Indeed, the fact that her particular problem had now been unceremoniously shared with her parents did not halve it, quarter it, or make it better in any way. On the contrary, it augmented her shame and revitalised her guilt, which spread through her until it almost began to suffocate her. The delusion that she might magically make this work was now gone. Admittedly, her parents still didn’t know the full story. They hadn’t a clue who the real father was.
Sometimes she tried to look at her dad, just to catch his eye and see if she could create a moment of connection. But it quickly became apparent that he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. She’d thought at first that things were better with Mum, that the air around her was less oppressive. But one day after her mother had gone into the kitchen to put the tea on, she spotted her leather-bound edition of the King James Bible on the arm of the settee, the frayed edges of a bookmark poking out of the top. She idly picked up the book and ran her fingers along the embossed lines of the ‘B’, the dimples of red and gold ink. When she carefully opened the saved page, there at the bottom was a passage neatly underlined in pencil. Hebrews 13:4. ‘Let the marriage bed be undefiled, for God will judge the sexually immoral and adulterous.’
*
She managed to conceal her shape until fairly late into the pregnancy. Before she reached seven months, anyone could have looked at her and simply concluded she’d been too fond of the biscuit tin. But eventually, she handed in her notice at work, telling everyone vaguely, laughably, that she had another opportunity she couldn’t turn down. She withdrew from friends and found refuge in her bedroom, hidden from the world but unable to escape the thoughts that boomed in her head.
Then the day came that she went with her mother on the train, to a place not far from Liverpool, but far enough. Her dad didn’t join them, a small mercy for which she was immensely grateful. She hoped her mum was exaggerating when she’d said the stress would’ve killed him. So, she gazed out of the window at a blur of blond fields and warmed herself with a thought that she could never say out loud. That, despite the impossibility of it all, she loved the child growing inside her, more than she loved herself.
Nightingale House was a Victorian mansion, with white gables around the windows and a large garden at the front filled with sycamore trees. Despite the pretty name and nice grounds, it didn’t feel like a welcoming place, although nowhere really did anymore. At least the woman who opened the door had smiled at her. She felt as though nobody had smiled at her lately.
Her time there passed faster than she’d anticipated and she kept busy, like everyone else there, with daily church services, reading and chores. Everything felt easier when she didn’t stop to think for too long and, who knew, maybe scrubbing the staircase did have some miraculous capacity to recover her moral standards. She’d have polished the bannister till she could see her face if she’d thought it would work.
Mum came to visit every few days. Sometimes she’d bring egg sandwiches and a home-made gooseberry tart, which had always been her favourite. She liked to think that this meant a small part of her mother had forgiven her. But her favourite thing about those weeks was making the baby box. She wanted to fill it with more than the standard twelve nappies and handful of matinee jackets, although she wasn’t a natural when it came to knitting. She’d always considered it old-fashioned and she hadn’t the patience. Yet, there was something about crafting those little booties and hats in those final weeks of her pregnancy that soothed her soul.
When one of the other girls gave her a pattern for a pram blanket, she’d known it was trickier than anything she’d attempted before, with scalloped edges and a ring of stars in the centre. She came to be slightly obsessed with it, as if her fitness as a mother was innately connected to the successful completion of this delicate item. The stars were the hardest part; her first few tries resulted in a tangle of knots and she repeatedly ended up unravelling the wool and starting again. But she was determined to finish it, even if it made her fingers bleed.
*
Her waters broke on an unseasonably cool evening in June, when the sky was thick with clouds and drizzle. She’d been doing the laundry at the time and carried on until the taxi arrived to take her to hospital. She travelled alone. There weren’t enough staff on that night to send anyone with her.
The first nurse she encountered there was pretty and young, with a pinched nose and frosty demeanour. ‘Let’s show you to a bed, shall we . . . miss,’ she said, in a manner that made her immediately hope she wasn’t going to be stuck with her for the whole thing. She needn’t have worried. The next few hours were spent entirely by herself, while her body ripped in two. She felt certain she was dying. She had to be. Nothing normal could have felt like this.
But after all the pain and fear, when her baby finally came into the world, bloodied and coated in grease, there was just the two of them. He was absolutely perfect, with a mop of soft, dark hair – the darkest she’d ever seen – and cheeks like velvet when she brushed her fingertips over them. His toes were somehow already miniature versions of hers, but that was the only resemblance she could identify.
She did not place him down in the crib next to her all night. Even when she went to the toilet she took him with her. If she was going to move, he was going too. But most of the time she just stayed in bed, stroking his soft limbs and kissing his new skin. It was heaven.
She called him Christopher. As the other mothers around her were visited by family and friends arriving with presents and flowers, nobody congratulated her. She told herself she didn’t care.
His face was so beautiful her insides melted when he clasped his tiny fingers around her hand and suddenly the world made sense for the very first time. And she knew one thing. If this boy was the result of her weakness and her immorality, then she’d have done the same again a hundred times over.
