Rachel's Secret

by Susan Sallis

  ‘What situation?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Daphne’s situation. She needs to lose at something.’

  ‘Merry! She lost at marriage, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘She did not. She is the only woman I know who has made a huge success of divorce!’

  Rose said sleepily from within Merry’s arm, ‘And actually, she threw Reggie out . . . he didn’t actually leave her.’

  ‘No.’ Daisy sounded equally sleepy. ‘But he’s got someone else.’

  Rose said, ‘She won’t marry him, though, will she?’

  ‘Well . . . he’s pretty boring.’

  Tom was shaking with laughter by my side. Meriel said in a soothing drone, ‘Go to sleep, both of you. I’ll wake you when we turn into Chichester Street.’

  And Dad, supporting Daisy, said, ‘My God, Merry. You sound just like Flo!’

  ‘That’s the best compliment I’ve ever had, George. Thank you.’

  Thank God, I felt not a pang of jealousy. My Mum and my bestest friend in all the world.

  Meriel went back home two days later, but Gus stayed. She telephoned to say she was safely home, and Rex had decorated everywhere with fake holly, and Vicky and Georgie had worn Santa Claus hats when they met her at the airport. It was all so different over there, I found it hard to imagine. Merry would be back before the end of January; she seemed capable of straddling continents. When I mentioned this to Tom he looked surprised. ‘You did it so easily last June, my love. And you brought back a sort of essence of America . . . you’ll have to do it again. You and Merry between you . . . you’re good at it.’ I suppose he was right – because we have gone on doing it ever since.

  When Meriel came back it was l964 and another winter had set in with a vengeance. It meant that during that spring term we saw very little of Merry. I went to Bristol on the train twice but the ‘icy conditions’ went on for ages and we had a snowstorm the day she flew back home for Easter. It wasn’t until Whitsun that we resumed our regular weekends together.

  It was almost five months since Maude Smith had ‘committed suicide’ and in that time we had sorted out adjustments to our usual pattern. Eve Smith and Gus Michaelson were living at the manor and planning a July wedding, and Gus was practising unofficially, running an unpaid consultancy for some of Eve’s patients. Dad was living in Maude Smith’s old house on the no-longer-rough road, and, besides the wedding, was overseeing the rebuilding of ‘Hermione’s Cottage’, as we all called it now. For the rest of us, life seemed to return to what it had been; but there were subtle changes in relationships, which we were all well aware of. Gilbert moved from his honorary avuncular status to something more official, though it was hard to identify. He filled a niche somewhere between a grandfather and an uncle. And Maxine’s light shone as she chattered on about the things she and Mum had done together. ‘She was my best friend,’ she said to me one day. ‘Like you and Merry. We were silly together. But after she met George, she asked me to look after Gilbert. And I did.’ She put her face into Frou-frou’s topknot and said in a stifled voice, ‘That was why I didn’t stop . . . what happened. I was still looking after Gillie. Can you forgive me, Rachel?’ It had never occurred to me that she bore responsibility for any of the events before my birth. It never would. I realized again that no two marriages were the same, and there must have been an element of passion in my parents’ marriage, recognized by Meriel but not by me.

  The twins showed the greatest change; we had, of course, protected them as best we could from the nightmarish elements of Maude Smith’s madness, but they knew that she had burned down Rough Road Cottage and had tried to stab Eve before she killed herself. They also knew that she was not Eve’s real mother, but we told ourselves this was made more acceptable for them by the fact that Meriel was so free with what she called ‘maternal arrangements’. For the moment that brought them close again, close to us, too. They needed to know each other’s plans and exactly where Dad and Mum were, so each morning we exchanged timetables. If we were going to be out when they got home from school they often went to the cathedral and spent an hour drawing and sketching and making peculiar maps of the building. Tom said gloomily, ‘You know what comes next, don’t you?’ I nodded and he finished, ‘They will tell us they intend to become nuns.’ And I nodded again.

