by Ali Mercer
‘Who cares? It’s still annoying. Number two, he’s an absolute bastard to his wife. In the book more than the film. Like, when she’s up the duff and he can’t stop himself from shagging her all the time and the doctor has to tell him to leave her alone. What a prick! It doesn’t even seem to occur to him to wonder whether she wants it or not. So the book opens with her giving birth and he’s just repulsed, he’s got absolutely no compassion for her—’
‘She does swear at him,’ Viv points out.
‘Yeah, so what? This is birth we’re talking about here, not some Jane Austen tea party. I swore at everybody when I was doing it—’
‘I did, too,’ Rachel volunteers.
‘So then the poor woman comes down with postnatal depression,’ Leona goes on. ‘Except nobody calls it that, and he won’t let her go back to work, and in the end she’s coming out in hives, she has to get away or die. I don’t know about any of the rest of you, but I can understand that.’
She folds her hands in her lap and looks fiercely round as if challenging them to contradict her.
Viv intervenes. ‘I think the father in this book changes,’ she says. ‘And sometimes people do change. And attitudes, and laws. I’ve seen changes in my own lifetime that I could never have imagined.’
Rachel scans the pictures on the pinboard again, then discreetly looks around the sitting room for other photographs. She’s surprised to see a framed family group on the mantelpiece: a younger, golden-haired Viv with a smiling husband and two teenage daughters.
What kind of double life has Viv been living, and why?
‘In my opinion, Mrs Kramer does the truly loving thing, the really noble and big-hearted thing: she says the dad should have the boy because she can see it’s what’s best for him at that time,’ Viv goes on. ‘What could be more generous and self-sacrificing than that? I don’t think she’s a victim the way you suggest, Leona. I think she’s a hero.’
‘I never said that she was a victim. I said that he was a bastard and it wasn’t surprising that she got depressed,’ Leona objects. ‘Have you ever seen the film, Rachel? I don’t suppose you’d be a fan.’
Rachel hesitates. Where had she seen it? On a small TV screen, late at night – one of the various London flats she’d lived in, maybe, or back further still, in her parents’ house. Yes, that was it. She’d watched it with her mother.
Something slides down her face; something moist and sticky, like blood. Not blood. Tears.
Oh God, no – she can’t be the one to cry. She can’t sit here sobbing in front of these women and the pictures of the children they’re separated from. She can’t tell them any more of her story: if she does she has no idea when she’ll be able to stop, or what’ll be left of her when she does.
She lurches to her feet, banging her knees against the coffee table in her haste to get away, and Viv reaches out as if to stop her but Rachel isn’t having any of that.
‘I’m so sorry, I made a mistake – I thought I could do this, but I can’t,’ she says.
Her last clear view of the meeting is of the plate of pink BAD MOTHER cupcakes. She stumbles away and almost instantly finds herself back out in the cold and the dark and the snow. She hurries as quickly as she can towards the safety of her car.
She decides to sit for a while before attempting to drive. Everything is very quiet. After maybe five minutes, she feels more or less herself again – merely tired, and ordinarily sad.
What had she hoped for? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She had only gone along because she was desperate. Then why is she disappointed?
She’s exhausted, depleted, broken-hearted: all she can do is keep on working and turning up on Saturdays to see Becca. She’s never far from the edge of tears – they’re always there somewhere, waiting for a chance to humiliate her – but for all that, she can’t bring herself to feel anything, or to think about anything: not with regards to her own situation, and certainly not for anybody else’s. She doesn’t want to feel, doesn’t want to think.
So what the hell was she doing, coming here?
It’s Christmas, that’s all it is. Getting through it. Getting used to the way things are now.
She turns the key in the ignition and Radio 1 comes on. Becca always used to tease her for listening to it. She doesn’t tease her any more.
Rachel puts the car into gear and is about to drive off when somebody taps on the window.
It’s Viv, in a coat that she hasn’t stopped to button up. She’s holding a small, shiny package. Something wrapped in foil. A gift of some kind.
