by Debbie Rix
In the days it had taken for Rachael and George to travel back to England, her father had tried his best to comfort his heartbroken daughter. He reiterated the rational arguments as to why her relationship with Tommaso could never have worked. It would have been impossible for her to stay on Sant’Antioco, he reasoned. Tommaso’s family would have rejected him, and the community would have turned their backs on them both. And if Tommaso had returned with Rachael, how would a simple fisherman, however bright and intelligent, cope in a city like London, torn apart from everything he knew? Rachael knew that George was right of course, but these arguments, however rational, did not address the central issue – that she was still hopelessly in love with the young Italian.
Mrs Roper was, predictably, delighted to see them.
‘Oh, Rachael… and little Angela – look how you’ve grown! Oh, professor, it’s so good to have you all back. We’ve missed you. Now… the attics are all ready for you and I’ve taken the liberty of giving you another room on the floor below. That naughty boy Max has left finally – moved to America, I think. So there was a room free, and I thought… maybe the professor would like it? Then Angela could have the little room and Rachael could have the room next to her. Would that be in order? The rent will only be a little more…’
‘That is most thoughtful,’ George had replied. ‘Thank you, Mrs Roper.’
The family soon settled back into their routines. George went off to the university each day, while Rachael looked after Angela. The child became bored easily and Rachael began to take her for regular walks on the heath. They fed the ducks, studied the birds and trees and, from time to time, Rachael took her daughter to the playground. There she met other young mothers with whom she formed a sort of bond. They would watch their children play together or drink strong tea in the cafe. These women were friendly enough, perhaps a little curious about the Hungarian woman who had lived in Italy and had no husband. But for Rachael, it was a way of spending the time, a useful distraction which prevented her from dwelling on the past. For she couldn’t forget Tommaso – the man who had woken a secret part of her, who had turned her from an innocent girl, albeit a young mother, to a woman capable of great physical passion.
One afternoon, after visiting the heath, she walked down Haverstock Hill with Angela. In the window of a shabby antique shop stood a small painted Victorian bureau.
‘Let’s go inside,’ she said to Angela, ‘and look at that pretty desk.’
The piece was retrieved from its place in the shop window and Rachael stood back to admire it. It was painted a delicate shade of pale green. The three drawers at the base would provide useful storage, she thought. But she was most taken by the upper part of the desk, with its six small drawers and secret cubbyhole in the centre that could be locked with a brass key. The top of the bureau was concealed by a flap, which formed a writing surface when opened. The flap was decorated with a motif of red roses, exploding into flower from a dark green trailing stem. Rachael negotiated a good price and the bureau was delivered to the attic the following day. She positioned it in the window, so she could look out at the heath. She filled the three large drawers at the bottom with her clothes, and the small drawers above with keepsakes, writing paper and one or two photographs.
She unlocked the small central cupboard. She felt around with her hand and discovered the back of the cupboard was loose and came away quite easily, revealing a secret compartment. Delighted, she removed the photograph of Tommaso from the side pocket of her handbag and wrote on the back: ‘Tommaso, my love… Sant’Antioco 1959’ before placing the photograph safely in the compartment, replacing the panel and locking the cupboard. She slid the key into one of the drawers beneath a pile of writing paper.
Over the next few weeks, Rachael took stock of her life, brooding on something her father had said to her when they had been on the island. He had suggested she was incapable of supporting herself financially, and he was right. If anything happened to him, how would she and Angela survive? Angela was two and a half years old; in a year or so, she could go to nursery school. With her child occupied for part of the day, how would Rachael fill her time? Mrs Roper did most of the cooking, and tidying and cleaning the attic rooms hardly took an hour, let alone a day. It was time, Rachael decided, to find some sort of occupation. And in order do that she should first get some qualifications. If she passed her General Certificates of Education, she might even go to university one day. She could become a teacher, or maybe even a doctor. She was still young – only twenty-three, and there was no reason why she could not achieve something with her life. She signed up for a course in mathematics at the local night school, attending two evening sessions a week, while her father watched over Angela. She worked her way assiduously through the syllabus during the day, while her daughter played downstairs with Mrs Roper. Gradually, Rachael began to value the time she had to herself. When she was concentrating on a mathematical problem, she had to give it her full attention. There was no room for heartache, and slowly, over time, her longing for Tommaso began to recede.
