by Debbie Rix
‘You see everything, don’t you?’ Rachael kissed her father’s cheek. ‘I think I could love him very much. Part of my heart, I admit, is still on Sant’Antioco… but that chapter is closed. I must go on and try to be happy. I think Chuck can be part of that journey. But Papa, if we go to America, how will I bear not seeing you each day? You could come too… He told me so.’
‘He is a kind boy. But it would not be right. No… I will stay here.’
Rachael began to cry again. ‘No… please, Papa. Come with us.’
‘No, Rachael… trust me, it’s better this way. Mrs Roper will look after me. I will work… I will eat. I will chat to the other residents and I will look forward to receiving letters from my American daughter.’
‘But we’ve never been apart – ever… I don’t know if I can bear it.’
He kissed her cheek. ‘Of course you can. And you must. Now we must both go to bed. You look tired. Goodnight my darling.’
The wedding was held at Marylebone Registry Office in the second week of January. It was the first slot available in the registrar’s diary. Rachael had no time to buy a new outfit, so wore her green dress, which Mrs Roper had kindly taken out a little around the waist.
‘I’ll fix that for you,’ she said, when Rachael tried it on, struggling to do up the zip. ‘You’ve put on a tiny bit of weight. Must be my home cooking!’
Chuck had bought her a new handbag and little black hat in a Regent Street department store, and she carried a pair of white leather gloves that belonged to Mrs Roper. The guests at the simple service included George and Angela, Mrs Roper and Rachael’s friend Sandy and her husband. Afterwards, the party went out for lunch at Simpson’s in the Strand.
When Rachael and Sandy went to the ladies’ room to powder their noses, Sandy said simply: ‘So – you were right. Something did turn up. I’m happy for you. He seems a nice fella.’
‘Yes… he’s very kind. We’re going to America later this month… I just hope my father copes.’
‘Your father will be fine. He’s a rock. And I can pop in on him from to time, and Mrs Roper will spoil him to death.’
Leaving her father a few weeks later was the hardest thing Rachael ever had to do. Charles waited outside in the taxi with the luggage, while Rachael and Angela said their goodbyes in the hall. Mrs Roper sobbed as Rachael hugged her.
‘I shall miss you so much,’ Mrs Roper said, picking Angela up and kissing her. ‘And I promise, I’ll look after your father, Rachael – you can count on me.’
As Rachael clung to her father, feeling his rough tweed jacket beneath her fingers, sensing his bony arms wrapped around her, she felt her resolve to leave him weakening. She had never been apart from him before. They had shared so much – and he had been her whole life – for so many years.
‘I can’t go,’ she said, inhaling the familiar scent of tobacco, feeling his skin next to hers.
‘You must,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘I will be fine. I will be here and I will write to you and you will write back. And we will see one another again… soon. I can come to the United States of America – for a holiday.’ He pulled away from her and smiled, bravely, but his grey eyes were filled with tears. ‘It’s time now, Rachael, time for you to grow up and live your life. I love you,’ he whispered for the last time.
Chuck came back into the house.
‘Rachael, honey, we have to go… we don’t want to miss our plane.’
He put his arms around his wife and pulled her gently away from George. He helped her, sobbing, into the taxi and closed the door. As the taxi pulled away from the kerb, Chuck leant out of the taxi window, waving cheerfully.
‘Goodbye, George, and thanks for everything. We’ll be seeing you…’
Rachael watched the diminishing figure of her father through the small rear window of the taxi. He seemed so alone, standing on the pavement outside the house in Willow Road. It was the first time she had ever left him, and her heart felt as if it would break. She watched him waving goodbye, until their taxi turned the corner and he disappeared from her field of vision forever.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gloucestershire
May 2017
As spring turned to summer, Sophie was just beginning to feel more optimistic and emotionally stronger, when a shock wave rumbled through the family. Uncle Tom’s wife, Cecily, died suddenly of breast cancer. Tom and Cecily had been married for over thirty years and had one son, James, who lived in Canada. Cecily had first felt a lump in her breast the previous summer, but being a private person, reluctant to make a fuss, she kept it to herself, and only went to the doctor just before Christmas. It turned out to be a particularly virulent form of breast cancer and from the time of diagnosis, she survived just four months, dying a month after Sophie’s birthday.
