“You know,” he said on one occasion, “I sometimes think that having a powerful intellect, talent, or personality can be a mixed blessing, because it’s all the more frustrating to see it restricted by external circumstances. You say you and your mother are – to some extent at least – cut from the same cloth, but you are more open to faith than she is, perhaps because of your father’s influence on you early in life. From those I have spoken to over the years it does seem harder for some people to admit that they can’t do it all by themselves, that we are all limited. And yet to do so is simple realism: whatever an individual can achieve through personal effort and sacrifice, death destroys it all in the end – or so it seems to our human understanding. Your father, from what you have said, taught you to love and revere creation, which was his way of acknowledging and praising God. Seeing God as Creator must surely lead to the notion that everything you have – life itself, health, brains, good genes, education, and so on – are all from his hand; he is the origin and instigator of all good.” He paused, smiling kindly at me. “I dare say you have had these thoughts already, and have realized that you can’t refute them by mere logic. But that’s a different matter to learning to live by what you believe intellectually – that can be a lifetime’s work.”
“I know that I am far from perfect and also that I can control very little,” I said. “But as you say, it’s a matter of altering my habits of thinking.”
“You see, Rachel, because we are of necessity limited as individuals – because we have no control over when, or where, or to whom we are born, for instance, not to mention all the other limitations we experience – we must rise to life’s challenges within God’s will. If we refuse, our nature being what it is, before long even our best impulses become corrupted, and we end up serving only ourselves – even if this is hidden beneath a veneer of philanthropy.”
“And it is so easy to fool yourself,” I said soberly.
He nodded. “Yes, we are good at that.”
***
Michael and I married on a cold, still day in mid-December, when fog lay on the river like a blanket and shrouded the lower parts of the trees, so that their crowns seemed to be floating. He was at the church steps a little before me, having found a nearer parking space. I was camping in the Axtons’ flat at the time, because although I had been more or less living at Michael’s since returning to Brant I’d been banned for a few days while the room that was to be my study and hideaway was decorated and refurbished. We’d decided, for the time being at least, to keep the house on, as much for Dulcie’s and Jasper’s sakes as anything, and it was anyway very convenient for the hospital.
Having got myself ready I listened out for the Axtons’ Mercedes rolling down the drive before I gave it five minutes and left myself. My mother was staying with the Axtons, who had taken pity on her and saved her from a longish journey from Porton on the day of the ceremony. Others, such as Jimmy, Beth and Amelia, and Bridget and Malcolm, had arrived at midday.
I parked the car, and looked at my watch. I was on time. The service was to take place at Michael’s church in Brant, All Souls, a middling-sized Georgian building. I’d been attending with him for a couple of months and was beginning to feel I might one day be part of the family there – though it was nothing like St Luke’s with its exuberant welcome. Michael was waiting at the top of the steps, and when I saw him in his well-pressed dark suit and white shirt – with, I noted, smiling to myself, a red tie – I felt strange, as if I had landed on another planet. He saw me and a smile lit up his face, as he stretched out a hand to me.
“Wow.” He looked me up and down. “That beats a white confection any day.”
I’d only told him my outfit was red, so he could match it with his tie. There could have been no other colour, not since he’d confessed to eyeing me up appreciatively when I wore the red swimming costume at the Bowmans’ barbecue. The dress was made of some light woollen material, reaching to just below the knee and flaring slightly at the hem, and the jacket, which sat snugly above my hips, was piped in black. “Glad you approve. You’re looking pretty fine yourself. Almost handsome, in fact.”
He grinned. “That brings back a memory of your dear mother.”
We both laughed, remembering the day when we’d moved her from the hospital to the nursing home at the end of August. I’d introduced her to Michael, and he was ahead of us, carrying some of her stuff. She was leaning on my arm as we followed, and she hissed, in the loudest of stage whispers, and quite deliberately, “Rachel! You never told me he was so good-looking!” I’d looked at Michael’s retreating back and down at my mother with a puzzled frown. “Oh! Is he?” At which she slapped my wrist.
“My mother is incorrigible,” I said. “Ever the actress. Shall we go in? I’m freezing. Fancy clothes are never very warm.”
I took his arm and we turned towards the church door – closed to keep in the heat. But then I heard a screech of tyres and turned to the road where a taxi had pulled up at the kerb, its engine throbbing. A man was leaning in at the window, presumably paying his fare, and when he turned I screamed. “Michael! It’s Martin – my brother!”
I flew down the steps, almost breaking my neck because of my unaccustomed shoes, and fell into my brother’s arms.
“By heck, Lizzie, steady on, girl!”
I stood back and looked at him, and to my shame tears oozed from the corners of my eyes. What a crybaby I am becoming. “I thought you couldn’t come! Why didn’t you tell us?”
“No time,”’ he said. “Schedule got changed, and I managed to find an earlier flight. I’ve come straight from Heathrow.”
“You have an Antipodean twang. And you look more like our father than ever.”
“Do I? You look different – I like the short hair. And you’re not quite as skinny. So am I in time – it’s not all over, is it?”
“No, we were just about to go in. They’ll wonder what’s happened to us. But come and meet Michael.”
