by Debbie Rix
She should have left it there – removed the scratchy underwear and put on her pyjamas; but as she slipped into bed, she said quietly: ‘You haven’t forgotten you have to provide a sample on Friday?’
He rolled over in bed and regarded her with loathing.
‘No! I haven’t forgotten.’
She silently turned off the light and closed her eyes. They lay rigidly next to one another, the space between them alive with resentment and unspoken anger.
Somehow they staggered through the next few days in an atmosphere of strained silence. Sophie tried to initiative conversations, but Hamish was monosyllabic and grumpy. On Friday morning, she was relieved when he mentioned at breakfast that he would be going to the clinic to give his sample.
‘Thank you, Hamish,’ she said, kissing his cheek. ‘I know you hate it and I want you to know how grateful I am…’
‘It’s OK,’ he said, looking at her across the kitchen table. ‘I’m not such a bad man, you know.’
‘I know…’ she said, reaching across the table and taking his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began.
‘Don’t…’ he said. ‘I’d better be off – see you later.’
When Sophie started the medication to stimulate her egg production, she felt like an old hand, so familiar were the symptoms: sore breasts – tick; bloating – tick; memory loss – tick, tick, tick.
After her eggs were harvested, Sophie spent an agonising weekend, waiting to find out if they had fertilised. Forgetful and distracted, she forgot to pay for the car park in Cirencester, and when she returned from the supermarket found a ticket on her windscreen. Back home, she roamed the house tidying up half-heartedly. At dusk, after Mick had locked up the hens, she absent-mindedly opened the henhouse, in search of a couple of eggs, and forgot to shut it up again when she came back inside. Hamish, who had just returned from another ‘emergency’, swung the car into the drive to be met by a flock of hens running headlong towards him. He got out of the car and shooed them back up the drive and into their henhouse.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked irritably, coming into the kitchen.
‘What do you mean?’ said Sophie.
‘The bloody hens were out – I nearly ran them all over. Where’s Mick the Chick for heaven’s sake – they’re his bloody responsibility. He should have locked them up by now.’
‘Oh, I think that was my fault,’ said Sophie. ‘I just went in to get a couple of extra eggs – I must have left the shed door open. I’m sorry…’
‘Oh, never mind,’ he said, flinging his jacket down on a chair.
‘Hamish… Are you all right?’ asked Sophie, anxiously. ‘You seem a bit… on edge.’
‘I’m fine,’ Hamish replied. ‘I’ve just got a lot on…’
On Monday morning, she woke early, relieved that she would know by the end of that day if this first phase of the IVF had been a success. She was in the garden when the call came. Sitting on the terrace outside the kitchen, she heard the phone and rushed to answer it.
‘Mrs Mitchell?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said, breathlessly.
‘I have good news. Two healthy eggs have fertilised. If you’d like… we can put both back.’
‘Yes… yes please,’ she said through tears.
The garden was wreathed in May sunshine as she sat back down on the terrace. The apple trees on the boundary fence were in blossom and the borders were filled with the spring green of herbaceous plants pushing up through the soil, mixed with colourful tulips. Sophie had never seen the garden looking so beautiful. She sat, her face looking up at the sun, and relaxed for the first time in weeks. In a few days’ time she would have the implantation. This time – it was going to work. She might even have twins.
She rang her mother after supper that evening.
‘Sophie – that’s wonderful news. Do you want me to come down again and look after you?’
‘If you have time… that would be lovely.’
‘Are you sure Hamish won’t mind?’
Sophie glanced up at Hamish who had been rather muted about Sophie’s ‘good news’. Now, he sat at the kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him, working his way through a bottle of wine.
‘I don’t think he’d mind.’
He glanced up at her, and mouthed, ‘What?’
‘If mum comes down after the implantation.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No,’ he said, looking back down at his laptop.
The day after the implantation process, Angela and Sophie were preparing supper together in the kitchen.
‘Sophie… what’s going on with you and Hamish?’ asked Angela, as she dropped peeled potatoes into a pan of water.
‘Nothing…’ Sophie said casually.
‘Come on…’ said her mother, ‘he comes home late and then when he is here he’s perfectly polite, but he’s just not engaged… Is he all right?’
‘Oh Mum, I don’t know. I can’t get to the bottom of it. I think the truth is, he’s just not that keen on the IVF. He seems to resent it. It’s as if he sees it as a competition between him and a possible child. As if I’ve chosen a child over him.’
‘That’s sad,’ her mother said, sympathetically. ‘You have to remember that most men have delicate egos. They want their wives to make a fuss of them; to put them first. And having a child inevitably means they fall down the pecking order. Even your father was not mad keen to have children. When I got pregnant with you, he took a bit of adjusting.’
‘Well at least you could do it naturally. I need medical intervention, and he has to help me.’
‘Well, none of us can do it alone,’ her mother said, laughing. ‘To tell the truth – I needed a bit of intervention too.’
Sophie looked quizzically at her mother.
‘I did – I put a hole in the condom.’
‘You didn’t! Mum, that’s awful.’ Sophie began to laugh. ‘I can’t believe you did that!’
