It was a mild blustery day and I was gently buffeted down the seafront towards Hove by an obliging easterly wind. The sea had thrown shingle up onto the promenade before the tide had gone out; and only distant lines of white foam suggested its earlier ferocity. After half an hour’s walk I came to the peace statue that marks the border between Brighton and Hove, her angel’s wings framed by milky blue sky and high scudding clouds. I sat down on the low wall that surrounds the statue’s podium and absently watched the knots of families and tourists milling about the nearby café.
A shock of cold went from the tips of my hair to the soles of my feet. The little figure in my dream. It had looked like a child. Maybe it was my child. I was trembling. And then another intense shiver: Nonna’s parting words to me: ‘He is a wise boy.’ She had looked at me strangely when I’d thought she meant Sergio. My hand went to my belly. Was this who she meant? I thought of Sergio, how he had got his wish after all. And I, hadn’t I got my wish? The wish I had nurtured for the past ten years? Why wasn’t I euphoric? Why wasn’t I shouting it from the rooftops? Why did I suddenly feel reluctant to tell Sergio he was a father? Perhaps I had got so used to living with the loss of not being able to have children that it was hard to adjust. It would be like my dead mother walking up to me now and sitting down beside me and asking me how I was. Half wonderful and half unsettling – maybe even wrong somehow? There had been months – years even, where I would have given my heart and soul just to be able to talk to her one more time. To ask her all the questions I wished I’d asked her, to give her one last hug, to tell her how much I loved her. And most importantly perhaps, to forgive her for her mistakes, and ask her forgiveness for mine. But it had been so long; fifteen years, and the sadness and the grief had softened. Become part of me instead of on me and it was like that with children too. I had learnt to accept myself as just that – a woman without a child, and yet here I was with this tiny life inside my belly.
Stephanie’s face came into my mind before I could stop it. ‘I don’t deserve this baby’ I found myself thinking and my eyes burned. ‘That’s why I’m not happy, because I’m dead inside. Because the deaths have shut part of me down that’ll never start up again. Where I should have a heart there’s a cold, broken little engine instead, rusting and rotting. I can’t do it. I’m not good enough to love a child!’ I jumped up involuntarily, surprising myself by shouting out loud. ‘No! No!’ I ran down towards the sea, the shingle whipping up and stinging my legs. White noise built up inside my head. The great imperious cold lung of sea, breathed noisily against the sparkling stones, and inside my head there was the rushing noise again. I sat down heavily, 'Not again! Please don't let me feel like that again’. After a few minutes I could see that I was causing some interest and concern from passers by. I desperately didn’t want anyone to come over and ask me how I was. I pulled myself up, wiped my face and walked unsteadily home. As soon as I had shut the front door behind me I dragged myself into my bedroom and threw myself on the bed.
As I descended through the thick darkness towards the now familiar tiled floor I felt a little flutter of nerves, but there was no-one there. I slumped into one of the window seats and leant my head against the cool glass. The surrounding ocean was incredibly still, and there was a pink light in the sky that could have been traces of dawn or sunset. The sea felt so different here, not indifferent, but emanating meaning and response, a kind of liquid transmutation. It almost seemed to have an inner glow, to be moving imperceptibly beneath it’s glassy surface.
‘Hello.’
I started round, my hair standing on end, and there he was (as I realised now I had known he would be) sitting neatly beside me on the seat, his little legs hanging half a foot from the floor.
‘Hello.’ I managed to gasp back. He smiled a little smile in response and we sat there looking at each other in silence for a good minute. He had an oval face, and big brown eyes that were made even darker by his slightly serious expression. His hair was almost black, short and straight, and framed his face in a way that reminded me of those little boys you see in shirt cuffs and tank tops in old black and white photos. He was dressed like thousands of little boys are dressed these days; scuffed trainers, jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt, with a short sleeved one over the top. He looked about four or five years old.
‘Are you OK Mum?’
‘Yes, I think so. I was expecting you, and yet…’
‘It’s a surprise?’
‘Yes sweetheart, it’s still a surprise.’
