She thought about the four bathrooms in the house in Bermuda, three of them rarely ventured into. Now, huddled in this little bed, she marvelled at how they had lived as a family, growing up with just one loo and one shower, never questioning it, thankful for all they did have. Life in their big house on North Shore Road had quickly become the norm and she had to admit it was lovely not to have to plan your ablutions around somebody else’s body clock and not to have to stand with your legs crossed in desperation when you came in from school and your brother took all the time in the world behind the locked door while you banged on it and shouted fit to burst.
She lay on her side and held Mr Bob under her chin with the Tic-Tac box flat in her palm.
I wonder how you are feeling today, James? I wonder when this pain in my chest will go away? I wonder when I will feel happy to wake up instead of disappointed? I wonder if I ever will? Where do you rest, my Oscar? Where do you sleep, my baby? Rachel whispered, thankful for the wave of slumber that swept her thoughts from under her and rocked her back to sleep.
The sharp knock on the door woke her. She must have slept in.
‘Rachel?’ her mum called as she came into the room. ‘Julie’s popped over! Shall we give you a minute to get yourself together? Good. See you downstairs in a mo, then; bring down any laundry and open the window. I’ll go and pop the kettle on.’
She sat up and rubbed her eyes, trying to sort the complex burble of information issued too quickly by her mum. Julie was here, that much she knew, that and she had to get up.
Her sister-in-law sat at the table in the breakfast nook, nursing a cup of tea. Her lank, mousy hair fell over her face and her glasses sat low on her sharp nose, her expression as ever one of disdain. It wasn’t Julie’s fault; it was just her default resting face, as if something or someone had cheated her – the world had let her down again and she expected nothing less. Julie thought most things were unfair: other people’s successes, other people’s luck, other people’s lives. Rachel could hear her nasal sigh: ‘They’re getting another new car! It’s not fair . . .’ The noise she associated with her was a downcast sigh. James had nicknamed her ‘the optimism hoover’. It used to make her laugh.
‘Cup of tea, love.’ Her mum deposited the mug in front of her as she took a seat.
‘Thank you. Hi, Julie.’
‘Rachel.’
Her sister-in-law visibly coloured and toyed with her phone before turning to her mother-in-law, who now had her head in the fridge.
‘Did I tell you I got a lovely shoulder of lamb from Artingstall’s in Chipping Sodbury? I went over for a walk with my sister and it was half price so I grabbed it and have put it in the freezer; thought we’d have a roast on Brian’s birthday weekend.’
‘Oh smashing, love, good idea. I’ll do spuds and a pud.’
Rachel looked from one to the other and was struck not only by the way her brother’s wife seemed to be morphing into her mother-in-law, but also how Julie appeared to be ignoring her.
She wished she had stayed upstairs and eyed the door, wondering how quickly she could make her excuses and leave, and whether anyone embroiled in the birthday-lamb discussion would even notice.
Her mum closed the fridge and came over to the table. Julie budged up and Jean took a seat next to her. She reached over and squeezed Rachel’s hand.
‘Julie said she was nervous about seeing you, didn’t know what to say. I told her it was okay to feel that way.’
Rachel nodded, embarrassed at how her mum spoke for the grown woman, just as she had for Peter. She could picture her brother and his wife having a domestic and her mum chipping in with, ‘Come on now you two, play nicely together!’
Julie continued to look downward and Rachel wasn’t sure if she was expected to offer solace and help grease her sister-in-law’s verbal path or whether the convention was to sit it out and hope she found her tongue. Both felt like a bloody imposition and her pulse raced.
‘It’s okay, Julie, we can talk about it; it helps,’ her mum cooed.
Helps who exactly? Rachel wondered, but rather than give vent to all that bubbled inside, she kept quiet, reminding herself that there was no perfect response.
‘So how you doing, then?’ Julie asked quietly with an air of reluctance, reminding her of when Oscar had to be coaxed into offering thanks for an unwanted gift, eyes down, fingers fidgeting, feet pointing towards the door.
It didn’t go unnoticed that everyone asked her this, and her embarrassment at a lack of suitable response hadn’t lessened.
