by Debbie Rix
‘Thank you…’ she said, putting the children into the pram. ‘I’ll be fine… I just need to get a little closer.’
There were police cars and ambulances and fire engines filling the road as she approached the Manhattan Bridge. A policeman was barring the way across.
‘I need to get over there….’ Rachael said. ‘I need to see what plane it was.’
‘No one can go over there, Mam…’
‘But my husband, it might be his plane.’
‘I’m sure it’s not, Mam… Look, you have to move back. I have to leave the road free for emergency services, I’m sure you understand.’
He pushed her gently along the road, where she stood rooted to the spot, as the icy drizzle fell softly. The children began to cry once more.
‘Mommy, Mommy,’ said Angela. ‘I’m hungry and cold. I wanna go home.’
But Rachael wasn’t listening; she’d noticed a man standing nearby, scribbling in a notebook.
‘Excuse me…’ she said, pushing the pram towards him. ‘I was wondering if you knew anything about… the crash. I’m worried that I might know someone on one of the planes.’
‘Oh… OK,’ he said, putting his notebook in his coat pocket. ‘Well, I don’t know much. I’m a reporter for the Daily News and we’re being kept out of the way too. All I know is that two planes collided around ten this morning. One was from Chicago heading for La Guardia. It hit a TWA flight coming into Idlewild.’
Rachael eyes immediately filled with tears.
‘Look,’ said the reporter gently, ‘I’m sure your friend is OK.’
‘It’s my husband…’ she said. ‘He was coming from Chicago.’
‘What airline?’ asked the reporter, calmly.
‘United.’
He looked at his notes and then back at the children.
‘It was the United flight, wasn’t it?’ she asked.
‘Yes…’ he looked away. ‘It was Flight 826… was that your husband’s flight?’
‘I don’t know… I don’t know what time he was leaving. Just that he was due back today.’
‘Oh… OK,’ said the reporter, more cheerfully, ‘well, he could be flying in later… there’s no way of knowing yet. Have you tried calling his office, or his hotel?’
‘No… not yet. I was uptown and heard about it. I just ran down here… it was stupid really. I didn’t know what to do.’
She broke down and sobbed.
The reporter put his arm around her.
‘Hey… I’m sure he’ll be OK. Look… here’s my card – call me later and I’ll see if I’ve heard anything. I expect he’ll back home by then – all safe and sound – you’ll see.’
Somehow Rachael managed to find a cab driving north. The driver dismantled the pram for her and put the children in the back.
‘You all right, Mam?’ he asked. ‘You look a little shaken. Terrible business with those planes. I hate air travel. It’s just not natural.’
Back home, Rachael turned on the radio and found the public news channel. The reporter had been right: a United flight overshot the runway at La Guardia and collided with the TWA Constellation. As the United flight flew over Prospect Park, a teacher at a nearby school told reporters he was close enough to see the pilot’s face as he dipped the wing of his plane in an attempt to avoid the school. The plane crashed into Park Slope on the intersection of Seventh and Sterling Place, scattering wreckage and setting fire to ten brownstone apartment buildings, a church, a funeral parlour, a Chinese laundry and a delicatessen.
Somehow, Rachael fed the children lunch and then she settled them in their room with some books to look at, while she called Chuck’s office.
‘Do you know which flight he was on?’ she asked his secretary.
‘No… Mam, but we’re checking now. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything, I promise.’
She heard nothing for two hours. She was frantic with worry. As darkness fell over the city, snow began to drift in from the west. Wild flurries of snowflakes splattered against the windows. Rachael sat in darkness, except for the flashing Christmas lights, watching the snow, her mind blank. When the phone rang, she was so startled, she jumped, as if she’d woken from a bad dream.
