by Debbie Rix
Her parents and uncle had spent a few days getting to know the island. They met with Sophie each evening over dinner and were pleased to see her thriving and so interested in her work.
‘You seem so much more settled, darling,’ her mother said one evening after dinner.
‘Yes… well I love my work. It’s important to me. And I’d forgotten how enjoyable it is being in the field. So much of what I do happens in the lecture theatre, or the library – and that’s all interesting too, but nothing beats lying on your stomach on a dusty floor trying to piece some evidence together.’ She grinned.
‘Your great-grandfather used to say that,’ said her mother. ‘And what about Hamish – have you heard from him today?’
‘Oh yes… he rang this morning. He’s OK. Eating rubbish food and getting the cat into bad habits.’ Sophie laughed.
‘Have you been able to…’ Angela paused, looking for the right words, ‘move on?’
‘From the Flora episode, do you mean?’
‘Yes…’
‘Well, surprisingly… I have. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. But I can forgive it – perhaps I forgive too easily, but I don’t think it’s worth destroying everything we’ve built together. And he is so very sorry, so contrite. I think our marriage is worth another try, don’t you?’
‘Only you can really answer that, darling… but for what it’s worth – I think it is. I’ve always thought you were good together.’
‘Yes… we are.’
‘And what about the other thing…’
‘Babies, you mean?’
‘Yes… if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘No… not at all. He’s keen to try again – the IVF.’
‘Really? I thought the IVF was the problem.’
‘It was… But he realises now just how important it is for me to have a child. He’s prepared to have another go. He wanted to start before I came away, but that wouldn’t have worked – there are too many hospital appointments involved, and so on. So we’ll start in a few weeks’ time – once I’m back and have written up my notes. I need to progress the work a bit before we have another go. IVF is so all-consuming – it’s really all you can think about. And my supervisor’s been so patient, but there’s a limit to how long I can take to finish my PhD.’
With just two days left of their holiday, the family was determined to spend some time exploring the island.
‘I’d like to see if anyone is still making byssus,’ Sophie said over breakfast. ‘George was interested in it, and I found something in Grandma’s things… when we tidied her desk.’
‘The photograph you mean?’ said Angela.
‘Not just that… there was a little byssus bracelet – quite intricately made that was in the same envelope. I’ve got it here. Look…’
She removed the bracelet and showed it to her mother.
‘Are you sure that was with Mother’s things?’ asked Angela. ‘I’ve never seen it before.
‘Yes… it was in the envelope in her desk.’
‘How odd,’ said Angela.
‘Well – I’m just keen to find out a little more… how it’s made and so on. I noticed there’s a byssus museum near the church – maybe we could pop in there this morning?’
The small museum was filled with all manner of examples of byssus. A giant clam shell stood in the window, next to an arrangement of fake ‘undersea’ flora. A loom, made of long parallel canes, dominated one side of the space. The walls were covered with examples of embroidery all done with byssus thread. Many featured the Madonna, some a lion – clearly an important symbol – others were of the seven-branched menorah. At one end of the room sat a dark-haired lady, who introduced herself, in a strong Sardinian accent, as the curator of the museum and last ‘Master’ of byssus. Seated in front of her and listening intently, were a young couple and their little boy. They watched, captivated, as the lady carded a clump of byssus, twisting it into a fine thread. Sophie found it hard to follow her Italian, but she watched and observed, fascinated, nevertheless.
As the woman spoke, her fingers were constantly moving – twisting, winding the thread, holding it up in the light so it glistened – just like the bracelet Sophie had in her handbag. Satisfied at last with her work, the woman tied a length of thread around the child’s wrist.
‘Per lei… for you; it is good luck,’ she said.
The little boy leapt up in delight, running round the museum, holding his arm up in the sunlight. The lady began to explain how the thread was produced. She picked up handfuls of rough unprocessed byssus soaking in bowls filled with liquid. Sophie couldn’t follow everything she said but she got the impression the bowls contained lemon juice and other herbs that added colour.
The curator held up a jar of byssus soaking in purple water and displayed it proudly to her audience.