‘I don’t know, really.’
While still the best she could manage, it was a thin response that satisfied no one, but that was too bad. She simply didn’t have the words and was actually glad of that, certain that to verbalise the depth of hell into which she had plummeted and the fierce, brutalising grief that dogged her every waking moment would only sour the thoughts and live in the memory of all who had to hear it. Even she in her altered mental state knew that that was unfair.
‘I can’t imagine.’ Julie shook her head.
Lucky, lucky you.
‘We have had a terrible time trying to explain it to Hayden and Nate. Just terrible.’ Julie tutted and seemed to find her voice. Her mum joined in with a sigh, borrowed from Julie no doubt, and a nod, as if confirmation were needed. It was an annoying symphonic duet, lacking empathy and understanding, and was more than Rachel could stand. She took a sip of her tea, preparing for what might come next.
‘I mean, they weren’t that close, the kids, were they, really? Not with you all being so far away, and I think they found him a bit boisterous when he did come over, but they were cousins at the end of the day. I was up sleepless, thinking what to say and how to say it. It’s been terrible.’
Rachel stared at her and felt her jaw muscles clench.
Yes, terrible. So you’ve said . . .
She wondered simultaneously how Julie had been able to make the whole horrific event about her and whether she was aware that to use even the mildest negative association towards her son made her want to grab the Mallorcan cruet-and-napkin holder and smash it over her head.
‘How are the boys?’ She pictured her nephews: ten-year-old Hayden and eight-year-old Nate. Sweet kids, playful and pleasant.
‘They’re fine. At my mum’s. It’s an inset day.’ Julie slurped her tea. ‘So a day off school.’
‘Julie thought it best not to bring them over in case it was too much for you,’ her mum explained.
‘There’s no need to hide them away,’ she whispered, part of her having to admit that to see small children, especially boys, was still very, very tough and it seemed that when outside of the house that was all she saw – boys of Oscar’s age, Oscar’s build . . .
Her mum nodded and reached for a napkin, crying without warning, and this in turn was a trigger for her own tears. It was a reminder that each of them was grieving and there was no right or wrong way. Rachel slipped guiltily from the table and trod the stairs with Treacle hot on her heels. She quietly closed the bedroom door and climbed under the duvet.
Boisterous, loud, inquisitive, funny and wonderful; you were all this and more. My lovely boy . . .
Rachel and her dad continued to walk of an evening, largely in silence, bar the odd observation on the weather or some other exchanged tidbit about their day. Their route was unchanged, out round Engine Common and up to Rangeworthy and then across and back down the Jubilee Way. Her pace better now, she walked along the rain-soaked tarmac without thought or consideration of the conditions, the cool blast of air in the shadow of night often the best part of her day. Their path was lit by the bright lamp posts that would have been out of place on Bermuda’s streets, where many areas were dark, thick with undergrowth and the song of the tree frog, which were sometimes picked out in the glow from cosy house lamps flooding out over the palm trees, giant ferns and twisty lanes.
As they neared home, with her trainers quickening at the prospect of the warm bath t
hat awaited her, they saw Mrs Donaldson coming in the opposite direction. Their neighbour pulled her aging retriever, Rusty, to heel.
‘I thought it was you!’ the woman called, her tone jolly and excited, telling Rachel that she couldn’t possibly know. Her pulse raced and her mouth went dry at what might come next. She looked behind her at the straight line of pavement and realised there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
‘Evening, Margery.’ Brian stepped slightly ahead of his daughter, instinctual in the way he tried to shield her, and her heart flexed because of it.
‘Hello, Brian, Rachel, well, how lovely to see you, dear! Goodness me, you have lost weight; you need some of your mum’s home cooking. Please tell me you are not trying to lose weight; you are positively skinny!’
‘I’m not dieting.’ Her stomach sinking, she bent to pet Rusty, avoiding the woman’s gaze.
‘It is so lovely to see you! I didn’t know you were coming over. How long are you staying?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She swallowed at the unsatisfactory truth.
