She would never forget the look on his face, the beginning of realisation that they had both lost so much more than their son.
He rallied a little. ‘Mackenzie is downstairs. We need to go and answer some questions when you are ready.’
‘More questions?’
‘Yes. More questions.’ He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. ‘I’m going to have a shower and then we’ll go down together?’
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the ocean. The sun was starting to dull and the thought of the darkness that would blanket the island sent a jolt of fear through her gut.
I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the thought of you out there waiting for me. I think you will be hungry or cold or scared . . . And just like that she was wailing again, loud and unrestrained, a noise that came from deep within; a desperate, visceral outpouring of her pain.
James, alerted by the noise, ran from the bathroom in his towel, evidently about to jump into the shower.
‘It’s okay, Rach, it’s okay!’ Dropping to his knees he held her tightly in his arms, as she screamed.
‘It’s not okay!’ She flailed, beating her fists on his chest, and he let her. ‘It’s not okay! It’s not okay! It’s not okay! Where is he, James? Where is my boy? I want him home! I want him here with me!’
‘Shh . . .’ he cooed, gripping the back of her head with his palm, trying fruitlessly to bring comfort.
Mackenzie had taken a seat at the kitchen table. He had removed his cap and it now sat next to a glass of iced tea. His notepad was open and she noticed the illegible scrawl of notes that he no doubt wrote as they occurred. She pulled out the chair opposite him and jumped as Cee-Cee placed a mug of strong tea in front of her.
Rachel barely noticed the woman’s hollow, sad expression. But she heard the sound their housekeeper made, a quiet but continual whimpering, that was interrupted only when she drew a snatch of breath through her tears. She watched as Cee-Cee ran her fingers over the melamine plate on the countertop, a plate with Spider-Man on it, Oscar’s favourite and one on which she had placed countless croissants, sandwiches, slices of toast . . .
Thank you, Cee-Cee.
You are welcome, my little darling!
Rachel placed her little box of sand on the table and cupped the mug in her palms. ‘Thank you, Cee-Cee,’ she managed, glad of the prop.
James stood leaning against the countertop. She thought he looked grey, like a thing once shiny and full, now faded and deflated, and wondered if she were similarly altered in such a short space of time. The look of pity Cee-Cee flashed her told her this was probably true.
‘Forensics are still going over the boat, but there is no sign of Oscar on it.’
Rachel stared at him with a crease to the top of her nose; did they think there was any chance that they hadn’t searched the vessel front to back and inside out? Of course they had; this was a waste of time!
‘They have also said that at this time they can find no evidence of any struggle or distinguishing marks that might indicate an altercation or violence.’
‘What do you mean? Why are you saying that to us?’ She banged the table with her flattened palm. ‘Of course there isn’t! We had a lovely evening. We . . . he . . . we had supper and he was laughing.’
‘It is standard procedure in any unexplained disappearance for us to explore all possibilities.’ Mackenzie nodded. ‘We are just doing our job.’
‘There wasn’t any violence.’ She hated the shape of the word in her mouth but thought it best to press the point. ‘We woke up and he was gone!’ Again, the onset of tears threatened to defeat her. ‘We have told you this over and over. He was gone and we need to be out there looking for him!’ She pointed towards the water, disliking the croak to her voice, feeling it somehow diluted the strength of her message.
‘I promise you, Mrs Croft, we have teams searching and they will resume at first light tomorrow.’
‘Resume? They can’t stop! They can’t stop looking!’ She raised her voice. ‘That’s when he will need us the most, in the dark! You can’t leave him out there in the dark! I am begging you, please, please don’t leave him out there on his own!’
Cee-Cee left the room, as if this raw outburst were more than she could bear or more than she felt Rachel would want her to witness. Rachel saw Mackenzie and her husband exchange a knowing look and it infuriated her – why wasn’t James demanding they stay out looking? She glowered at him as she laid her hand on the Tic-Tac box.
‘You said you were looking for other boats, boats that might have come and picked him up, his . . . his friends . . .’ She let this trail, unwilling to admit to just how unlikely it sounded, even to her ears.
