The isolation of those memories remains with me. To the children Dad has been dead 16 years. Old news. The sting has long gone. And to them we’ve always been old. They can have no concept of him as the eager lover. Or of my yearning in that empty bed.
But the impact of Lionel’s death is different. Everyone feels that. Intensely. I know they do. Which is why I’m pulling out all the stops this year. Dear, dear Lionel, who was as much loved and wanted as all the others as soon as he arrived. So much more like his father in appearance than any of his siblings, but with none of George’s gentle acceptance of the humdrum. My youngest was a magnet for danger.
It was Lionel who wandered off exploring rock pools as the tide came in while my attention was on shielding the girls’ modesty behind the beach towels. Lionel who set the chemistry lab on fire when he tinkered with the bunsen burners. Lionel who took off into the rainforests of Tasmania and was out of communication for three whole months.
What would life have held for him had he lived, I wonder? A roving diplomat negotiating peace-deals? Bringing aid to refugees? Conquering some remote mountain? Who knows? I’m glad George was spared this worst of all losses.
It was painful to write the place-names in gold on red cards this year. I hate these first times. Our first Christmas without ‘Lionel ’. But everyone made a supreme effort to bridge the gap, to be there for one another. All except Eugene, of course; nobody expects him to travel halfway round the world just for a family get-together.
There they all are – round my table.
‘James’. Right next to me because he’ll be the first to leap up to help – even now, in his teens, when most boys shun any evidence of sentiment or sensitivity. His sweet nature is as unselfconscious today as when he could barely reach to put dishes on the table. Dear James. And he’s so good for Jessica.
‘Jessica’. What would I have done without her during this horrible year? What would I have done without her full stop?
‘Lewis’. He’ll shadow her silently but without complaint and I guess we have to be satisfied with that. I feel guilty, disloyal even, wishing in my heart that she’d found someone with more drive, more suited to her. I fear she’s had a hard struggle to drag this strange man towards her ambitions for their family. She’s never spoken of it but where is the spark? Where is the affinity?
‘Pandora’. Much as I adore my eldest granddaughter, I want her out of my line of vision at the meal-table. I can’t bear to see good food wasted.
‘Adeline’. She ‘might be bringing a friend’ this year. A male friend. I’ve left a space and a card to be filled in once I know his name and if he lasts that long. I can only hope he’s more suitable than either of her husbands. Ah dear. She was never an easy child, and she’s certainly not a comfortable adult. But I must take some responsibility. I’m her mother, I brought her up. If only something of Jessica’s thoughtfulness had rubbed off on her. But then maybe our eldest was an impossible act to follow.
‘Sydney’. ‘Gwen’. ‘Derek’. ‘Barbara’. The light glints off their scrolling names. I’m touched to have my brothers coming with their wives this year, a show of solidarity I didn’t expect. But even this bonus is tinged with sadness because Reuben’s not here. It’s at times like this the losses all crowd in and threaten to stifle me. My eldest brother, my husband, and now my youngest son, all taken though illness. Accidents or wars would seem more modern and forgivable.
‘Beatrice’. She always comes for Christmas. I couldn’t deny her that, especially given the circumstances. But still my heart sinks. I think she’s the reason I find Adeline so difficult to be with sometimes – all dimples and charm when the world smiles on her, all petulance and temper when she’s thwarted. Aunt and niece. Both twice divorced, both materially rich, both coming for Christmas. Can genes leap sideways like that? It’s double-edged.
I shall be glad when this charade is over and we can settle back into mourning.
Chapter 20
Eleven years earlier
I AM A GRANDMOTHER. A grandmother!
Her name is Pandora Marguerite. Six pounds three ounces of fragrant, beautiful babyness. I can’t believe the feelings she induces in me.
I want to tell the world about this miracle.