‘Mrs Bailey,’ said a sympathetic voice on the phone, ‘this is Marion Roberts from the office. I’m so very sorry to tell you, but Chuck was on board the United flight from Chicago. There were no survivors…’
Rachael dropped the phone. She never heard what Marion said next. She dropped on her knees and began to scream. ‘No… No… No…’
Eric and Constance came down to New York the following day. Rachael didn’t want to see them, but her father-in-law had insisted.
‘There will be formalities to deal with,’ he’d said. His voice was clipped, unnaturally calm. ‘I should be there to sort things out.’
Rachael, who was almost helpless with grief, felt unable to disagree. She was sitting at the desk in the sitting room when she saw their cab arrive. Constance, dressed in a black coat and hat, was helped out of the cab by her husband. Eric looked up at the window and raised his hand to Rachael. Once he was indoors, it was clear that he was in organisational mode. He’d fought in the second war; he’d been an army major stationed in Europe and he was used to dealing with tragedy.
Constance, though, was mute; as if she was unable to speak. Her husband helped her into a chair in the drawing room, where she sat staring into space. Angela ran in from the kitchen, followed by Tom, shuffling on his backside. Constance winced visibly, as they clambered onto her lap.
‘Angela, please… don’t do that,’ said Rachael, leaping to her feet and grabbing the baby. ‘Grandmother is tired. Please… Angela just go back to the kitchen.’ She sat back down, with Tom on her own lap.
‘I just wanted to say hello…’ said Angela logically.
‘I know, darling… but later. OK?’
Angela wandered desultorily towards the kitchen.
‘Do they know yet?’ asked Eric.
‘I’ve tried to explain, but they don’t really understand. Tom… certainly not. Angela maybe a little. But she keeps thinking he’ll come home later.’
Constance let out a deep moan, followed by a wail and began to weep.
‘Oh Constance,’ said Rachael. She put the baby on the floor, where he sat happily playing with the buttons on his cardigan. Rachael knelt down by her mother-in-law. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I loved him so much, but I cannot imagine, as his mother, what you must be feeling.’ She tried to put her arms around Constance’s shoulders, but the older woman pulled away.
‘This is your fault,’ Constance said, bitterly.
‘No, dear,’ said Eric. ‘That’s just not fair.’
‘No…’ Constance continued. ‘If he hadn’t married this woman, he’d be living in Vermont now… Nowhere near a plane.’
‘You can’t think like that… we talked about this,’ Eric said, exasperated. He turned to Rachael. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘she’s so distraught, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.’
Rachael went and sat back on the sofa, pulling Tom back onto her lap; she understood the need to blame someone, anyone. It was normal. Perhaps this was the first time Constance had ever lost anyone. She, on the other hand, had lost so many people, the pain, the sheer agony of grief and loss were almost familiar.
‘Now,’ said Eric, calmly. ‘There are things we need to discuss. To sort out.’
‘Yes…’ said Rachael, compliantly. ‘Would you like coffee, or tea?’
‘No… thank you. Maybe later. I’ve spoken to Chuck’s office. He had a life assurance policy – that will go to you. It’s a good sum, but not enough to live on forever. The rent on this apartment is eighty-five a month. It’s paid up until the end of January. We can go on paying it for a little while but can’t really keep it up permanently. I’m sure you understand. I’ve not seen the will yet, but Chuck had a small trust fund. By rights, it reverts to the family, but he may have changed tha
t when he married you. I just want you to know that there will be some money to take care of you and the children, but not to the same standard, if you understand me. Once the funeral is taken care of, the rest can all be sorted out.’
Rachael felt numb. This talk of money was bewildering. Part of her mind still clung to the idea that he might just walk through that door anytime – that his name on that passenger list had been a mistake. The thought of life without Chuck was almost unimaginable now. And life after Chuck was not something she had ever considered. As far as she was concerned, her whole being was focused on simply coping with the next minute, the next hour.
‘I see. I am grateful of course. I … wasn’t expecting anything. I didn’t marry Chuck… for his money.’