  The only people who stayed the same were Tom and me; I was certain of that. We knew each other as we knew ourselves, our thoughts would mingle effortlessly. We were growing old together. Tom was forty in May. And then it was Whitsun, and Meriel arrived with the usual car boot of books, and a case on the seat next to her, full of clothes for Maria to alter. She had got into the way of doing that ‘as a punishment for DM’. But we both knew it was her way of acknowledging her real mother, and perhaps forgiving her.

  I knew something was wrong almost immediately; she had lost her ‘edge’. The sharp, lemony zest that was the essence of Meriel was not there any more.

  The first Saturday night – it was just June – I asked Tom whether he had noticed anything. He hadn’t.

  ‘She’s wrapped up again in her course, love. And she’s always missing the children. That’s one of the reasons she wants to be with our two.’

  ‘That’s another thing. Maria Nightingale put on a spring fashion show this afternoon – proper catwalk and everything. They wanted her to go with them. Got her a ticket. She said she was too tired.’

  ‘You were going, so it made no difference to them.’

  ‘I had to go – promised Maria the publicity, for what it’s worth. I couldn’t even stay back with Merry, get her some tea.’

  ‘Presumably that was what she wanted. Peace and quiet. And though she gets on all right now with Maria and Dennis, it can’t be easy for her. I mean, the whole situation is simply ridiculous now.’

  I suppose it was; Dennis visited Myrtle every other weekend, quite openly. It seemed to suit everyone. Even Meriel.

  ‘It’s not . . . Merry. She was so polite about it all. Would we mind if she had a nap? That is not Merry. She should have told us to clear off and give her some peace.’ We were in bed and I stared at him in the darkness. I said, ‘D’you think she is ill?’

  He started to laugh quietly, then checked himself and thought about it, then said, ‘No.’ He cradled me comfortingly. ‘Give her some elbow room, Rache. We’re all still reeling from last winter. If there is anything wrong, she’ll confide in you soon. You know that.’

  But the next morning I got up early, thinking I would go to church. I tapped on her door before eight o’clock with a mug of tea.

  ‘I know you’re awake,’ I opened the door a crack. ‘Heard you in the bathroom while I was making tea.’

  It was a wonderful June morning, light was streaming in and revealing strewn clothes everywhere. That didn’t worry me unduly, though actually Merry lived out of her suitcase very neatly each weekend and it was unusual. What was worrying was that she was sitting up in bed, obviously trying to work, her face streaked with tears. She looked up, and forced a smile.

  ‘A brew that is not twin-made?’

  ‘Exactly.’ I put the mug on an empty chair and carried it carefully to the bedside. I said quietly, ‘Can I do anything?’

  She did not prevaricate. She simply said, ‘No.’ She picked up the mug gratefully and held it in both hands as if she was cold. ‘I must sort this lot out and go to see Hermione today. I mean Eve, of course. Is she still living at the manor? How on earth does she stand it after what happened there?’

  ‘She’s got Gus with her. It’s a beautiful place, especially in the summer.’

  She glanced up at me. ‘You’ll miss her.’

  ‘Yes. But . . . well, it’s so great. What is happening to her – to them both. You’re all right with it, are you, Merry?’

  ‘Of course. He was there when I needed him. I know he’s a good man. It couldn’t be better.’ She put down her mug, gathered up a sheaf of papers, and tapped them into shape. ‘You’re going to church. Say one for me.’ />
  I hovered a moment more, then left. I was not reassured. I had not been there for her when she arrived yesterday, and today she was going to the manor.

  I wasn’t a bit keen on Dad living in the Smiths’ old house. After all the fuss and bother had abated after Christmas, Hermione – Eve – had declared she would sell the house as it stood; she could not bear to live there. Dad had immediately made an offer which she had refused. ‘It will suit you to live there for a while, I can see that,’ she said. ‘But it’s not a happy house. I can’t let you buy it, George. You’re having such fun designing Hermione’s Cottage. Live in my house while you do that, and then move down the road and I will sell mine.’ And Dad, being Dad, began to clean and paint Mrs Smith’s domain so that it no longer looked dark and frightening.

  He still came to us for Sunday lunch, and he was disappointed that Meriel was not there.

  ‘The thing about last winter was – all that danger pushed us together. It was the war-time feeling all over again.’