Dear Eugene and Jane
I’m sure you’re agog to know all about your new little niece. From someone impartial! I am bursting with pride! Well, she’s perfect. Like a miniature Jessica. And Jess is such a natural with her…
My mind follows this letter to the other side of the world. It still feels strange, having a child of mine so far away, surrounded by people I scarcely know.
I turn my back on the garden and move into the house, leaving the melancholy thoughts to shrivel in the warmth of the conservatory. This is a time for celebration. I am a grandmother!
The emptiness is palpable. They’ve all gone. Before, there was always someone here to fill the gaps left by those departing the nest. Now there’s only me. And there are yawning holes in my role too. I wander through these rooms that have witnessed all the phases of family life over the past 30 years. The unnatural quiet seems to seep into my bones. I feel hollowed out. My heart cries out for the clutter and disarray, even for the assumption that I would clear up behind them.
My bedroom. I sink down onto the bed I shared with George for all those years – I can’t bear to replace it. Grief, regret and longing jostle together. I miss his touch, his smile, his love, every single day.
When the children departed, I could rejoice in spite of the sadness. They were going out to challenge the world. It was part of my job description to make them independent and I’d fulfilled that role. George’s departure – never to return – is unalloyed sorrow. There is no solace. No straw to save me from drowning.
And how I regret… Long before I knew anything about the science of inherent gender differences and personality traits, I resented his habits. Routinely leaving his chair pulled out from the table, his still-buttoned shirt inside his jumper, suds in the shower. I rectified these offences, day after day after day. I had to. But I did it with a bad grace. Often. Now I would trade every orderly room for one sock left lying on the bathroom floor, one stack of half-read newspapers on the table, the feel of his arm around me, holding me back from a pressing task, one more time.
I leave the room abruptly.
Jessica’s room. Her presence pervades it even now. I can see her yet perched on the window seat, lost in a book, her finger absently twirling a curl. I glimpse her turning her face this way and that in the mirror looking for… what? Imperfections? Resemblances?
When she first left home, I missed her more than she will ever know. I was totally bereft. Perhaps that was inevitable. She was the first to fly the nest and I had no experience to prepare me for the sense of desolation. But now, looking back, I suspect it was more than inexperience. With her departure went the peacemaker, the exemplar, the glue of our family. Exactly how she manages to be so essential to us all is a mystery I’ve often pondered. She’s unique.
But I do know that she occupies a special place in my affections, which makes me at once guilty and glad. Guilt is synonymous with parenting, of course, but in the secret places of my heart I know that in Jessica’s case this is something more. I chose her. She wasn’t the natural product of our love. No, we made a conscious decision to bring her into our family. Have I been over-compensating, subconsciously justifying my own actions? Has my love for Adeline, Eugene and Lionel been diminished because of her specialness?
Not that she demands such devotion. No, it’s her selflessness that inspires it. But it hasn’t been all good. I fear it was her kind nature that led her to marry Lewis. He’s inoffensive, but he’s no match for her in intellect, wit or zest for life. I want to wind him up. But how can a parent influence something as complex as the choice of a spouse? That’s what growing up means: making your own decisions and living with the consequences.
‘Give over, Doris,’ George protested once. ‘Th
e lad’s fine. And I’ve never heard her complain, so don’t you go putting ideas into her head.’
It’s not my style to say anything after the event anyway. And now she has Pandora Marguerite, and Lewis is as proud as any father I know.
Adeline’s room. There’s little of Adeline the child, the teenager, left in here. She insisted on it being modernised when it became her occasional and adult base – ‘adult’ meaning a lockable door, a double bed.
The worry when this second daughter left home was of a different order from the first. Where would her rebellious nature lead her? But in spite of the anxiety, I felt relief. Tension left with her. George and I could relax, the boys could romp and tease without fear of the consequences.
Since then she’s seldom returned alone and, sad to admit, she’s always better diluted. At first it was university ‘friends’ for whom Bradley Drive became a convenient place to spend whatever hours were left for sleep. And then there was Percy…
She was 22.
