Years After You

by Woolf, Emma

  It wasn’t that she was struggling with being a mum—in fact, she was surprised at how much she was enjoying it. Shouldn’t it be harder than this? She’d heard so much about post-natal depression, sleep deprivation, the endless, colicky screaming, but so far so good. And being a single parent wasn’t as hard as she’d been led to expect, or maybe it was just that she had nothing to compare this to. Yet there were nights when Stella didn’t sleep, and Lily longed for someone else to take a turn getting up, someone else to take a turn with nappy changing; there were nights when she just needed someone in the bed beside her, to talk about it all.

  Stella had made up for a difficult birth by being a peaceful, considerate baby. She breastfed without biting her mother, she smiled a lot, and she only cried for logical reasons: if she was hungry, say, or her nappy needed changing. Even at six weeks, she was starting to sleep for longer periods—up to five or six hours at a stretch. From the anecdotes of other mothers at the baby group, Lily knew she was extremely lucky.

  Still, it was tiring. Even though Stella was tiny, there was no doubt who ruled the Belsize Park household. Everything revolved around her. Since her birth, Lily found it impossible to run around the way she used to. She couldn’t just throw on some jeans and nip out to the shops, or go for a long walk, or even read a book. For someone who was used to being in complete control of her life, having a baby had been quite a learning curve.

  Cassie and Susan both helped, and Celia came round most afternoons to see them both. Sometimes another mother from her antenatal group would pop by for tea, or they’d meet in a nearby café. Even when it was just the two of them, Lily was so absorbed in feeding, washing, playing, and singing that the days raced by and she didn’t have time to get depressed or lonely.

  If Lily felt any sadness in those first few months, it was more specific: the sadness of knowing that Harry would never know this precious being he had created. There had been a baby girl, Harry had once told her, but whether she was born before or after his sons, how long she had lived or how she died, Lily didn’t know. The pain in his eyes had been such that she couldn’t bring herself to ask. But she knew that Harry had always wanted a girl, and here she was, more beautiful every day. With every milestone of their daughter’s new life, Lily longed for Harry to witness it. That sadness would never go away.

  She couldn’t believe Stella was already six weeks old. She had arrived several weeks early, following a dramatic midnight taxi ride to the Royal Free just up the road in Hampstead. The birth, seared on Lily’s mind, seemed like only yesterday, but then she couldn’t imagine life without her. Sometimes she looked at her and thought she would explode with the intensity of her feelings. For weeks after the birth, Lily felt emotionally raw, with a jagged, fierce quality to her love. She treasured the weight, the miraculous warmth and bundle of her daughter curled on her chest. When Stella yawned, when she smiled or sighed, it was a miracle; it made Lily want to weep.

  Susan bustled in the background, getting coffee cups from the kitchen, taking chocolate biscuits from her magic hamper. As if she could read Lily’s mind, Stella looked up at her mother and smiled. She had Harry’s blue eyes, his exact shade of forget-me-not blue.

  Heathrow was far more chaotic than Lily remembered, despite the fact that it was early on a Sunday morning. With a small baby, it seemed much louder and more hectic than on her previous trips. She hadn’t been to an airport since that long-ago holiday with Harry to Saint Lucia.

  Once through security, having re-attached her baby, belt, bags, and shoes, Lily headed for the nearest café. By some miracle Stella was still sleeping, so she read for an hour, trying to keep her mind on the book in front of her. The snow had started falling in Oslo and the hunt was on for the serial killer in the latest Jo Nesbo thriller . . . but it was hard to concentrate on the storyline. She gave up on the book and flipped on her music. Joan Baez was singing “Diamonds and Rust.” It was Harry’s song and always brought him back painfully, from those opening lines.

  “Well I’ll be damned, here comes your ghost again . . .”

  She should skip this song. She couldn’t bear it.

  She closed her eyes and gave in to the music.

  “. . . Now you’re telling me

  You’re not nostalgic

  Then give me another word for it . . .”

