by Debbie Rix
One final extract proved enticing. Horatio Nelson, it seemed, had bought some byssus gloves on his travels. He wrote to his lover Emma Hamilton of a pair of gloves he had purchased, ‘made only in Sardinia of the beards of mussels’. In addition to the gloves, he had also ordered a sea silk muff for his lover. More interestingly, it appeared that byssus was still produced in Sardinia; specifically, on an isthmus called Sant’Antioco, that could only be reached via a causeway from the main island. An atelier named Italo Diana had produced byssus in the first half of the twentieth century. Many young women had been apprenticed there, including Efisia Murroni, who frustratingly had only died five years earlier at the impressive age of one hundred. She had been the last apprentice. The reference implied that there were still women on the island working with this remarkable product, keeping the secret of sea silk production alive.
An idea began to form in Sophie’s mind. A trip to Sardinia; how wonderful it would be to visit Sant’Antioco and observe the women at work.
Over lunch with her supervisor, she brought him up to speed on her recent discoveries.
‘I know it’s not precisely what my research ought to be focused on, but there’s something there. There is a lot of evidence that byssus was used to wrap bodies both in ancient Egypt and perhaps even in Rome. And I can’t pretend that I’m not intrigued by my great-grandfather’s involvement with the subject.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Michael. ‘But don’t get too sidetracked. Burial practices in the first and second centuries – that’s your subject. You need evidence that can be substantiated… Perhaps you can find a way to link the two.’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do… but most of the references are to much later examples of this sort of cloth – seventeenth and eighteenth century. My great-grandfather’s piece was the oldest yet found – early fourth century. I keep thinking… if only I could find someone who’d worked with him… who knew more about his work. Maybe they found more but I just don’t know about it.’
‘He worked here… didn’t he?’
‘Yes. After he left Hungary in ’56 he spent a year or so in a camp, in Austria, I think. Then he came to the UK. The university gave him a job and he worked here until he died. I keep thinking that after his initial discovery back in 1912, surely he would have gone on – searching for other examples.’
‘Well, if he did, there should be something in the records – papers he published and so on. Try the library. If he published while he was here, they ought to have a copy.’
‘I’m looking for anything published by Professor George Laszlo,’ Sophie asked the librarian. ‘Sometime in the late 1950s…He was a Professor of Archaeology here.’
‘We haven’t digitised everything, I’m afraid – and certainly not that far back, unless it was of some particular significance. I might have to go “old school” and see what I’ve got on my card system.’ Flipping through her alphabetical card index system, the librarian soon exclaimed, ‘Ah… here we are. In 1959 Professor G. Laszlo published an article… other contributors: Marshall. P and Moncrieff. G. You’ll find it in stack no.158.’ The librarian handed Sophie a Post-it with more details of the correct location.
Sophie went down to the basement storeroom and found the appropriate stack. Hundreds of thousands of research papers and journals were stored in this labyrinthine, but efficient, system. Turning the huge circular handle, a narrow corridor opened up between the stack and its neighbour. She wandered between the two long rows of journals, her finger tracing their spines, looking for the correct one.
When she found it, her heart missed a beat. At last she had something in her hand, written by the man who had been such an important and yet almost ephemeral part of her life for so many years. She flicked through the journal until she found the article George had published nearly seventy years before, entitled: ‘The mystery of the ancient tombs of Sulci, Sant’Antioco, Sardinia.’
She skimmed the article. It was about an archaeological dig he had conducted beneath the basilica in Sant’Antioco. He had been excavating a pair of Roman tombs. From her cursory reading, she could see no reference to byssus. Had he realised he was on an island where they still produced this remarkable fabric? Surely, with his interest in this subject, he would have discovered the link. She knew from her own research that the Italo Diana workshop had been handling byssus when her grandfather George was on the island. Might he have met the women who made this fabric and was it he who told Rachael about the water women when he returned to England?