  ‘Oh Grandee,’ Rose protested. ‘All this talk about the war-time feeling. You sound like Miss Hardwicke!’

  Daisy warbled, ‘There’ll be blue birds over . . . the white cliffs of Dover . . .’

  ‘No respect,’ Dad mourned pitifully.

  Tom handed him the carving knife. ‘You’re the only one who can carve decently,’ he said reverently. And through the laughter I remembered how the war and its aftermath had split us so badly that Dad had left us for ten whole years.

  Daisy said unexpectedly, ‘Aunt Merry was sick in the night. I think she’s got an upset tummy.’

  But even as I voiced my concern, I knew the sickness was a symptom of something much more serious. Meriel would have said frankly that she was ‘up-chucking’ and asked for a day in bed. Instead she had already left the house when I got back from church. And I was convinced she had gone to see Gus, not Eve. She had wanted to see the doctor who had helped her in the early years of her marriage.

  The following week Daisy was chosen to represent the Swallow School in the Gloucestershire junior tennis championships. Mrs Rolfe – still the school secretary – was busy, and Miss Hardwicke telephoned to ask whether I could drive her and Daisy to Stroud. It was grey and overcast as we set out, but Miss Hardwicke immediately pointed out that it would stop the players overheating. She had nothing to say when a light drizzle blurred the windscreen.

  We parked and hurried to the pavilion, where there were changing rooms and the absolute luxury of hot showers. The six courts in front of the pavilion were still being dragged as we paused beneath the verandah and took it all in. The school groundsmen were loosening the nets slightly, and girls milled around outside the high wire netting, some with umbrellas but others almost relishing the rain. The umpire platforms were wheeled in, the ball girls took up positions, a loud speaker crackled, Daisy left us hastily, and we settled ourselves beneath the verandah as the first announcements were made. Nothing at all was said about the rain, and as if suddenly ashamed, it gave up and a watery sun appeared.

  Play began at ten thirty and stopped for lunch at twelve thirty. Daisy was still in there. We met her in the school hall where a marvellous buffet was laid out along the edge of the platform. She ate sparingly. She was sparkling. ‘It’s so exciting, Mum. I never thought it would be like this. I thought I’d lose my nerve. Colin keeps telling me I’m good and I thought it was just because . . . you know . . . because. But then Rose watched me in the heats and she said I was really good. Seriously good. And I knew she wouldn’t say it just to get in my good books like Colin so . . . I started to believe it. It was when I beat that girl in the second round. You know, the one in the tiny shorts. Denise Elmhurst. I’d watched her and I knew she was bloody good. And I beat her! So I must be bloody good myself!’

  I glanced at Miss Hardwicke. Apparently she hadn’t heard. She was dealing with some crab vol-au-vents.

  Anyway, Daisy became Junior Girls’ County Champion at the end of that afternoon, and we returned home flushed with victory and so pleased for her. She was pleased, too. She thought Rose and Dad and Grandee would be pleased. And Colin. Colin Beard, she explained carefully to Miss Hardwicke. The one who had given her so much coaching. Miss Hardwicke said she remembered his mother, who was an old girl of the Swallow School. I thought perhaps all this optimism was a good omen and Meriel might not be terminally ill after all.

  On 21 June there came a telegram from Worcester General Hospital. It announced starkly that Stanley Clarke was a patient and would like to see us. It was over a year since Tom had visited him at Upton-upon-Severn and much longer than that since they had had a ‘float-in-a-boat’, as Nobby put it. I telephoned Tom in the office, where he was putting the weekly to bed. He said, ‘Bring the car round to the house, love. Get some Players from the corner shop. And some fruit, if you like. No flowers. Nobby wouldn’t want flowers. Be with you in under an hour.’

  He was sooner than that; the Carfaxes were on another of their cultural visits and life was much easier without Gilbert’s help. Tom dashed in, swilled his face at the sink, changed his jacket and we were off. We did not take in the mid-summer scenery – the A38 was still a country road and the weather was glorious – we used the windscreen wiper to get rid of pollen from the cow parsley . . . none of it mattered. Nobby had become a life-line for Tom, his link with his father. We knew this was the end.