Mackenzie licked his lips and shifted his position in the chair. ‘We can find no evidence of any other boats, either approaching or docking near Liberté. We will of course keep checking.’
She didn’t believe him and this sent another lightning streak of frustration through her core. ‘Did you ask his friends and his friends’ parents?’ she fired.
Mackenzie nodded and she saw the first etchings of sympathy on his brow. ‘We did, but I promise you, Mrs Croft—’
‘I don’t want you to keep promising me things!’ Again she banged the tabletop. ‘I just want you to find Oscar and bring him home!’ Her voice cracked again. ‘Bring him home to me now!’
There was a second or two of hush before Mackenzie turned to James and asked, ‘What kind of child is Oscar?’
‘He’s lovely. Lovely.’ She spoke, through her tears, on her husband’s behalf. ‘He’s funny and sweet.’
‘Is he boisterous? Does he wander off? Is he impulsive?’ Mackenzie waited. It was James who responded.
‘He is confident and enthusiastic about the world he lives in. He likes to try everything; he’s not one of life’s observers.’
Mackenzie gave a single nod. ‘Can Oscar swim?’
She watched her husband brighten a little, his lips set in a thin line. ‘Yes. He’s a good swimmer. We have a pool and he’s been swimming since he was little.’
‘I took him for lessons when he was a baby. In Richmond where we used to live. In England,’ she added. She pictured him in his waterproof nappy, his chubby body snug inside her outstretched arms as she dunked him under the water and watched as he came up giggling, surprised but happy.
Mackenzie made a note in his book. ‘Would you describe him as a strong swimmer, a weak swimmer or somewhere in between?’
‘Strong.’
She and James answered at the same time. Again Mackenzie lifted his pen.
Her mind raced. ‘He is a strong swimmer, James, isn’t he?’ She sat forward, looking at her husband, as a thought formed and her tone bordered on hopeful. ‘Mackenzie, you need to find out where the closest boats to ours were and check if he swam to them!’ She allowed herself a small smile. ‘Or if one picked him up. He is a strong swimmer! He could have got to a boat! They might have him now and maybe, erm, they don’t speak English and he can’t tell them his name and they don’t know what he’s saying! You need to check that!’ she urged.
Mackenzie blinked and laid his pen on his pad. ‘As I said, we are exploring all possibilities.’ He drew breath and she instinctively stood, thinking that if she ran away then she wouldn’t have to hear what he was about to say. She felt the policeman’s eyes on her as she crossed the kitchen and stood next to James, her safe harbour, and she like a little rowboat, sheltered in his shadow from the encroaching storm.
‘When someone falls or jumps overboard . . .’ He paused. ‘There is data, evidence . . .’ He paused again, longer this time.
Rachel shook her head and wrapped her arms around her trunk.
‘And the data suggests,’ Mackenzie continued, ‘that a fit adult in warm water can survive for a while, hours, even. But in the cooler Atlantic and if someone has banged their head as they’ve fallen in or been surprised and taken a breath or is young or old or weak – then that is very, very rare. Data sho
ws that it is far more likely people do not survive beyond seconds, minutes, because of an accident, trauma, shock, and so for a little boy . . .’
Data. Data. Data. Data! We are not talking about bloody data; we are talking about Oscar! My child!
‘I think I would know if’ – she faltered – ‘if he had come to harm.’
I will never use the word
D.
E.
A.
D.
She spelled it out in her head. I will not use that word.
‘Why do you say that?’ Mackenzie looked at her quizzically.
‘Because’ – she swallowed – ‘because I am his mum.’ Her voice broke. ‘I am his mummy.’ Her voice was now barely more than a rasping whisper. ‘And I would know. I would feel it.’ She placed her hand on her chest. ‘I would feel it here, but right now, all I feel is that he needs me.’
‘Okay.’ Mackenzie reached for his cap and closed his notebook.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ She wrung her palms, kitting her fingers at her chest.
‘Of course.’ Mackenzie placed his cap on his head and turned it into position.
‘How, how long exactly do these fit adults in warm water survive for? How long can they be in the sea?’
