After she died, her words haunted me. She’d been cheated out of that, as well as out of so many other things.
I missed her. I missed her voice, her advice, her . . . solidity. I still miss her. Dad has always felt much more insubstantial to me, despite his huge physical presence. I was trying to explain that to Adam a few weeks back, when the whole wedding-party issue came up, but he just looked at me. His eyes had acquired that glaze of indifference that greeted me too often recently.
‘I think you need to start getting over that, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘It’s time to move on.’
I hate that phrase. It’s so neat and clean, all swept up and dusted away. It makes me feel as though emotions are supposed to be bookends, or doors that open and close at will. All you have to do is straighten up, tidy up whatever happens in between. I am not a door, I wanted to shout. Things in my life don’t open and close that easily.
Get a life. Move on. Get over it.
But nobody tells you how. Nobody tells you how to fill the well that opens up inside you when each day dawns and makes you feel no closer to the people in your life than you were the day before.
I can hardly wait for this baby. Secretly, I hope for a girl.
I’ll call her Cecilia. That is, if I can get Adam to agree. He doesn’t like the name.
It won’t be long now.
Patrick
WHEN ELLA AND I returned home after those weeks in the Seychelles, I realized something quite profound in the days that followed. The thought articulated itself suddenly one morning, taking me by surprise. This quiet time after our honeymoon was, in fact, the first truly reflective time I’d ever had, in all of my then fifty-five years. I felt as though I had finally stepped down from a speeding vehicle. I felt calm, cherished, cocooned. The world seemed to sit still all around me. Contentment engulfed me: I felt undeservedly fortunate. It is the only way I can explain it.
One morning, I was sitting outside on the deck, a couple of weeks after the wedding celebration in our bright, light-filled garden. Now, though, I was surrounded by tidy mounds of hedge clippings, grass cuttings, all the bits and pieces of my midsummer clean-up. It was the first chance I’d had in some time: it had rained relentlessly for the previous couple of weeks.
On that morning, at least, the rain held off and I was well satisfied with my work. I’d been hard at it since nine, taking ridiculous pride in how physical effort still energized rather than tired me. And it pleased me, too, to keep the garden as Ella’s father, Dan, might have done. I felt I owed him that much. Although in my previous life I hadn’t ever been much of an enthusiast, with Ella I’d learned. She taught me and together we’d cleared and weeded and planted. We’d even painted the little wooden bridge over the stream, and renewed the varnish on the bird tables. We’d been careful not to tame things too much, though. Ella said her father had always liked a little bit of wildness.
Suddenly, she was there beside me. I was startled: I hadn’t heard the front door. ‘Hi, there,’ I said, standing up. ‘I was just about to make coffee. Can I get you some?’
But she didn’t answer. Instead, she sat at the patio table, her attention seemingly fixed on the bird table to her right. I was puzzled. This was a complete change from earlier that morning, when she’d left to meet Maryam in the village. Then, she’d been animated, her usual chatty self, full of plans.
‘Sweetheart? What is it? Is something wrong?’
She brought her gaze back to me. ‘I think you’d better sit down.’
There was an intensity to the way she looked at me, almost a sense of something vibrating beneath the surface of her skin. Mystified, I sat. ‘What is it?’ I asked again, part of me fearful of her answer.
She sat up straighter, looked directly at me. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘What?’ A stupid reply – but the one that had sprung all by itself into the suddenness of speech. I thought of all the times Ella and I had discussed children, of the impossibility of our having any, of our acceptance of the inevitable. Then I thought of the years before I knew Ella, of her time with Fintan, and of the loss she had endured.
I say ‘thought’ but really what happened was a series of vibrant impressions that were not articulated: more a kaleidoscope of awarenessess, one laid down on top of the other. All of it took no more than an instant. And then I was filled with a shock of delight that left me breathless. ‘Are you sure?’ I was on my feet again.
