by Debbie Rix
The sound of a motorbike engine spluttering down the lane, interrupted the silence.
‘He’s home,’ Angela said.
‘Who is Mum?’ asked Sophie.
‘Tommaso. I remember it now… that sound, well the sound of a scooter, anyway.’ Her eyes widened. It was as if a key had been turned unlocking a part of her memory. ‘Mum used to light up when she heard it. I’d forgotten all about it – until now.’
Old Tommaso looked across Angela and smiled. ‘Si… I had a motorbike many years ago.’
He struggled to his feet and walked unsteadily out of the garden and around the side of the house to greet his grandson.
‘Do you think he’s gone to explain who we are?’ suggested Sophie.
‘I should imagine so,’ said Alex. ‘Or maybe he already has. Seems a sensible sort of chap. He probably told him this morning. Otherwise we’re going to be a bit of a shock for the poor boy.’
‘That was odd, Mum,’ said Sophie to Angela, ‘… were you really remembering something when we heard the motorbike?’
‘Yes… I was. Definitely. I remember that sound so well. Mum would rush to the door. “He’s home,” she’d say. Sitting here, I keep getting little flashes of memory – odd things. That gate leading to the beach; it makes me… scared for some reason. This table is familiar. So is that old oven over there. I think we used to cook in it perhaps.’
‘We’ll ask Tommaso,’ said Sophie kindly, ‘he’ll remember.’
Much later, as they were preparing to leave, Tommaso brought down a parcel wrapped in tissue paper.
‘For you…’ he said, handing it to Sophie.
Opening it, she found the christening gown.
‘No… no, I can’t take this,’ she protested, ‘it’s for your grandson – for young Tommaso and his children.’
‘You send it back, if we need… You need it first. For family,’ said the old man.
Sophie began to cry.
He cupped her face in his hands and wiped her tears away with his thumbs. ‘You need it… soon I think.’ He kissed her on both cheeks.
As they drove back towards the hotel, all lost in their individual thoughts, Angela asked her daughter: ‘What’s in the tissue paper. What did he give you?’
Sophie unwrapped it and showed it to her mother.
‘I tried to tell him… that I didn’t want it… that I didn’t need it. But how could I explain? He was so insistent.’
Angela held her daughter’s hand. ‘Well, darling – who knows…? Maybe you will… one day.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Gloucestershire
September 2017
The early morning light glinted through a gap in the curtains, waking Sophie from a deep sleep. As she lay in bed, cursing the daylight, she felt nauseous, a fine layer of perspiration spreading across her forehead. She’d had terrible heartburn the night before and had only managed to get to sleep sometime after two o’clock. She was due to start IVF in two weeks time, and was worried that any illness might delay her treatment. Reluctantly, she hauled herself out of bed.
Hamish stirred sleepily and turned over.
Pulling on an old cardigan, she padded through to the bathroom, and as she looked at herself in the mirror, realised she was going to be sick and wretched violently into the basin. When she stood back up, Hamish was behind her, holding her hair away from her face.
‘Darling…’ he said, ‘you poor thing. Have you eaten something dodgy?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, rinsing her mouth.
‘When did this start?’
‘Just now… I had heartburn last night. And now this.’
‘Well, come back to bed and I’ll get you a cup of something.’
‘Not tea. I can’t face that.’
‘A little hot water and lemon, maybe,’ he suggested.
He returned ten minutes later carrying a tray with two cups, the cat at his heels. The cat jumped onto the bed and purred loudly, wrapping himself around Sophie’s head, pawing the pillow, nuzzling her ear.
‘Oh Cat,’ she said, stroking his lopsided head. ‘Good boy – go and sleep down there.’
Hamish picked him up and put him firmly on the rug at the bottom of the bed. But the cat had other ideas, and snaked his way up the duvet, towards the object of his devotion.
Sophie sipped her water and lay back against the pillows.
‘I’ve got to get up soon… I’m due to visit Oxford today.’
‘You’re not going anywhere…’ said Hamish.
‘I’ll be fine. My appointment isn’t until this afternoon. I’ll have a little sleep now and leave just before lunch.’ She closed her eyes.
‘Who are you meeting?’ asked Hamish.
‘One of my great-grandfather’s research students,’ she said sleepily. ‘He’s a Professor Emeritus now… at Magdalen College. I wrote to him ages ago and he’s only just responded. He was away for most of the summer, I think.’
‘What’s his name?
‘Professor Moncrieff… Giles Moncrieff.’
Sophie arrived in Oxford just after one o’clock. Feeling tired, she had ignored the car park signs on the outskirts of the city and instead drove straight to Magdalen College. She was delighted to find a space right outside and, as she was early for her appointment, decided to explore the college gardens before her meeting.
The Michaelmas term had not yet begun and the college was relatively deserted. She strolled around the quad, enjoying the peace, comparing it to the hustle and bustle of her own university in London. She crossed an immaculate lawn edged by colourful late summer borders. A small bridge led her across the River Cherwell, from where she admired the ancient deer park and spectacular college buildings.