‘I know…’ her mother giggled, ‘but he was never going to say, “OK, let’s have a baby.” So I took the decision away from him. I’m glad you’re not shocked.’
‘Well, it’s too late if I am. Does he know?’
‘No…! And don’t ever tell him… He’d be fine about it, probably, but it’s a secret I intend to take to my grave!’
‘How is Tom by the way?’ asked Sophie, as she fried chicken pieces on the range.
‘Oh… getting there. But it’s early days. He’s the strong and silent type – he doesn’t open up that much. I mentioned the idea of a holiday, though, and surprisingly, he sounded quite keen.’
‘Oh, that’s great. Well, if things go OK with the… implantation, maybe we can go out in a couple of months’ time. I should be able to travel then. Or will you be here looking after Vic and Simon’s baby?’
‘Darling,’ said Angela, ‘I will spend time with the new baby, of course I will, but Vic’s parents will be around too – and a girl always needs her mother more than her mother-in- law…’
‘If you’re sure. I hope it goes well for them. I spoke to her the other day and she sounded so excited. It was lovely.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Angela. ‘It’s due in a couple of weeks. But you need to forget that for now. Concentrate on your own babies and that trip – that will be quite enough excitement for you.’
After her mother left, Sophie tried to distract herself by researching their holiday. She made a reservation in a simple but charming hotel in a nature reserve on Sant’Antioco. She contacted the church authorities in Sardinia, explaining her professional interest in the Roman tombs beneath the basilica. But all the while, she was thinking about the eggs and whether they would survive. Experience had taught her to be cautious. Perhaps Hamish had been right all along; she needed to be prepared for the worst, and then, if the best happened, that was a bonus.
So on the day of her blood test, she drove herself to the clinic and waited calmly for the results. They were good; she was pregnant, but she kept her e
motions in check.
‘One day at a time,’ she said to herself as she drove home. She was looking forward to giving Hamish the news. She was sure that, once he knew she was pregnant, he would feel more positive.
In spite of her best efforts, as the time of his return from work grew closer, she struggled to keep her excitement in check. She put a casserole in the oven and set the table. But still there was no sign of him. He was normally home by six thirty, so at eight o’clock she rang his mobile. It went to voicemail. By half past eight she was getting quite anxious. He usually texted her if he was going to be late. She called one of his colleagues.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, John,’ she said. ‘I just wondered if Hamish was still at the hospital.’
‘No… he left early today – I thought he was meeting you…’
‘Oh!’ she said hurriedly, ‘we must have missed each other. It’s fine. Thanks…’
She sat at the kitchen table, the cat lying contentedly on her lap, musing on where her husband could be. She stepped outside into the garden. The sun was beginning to set over the valley; the wisteria draped across the front of the house was in full bloom and the scent as she walked down the drive was intoxicating. As she reached the lane, she considered turning right and walking up to the pub to check if he’d stopped there, on the way home, for a quick drink. But instead, she turned left, towards the church. The sun hung low in the sky, like a vast red orb.
As she walked passed the row of gold-stone cottages, bathed in rose-coloured light, she told herself, ‘He’ll be meeting someone – that’s all. I’ll just have a walk around the village, and when I get back, he’ll be home.’ The old vicarage was normally in darkness during the week, but she noticed an upstairs light was on. It was unusual, but perhaps Flora and Marcus had a housekeeper. To her surprise, she saw Hamish’s car parked at the side of the house; it was almost hidden by Flora’s white Range Rover. She stopped at the gate, confused. What was he doing there? She walked up the drive, her legs feeling heavy beneath her, her mind whirring with possible explanations. Perhaps he was giving Flora medical advice? Or possibly he was meeting Marcus…
She stopped at the front door and was about to ring the bell, when she noticed light spilling from the kitchen window. As she walked around the side of the house and peered into the large white marble space, she saw Hamish kissing Flora. He was fully dressed – he even had his jacket on – but she was wearing nothing but a little satin slip, revealing her small, neat breasts and flat, toned stomach. She had her arms around his neck and one of her long brown legs was draped around his hips. He was laughing and whispered something to her, before pulling away.
He walked towards the kitchen door, but she ran after him and flung her arms around his neck once again.
‘Don’t go, Hamish,’ she said, ‘come back to bed!’
Sophie leant against the wall of the house, her heart thumping. She felt sick. She was tempted to bang on the window or march up to the front door and ring the bell. To confront them. But when she thought of Flora and how she would sneer and laugh at poor, badly dressed Sophie, she couldn’t face it. The humiliation would be too terrible.
She heard someone crunching down the drive and ducked down behind a large bushy hydrangea. Hamish was getting into his car, his lights illuminating the side of the house. She prayed she wasn’t visible. He manoeuvred around the Range Rover, reversed out into the road and roared off towards their house.
Sophie staggered to her feet, scarcely able to comprehend what she had seen. When she arrived back at home, Hamish was in the hallway looking through the mail.
‘Hi there,’ he said, casually. ‘Good day?’
‘Yes…’ she said, automatically.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked.
‘Out,’ she said, while thinking to herself, where have I been? Where have you been?
‘You’re late…’ she said.
