by Debbie Rix
She heard the shuffling of feet on the landing outside and turned around to find the old man standing in the doorway.
‘I’m so sorry… I shouldn’t have come in… It was very rude. But this photograph… here… I recognised it… it’s my grandmother Rachael with my mother as a little girl…’
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Rachael yes. I knew she would come back… one day.’
‘So you knew Rachael?’ Sophie asked.
‘I knew when I saw you… you are… very like her. And your mother, when she told her name – I realise who you are.’
He sat down, heavily on the edge of the bed. Sophie sat beside him, holding the photograph.
‘I have something to show you,’ she said.
Sophie fumbled in the side pocket of her shoulder bag and removed the envelope she had taken from her grandmother’s desk.
‘This… is you, isn’t it? My grandmother kept it always…’
The old man took the photo in his hands and his eyes spilled over with tears that ran down his lined brown cheeks.
‘Si – it’s me….’
He turned the photograph over and traced the words Rachael had written sixty years before.
‘Tommaso, my love,’ he said out loud.
‘It was taken at the same time – as this one?’ Sophie asked, holding out the other photograph.
He took it from her and held them up together.
‘Si – before she left.’
Questions poured in Sophie’s mind. She hardly knew where to start. Her mother had insisted that neither she nor her grandmother had ever been to Sardinia. Why had there been this secrecy?
‘My mother… says she has never lived here, never visited before…’
‘Rachael came here… with her father. They lived here in this house… not with me… they rent – understand?’
‘Yes… I understand – they rented it from you.’
‘From my mother… I was young man – twenty years only. Your grandmother – we…’
‘You fell in love?’ suggested Sophie.
‘Si… I loved her.’ He gazed wistfully at the pair of photographs, his finger tracing the outline of Rachael and Angela. ‘Your mother was… a little girl. She nearly drown – in the cove. Dangerous water here…’
‘So this was where the accident happened,’ said Sophie. ‘Rachael often told us about it, but we thought it was somewhere else – in England perhaps. My grandmother never mentioned Sardinia or Sant’Antioco… Why was that? Why did she keep it a secret?’
The old man’s eyes filled with tears. Sophie put her arm around his broad shoulders.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you…’
She heard her mother’s footsteps on the stairs.
‘Sophie, love… we really ought to be going… come on now – these good people have been kind enough.’
‘Coming…’ shouted Sophie. ‘May I come back tomorrow?’ she asked Tommaso, eagerly. ‘There’s so much I need to understand…’
‘Si… tomorrow, si.’
Sophie leant over and kissed the old man’s cheek. It was soft and damp.
He put his large hands on either side of her face. ‘So like Rachael. So beautiful. Until tomorrow.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Sant’Antioco
July 2017
The following morning, Sophie got up early, and as she ate a solitary breakfast in the almost deserted dining room, texted her mother.
Just popping out – something I forgot to do. Won’t be long – back before lunchtime. Hope you don’t mind but I borrowed the car. Sophie.
She drove fast along the coast road, desperate to get back to the cottage; she needed to understand what had happened between her grandmother and Tommaso. If she had been alone the previous day, she would happily have stayed all night talking to him, but she was concerned that her mother might be distressed or upset in some way by his revelations. It was important to understand the implications of what had happened all those years ago, to find out why Rachael had never told them that she had lived on Sant’Antioco. Only when she understood that, would Sophie be in a position to discuss it with her mother and uncle.
She was filled with anticipation, as she drove down the long bumpy road towards the cottage. She parked the car and was relieved to find old Tommaso sitting on the veranda.
‘Come… come in,’ he said, opening the garden gate. ‘I was waiting for you.’
‘Is your grandson here?’ Sophie asked.
‘No… at work. He… fisherman.’
He pulled out a chair at the table, inviting her to sit down, and poured her a cup of dark viscous coffee from a rusted steel coffee pot.