At five minutes to two she headed back towards the quad. As she began to ascend the curving staircase leading to Professor Moncrieff’s rooms, a pair of young students rushed past her,
‘Sorry!’ they called out cheerfully, as she flattened herself against the wall, allowing them to pass.
‘Come!’ the Professor called out when she knocked.
It was large room – comfortably furnished with a sofa and two armchairs arranged companionably around a fireplace. The professor was seated at his desk facing the door. He stood as she entered.
‘Ah… you must be Sophie Mitchell – yes?’ he said, referring to his diary.
‘Yes, Professor. Thank you so much for agreeing to see me.’
‘I’m just sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I’ve been away for a couple of months over the summer… Sit, please.’
He directed her to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace.
‘Now,’ he said, when she was settled. ‘You said in your letter you were interested in the work I did as a student – with a… Professor Laszlo.’
‘Yes… I should explain, George Laszlo was my great-grandfather.’
‘Oh… I see.’ He sat down in the armchair opposite and studied her intently.
‘I’m an anthropologist,’ she continued, ‘and I’m studying for my PhD – the burial practices of the first and second centuries AD, with a particular reference to Roman practices.’
‘Ah! I begin to understand.’
‘Yes… you contributed to a paper George Laszlo wrote sixty years ago – about the Roman tombs on Sant’Antioco. George died many years ago now – before I was even born – and I was interested to know what you thought you’d discovered back then. I’ve just come back from Sant’Antioco recently, but there are still many unanswered questions about the tomb – in particular, who was buried there.’
‘Sant’Antioco… yes indeed,’ he said, gazing wistfully out of the window. ‘All a long time ago now. I’m sorry, I’m being very rude – may I offer you something – tea or coffee?’
‘No… I’m fine – thank you.’
‘So, your great-grandfather was George Laszlo, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you – by any chance – also the daughter, o
r granddaughter, I suppose, of Rachael?’
‘Yes, I’m her granddaughter.’
‘Ah… I thought I saw a likeness.’
‘You knew her?’
‘Oh yes… yes. She lived on the island you know, with… your mother I presume? What was her name… the child?’
‘Angela.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course, Angela. Sweet little thing. What became of her?’
‘She’s a doctor now. Working in Hampstead – a GP.’
‘Ah… Good. I’m not surprised. She was very bright, even as a tiny child. I remember that. Very strong-willed…’
Sophie smiled. ‘So you remember them… on the island?’
‘Yes. I do, yes. All a long time ago now, though.’
‘Can I ask…? I’m sorry – this was not why I came – we should discuss the dig, but do you remember a young man, an Italian named Tommaso?’
Professor Moncrieff flinched; his face fell, momentarily, before he regained his composure.
‘Yes. I do remember him.’
‘Can you tell me anything about him and… my grandmother, Rachael.’
‘None of my business,’ he replied curtly.
‘You disapproved?’ she asked.
‘Look – I thought you wanted to discuss the tomb?’
‘I do… sorry. Let’s do that now.’
The professor told her what he could remember of their discoveries. Of the pair of tombs, and of George’s assertion that the first tomb probably contained the remains of the Jewish queen Berenice – but that it had been impossible to verify it.
‘And the other tomb?’
‘Oh… he had a number of theories. I think it’s certainly possible that it was her husband. Or at least someone she thought of as a husband.’
‘That’s what I thought… the arrangement all suggests a married couple. A planned burial – a deliberate attempt to arrange their affairs, to end their lives lying side by side.’
‘Yes… I would have to agree.’
‘So could it be Titus, perhaps – the lost emperor?’ Sophie suggested, tentatively.
‘That’s a huge leap of faith,’ said the Professor. ‘It’s a romantic idea, certainly, and one which George posited. But we have no way of knowing. What was the inscription again – I can’t quite recall.’
‘There were two above the second grave,’ said Sophie. ‘Virus in pace Bonus’ and ‘Bonus in pace Bonus’… It’s odd. Bonus obviously means “good”. At a pinch, “Virus” could mean “man”. But I’ve been wondering… was “Bonus” in fact a name? Not “good man”, but a nickname. Could Bonus have been another way of saying “Titus”?’
‘Well, if you know your Roman history,’ said Professor Moncrieff, ‘you will know that Titus was referred to as “the darling of the human race”, by the historian Seutonius. Titus was a good-looking man, affable, cultivated, an excellent rider and swordsman, a wise man. And for the brief period he was emperor, he was considered a fine and kind leader of men. He was most affected by the tragedy of Pompeii and Herculaneum after the eruption and took great trouble to help the people. He was called “the Delight of Mankind” and it’s said that if he got to the end of any day without doing a good service for someone, he would cry out “I have lost a day”.’
‘How remarkable,’ said Sophie.
‘So – he was, without doubt, in the eyes of many of his contemporaries, a “good man”. I agree that it is tempting to assume he might have travelled to visit the woman he loved, against the advice of all his senators. If he died on the journey, or after he arrived, it would be logical to assume he had been buried on the island, and it would have been prudent to leave his grave unmarked. How could they do anything else? It would have been unthinkable for a Roman Emperor to lie for eternity next to a Jewish Queen. So if it is him lying there, it was done without any formal sanction. The combination of Latin and Hebrew inscriptions alone indicates that. The Romans would never have allowed it.’