  Lily swallowed hard to keep the tears down. The grief of recent months washed over her, and it was suddenly more than she could bear. And what was she doing now?

  Just a few hours away was her first meeting with her father in over two decades. She had been a small child when Claude had left. She had virtually no memories of him, apart from those strange, disjointed lines of poetry, and the images of being thrown up and caught in his strong arms. Gazing at her sleeping daughter, Lily realised she had no idea what a father was like.

  Lily hadn’t told anyone about Claude’s letter for ages. She hadn’t decided whether to visit him or not, then Stella’s birth intervened, and when the dust settled, she found herself looking for flights to France. But first she knew she must talk to her mother. With Stella strapped to her chest, she walked over to the house in Hampstead and found Celia in the garden. It was lush and dark green from the overnight thunderstorm, the plants grateful for the downpour after days of muggy heat.

  “How lovely to see you both,” Celia said, getting up from the flowerbed, brushing damp leaves from her knees.

  “Sorry for not ringing first. I wasn’t sure if you’d be in but thought we’d take the chance,” Lily said, hugging her mother as she handed Stella over.

  “You’re just in time for coffee,” Celia said. “Patrick’s coming for lunch so I need to get a lasagne in the oven, but you’re very welcome to stay, of course.”

  They drifted towards the back door, Celia jiggling the baby on her hip, smiling and cooing at her as if it had been months, not days, since she last saw her. In the kitchen, Lily cleared the counter while Celia made a fresh cafetière and poured out two mugs of coffee. Then Lily sat down at the kitchen table with Stella while her mother started washing and slicing vegetables for the lasagne.

  “So, Mum . . .” Lily began. “I got a letter back from Claude.” Celia turned in surprise, holding an onion. “It’s quite a short letter—I brought it in case you want to see. Apparently they spend the summer in France, him and his, uh, wife, that is”—Lily wasn’t sure how much her mother knew about his life—“and he said would we like to go and visit, go and stay with them, me and Stella, that is.” Her words came out in a rush.

  She felt disloyal, admitting that Claude had invited them to France. It was as if she was throwing it back in her mother’s face, all those years of Celia being there for them, not leaving the way he’d left. She felt as if she was siding with him in some invisible tug-of-war, choosing this fictional father over her real, present mother.

  Of course, Celia didn’t see it like that. She was taken aback by Lily’s news; Claude’s departure had been sudden and totally unexplained. She had never put it behind her, not properly. She and Claude had had their ups and downs, like any couple, but they loved each other and he’d enjoyed being a father. She never asked herself how he could have left her but how he could have left the children.

  As the mother of three young children and an unborn baby, Celia had found herself suddenly dealing with more financial and practical difficulties than she’d ever expected. School fees and mortgage arrangements, frozen pipes and blocked gutters and car trouble. She wasn’t prepared for any of it. But they had coped. She had never wanted to poison her children against their father. Throughout the exhausting years of bringing them up alone, she’d tried not to be bitter.

  There had been a few letters from him at first—he was spending time in France, then he was going travelling, then he was moving to America, then silence. No explanations, no child support, not a single visit. The final blow was a package from a divorce lawyer fifteen years ago, some official papers she had signed and se
nt back to an address in California. She had felt sadness and relief. The initial heartbreak had, over the years, become a dull ache in her heart. A small kernel of pain which she never spoke about.

  And now this. The past rushing back into the present, a confusion of memories. Claude wanting to meet Lily, to meet Stella, inviting them to stay with his family in France. She had understood Lily’s wish to contact her father—she knew that sooner or later one of the children would—but it was strange how quickly a possibility became a reality. Claude had been out there, living his life, all along. He had married again—she guessed he had, of course, when the divorce came up. Another woman called herself his wife. It was both unthinkable and completely inevitable. Standing at the kitchen sink with the tap running, Celia suddenly felt old.

  She put down the onion. “That’s exciting, Lil—unexpected! Do you think you’ll go?”

