by Susan Sallis
Anyway, the move. It’s a long way from New England to Florida, and it was going to take a week for our stuff to get there and be unpacked, and Mom Robinson was not going to have me or her grandchild overdoing it, so we stayed with her and had breakfast in bed and a rest every afternoon. It was heaven. I get scared at times when I realize she’s such a long way off, but Rex says she’d take us over if we stayed there much longer, and we’re a family in our own right.
Dad Robinson came with me on the train. We had to change at New York and we decided to take a later connection, and took a taxi and drove around for two hours just looking. Fantastic. The buildings. Empire State and Chrysler and Radio City and Times Square and the Cloisters. And the little streets too, old-fashioned with small shops like in the Barton when we followed that German spy into White City. Then we went back to Grand Central and picked up the Amtrak, and before that Dad Robinson found a phone and rang home to Mom and talked to her, and then I talked to her. Grand Central is like a cathedral, bigger than ours but no whispering gallery. And I thought of Mom, folding the laundry and taking one of her fruit cakes out of the oven.
It was so strange, Rache. Underneath everything there’s still this layer of homesickness for England, and now there’s another layer. I’m homesick for Orion, and the wooden houses set among the trees, and the beautiful school where Dad Robinson teaches American Literature. He could have taken a job as college lecturer – almost double his present salary – at Concord which is the capital of the state of New Hampshire, but he chose to stay in Orion. I think that’s pretty marvellous. To know what is important. I wish Rex was more like that.
Rache, I have to go. Maybe someone will post this for me, too! Yes, something is stirring in the woodshed. Fingers crossed. It’s lovely here, but not much in the way of trees and it reminds me a bit of the Fens in a heatwave. Did you ever go there?
May 1947, Florida
Darling Rache, your last letter made me cry. Will you do me a favour, honey? Throw away – burn, destroy – all the letters you’ve had from me since Vicky was born. This is a serious request, Rache. I think I’m OK now. We had a little hurricane here a week ago, and believe it or not I think it took the last of my blues with it. Also I have a new friend, not a bit like you but English! She’s a GI bride too, and she comes from Devon and has still got a lovely Devon accent. Her mother is one of those who always knows someone who has had the same illness as you’ve got. Apparently Dawn – that’s her name – told her mum about me and Mum knows someone who committed suicide after the birth of her baby – cheery stuff, eh? Some women go seriously mad, too. But then they get better. And I’m getting better. I feel better just knowing that other women get this after giving birth.
Oh Rache, I’m longing to feel well again and be able to look after Vicky properly. And enjoy having sex again, too; I think Rex must be thoroughly fed-up with me and my headaches! I heard Mom say to him the other day, ‘Would you be so cold with our little Meriel if you knew she had cancer?’
And Rex said, ‘She hasn’t got cancer, Mom.’
And Mom said, ‘She’s ill, Rex. She’s really ill. Coming to a strange country, having such a difficult birth. Can’t you see that?’
‘This mollycoddling isn’t doing any good.’ Rex said. ‘Can’t you see that? She’s taking advantage of your good nature, coming all this way to look after her—’
Mom got real mad then, and almost shouted at him. ‘It’s an honour to be asked to step into her shoes, Rex! She trusts me with her daughter and with you. I knew she was going downhill, and I thought she would turn her back on all of us. When she phoned and asked me if I could spare a couple of weeks . . . Oh Rex, I didn’t realize you were so blind!’
I wanted to run out to them and confess to Mom how awful I’d been to Rex, always tired, always headachey. I told him one night if sex was so important to him why didn’t he find a bit on the side, like my dad had done. But she has already stopped seeing me as cute and funny, and I certainly don’t want her to know just how horrible I am. I’ve let Rex see that; I can’t let Mom see it too. When I told her how much better I felt, especially since the hurricane, she called me her brave girl.