Her eyes widened, as though she still hadn’t absorbed the surprise herself. ‘It seems so. Gillian is convinced – and she’s convinced that everything is as it should be. She called to see Maryam this morning and she – Maryam, that is – told her what she suspected. The next thing I knew, Gillian had bundled me into her car and we were on the way to the surgery.’ She grinned. ‘I don’t know which of us was the more excited.’
Something wasn’t clear. ‘But – had you any idea?’
She shook her head. ‘None!’ She lifted her hands off the table, palms outstretched, uncomprehending. ‘Things have been erratic over the past few months – but that’s always been the case whenever I’m nervous or excited – or even when I’m travelling. I paid no heed. It was Maryam who got suspicious. And now this!’
She’d begun to smile, I think in response to the delight I could feel spreading, almost despite myself, across my face.
‘But that’s wonderful!’ I was overjoyed. I knew how much this meant to her. My own private reservations dissolved as I watched the brightness of her glance, the glow of her face. I’d get used to broken nights again, to late feeds and baby-dominated days.
I pulled her to her feet and hugged her hard. I found that I couldn’t speak. Ella was laughing. ‘I need to breathe!’
I looked down at her, smoothed the hair back off her forehead. She looked happier than I had ever seen her. ‘Do we know when this baby is due?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll have to have a scan. Gillian thinks probably late January to mid-February.’ Her eyes filled. ‘I can’t believe it, Patrick. I just can’t believe it.’
We held each other for a long time, neither of us caring that the rain had started once more, soaking us both as we stood there.
That is what I remember above all: the two of us, standing in the garden, overcome.
To be honest, as well as the delight I felt, I experienced an undertow of relief. I was being given yet another chance: the chance of being a better, more unselfish father this time around. I vowed to be the best I could be.
The only shadow that tempered my happiness on that day was something to which Ella alluded later that evening, as we sat over dinner. ‘It will be difficult, you know,’ she said, looking across at me. For a moment, I was lost. On that day, for once, the whole world seemed to me to have resolved its difficulties. ‘Rebecca’s baby is due at the end of this month. We’ll need to keep this under wraps as long as we can. It will probably seem like deliberately hurtful timing on our part.’
I hadn’t thought of that. Right then, Rebecca seemed a million miles away from us. But I nodded. ‘Yes, you’re probably right. But let’s enjoy today. We can worry about Rebecca tomorrow.’
Already, I was seeing the future. A future filled with opportunity.
It is probably a good thing that we can’t see around time’s corners.
In the days following Ella’s announcement, I kept waiting. It felt as though someone was standing behind me, just out of sight. I often glanced quickly over one shoulder, sure that I had caught something out of the corner of my eye. I kept waiting for the call, the sign, the news that would bring Rebecca into view again.
And then, at six o’clock one Thursday morning, Frances phoned. ‘No detail, Dad. You’ll have to find that out for yourself. All I’m telling you is that you are now a grandfather. Everyone is just fine.’
My hand had trembled when I heard her voice. My relief that my eldest daughter was safe, that my grandchild was safe, was enormous. I put down the phone and turned to my wife. ‘Rebecca
’s baby’s here,’ I said to Ella.
She kissed me. ‘Call her and go to them.’
I phoned Adam at once. I got a cool reception, which is more or less what I’d been expecting. But Ella and I had discussed this thoroughly beforehand, so I was prepared. Forewarned is forearmed. Right now, she didn’t speak. She just held my hand tightly and lay even closer.
I kept my voice steady, controlled. My tone was warm, jubilant – and the latter was no effort. ‘Adam, I am absolutely delighted to hear your news. Congratulations on becoming a father. Are mother and baby doing well?’
There was a pause. I could almost see him: taken aback, flustered, needing to defer to his wife.
‘Um . . . yes, thanks . . . Patrick. They’re both very well indeed. It’s a boy.’