‘I still can’t believe she kept it to herself like that?’ said Sophie, speaking to her father one evening on the phone.
‘I know…’ he replied. ‘Angela was particularly upset that Cecily hadn’t felt able to confide in her. As a doctor, she felt she was in a position to really help. But Cecily’s attitude was that she didn’t want to be a burden on anyone. And she knew you were going through IVF and had a lot on your plate.’
‘Well, it’s just so sad,’ said Sophie. ‘How’s Tom been doing since the funeral? I’m sorry I’ve not been to see him since then.’
‘Oh… you know Tom. We went down to see him last weekend.’
‘And?’
‘He’s coping. He’s a man of routine. He just gets his head down and works. That boatyard doesn’t run itself. And he’s got the dogs. James stayed with him for a few weeks after the funeral. But he’s had to get back to Canada for work.’
‘Poor Tom…’ said Sophie, ‘he must be very lonely. Look, I rang partly to discuss Mum’s birthday, but it might involve Tom too. I was wondering if we could all have a holiday together: you, me, Mum, Hamish if he can get the time off, and Uncle Tom too. Maybe even Simon and Vic?’
‘I’m not sure about them,’ said her father, ‘… their baby’s due next month, isn’t it?’
Alex regretted mentioning his son’s new baby the moment he opened his mouth.
‘I’m sorry…’ he said.
‘No, Dad, don’t be silly.’ Sophie felt a familiar flicker of jealousy that she pushed away. ‘I must give Vic a ring and find out how she’s doing.’
‘We saw them a couple of weeks ago,’ said Alex, ‘she seemed fine.’
‘Oh good. Maybe Mum won’t want to come away if their baby’s due… her first grandchild and all that.’
‘I think it would be OK,’ said her father. ‘Vic was pretty clear when we saw them that her mother will be coming to stay. I suspect one mother figure is quite enough for any new mum. There’ll be plenty of time for us to get to know the baby.’
‘So,’ said Sophie, ‘do you think we could persuade Tom to come with us?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Alex. ‘He’s never been much of a traveller. It takes quite a lot to get him out of Dorset. He just loves being at home, and the sea of course.’
‘Well, I was thinking of somewhere near the sea – Sardinia, to be precise. I’m hoping to do some research there for my PhD and thought we could make a holiday of it. You and Tom could hire a boat. Mum wouldn’t mind if Tom was there to keep an eye on you.’
‘Less of the “keeping an eye”, young lady. I’m a perfectly competent sailor.’
‘I know, Dad, but Tom is… more experienced.’
‘Yes… well you’re right about that. I’ll talk to Mum this evening…’
‘OK,’ said Sophie. ‘Look, I’d better go, I’ve to a lot to do before Hamish comes home.’
‘Before you do…’ said Alex, ‘I know I shouldn’t ask – but any news?’
The phrase hung in the air.
‘By news, I presume you mean – am I pregnant yet?’
‘No… no. I just meant…’
‘It’s all right, Dad. I understand�
� you mean – are we going ahead with another round of IVF? Hamish and I have discussed it once or twice, but he always focuses on the reasons not to do it. I felt so wretched about losing the first one, I think he worries I can’t cope with any more disappointment. And it was hard, of course, but you can’t go through life feeling pessimistic – can you? Then there’s the financial side – it’s a lot of money, as you know and the NHS only pay for one round here in Gloucestershire. The trouble is, you can spend two or three thousand pounds and there’s no guarantee of a baby at the end of it. And Hamish is a bit worried about money – we need a new boiler amongst other things. So, although I’ve decided I’d like to go ahead, I’ve not told Hamish yet. I’ve been waiting for the right moment.’