She took the article to the photocopier, and once she had her own copy safely in her bag, returned the journal. As she turned the large handle, sealing up the stack once again, she wondered how long it would be before someone searched for that journal.
Back in her office, she read the article more carefully. The focus was on the previously undiscovered tombs that lay beneath the basilica. There, in the catacombs of the ancient church, was a Roman burial chamber. It appeared that a woman named Beronice was buried in one of the tombs. Various engravings and inscriptions had been found on the ceiling of the tomb.
Beronice in pace; iuvenis moritur; in pace.
Beside the inscription was a seven-branched menorah. This symbol of the Jewish people indicated that the person buried there was of the Jewish faith. George’s theory was that the Beronice buried in the tomb could be the ‘long-lost great-granddaughter of King Herod’. This Jewish Queen had a lengthy affair with the Emperor Titus, George explained. She had travelled to Rome to live as his wife but had been banished. All references to this Queen of the Jews had ceased at that point in the literature, and no evidence had ever been found to explain where she went. It seemed that she had simply disappeared. But could she, in fact, have come to Sardinia? If so, why?
The second tomb was harder to explain, with an enigmatic inscription: ‘Virus bonus in pace bonus’, possibly meaning ‘Good man in peace, good man’. ‘Good man’ was an oft-used moniker for Emperor Titus, but you could not deduce from this flimsy evidence that the man buried next to the woman named Beronice was the emperor.
The summary of George’s paper was inconclusive. He skirted round the subject, explaining that the burial chamber was clearly intended for a ‘couple’; that the burial appeared to be planned and not random. Judging by the decorations on the walls and ceilings of the tomb, he deduced that the two people buried there were of some significance. But while George was obviously intrigued by the true identities of those buried in the tomb, clearly there had not been sufficient evidence on site to draw a definitive conclusion.
Whilst the outcome of George’s paper was frustrating, Sophie felt a sense of professional excitement – something she had not experienced for many months. Could she return to this tiny island and explore these Roman tombs as part of her own research? Might she find the missing link to who was buried there? She would need the permission of her supervisor, and the agreement of the Italian authorities, but perhaps she could finally be able to identify the remains in the Roman burial chamber – something her great-grandfather had been unable to do.
At five o’clock her phone rang. It was Hamish.
‘Hello you,’ he said.
‘Hi… sorry – I should have called earlier. I’ve been rather busy.’
‘Great… that’s good to hear. Interesting stuff?’
‘Yes. Very. I’ve discovered my great-grandfather – you know, the archaeologist – visited Sardinia back in the 1950s. I had no idea. He was in charge of a dig there, apparently. I won’t bore you with it now… but I think I’d like to go there, and see if I can…’ She paused. ‘Oh this sounds a bit ridiculous.’
‘Go on,’ said Hamish, encouragingly.
‘Well… see if I can continue his work. He found a Roman tomb, you see – and no one has ever been able to work out who is really buried there…’
‘Well, I agree, it sounds fascinating. So you want to go to Sardinia?’ Hamish sounded slightly surprised.
&nb
sp; ‘Yes… I could combine it with a holiday. Would you like to come?’
‘I’d love to, although I don’t know if I can get the time off work. By the way, did you find something in your bag earlier?’
‘Oh… yes. The doll! Yes I did. Thank you so much. It’s sitting on my desk – looking very pretty.’
‘I hope you don’t think it was insensitive. I bought it a while ago – before we lost—’
‘It’s OK,’ she interrupted. ‘I can’t pretend it didn’t make me a bit teary… the man on the train opposite me looked a bit startled when I began blubbing.’
‘Oh, Sophie… I’m so sorry.’
‘No… don’t be. We have to face facts, don’t we? And maybe you’re right. I have to deal with my grief and move on. Onwards and upwards. Perhaps this trip might help… you know?’