One afternoon, as she finished her work, she stood up and caught sight of herself in the mirror that hung above her bed. Her stomach was protruding slightly. She had noticed that morning that her skirt felt tight. Was she eating too much? Her breasts were tender – perhaps her period was due?
She sat down at her desk and opened her diary. Since Angela’s birth she had written the letter ‘P’ on the day she started her period. There had been no entries for several months. How could she have not noticed? Her periods were always a little erratic and at first it had seemed unimportant that she was late. She had been so broken-hearted that it simply didn’t cross her mind to think about it. Then – packing up the house, saying goodbye to Giles and Peter, sorting out the attic in London – had taken so much of time, she had, somehow, ignored the absence of her monthly bleed.
Flicking through the pages of her diary, she tried to work out when she had last slept with Tommaso. There was an entry on 25 July that said, simply: ‘The end… Papa said it must stop.’
That was the last time she and Tommaso had made love.
It was now 13 November. It would be sixteen weeks tomorrow… She was four months pregnant.
She felt sick with anxiety and sat with her head in her hands. How could she have been so careless? So stupid? Her mind was racing. What could she do? The shame of having a child without a father would be terrible. What would her father say? What would Mrs Roper say? She would certainly throw them all out onto the street. They would be destitute and it would be Rachael’s fault.
She thought back to the day she discovered she was pregnant with Angela. That had been a shock too – but in a different way. It had been a miracle of sorts… a part of József that had survived his violent death on the streets of Budapest. She had been frightened then – not of disapproval, but rather of the responsibility of bringing a child into the world without a father, and at a time that was so full of hatred and uncertainty.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her daughter’s voice, chirruping away to Mrs Roper. They were coming up the stairs.
‘Ah… there’s Mummy,’ said Mrs Roper. ‘Working hard? I hope we’re not interrupting, dear, but Angela’s a little tired, and I really need to get on with supper now.’
‘Yes… yes of course,’ said Rachael, closing her diary and swinging round to face them. ‘Thank you so much for looking after her.’
‘Oh no trouble, dear. How’s it going… the studying? OK is it? I’ve never been any good at maths – terrible with figures.’
‘Yes… it’s going well, thank you.’ Rachael said, politely.
‘Well, see you later.’ Mrs Roper clattered back down the stairs.
Rachael settled Angela in bed for a nap and, when she was confident that she was asleep, returned to her own room.
‘What can I do… what can I do?’ she muttered as she paced up and down.
The following twenty-four hours w
ere spent in emotional turmoil. Rachael tried to convince herself that, perhaps, there was some other explanation for her absent periods. Some illness perhaps – she had heard of such things happening. There were fleeting moments when she was reading a book, or studying a mathematical problem, when she could almost forget it all, but they were rare. Realising she couldn’t avoid the issue any longer, she booked an appointment to see the doctor, after first persuading Mrs Roper to look after Angela.
The doctor’s consulting room was in the front room of his family home – a large double-fronted Edwardian house on a leafy street in Hampstead. As Rachael sat nervously on a stiff upright chair in the panelled waiting room, she could hear the distant sounds of children crying, a mother’s voice gently comforting them. The last time Rachael had been to see the doctor she had brought Angela for an inoculation. She remembered he had been good with children.
‘Mrs Kelemen…’ said the receptionist. ‘Dr McLean will see you now.’
The doctor was tall and good-looking. In spite of the cold weather outside, he had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He stood up politely as Rachael tentatively opened the door to his consulting room.
‘Good morning, Mrs Kelemen. Do come in. I don’t think I’ve seen you for some time?’