‘Thank you,’ she said, sipping the coffee. ‘So… your grandson – he is a fisherman?’
The old man nodded. ‘I too… was fisherman.’
Sophie studied his face. The height of his forehead, the squareness of the jaw, the set of the eyes, the long elegant Roman nose. They were so familiar, she now realised.
‘My uncle – Uncle Tom – who was here yesterday – he’s a fisherman and boat builder…’
Tommaso nodded and tears came into his eyes.
‘I didn’t know,’ he said. ‘That she was…’ He stopped, searching for the right word.
Suddenly the pieces of the jigsaw slotted into place.
‘Of course,’ Sophie said, ‘how could I be so stupid? Tom is your son…’
‘Si, si. I didn’t know. She leave… improvvisamente.
‘Suddenly… quickly,’ suggested Sophie.
‘Si, si. Quickly. I was fidanzato… understand?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘No, sorry… fidanzato…?’
‘To my wife…’
‘Oh… engaged…?’
‘Si, to another… a woman in the village; my cousin – Elena. All my life – yes…ho fatto una promessa.’
‘You made a promise?’ suggested Sophie, trying to understand.
‘Si – promise. But I didn’t love her. I love Rachael – always. But my mother… she refuse. Not possible, she say… And Rachael – she go away. I didn’t know… about the baby. When I see your mother and her brother I know… he my son.’
The old man wiped tears from his cheeks with his large, calloused hands. Hands she now realised were identical to those of her uncle.
‘Tom, your son, my uncle – he was born in 1960,’ said Sophie. ‘We always thought – the family – that he was the son of an American called Charles. My grandmother, Rachael, met him in 1957 in a refugee camp in Hungary – do you understand?’
The old man nodded.
‘Charles came to London to find her and they married and they moved to New York in 1960. Tom was born in America. But Charles was killed… in an aeroplane accident. Capito?’
The old man nodded gravely.
‘It was terrible for Rachael. She was alone in New York with two very small children. She came back to England… back to Hampstead, where she lived for the rest of her life.’
Tommaso sat fingering his small coffee cup.
‘I so sorry her husband died. I loved her… always. I should have left here… married her… Is she with you – now, here?’
Sophie looked into his dark eyes, full of hope. He was alive and he hoped Rachael was too – of course he did.
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she said, holding his hand, ‘she died two years ago.’
He wept then – great sobs of pain that made his shoulders heave. She stroked his back, and let him cry. Finally he stopped, all tears spent, and wiped his face roughly with an old handkerchief.
‘I have something,’ Sophie said, ‘that she kept always with her – it was obviously important to her.’ She felt in the pocket of her handbag and brought out the little byssus bracelet.
‘Ah…’ he said, taking it in his large hands. ‘I give to her, for luck. Maybe not so good – for her.’
‘No – you mustn’t think that. She did have luck. She was happy, Tommaso – you mus
t believe that. She had a hard start in life, but she was happy. We all lived together in a lovely house in Hampstead – in Willow Road. It looks over a beautiful wood – like this one. She had a lovely life, in the end. Your bracelet – it did bring her luck… honestly.’
‘And you?’ he said. ‘You keep it now – yes? My mother…’ he patted his chest, ‘she made the bracelet.’
‘Your mother? Was she a byssus weaver?’
‘Si… my mother… she was master. Here… on Sant’Antioco. Come… I show you something.’
He led her upstairs to his bedroom. He opened a drawer in the dressing table. There, wrapped in tissue paper, was a man’s tie made entirely of byssus thread.
‘Oh,’ said Sophie, ‘that’s amazing. I saw one like it in the museum…’
‘For my wedding… I wore,’ he said. ‘But here, look…’
He removed another tissue parcel from the bottom of the drawer and laid it on the bed. He undid the pink ribbon and there, nestling on the paper, was a christening gown; white cotton, edged in lace, embroidered on the yoke with fine golden byssus thread.
‘For baby – yes? For my daughter, and for my Tommaso… Good luck. Yes?’