‘You don’t need to be scared Mum you know.’ He frowned and tilted his head slightly. A little thread of recognition went up from my hip to my jaw.
‘Of what?’
‘Of us, it’s going to fine.’
I put my hand up to my mouth to stifle a sob. ‘Really? Am I really going to do OK?’ I reached over to him but he shook his head.
‘No Mum. You can’t do that yet.’
‘But I just want to touch you!’
Suddenly his face broke out into a huge smile and was transformed. His eyes sparkled and all the earnestness left him. He laughed.
‘But you are touching me silly!’
That dream was definitely the start of it. The start of acceptance, that whatever happened, this child was now the most important thing in my life. I knew, also, that whatever I had done in the past - the mistakes, the occasional acts of selfishness or insensitivity, the doubts and guilt; I had to learn somehow, to live with. To accept them for part of who I was - that like everyone, I had little points of shame and regret, and that unless I trained myself to look at them, accept them and learn from them, they would rule me again and I wouldn’t be able to be a good mother to my child. Of course, it wasn’t going to happen overnight. These things never do. But realising it was the first step to something new. Perhaps I would be able to act with a greater strength, to believe in myself a little bit more, just through the knowledge of it. The rest would follow as my emotional stamina increased, I was sure.
I felt a new optimism, lightness. Looking at the sea and sky, and people around me as I walked I felt little buzzes of excitement and hope in the pit of my stomach. I believed in the life ahead. I believed for the first time in years that there really was something to look forward too. And it wasn’t just the dream that fuelled it. I was increasingly beginning to believe that there was something greater than me that I could tap into. Some energy or power that surrounded us – that surrounded Nonna and gave her her gifts, that had somehow given me the gift to meet my son in that beautiful sea-bound room. Or even at least, to think I was meeting him. To be honest it didn’t matter. For the first time in my adult life I had faith. In what, I still wasn’t sure, but I felt it just the same.
Sergio was sobbing softly and I felt sympathetic tears come into my own eyes. The earpiece of the phone felt warm against my cheek, as if our emotions, rather than my skin, had heated it.
‘Tsoro. It is the most wonderful thing. You cannot imagine the gift you have given me!’
‘And you have given me Sergio. Don’t you forget that!’
‘So you are happy? You are truly happy?’
‘It took me a couple of days, to get over the disbelief but yes. He is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.’
‘He?’
‘Don’t ask me how I know. I just do.’
‘He…he.’ He trailed off. I got the feeling he was collecting himself.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘No!’ He laughed, a high little laugh. ‘No Maddie. I am just overwhelmed. Mi Padre will be speechless!’
‘And Nonna?’
He laughed again. ‘Oh she probably knew months ago.’
I let it go. ‘I’ve got my first scan on Tuesday. They’ll be able to tell us how old the baby is and if everything looks OK’
‘And I shall come and hold your hand and weep with joy!’
‘Wonderful! We’ll see him for the first time together!’ I lied.
I
went around suffused with a warm knowingness. I had a wonderful secret, and somehow it gave me a licence to smile at everyone, to be vivacious and kind. I held doors open, I grinned stupidly at every small child I saw, I was particularly courteous to people behind tills. I half expected my joy to undermine my motivation to find out what had happened to Dan but it didn’t. If anything it gave me a new sense of purpose, a new drive, and the fuel in the engine was hope. I couldn’t believe, that in my new world, anything really bad could have happened. ‘Maybe’ I found myself thinking for the first time, ‘maybe he's holed up in some nice little crofter’s cottage in Scotland laughing at us all!’ and the thought brought a little smile to my face because I was too happy, now, to be angry with him.
The morning of the scan arrived and I enjoyed a languorous lie-in, starfish-spread across the mattress, a sliver of winter sunlight falling across the duvet. Then I felt a sharp pain bite across my abdomen. I remembered reading something in one of my baby books about practice contractions, but surely it was much too early for that. I felt a wave of panic, but then the pain went as quickly as it had come. Anxiety got me out of bed and I dressed. What if the scan wasn’t ok? I hadn’t let the thought cross my mind; even though I was in my late thirties and the risk of defects was higher. And miscarriage, how could I be so foolish to have forgotten miscarriage? Didn’t about one in three pregnancies end in miscarriage? I reached for my phone to look up the statistics, but burst into tears before I could complete the search, my eyes too blurred to focus on the little screen.
