I remember the first night we spent together at Grandma Sally’s, lying as man and wife, giggling silently and happily while Grandma Sally sat on the terrace in her rocking chair and a big moon filled the sky and pulled the tide high just for us. I woke up the next day and I felt different because I wasn’t just little Cee-Cee Symmons; I was Mrs Cee-Cee Templeton, wife of Willard, and that was really something. The thin, gold band on my left hand gave me something I had never had before: status. I was a married woman! I also believed it gave me security, because the way we loved each other had surely never been felt before by any two people on God’s sweet earth. It was something of an obsession, powerful and all-consuming. I felt such joy. In fact, I was filled with happiness without the need for food or socialising; all I wanted was to feel Willard’s skin next to mine and to hear his soft voice whispering a thousand promises into my ear. I still hear them sometimes, those promises, dotted with words like forever . . . future . . . children . . . prosper . . . together. These words might have been easy spoken and warmly received, but they were all lies. But how was I to know that? I do believe that if anyone had told me so, I would have laughed them out of town. Oh Rachel, dear, I was many things, but mainly I was naïve . . .
SEVEN
Eight weeks had passed since she’d moved into Vicky and Gino’s, and Rachel noticed that, physically at least, she had started to make a slow creep towards recovery. Her sleep pattern was more regular and the sour taste of sadness and guilt had faded a little from her tongue. Her limbs were no longer stiff with anxiety, her back muscles marginally less knotted, and the churning of her stomach, which robbed her of her appetite, somewhat eased, meaning that morsels of food no longer turned to ash in her mouth. All of which was welcome, but still each feeling and every thought was wrapped and sealed in the paper of grief, as if she had no right to move on from this catastrophe. Moreover, she found herself questioning whether she really wanted to. Her mind still coasted on the whims of her loss; dreams and wakefulness were confused, with the prevailing image being of Oscar on the back of his giant turtle. She also found that moments of potential happiness – like holding a sleeping Francisco in her arms, sipping from a mug of hot tea on a cold day or sauntering along Ladies Mile in Clifton, beneath the russet-tinged leaves – could be hijacked by memories of Oscar so clear, or thoughts so potent that she was instantly reduced to the desperate woman weighted down by a grey blanket on the damp bottom of a boat, trying to catch her breath and wishing to sleep for eternity.
She and James spoke with regularity, and the distance between them allowed for more honest conversation. If anything, it felt a little easier to talk openly without having to sit opposite him. His face and tortured expression mirroring her own only heightened her sadness, whereas the voice and ear on the end of the phone offered an anonymity that meant thoughts and words could be frank.
‘I hurt so bad.’
‘Me too.’
‘I am lonely – even when I’m with people, I am lonely.’
‘Me too. I am lonely.’
‘I am angry. So angry. Why? Why us? What had our boy ever done to deserve to have his future taken away?’
‘I know. I know. I am angry too.’
‘I still don’t believe it. I still can’t accept it.’
‘When are you coming home?’
‘I don’t know. Do you want me to come home?’
‘I don’t know.’
Their phrases were interchangeable and mutual tears now the finale to nearly each and every call.
Whilst Vicky and Gino went out of their way to make her welcome, she was becoming ever more aware of the confined communal areas and how the family adapted their lives to make space for her, which was something she didn’t want. Even their kindly efforts at inclusion made her feel like a burden. The idea made her shiver. She tried to picture James being as accommodating to someone taking over the spare room of the flat in Richmond where space had been at a premium, and could envisage him whispering questions of ‘How much longer?’ into her ear before sleep.
Plus, it wasn’t only her that had taken up residence in their lovely family home in Bishopston; no, she had brought with her the sweeping cloak of sadness that dusted the floor where she walked, trailed behind her up the stairs and stained the furniture on which she sat. And that felt most unfair. The last thing she wanted to do was outstay her welcome, despite Vicky’s assertions that this was impossible. The big question for her was what to do next, whether to find her own place to live, go into a hotel, book a flight back to Bermuda, or maybe it would be best if she headed back to her mum and dad’s for a bit. Trying to sort her thoughts on the topic, weighing up the pros and cons of all options left her feeling exhausted and more muddled. She had tried and failed to get a steer from James, but he was as confused as she, and if anything this only heightened her sense of limbo. It was as unpleasant as it was unsettling.
