by Debbie Rix
She ran her hands down over her swelling stomach. She thought about the child she was carrying. Would this one have Tommaso’s dark hair, his dark brown eyes? Could she really rip it out of her body, dispense with it, end it…?
Later, as Rachael and George ate Mrs Roper’s shepherd’s pie in the dining room, George noticed Rachael pushing her food to the edge of the plate. He reached across the table and took her hand.
‘Rachael… is something the matter – are you not hungry?’
‘No,’ she said weakly.
‘Something is bothering you… tell me.’
‘It’s nothing. Nothing at all, really.’
How could she tell him? How could she disappoint him so?
That night, as she lay in her single bed, the thin curtains glowed in the moonlight. Unable to sleep, she crept out of bed, anxious not to disturb Angela in the little room next door. She opened the desk and unlocked the central cupboard. She removed the false panel at the back and took out the photograph of Tommaso. She studied his face – the strong jaw, the long dark hair. Had Sandy been right? Was he, in fact, just an unreliable young man, seeking pleasure without taking responsibility? Had their relationship been an illusion?
No, she decided, kissing the photograph, that was not true. Had he known she was pregnant, she felt sure he would have supported her. But he didn’t know, and she was on her own. This was a decision she must make alone.
She put the photograph back in its hiding place.
‘It’s just an operation,’ she told herself as she climbed back into bed. ‘Like an appendicitis, or having your tonsils out…’
She fell asleep finally, just before dawn, and was woken just a couple of hours later by Angela padding through from her bedroom, slipping beneath the eiderdown and lying next to her mother. Holding her daughter close, Rachael wept silently.
After breakfast, she went down to the kitchen in search of Mrs Roper.
‘I have to go… to a college today. For an exam.’ She hated lying. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be. Could you take Angela for me – please?’
‘Yes, dear, all right. What time will you be back?’
‘I don’t know… late. After six, maybe.’
‘All right. I’ll put her to bed for you if you’re really late…’
‘Oh, thank you so much.’
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Mrs Roper, taking Angela’s hand. ‘You look a little pale.’
‘I’m fine. See you later.’
She found Sandy waiting in the cafe, as promised.
Her friend slid a piece of paper over the table towards her. ‘Here you go… they’re good, so I’ve been told. But you mustn’t tell anyone. Do you understand, Rachael? It’s illegal; you could go to prison, and probably so could I… for just giving you the name.’
‘Don’t worry… I will tell no one.’
‘Not even your dad?’
‘No! Definitely not him. No one… I promise.’
The address on the piece of paper was in East London. It would take over an hour to get there by bus. The street, when she found it, was more like an alley – narrow and dark with piles of rubbish gathering at the edges. There was a sex shop on the corner, advertising erotic dancers. Rachael scurried past, trying to ignore the photographs of women in scanty clothing. Halfway down the alley, a man lay drunkenly in the darkness of doorway. He reached out for Rachael as she passed him, touching her calf with his filthy hand. She recoiled and stumbled on.
Anxiously scanning the piece of paper in hand, she realised she had arrived at her destination. The doorway was unremarkable – a perfectly ordinary, brown scuffed door with a knocker in the middle.
A woman’s voice called out as she knocked. ‘Who is it?’
‘My name is Rachael… I’ve been given your address by a… friend.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I need help.’
Locks slid back and the door opened into a dark corridor with peeling wallpaper and ripped lino on the floor. An Alsatian stood guarding the kitchen at the end of the corridor. He growled as Rachael stepped across the threshold.
‘Don’t mind him,’ said the voice, ‘come in.’
As the door closed behind her, Rachael came face to face with a world-weary middle-aged woman wearing an apron over her cotton dress, her brown hair flecked with grey, caught up in a hairnet. She had an air of defeat about her.
‘Through there…’ she said, directing Rachael to the front room. ‘Have you got the money?’
‘I wasn’t sure how much.’