‘His name’s Percival Quentin Bartholomew and he is so well off.’ Deep sigh, rapt expression. ‘His family’s something to do with tarmac. And I have to say, his ma and pa are lovely. You’ll like them. And you’ll absolutely love their house. I can’t remember how many rooms, but I got lost every single day.’
We lived in daily expectation of hearing that Percival Quentin had beaten a hasty retreat long before we were invited to inspect the said mansion but no, something in our daughter seemed to appeal to him. She paraded down the aisle, wearing antique lace and a genuine diamond tiara, to become the wife of the heir to a fortune. For three years and nine months she has adorned his arm and frittered his money, turning a blind eye to his recreational pursuits, so his sudden decision to end the farce has taken her by storm. Even now, it’s Jessica who’s bearing the brunt of her outrage, not me. Thank God there are no children to suffer through the humiliation of these divorce proceedings.
‘Well, there wouldn’t be, would there?’ Adeline spat out. ‘He’s into men!’
It grieves me to see her emerging so embittered by the experience.
‘Men! I’ve finished with the lot of them.’ Exactly what ‘finished’ means to Adeline is unclear to me. She rang yesterday to say she’s bringing someone called Ferdie this weekend. And will I please ‘be nice to him’. ‘He’ll sleep in my room. So please don’t go all prudish on me. Remember, I’m still hurting over Percy.’ ‘Hurting’ too comes from a different dictionary.
She has outgrown not only her place within the family home, but our moral code and our values. A hard fact for a mother.
The boys’ room – as I call it, in spite of the partition. Spartan. Essentially male. It’s become something of a dumping ground of late, but in my mind it’s littered with discarded clothes, Lego models, weird circuit-boards, balls of various shapes and sizes.
By the time Eugene went away I knew what emotions to anticipate, but I was unprepared for the sheer size of his absence. We’d grown so used to his exuberance that we scarcely noticed the racket he created, and it was not until the house deflated without him that I started to understand his contribution to the life of our family.
And his going taught me something else. Having a stretch of water between me and my children unsettled me far more than having them distant, but on the same island. It was irrational given the ease with which the Navy could have returned him to me in an emergency. But he was only 17.
Eugene was never a good communicator and his letters home soon dwindled to the occasional postcard and birthday cards. Or important news.
‘Met a fab lass in Melbourne. Jane. Going to stay there for a month in December. Have a happy Christmas. Think of me roasting on the beach with this gorgeous chick while you try to stay warm beside the fire with turkey. Ha Ha!’ was vintage Eugene.
Jane has changed him. He left the Navy when they got married last year. He now has a mortgage, and their first child is due later in December. No, not their first… that was a stillbirth, born prematurely two years ago. ‘We just said to folk they didn’t tell us what sex it was, Mum. Truth is, the doctors couldn’t tell. Weird, huh? Makes you feel, I don’t know… knowing you made… that.’ Only the darkness of their verandah enabled him to tell me then. It was good though, sharing that moment, being the Mum he needed again. And going to Australia, seeing a foreign country, my eldest boy getting married, maturing. Precious memories.
But tinged with sadness now. It came at a price.
‘We have to go to see them, George. You can’t expect them to travel, not this distance. And definitely not once they’ve got children. Besides, we don’t need so much land, do we?’
‘It’s yours. It’s up to you if you want to sell it. And it’s your money.’ His lips tight. Hurting.
‘They’re family. Don’t you want to see them? Watch your grandchildren growing up?’
‘He chose to go over there.’
Buying the house, selling the land – the two conflicts he and I never resolved. And now it’s too late.
But it’s Lionel whose going has opened up this hole I’m floundering in today. My baby. The last to leave home.
Losing his dad at a tender age – only 16 – had a profound effect on him. ‘If I’m going to peg it that young, I need to get on and live now, Mum. There’s a big old world out there.’