Rachel winds the window down. ‘I’m sorry, Viv. It was really nice to meet you. I guess I’m just not ready to do something like this.’
‘I know,’ Viv says, and thrusts her offering through the open window, so Rachel has no option but to take it. It smells faintly of cinnamon.
‘Something for you to eat when you get back,’ Viv says. ‘It’s barm brack. Have a slice with a bit of butter, and a nice cup of tea. Call me any time, or pop round. You know where I am now, and you’ve got my number. Happy Christmas, and make sure you take care of yourself. I’m glad you came.’
With that she turns and walks away. She has a particularly determined stride; it is easy to imagine her with a dog on a lead, head down against a buffeting wind, bracing herself against the weather. She’s fast, too, and has already disappeared from view by the time Rachel realises she has neither thanked her nor wished her a happy Christmas in return.
The foil parcel is heavier than you might expect, soft and slightly yielding. Rachel puts it on the passenger seat. She feels an unfamiliar warmth wash over her, like a blessing.
She pulls out off Park Way onto Gull Street, a narrow, low-lying thoroughfare that runs parallel to the river Kett, lined with takeaways and pubs and blocks of flats. There are modest lights strung up above the road, a few bits of tinsel in passing windows, a couple of revellers staggering along in high heels. But otherwise it is quiet. Soon Christmas will be over, and everything will be back to normal.
As she approaches the turn-off for the dual carriageway she hears bells ring out. She breathes in the scent of Viv’s baking and is startled to find herself at once intensely grateful and filled with regret.
Nine
Rachel
Eleven years before the loss
‘Well, it’s certainly pretty,’ Rachel said. ‘And it’s in our price range.’
‘In London a place like this wouldn’t exist,’ Mitch said. ‘Not for any money.’
The house they had come to see was just the other side of a small hump-backed bridge and was partially concealed by a tangle of flowers and greenery. Along the front wall, a pink climbing rose had got out of control and run riot. There was no ‘For Sale’ sign: it had only just come on the market. The windows were shuttered and the house appeared to be sleeping, its creamy stone façade warmed by the June mid-afternoon sun.
Mitch beamed at her and she smiled back. He was obviously in love with the place already, and it was working its magic on her, too. Still, they had to be practical. She leaned against him so she could see, too, as he studied the printout with the details.
‘There’s an extension at the back that I’d be able to use as my studio. It’s commutable – Barrowton’s not too far and there’s a quick service to London Paddington. It’s doable, Rach.’
‘Yeah, but it’s a long commute. I’d be out of the house first thing and I’d only just make it back for Becca’s bedtime. It would mean a lot more time away from home, Mitch.’ She reached across to squeeze his hand. ‘And a lot more childcare for you.’
‘Well, I can handle that, if you’re up for it. I kind of like the idea of being a hands-on dad. And I think I could really work here. It’d be good for us. We’d be able to put down roots, make the place our own.’
‘We wouldn’t know anybody. Apart from the Chadstones,’ Rachel said.
Mitch’s face fell. ‘Oh. That would be all right, wouldn’t it? They wouldn’t be that clos
e. Anyway, I thought you got on with them?’
‘It’s not that I don’t get on with them, it’s just that—’
She didn’t mind them, she just didn’t want to have to hang out with them any more than was strictly necessary. Mitch was bound to take this as a criticism; he was stubbornly loyal to Hugh, and by extension to Mary, too.
But then Becca protested that she wanted to get out, and promptly burst into tears.
Rachel got out of the passenger seat, careful of the estate agent’s little run-around which Mitch had parked very close to, and went round to release her. The car didn’t have air conditioning, and it was hot and stuffy; no wonder Becca was fed up and bawling. Her face was turning the same bright red as her dress. But the minute she was out of the car she stopped crying, and the two of them went hand-in-hand onto the bridge.
Rachel hoisted Becca up so that she could look down into the stream. Becca pointed. ‘Fish,’ she said.