‘Yes… I see – the family christening gown. It’s beautiful. Your wife, Elena… is she still alive?’
‘No… she died… many years ago. And my daughter, Giulia also – last year.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sophie, squeezing his hand.
He smiled at her.
‘But I have my little Tommaso – he is good boy. Here… give me your arm?’
Sophie held her arm out and he tied the bracelet onto it.
‘You have something you wish for, I think… maybe this will help.’
Back downstairs, on the veranda, Tommaso made a fresh pot of coffee as Sophie wandered around the little garden.
‘Shall I tell my mother – about you and Rachael?’ she asked him, as he poured her another cup. ‘And my uncle too… should I bring him here to meet you again?’
The old man nodded.
‘Your grandson, Tommaso – will he be upset?’
‘No… he will be OK. I will tell… He is young, happy. You bring my son to me… I would like very much.’
Sophie drove back to the hotel in a thoughtful mood. It was a huge responsibility – and yet, she felt certain that it was vital she told her uncle about the existence of his real father. He was so alone now, in need of support. Surely it would be better to know that he had a father on this island; a father who, like him, was an expert fisherman – a man of the sea.
The family were seated around the swimming pool when she arrived.
‘Hello darling,’ said her mother. ‘Work finished? We’ve only one afternoon left – back home tomorrow.’
‘Yes… works all done. Mum… Uncle Tom – I’ve got something important to tell you…’
Angela had initially refused to countenance Tommaso’s significance in Rachael’s life.
‘My mother wouldn’t have lied about such an important thing. She never mentioned meeting anyone. Never even mentioned coming here.’
‘But, Mum… I’ve seen the photographs. He has a photo of her and you taken on their last day together. It matches the photo I found in her desk.’
‘But how could he be Tom’s father!’ Angela exploded. ‘Tom’s father was an American called Charles Bailey. Charles left money in trust for Tom. That’s how she bought him the boatyard. Charles was Tom’s father.’
‘Angie love,’ interposed Tom. ‘Let the girl speak… I want to hear what she has to say.’
‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Sophie softly, ‘think about it, Mum – the timings don’t really work. She was here in 1959, we know that now – that’s the date on the photograph. It was obviously summertime. Tom was born in May 1960. When did she and Chuck marry?’
‘I don’t know!’ said Angela defensively, ‘I don’t have their wedding certificate. She never mentioned it…’
‘Aren’t there photographs of the wedding?’
‘No… it was all a bit rushed. I don’t know. Things were so different in those days.’
‘Tom,’ said Sophie turning to her uncle. ‘I’m sorry if this is a terrible shock for you. I don’t want to make your life more complicated, especially after all you’ve been through recently.’
‘No…’ he said calmly, ‘in an odd way, it makes sense. I always felt a bit different, if you understand me. Your mother, my darling sister,’ he said, putting his arm around Angela’s shoulders, ‘was so brilliant, so academic, and I was a bit useless at school and all of that.’ He kissed the top of Angela’s head. ‘My big sister here, she got all the brains.’
‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Tom,’ protested Angela, pulling away slightly, ‘you run that wonderful boatyard – that takes lots of intelligence.’
‘Yes, I know… but I’m happiest out on the water, fishing. Chuck was a New York banker, wasn’t he? I guess I was only a baby when he died… But I don’t seem to have any of his skills. I’m hopeless at maths. And, to be honest, I don’t look anything like him – do I? I just thought I looked more like Mum, with her dark hair and so on. But if this man is my father – it all begins to make sense, doesn’t it?’
‘But why would she lie… for all those years?’ said Angela, through tears. ‘Mother never lied. Not to me.’
‘Well,’ said Alex, gently, ‘different times, Angie love. Think about it. Girl falls in love, gets pregnant, not married – in those days it would have been a disgrace. Perhaps she didn’t even know she was pregnant for a while. She came back to England when Tommaso’s mother dug her heels in about him marrying his old cousin and then found she was up the duff.’