She noticed that he looked first at James, and she again hated the feeling that the two were conspiring. Mackenzie coughed to clear his throat, either to tell a lie or to try for deflection, an embellishment of the truth. She didn’t know which. He gave a slight shrug to his left shoulder. ‘I think about six hours is a record, but the circumstances were quite unique.’ He let his arms rise and fall to his thighs.
Six hours . . .
Rachel took these two words and used them as a solid foundation on which to build hope. She looked at the oversized clock above the breakfast nook. It was coming up to six in the evening. They first noticed him gone at six forty-five that morning.
Eleven hours.
Eleven hours, it was a new record. Please . . . please come home to me, Oscar! Come home now! She prayed silently, looking out of the window into the evening sky.
CEE-CEE
Cee-Cee took a seat at her kitchen table and unscrewed the lid from Grandma Sally’s ink pen. Carefully, she folded the top sheet of the notepad over and leaned forward, resting her forearms on the mahogany table.
Dear Mr and Mrs Croft
She crossed it through and started again.
Dear Rachel and James, It is with
This was also not quite right, and what had moments earlier felt like such a simple task now seemed almost beyond her means.
Cee-Cee tapped the tortoiseshell pen against her teeth before placing it on top of the notepad and abandoning the idea. Instead, she used an earthenware jug to scoop up the water from the green washing-up bowl in the sink, with which she would water the loquat tree. She was the third generation to lovingly tend its roots. Her reward would be the soft yellow/orange fruit that could best be described as a cross between a mango and a peach.
She thought about the letter waiting to be written and looked out over the clustered fern fronds that lined the roadside, giving way to the view of the ocean.
‘I suppose I could tell you both how I felt about little Oscar.’ She smiled at the image of the boy who had come into her life, transforming the nature of her job at the big house on the North Shore Road. Her tears naturally followed and she let them fall. It seemed appropriate somehow to honour her broken heart with this physical display. She remembered those first few weeks, when she had got to know the three-year-old a little better.
‘So.’ She had beamed at him. ‘Your name is Oscar and you have come all the way over the sea from England to Bermuda!’
He held the duvet up to his chest and nodded, eyes wide. ‘On a plane!’ He smiled.
‘On a plane? Well, goodness me, I have never been on a plane.’ Cee-Cee had sat in the wicker chair by the side of the single bed. ‘I think you and I are going to be friends. And do you know the best way to become friends?’
Oscar shook his head.
‘It’s to tell stories! They are the way that people get to know each other all over the world and they always have been. My grandma told me stories and her grandma told her stories and I told my baby stories.’ She took a sharp intake of breath, as if something sharp had lodged in her breast, a memory that pierced.
‘I like stories,’ the three-year-old whispered.
‘Who doesn’t?’ She chuckled. ‘When people wave at each other in the street, when they say “How’s the weather for you?” or “How you doing?”, that’s storytelling, catching up, and it’s very, very important. Whether written on a page or spoken from your mouth, stories are what joins us all together.’
She looked up at the sound of the bedroom door creaking open. It was Rachel, the young woman of the house, her new boss and Oscar’s mother. She was pretty with long, shiny, dark hair and painted fingernails. Cee-Cee hoped she wasn’t a young woman who placed importance on such things. She had no time for vanity or selfishness.
‘How are we doing? Are you still awake, Oscar?’ She walked in and folded her arms over her fancy red evening frock. ‘I think we are going to head off now, Cee-Cee.’ She bit her lip. ‘Is it okay to call you Cee-Cee? Or is Mrs something better? I . . . I didn’t know . . .’
Cee-Cee sensed her nerves; still so young and finding her way, only a few days into this new house, this new life. ‘Cee-Cee is just fine.’ She gave a small nod.
‘We’ll be back by eleven, tops. You have our numbers?’
‘We have everything we need and we know how to get hold of you if we don’t.’
She smiled at the young woman who clearly knew very little about the way of the island; everyone knew everyone else. A request could be made in St David’s Head and with no more than a chain of hollering to your relatives that request would be answered in no time from someone up at Royal Naval Dockyard.