This was supposed to be my special day – the day of my first scan – Sergio’s first chance to see his son – so why did a pall have to fall over it? I sat around, unable to focus on anything, drinking tea, half-heartedly washing-up, watching television programmes that I instantly forgot. But you know he’s alright. I told myself. You talked to him yourself last night and he told you so. I shook my head at the absurdity of the thought, but felt strangely comforted. Finally the doorbell rang. At last, I won’t be on my own anymore. I felt a little rush of pleasure at the thought of seeing Sergio; of being held and comforted; of talking late into the night about our baby; of some gentle lovemaking. I pressed the buzzer and waited at the top of the stairs excitedly. But even before I saw who it was, the ponderous step told me it wasn't Sergio. Finally he appeared, like Columbo in his creased brown mackintosh, taking each step slowly and methodically.
‘John.’ I said finally, unable to hide my disappointment. He came up alongside me and smiled grimly.
‘You were expecting someone else?’
‘You could say that.’ I turned and gestured into the flat. He went past me then turned and looked at me apologetically.
‘I just wanted to bring you this.’ He put an A4 Manilla envelope onto the coffee table. ‘In a few days, if Dan hasn’t turned up, this will be an official Missing Person’s case. If you want to be ahead of the game you could have a look through those lists. It’s flight records for everyone going to Italy on the day your brother disappeared. There’s no Dan Armstrong listed but you might want to look too in case there’s anything we’ve missed.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘I don’t know, possibly a pseudonym, something like that.’
‘Oh, ok.’ I looked past him at the door.
‘This isn’t a good time?’
‘Well not exactly.’ The phone rang and I shrugged at him and picked up the phone as if to say ‘You see what I mean?’ Something in my face must have given it away pretty quickly, because he was across the room and by my side before I had time to hit the floor.
‘The bomb went off.’ I heard myself say flatly, as if another person was speaking. He lowered me slowly onto the sofa.
‘Bomb? What bomb? I don’t understand - ?’
‘Sergio…’ I shook my head, unable to say any more.
‘Who’s Sergio?’
Still I didn’t answer. He gently prised the phone out of my hand. ‘Hello? Hello?...Do you speak English?’ He looked at me quickly then went over to the window, his broad back almost obliterating the light. ‘I see, yes, this morning. OK, yes. Sorry – what was that? The baby? What baby?’ He seemed to tighten, his shoulders drew together and he walked away from me. ‘Oh. And what was it? She’s not up to it now but she’ll want to know in a minute.’ I became almost completely unaware of myself, my body, all I could see was him; the regular shallow nodding of his head; his left hand resting in his coat pocket; the small patch on his crown where his hair was thinning (and which I imagined he wasn’t even aware of).
John turned around and looked at me briefly. ‘Will she understand this? Did she know?’
My mind was unwinding. I wanted to think about anything rather than what I had just heard. If I thought about other things I might be able to rewind time, make it not have happened. Unable to do anything else I studied John minutely, considered his solidity, in body and spirit. Unless he had a reason to move he was still. When he did move it was economical. Yet there was no sense of laziness or sloth about him. I imagined that although he didn’t rush about, he hardly ever stopped.
He hung up the phone and came and sat beside me. I didn’t want him to speak. I didn’t want him to make it real. Gently he felt the back of my neck and hands. ‘You’re cold, in shock. We need to get you warmed up.’ He went and investigated the flat, coming back with blankets and a cup of sweet tea. I continued to sit there, unable to think or move, like a mechanical toy that needs winding. He put the warm cup in my hands. ‘Please drink your tea.’ I found I could respond to instructions even though I couldn’t function for myself, and sipped the tea slowly. He sat beside me, quietly watching. When I’d finished he got up again and came back with a shot glass. ‘I found a bit of brandy in your cupboard. I don’t think the baby will mind in the circumstances.’ He put that in my hand too. I drank it as instructed and gasped; the act bringing me back a little.