‘Oh Alex! Don’t use such language,’ said Angela.
‘Seems to me,’ Alex continued, ‘it was all a bit of a tragedy, and old Chuck was something of a hero, marrying her like that.’
They sat silently for a while absorbing what they had discovered.
‘So,’ Sophie to Tom, ‘will you come back and talk to him?’
Tom nodded.
‘And you, Mum – I know he’s desperate to see both of you.’
‘Is that where you went this morning?’ said Angela.
‘Yes… I needed to find out as much as I could. I didn’t want to raise any false hopes. They really loved each other, Mum. And he remembers you very well as a little girl. He was the one who rescued you from the sea. This is where you nearly drowned. Grandma covered up where it was, pretending it was somewhere in England. But it was here… in his cove – where you nearly drowned yesterday.’
Angela blew her nose and wiped her eyes. ‘I still can’t understand why she never told me…’
‘Perhaps she was ashamed,’ suggested Sophie. ‘As Dad says – the 1950s were so different. Abortion wasn’t legal, there was no pill. It would have been so difficult. And once you start a lie, when do you end it? She created a version of the truth that worked for her and for both of you. But from what I’ve heard, she and Tommaso loved each other so much. And he feels so guilty now – he had no idea she was pregnant. His wife, Elena, died years ago and his daughter Giulia died last year too. He’s all alone, apart from his grandson. What do you say? Shall we go and meet him?’
‘I say,’ said Tom firmly, standing up, ‘that I’d like to go and meet my father.’
Old Tommaso was watching a football match on the television as Sophie pushed open the door from the veranda.
‘Tommaso… we’re here,’ she called out.
He stood up, stumbling slightly, feeling for his stick. She rushed over to help him, and as she took his arm, felt him shaking beneath her fingers. She took his hand and squeezed it, reassuring him. He leant down and turned off the television and then, holding Sophie’s arm, he walked towards his new family, beaming broadly.
Uncle Tom stood in the doorway framed by sunlight; his dark hair backlit with a halo of golden light. The old man walked towards him and held the younger man’s face in his hand
s. There were only twenty years between them, but they could have been brothers, Sophie thought – so alike were they. Both men sobbed, as Uncle Tom put his arms around his father and hugged him. And Angela cried too, watching her little brother, holding his father.
Tommaso had laid the table on the veranda with a bottle of wine and some glasses. Little pieces of cheese had been cut up and placed on an old plate.
‘Please…’ he said. ‘Drink, eat.’
He sat down heavily in his chair at the end of the table and gazed, enraptured, at his son.
Alex poured the wine and handed round the plate of cheese.
‘You are fisherman?’ Tommaso said to Tom.
‘Yes… Yes I am. I love it. Always have. I grew up in London and used to fish on the pond… um… not sure of the word for that … in Italian.’ He looked around helplessly at his family. Sophie shrugged her shoulders. ‘I caught little tiddlers – small fish, you know? Always loved the sea. My mother, Rachael, she gave me some money when I was twenty-one to buy a little boatyard. Built it up over the years – mending boats. Been there ever since.’
Tommaso nodded, proudly. ‘Si… good… boats good.’
‘Wooden boats,’ offered Alex. ‘Beautiful wooden boats.’
He took his mobile phone out of his pocket and logged onto Uncle Tom’s website. There were photographs of all the boats he had mended over the years – ketches, schooners, yachts and dinghies in various states of repair.
‘See?’ Alex said, handing the phone to the old man. ‘Lovely boats.’ He slapped his brother-in-law on the back. ‘Very talented guy, my brother-in-law.’
Tom blushed and grinned.
Tommaso looked up at his son and smiled. ‘Beautiful boats. Good boy.’
They talked until the sun began to drift down towards the sea, turning the light from golden to scarlet. Until the shadows of the trees in the copse lengthened across the garden.