by Susan Sallis
Suddenly it was October and Meriel’s new term had started, and there was no Meriel. I telephoned Florida, and Vicky’s voice came down the line. I almost sobbed. ‘Oh darling. It’s so good to hear you. You are the one person who will tell me the truth. I need to know – we’re such old friends – I can come over if there is anything—’ At that point Vicky interrupted me brusquely.
‘Hold on there, Aunt Rachel. What’s going on? Put Mom on the line, will you? I haven’t heard from her since she left and—’ She stopped talking because I gasped a small scream, and then I did actually sob, and she said, ‘My God. What’s happened? Try to talk slowly. The line is not wonderful. Is my Mom ill?’
I put my hand over my mouth and tried to still my whole body. Vicky waited. I said very carefully, ‘I don’t know. She is not here. She has not come back for the new term. Gus has been to Bristol. No one has heard from her.’
The silence was terrible. I wanted to hold Vicky to me. I could feel her anxiety move to terror. Yet when she spoke her voice was completely level. I remembered that this girl had lived with Meriel all her life; she knew about her father and the girl from Devon . . . Dawn. She was devoted to her brother, and had been involved in all the work towards making a good life for him and for children like him. She was mature well beyond her years.
She said, ‘She was flying to New York and then on to London. We saw her on to the plane. There have been no crash reports.’ Her voice wobbled up a register. ‘That was almost a week ago, dammit! What the hell is she playing at this time?’
I said, ‘Vicky, your mother would not worry us all deliberately—’
‘Oh yes, she would. Not us specifically. Especially not you and me, Aunt Rache. But she would do it to Dad. They’ve had a few rows this summer. I thought that kind of thing was over . . . anyway, I have to make some calls. I’ll come back to you as soon as I have some news.’ She cut me off straight away. I sat there on the stairs and stared at the coloured tiles of the hall floor, and tried for a moment to imagine the kind of life Meriel had in the States. I had been only too willing to accept that her efforts to become a good American wife, and to put her soul into her work with children, had brought her into some kind of stupid harbour. As if Meriel could ever accept any kind of tranquillity. And if she was ill, terminally or not, where could she be? As I reached this point the post came through the door and I recognized the airmail envelope; but before I had read the letter I knew where Meriel was. It was written from Orion.
I glanced through it and then rang Vicky to tell her, and later I sat down and read it over and over again.
Darling Rache. I’ve been dickering about for ages and now have made a decision and feel . . . well, not better exactly, but sort of whole again. I’m not coming over this term, honey. I’ve talked to the Prof. I can do the rest of the course later – they arrange these deferment things now for people like me. Actually, I could do it now but I want the baby to be born over here whether Rex likes it or not. And I want to take time to be a mother again. I want to have another shot at being a wife, too. Because, guess what, Dawn disappeared last Easter, and it was while I was comforting poor old Rex that I fell for number three!
Anyway, I know I should have told you before I left, but I guess you know anyway – old Hawkeye Throstle! Rache, I’m kind of scared about being pregnant because I’m getting close to forty, and after Vicky and then Georgie . . . well, I’m more than scared. I was going to tell Gus and ask for some of his magic pills, but in the end I didn’t. The awful thing was, when I told Rex he wanted a termination. And he still does. We’ve had a couple of fights, which kind of end up in bed again, but then he says things like he’ll go for good if I don’t get rid of this one. He can be cruel, Rache. But I understand him. I can’t talk about it much because your marriage is so different. I think your parents might have bridged the gap. They were a real passionate pair, weren’t they? Anyway, Rache, I think Rex and I could make a go of it if I did have a termination. But . . . isn’t it strange . . . all the soul searching I’ve been doing through the summer, comes down to knowing – knowing – like Hermione knows things – that I can’t do it. This is my baby. And what’s more, it’s Rex’s baby. I can’t do it to me and I can’t do it to Rex and I certainly can’t do it to Junior.
So I’m here, honey. Aunt Mabe is here, too. I love her. We’re in a kind of cocoon where we don’t think about anything or anyone except ourselves – and that includes the Florida family, Georgie, you . . . everyone. Joan brings us drop scones and we walk out to look at the fall colours. I’m sorry, honey, but this is all I can say right now. Underneath all this selfishness I love you still. I envy you and Tom, darling, and I hope he realizes his dream for his father. You are such gentle, good people, it is wonderful you met when you did. I’m going to bed now. Pop will pick this up in the morning and take it to the post office. Rache, don’t worry about me. I am happy.