As was often the case, today was proving to be a tough one.
Rachel had woken in the early hours to the sound of Francisco crying. In her semi-sleeping state she had thought it was Oscar who was calling and had felt her heart leap and her senses jolt in her need to get to him. She then sat up and couldn’t figure out where James was; maybe he had gone to fetch the baby? She stared at the empty pillow as her mind caught up, sifting the facts from her dream. She laid her hand on the space where James used to lie in a house far away, where they would take turns fetching a child who no longer made this or any other noise. She tried, but could not imagine, Oscar quiet. Rachel fell back against the pillows, feeling the heft of grief that crushed her chest. Closing her eyes, she heard a voice whispering a memory. ‘Go back to sleep, go to sleep, child. You will find peace . . .’ and lulled by this soothing murmur, she did just that.
With Vicky at her mother-and-baby swim session in Horfield, Rachel decided to venture to rewers alone. The walk was a welcome distraction and she liked the fresh air, and the coffee was far better than anything she could whip up. Plus, she liked to get out from under Gino’s feet on the days he worked from home, returning with a fancy cake or wrapped sandwich, part of her campaign of thanking the couple who had thrown her this wonderful lifeline.
The place was half full and the owner, he of the close-cropped beard and chirpy nature, whom they now knew was called Glen, smiled and gave a small wave.
‘Where’s your friend and the little man?’ he called out.
‘They’ve gone swimming.’ She unwound her scarf and took a seat at the bar.
‘Cor, rather them than me, it’s bloody freezing today!’ He rubbed his arms.
‘Indoors, of course, and very warm by all accounts.’ She thought of taking Oscar to swim on the beach in the hot sun and their daily dips in the pool.
Look, Mummy! Look! Watch me do it again!
‘What can I get you? Usual?’
‘Sorry?’ She blinked.
‘I was asking if you wanted a drink, your usual maybe?’
‘Please.’ Rachel felt a surge of warmth that felt a lot like belonging. It felt good to have a ‘usual’.
She sat facing the window and watched the traffic passing by on the Gloucester Road. It was strange how she felt able to hide here in this bustling, crowded environment and yet in the quiet of her Bermuda home, even when alone, she had felt exposed, judged.
You are wrong, James – that was so unfair! He was my world! He was! And I was a good mum. Vicky said so.
On a small island she knew there would be no escaping her son’s peers, who lived close, shopped close, swam close. She dreaded the idea of bumping into them with their parents as she pushed the trolley around Lindos. And worse still having to witness the awkward coughs and nervous greetings from the mums like Alison, Rita and Fiona, who would grip their kids’ hands extra tightly, as if she were an unpleasant reminder of how quickly it was possible to lose all that was precious. As if her very bad luck might be contagious.
Bermuda was also, like any small place where people lived cheek
by jowl, an island where the rumour mill often went into overdrive. She could well imagine the school community and the friends they had made through James’s work, whispering comments between sips of wine or shouting thoughts between tennis shots: Where was she exactly when he fell in? Is it true she was drunk? How could you not lock the hatch? I am always so careful on our boat . . . I mean, I shouldn’t say this, but I do think it was neglectful.
‘Here we go, black Americano.’ He placed the mug on the counter and drew her from her thoughts.
‘Thank you, Glen.’
‘No worries. It’s Rachel, right?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded and took a sip of the restorative, warm, smoky liquid. ‘I wanted to ask you, what does “rewer” mean? I’ve been wondering since Vicky first brought me here.’
‘Ah.’ She watched him pause and pull out a damp cloth with which to clean his countertop, as he shook his head ruefully. ‘I lost my B.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s “rewer” because I lost my B. It should be “Brewer”. But the B fell off.’
