. As they crossed the causeway back to the mainland of Sardinia, she noticed a fleet of fishing boats leaving the harbour. For a brief moment she thought she saw Tommaso’s boat – the familiar outline, the blue paintwork. But she could not be sure. She craned her head, following the fleet out to sea, until the boats disappeared over the horizon.

  ‘You’ll be sad to say goodbye to it all, I imagine,’ said Giles.

  ‘Yes,’ was all she could reply.

  They drove back to Cagliari in relative silence – all of them, in their own way, experiencing a sense of anti-climax. For Giles and Peter the adventure was over; they would be back at university the following week. There would be lectures, and homework, student digs and pints of warm beer in the student union. The long hot summer days on an island in the sun were at an end.

  When they arrived at the port, Rachael helped Angela out of the truck, while Giles and Peter unloaded the family’s luggage. Once assembled on the side of the dock, they stood awkwardly together, uncertain, now the time had finally come, how to say goodbye. George broke the silence.

  ‘Well… goodbye,’ he said, shaking the two students vigorously by the hand, ‘and well done both of you. I am proud of what we have achieved together. See you back in London.’

  ‘Goodbye, Pete,’ said Rachael, kissing him on each cheek. ‘Thanks for everything.’

  She turned to Giles.

  ‘Thanks—’ she began.

  ‘Well…’ he interrupted. Then, blushing and shifting uneasily on his feet, he laughed nervously. ‘You go first,’ he said.

  ‘I hope your packing all goes well.’

  ‘Oh yes – we’ll be fine. You have a safe trip. Look after yourself… and perhaps we can meet in London?’

  ‘Yes… and thanks for all you did for us. Finding the house, taking me to town…’

  Angela, bored with these formal goodbyes, interrupted, ‘Mama, Mama… there’s our boat…’ she said, pointing at the ferry already docked at the harbour.

  ‘Yes, darling. That’s our boat; we’ll go back to the mainland to Italy, and then…’ she gazed out to sea. This was it; she was leaving, leaving him behind; and the dreams she
had had of living with Tommaso were ebbing away like the tide edging away from the shore. ‘Well,’ she said, turning back to Giles, ‘we’d better be going.’

  ‘Yes… yes of course. See you then?’

  She could hear the hope in his voice. She knew he was waiting for her to say, ‘Yes… let’s meet up as soon as possible in London.’ She wished she could be kind, but what was the point of giving him false hope? It was not Giles she wanted to see; he could not fill the gap that had been left in her heart.

  Once on board the ferry, George put his arm around Rachael as they stood on the deck. ‘Be brave, darling …’ he whispered into her ear, ‘this is the start of something – you’ll see…’

  As the ferry backed away from the harbour, Rachael picked Angela up and they waved at Pete and Giles, now just two tiny stick figures on the harbour wall.

  Could she ever be really happy again, she wondered. Was her father right – could she find a new beginning?

  The golden buildings of Cagliari retreated in the distance, as the ferry ploughed through the emerald waters of the Mediterranean. Rachael stood on the deck long after George had taken Angela down below to their cabin. She stood there until the island had disappeared from view and all that was left was a vast empty horizon. For Rachael, this was the end not the beginning. It was the end of her dream of living on this island in the sun with the man she adored. It was the end of love.

  Part III

  If you want to keep a secret,

  you must also hide if from yourself.

  George Orwell, 1984

  Chapter Nineteen

  London

  November 1959

  It was early November. Oak leaves blew in great drifts up Willow Road, mixing with the thick mulch of sweet chestnuts that coagulated on the pavements. Rachael and George had been back in England for a month and Rachael still struggled to adjust to the chill wind and the pale grey skies, so at odds with the sparkling turquoise waters of Sant’Antioco.