‘Okay.’ Rachel swallowed. ‘It’s the first time we’ve left him here and it feels a bit . . .’
‘Of course it does. But Oscar will be fine. Don’t worry.’
‘Okay,’ she whispered again. ‘I don’t really want to go – it’s a work thing for James.’
‘I am sure you will have a lovely time.’
‘Okay. I can do this!’ Rachel straightened her shoulders, balled her fists and lifted her chin. ‘See you soon! Love you, Oscar! Night night, Mr Bob!’ She blew a kiss to the boy and his knitted teddy that nestled in the crook of his neck.
The door closed and Cee-Cee smiled at the little boy.
‘Where’s Mummy gone?’ He looked towards the hallway.
‘She’ll be back in no time at all, you’ll see. Now, where were we?’
‘Story,’ he reminded, followed by a big, big yawn.
‘Oh, you are so smart to remember that!’ She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘I don’t know whether to tell you about the day the whale came or the pirate shipwreck with a cargo full of gold!’ Cee-Cee looked down at the little boy whose head had fallen to one side and whose eyes were flickering shut. It was only minutes until he snored like a tiny dormouse: sweet, snuffly and cute as a button.
‘Well, little Oscar, you sleep and you dream. And I will sit here and watch you. I will watch you until your mommy and daddy come home. Just like I promised.’
She finished watering the tree and considered this.
Maybe I should stop overthinking it. Maybe I should just write as I talk in my heart and head. She liked the idea of this very much. Cee-Cee went back inside the house and sat at the table.
With her pen in her hand she folded back the top sheet of the notepad and she began.
Dear Mr and Mrs Croft, Rachel, James,
I write because sometimes I find that words that get knotted in your throat are smooth and ordered when you put pen to paper. I see your loss. I feel your loss and it takes me back to a time when I did not feel life was worth living. A time when my pain was such that
I prayed for the angels to take me under their wing and relieve me from my burden. Of course they did nothing of the sort, their message loud and clear: Who are you, Miss Cecilly Symmons, to think you can command the angels? So I lived a half-life. A quiet life. Until I met Oscar. He didn’t care for my sadness. He didn’t have time for my reflection, no sir. He ran at me and took my hand and pulled me from the gloom. He made me chase around that house playing games. He brought me joy, that little boy who loved me. He made me love life again! All by loving him. You see, I thought I had been denied the chance to raise a child, but I had not. That chance was given to me at a time in my life when I had no right to expect it. Not that the joy was any less for that. So I thank you both, and I thank you for Oscar, and as God is my witness, if I can hold his hand and ease his path to heaven then that will give my life a meaning greater than I could ever have dreamed. With love to you, amen.
Cee-Cee
TWO
Rachel had had the strangest sensation of someone watching her while she slept; in truth she had rather liked it, taken comfort from it. She was frustrated now that she had woken here in this present. She lay on her side and stared towards the ocean. Three days on and there was still no place she wanted to be. She eyed the tablets on the nightstand, comforted by their very presence. They were a mild sedative prescribed by the young doctor whose name she now knew was Dr Kent, like Clark, but alas he was without any special powers. How she wished this were not the case. How she wished he could make time go backward like the Superman of her youth, flying faster and faster the wrong way around the earth until he stopped it spinning and sent it back a little and then with his grief exhausted, he had been able to swoop down and take his love into his arms and she was present, not gone; restored. Like magic.
How can I do that? How can I make time go backward? I have read books – The Time Traveler’s Wife, The Time Machine – are they true? Who knows? Maybe fiction is a cover! Who can I ask? Maybe there are people on this earth who can take me back to that moment when I shouted ‘Love you!’ from the shower room and then James asked me, ‘How about another glass of fizz? It’s not going to drink itself,’ and I would say no! I would scream no! NO! NO! NO! And I would run to Oscar’s cabin and I would sit on the floor in front of the door and I would watch him sleep, watch him move in slumber, never leaving my post and if he stirred, I would say, ‘Go back to sleep, my darling, Mummy’s right here.’ Oh, oh, to have that moment again!
The Coordinates of Loss Page 4