  “I’m not sure, Mum,” Lily said. “I think Stella should have a grandfather, and I suppose I want to meet him too. I don’t know, maybe it’s a bad idea?”

  Celia smiled brightly. “You mustn’t worry about me, darling. I support your decision absolutely, I understand why you need to meet him, and I don’t mind at all. Let bygones be bygones, isn’t that what they say? Life really is too short to hold grudges.” The doorbell rang and she went to answer it. “Anyway I’m not sad, lonely Mum any more. I have Patrick and he’s lovely,” she called from the hallway.

  It did make a difference, Lily thought, now that Celia had Patrick. She and Cassie had worried about their mother over the years, more so since they’d all left home, and it was a relief to see her finally happy with someone new. Still, Lily wasn’t sure about meeting her father.

  * * *

  I’m at a very low ebb. The summer was always Harry’s time—he loved the garden and inventing outdoor adventures for the boys during their holidays, taking them fishing and exploring the woods. I remember him coming home one Friday afternoon with a carful of tents and sleeping bags and tinned food; he’d stopped off at a camping shop and ended up buying a load of gear, and we piled into the car and set off for Cornwall. It was the most mad, magical trip. Harry at his best, gathering kindling with the boys, building a campfire, me cooking bacon and beans over the portable stove, doing the washing-up in the stream, then drinking cocoa around the fire late at night.

  I miss him all the time, but I’m missing him even more during these long summer holidays. I know the boys are too. I’m trying to be a good mum, support them without pushing them, listen to them without prying into their feelings, but the truth is, I don’t know how to be. Are we doing this right? Should they be reacting differently, rebelling and getting into trouble; should they be weeping every day over photos of their dad? We attended a few sessions of family therapy together, but none of us found it helpful. As Joe said, “It’s a total waste of time. We don’t need therapy, we just miss Dad. It would be weird if we didn’t.”

  Mostly we go on as normal. But the house is so quiet and sad. Our family is broken. Harry was such a presence in the house, in our lives. He held it all together. How will we ever feel whole without him?

  She knew it was Claude immediately, a tall man in his sixties waiting at the arrivals gate. The resemblance to James was startling. They hugged stiffly, then Claude took her bags and led her towards the exit. Despite that slight initial awkwardness, Lily quickly felt natural walking beside him across the car park. Was it his easy West Coast manners or some kind of genetic affinity between them? Claude’s wife, Marie, appeared, a small, dark-haired Frenchwoman, and helped to settle Stella in the car. They didn’t have a baby seat, so they propped her securely between Lily and Claude in the back.

  Marie drove. The journey took them around Lyon, then out across valleys and through small towns, deep into the Burgundy countryside. She explained that they borrowed the car, an ancient Renault, from her younger son, Vincent—he lived not far from them with his girlfriend and two small sons, and ran his own IT company. Her elder son, Julien, three years older than Lily, was an investment banker. He divided his time between London and Paris, but spent most of the summer here in Burgundy, living with Vincent and collaborating on various financial websites. “The boys are good friends now,” Marie said, her spoken English a mixture of French and American accents, “but as children they were sworn enemies! I remember when they were very young, I found them in the paddling pool trying to drown each other.”

  Lily laughed. “It sounds just like our family when we were kids.” There was a brief pause.

  “And what about now?” Marie asked. “I bet you get on much better as adults, siblings usually do.”

  At first, Lily felt awkward talking about the family, unsure what to say. She didn’t know what Claude remembered of his children, what he would feel able to talk about. But he asked question after question about the four of them: Lily, Cassie, Olivia—and James, the son he’d never met. He seemed hungry for all the details of their lives.

  When there were silences, they weren’t uncomfortable, just a drawing of breath as if they were marvelling at each other’s presence: Lily looking at her father, Claude looking at his daughter. They were finally real to each other. When Lily first mentioned Celia’s name, Claude didn’t say anything, just nodded. She didn’t know if she would ever ask him what had gone wrong, why he had left them—maybe another time, maybe never. Whatever had happened, Lily could see that he hadn’t stopped thinking of them during those long years of absence.