I heard a muffled sound in the background. I knew that he’d used my name deliberately – he never called me ‘Patrick’, in fact, he never called me anything at all. He’d just address me directly as though our relationship was something of an embarrassment to him. I could imagine him now, gesticulating furiously at Rebecca, asking what to do about this unwelcome, uninvited caller.
Suddenly, I heard my daughter’s voice. My guess is that Adam just handed the responsibility over to her, along with the phone. Fair enough, I suppose: I am her father. Nevertheless, this was one of those countless times that I wished my son-in-law had more spine.
‘Dad?’
‘Rebecca.’ And then I couldn’t say any more.
‘Everything went well. A healthy little boy. We’re calling him Ian.’ She paused. ‘Ian William, after Adam’s father.’
That hurt, I don’t deny it. I swallowed, hard. Even my name was tainted in my daughter’s unforgiving eyes. But I rallied, remembering Ella’s encouragement.
‘It’s just such wonderful news, Rebecca, and I am very happy to be Ian’s grandfather. Happy and proud.’ I paused, willing myself towards my final salvo. ‘I should very much like to come and visit you all. I really want to make my grandson’s acquaintance. Would tomorrow afternoon suit? Or Saturday? You decide.’
I was pleased with my performance, I must say. I could feel Rebecca hesitate, imagined her mulling over my words. My tone was such that it was clear I would keep on asking until I forced her to answer, one way or the other. And I suspected that even she would not be able to harden her heart against me completely at such a thrilling time.
Ella squeezed my hand.
‘Saturday would be better,’ Rebecca said. She spoke slowly, as though trying to find a last, late, loophole. I didn’t give her the chance.
‘Great. I’ll see you around four, then. I’ll only stay an hour: I know that these are very busy days.’
‘Okay.’
I heard wailing in the background and blessed Ian William for his timely intervention. My next trick was now to tell my daughter that my mobile was giving trouble: I had no intention of answering it, should she try to call to cancel. But in the event, I didn’t have time. She dashed off to attend to her son, and our conversation ended every bit as abruptly as I would have wished.
Ella waited until I hung up. I turned around to face her.
‘Well?’ she said.
I wrapped both arms around her and kissed her soundly. ‘A treat,’ I said. ‘It worked a treat.’
Adam opened the door to me. ‘Come in,’ he said. He smiled briefly. ‘Let me take your coat.’
I heard voices in the living room. I recognized Frances and Sophie’s at once and smiled to myself. I could do with some support.
‘Come this way.’ Adam was stiff, formal, as though I had never visited him and his wife before, as though I did not know my own way into my daughter’s living room. I felt a flash of anger. Although I had never warmed to this man, I had often felt sympathy for him. Rebecca was a much stronger character, often a fiery one, and sometimes, I felt she got her own way too much. Today, though, I suddenly realized how much I disliked Adam. In a strange way, it made this visit a whole lot easier. I gathered my flowers and my card and my gift and made my way resolutely towards my grandson.
I remember everything about that first time I saw Ian. Memories of all the other visits that followed have melded together over time and I cannot tease them apart. Indeed, the years that followed seemed to be filled with nothing but babies. First and foremost, there was Daniel, of course. Then Frances’s twins, Tom and Jack, arrived in 1998, just a year after she and Martin married. Sophie and Peter tied the knot, quietly, that same year, so that life felt like a whirl of weddings and christenings.
But that first time I saw Ian stands out, for so many reasons. For himself, of course, and the relief of his safe arrival; for the memory of Cecilia; for my own unborn child and all that promise of a bright new future. However, that first visit was not an easy one to make. On that afternoon in Rebecca’s house, Sophie and Frances’s presence made all the difference. Their joy, their unbridled delight at their brand-new status of Auntie, and their warmth towards me eased us all past what could have been a very awkward hour.
Rebecca was gracious, at least, on that occasion, ‘Thank you, Dad,’ she said as she accepted the flowers and the gift – some soft, blue and yellow garments that Ella and I had chosen together. I remember the day we went shopping: Ella’s joy at choosing baby clothes, our shared knowledge that soon we would be doing this for ourselves.