‘Let me stay out this week, honey. Just to put you straight for a few days.’ She’s made about a million apple pies and put them in the ice box; there are cakes piled up in tins in the kitchen, and jars of jam and pickles in a long line on the shelf. Dawn tells me not to use them, just let them stay there to impress the other young mothers in our complex. She’s not joking. Because all the husbands work at the agency, the complex is more of a village and is practically incestuous. Everyone is so competitive. I’ve been bottom of the pile since we arrived, really. Could be Mom’s pickles and jams – jellies, they’re called – might make a difference. See? I’m already getting into the swing of things.
I don’t really care about all that. But I would like to take Vicky to the toddlers’ swimming club. The pool in the complex is beautiful. I love to look out of the window and watch the maintenance man raking the leaves off the surface and cleaning up the tables and chairs. It’s like being on holiday. How can you be on holiday all the time, though?
August 1947
Darling, I had to leave you then because Vicky came into the living room holding her grandma’s hand and then Grandma let go and she came walking over all by herself, and laughing fit to burst. Rache, she is so beautiful, I can’t tell you, otherwise I start to cry. But she is.
Anyway, I was going to go on writing to you, and then it was time for Mom to go so Dad could meet her in New York, which was great, and then I sort of had to get used to . . . everything. Babies are so full-time, Rache. I know you don’t even want to get married till you’re twenty-one, and then you want to wait a couple of years. But I have to tell you now, while I really know it, that babies are such hard work it’s incredible. That’s my excuse for leaving this letter for over two whole months! Also I wanted to be able to tell you that I am coping and everything is hunky-dory again, Rex and I are more in love than ever and I’ve got some marvellous news – I’m pregnant again! I know you’re going to say I should have waited a bit longer, but this time it’s different, honey. I’m strong and I know what I’ve got to face, and anyway my doctor is a poppet and is going into the whole thing – it’s got a name but I can’t remember what it is. He’s let me have some pills that will make sure I don’t get like it again. You can get pills for everything over here, Rache. It’s just great. Vicky will be two by the time Junior arrives so she shouldn’t need diapers any more. Rex says he’s not so sure about having a big family now, and maybe if Junior turns out to be a boy we can ‘get by’! Aunt Mabe has said she will come out and help, but Rex says we don’t need any help and we’re doing fine. Which we are.
Time for a pill, honey. Honestly, I feel on top of the world. When you decide to have a baby you must get some of these pills. They are really marvellous, Rache. If only I’d had Gus when I was expecting Vicky. Gus is this new young doctor, Rache. It’s all first names here and anyway with a name like Augustus Michaelson it’s a good job, huh? Rache, here she comes. Vicky. She’s had a nap and Dawn just came by and lifted her out of her cot and she’s tottering across the room towards the bureau. I guess she knows her Aunt Rachel’s letter is sitting here. More later.
Rache, it’s midnight and Rex has at last fallen asleep. Dreadful news. Dad Robinson rang him in the office. Mom has been diagnosed with cancer. It’s in two places, her pancreas and colon. They can operate on one and not the other. I don’t understand it. Tomorrow I’m going to see Gus and ask him about it. I want to be with her, Rache, like she was with me after Vicky. It’s amazing that I haven’t been over here for two years yet, but I love her. I was always sorry for my own mum and I thought that was loving her, but it wasn’t. Not properly. I should have known that, because I used to envy you your mum. And now, I’ve just discovered that I love my mother-in-law and it looks like she’s going to die. Oh, Rache, life is so peculiar. Vicky’s c
rying, and it’s so hot I can’t even cuddle her. I’ll write more tomorrow after I’ve talked to Gus.
A quick postscript. Talked to Gus. More concerned about me not sleeping – given me some pills for nights. Says he’s not really up on cancer unless it’s in the uterus, in which case it’s hysterectomy time. Suggests I get up there to see her as soon as poss. I’m only four months with Junior, so am over sickness and feel absolutely great – told you all that. So Vicky and I going to Orion tomorrow. I talked to Dad on the phone, and though he’s far more reserved than Mom he said, ‘I wanted to ask you to come, Meriel. Thank you. She will be so pleased.’ I expected him to let me talk to her but he said, ‘Here’s your Aunt Mabe, she’s been trying to grab the phone off me ever since it rang!’