‘No… I know. But once the will’s been read, it’ll all become clearer. Is your father still alive?’
‘My father… yes.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘Yes, I rang him last night.’
‘Good. And I suppose he’s keen for you to come home?’
‘He wants me to do whatever is right for me and the children…’
‘And what is right for you?’
Rachael put Tom back on the floor, stood up and walked over to the window.
‘I really don’t know. I thought I had found the love of my life. We had a home and a family and I thought I would live here forever…’
Eric remained silent and looked down at his shoes.
Constance glared at Rachael’s back.
‘You had a family. Those children had nothing to do with my son,’ Constance said, sharply.
‘He was their father,’ said Rachael, turning to face them both. ‘He loved them.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Eric. ‘But we both know that Tom is not Chuck’s son. You just have to look at him. At least be honest about that now, Rachael.’
The funeral took place a week later in Vermont. The organisation was taken out of Rachael’s hands. Eric had dealt with the authorities and identified the body, although how much of her husband’s body was actually in the smart oak coffin that stood on a dais in the church on the green, Rachael couldn’t be sure. The wreckage of the plane had been so terrible, it seemed impossible to imagine any part of her husband surviving. After the ceremony, which was attended by Chuck’s work colleagues and old family friends, everyone went back to the Bailey family house. A maid served small glasses of sherry and little canapés – tiny pieces of food that you could put into your mouth in one bite. Rachael had never eaten such a thing. The drawing room gradually filled with smoke from the men’s cigars and cigarettes. One or two people came over to Rachael and told her how sorry they were, but most of the sympathy was reserved for Constance, who sat in a tall wing armchair, dressed in a black silk sheath, her dark red mouth set in a thin, mean line.
After the wake, Rachael ordered a cab back to the station. She gathered the children together and was just putting Tom into his little dark coat when Eric came into the hall.
‘You leaving?’ he asked.
‘Yes… I thought I should.’
‘Well, let us know what you plan to do…’
‘I will,’ she said.
‘Bye Grandpa,’ Angela said cheerfully, reaching up for the old man.
He removed her little hands, and brushed his suit down, as if wiping away something unclean, and went back into the drawing room.
The apartment in New York seemed so empty and dark when Rachael returned. She turned on the Christmas lights and they flashed incongruously – their innate jollity at odds with her pain. The next day would be Christmas Eve and somehow she had to get through it for the sake of the children. But in the New Year she would go home – back to London. She saw that now. She was not welcome in America any longer.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gloucestershire
May 2017
Hamish moved out the night Sophie discovered him with Flora. He had tried to argue that it meant nothing, that it was just a fling, nothing more.
He had stood outside their locked bedroom and banged on the door.
‘Let me in – please, Sophie. I’m so sorry. I’m not in love with her. I love you. She was just… available. Fun. She wanted nothing from me, except me…’
Sophie lay on her bed and listened to him. She had some sympathy with this view. She understood very well what Flora had offered. No-strings sex. No ‘baby’ sex. Flora didn’t need baby sex. She already had four children.
‘I don’t think you can love me, Hamish,’ she’d called out to him, ‘or you couldn’t have done what you did.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. Please let me in.’
‘No. Just go, Hamish… I don’t know what to say to you. And, honestly, I just need to stay calm and strong for the babies I’m carrying. I am not going to allow your behaviour to upset me.’
Eventually, she had heard the front door close and his car starting up in the drive. He turned right out of the drive, she noticed, not left towards Flora’s house.
She hardly slept that night. She couldn’t get the thought of him kissing Flora of her mind. How could he? But even worse than the kissing, worse, even, than the idea of them having sex, was the thought that he might have taken Flora into his confidence. Talked to her about his marriage; shared their intimate secrets with her – in particular, Sophie’s desperation for a child.