‘Yes… the list ran on rather – sorry. Is there anything for supper?’
She looked up at him, surprised by the ease with which he lied.
‘I had my test results today,’ she said, quietly.
‘Oh… good news?’
‘Do you care?’
‘Sophie… don’t start this again.’
‘What?’ Her tone was sullen. Cool. Icy.
He noticed.
‘Darling…’ he said, gently. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Well, the good news, Hamish, is that I’m pregnant. The bad news is that you appear to be in love with someone else. And no… there isn’t any bloody supper.’
Hamish blanched visibly. She could see his mind feverishly working out what she knew.
‘Don’t bother denying it,’ she said, before he could speak, ‘I just saw you together… “Don’t go, Hamish; come back to bed,”’ she said in a mock whine, imitating Flora. ‘You’re unbelievable. I hate you.’
She was dry-eyed, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She turned on her heel and walked upstairs; but in their bedroom she locked the door, lay down on the bed and wept.
Chapter Twenty-Five
New York
December 1960
Rachael and Chuck had lived in New York for nearly a year and while Rachael had grown to love the convenience and energy of the city, she was struck, daily, by its essential contradictions – it combined form with chaos.
‘Go down two blocks and turn left,’ people would say when giving instructions; or ‘across three blocks and turn right’. There was a pleasing logic to it. But within this strict framework, life teemed with excitement. Staccato bursts of jazz music sprang out of doorways. Noisy vendors sold their food from street corners. Bars and cafes and restaurants tempted you in as you walked by with the scent of freshly baked donuts, or bagels, or long bratwurst – a kind of German sausage – that reminded Rachael of Budapest. In fact, much of New York reminded her of Budapest. In particular, she enjoyed the jumble of different cultures jostling for position. It brought back memories of her parents’ salons in the ‘old days’; those events had always welcomed a wide variety of participants: elderly Jewish academics mixing with musicians from Eastern Europe and young hot-heated students like József.
Rachael’s building was a microcosm of this cultural diversity. A Polish musician lived on the floor above and practised his violin each morning at eleven. On the top floor was a university lecturer from Palermo who specialised in medieval art. But the grande dame of the building was, of course, Violet Dreyfuss. In her large elegant ground-floor apartment she held court, upholding English customs where at all possible, serving tea regularly at four o’clock. It was considered an honour to be invited to one of these afternoon soirees and Rachael had been delighted to receive an invitation a couple of weeks before Christmas. Chuck, who had decided to work from home that afternoon, urged her to go. ‘I’ll look after the children. You’ll enjoy it – you know you’re dying to see inside that apartment.’
Well into her eighties, and possessed of a rather overbearing manner, Violet was nevertheless widely considered to be a beauty. Her elegance and cut-glass accent had led those who met her to invent all manner of exotic backstories. Some claimed she was actually a runaway duchess, others that she was the ex-mistress of a royal prince. Whatever the truth of her background, Violet had the ability to draw people out and yet gave them the confidence that their secrets would go no further. It was not people’s past behaviour or dubious morals that interested Violet, but rather the circles in which they moved. It was her personal quest to find connections between her new acquaintances and old friends. That, at any rate, was what Rachael had been told about Violet by the other inhabitants of the house. Now, as she checked her appearance in the hall mirror, she feared Violet would find her a disappointment in that regard, for she knew no one of any interest.
‘Now,’ said Violet to Rachael, pouring lapsang souchong into hand-painted porcelain cups, ‘I want to know all about you and Charles.’ As she handed the tea cup
to Rachael, her fingers sparkled with diamond rings.
‘Oh, there’s nothing much to tell,’ Rachael replied, sidestepping the question.
Sipping her tea, she admired Violet’s apartment; it was filled with exquisite baroque furniture – gilded chairs with needlepoint covers and little sofas draped in silk. Every surface was covered with objects – Fabergé eggs, pieces of Dresden china and bronze figurines. Rachael was sure that she recognised one or two Rodins in amongst Violet’s collection. The turquoise silk-covered walls were lined with paintings – Dutch ‘still lives’ jostled for position with Italian religious works. There were even Impressionist pieces and pencil sketches that bore familiar signatures. Rachael was dying to know how this lady had acquired so much art, but as usual Violet was asking the questions.
‘Oh, I think there’s lots to tell,’ Violet knowingly. ‘For example, you were brought up in Budapest… how on earth did you meet a young American banker…?’
Since arriving in America, Rachael had become adept at presenting a particular version of the truth that avoided any mention of Sardinia, or her love affair with Tommaso. Large swathes of her ‘story’ were left out of the conversation. The true paternity of her son depended on the inviolable nature of her secret.
‘Chuck and I met in Austria,’ she would say when colleagues of her husband’s enquired about her background. ‘Then we married and came here.’ It was a well-rehearsed line – and true in its way – except that it edited out a year or more of her life. But for some reason, as she sat in Violet’s beautiful apartment, surrounded by all that famous artwork, and gazed into those remarkable violet eyes, she felt the urge to confide in her interrogator.
‘We met originally in a refugee camp – near Vienna. My father and I had fled from Budapest. My first husband, József, had been killed and we had to leave in quite a hurry.’