‘You didn’t pick the best weather – been grim, hasn’t it? You could at least have brought some of that sunshine with you! Mind you, we are off to Lanzarote in three months. Can’t wait – bit of sun, glass of sangria, just the thought of it gets me through the long nights. We are going with some friends from the bowling club. Ray’s not that keen, but I’ve told him you can’t spend your life in front of the telly.’
Rachel raised a false smile.
‘Oh, but it must be lovely for Jean having you here. I thought I hadn’t seen her out and about; that explains it. I know she misses you all so much. It’s not the same when your kids are far away. I’m lucky, mine are only over in Thornbury and the buses are quite good, but even so I wish they were right next door! I can only imagine how hard it must be for her. I bet she’s spoiling Oscar rotten! I remember the last time you all came over and she was feeding him chocolate for breakfast!’ She chuckled.
Brian gave a small laugh at the memory and she too pictured him sitting on the sofa with a chocolate-smeared mouth. ‘What have you had for your breakfast, Oscar?’ she had asked with mock disapproval. ‘Not chocolate!’ he answered, ‘I had . . .’ He put his finger in his mouth and thought hard. ‘What did you tell me to say I had had, Nanny? I can’t remember!’
‘He must be getting big! How old is he now?’ Margery pulled her from the memory and she was grateful. Her heart thudded and she felt the pulse in her throat.
I don’t know what to say to you . . . I don’t know what to do . . . If I tell you, you will tell other people, share this awful, awful news that will itch under your skin and burn an image in your mind until you pass it on and they will pass it on with the same need and then eventually the whole world will know . . . and that will make it real. I like it when people don’t know. I like it that you picture us all at home, in the sunshine, together and not dismantled.
Rachel had known this day would come, and somewhere in the back of her mind she might even have rehearsed words that would sufficiently satisfy the enquirer without causing distress to her or them. But right here, right now on the pavement, standing opposite Mrs Donaldson, with Rusty sniffing at her calf, she was damned if she could remember what those words might be. She heard her dad take a sharp breath and this she understood; it was the pain of recollection, the horror of the facts and the latest reminder of where they were in this stage of grief.
She tried for diversion. ‘I am here on my own, actually.’
Mrs Donaldson was not in the mood for diversion. ‘Oh no! What a shame. Not that it’s not lovely to see you, of course, but I know how much Jean misses that little boy. How old is he now?’
‘He was seven last birthday,’ she offered quietly.
We had a bouncy castle in the garden. James tried to organise games like musical chairs for the sugar-fuelled crew, but they scattered like mice, preferring to run around, and so he gave up and nursed a beer on the diving board. Cee-Cee strung up bunting and balloons in the trees and Oscar and Hank both dressed as Spider-Man and fired Nerf guns at their classmates. A sponge bullet hit Daisy and she cried and Oscar gave her a special Spidey hug by way of apology and let her fire back at him. She took aim and missed. He gave her three goes, she got him in the end, right on the chest, and peace was restored. He went to bed exhausted, but happy . . .
‘Good lord, time flies! Seven! I still picture him as a toddler.’
‘Actually, Margery, we have had some terrible news.’ Her dad swallowed.
‘Oh no, is Jean okay?’ The woman clutched the front of her coat and Rachel saw then that this would be a reasonable assumption – her mum being older and a bit overweight was the first thought that might occur . . . whereas the very last would be anything to do with the healthy, vibrant, beautiful seven-year-old boy who had his whole life ahead of him.
‘Something awful happened’ – he paused – ‘and Oscar passed away very suddenly. It was an accident. At sea.’
She looked up at her dad, thankful that he had found the courage to speak the very difficult words, succinct and formal. She stored them away, noting at the back of her mind that they did not provoke the same jolt of anger as when James had said similar. Her dad did nothing to halt the tears that fell down his ruddy cheeks.
Mrs Donaldson opened her mouth and reached out to Rachel; she gripped her arm tightly. Rusty seemed to sense the change in the air and almost cowered next to her. ‘Rachel! Oh my goodness! Oh no! I don’t know what to say.’ She shook her head. ‘I am so, so sorry. He brought so much joy. Goodness me.’