‘So you think, Bonus… could be a secret code for Titus?’
‘That’s not what I said. It’s possible, of course. But we are not interested in possibilities – are we, my dear? We are concerned, only, with evidence. And unless you have discovered something else that we missed, I fear we are still lacking that crucial piece of evidence.’
As Sophie was leaving the professor’s rooms that afternoon, she turned at the doorway.
‘I hope I didn’t upset you earlier, by talking about my grandmother?’
Moncrieff looked at her with his pale, watery grey eyes. ‘I will tell you something, my dear. I loved her… I was only a young man myself, a mere year or two older than she. She was a bewitching girl – your grandmother; a great beauty. I can see her now, in her red dress, laughing as I drove her around the island. We knew one another for six months or so; I cared for her very much. But she never loved me, sadly. She loved another – the young Italian who stole her from me.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sophie.
‘So am I,’ said the professor, shaking her hand.
As she drove home that evening, Sophie thought about her grandmother. The old lady she had known growing up in Hampstead, with her dark hair greying. Her simple, unfashionable clothes. She never wore make-up or dressed in a glamorous fashion. She had seemed so content, and Sophie had thought of her, merely, as the source of comfort and happiness – a steadying influence on the family; always in the kitchen, baking, or cooking, always ready with a funny story, or a piece of advice. But somehow they had all missed something – something desperately important. That her grandmother had the ability to make men fall in her path. Bewitching, Moncrieff had called her…
Like Berenice, perhaps… a queen amongst women. A woman who had the power to entice an Emperor to cross the seas from his power base in Rome and lie next to her for eternity.
Chapter Thirty-Three
London
June 2018
The christening took place in London. The party afterwards was held in the garden of the house at Willow Road. The baby, named Rachael Giulia, wore the christening gown from Sant’Antioco. Uncle Tom stood as godfather, cradling the child proudly in his arms. Next to him, stood his own father – Tommaso. Sophie had booked his flight, arranging for a car to drive him from Sant’Antioco to Cagliari, where he would catch the plane to London. It was the first aeroplane he had ever been on and Sophie and Hamish had gone to the airport to meet him. He looked so out of place standing near the barrier at Heathrow – looking about him, mystified, terrified almost, of the crowds and the noise and the bustle.
But now, here in the garden, as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his son, he gazed down at the baby, and his eyes filled with tears.
As the guests arrived from the church, they filled the garden with their chatter, serving themselves with champagne from Alex’s outdoor bar.
‘So he was right…’ said Sophie, as she sat surveying the scene with her mother. ‘Old Tommaso… I did need that gown after all.’
She fingered the byssus bracelet around her wrist.
‘I wonder how he knew?’ asked Angela.
‘I don’t know… but he seemed quite certain.’
‘Do you know when you got pregnant – I’ve never liked to ask…’
‘Well, I think it must have been when Hamish and I got back to together…’
‘You don’t need to tell me anymore…’
‘It just seems so odd… all that effort, all that agonising about IVF and then it just happened – quite naturally.’
‘It’s not as unusual as you might think…’ said her mother, taking her hand. ‘And you and Hamish – you’re all right?’
‘Yes… we’re good. Just loving the baby. Look at him, showing her off to everyone.’
‘He’s completely happy isn’t he,’ said Angela, watching her son-in-law mingling with the guests, his baby daughter in his arms.
‘He’s besotted – he won’t let me take her out of our room yet. He says he worries she’ll be
lonely. But the nursery’s all ready.’
‘Yellow?’ asked her mother.
‘Yes… all yellow and white. It’s very pretty.’
‘And is all well in the village,’ asked Angela.
‘You mean… have I seen Flora?’
‘Well, I did wonder.’
‘There’s news about her, as it happens.’
‘Oh really – what?’
‘They’re moving… It seems she’d been… dallying with one or two village gentlemen. Marcus, her husband, is divorcing her. The house is on the market and she’s already gone back to London. I saw the removal vans leaving the village a few weeks back.’
‘Gosh – that’s rather sudden.’
‘Yes… but I’m glad she’s gone. I just hope she learns to be a bit nicer to those children of hers.’
‘How does Hamish feel about it?’
‘Relieved I think. It was a bit awkward her living so close by. He dreaded bumping into her.’
‘So the end of one chapter then?’ said her mother.
‘Yes… and the start of a new one.’
Sophie looked around the garden filled with people she loved. Hamish, proudly displaying his beloved daughter. Tommaso and Tom standing companionably together in the corner of the garden.
‘It’s good to see old Tommaso,’ said Angela, following her gaze. ‘Tom is thrilled that he’s coming to stay with him. He’s been looking up Italian boat terms so they can communicate properly!’
‘That’s lovely. They look right together – don’t they?’
‘They do, darling. They do…’
The following day, as the family said its goodbyes, Sophie kissed her Uncle Tom.
‘Goodbye Tom – thank you for being godfather.’
‘I’m honoured,’ he said.
‘I hope you have a wonderful time with Tommaso. Will you be all right, do you think?’