From your old friend, Meriel
I wanted to tell Tom. Right then and there. And I couldn’t. I phoned Eve at the manor. And then I put the letter inside my jumper and tucked it into my bra. I don’t know why, I just did.
Twenty-five
PRACTICAL ROSE TELEPHONED Maxine before she went to school. She told her Meriel’s wonderful news and asked her whether she could pop into town to see me. I heard Rose say, ‘No, really. She’s fine. A bit overcome with all of it.’
When she came into the kitchen to pour more tea, I snuffled, ‘No need to send for anyone, darling. I really am fine, you know.’
And she said, ‘I know, but it’s a bit . . . tricky . . . for me and Daisy to leave you here in floods, and we have to go in because of this chap coming to talk to us about careers.’
I didn’t realize I was ‘in floods’ but it was great to see Maxine and be enveloped in that comforting bosom. I sort of gave up trying to stifle my sobs and just let her murmured words soak into my consciousness . . . ‘it’ll be all right in the morning’ . . . ‘cry it all out of you’. Uncle Gilbert, who had come too, tried to do what Tom and Dad would have done. I couldn’t accept his tobacco-impregnated hugs but I appreciated him saying, ‘Let’s sort it out, and it will come to no more than a tin of beans. Just like the whole sordid Strassen affair, even mad Maude Smith—’
And though I gasped at him, ‘It’s a baby, Uncle Gilbert! A baby! And she’s so at risk, so terribly at risk—’ I could almost hear Dad, all those years ago in the war, saying something similar to Merry and me, the original bike spies. And he’d spoken the words slowly and reasonably, just as Uncle Gilbert was doing. And then I knew that Uncle Gilbert had always tried to be Dad. He had protected Dad as much as he had protected Mum. He loved them both.
I started to cry all over again.
Hermione came over and explained the psychological reasons behind my total meltdown. Funnily enough, that dried me up instantly.
It was the girls, our lovely twin daughters, that raised my behaviour to something else. They arrived home early from school, and served tea in the washing-up bowl – they had made spillage into an art form – along with jam sandwiches cut into bite-sized pieces. When I started crying again and tried to tell them how absolutely sweet they were, Rose said in her matter-of-fact way, ‘It’s because she’s so happy, of course.’
And Daisy picked up the dialogue as usual and nodded wisely, ‘Nothing could be better, really, could it? Babies always seem to solve everything.’
‘I’m glad it’s Aunt Merry and not Mum.’ Rose held the tea to my lips. ‘If she’s like this about her friend’s baby, she’d never stop if it was ours.’
My sobs ceased, the tears dried. I looked at them and they looked back; we were all startled. I said, ‘Does that mean that secretly you have always wanted a sister or a brother?’
Rose put the cup back on the table. ‘No,’ she said in that way she had. ‘When we were little kids we asked Dad about having a baby and he said you weren’t strong enough. He thinks you grew too quickly in the war and you did not have enou
gh to eat.’
Daisy nodded. ‘And then he told us about our grandma having TB, and being anaemic and everything, and how the doctor has to keep an eye on you.’
Rose grinned suddenly. ‘Anyway, we’ll have Aunt Merry’s baby next year, won’t we? She’ll bring her over to show us. And then, when she starts back at the university, probably Eliza will come too.’
I said, ‘Eliza?’ I took the tea cup from Rose and warmed my hands around it.
Daisy nodded. ‘We thought Eliza sounded just right. Vicky will choose her name. And she’s always been dotty about having a half-share in the Queen. So it will definitely be Elizabeth. And Rose and I thought Eliza sounded special. We are going to suggest it to her.’
‘And so sweet, too.’ Rose sighed ecstatically. ‘There’s such a lot to look forward to.’
I nearly started crying again, but I knew she was right; the future suddenly did look crowded. Which meant the sooner I got started, the easier it would be.
I drained my cup. ‘This tea is good. You’re learning.’