  The main house was a long, low converted barn of grey stone with large windows and the traditional French red-tiled roof. Marie parked outside a small building next to the main house, “above what used to be the manger for the cattle,” Claude explained with a smile. The former manger was now a study and workroom downstairs with converted guest quarters above. Lily was relieved that she and Stella would have their own space during their stay.

  Claude carried their bags upstairs and showed her into the main bedroom. “The bathroom’s through here,” he said, indicating an arch-shaped wooden door into a beautiful blue-and-white bathroom. “I’ll leave you to get settled in.”

  Lily smiled and murmured something about giving Stella a feed.

  Claude nodded. “Speaking of food, lunch will be ready in about an hour—something simple, if that’s OK; we’ll have a proper meal this evening. But come down for a coffee whenever you’re ready. I’m in charge of the kitchen!” He put his hand lightly on Lily’s shoulder and turned to descend the narrow stairs.

  She lay back on the double bed beside her daughter and closed her eyes. So. That was her father. The last few hours had been so intense, it was hard to work out what she was feeling. Did the man himself bear any relation to the memory she thought she had of him? That deep, reassuring voice, the rough-wool sweater and strong arms, that curious fragment of rhyme: “And all the lives we ever lived, And all the lives to be, Are full of trees and changing leaves . . .”

  Already that memory was fading, merging into the man she’d just met: tall and muscular in his late sixties, tanned from years in California. He was both a stranger and yet familiar. Although she had those blurred images from her own childhood, she couldn’t summon any recollection of her parents together. She wondered what Celia would make of Claude now. He reminded Lily so strongly of James, those blue eyes and the wide smile. Of course it made sense that her father would remind her of her brother. But there was something else, a gentle, quiet strength, which brought back her longing for Harry.

  Opening her eyes, Lily saw that Stella was gazing at her in silence, concerned. She scooped the baby into her arms, picked up the nappy bag, and carried them into the bathroom, lost in thought. What had happened more than a quarter of a century ago to make Claude walk out on them all?

  They didn’t talk about it that first day. They had a long lunch of fresh bread, cheese, salad, and pears from the orchard, sitting on the terrace in blazing sunshine. After coffee, Marie showed Lily her plants—she was partic
ularly proud of the pink and white water lilies in the pond—and then Claude gave her a tour of the orchard and his vegetable garden.

  “Of course, it needs a lot of work right now—normally we’re out here for all of July and August, but this year we were held up with the move back in the States. The farmer down the lane keeps the grass and hedges cut, but I like to get things back into shape when we first arrive. The orchard doesn’t mind being neglected, you saw those fantastic apple and pear trees, but the vegetables are another matter—I need to get digging. The climate here’s pretty good: it can be scorching in the summer, but we get plenty of rain too. Very different to California.”

  Marie filled the small paddling pool by the kitchen door with a garden hose. Claude and Lily sat on the back step and watched Stella splashing about, amazed and laughing as if she’d just discovered water. They had a quiet supper, just the four of them, and by ten p.m. Lily was yawning widely. “I think we could all do with an early night,” Claude said, “it’s been quite a day.” They hugged goodnight.

  She was completely exhausted, whether from the simple journey or the not-so-simple emotions she wasn’t sure. Lying down, listening to Stella softly breathing in the cot beside the bed, she thought of her brother and sisters. She saw their faces in a new light, their mannerisms and expressions merging with those of their father’s as she fell into a deep sleep.

  It wasn’t until the following morning that they really began to talk. Lily and Stella woke around eight a.m. to quiet clattering and low voices coming from the farmhouse kitchen in the adjoining building. Lily ran a bath, emerging from the bathroom to find a cup of freshly brewed coffee had been placed on a low table by the door. She drank the coffee gratefully while dressing herself and the baby.

  Downstairs, Marie and Claude were just finishing the newspapers. “Ready for breakfast?” her father asked.

  “We certainly are!” Lily smiled.