‘Ten pounds. That’s the price. Take it or leave it.’
Rachael had a little more than ten pounds in her purse. It was all the money she had saved. She had hoped to use it for her education, or for Angela.
‘Yes… I have the money.’
‘And how far gone are you?’
‘Sixteen weeks.’
‘Right… well hand over the money and then lie down there.’ She pointed to a table, covered in newspaper. An array of sharp-pointed instruments were laid out on a smaller table at the foot. It was an orderly arrangement, consisting of a coat hanger, a knitting needle, a small hook and a long tube with one end soaking in a bowl of liquid. There was an overpowering smell of disinfectant.
Rachael’s hand shook as she placed the pile of notes down next to the bowl. She removed her coat and looked around the dingy room for somewhere to put it. She placed it carefully over a chair, anxious it should be uncontaminated by any part of this sordid room. Gingerly, she lay down on the hard table, the newspaper rucking up beneath her, rustling as she tried to make herself comfortable. She looked up at the ceiling, staring at the peeling paintwork, trying to concentrate on a brown nicotine stain at the centre of the telltale marks of an old flood. She wondered fleetingly what might have caused such water damage but the smell of disinfectant suddenly caught in the back of her throat, causing her to wretch. She swallowed hard as waves of nausea washed over her.
‘Well, take your pants off first,’ said the woman, a tinge of irritation in her voice.
Rachael stood back up clumsily and lifted her dress. As she bent down to remove her underwear, she felt the room spinning around her. Reggae music pulsed through the room from the floor above. The drunk outside was shouting at a passer-by. She thought of Tommaso – beautiful, loving Tommaso – and of what they had meant to each other. She thought of the child inside her… their child.
‘Well come on,’ said the woman, impatiently, ‘I haven’t got all day.’
‘I… I don’t…’ Rachael stumbled backwards.
‘What is it?’ said the woman, glaring at Rachael.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this…’ She snatched up the money, and grabbed her coat, knocking the vicious-looking hook off the table as she rushed out of the room.
‘Oi, careful,’ said the woman, picking the hook up from the floor.
As Rachael yanked open the front door, the Alsatian, sensing danger, rushed forwards, eager to defend his owner. Its teeth connected with Rachael’s calf, just as she fell out into the street. She managed to slam the door shut behind her and heard the dog yelping. Wincing with pain, she staggered up the alley, inhaling the sour stench of urine and vomit. The drunk came reeling along the alleyway and collided with Rachael as she ran towards the main road. She felt his stubble against her face, the stench of alcohol on his breath.
She jumped onto the first bus she saw and sat down, her calf throbbing, blood dripping onto her dark brown shoes. She put her head in her hands and sobbed.
Chapter Twenty
London
March 2017
In the weeks following Sophie’s miscarriage, Hamish went out of his way to be kind and caring. But in spite of his love and attention, Sophie sank into a depression. She lost all her enthusiasm for life, showed little interest in her appearance – hardly bothering to wash her hair, or change her clothes. She slept fitfully at night, roaming the house in the early hours, then sleeping dee
ply on the sofa during the day. Hamish, concerned for her mental health, suggested a possible course of antidepressants.
‘I don’t need medication,’ she snapped. ‘I’m entitled to be sad… I’ve lost our child. Don’t you understand?’
He did understand, of course, but in his rational medical world, the loss of a four-week-old foetus was just a setback; it was not the end of their journey towards parenthood. It was certainly not a reason to give up on life.
A few days after Sophie’s miscarriage, the consultant who had been in charge of her IVF treatment rang with his condolences.