On the day when they were due to leave, she wrapped him in the soft white wool of his blanket of stars and took a fortifying breath. That day, she didn’t think about the past, or the future. All she could think about was finally walking out of the ward with the most beautiful baby in the world nestled in her arms. All she had to do first was sign her name on the discharge form and write the date next to it: Peggy Smith. June 29th 1963.
Chapter 33
Allie
The following morning, as the sun burns in a sky mossed with white clouds, my mind drifts to Grandma Peggy. I dread to think what she’d say if she had any idea I was here, on a hunt for the answers to a mystery she steadfastly refuses to shed any light on. I hate lying to her. I hate lying to anybody. But what am I to do given that she’s determined to keep these bewildering secrets about the past hidden in her drawer?
‘I phoned La Cavalletta vineyard this morning,’ Ed says, taking a sip of his hot, fragrant coffee. ‘Their wine tours are running at this time of year, but they’re fully booked today. They’ve got two spaces tomorrow afternoon though.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
‘I assumed you’d want to go?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, though the truth remains that my feelings about every step of the search for Stefano are conflicted. ‘Let’s hope our reception there is a little friendlier than our last experience.’
Later that morning, we head down the steps that cut into the cliffside and find a couple of loungers on a jetty a little walk along from the hotel. A high sun slants through the branches of the trees, the rocks smooth and blond in the brilliant light. It’s so peaceful that the silence hums as a soft breeze drifts in from the water.
While to me it feels like the perfect way to relax after such a busy day yesterday, Ed can’t get comfortable. When he’s in the shade, he shifts into the sun. When he’s in the sun, he’s hot and sticky and irritated by the heat. He opens his novel, but quickly abandons it.
‘Is the book no good?’ I ask.
‘I can’t really get into it.’
I take out some sun cream and hand it to him. ‘Want some? You don’t want to add
skin cancer to your problems.’
He takes it from me and starts applying the cream like only men do: as if he’s de-greasing a pan with a Brillo pad, rubbing it first on his cheeks and then across his forehead, over the long, thin scar above his right eye. He got it when he fell during a half-marathon a few months after his wedding.
‘Your running injury has almost completely faded now,’ I tell him.
‘Yeah. Almost.’
‘You’re lucky given the mess it was. How many stitches did you need?’
‘Ten or so. It wasn’t a big deal. It certainly didn’t put me off going for a run.’
‘Hey, that’s an idea,’ I say. ‘Why don’t we get up early and go for one tomorrow?’ I’ve never experienced anything comparable to what Ed is going through, but I do know whenever I’ve had a bad day, it helps to get the blood pumping round my body. ‘What do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘Going for a run in the morning.’
‘Yes, okay. Possibly.’
‘Have you got your running shoes with you?’ He doesn’t answer at first. It’s almost as if the thoughts converging in his head are so distracting that there isn’t room for anything else.
‘I’m not sure, Allie.’
I shuffle further down the lounger and decide to just keep my mouth shut for a while. Then I realise he’s looking at me.
‘I’ll have a swim though,’ he says, out of nowhere.
‘Oh. Okay good.’
‘Why don’t you come in with me?’
I let out a spurt of nervous laughter. ‘Swimming is not my forte, as you well know.’
‘You can swim though.’
‘I can paddle.’
This is a slight exaggeration. It’s not that I can’t swim at all. Dad repeatedly tried to teach me and we were forced to learn at school, in a pool shallow enough to put your feet down when the teacher wasn’t looking. Consequently, the most I ever passed was my ten-metre badge, which I achieved while holding my breath the whole way across. As a result of all this, I have successfully avoided all invitations to pool parties or skinny-dipping sessions, not that there have been many of those.
‘Allie, everyone should learn to swim.’ I don’t think for a moment that the preachy tone is serious but his expression is deliberately opaque.
‘I’d only need to swim if I went near any water, which I’m not going to.’
He laughs. ‘What if you fell off the side of a ship?’
‘I will be very careful not to.’
‘Well, how about we don’t take that chance.’ At that, he stands up, peels off his T-shirt and offers me his hand.
Ed’s hard, muscular physique has softened a little in the couple of days since we got here. It suits him, as does the colour of his skin which, even below his neckline, somehow doesn’t look as pale as previously. I follow him along the jetty as a dewdrop of sweat makes its way slowly down my temple. I lower myself onto the edge and dip my toes in the cool water with a shiver. When I glance up at him, my eyes land on the hair on his stomach, at the point where it feathers beneath the waistband of his shorts.
‘I’m only going to spectate.’
‘You said. Sure you can’t be tempted?’
‘Quite sure.’
I shade my eyes from the glare of the sun and crane my neck to see him smiling at me. Then he turns and dives in, generating a rush of white surf and bubbles. I wait for him to reappear, watching as the ripples flatten to a soft undulation. I lean forward to try and see below the water. ‘Ed?’
He emerges from the surface with his elbows aloft, pushing hair out of his face as the burnish of his shoulders glistens in the sunlight.
‘What is it?’
‘Just wondered what kept you.’
He dives away, as arcs of light soar across the sky. I close my eyes briefly, feeling the heat against my lids. But when I become aware of him swimming towards me I flutter them open to find his tanned forearms on the edge of the jetty, his chin resting on top.
