The Photograph: A gripping love story with a heartbreaking twist

by Debbie Rix

  The pair gingerly opened the door to the drawing room and were met with braying laughter. It was the sound made by rich people delighted by their own superiority, Sophie thought, clutching Hamish’s arm for reassurance. The women were immaculately dressed, as if for a smart drinks party in London. Sophie looked around the room in dismay, noting the designer ‘wrap’ dresses and skintight black cigarette pants paired with elegant silk shirts. She looked down at her own ‘best’ jeans and red T-shirt. She was definitely wearing the wrong clothes.

  Flora fought her way across the room and air-kissed them both on the cheek.

  ‘You’re here… so glad you could come. Sophie, looking so casual, I love it! Come over here and meet Jimmy. He’s so naughty, but you are going to love him. I’ll be back for you in a moment,’ she said knowingly to Hamish.

  She guided Sophie towards a middle-aged man in trendy black spectacles, standing next to the fireplace. He wore a dark blue silk shirt and black trousers.

  ‘Jimmy, this is Sophie. She’s a neighbour and you must be nice to her or I’ll be back and make your life hell.’ She grabbed a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter and handed it to Sophie. ‘Enjoy!’ she commanded.

  As Jimmy proceeded to tell Sophie about his job as a government advisor, his role at a merchant bank and his ‘far too large’ house in Chelsea, Sophie glanced periodically around the room, looking anxiously for Hamish. He had been pinned into a corner of the drawing room by Flora, who wore a slinky silk dress emphasising her lean curves. Her long legs, encased in sheer black stockings, looked toned and slender. It seemed to Sophie that Flora once in a while brushed her breast against Hamish’s arm quite deliberately, throwing her head back coquettishly, tossing her long blonde hair.

  Sophie was not the only one to notice. She was relieved when their host – Marcus – strode purposefully across the drawing room, dragging a short red-haired woman behind him, whom he interposed between his wife and Hamish. He whispered something into Flora’s ear, and she retreated, sulkily, and began to offer round plates of canapés to her guests.

  As they walked home later that evening along the silent lane, their way lit only by the moon, Sophie slipped her arm through Hamish’s.

  ‘Well… that was… interesting.’

  ‘Yes… it was fun.’

  ‘Was it? I didn’t think so. I got stuck with some bore who was determined to convince me that he was the most fascinating man in the world. He failed.’

  ‘Oh darling – you need to lighten up,’ said Hamish cheerfully. ‘I thought they were all very jolly. Flora’s a bit of a surprise. She’s rather a laugh, it turns out.’

  ‘Yes. She liked you…’

  ‘Did she?’ said Hamish, blushing. ‘I didn’t notice.’

  Chapter Eight

  Hampstead

  November 1958

  One evening in early November, as a full moon rose majestically behind the heath, casting long dramatic shadows of skeleton trees across Willow Road, Rachael put Angela to bed a little earlier than usual. They’d been for a long walk that afternoon, and although it was only half past six in the evening, Angela was tired and fractious.

  ‘I not tired,’ Angela insisted, as Rachael tucked her up.

  ‘I know…’ Rachael soothed, ‘but we’ve had a busy day. Let’s read this story together.’ She selected a favourite of her daughter’s – Pookie Puts the World Right – a story about a magic rabbit with wings, but Angela fell asleep before Rachael had finished reading the second page.

  Afterwards, as Rachael tidied up her attic room, she glanced out of the window and spotted George hurrying up Willow Road. Although it was dark, she could tell that he was slightly agitated, moving faster than his usual even-paced walk. She heard the front door slam shut and the muffled sound of voices from the hall. She went out onto the attic landing to wait for her father. She could hear Mrs Roper chatting to him. Always polite, George normally stopped and gave his landlady plenty of time; he knew how much she loved these brief conversations. But tonight, he sounded hurried, almost irritated.

  ‘Good evening, Professor Laszlo.’

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Roper. Is my daughter at home, do you know?’