I intimated none of this on that first afternoon, of course: I am not so foolish as that. But when Rebecca handed me my grandson for the first time, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I wept copiously, embarrassingly, and I think she was taken aback. I could not explain to her the source of at least some of that emotion. That would have to wait.
On that first afternoon, Cecilia’s presence was palpable. She was there with us, in the same room: I imagined her standing guard over the Moses basket in the corner. I could not pretend otherwise. And I would not wait for Rebecca – or even Frances or Sophie – to mention her name. I wanted to be the first to acknowledge her. ‘Cecilia would have doted on this little guy,’ I said, gently. ‘She always wanted grandchildren.’
Rebecca stiffened. Frances intervened at once. She must have seen her sister’s face. She stroked the baby’s cheek, moved closer to me on the sofa. ‘Yes, it’s a real shame Mum never got to see him. She’d have spoiled him rotten.’
Adam came back into the room just then. ‘Anyone want tea?’ he said. ‘Or coffee?’ He was oblivious to what had just transpired and I suppose that saved us. Frances shook her head at me when Rebecca wasn’t looking. Leave it, her look said. Leave it for now.
On one of my subsequent visits shortly thereafter, there was talk of the christening party. I’d dreaded its mention, had worried about it ever since Ian was born. I hoped that Ella would not be excluded – could, in fact, see no possible way for Rebecca to manage it, without a complete breach with me.
I had fallen in love with my grandson at once, of that there is no question. But if I am truthful, some, at least, of my visits to see him had an underlying ulterior motive. I had formed the intention of making it impossible for my eldest daughter to behave anything other but appropriately towards Ella on the occasion of Ian’s christening. In the event, it was easily settled – more easily than I might have dared to hope.
‘Will Ella be with you at the party?’ Rebecca asked me. Her casual tone didn’t fool me for a moment. I’d driven the hour and a half once more to see her and Ian, a couple of weeks after he was born. Ella and I had purchased a beautiful Victorian cradle and we wanted to deliver it as soon as possible. But my wife had not come with me.
‘Let Rebecca be the first to remark on my absence,’ she said. ‘Then at least the conversation will be opened. You’ll be able to take it from there.’
I was well able to read my daughter’s expression as she asked the question. I suspect that there was a touch of embarrassment there, too, along with an undertow of defiance. I had hoped – I admit it – that Ella’s and my generous gift would at least give her pause, tha
t she might re-examine her attitude towards me, towards us. I suppose above all I hoped that the arrival of her baby might have softened her a little.
I sat back in the chair, my grandson in my arms. The room had gone very quiet. There were just the two of us here, facing each other; and the baby. I looked straight at my daughter. ‘Will she be welcome?’
Rebecca looked away. She didn’t quite shrug, but her words did. ‘She’s your wife, Dad. You know how I feel about that. But I’m not going to exclude her.’
I wanted to say: ‘No, I no longer know how you feel about that. Lots of water has flowed under the bridge by now. Tell me how you feel about that.’ But I thought the better of it. Acceptance of Ella’s presence – however grudging – would have to do for now: perhaps welcome would be extended at some other time in the future. ‘Well, then,’ I said. ‘We’d both be very happy to be here.’
And that was it. It was not mentioned again.
Ella’s pregnancy was not yet visible. Our afternoon at Ian’s christening passed off without incident. Rebecca was polite, if distant. But she was not disagreeable. I was grateful for that. Announcing Ella’s pregnancy was another hurdle that would have to be overcome on some other occasion. For now, I was satisfied at the outcome. Little by little.
Holding Ian on that celebratory afternoon, though, filled me with a most extraordinary sense of completion. It was as though my life had come full circle. And now, with my own child also on the way, my new life was beginning that circle all over again.
I felt exhilarated, fortunate, full of anticipation.
The Things We Know Now Page 9