‘Sophie’s only interested in having a baby.’ Is that what he would have said? And had she leant across the table, or the bed, and taken his hand and replied: ‘What a silly girl, when she could have you…’
Exhausted, but unable to sleep, she eventually got up and roamed around the house. She wandered into the second bedroom along the corridor – the room she had chosen for ‘the nursery’. It had been painted white by the previous owners, and was clean and tidy, but wasn’t suitable for a child. Just that afternoon, after leaving the clinic, she had visited a shop in Cirencester that sold paint and wallpaper. She had discussed paint colours with the assistant and had finally decided on yellow.
‘It works brilliantly for a child’s room,’ the assistant had said. ‘And the good thing is that it doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl.’ They had selected a paper decorated with pale yellow unicorns and the assistant had given her a sample to take away; it was still downstairs in her handbag. How ironic, she thought, that while she had been choosing wallpaper for their baby’s room, Hamish had been with that woman.
‘I’m only just pregnant,’ Sophie had said, relishing the words. ‘I realise it’s rather early to be choosing wallpaper. And I don’t want to tempt fate.’
‘Oh I know,’ said the assistant, ‘I know women who won’t even buy a babygrow until their child is born. But a nursery is different – it needs to be ready and you won’t have time once it’s born.’
Sophie had nodded in agreement.
‘I mean one has to be practical, after all,’ the assistant had declared.
Now, staring at the white walls, Sophie wondered when it would be safe to decorate. When she reached twenty weeks? Twenty-two maybe… the babies would be viable by then surely. But it would be tricky, climbing a ladder with a large belly, especially without Hamish’s help.
As she went downstairs in search of the wallpaper sample, she could see the sun coming up through the landing window. It rose over the tops of the trees that ran along the river valley, beyond the edge of the village. Did Flora have the same view? What colour were her children’s bedrooms? Remembering the scene in their kitchen at Christmas, when the children had revealed her distaste for colourful decorations, she thought their rooms were probably painted a discreet shade of beige. They would certainly not be bright pink, lilac or deep denim blue. And they would definitely not be yellow.
She found the wallpaper sample and stuck it on the dresser to admire it while she made herself a cup of tea. She fed the cat and then, still holding the piece of wallpaper, went back to bed.
It was odd,
she thought, as she settled beneath the duvet, that after her initial shock at what Hamish had done, the whole situation felt surreal, as if Hamish was just away somewhere; as if he was no longer her concern. All that mattered to her now was the health of her unborn children. She thought about what it would be like if he never came back. Whether she wanted him to come back.
If the pregnancy went well and she had two children – could she cope by herself? She thought about Rachael and how admirably she had coped for all those years, bringing up two children alone. But the difference between her and her grandmother was that Rachael had no choice in the matter. Her husband had died. Whereas, if she and Hamish separated, he would still be part of her life and that of her children. He would turn up at weekends to see the children. Worse… he might even be with Flora. That, surely, would be agony.
‘Stop now,’ she said to herself. There was no point, she realised, in imagining things that might never happen. She sipped her tea, turned on the radio and eventually slipped into a deep sleep. She was woken after nine by the ringing of the phone.
‘Sophie… it’s me, Hamish.’
‘Oh… yes,’ she said in a befuddled state. ‘I was asleep.’
‘I’m sorry to wake you. I haven’t slept a wink. Can I come and see you?’
She shook herself awake and hauled herself up in bed.
‘Aren’t you at work?’ she asked.
‘No, I’ve called in sick.’
‘Oh I see. Well… I don’t want to see you.’
‘Darling – that’s just unreasonable.’
She felt a flare of anger, which she tried to suppress, but it erupted nevertheless.
‘Unreasonable!’ she shouted. ‘I’m being unreasonable! You’ve got a nerve.’
Slamming the phone down, she breathed deeply and wandered into the bathroom, where she ran a bath, pouring in some soothing lavender oil. Lying down, she examined her belly and her breasts. The nipples looked different; they appeared to be bigger, but it was hard to tell if things had really changed. It was probably too soon for changes anyway.