The two men shook hands at the top of the steps.
“Mart, we can’t let you just stroll in. Mother might have a heart attack. We must warn her.”
“How is the old battle-axe?”
“Much better… but you can see for yourself.”
“I’ll slip in discreetly,” Michael said, “and have a word with Peter. Wait here a moment.”
Martin and I leaned on the parapet of the steps, arm in arm. I took him in, all six feet and blond beard and blue eyes, his skin tanned from the New Zealand sun. “You OK, then, Lizzie?” he said. “You look pretty OK.”
“I am very OK, thanks,” I said softly. “Never better.”
“And your hands?”
“Functional. I’m working again. The transfer to Brant’s permanent now, and I –”
I was cut short by the church door opening, and my mother appeared, leaning on Michael’s arm. When she saw Martin her hand flew to her mouth and tears filled her eyes.
“Hey, Ma,” he said as he strode forward and hugged her. “Looking good.” For once she was speechless.
“Shall we go in?” Michael said. “There’s a bemused congregation and a slightly anxious vicar in there.”
“Yep,” Martin said. “Come on then, Ma; you can lean on me. Nice dress, by the way, but not warm enough for outside in December.” He took her back inside and pulled the door to.
“Darling, you won’t want to be seen looking like a panda,” Michael said. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the mascara from beneath my eyes. I was still in some shock. “Come on,” he said, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm. He brushed a stray hair from my forehead and kissed me. “There’s something going on in this church today, and for some reason they won’t start without us.”
“What I want to know is,” I said, wrinkling my nose, “how come he’s allowed to call her Ma?”
We’d talked about going away somewhere once Christmas and New Year were over and Jasper was back at school.
Michael was lean
ing on the kitchen worktop, buttering a piece of toast. “Somewhere warm, maybe?”
“If that’s what you want, but if you’re asking me..?”
“I’m asking you.”
“I’d like to go to Roqueville for a week or two.”
He grimaced. “It’ll be freezing in January.”
“You’ve got plenty of logs in that outbuilding,” I said. “We can rest. Read by a roaring fire, eat, drink, sleep. Etcetera.”
“Mm. I like the sound of Etcetera.”
“Ha! We’ll see if you can keep up.”
He laughed. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
“And,” I said, “we can see how Gérard is, and catch up with the folk at St Luke’s.”
“What about Dulcie?”
“Take her, of course. She’ll be happier with us than in kennels, and we’ll have to take her out for walks which will save us from becoming obese hermits.”
“OK, if that’s what you really want to do.”
“I associate Roqueville with simply being happy – no pressures, no obligations. Even if there were a few disasters – like almost losing the dog. And Gérard.”
Michael washed his hands at the sink, finished his coffee, and shrugged on his jacket. “Roqueville it is, then. Saves having to book anything except the ferry. Now I must go to work.” He ruffled my hair as he passed and picked up his briefcase. “See you.” He was whistling as he left the house.
First Christmas had to be endured, and I was not looking forward to it. I had of course met Michael’s wider family at the wedding, but that provided little opportunity to get to know anyone. It was arranged that we would spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with Michael’s mother, Barbara, who lived on her own since the death of her husband eleven years before. Jasper would spend Christmas with his mother and then Michael would go to London early on Boxing Day and bring him down to join the family – including Michael’s solicitor sister Sarah, her husband Brian, and two young daughters. They lived just a few miles from Barbara, but we were more than two hundred miles away and Michael saw his family rarely. As for me, I was determined to do my best to get on with everyone for Michael’s sake, but I hadn’t realized quite how problematic this was going to be. My experience of family life was sketchy, and for the past twenty years practically non-existent. I was not well-grounded in how to live with strangers in close proximity. The house was too hot, we ate and drank and lounged about too much, and the girls, aged ten and eight, were soon bored with adult company. I managed to offend my sister-in-law even before the turkey was on the table. The girls called Michael “Uncle Mike”, and referred to me as “Aunt Rachel”. “Please,” I said, smiling, “call me just Rachel. You make me feel old.”
Sarah’s expression was challenging: chin up, eyes staring. “It’s what I said they should call you. It’s what you are, isn’t it? Their aunt? By marriage, if nothing else.”
I tried to answer pleasantly. “I’d really much prefer to dispense with the honorifics.”
“Aren’t you encouraging them to be disrespectful?” Sarah’s tone was sharp, and by this time heads were up and people, including the children, were listening.
“I don’t think giving me a title is a sign of respect,” I said quietly. “And surely I’m entitled to say what I’d prefer?”
She made no reply, but her pink face gave away her annoyance.
“Did I mess up?” I said to Michael later when we escaped to walk Dulcie. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at family life.”
“You were perfectly within your rights,” Michael said, “and Sarah likes her own way. But when we’re only here for such a short time, and for my mother’s sake, it might be politic to keep your own counsel, back off a bit.”
“Sorry.”
He took my hand and squeezed it. “Not your fault.”