‘Uve,’ she said, holding up a bunch of purple grapes.
The woman leapt up, animated now, and moved swiftly around the museum pointing at various embroideries she had made over the years – a golden lion, the menorah, the Holy Family.
On the far side of the museum was a tall chest of drawers. She opened the top drawer and removed a pair of gloves made of byssus, and a tie.
Catching Sophie’s eye, the curator smiled, pulling a piece of twisted byssus silk thread from her pocket. Cupping Sophie’s chin in her hand, affectionately, she tied it around Sophie’s wrist.
‘For luck,’ she said in English.
Emboldened, Sophie removed the byssus bracelet from her handbag and held it up to the woman. ‘This belonged to my grandmother,’ she said.
The woman studied it, examined the six rows of twisted thread joined together to form a whole. It was as if she recognised it.
She looked intently at Sophie.
‘Tua Nonna? Come si chiama?’
‘Si chiamava Rachael,’ replied Sophie.
‘Era fatto qui…’ she said, ‘In Sant’Antioco…’
‘Made here?’ Sophie replied.
The woman nodded.
The little boy who had been given the byssus bracelet, rushed back to his parents chattering excitedly and grabbled the jar of byssus soaking in purple water. As he did so, he knocked a second bowl filled with liquid onto the floor. The curator anxiously bustled back to her station to prevent any further damage.
On their way back to the car, Sophie wandered into a little bookshop a few shops down from the museum, where she bought a book about the history of byssus. Over lunch at the hotel, she flicked through its pages.
‘It says here that the skill of spinning byssus was brought to the island by Berenice and her ladies… They acquired the skills in the lands of the Middle East… I had no idea. How extraordinary. And that lady – who was running the museum – is possibly the last person with the skills to make byssus. She is the Last Master. I suppose that’s how she knew the bracelet was made here. But if George bought it in 1959, it couldn’t have been made by her – she would only have been a baby then. Perhaps it was made by her mother, or grandmother?’
As she studied the pictures of byssus embroidery, she found an almost exact copy of her own bracelet.
‘Look, Mum – this looks like the one we’ve got. It says here that sea silk can never be bought or sold, only received as a gift. Someone must have given it to George…’
‘I suppose you must be right…’ said Angela.
‘So,’ said Alex, ‘are we going to the beach this afternoon or do you want to stay here and flop round the pool?’
‘I don’t mind…’ said Sophie, putting the book away. ‘You all came with me this morning, so it’s your choice. Tom… what do you fancy doing?’
‘Never been one for swimming pools, really,’ Tom said. ‘I’d rather be near the sea, if I’m honest’
‘Well, let’s go to the coast, then,’ suggested Sophie. ‘We passed several signs to various beaches when we first arrived. Let’s go back along the coast road, and just take pot luck. We should take som
e towels and perhaps we can hire an umbrella from reception.’
Alex and Tom packed up the car with two hired umbrellas, numerous towels, a bag of books, and the party set off.
The first beach they came to charged five euros for one hour’s parking.
‘Five euros!’ Alex muttered, darkly, to Tom. ‘It’s a bloody rip-off.’
The family wandered down to the beach but discovered it was a sub-let to a nearby hotel, which provided sunbeds and a cafe for a fee.
‘Twenty-five euros for a sunbed!’ Alex complained to his wife, ‘and we can’t use our own umbrellas – they insist we hire one of theirs for ten euros! I’m not paying that’.
‘But it looks nice here,’ bleated Angela.
‘No way,’ her husband insisted. ‘Come on, back in the car – we’ll find somewhere else.’
The next beach along was free, but rocky. There was hardly anywhere to put their towels. Once again, they climbed back in the car.
As they drove towards the town, Angela suddenly said: ‘Turn left here…’
‘But there’s no sign to a beach,’ argued Alex.
‘I know…’ said Angela, ‘but I’m sure there’s a beach down there. It makes sense – the whole coastline is beach after all.’
Alex turned the car onto the single track and they drove down the bumpy unmade road for five minutes before coming to a stop outside a small dilapidated-looking cottage.