  ‘Yes… she’s upstairs, putting Angela to bed. They were out playing on the heath all afternoon. She’s such a dear little girl – but quite a handful, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes… yes she is. Most delightful. Well, I must get on – if you’ll excuse me.’

  Her father ran up the two flights of stairs to the attic. Arriving breathless on the landing, he almost fell into Rachael’s arms.

  ‘Ah Rachael – you are here… good.’

  He kissed his daughter and ushered her back into the attic.

  ‘Papa! What’s going on…?’ Rachael sat down expectantly.

  Her father stood, his back to the window, flexing his hands. ‘I am… excited. I have something to tell you, to ask you…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have been offered the chance to go to Italy – to oversee the exploration of a possible archaeological site… in Sardinia. Well, not quite Sardinia, but a tiny island just off the coast, called Sant’Antioco.’

  He grinned at his daughter like an impish child, rocking up and down on his heels. His excitement was tangible.

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ she said, nervously. ‘How long will you be away?’

  The prospect of being alone, with Angela, without the support and friendship of her father, filled her with understandable anxiety.

  ‘Well… that is the best part. It could be over a year.’

  Rachael’s stoicism collapsed. Her face fell, and tears began to well up, cascading down her cheeks. ‘A whole year… without you.’

  ‘No, darling, no… you don’t understand.’ He knelt beside her and cradled her face in his hands. ‘I could not go without you. I have asked if I may take you and Angela with me. The university has agreed. We are leaving just after Christmas. They will find us a house in a local village and we can live there while I work…’

  She gazed into his sparkling eyes. ‘Live… In Sardinia…?’ Rachael struggled to take it all in. ‘Is it nice there…?’ It was such a trivial question, and yet it was the only one she could articulate.

  ‘Yes! Of course! The sea is turquoise and the sky is blue. It will be warm. Angela can learn to swim. I will be happy in my work and you will have new and vivid experiences – something to remember for the rest of your life.’

  ‘But we are… happy here. We are safe here.’

  Rachael had become used to her life in the little attic, with Mrs Roper always on hand, ready with advice and support. And she liked living in Hampstead. Her English was now fluent, and she had made friends with one or two other mothers with whom she met occasionally in the cafe on the heath. They drank tea and watched their children play together. She enjoyed living in a country where the government seemed benign; where the streets were not policed by men with guns. The thought of leaving this safe, cosy environment terrified her, but she couldn’t tell her father that. All she could say was: ‘And besides, I don’t speak Italian.’

  ‘I will teach you…’ said her father pragmatically, ‘I speak it quite well. You’ll pick it up. And I am taking several students from London with me – they will be company for you. They won’t all stay for the whole time – they will come and go, but it will be exciting, Rachael – believe me. It is a great honour for me, to be given this dig to oversee. It’s a testament to the faith the department have in me. Sardinia is filled with Roman remains; I’ve always wanted to go there.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Rachael, weakly. ‘The Romans are your passion, I know…’

  ‘My darling Rachael, my only passion is for you and Angela.’

  As if on cue, the child woke up and began to cry lustily.

  ‘I will get her,’ George said enthusiastically, ‘she likes her grandpa…’

  He returned with Angela on his hip, rubbing her eyes, sleepily. He sat in the armchair with his
granddaughter on his lap and jiggled her up and down, singing a little nursery rhyme. At the last line, he pretended to drop the child between his legs, catching her just before she hit the floor. She laughed uproariously – clearly delighted by this familiar game.

  ‘Now… where was I? Oh yes… you’re right, of course,’ he continued, ‘that my professional passion is for Rome and its buildings. I have studied them for over forty-five years. And to find a site that has been hidden away for so long is every classical archaeologist’s dream.’

  ‘Give me the baby, Papa; she had her supper an hour or so ago, and all that jiggling won’t do her any good at all,’ said Rachael, moving the baby onto her own lap. The child snuggled into her mother’s chest, her thumb placed firmly in her mouth. ‘Now, tell me about the work,’ Rachael said.