‘How did it fall off?’
‘Actually, I don’t think it did. I suspect it was nicked, as there was no sign of it anywhere, excuse the pun. Students, probably – they nick all sorts.’
‘Why don’t you get another B?’ She took another sip.
‘Two things: Bs are more expensive than you might think, fitting them even more so, and secondly, we are now known as “rewers” – we even have a listing in the Good Coffee Bristol Guide – and it feels like tempting fate or a change too far to add that B.’
‘And it’s a talking point, I guess.’
‘Well, we’re talking about it!’ Glen smiled at her.
She nodded and looked down, not wanting to chat any further, but happy to have her curiosity settled.
‘Rachel, if you don’t mind me saying . . .’ He hesitated and licked his bottom lip, seeming to weigh up whether to continue or not. She braced herself for what might come next. ‘You seem . . . you have always seemed . . .’
She stared at him. I have seemed what?
‘You seem very sad,’ he levelled, his face colouring as he struggled to get the words out.
It was the first time a relative stranger had voiced what most must have observed and it surprised and comforted her in equal measure. She thought of James’s observation of Cee-Cee – what was it he had said?
My grandma used to have a phrase, a face that could curdle milk.
She felt a flash of unease that she and her husband had dared to be so insensitive to a woman still in mourning, a woman on a personal journey that they could not have begun to understand. Until now.
‘Well, I guess that is because I am very sad,’ she managed. Sadder than sad . . .
He held her eyeline for a second or two before speaking. ‘I guess it’s true, isn’t it?’
‘What?’ she asked.
‘That everyone has a story.’ He nodded and turned back to his cleaning chore, and she was thankful and warmed by the fact that he had left it at that.
In her quest to give Gino and Vicky space, and to take advantage of being so close to her mum and dad, she decided to go and have supper at her parents’ house. Her mum squeezed her tightly in a welcome hug, and from his chair in front of the television her dad gave his subtle wink over the top of The Gazette.
‘There’s a letter for you, love.’ Her mum pointed to the envelope in its usual spot. Rachel picked it up and popped it in her bag to read later.
They took their places at the kitchen table and her mum ladled healthy portions of shepherd’s pie and boiled, diced, mixed vegetables on to the plates.
‘Would you like a glass of Shloer? We’ve got some left over from last Christmas,’ her mum asked eagerly.
‘No. Thanks, though, Mum.’
‘We have really missed you, haven’t we, Brian?’
‘Yep.’ He nodded. ‘It’s not the same walking in silence on my own when I could be walking in silence with you.’
She smiled at her lovely dad.
‘It’s been strange knowing you are in Bristol not Bermuda and yet not seeing you,’ her mum summarised.
‘I think everything is a bit strange at the moment,’ she suggested.
‘Are you warm enough at Vicky’s? Do you want to take an extra duvet?’
‘No, I’m good, Mum, plenty warm enough.’ Her mum had always believed that every house apart from her own was chilly and unwelcoming.
‘Well, there’s one in the airing cupboard if you change your mind. You look a little bit better, I would say – got a bit of colour in your cheeks at long last, hasn’t she, Brian?’
Her dad nodded, concentrating on getting the right meat, mash and veg ratio on to his fork.
‘Are you sleeping better, love?’ her mum asked with a worried expression.
‘A bit.’
‘That’s good. And have you spoken to James?’
‘Yes.’ She felt a bolt of longing fire through her, remembering how she liked to have him close by when they were visiting her parents, dissecting the interaction later, laughing at their shared insights.
‘I do worry about him. I want to give him a big hug. I feel bad that we are all here together and he’s stuck out there with strangers, no family. His mum and dad are useless I know.’
Rachel was reminded of Cee-Cee’s words: These people who love you and whom you love, these people who share your blood and live in your heart; it is with them that you will learn how to move forward. At that particular moment, she felt bad.
‘So what did he have to say?’ Her mum spoke now with a mouthful of food.