Aunt Mabe said she’s moved in to take care of things and it would be lovely for her to take care of Vicky. I said all chokingly, ‘He called you my Aunt Mabe.’
And she said, ‘I hope you didn’t mind. You are my only hope of a niece.’
I got control of myself and told her I didn’t mind. I thought I had aunts back home, but I’d never met them and it would be lovely to have a real live one. And then I lost control again because I’d said real and then live. And Mom Robinson would always be real, but it was beginning to sound as though she might not be alive much longer.
Anyway, kiddo, that’s it. Gloomy. And as Rex said we have got to be optimistic, and there’s no reason to be anything else. If the train is not too rackety I’ll write during the journey. Vicky will sleep a lot, I hope!
August 1947, Orion
Last day of August, Rache. It’s going to be an early autumn. Wish you could see the trees, honey. They are so beautiful it makes you cry. Why can’t human beings look so beautiful at the end, why has all our colour got to be leached out of us like it is? It’s not fair . . . I need Rex here to tell me that ‘life just ain’t fair, baby’. And it sure ain’t.
Vicky and I have been here two weeks now, and it seems like we’ve never been anywhere else; Florida is an arid dream. OK, it’s got the Everglades and alligators and beautiful beaches, but it doesn’t suit me. It suits Vicky, though; anywhere suits Vicky. She’s so happy, Rache. She adores her grandma and grandad and she is the light of their lives. Grandad nurses her for half an hour before her bed time and they go through picture books together with him teaching her a different word each evening. She never forgets them either. She turns to the right page and points and says, ‘Sea!’ ‘Sun!’ ‘Stars!’ Then ‘Bird!’ ‘Boy!’ ‘Bucket’, and Mom watches from the bed with a smile on her dear grey face and nods sagely when I pick Vicky up for bed. ‘Well done, Jack. What an excellent teacher you are.’ And believe it or not, Jack blushes! What’s he going to do afterwards, Rache? What’s he going to do without his Ellie?
She doesn’t want to talk much in the evenings. The night-time dose of morphine hasn’t kicked in by then, and she is struggling with the pain. That’s my time with her. Aunt Mabe and Dad try to talk to her, take her mind off it. She asked if I could stay with her because I didn’t mind not talking, and I didn’t get upset when she ‘moaned and groaned’. She doesn’t moan or groan, but when she tenses and makes little grunts, I know then that it is bad. And actually I do get upset. It’s just that I don’t let it show.
Only last night she suddenly sighed and said, ‘It’s all right now, my dear. I’ll be asleep in ten minutes if you want to go and check on Vicky.’
I got up and went close to the bed and put my hand over hers; the veins on the backs of her hands are like ropes, literally. I said, ‘Mom, you should have a medal.’
And she smiled with her eyes closed and said, ‘Oh, I think we all get one, darling. That’s the deal, as I understand it.’ I put my cheek to hers and she turned her hand and held mine.
I whispered right in her ear, ‘I wish I could be like you.’
And she whispered right back, ‘You are. We’re so alike . . . so alike . . .’ and she was asleep. I stood by the window for ages, looking out. It was still light and the trees seemed to wrap around us, secure, safe. There’s still hope, Rache. While there’s life, there’s hope.
September 1947, Orion
I meant to write a little bit each day, like a diary. I’ve got more time than I’ve ever had for sitting and thinking and writing it all down. But August has gone, and Dad has gone back to school, and there’s less time, but here I am, anyway. Did I tell you that Vicky calls Dad ‘Pop’? Just like a real little American, which she is, of course. I think at first it was just ‘Puh’ – just a noise she made when she looked at him. But he was delighted and told everyone she called him Pop, and now she does! The bed time thing in Mom’s room is quite something with the two of them, and he rocks her gently as time goes on, and she likes to go to sleep right there on his lap so he can carry her to her cot. Mom says she wants to make this time really good and special and that’s how it is. Not just Vicky and Pop, but Aunt Mabe and me, too. Until Pop went back to school we took Vicky for a walk after lunch, and we saw such things, Rache! A nest of mice getting ready to hibernate, and winter aconites, and a snowy owl who shouldn’t have been out and about at all, but was. We told Mom about it and Vicky nodded and clapped her hands and I made proper English tea . . . I can’t tell you how lovely it is, Rache. So peaceful. The baby is moving very gently, too. Rex rings most nights, and he reckons we’ve got a real Babe Ruth now, and he’s practising right in my tummy! Rex has got time off work later this month and he’s coming over. She’s hanging on for that. Mom, I mean.