Lionel wants to ‘find’ himself and no doubt he’s perfectly capable of fending for himself. But all the logic in the world doesn’t make it any easier to have him out there, I know not where, discovering his potential – especially as his letter-writing makes Eugene look like Boswell.
I wonder sometimes, is it hardest for the youngest? Do they have more to prove? In Lionel’s case, being six years younger than Eugene, he had several years to experience the life of an only child with ageing parents – even a dead parent. He’s seen both his sisters and his brother establish themselves in good jobs, get married – well, Adeline was settled – start families. No wonder he needs to get away, spread his clipped wings.
What will life hold for him? I pray daily, Keep him safe, but is anybody out there listening? These worries seem so much heavier without George to share them. What a debt I owe this man who stood behind me and beside me through 27 years of marriage. Happy years. I wish I could feel as secure about my children’s choices.
But I must shake off these gloomy thoughts.
Pandora – my baby granddaughter – I have to keep saying it – my granddaughter! – is coming here this Saturday. Her first visit to Bradley Drive. I want her life to be full of happiness and love. No regrets. No guilt.
This is a new beginning.
How George would have revelled in another little girl to love. Especially Jessica’s.
Chapter 21
Twelve years earlier
I WATCH FROM the bedroom window seeing, but unseen by my family. The tears are salty still on my face.
It’s so rare for George to be cross that his words repeat through my head. ‘A man’s got his pride, Doris. You can’t expect me to like it.’
If he’s dwelling on our argument at all there’s no sign of it. He’s romping through the garden roped to four children. Periodically he glances back to check on them but mostly he stampedes as one of them. And everywhere I see the evidence of his concessions. The tree-house he built so painstakingly, a firm favourite with all four. The summerhouse saved from ruin several times by his timely roof repairs, simply to preserve the magic of ‘The secret abode of Mr Tawny Owl and his friends’, the enchanted creatures the children grew up with in my bedtime stories. The wigwam constructed by him out of hessian sacks and stripped willow, still standing in the grotto, half hidden by the holly bush he raids annually for our Christmas wreath. And it’s thanks to his strength that the wildest areas of this garden have been reclaimed and transformed.
‘Faster! Faster!’ The shrieks drag my mind back to the present.
With the end of the rope tied around her waist, Jessica has forgotten teenage dignity an
d is squealing with the rest. What a beautiful child. And how good she is with her younger brothers and sister. All her life I’ve watched her anxiously, but so far at least there’s been no evidence of the moods and sulks I dreaded. Will they come later? George says not: she’s simply ‘a thoroughly decent lassie’. But then, she is the apple of his eye; always has been. An inexplicable affinity.
The human caterpillar squirms around the twin junipers we planted when Adeline was born. And now here she is, a pretty little thing, with her fair curls and wide blue eyes, clutching her father’s jacket, darting backward glances at her brother, whose feet pound dangerously close to her white socks. This morning’s hysterics are forgotten. But not by me. It was a wake-up call that made me realise how spoilt she is. How she trades on George’s easy-going nature. How the other children give in to her to avoid a scene, and I too, ambitious though I am for my offspring’s characters, collude at times, to deflect a tantrum. Petulance can cast an ugly shadow even on the loveliest features. Would she have been the selfish creature she is if I hadn’t compensated for the things I did before she was ever born? I must redouble my efforts to rectify the damage while she’s still impressionable.
Whoops, there goes Lionel. Head-over-heels into the grass, sending the whole line of them flying. I can hear their laughter from here. Well, the boys’ anyway. Adeline is wailing, but… ah, George has it all under control. They’re up again. And they’re off, Adeline now in front, protected by her father.
How much more straightforward the boys are. No wiles. No subtlety. Their aggression flashes openly at times, but they don’t seem capable of subterfuge. I love the way they accept me, as I am, my discipline alongside my standards. And I know I’ve been a less obsessive mother with them from the outset. You worry so with the first. By the time you get to the third, well, everything’s diluted.
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