John took hold of my free hand, it fitted snugly into his giant palm. ‘So this Sergio, he was a friend of yours?’
‘More than a friend, we had a relationship.’
‘In Italy?’
‘Yes…’
‘So the baby…’
‘Is his, yes.’ I stammered.
John looked awkward. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. They said he had a clot in his brain.’
‘I know, he never wanted to talk about it. When I tried he…’ I ran out of words.
‘He died very suddenly this morning at about half eleven, just before he was going to leave for the airport. He wouldn’t have felt any pain or had time to panic.’
My chest heaved, pushing all the air out of my lungs, making me struggle for my next breath. ‘I think he knew it was coming. The other day, he said he was scared.’
‘There’s so much we don’t know about ourselves…’ There was a short muffled beep from John’s jacket, he freed my hand and quickly looked at his phone. ‘Sorry, I have to check in, make sure they don’t need me at the station.’ He frowned and put it back in his pocket. ‘I mean there’s so much we don’t know about our instincts. My brother on a whim went to see his doctor about a mole. He’d had it for years and never thought about it. But one day, he just had to go. Turned out to be cancerous. Just a few days more and it would have been inoperable.’
‘This morning, I felt a pain. A big pain in my stomach, it was about 10.30. 11.30 in Italy.’
He looked at me sympathetically. ‘Is there anyone I can call for you?’
‘My dad, please call my dad. His number’s in my address book on the windowsill.’
‘Sergio’s Father said you had an appointment; your first scan.’ He looked at me enquiringly. ‘You might still want to go?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!’ I looked at him desperately then put my head in my hands. He stayed beside me, his heavy arm across my shoulders. We remained in that position for so long that I felt us begin to abstract. We were no longer people. We were a picture, a still
-life of grief.
I cancelled my scan appointment and didn’t make another. I couldn’t face the rawness of it – the emphasis – life and death. I didn’t really think of the baby. I couldn’t. Even in my dreams he didn’t appear. On the rare occasions that I found myself in the lighthouse I would only see the bob of a small dark head out of the corner of my eye, or the flash of a figure behind the windows. I shut myself in my flat, only seeing dad, and the look of fear on his face – fear that the depression might return – brought all the old guilty feelings hurtling back.
Dan was declared a Missing Person on the day after his birthday. Neither Nick, or I had heard from him, as I now knew we wouldn’t. The world was full of horrors and unfairness. Why would it be any different with Dan? John kept me informed as best he could but I was avoiding him. I could feel his concern, see the care in his expression, the intense way he looked at me, and I couldn’t deal with it. I encouraged him to email me updates and to copy in my Dad and Nick. Nothing much seemed to be happening. There was lots of standard procedures to follow and so far nothing had come up. The only comfort being that no body that matched his description had appeared either. The news report of a man’s corpse being discovered by a dog walker in some local woods, or washed up in the Ouse haunted me daily; one of many dark thoughts that punctuated my grief and shock.
About a month later I got a letter from Italy. I put it down on the table and sat and stared at it for about half an hour. I hadn’t gone to Sergio’s funeral, I hadn’t been able to bear the thought of being in Terranima. Instead I had gone to the Woodland cemetery where my mother was buried under an Ash tree and had sat, leaning on the trunk, drowning in the amount of death that I had already had to deal with. My ultimate powerlessness.
I was convinced the Amarena’s must hate me. I imagined Nonna’s face, hard with disapproval; Fabrizio’s dark-eyed scowl. Still too cowardly to open the letter, I got up and went out for a walk. It was a mild day with a blank white sky. I meandered down to the beach and walked heavily through the shingle towards the West Pier. A flock (or hadn't I read somewhere that it was called a murmuration) of Starlings buzzed about the bare steel beams of the old concert hall – like flies picking at the carcass of a great beached whale. Then, as if on some silent but compelling command, they arched off into the sky.
The Soul Room Page 7