Rose took a breath, ready to protest, then let it go. She said, ‘Listen, Mum. If Aunt Merry won’t be here this winter, and Dad and Grandee are still away, why don’t we get the central heating done? I know the house will be upside down, but the three of us can cope.’
I suspected that Gilbert and Maxine had put the girls up to this, but as I swilled my almost empty cup I saw that it was a splendid idea. A proper welcome for Tom and Dad, who would surely feel the cold terribly after the tropics. The girls had a sort of innate, down-to-earth wisdom that had completely passed me by. That night I sat up in the double bed and cut off all thoughts of loneliness and longing and made a list of things that simply had to be done. Soon.
Vicky phoned from Orion.
‘She says she’s too embarrassed to come to the phone. So I’m telling you that she is fine and you are not to worry.’ She paused for breath and then said lovingly, ‘I could kill her, sometimes.’
I said, ‘Me, too. But please tell her that the relief is just enormous. I thought she had some terrible illness.’
‘She has, in a way. She – she’s such a disruptive influence!’ Vicky paused, frustrated, then said slowly, ‘It’s not all Dad’s fault, Aunt Rachel. He just doesn’t know how to deal with her. She has to take some of the responsibility for what went wrong. Dawn was so ordinary and predictable. She gave Dad a bit of peace and quiet. That’s all.’
‘Oh Vicky. It must be tough for you.’
‘No – not really. Because I’m both of them, aren’t I? Mom is terrific – you know that. But Dad has this great brain, and he just loves his work and he can’t always tune in to her . . . her . . . otherness. It seems to him like selfishness. And maybe it is.’
I could hear desperation coming at me all those miles away. I said, ‘It’s nothing to do with selfishness, Vicky. It’s protectiveness for the people she loves. Just hang on to her. At the moment she needs protecting. And you’re good at that.’
‘Am I? D’you think I am, Aunt Rache?’
‘You saved Hermione Smith’s life by taking Rose’s letter round to my father and badgering him to come to England and sort everything out.’
‘Oh no. But thank you. Listen. I’ll work on Mom, and make her ring you.’
‘Darling, it doesn’t matter. Tell her I love her, and I am so happy about Eliza I can’t stop crying. Well, I have now because of the central heating. But even when the house is ripped to pieces by the plumbers I’ll still be sending my love straight across the Atlantic.’
There was a bewildered pause, then Vicky said, ‘I think you’ve caught Merielitis. Write to us. Explain.’
‘Goodbye, darling. The pipes are just being delivered and the phone is in the hall so there’s nowhere to stand.’
‘I know. There never is, is there?’ And she was gone.
The plumbers were marvellous. They had done a lot of work for Hermione at Rough Road Cottage. ‘Part of the fambly, we are, Mrs Fairbrother. That young doctor, she said as how you was all one big fambly, you and your husband at the Clarion, your dad prac’lly running Smith’s all through the war, your friend’s dad being Nightingale’s outfitters . . . and herself, too. Wonderful doctor, her. And now us. Peter’s Plumbing. That’s me and my two boys. At your service!’ This was after his third cup of tea in as many hours.
The heating was fuelled by a tank of oil installed in the cellar, and fed from the street through the metal trap of the coal chute. Two hectic weeks later, I looked at the dials and the taps, and waited for the girls to come home from school and tell me how to use them all. Peter had gone through it with great care and left me a leaflet, but Daisy had promised that Colin would be with them that evening and give us all a proper lesson. We wanted a grand switch-on in time for Bonfire Night.
It was the first time we’d had no fireworks in the back garden. The nails hammered into the wall twelve years ago especially for Catherine wheels stayed empty; I’d saved no milk bottles for rocket holders. Instead we ranged around the house, peering through every window to watch other displays, glorying in the steady warmth everywhere. That night I sat up in bed; lonely, yes, cold, no. I wrote to Tom first and then to Meriel.
The next day brought a letter from Dad.