‘Oh, this is no good,’ said Alex, trying to turn the car around. ‘It’s a private drive, for goodness sake.’
‘No… I’m sure it’s OK,’ said Angela, firmly, from the back seat. ‘Look, they’ve got a fence round their garden. That’s their land. The sea must be over there, behind that wood – surely it’s open to the public. No one owns the beaches, do they?’
‘That guy up the road did – cheeky bugger. Thirty-five euros for a sunbed and an umbrella.’ He looked knowingly at Tom, who chuckled in agreement.
‘Oh Alex, stop moaning,’ said Angela impatiently. ‘Come on, Sophie – bring your towel, darling…’
Mother and daughter walked past the cottage. The pale green shutters were drawn. The garden overgrown. There was a little veranda overlooking a terrace on which stood a table and chairs.
‘What’s that?’ asked Sophie, pointing to a large concrete structure.
‘It’s some sort of oven, isn’t it?’ said Angela. ‘Maybe it’s someone’s holiday home. It all looks deserted anyway.’
They wound their way through the scrubby woodland before coming out onto a private cove.
‘Oh!’ said Angela. ‘How delightful. There’s no one here… it’s just fabulous. Run back and tell your father and Tom to bring the umbrellas and the picnic. This will be perfect.’
The family set up camp on the beach. They erected umbrellas to keep the afternoon sun at bay. Sophie wandered up and down the cove collecting shells and picking up interesting stones. She strolled back towards the wood. It felt magical somehow, completely untainted by humanity. She caught glimpses of the cottage through the trees, but, frustratingly, the shutters remained stubbornly closed. The owners must surely be away.
At five o’clock, Alex declared it was time to get back to the hotel.
‘Oh must we go?’ said Sophie. ‘It’s so beautiful here.’
‘Well I’m going to start packing the car – you coming, Tom?’
The two men walked back to the car with the umbrellas.
‘I’m just going for one more swim,’ said Angela, wading into the water.
‘Be careful, Mum… I noticed there’s a sort of shelf a little out to sea and then a big drop. Don’t get out of your depth.’
‘I won’t… you know I’m bit of a nervous swimmer.’
Sophie sat on the beach watching the sun going down over the horizon. Her mother swam back and forth across the bay – breaststroke, backstroke – until suddenly she disappeared from view. Sophie scanned the horizon. She saw no sign of her, until an arm flew up in the water, and then another, and then a strangled cry from her mother.
Sophie screamed: ‘Dad, Dad… come quick… it’s Mum.’
She ran towards the water and threw herself in. But there was a strong undertow and as she swam towards her mother she made little headway. She was aware of a man’s voice shouting behind her, but she hadn’t the strength to turn around.
A young man, dark-haired, swam swiftly past her with a strong front crawl. He grabbed her mother, holding her expertly beneath the chin and swam back towards the shore. He carried her up onto the beach and laid her down carefully on the sand.
Angela lay, quite still and pale. Alex and Tom, who’d heard Sophie’s shrieks and had rushed back from the car, stood helplessly looking on.
‘Oh God, Oh God… Mum,’ said Sophie.
The stranger leant over and patted Angela’s cheek. She didn’t respond. He pressed his mouth over hers, giving her the kiss of life. He pounded her chest, before breathing into her mouth once again.
Within moments, Angela rolled over and spewed water from her mouth, gasping for air.
‘Oh Angela, darling,’ said Alex, dropping to his knees and holding his wife to his chest. ‘Are you all right? You gave me such a fright.’
‘I’m fine,’ Angela panted, spluttering, ‘no harm done.’
The young man looked up at Sophie and smiled. ‘She’s OK… You should bring her inside…’
‘Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. That’s a good idea…’
He helped Angela to her feet and, supported by Alex, she was led towards the cottage.
The young man opened the little gate to the garden and invited Angela to sit down at the table on the terrace.
Alex wrapped a large towel around his wife and sat down next to her.
‘You live here?’ Sophie asked the young man.
‘My grandfather… it’s his house.’