Rachel turned to see Mitch pointing the camera at them; they’d brought it along so they could take pictures of the property. He put it away in the backpack they used to cart around things for Becca – favourite snacks, toys, a change of clothes, and woe betide if any of it was missing when a crisis struck – and came up to join them. He looked really happy and relaxed, as if they were on holiday, and she suddenly realised she hadn’t seen him at ease like that for ages, probably not since before Becca was born.
‘You just looked so perfect together, I had to get a picture,’ he said. ‘But shouldn’t you put her socks and shoes on? She could hurt her feet.’
‘I’ll do it in a minute,’ Rachel said. ‘I just wanted to give her a chance to calm down.’
The estate agent, a young man in a shiny suit, approached from the other direction, from the garden path that led to the cottage. He was looking sheepish, as if he had a confession to make.
‘I’m really sorry, I haven’t brought the right key with me,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have to nip back to the office. Shouldn’t take me more than a quarter of an hour. You’re very private here, as you can see, but still, it’s pretty quick to get into town.’
Normally Rachel would have complained at least a little about the delay, especially as they’d had an hour and forty minutes’ drive to get here from London. But the sun was shining, the stream was bright with reflected light and the cottage was lovely. She decided to let it go.
‘OK, I guess we’ll just take in the view for a while,’ she said.
The estate agent got back into his car and sped off, and Mitch came to stand at Rachel’s side and put his arm around her.
‘You know, I bet Becca would be more relaxed in a place like this. We all would,’ Mitch said.
‘Look, it’s called Rose Cottage,’ Rachel said. ‘There’s a nameplate on the wall. I always wanted to live in a house with a name.’
‘Flower,’ Becca said, pointing towards the house.
‘Yes, they’re roses. It’s very pretty, isn’t it?’ Rachel said, and set her down. Becca was getting to be quite a weight, but still wasn’t enthusiastic about walking too far; her preferred mode of transport was her father’s shoulders.
And a fine pair of shoulders they were, too. There he was, her husband, the father of her child – six-foot-three of knight in shining armour with tousled hair in need of a trim, a trace of Becca’s stewed apple on his shirt and bags under his eyes. He was such a good dad – so gentle, so patient. Rachel was struck all over again by how lucky she was, and how lucky Becca was, too. She must be sure never to take him for granted.
Fatherhood, for all its moments of unexpected joy, had worn him out – had worn both of them out: sleep, haircuts, sex, had all gone by the wayside. It had been much harder than she’d anticipated. So much for her plan of setting up her own business while on maternity leave; she was pleasantly surprised to have managed to hold onto her job, given the miasma of tiredness through which she faced working life. But if she could wake up here on Saturday morning… She’d feel as if she was working for more than to pay the bills. She’d be doing it so her daughter could have the kind of home Rachel’s own mother would only ever have been able to daydream about.
‘Flower!’ Becca said again, pulling hard at Rachel’s hand.
Well, it wasn’t as if there was anybody at home. ‘We can have a look in a minute,’ Rachel said, ‘when you’ve got your shoes on.’
Becca was perfectly docile as Rachel led her back to the car. Maybe Mitch was right. Maybe the countryside would be better for Becca – and for them all.
Mitch stayed on the bridge, gazing down at the water. He was frowning slightly, maybe because the sunshine was so bright, or maybe because he couldn’t quite believe that somewhere so perfect could really be within reach.
Ten
Rachel allows ten minutes extra in case she gets stuck behind riders or a tractor, and arrives early, but without too long to wait. Perfect timing. And so it should be. She’s had plenty of practice. She parks in the gravelled space in front of the little bridge and readies herself to call for Becca.
The cottage on the other side of the stream, beyond the wall and the gate, is like a child’s drawing of a house in winter. It has a smoking chimney, big, rectangular windows and a bright red door, and there are patches of day-old snow still clinging to the garden. A magical place. A place she’s no longer permitted to enter unless Mitch allows her in; a place she has paid for, and lost.
It’s time.
Her heart is already lifting in anticipation, even though she knows not to expect too much. Still, this is it. After what happened, after what she did, this is as good as it gets. As much as she can hope for, or deserves.
They won’t have long. Just enough time for Becca to thaw, to forget to be wary and estranged and defensive – if all goes well.