I thought things might be better when Jasper was there to take eyes off me for a bit, but they weren’t. He teased the girls, insisting on calling them George and Charles, and they retaliated by calling him Jasmine, and things got loud and Brian became tetchy. I surprised myself by being irritated by Jasper as well as with Georgina and Charlotte who, I thought privately, were spoilt and whiny. I thought Jasper at least should have known better. On Boxing Day afternoon we were finally free to go home, and we drove to London and dropped Jasper off en route. I felt sorry for Barbara and a little guilty, because she had made an effort with the Christmas preparations and she didn’t see Michael or Jasper very often. I knew Michael rang his mother regularly every week, but until now I hadn’t really thought about how I was going to get on with his family – if at all. All this gave me much to think about, and I stored it up.
We had ten days at the house in France, and they were like a glimpse of heaven. We did just as we pleased, which was very little except be happy in each other’s company.
“If only it could be like this all the time,” I said.
Michael said nothing, just looked at me over his new glasses, smiled, and went back to whatever he was reading: I suspected, something to do with his work. But as soon as I’d spoken I realized the folly – selfishness, even – of my thought. Compared to many we had so much, and yet I was demanding more. Not only that, but I had taken on not only one man but all that went with him. “It can’t be, though – can it?” I said abruptly. “And maybe it’s not meant to be that way.” He looked up, one eyebrow raised enquiringly. “I’ve had a thought. What do you say we take a week off at Easter, invite Georgina and Charlotte down for a few days, take them to London perhaps?”
He frowned. “I thought you didn’t much care for them.”
“I was hasty. I hardly gave them a chance. And Christmas isn’t the best time.” I took a deep breath. “And,” I said, “I’m going to mend fences with Sarah.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“When we get home, I’ll ring her. Apologize. Mount a charm offensive.”
He laughed, then sobered. “You know, you and Sarah have more in common than you may realize.”
“Oh?”
“I live too far away from them for frequent visits; Sarah’s down the road from my mother. I know both she and Brian do a lot to help her. I go up there and am treated like the Prodigal Son. Your brother has been constantly overseas for some years, apart from flying visits. So you and Sarah tend to get the messy end, and I guess aren’t always appreciated. Or that’s how it feels.”
“All I ever did was dutifully visit my mother regularly and take the flak. But I see your point.”
“Perhaps it might be of use in your charm offensive.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “But as to the girls, yes, by all means. I know Sarah and Brian have problems knowing what to do with them during the school holidays.”
“We could drive up to collect them and see your mum at the same time.”
He got up, crossed the room, and sat beside me on the sofa, sliding one arm round my shoulders. “One of the many things I love about you,” he said, “quite apart from the obvious and carnal, is your directness. And positive thinking.”
“Oh. Well, thank you. And one of the many things I love about you,” I said, trying and failing to keep the laughter out of my voice, “is the way you look in those glasses. The wise owl look. It’s strangely sexy.”
Later that evening, as we chopped vegetables in the kitchen, Michael said, “Speaking of Martin, where has he disappeared to? Did he tell you?” Martin had spent Christmas with my mother, but we hadn’t seen him since.
“Ah. Yes – he was a bit secretive and sheepish about it, but he went to spend New Year in Hamburg. He met a German girl in New Zealand while he was working there. She specializes in underwater photography, so they’ve got plenty in common. You never know with Martin, but I got the impression he was seriously smitten.”
“I know how he feels,” Michael said, sighing.
“Oh, really? Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Can’t remember her name now. Tall, lanky sort of woman,
a bit weird.”
“Cheeky.”
We were in France for just one Sunday. We arrived at St Luke’s to a reception even more welcoming than ever – almost embarrassingly over the top, it seemed to me, as they expressed their delight in seeing us together and happy. The congregation was diminished, because now only those resident in France were there, and of them only the hardiest, since the church was chilly and the weather forbidding. But as I looked around covertly during the sermon, watching the attentive faces, I suddenly felt my heart warm. To me these people were like pinpricks of light, such as you might see when looking down from an aeroplane at night as it circles above a city, waiting to land. I thought too of those who had quite unobtrusively modelled the Christian life for me: Bridget, Jasper, Father Vincent, the folk at St Luke’s and All Souls, and of course, every day, Michael himself. Thank you, God, if this is, as I suspect, your work.
Of course we went next door to see Gérard and Marie-Claude. We were introduced to Pascale, a quiet woman with long, lank fair hair and a strangely shuffling gait. Her little boy seemed like her, oddly quiet for a three-year-old. Gérard was himself as ever, apparently little the worse for his waltz with death. He pulled back his shirt to show me where they’d put his ICD and grinned knowingly. What he said I couldn’t quite catch: something about being a robot. Michael asked Marie-Claude privately if she thought Gérard had changed since his illness: had his thinking been affected? She said he was even more forgetful than before, especially when it came to losing his glasses and his car keys, but that having their young grandson in the house kept his spirits up. It was far better than it might have been.
***
Michael often remarked that I constantly surprised him.
“For example?” I said, frowning.
“Well, the way you handled Sarah and the girls,” he said, “when we went up to visit. That could have been a source of friction.”
“Which I really didn’t want,” I said, “and I felt it was down to me to put things right, seeing as I’m the new girl. Also, I thought I could afford to be gracious.”
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