‘No… we’ve been abroad for a while.’
‘I see. Do please sit down. What seems to be the trouble?’
Rachael sat opposite him, blushing, and biting her lip.
‘There’s nothing to worry about…’ he said. ‘Would you like my receptionist to come in?’
‘No! No… the thing is… I think I might be pregnant.’ The sentence came out in a rush.
‘I see. And what symptoms do you have?’ he asked, dispassionately.
‘I haven’t had a period for four months.’
‘Anything else? Painful breasts, thickening of the waist, morning sickness?’
‘Um… no sickness, no. My breasts… maybe, and I’ve definitely put on a little weight.’
‘OK…’ he said gently, ‘well, slip off your skirt please and jump up on the couch.’
The examination over, Rachael sat back down in the chair opposite the doctor.
‘It does appear you are pregnant. But I will do a test to confirm it. If you could leave a urine sample…’ he handed her a little pot with a lid. ‘There’s a lavatory next to the receptionist’s office. Hand it to Mary when you’ve finished, and she’ll send it to the lab. We’ll have the result in a few days.’
‘So… I may not be?’
‘Well, the signs are all pointing to a positive test, I have to confess, but let’s get the result first.’
She stood up to leave.
‘Mrs Kelemen…’ Dr MacLean said, glancing up from his notes, ‘before you go. Your husband… I thought he was…’
‘Yes. My husband is dead… yes.’
‘Yes, I have it in your notes. The last time I saw you was a year or so ago – when you brought your daughter, Angela, for an inoculation. I think you mentioned your husband then.’
Rachael sensed his disapproval. He was trying to be kind, but she knew, deep down, he was judging her.
‘Well,’ she said, backing hesitantly out of his consulting room. ‘Thank you.’
‘If I can help…’ he said gently, ‘with any advice, or support… you will let me know?’
As she stood outside the doctor’s offices four days later and opened the test results, Rachael’s hands were shaking. It was exactly as she had feared.
She walked back to Willow Road, her mind in turmoil. She needed advice desperately. She couldn’t confide in her father or Mrs Roper. She remembered a conversation she’d had a few weeks earlier with one of the mothers she had befriended on the heath. Sandy was a tall pretty blonde, with three children under the age of five.
‘I simply couldn’t cope with another child,’ she’d said to Rachael one afternoon, as they drank tea in the cafe. ‘I’d literally go mad. I’m run ragged by them as it is and my husband’s never at home. We try to be careful, but every month I’m on edge in case my period doesn’t come. To be honest, if I did get pregnant, I think I’d get rid of it…’
‘What do you mean?’ Rachael had asked, innocently.
‘Well… you know.’
‘No,’ Rachael had replied honestly, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t they have abortions in Hungary?’
‘Abortions… what is that?’
‘Oh, you are green,’ said Sandy. ‘It’s when you have an operation to remove the child… you know… get rid of it,’ she’d whispered.
‘Kill it?’ Rachael had asked, aghast.
‘Well… yes. I suppose. You don’t have to look so shocked – it’s not a real baby, not then. Anyway, that’s what I’d do. You’d have to find someone though. It’s not easy. Well it’s illegal isn’t it?’ She’d sighed and turned to her eldest child. ‘Oh Jonny, do stop doing that… Leave the baby alone.’
The waitress came and took their cups and they said nothing more.
Now, Rachael decided she had to talk to Sandy as soon as possible. What had she meant by ‘finding someone’?
The following morning, she asked Mrs Roper if she could watch over Angela for an hour or two.
‘Yes, dear. You got to pop out? Studying is it?’
‘Yes… something like that. Thank you… I won’t be long.’
She ran down Willow Road towards the cafe on the heath, hoping that Sandy would be there. She saw her through the window, sitting with another woman – slighter than Sandy, with auburn hair.