Dearest Rachel, Tom is so busy. Try not to worry about him, it’s better he should be. You will have guessed immediately that I am writing to say that Jack Fairbrother has died. We were both with him; I stayed in the background, obviously, but I was there in case I was needed. I wish I could tell you that Jack recognized Tom as his son. I simply do not know. There may have been a look between them, as there was between Hermione and Maude Smith. But as far as I could tell he closed his eyes and slept his life away somewhere between three and four this afternoon. We had been playing a silly game of cards, and he was tired. I retired to the window, and watched some of the patients walking in the garden with their visitors. It’s a beautiful place. Tom stayed by the bed, almost as if he knew. He stood up at four, came over to me and said, ‘Dad, I think he’s gone. Can you come and check?’ He always calls me George. He called me Dad. We went to the bed together, and I just nodded. Tom put his cheek against Jack’s cheek, and I left him and went to find the interpreter-chap and the sister. As luck would have it, I found the English chaplain first. He’s a good man. One of Wingate’s crazy bunch. He picked up some of the lingo during that time, and decided to come back out here and see if he could do anything useful with it. He will be worth his weight in gold to Tom just now. He agrees with Tom that Jack’s body should be buried in the small English cemetery here. Jack was indescribably happy here. Ironic, isn’t it?
That’s all, love. You will be hearing from Tom, probably tomorrow, but I am writing this while Tom sleeps for a while. He’s in one of those long steamer chairs made of bamboo, couldn’t stand the mosquito nets any more, so came out here on the verandah with me. Don’t be unhappy for him, darling. He has had almost four months with his father. He found him just in time. He will explain better than I can. But I have to say that this has been a very good time for me. I think I was the archetypal father, Rache. I always liked Tom, but frankly never thought he was good enough for my only child. I was wrong. It occurred to me, during all the hoo-hah with Maude Smith, that when I ‘gave you away’ at the wedding and had to keep looking at Mum for support, I was giving away nothing and gaining everything. Tom wanted to share with us the woman he married. I couldn’t see that – so worried about Mum and everything. I see it now. I love you both. Please take care of each other so that I can go on sharing everything you have.
There was more. It was quite a letter for a woman of nearly forty to get from her father.
They got home just before Christmas. Uncle Gilbert drove us to London to meet them, and the four of us squashed into the back seat while Dad and Uncle Gilbert chatted sporadically in the front. I had known before that Tom was ‘all right’. His letters had told me that. But to sit there with the twins between us, asking que
stions, no inhibitions, the usual feeling built up between us. We flowed together; I knew his grief and, at the same time, the enormous consolation that went with it; and he understood the strangeness of my life without him. Dad looked back at us as the car was lit sporadically by street lamps. He grinned and said, ‘Like foxes in a den, Rache.’ The girls demanded to know the story behind that, and Dad told them about our tiny experience of total war, but not all the consequences that had rippled into their own lives so recently. Perhaps they would never know.
Eve and Gus were anxious to leave for Florida, now that Tom and Dad were home. Eve had sold her mother’s house for an enormous sum; all the houses in the rough road had sold for six hundred pounds before the war, now they were valued at three thousand pounds. She took Uncle Gilbert’s advice on investing her nest egg. She bought a small cottage near Clarion House as a base. It was cheap because sitting tenants occupied it, but in any case I think we knew that she would never come back to this country permanently. As I write this, I can say very honestly that she has made a respected name for herself in America for her work with disadvantaged children. In particular, she is a trustee of the Robinson Foundation and has been directly responsible for their input into the visual arts scene. Their travelling exhibitions at the big New York galleries are extremely popular. She encouraged Georgie Robinson to set up the music department in Florida. He works throughout the year to produce the annual open-air concerts at the foundation. So far no performer, however world-famous, has said no to Georgie Robinson. He is much loved and respected in the musical world. And by everyone who knows him.
Meriel finished her course, and did in fact bring Eliza with her. This time they both stayed with us; Meriel drove to Bristol three times each week, then worked at the kitchen table on our Oliver three-bank typewriter. When it came to her thesis she bought one of the new electronic typewriters and took over the attics. She finished it on the day that Eliza Robinson took her first tottering steps along our hall. Rose stood at one end, Daisy the other, and with joyous upraised arms Eliza discovered a rolling gait that moved her towards Rose – who ran to meet her – and then to Daisy. Their screams brought Meriel and I running. It was the summer of ’66. The girls were almost sixteen; they had my mother’s cloud of dark hair and Tom’s blue eyes and prominent teeth. They were tall and slender and incredibly beautiful.