‘I’d look after you,’ he says.
A soft thudding inside my chest feels like the wings of a hummingbird. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, if you were to come in the water I’d look after you.’
‘Oh. No, I don’t think so.’
‘Allie, do you really want to go your whole life without feeling what it’s like to swim in a beautiful Italian lake, with the sun beating down on your back?’
‘I do if it means staying alive.’
‘I’ll make sure you stay alive.’ Ed’s expression has been taut and troubled since we got here, but now a smile spreads across his face like a sunrise.
‘Just for a minute, all right? In fact, twenty seconds.’
‘Twenty seconds it is.’
I slip off my sandals and slide my T-shirt over my head, breathing in to flatten the exposed flesh below the blue and white stripes of my bikini top. I shuffle to the edge, gazing anxiously at the water. He holds out his hands.
I’d love to say I glide elegantly into the water, but that would be some way from reality. Instead, I crash on top of him, arms flailing, and, when I feel myself slipping, end up using the top of his head to try and keep myself afloat. I am aware that I am drowning – possibly murdering – my best friend, but that knowledge does nothing to persuade me to deviate from this strategy and I continue thrashing as if beating off a school of piranhas.
‘Allie, I’ve got you.’ I can feel his breath against my ear, as he holds my waist with one hand and pulls us into the wooden post with the other. ‘I’ve got you.’
He waits until my grip around his neck loosens, before taking my hand in his and gently guiding me away from the jetty. He slides an arm beneath the bones of my hips, until I can feel the stretch of soft skin under his forearm against my belly. My legs begin to kick instinctively.
‘There, that’s okay isn’t it?’ he whispers, almost sleepily. But through my shallow breaths an answer fails to form on my lips. Because this, this whole thing, is so much more and so much less than okay.
It’s not simply the absolute knowledge that I am safe, in a situation in which I’d ordinarily feel vulnerable and exposed. Or indeed a feeling that he’s the only person ever capable of making me feel like that. It’s something else, a series of exquisite observations that pulse into my head like the clicks of a slideshow. Sunburnt lips. Glistening skin. Damp eyelashes. And the colour of the water reflected in his eyes, as if the sole purpose of this entire lake’s existence was to converge with them and create the most vivid blue on earth.
We stay in the water for far more than twenty seconds. While I no longer worry about imminent death, there isn’t a single moment when I’m at ease. I try to convince myself that I stay for so long merely to appreciate what Ed highlighted: the beautiful Italian lake, the sun on my back.
I want that to be true. But it isn’t, not even slightly.
Chapter 34
Ed
There are times when Ed is laughing with Allie and he forgets everything except the immediate feeling of release, the lightness in his limbs as he watches her. But when he goes back to the room, he lies alone in the darkness and it all rushes back.
Sometimes ‘it’ amounts to no more than a gritty unease, like grains of sand under his skin. Still, there has been an imperceptible change since he got to Italy, as subtle and sheer as gossamer. The ache in his bones isn’t there every morning when he wakes up. He no longer hates the feel of his own body, the way his joints grind when he moves. His stomach does not burn with acid and there have been nights – not all, but some – when he has slept for more than three hours, and woken feeling rested.
The question of why he is now thinking like this is a difficult one to answer. Why does he now have a sliver of the impossible – optimism – running through his veins? He could put the answer down to nostalgia, but that word is hopelessly inadequate to describe the layers of how he feels when he’s around Allie.
His mind drifts to Julia.
To her exquisite face and clear voice, her intelligence and poise. When did he become immune to those things? The answer is, he hasn’t. He still recognises them all and that, whatever has happened, his feelings for her have not switched off like a light.
But it’s complicated. Both their relationship and Julia herself. He used to find her mysterious and undiscoverable; when they met he relished the idea of glimpsing the real her. He’d assumed he’d like what he found.
*
It is impossible to pinpoint a day when things went wrong. When he started to find Julia’s wit cruel, not funny. Her moods unpredictable, not enigmatic. Her strength of character merely aggressive and unpleasant. She says she never changed and it’s possible that she’s right. Maybe it’s only him.
Yet, he’d never considered himself the sensitive kind. He used to let the little things slide and not allow anything to get on top of him. He is an optimist. A pragmatist. He is a man with backbone. At least, he used to be. He doesn’t know who he is anymore.
So why should it have bothered him when, at her friend’s dinner party, his wife clutched his hand under the table and whispered: ‘Don’t eat so fast. It’s embarrassing.’ It was hardly a big thing, yet he was silently mortified at the idea of giving her cause to be ashamed of him. Why should it have prickled under his skin when, on her mother’s birthday, she sighed at the expensive handbag he’d bought as a present, and asked: ‘I hope you kept the receipt?’ Or at the wedding when a fellow guest asked about his business and she leant over and laughed, ‘You’re boring everyone rigid, sweetheart.’
The trouble was, the insignificant moments that had begun as a handful, soon multiplied to dozens and eventually happened so frequently that he might as well have laid down on his back and attempted to count the stars.
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