‘Are you keen to have another try?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie. ‘Maybe… In a little while. I just need to…’ she’d trailed off, uncertain how to explain her feelings. How could she use the word ‘grieve’? It sounded ridiculous. She had only been a few weeks pregnant; it was just a collection of cells. Women miscarried babies all the time at that stage and had no idea it was even happening. Why was she justified in feeling so much grief when parents all over the world were coping with the death of their children from illnesses like cancer? Or losing their young people in the prime of their lives through knife crime, guns or war. That was grief. When you lost a child who was a real, sentient human being, someone you could chat to on the phone, whose hopes and dreams you could share. To lose a child like that would be unimaginable. The grief would never end. And yet she had loved her tiny little ‘lentil’ child… and now felt utterly bereft.
‘To grieve?’ suggested the consultant.
‘Yes!’ she said, surprised by his sensitivity. ‘How did you know?’
‘You’re not the first patient I’ve had who’s lost a baby… We do understand. But when you’re ready to start again, get in touch.’
Sophie’s birthday fell almost two months to the day after the miscarriage. She would be thirty-four. Hamish tried to persuade her that they should go to a restaurant or see friends.
‘Come on, darling… I know you’re still sad about the miscarriage. I am too. But we have to get on with our lives, we need to have some fun.’
Sophie could hardly bring herself to respond. She knew Hamish meant well, that he was just trying to be supportive in his own way. But she didn’t feel like having fun. And ‘sad’ was just not adequate to describe her emotions about the baby she had lost. It was so much more than sad. She felt engulfed in grief. Another year had passed and she was still no closer to becoming a mother.
‘Please Hamish… just leave it. I’m going to London on my birthday. It’s time I got back to work. I’m not celebrating and that’s that.’
On the morning of her birthday, she woke early. As she stood in the shower and washed her hair for the first time in over a week, she breathed deeply, visualising her pain spinning away down the plug hole. She dried her hair and put on her clothes in the bedroom next door, so as not to wake Hamish – who’d come in late the night before. Dressed and ready to leave, she stood in the doorway of their bedroom, watching him sleep. She felt a pang of sympathy for him. It hadn’t been easy for him either over the last few weeks. Tiptoeing across the room, she leant over to the bed and kissed him on the cheek. He opened his eyes sleepily.
‘Morning, sweetheart,’ he mumbled. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘Shhhh…’ she whispered, ‘speak later.’
On the train to Paddington, she opened her work bag. Nestling next to her laptop was a small parcel. Judging by the inadequate wrapping, it was a gift from Hamish. He must have left it there when he came in the previous night. Self-consciously she removed the present and laid it on the table in front of her. The passengers around her smiled and tried not to look as she ripped open the brown paper. Inside was a beautifully painted Russian doll. She unscrewed the largest doll, revealing the smaller one inside. There were seven dolls in all. Hamish must have bought it one afternoon when they had gone to Cirencester together. They’d wandered round the market in the Corn Hall and she had admired the Russian dolls on one of the stalls. He must have gone back for it while she was in the supermarket. She remembered him making some excuse – something he needed to buy. She unscrewed all the dolls and lined them up on the table. They were dressed in pink and green outfits edged with gold and had the sweetest faces.
At the sight of all these ‘mothers’ and ‘daughters’, going back seven generations, she felt tears welling up. As she blew her nose, she thought of her grandmother, her mother, herself, the daughter she might never have.
She replaced the dolls one by one, wrapped them back in the brown paper and tucked them into her bag. She opened the card.
‘To my darling Sophie…if ever there was a mother in the making – it’s you. Happy Birthday. All my love, Hamish.’
She blew her nose once again and wiped her eyes. The man sitting opposite her smiled sympathetically.
‘Nice present,’ he said.
‘Yes… from my husband.’
He nodded, uncertain what else he could say.
Embarrassed by her public display of emotion, she removed her laptop and flipped it open on the table between them. It would be good to get back to work. She had been so preoccupied with the IVF, she had let her work slide. Her PhD supervisor had been very understanding.
‘Just come back when you can, Sophie,’ he’d said. ‘Take your time.’
But she was glad that her period of inactivity was over.
She arrived at her office just after ten and found Michael, her supervisor, hovering anxiously near her desk.