  Her father began to pace the room eagerly.

  ‘It’s very exciting… Someone was doing some work on the church in Sant’Antioco – in the crypt – repairs to the drains, or something – and they uncovered what might be a Roman burial chamber. But it needs expert care now. The university has been asked to collaborate with the Italians and I have been given the opportunity to supervise the excavation. This is my chance, Rachael.’ He turned to his daughter, his eyes glittering with excitement. ‘I enjoy teaching in the classroom. I love to inspire my students with pictures and explanations in textbooks. But nothing… nothing compares with the excitement of lying in the dirt, with a small trowel in your hand, uncovering something that has been hidden from view for two thousand years, or more. Nothing.’

  He sat down heavily in the armchair by the window. He suddenly looked tired, Rachael thought, as if the excitement of telling her his news had exhausted him, and the adrenalin had finally dissipated.

  ‘Have I ever told you of my first discovery?’ he went on, speaking more softly.

  ‘No, Papa.’ It was an indulgent white lie, for she was sure she must have heard the story before.

  ‘I was just eighteen; a student at the university in Budapest. I had enrolled in archaeology and had been invited by my professor – a splendid man for whom I had the utmost respect – to attend a dig he was running near a place called Aquincum. Now, this was a sizeable Roman city, you know; maybe fifty thousand people lived there at one time. Nowadays, it is quite famous, but back then – before the First World War – we were making history. I worked there every day through the summer holidays, learning to scrape away the earth, carefully brushing soil from the surface of a fragment of pottery, or metal. It gave me a window into a past world that, until then, I had only understood from reading Roman historians. They left us graphic accounts of the great events of the Roman Empire of course, but to find a little jug, or metal bowl… to see the normal domestic items that people used – to see the workmanship, to understand the level of skill that these people had… well it was so exciting.

  ‘In August we began work on a grave. There were two, in fact, but one had already been destroyed – looted over the years – such a tragedy.’ He shook his head sorrowfully, still affected by the memory of this wanton vandalism. ‘But the other was untouched. As we removed the limestone cover, we found a carefully preserved corpse wrapped in maybe eight or ten layers of cloth – linen soaked in resin. We carefully unwound the fabric, and there… was the body of a woman.’

  Rachael shifted the baby, who, now thoroughly awake, wriggled to be released from her mother’s lap. At eighteen months old Angela had developed quite a determined personality. Rachael put her onto the floor, where she sat cross-legged, listening intently to her grandfather as if he were telling her a bedtime story.

  ‘One day – I remember it was baking hot – I found something; a little fragment of brown cloth between the legs of this woman. It looked like nothing, but this little piece of fabric had been there for over a thousand years. My professor took the tiny fragment and examined it very carefully. In the end he declared that it was made of byssus – he was delighted. Have you heard of it?’

  Rachael shook her head.

  ‘Byssus. There is much debate about what byssus truly is. There are many references to it in literature and in the Bible. Some scholars say byssus is just another word for linen or cotton cloth. But, the word “byssus” is also used for a fabric made from the thin filaments that attach a giant mollusc to the seabed. These filaments are cut, spun into thread and, over time, people have learnt to weave them, to create clothing, religious artefacts and so on. It is thought that the cloth of gold mentioned in the Bible story was made of byssus. Well, that little fragment that I discovered when I was just a boy, turned out to be the oldest piece of byssus ever found. Can you imagine? It dated from the fourth century AD. And I found it…! And now, I have a chance to go and make fresh discoveries, on a site in Sardinia. I am sixty-four, Rachael; this might be the last chance I ever have.’

  He gazed intently at his daughter.

  She went over and knelt down beside him and held him in her arms. She inhaled the scent of his skin, the smell of tobacco that permeated his old tweed jacket.

  ‘Then we must go Papa. Of course we will go.’