Rex says if you’re getting married next year, maybe we can come. Depending on Babe Ruth, of course. Then I can sort out this business of Mrs Rabbit. Of course she’s not following you, Rache! You’ve seen her twice, for God’s sake. You both live in the same city so that’s not surprising. Forget it, honey. Just forget the whole business.
October 1947, Orion
Darling, she has gone. Eleanora Robinson. Apparently when she met Jack he said her name was a tongue twister and he would call her Ellie. And he did. Last night Ellie went to sleep as usual and just stopped breathing about two o’clock in the morning. Rex was with her and did not even notice until that time. He knew she was still with us at midnight, but then couldn’t be certain when she left. I came near to seeing a dead body before, didn’t I, Rache? When we were kids . . . only three years ago. I can’t believe that. Three years have made such a difference to me. Anyway, I missed it, then, thank goodness. But I wouldn’t want to have missed this one. Because I know Mom isn’t there. And that’s important, Rache. Remember that. You need to know that the body has so little to do with the person. Ergo . . . as Miss Hardwicke would say . . . there’s got to be another place for that person to be. And that must mean there’s a good chance we will actually all meet up again. I bet you’re choking with surprise at Meriel Robinson writing these words! But she is, and she means them. Mom, the person not the body, is still around.
Thank you for all the letters I’ve had from you during this time, Rache. It’s been a very precious and wonderful time for me, and your letters have made it even specialer. Two arrived in one day and Mom was as pleased as I was, and told me I’d always be all right with a friend like you. I knew that, but not properly, somehow. I know how you feel towards Tom. Sort of protective. At least Tom allows you to protect him, to care for him. Rex seems to think that if he lets me in it will be a sign of weakness. Pop is the same. But Pop gets such comfort from Vicky, they’ve got a real bond, it’s absolutely lovely. The other day she got fed-up with being told that Grandma was in heaven, and she cried – it was frustration – almost anger – because grief means nothing to her, really. And Pop held her to him, thinking she was grieving, and he wept into her hair. I was watching from the kitchen, ready to go and get her if she upset him. Then I saw that it was right for him to be upset. I do so wish Rex could get upset. He was a pall bearer at the funeral, and as the coffin went past me I swear I could hear his teeth grinding together. He’s like Vicky, he’s angry. Tha
t’s how he is in bed. Angry. Is it with me – could it possibly be with me, Rache?
I wrote that last night. I heard him say goodnight to Pop, and I shoved everything under the bed and put out the light and turned on my side. But he didn’t even ask if I was awake. He just pulled me over and made love to me, except there wasn’t much love about it. There are much worse things than crying, Rache. Let Tom get it out of his system any way he can, but get it out. It was so cruel to be told that his father was in that Singapore hospital and then to find it was not his dad at all. And there must be many others who will never know what happened to their relatives in the war, too. It is dreadful, Rache.
Later
Rex is driving Aunt Mabe to her house. She is going to sell it, and is meeting a prospective buyer. She has made up her mind to come and look after Pop. He was talking of leaving the school house and taking a room in the local hotel, and Rex suggested she should move down to Orion and they could keep on the school house, which is so handy for his work, and such a lovely place with so many happy memories. Mabe was born in Orion and still has heaps of friends here. Neither of them knew what to say, but they must have talked it over quite a bit, because Aunt Mabe brought it up at the supper table last night, and there were all sorts of ‘clauses’, as she put it. One was that if either of them met someone else or got fed up with the situation, the arrangement would be terminated instantly.