As she sat on the bus heading for her parents’ house later that evening, Sophie felt the first glimmer of optimism – something she had not felt for several weeks. She was excited at the idea of following in George’s footsteps. Perhaps her parents could even accompany her to Sardinia. It could be a holiday, a family trip to an island in the sun, to put the grief of her lost baby behind her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hampstead
Christmas 1959
As Christmas approached, Rachael had still not confided in either her father or Mrs Roper about her pregnancy. Only Sandy, her friend at the cafe, knew the truth.
‘I can’t believe you left there like that…’ said Sandy, when Rachael told her she had run away from the abortionist. ‘What on earth are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know… But something will turn up – I’m sure of it.’
‘Well, I admire your optimism. But you’re going to start showing properly soon. You can’t hide it forever. Hasn’t your father noticed yet?’
‘No… he lives in another world. He probably just thinks I’m getting a bit fat.’
‘Well, if you want my advice,’ Sandy began.
‘No… thank you, Sandy,’ Rachael interrupted. ‘I know you mean well. But I’ll think of something.’
In the days leading up to Christmas, snow began to fall. Angela gazed out of the attic window, fascinated, as the landscape gradually became swathed in white. The weather acted as a magnet to the village children, who began to gather in excited gaggles to play in the snow on the heath, dragging toboggans or old tin trays behind them.
‘Can we go out, Mama,’ Angela begged.
Rachael, who was tired and distracted, reluctantly agreed. Mrs Roper unearthed an old wooden toboggan from the cellar and, dressed in warm coats and wellington boots, Angela and Rachael went out onto the heath. In spite of her worries, Rachael enjoyed the outing. It reminded her so much of her own childhood and, for the first time in many weeks, she felt a glimmer of hope and happiness. She took huge pleasure in Angela’s enjoyment – in her shrieks of delight as she slipped down the shallow slopes – and her rosy cheeks as she staggered back up to the top of the hill. When Angela finally tired of tobogganing, Rachael showed her how to make a snow angel. They lay next to one another in the snow, flapping their arms wildly, and giggling. Several village children had made snowmen on the heath, and Angela studied them, like a visitor to a museum admiring a fine sculpture They returned to Willow Road just before lunch with glowing cheeks and cold hands, and after a welcome bowl of soup in Mrs Roper’s kitchen, Angela asked if they could build a snowman of their own in the back garden.
‘It needs a hat and coat, Mama,’ Angela insisted. ‘Or he will get cold. Can we borrow Grandpa’s?’
‘No,’ Rachael replied, stacking the soup bowls in the old stone sink. ‘Grandpa needs his coat more than the snowman.’
Angela began to cry but was finally placated by Mrs Roper.
‘I know,’ she said kindly, ‘I’ve got an old felt hat I never wear – and a coat that’s only good for the jumble. Couldn’t your snowman be a snowlady?’
Delighted by this compromise, Angela agreed, and when the snowlady was completed, and fully dressed, she stood back to admire her handiwork. As darkness fell, she was reluctant to come indoors.
‘I want to look at her,’ Angela explained.
‘But, darling,’ her mother protested, ‘you can’t stay out here all night. You’ll freeze to death. How about sitting inside in the hall? You can look at her through the glass door that leads to the garden?’
Angela was reluctantly persuaded indoors, and a chair was positioned next to the glass door; she stayed there all afternoon and long into the evening.
Overnight, a thaw set in, and the following day, Angela was distraught to find that all that was left of her snowy friend was a pile of greying slush topped by a damp hat and coat.
‘I know,’ said Mrs Roper, as she mopped slushy water from the hall floor, ‘why don’t we decorate the Christmas tree – it’s outside in the garden. Or should we wait till Christmas Eve like we did last year?’
Rachael, who was distracted and anxious about her secret pregnancy, had scarcely thought about Christmas. She had bought no presents and had even forgotten to celebrate the Feast of St Nicholas. Given her concerns, it seemed trivial to fret about Christmas traditions.
‘Oh don’t worry,’ said Rachael, ‘why don’t we do it now?’
‘Well…’ said her landlady, concerned that Rachael seemed so lacklustre, ‘if you’re sure, dear.’