  To say that Rachael was happy about their move would be wrong. She was filled with anxiety at the prospect of leaving everything that had become so dear and familiar to her. But she saw how delighted her father was at the idea of taking charge of another dig – particularly at the end of his illustrious career. He had done so much for her… she felt this was the least she could do for him. Over the following weeks, as she began to imagine life on a Mediterranean island, her apprehension turned to excitement. Her experience of life had been so limited up until then, and the thought of living surrounded by blue sea and sandy beaches… her days filled with sunshine, was, she had to admit, an increasingly appealing prospect, particularly in the middle of a drab, grey British winter.

  The family’s last Christmas in Hampstead was an understandable mix of anticipation and sadness. The previous year, Angela had been too young to appreciate anything except playing with empty boxes and tissue paper. But this year, Rachael was determined her daughter should experience a Hungarian Christmas, which began, traditionally, with the feast St Nicholas. On this day parents would place a pair of shoes on the windowsill for St Nicholas to fill with presents for their children. Rachael well remembered her own childish excitement as she peered into a pair of dark red velvet evening slippers of her mother’s, and found a tiny handmade doll, and perhaps a little szaloncukor – a chocolate fondant sweet, wrapped in brightly coloured paper. Sadly, the velvet shoes had been left behind in Budapest, along with so many other mementoes of her mother. Rachael now owned just a single pair of shoes – a pair of brown brogues that she had polished specially for the occasion. As she carried Angela around the room that morning in her stockinged feet, she encouraged her daughter to peer inside the shoes on the windowsill.

  ‘Look, Angela… look inside Mummy’s shoe… what can you see?’

  Her daughter looked inside the shoe and then at her mother, seeking reassurance.

  ‘It’s for you,’ Rachael said, ‘a present from St Nicholas… what has he left you?’

  The child removed a doll from the shoe, kissed it and held it protectively to her chest. Rachael had made the tiny replica of a girl in Hungarian dress, using old scraps of fabric from Mrs Roper’s work basket.

  ‘What do you say?’ asked Rachael.

  ‘Thank you, Mama,’ said Angela, nursing the doll.

  ‘No… thank you St Nicholas… he left it there for you – for being such a good girl.’

  The child smiled broadly and kissed the doll again.

  Rachael had made a similar doll for Mrs Roper; she would give it to her on Christmas Eve – the traditional day for presents in Hungary.

  ‘I thought we’d put the tree up in the parlour today,’ said Mrs Roper one morning as Rachael came downstairs with Angela. ‘It will be Christmas Day in a few days time and I normally have it decorated by now.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’
said Rachael. ‘Can I help you? It was lovely to do it last year. I remember so well. In Hungary, you know, we do it on Christmas Eve. The children are kept out of the room and then a bell is rung and they are allowed in. We tell them the angels have brought them some presents.’

  ‘That’s a beautiful idea,’ said Mrs Roper. ‘Why didn’t we do that last year?’

  ‘Well, we hadn’t lived here that long and, besides, Angela was just a baby.’

  ‘Well, let’s do it the Hungarian way this year… Angela will love it, and the tree can wait a few more days.’

  ‘Perhaps we can decorate the room in the meantime.’ Rachael knew how sad her landlady was feeling about their imminent departure and some activity might be the distraction she needed. ‘We could make paper chains… I’ve seen them in the shops. The newsagent is selling the paper.’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea…’

  They sat together in front of the range in the kitchen, sticking the coloured paper chains together, laying it out on the floor as they completed it. When it stretched from one end of the room to the other, Rachael took it upstairs, and attached it to the picture rail in the parlour.

  Back downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs Roper was poring over a couple of well-thumbed cookery books and writing out a list of ingredients she still needed to buy. When Rachael came back into the room she sat down next to her landlady and picked up one of the cookery books.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked. ‘Christmas pudding. Is it nice?’

  ‘Oh yes… I’ve already made mine – I made it months ago. It’s in the larder.’

  ‘Oh… and will it be OK? Not mouldy?’

  ‘No…’ scoffed Mrs Roper. ‘They can keep for a year or more – all that brandy. What would you traditionally eat in Hungary at Christmas?’