‘Not much, truth be told. We kind of go around in circles.’ She sighed, looking out into the garden, trying to think how best to describe the practical, succinct exchanges peppered with expressions of their loss and mutual sadness, which now constituted their chats. It was a million miles away from the endless phone chatter of their courtship, where they would burble for hours, whispering into the receiver, curling the wire around their fingers, talking about anything and everything, laughing and laughing and laughing with no subject off-limits no matter how frivolous. It had never been choresome or awkward – quite the opposite. ‘We kind of ask briefly how the other one is doing and there is a long pause, as if we are both wondering whether to say all that we need to, and we cry together and then we hang up. And immediately after I feel a little bit better, but completely exhausted and I am sure it’s the same for him.’
‘That breaks my heart. He’s a good man and he’s your husband! You need to talk properly. Support each other.’
‘I know that, Mum. And I can’t explain how hard it is.’ She wished her mum would stop her commentary, knowing she couldn’t satisfy her many questions.
‘No, you can’t. I think whatever Dad and I have had to face it has made us stronger, hasn’t it, Brian?’
He looked at her and before he had the chance to respond, Jean continued, ‘I think it’s the same with Peter and Julie; things are sent to test us and it should make you stronger,’ she offered definitively.
There are lots of things that should be but are not. I should not be here. I should be living my life in Bermuda. My son should not have disappeared from the side of our boat. My heart should not be broken.
Rachel set her fork on the side of the plate. ‘I would have said the same about us. But with all due respect, nothing that you and dad or Peter and Julie have had to go through is anything like what we have experienced. Nothing at all.’
‘Well, it’s a shame.’
She stared at her mum and then at the mountain of food on the plate in front of her, wondering what the smallest polite amount was she could eat.
‘Yes’ – she swallowed – ‘it is a shame. I am quite full, actually, Mum, I—’
Without warning her mother let out a wail, a loud, all-consuming bellow that was distressing and shocking all at once.
‘Jean!’ Her dad jumped up and rushed to her s
ide of the table. ‘What is it, love?’
‘I can’t . . .’ she began, her head shaking, her fingers balled into white-knuckled fists. Sadness and anger robbed her of the ability to speak.
‘Mum?’ She reached out and held her hand across the breakfast nook.
‘Oh Rachel, Rachel!’
‘Don’t cry. Please don’t cry! What is it?’ she asked, as her dad palmed circles on his wife’s back over her cardigan. Rachel pushed a floral paper napkin into her hands. Jean grabbed it and blew her nose.
‘I’m sorry. I am. I can’t help it.’ She sniffed.
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ she coaxed.
‘I have missed you,’ her mum began, speaking so quickly that Rachel had to really listen. ‘I have missed you for years! I tried being happy for you, pleased that you were living that wonderful life in the sunshine, and I told everyone how great it was to know you and James and the babber were doing things we could only dream of. But the truth of it is, I have hated every single moment of having my girl and my grandson out of reach!’ Her tears fell again. ‘And when the call came in that Oscar had gone . . .’
Rachel watched her face collapse again in tears.
‘I felt as if someone had ripped my heart out!’ she shouted through gritted teeth with the napkin scrunched in her hand. ‘And I know I don’t always get it right, I know because I don’t know what to say. All I can think of is to make sandwiches and cook supper and wrap up slices of fruit cake in case you get hungry and to put the boiler on so you can have a hot bath because I don’t know how to make it better, Rachel! I don’t know how to fix it! And James – I love him! We love him, and I can’t stand that he is all on his own hurting just as much as we are but without anyone to make it better! It’s not fair!’ She smacked the table with her free hand and she and her dad jumped. ‘And I try and keep it all in. I do. I keep it all in and I try and keep all the plates spinning for you and Peter and Julie – the bloody waste of space that she is – and everything else. And you go walking, Brian – well, good for you! And I sit here alone and bake another bloody cake just so that I am doing something and I can’t stand it any more! I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!’
The Coordinates of Loss Page 19