Rachel nodded, touched.
‘What can I do? How can I . . . how can I help?’
‘You can’t,’ she whispered. ‘But thank you.’
Now at a much slower pace, they made their way home. The weight of the conversation with Mrs Donaldson about their shoulders made the last mile tough. She looked back at the woman and her dog. They hadn’t moved, but stood near the lamp post, as if newly reminded of how quickly a life can change and wary of taking a step in the wrong direction. This she understood. This was what her life was like now, no longer confident that every step was going to fall on solid ground. It meant she navigated her way with trepidation, wary of the fall.
Forgoing her bath, Rachel eschewed her mum’s offer of cocoa and carried her aching bones to bed.
As she lay there her phone rang. It was James.
‘Hi,’ she whispered.
There was a pause, ‘I was just . . . just thinking about you. Are you okay?’
She cried noisily and he matched her tear for tear across the miles, their distress a duet that erased the distance between them. No matter how far apart, they were still two parents who had created one heart that no longer beat.
‘James!’ she managed.
‘I know. I know . . .’
They sobbed until he broke the rhythm, ‘I . . . I need to go, Rach. I am in the line at the bank and people are looking at me and I need to get home . . .’
She let her distress wash over her, cradling the phone to her. She could hear the murmur of her parents’ conversation, talking at a lowered pitch in the kitchen. Her dad was probably filling her in on their encounter with Mrs Donaldson. Rachel clung to Mr Bob and rubbed the smooth Tic-Tac box on her cheek. She pictured her dressing-gown pockets full of wet sand on that day; it played in her head like a home movie, over and over and over. Mrs Donaldson had looked shocked, bewildered, and this too she understood. It was still a shock to her that Oscar would forever be seven, missing his arrival into double figures and so much more: starting big school, university, his first girlfriend or rather his first proper girlfriend – one he didn’t fire a Nerf-gun pellet at. She pictured Daisy and Hank and all of his classmates who would go on to do all the things denied to him because of one moment of inattention, one casual wander too far.
She considered, as she often did, that one second where he would have been airborne and things could have been so different, t
hat one second when she had a glorious opportunity to turn this life-destroying event into nothing more than a ‘that was close’ moment. She pictured grabbing him, pulling him back on to the deck, smiling and kissing his freckled face whilst chastising him, relief pouring from grateful lungs and a heart full of thanks. If only she had not in that moment been sleeping, having sex, laughing with James as they sought pleasure with the door locked. Inattentive. Distracted. Responsible.
Rachel heard the doorbell and waited with her head lifted slightly from the pillow to hear her mum’s familiar sing-song greeting. The doorbell rang again. With no small measure of reluctance, she flung the duvet back and grabbed her dressing gown, pushing her arms into it and fastening it around her waist without haste, hoping that by the time she opened the part-glazed front door, the caller would have given up and gone, saving them both the pain of interaction. No such luck. She could make out the blonde top of a head through the small glass pane and hoped it wasn’t Julie. Her sister-in-law was more than she could cope with today. Any day.
But it wasn’t Julie.
With her slumbering, red-haired, eight-month-old in her arms, it was her best friend Victoria, whose parents lived further along the street and with whom she had walked to school and shared her formative years, until the lure of a life with her beloved James Croft took Rachel far, far away.
The two women stared at each other and there was a moment when neither spoke. They exchanged a look of pure sorrow as understanding flowed between them like a current. Friends and mothers.
‘My mum told me you were home. I didn’t know you were coming back or I would have been straight over. I wrote, I called and I have not stopped thinking about you for a single second.’ Vicky breathed. ‘Can you hold him while I go and grab his baby bag?’ Without further discussion or hesitation, as was her way, Vicky placed the sleeping Francisco in her arms and dashed back up the path. Her friend would never know what this gesture meant. She thought of Julie and Peter, who kept her nephews away, building the drama, stoking the fear, and yet here was Vicky, not only unafraid to broach the subject, but trusting her, one mother to another, to hold her most precious thing.
The Coordinates of Loss Page 14