They dragged the tree into the parlour and the decorations were brought up from the cellar. Once the tree had been decorated, and the previous year’s paper chains hung up, Mrs Roper suggested a cup of tea. She had been baking a Christmas cake that morning, and the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg floated up the stairs as they headed down to the kitchen. For the first time in weeks, Rachael felt a stirring of Christmas nostalgia. She had always cooked treats for her father in their kitchen at home at Christmastime.
‘Mrs Roper… I know this is your kitchen, but I wondered if I could bake something in here. To remind me and my father… of our home, back in Budapest.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Gingerbread men. I always made them as a little girl. My mother taught me before she died. I’d like to show Angela.’
‘Of course, dear. Go ahead. I think you’ll find everything you need in that cupboard there…’
As the biscuits cooled, they suffused the whole house with their spicy scent.
‘It’s time for Angela’s bath,’ said Rachael. ‘Can we leave the biscuits here and decorate them tomorrow?’
‘Of course, dear,’ said Mrs Roper.
As Rachael came up into the darkened hall with Angela, she heard the front door slam shut. Her father stood, removing his overcoat,
‘Ah Rachael,’ he said, taking off his hat, and hanging it on the hook by the door, ‘what a marvellous smell. Have you been baking?’
‘Yes Papa – gingerbread men.’
‘Ah… I thought I recognised it. Now, I have a wonderful surprise for you… a friend from the old days.’
Standing behind her father in the gloomy hall stood a tall, angular man wearing a homburg and overcoat.
‘Chuck!’ Rachael cried out, as he walked forward into the light. She ran towards his open arms, and he swung her around the hall. It brought back memories of their time in the camp, when they had danced together in the dining room. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘Well, it’s a long story…’ he replied, putting her carefully back down on the tiled floor.
‘Let the man come in first,’ said George. ‘Come upstairs, Chuck. We have a little space on the top floor. That’s all right, isn’t it, Rachael?’
‘Yes… yes of course. Come, follow me.’
She ran up the stairs with Angela, leading the way to the attic. She quickly plumped the cushions on the small sofa and tidied her desk.
‘Take off your coat and hat,’ she said, as he came in. ‘Sit down here, please.’ She laid his coat on her bed and patted the sofa. ‘Would you li
ke a sherry? That’s all everyone in England drinks. It’s quite nice though.’
She poured a glass of the amber liquid into a crystal glass – one of a set she had recently acquired from a junk shop down the road.
‘Thanks… this is nice,’ he said, looking around at the small neat room. ‘You’ve made it real homely.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rachael blushing slightly, pleased that he liked it. ‘It’s only temporary, we hope to get our own house one day, don’t we Papa?’
George smiled indulgently.
‘But Mrs Roper the landlady has been very kind,’ continued Rachael, sitting down on a chair opposite Chuck.
‘And this must be the baby…’ said Chuck, looking down at Angela, who sat cross-legged on the floor, wearing a tartan dress, playing with her doll. ‘Hi there…’ he said. ‘My name is Charles.’
Angela giggled and looked at him beneath long dark lashes.
‘I last met your mother when you were inside her tummy…’ He patted his own stomach.
The child looked quizzically at him and turned her attention back to her doll.
‘Her name is Angela,’ said Rachael, ‘she’s two and a half now.’
‘Wow…’ said Chuck, ‘doesn’t time fly. Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Angela…’ He held out his hand to the child, who threw her doll down on the floor and hurled herself into his arms. ‘Hey,’ said Chuck, hugging her and laughing, ‘you’re real friendly!’
‘OK – Angela, that’s enough,’ said Rachael, holding out her arms to her child. ‘Come to Mummy.’
The child climbed off Chuck’s lap and came and sat by her mother.
‘So… how did you two find each other?’ Rachael asked, settling her daughter by her side.
‘Well,’ said George, helping himself to another sherry, ‘I was coming out of the university this afternoon, and we literally bumped into each other in the Strand. Amazing, no?’