‘Sophie,’ he began, ‘I just wanted to say…’
‘It’s OK, Michael. You don’t need to say anything. I know everyone is sad for me. And it’s very kind. But I’d rather just get on and concentrate on my work… if that’s all right. Please don’t think I’m not grateful for your concern.’
‘Quite… good,’ he said, backing away, emanating a strong sense of relief that he was not required to ‘empathise’. ‘Lunch later? Quick catch-up on where you’re heading with everything?’
‘Yes… lunch would be good.’
She put the Russian doll onto her desk and opened her laptop. She felt nervous – it had been so long since she had done any serious research. Delaying the vital moment, she went the university canteen and brought a coffee back to her tiny office. Then, shutting the door, she began to read through her notes.
An image of her little ‘lentil’ child floated uninvited into her mind. She shook her head, as if the physical act could banish her thoughts.
‘Concentrate,’ she said out loud.
She had collected a number of references to byssus cloth. Various pieces of this fabric had been uncovered since her great-grandfather’s original discovery in 1912.
A cap made of sea silk had been found in 1978 in the damp basement of the Basilica in St Denis near Paris. The item, made in the fourteenth century, was now kept in the collection of the Musée d’art et d’histoire in St Denis. It looked a little bit like a beanie, Sophie thought. She studied the little headdress. It was so small, it had surely been made for a child. Her own lost child floated back into her mind, until she pushed it away.
She scrolled down through the articles and discovered that many items of sea silk clothing had ended up in museums of natural history. Travellers on the grand tour in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries had often brought pieces home from Italy and Greece as souvenirs. They were then displayed in cabinets of ‘curiosity’ – the items of clothing lying next to the Pinna nobilis shell and its beard. A Museum in Rouen and another in Strasbourg both had long sea silk gauntlets on display. But the oldest reference she could find for these ‘curious items’ came from an English traveller called John Evelyn, whose seventeenth-century diary recorded a visit to the museum of the sixteenth-century pharmacist and naturalist Ferrante Imperato in Naples: ‘Among the natural herbals, most remarkable was the Byssus marina and Pinna marina.’
Sophie recalled a holiday she and Hamish had taken in Naples soon after they h
ad first met. They had only been together for a couple of months, and she was surprised when he suggested it. It seemed a sort of test – would they be able to spend ten days together? In the end, of course, the days had flown by and she had loved the city – with its brightly coloured houses in shades of yellow ochre, turquoise and pink that nestled around the harbour. Not that they had seen much of the harbour. They had spent most of their time locked away in their small hotel bedroom…
She smiled at the memory. They had been so innocent then, so happy. She wrestled herself back to her work and clicked on another link.
A man named Swinburne had encountered byssus on a visit to Apulia on the southwest coast of Italy in 1790. ‘The Pinna,’ he wrote, ‘is torn off the rocks with hooks, and broken for the sake of its bunch of silk, called Lanapenna, which is sold, in its rude state, for about fifteen carlini a pound, to women that wash it well with soap and fresh water. When it is perfectly cleansed of all its impurities, they dry it in the shade, straighten it with a large comb, cut off the useless root, and card the remainder; by which means they reduce a pound of coarse filaments to about three ounces of fine thread. This they knit into stockings, gloves, caps and waistcoats; but they commonly mix a little silk as a strengthener. This web is of a beautiful yellow-brown, resembling the burnished gold on the back of some flies and beetles.’
The earliest written evidence Sophie could find for sea-silk production was from 210 AD. The church father Tertullian wrote in De Pallio: ‘Nor was it enough to comb and sow the material for a tunic, it was necessary also to fish for one’s dress; for fleeces are obtained from the sea, where shells of extraordinary size are furnished with tufts of mossy hair.’
At this reference Sophie sat up. Here then was evidence that byssus was in use during the timeframe of her PhD – the first and second centuries AD.