‘Well – you might be able to tell him tonight.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We might have the solution – in fact, I thought Mum had already had a word with you about it?’
‘About what?’
‘Well, I know she meant to. She must have forgotten, what with Cecily and all that. We’d like to pay for it.’
‘Oh no, Dad. You can’t do that.’
‘No, we’d like to. We can afford it, you know.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Just say yes,’ said her father, ‘and don’t worry about the money anymore.’
When Hamish got home that evening, the smell of fish pie wafted through the hall. In the kitchen, Sophie had lit some candles and opened a bottle of wine.
‘This all looks nice,’ Hamish said, picking up the bottle and studying the label. ‘What are we celebrating?’
‘Have a glass… it’s good – I bought it today, from the nice wine shop in Cirencester.’
‘Mmmm,’ he said, sloshing the wine around his mouth, ‘it’s delicious. Cheers,’ he clinked his glass against hers. ‘So, what’s going on?’
‘Well…’ she began, hesitantly. ‘Oh, I’ll just say it. My parents have offered to pay for the next round of IVF.’
Hamish sipped his wine, reflectively.
‘I see,’ he said at last, ‘and how hard was that? To persuade them, I mean?’
‘I didn’t persuade them! They offered. In fact, I tried to turn it down. But Dad insisted. I thought you’d be pleased. We’ve had so many other expenses recently – and there’s the boiler – and I know you’ve been worried about money.’
‘Yes. I suppose it is good news.’ His voice was flat, non-committal.
‘You suppose? What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ said Hamish, pushing the cat off the chair and sitting down at the table, ‘I wasn’t aware we had finally decided to do it again. I mean, the last round really took it out of you.’
‘The process wasn’t that bad,’ said Sophie defensively. ‘It was… losing the baby that was unbearable.’
‘Yes, and what if it happens again?’
‘It might not! I mean, you can’t go into it thinking the worst.’
‘I would disagree. I don’t think you can go into it without preparing for the worst. That has to be the logical place to start, surely. Assume it’s not going to be successful and work out how you will deal with that eventuality. Then… if you think it’s worth all the stress and misery, you go ahead.’
Sophie felt the blood rushing to her face. She was filled with a sort of fury, a rage against this negative logic. ‘I simply refuse to go through life in such a state of pessimism. The thing is Hamish, if we don’t proceed what do we have left?’
‘We have each other… isn’t that enough?’
She leant against the sink, sipping her wine, considering her response carefully. It was important that she was truthful, accurate.
‘No… it’s not enough, not for me. I’m sorry, but it’s not.’
Hamish stared at her, shocked and uncomprehending.
Sophie, aware suddenly of the implications of what she had just said, burst into tears and rushed out of the room. Upstairs, she lay down on her bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what had just happened, trying to analyse what she felt.
A few moments later, Hamish came into their bedroom. He leant against the wall, his hands in his pockets, anxiously jangling his change.
‘Are you telling me that you don’t want to be married to me anymore?’
‘No!’ she sat up in bed suddenly, knocking the glass of red wine off her bedside table. It pooled a dark red stain on the cream carpet. ‘Damn!’ she said, swinging her legs out of bed. ‘Get a cloth, could you?’
He went into the bathroom next door and returned with a facecloth, which he threw over the stain.
‘I just mean…’ she said, kneeling by the wine stain and mopping the carpet furiously, ‘I want another try. I want a baby. I’m prepared to put up with the disappointment. I have to do this. It’s all that I want. I do love you – but it’s not about you, Hamish. It’s about me. About the need I have. It never goes away. It just eats away at me – nagging, gnawing. The only time I have any relief is when I’m utterly absorbed in my work.’ She looked up at him, the facecloth soaked with wine.
‘And how do you think that makes me feel?’ he asked bitterly.
‘I don’t know what you mean. It’s not about you. Why are you making this so hard?’
‘Because, Sophie, just lately, I feel that you are just… using me… in order to have a child – something, that apparently you want more than you want me.’