‘Hello stranger,’ Sandy said, as Rachael approached their table. ‘Caroline, this is Rachael – a friend from Hungary. She has a little girl called Angela. Where is she this morning?’
‘I… left her at home with the landlady. It’s nice to meet you, Caroline.’
‘Sit down,’ said Sandy, pulling out a chair.
‘No… thank you. I’ll come back another time. I needed a word, Sandy, but it can wait.’
‘No, you sit,’ said Caroline, standing up and putting on her coat. ‘I was just leaving anyway. Nice to meet you… See you soon, Sandy…’
Caroline backed her pram out of the doorway.
‘So,’ said Sandy, patting the chair beside her, ‘where’s the fire?’
‘The fire?’ said Rachael, sitting down. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand…’
‘I mean… what’s the problem? You seem all… anxious and flustered.’
The waitress bustled over to their table. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked, licking her pencil.
‘Just a cup of tea… thank you,’ said Rachael, waiting for the waitress to leave.
‘So…?’ said Sandy
‘I don’t know how to say it,’ whispered Rachael.
‘Just say it…’
‘I’m pregnant.’
The waitress returned and put a pot of tea and an extra cup on the table, glancing sideways at Rachael as she did so.
‘Do you think she heard me?’ whispered Rachael once the waitress was safely back behind the counter.
‘So what if she did?’ said Sandy, flippantly. ‘So – do I detect that you are not altogether delighted?’
‘It’s just so complicated.’
‘I imagine it is… you not being married and all. Can I ask – who’s the father?’
‘A man I met in Sardinia… on Sant’Antioco. We fell in love. I wanted to stay with him, but it was not possible.’
‘Why?’
‘It turned out that he was engaged, promised to someone.’
‘Ha… why am I not surprised? Bastard.’
‘No… it was not like that.’
‘Yeah… I know. They’re never “like that”. But he got you pregnant and wasn’t in a position to do the right thing. I’m sorry, Rachael, but he’s a bastard… So you need to do something about it?’
‘Yes… I must. My father would… he would so angry. So disappointed.’ Rachael’s eyes fill
ed with tears. She felt a bewildering combination of emotions. Embarrassment that she could have been so foolish, as well as shame. But above all – sadness and loss for the man she loved. Her friend was wrong to condemn him. He wasn’t some ‘bastard’ who had used her. He had loved her. And now she was carrying his child – a child she couldn’t keep.
‘I understand,’ said Sandy, reaching across the table, and taking her hand. ‘It’s difficult. But I’ll help you – we’ll get this sorted – all right?’
Rachael, nodded uncertainly; she wiped her eyes and sipped her tea.
‘Now, if you’ve got a lot of money there are doctors in Harley Street who’ll take care of it. But you’ll need around a hundred pounds.’
‘I don’t have such money,’ said Rachael, aghast. ‘And how can I ask my father…?’
‘Well, if you don’t have the money, there are other people. Not proper doctors, but they know what they’re doing. I don’t know anyone myself, but I know someone who does. Someone who… had to go through it. How far gone are you?’
‘Sixteen weeks.’
‘Well that’s precise… You’re sure?’
‘Yes… I had a test done at the doctor’s…’
‘Oh… so he knows, does he? That might make it complicated.’
‘Why?’
‘Well… think about it. He knows you’re pregnant. If you go ahead and… do what we’re talking about,’ she had dropped her voice to a whisper, ‘questions could be asked.’
‘Couldn’t I say I’d lost the baby?’
‘Yes… I suppose… Well, there’s nothing else for it. But you can’t hang about. It’s much harder the longer you wait. Come back here tomorrow at ten, and I’ll have a name for you.’
That evening after Rachael had bathed Angela and dressed her in her pyjamas, she lay with the child – as she often did – comforting her until she fell asleep. She thought back to her first pregnancy. It had been such a shock initially – to find herself pregnant by her dead husband. She’d wondered then how she would cope. But she had, and now she had a beautiful golden-haired child – her bright, funny angel who she loved more than her own life.