‘Oh… I’m sorry,’ apologised Sophie, ‘we shouldn’t have been here at all. We didn’t realise the beach was private. Forgive us?’
‘It’s no problem. I will get my grandfather…’ he said.
‘Oh, is he here?’ said Sophie, embarrassed. ‘We thought the house was closed up. Don’t disturb him. I’m sure my mother will be fine a moment. Perhaps if she could have just a glass of water?’
‘It’s no trouble. My grandfather would want to help. And yes… of course, some water.’ He went into the house, calling out, ‘Nonno, Nonno, vieni qui… subito.’
He opened the ground-floor shutters, allowing evening light to flood the rooms inside, before returning with a jug of water and some glasses.
‘Please… help yourself. My grandfather is coming. Now, mi dispiace… forgive me… I should go inside and change.’ He gestured to his wet jeans and t-shirt.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s a miracle you were there at the right time.’
‘I had just come back from work… I heard you shouting. Ah… my grandfather is coming.’
A tall man emerged from the house. He looked very like his grandson, but with a shock of white hair. He stooped, leaning heavily on his stick.
‘Buona sera,’ he said to the group. ‘My grandson – Tommaso – he tell me… mi dispiace… my English, not good.’
‘Tommaso?’ said Sophie. ‘That’s the name of your grandson?’
‘Si…’ said the old man.
She thought of the inscription on the back of the photograph:
‘Tommaso, my love…’
How could there be any connection, she mused.
‘I was saying,’ Sophie continued, ‘that we’re sorry we were using your beach.’
‘Non fa niente. Non e privato… It’s not private,’ said the old man.
‘Thank you, you’re very kind. Your wonderful grandson rescued my mother – she’s not a strong swimmer. She nearly drowned as a little girl and has been nervous ever since.’
The old man smiled and looked towards the cove wistfully, then back at Angela.
‘Yes, than
k you,’ said Angela, pulling the towel around her. ‘I’m so grateful. I don’t quite understand what happened, I just lost my footing and the current is very strong out there. We should introduce ourselves – my name is Angela by the way, and this is my husband Alex, my brother Tom and my daughter – Sophie.’
The old man studied her face.
‘You come to Sardinia before?’ he asked her.
‘Me…?’ said Angela, sipping her water and drying her hair on the towel. ‘No… never.’
‘I think… maybe yes. You come here… as child?’
‘No,’ said Angela firmly.
‘Although her grandfather was here,’ offered Sophie. ‘Back in the fifties – Professor Laszlo, George Laszlo.
The old man nodded, thoughtfully, and smiled. He looked from Angela to Alex and then Sophie and lastly to Uncle Tom, who stood awkwardly behind his sister, his hand resting protectively on her shoulder. He gazed quizzically at Uncle Tom.
‘Stay, please. We will have a glass of wine,’ he said hospitably.
‘Well – thanks very much,’ said Alex.
‘Oh… we shouldn’t intrude anymore,’ said Angela, politely, ‘we’ve been enough of a nuisance.’
‘No,’ said the old man. ‘You stay – please.’
‘Perhaps I can help you,’ said Sophie, intrigued to see inside this little ramshackle cottage. She followed him inside, where his grandson, now dressed in dry shorts and a t-shirt, was at the kitchen sink, peeling onions.
‘Tommaso,’ said the old man to his grandson, ‘vai a prendere un po’ di vino per
i nostri ospiti.’
‘Va bene, Nonno,’ said the young man.
‘May I use your bathroom?’ asked Sophie.
The young man pointed towards the stairs.
She walked through the little sitting room, past the elderly sofa and two armchairs facing an incongruously large modern television. As she climbed the stairs, she passed a bedroom. A delicate lace bedspread covered the small double bed; it appeared to be the only feminine influence in the house. Perhaps this handsome old man was a widower, she thought. A dressing table stood at the end of the bed. Tucked into the corner of the mirror was a black and white photograph. Intrigued, Sophie crept across the room and took a look. She gasped when she realised who it was. The image was quite unmistakable… It was her grandmother Rachael, holding a little girl with golden hair.