She gets out of the car, walks over the bridge and lets herself through the gate.
There’s a Christmas garland on the front door, new since last time. It’s heart-shaped and made of holly; the red berries match the paintwork. It doesn’t look like the kind of thing Mitch would have chosen – too pretty, too feminine. Becca must have picked it out. Helping to take charge of the Christmas decorations. Being the lady of the house.
She rings the bell. Mitch is always quick to answer, as if to remind her that he’s the gatekeeper, that she can’t get in or past or round him. He won’t invite her in. A Jehovah’s Witness or door-to-door energy salesman would get a warmer welcome.
Mitch always found it weirdly difficult to give botherers short shrift. He listened to them; he was friendly and receptive; he was always polite. He gave explanations. I’m a confirmed agnostic, I’m afraid, or I’m happy with my electricity provider, and I don’t buy on the door.
As if he had plenty of time on his hands. Which, frankly, most of the time, he did.
He won’t be like that with her.
The door opens and there he is, bearded, grouchy, in his paint-spattered Cornish fisherman’s smock. She’d been with him when he bought that. On holiday. A lifetime ago.
‘She’ll be down in a minute. You might as well wait in the car.’
‘OK.’
‘You’ll have her back at four, right?’
‘Of course.’
His hand has healed, but he has a scar and it hasn’t begun to fade yet. He sees her looking at it and their eyes meet for a moment before he shuts the door in her face. There is nothing for it but to do as she’s told and go back to the car.
But then Becca comes trudging towards her, head down, hands in pockets, hair riffling in the breeze, trying to look nonchalant about everything, as if she’s quite grown up enough, thank you, to take all this in her stride. And Rachel’s heart rushes out to her; all she wants to do is to envelop Becca in her arms, as she might be able to do if her daughter was a younger child – ten or eleven or even twelve instead of thirteen.
But she knows that would be a mistake. They’ve had practice for this, in a way: all those weekends when she’d
made a big effort to do things with Becca, to make up for not having got home for bedtime during the week, what she’d wanted most was a hug. And Becca had known, and had quickly learned not to give it to her. Not straight away. To make her work for it. Even when she was quite little, she’d been aloof with Rachel on first seeing her after some time apart, as if she either wanted to punish Rachel for having left her or didn’t quite trust her not to disappear again. Or both.
And Becca is thirteen now, on the cusp of leaving childhood behind. It is important for her to have her space, to not be crowded by her mother’s guilty, needy affection.
Becca gets in next to her and puts on her seatbelt, and Rachel starts the car.
Rachel says, ‘You all right?’
‘Yeah, not bad,’ Becca says offhandedly. ‘You?’
‘Yeah, not bad.’
Rachel turns the car and drives away.
She has to hold it together, to tread the delicate line that an absent parent has to keep to: calm, patient, under control. Neither overbearing nor chummy, and certainly not demanding. There can be no hint of the kind of ugliness that had taken over when she did what she did to destroy the pattern of their lives together.
She never meant to do Becca harm: and yet she had. Now everything has to go right, as far as it can. And if it doesn’t, if she screws up, she could lose the little bit of Becca that she still has: these Saturdays together, and Becca’s willingness, in spite of everything, to be with her.
Eleven
The multiplex is largely deserted, and Rachel’s spirits rise at the prospect of making it to the cinema without bumping into anybody. People are always perfectly nice, or at least, never openly nasty, but the way they look at her makes her uneasy. Whatever they know about her situation, or suspect, it’s more than she would like.
She can’t think of anything to say to Becca while they’re waiting in the queue. Becca has the tense, muted expression that Rachel has seen on her a few times lately, and thinks of as the face of the ‘adolescent-in-waiting’, halfway between a sulk and a sneer. It makes Rachel nervous of trying to start a conversation; chances are Becca will barely respond. That face means Becca is feeling stressed, and as Sophie Elphick has said to her during one of their counselling sessions, it’s hard for someone who is feeling anxious to open up enough to talk. So Rachel decides to bide her time.