  He was in a side ward and on his own, a sure sign that he was almost there. A nurse told us he was sleeping, and if we could not wake him we could still talk to him. ‘At some level he will almost certainly know you are here,’ she said. Then she closed the door gently, and we stood and looked at the unnaturally supine figure in the bed, vaguely outlined by a blue counterpane, the head of wispy hair barely denting the starched pillows. His hands, incredibly gnarled, ropes of veins weaving across their backs, lay across the turned-down sheet. Tom took them both in his and crouched by the bed.

  ‘We’re here, Nobby.’ He spoke loudly. ‘Rachel and Tom. We came as soon as we heard. How’s it going?’

  There was no answer, but as I fetched a chair and manoeuvred it into the back of Tom’s crooked knees, I thought I saw the shadow of a smile float across Nobby’s face. It was what I wanted to see, of course.

  Tom said, ‘Well, we’re all in this together, old man. Just like in the boat. The same boat. We’re all in the same boat, Nobby. Me and Rache in the bows, you rowing. Your wooden leg stuck straight out, ready to tip us in the river at the slightest provocation—’ He went on like this, then leaned closer and said, ‘Where are we going, Nobby? You’re taking us somewhere new. Where is it?’

  We both saw the smile, then. And we heard the sigh which emerged as a long drawn-out, ‘A-a-ah—’ I reached over and held his elbow, and felt his muscles contract as he pulled on Tom’s hands. Then the door opened again and a green-overalled woman entered. She looked about sixty. She gave us a delighted smile, turned and towed in a trolley containing a large brown enamel teapot, flanked by cups, saucers, a large milk jug and sugar.

  ‘I know Mr Clarke won’t be bothered but I thought you would like a cup of tea. He might manage a beaker, actually.’ As she spoke she was pouring tea and adding milk. She said, ‘You must be Tom and Rachel. He spoke about you so often. Only . . . let me see . . . yesterday? No, it must have been the day before. Because he wanted you to have something that arrived in Monday’s post. He was quite agitated about it. I said to him that Sister would let you know, but then he said she wouldn’t, not till the end.’ She beamed at him, as if he was sitting up and taking notice. ‘He didn’t want you hanging about too much, you see. Did you, Mr Clarke? They’re busy people, aren’t they, Mr Clarke?’ She pulled forward a bed table and put the three cups on it, then leaned across Tom to the locker and reached inside it. Tom was forced to release Nobby’s hands and lean back. I went to the other side of the bed and leaned down until my mouth was next to his ear. ‘Not yet,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t leave the boat yet.’

 
She heard and laughed. ‘He’s always on about his boat.’ She looked down at him. ‘I’ve done what you asked, Mr Clarke. Your friend has got that letter right and tight now. I’d better get on.’ She pushed her trolley to the door. ‘He’s a good sort. He wanted to hang on till you got that letter in your own hands. Didn’t want it bundled up with his effects and maybe burned.’

  Tom was holding the letter and looking bewildered. He thanked her, but said it was addressed to Nobby himself. She said, ‘It’s yours now.’ And the door swung shut. And still Tom just held the envelope by a corner.

  I said as steadily as I could, ‘I think he’s gone, darling. Should I ring the bell?’

  Tom was stricken. ‘He can’t have! He was trying to pull himself up just a second ago.’ He dropped the letter and felt frantically for a pulse. It was so obvious that Nobby had simply vacated his body. I rang the bell. Sister must have been right outside the door, and almost burst in. She put three fingers against his neck. We waited. She said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Just for an instant she moved her hand to his face, then straightened. ‘He would not let me send that telegram until this morning. I think he knew exactly when the time was right. Immediately he saw you . . . that was the time.’ I could feel myself filling with tears, and I swallowed fiercely.

  Sister said, ‘I am so pleased. He wanted to be here when you got that blessed envelope!’ There was a smile in her voice. ‘And Mrs Draycott – the tea lady who is in the Women’s Institute at Upton – had promised him she would make sure you got it. Things don’t usually work out so well.’

  Neither of us replied. Tom was now holding Nobby’s hand, and I had his elbow cupped in my palm again. She said, ‘Would you like ten minutes alone with him before my nurses tidy up?’