He left the room. A few minutes later, she heard the front door slam. Had he walked out on her?
‘Shit!’ she said under breath. She had started the evening so optimistically. How had everything got so out of control? Where had Hamish gone? Surely this wasn’t the end of her marriage?
The smell of burning fish floated up the stairs.
‘Shit, shit…’ she said, running downstairs and into the kitchen. She opened the Aga door and removed the blackened fish pie, putting it down on the floor.
‘Here you go,’ she said to the cat. ‘Enjoy it.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
New York
February 1960
As the doors of the BOAC Comet opened at New York’s Idlewild airport, a blast of icy air blew into the plane. Rachael, standing at the top of the aeroplane steps, turned up the collar of her warm coat and scooped her daughter up into her arms. The airport had been built in a flat, marshy area on the edge of the city, and the landscape beyond the perimeter was bleak and unremarkable. As she gazed at the long low airport building, Rachael had a strong sense that over the horizon lay a city full of excitement, and a new life filled with possibilities.
The family had been flying for over eleven hours and Rachael was stiff and tired. Angela, who had slept well on the journey, was now full of energy, and wriggled to escape her mother’s grasp. Exasperated, Rachael turned to Chuck, who quietly enveloped the child in his capacious cashmere overcoat, where she instantly relaxed, wrapping her arms around his neck, allowing him to carry her into the terminal.
As they drove in the taxi towards New York, crossing the bridge that led to lower Manhattan, Rachael was amazed by the sheer physical presence of the high-rise buildings that surrounded them; they arched upwards, blotting out the sky, so much so that she had to lean out of the cab window and crane her neck upwards, just to catch a glimpse of a sliver of blue between the buildings.
The long straight roads created a sense of order, but everywhere she looked, there was an almost visceral energy – the street vendors calling out to customers, the yellow cabs bumper to bumper on the busier roads. She was mesmerised by the steam billowing from beneath the pavements; it looked as if there was a terrifying dragon hidden beneath the city, she thought. Even the people rushing by looked more energetic than their European counterparts. They appeared less down-trodden, sharper, brighter, better dressed.
At Pennsylvania Station, Chuck unloaded their luggage and paid the cab driver.
‘It’s a long ride up to Vermont…’ he said, leading the family through
the magnificent marble entrance hall. ‘Let’s have something to eat first.’
The restaurant was an impressive high-ceilinged room lit by chandeliers. Tables were laid with white linen, silver and glass. Rachael stared around her, in awe at its splendor and opulence.
‘I’ve never been somewhere so beautiful,’ she said, as the waiter pulled her chair out from the table. ‘Especially not in a railway station.’
‘Well, this is New York, honey,’ said Chuck. ‘The design is Beaux Arts – the station was inspired by the Gare D’Orsay in Paris. You ever been to Paris?’
‘No, never…’
‘I’ll take you. Now we must eat and have something to drink.’
He called the waiter over and ordered two Manhattans.
‘I can’t drink alcohol now. It’s ten in the morning,’ protested Rachael.
‘This is America… you can do whatever you like.’
As their train journeyed north-east through the states of Connecticut and Rhode Island, the railway line travelled through snow-covered wooded countryside, broken up by inviting glimpses of wooden houses, with wisps of woodsmoke floating up into the bright blue sky. Passing through towns with romantic names like ‘Old Saybrook’, Rachael noted how the houses became more sporadic, and the scenery increasingly rural. Sprinkled among the white clapboard houses were old barns painted dark red, green and blue, which stood out against the gleaming white snow.
Finally their train turned north, heading up through Massachusetts and New Hampshire. The snow grew deeper, the houses and barns almost buried up to their window ledges.
Rachael and Angela dozed periodically, they ate snacks from the bar, and, ten hours after leaving Penn Station, they arrived in Burlington, Vermont.
As Chuck and Rachael emerged from the station, a tall man wearing a heavy dark overcoat, his grey hair slicked across his scalp, walked towards them. He put his hand out towards Chuck, who shook it formally.