Rachel felt her pulse race, ill-equipped to handle her mum’s outburst and taken aback by the ferocity of her words. The whole encounter left her with a new-found compassion for the woman who was mourning too.
‘It’s okay, Jean. It’s okay. I love you. I love you.’ Her dad closed his eyes and reached for her. And she saw her mum’s shoulders relax a little, remembering in that moment what it felt like to have someone to fall into who could make things feel better. It fired a bolt of loneliness through her very core.
Her dad pulled his wife into his arms and held her fast, and Rachel knew that these people who lived in each other’s hearts would indeed help each other heal. The sight of them locked together made her miss her husband more than she could express.
Rachel watched from the sidelines, an interloper, intruding on a moment of tenderness between these two people she knew she had taken for granted. She had heard her mum’s roar and understood now just how much she was hurting too and, like her, like Cee-Cee, like all of them, was doing her very best to get through each and every day.
Rachel kissed her mum goodbye softly at the end of the evening with a new, unspoken understanding.
‘I love you, Mum.’
‘I love you too, my little girl.’
Her dad glanced at her as they drove along the M32; he had jumped at the chance to give her a lift home.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘That had been building in your mum for quite some time, I’d say.’ He kept his eyes on the road.
‘I know, and I think she might feel better for it.’
‘Yep.’
‘I can see that it’s hard for her to understand how it is for James and me now. It’s hard for me too and I do feel guilty that he is there without family, but, Dad, we were killing each other.’ She bit her lip.
He nodded. ‘Only you and James know what it’s like and only you and James know where you are heading.’
‘That’s just it, Dad. I don’t think either of us knows where we are heading, but the more time goes on, I can’t see us heading there together. And it should make me sad, but it can’t. It’s like I don’t have any sadness left for that.’
‘And that is between the two of you, no one else. But I would say this: you had a good marriage, you were friends and maybe this is a stage of your grief, but you will come out of the other side feeling different.’
‘Maybe,’ she conceded, running her thumb over the Tic-Tac box full of sand that sat in her coat pocket. ‘I am thinking about what to do right now, Dad. I don’t know whether to get a flat or go to a hotel.’
‘Things not working out at Vicky’s?’
‘No, things are lovely. She and Gino are great.’ She looked out of the window at the big Ikea sign and pictured trawling the aisles, looking for bedding and lamps, starting over . . . Even the thought of it made her feel tired. ‘I just don’t want to encroach on their space, and it’s hard to be a relaxed little family when you have a guest, I know that. But if I leave there, it forces me to make a decision about what I do next and that is scary. If I take a flat it gives my life here a sense of permanency, and if I go into a hotel that suggests it’s a stepping-stone towards going back to Bermuda, and I don’t think I want that.’
‘You need to talk to James. Properly talk to him.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I know.’ She heard her husband’s words now, crystal clear in her mind: I can’t look at you, I don’t want to look at you . . . I’m able to distract myself with one million small things, but just the sight of you and I am dragged back to that moment and I can’t stand it . . .
After he dropped her off at Vicky’s, she waved her dad goodbye and, using the key they had given her, Rachel let herself into the house in Egerton Road, stopping short in the hallway at the sound of laughter drifting from under the closed door to the sitting room. She hung up her coat and transferred the Tic-Tac box to her sweatshirt pocket before knocking lightly with her knuckles as she opened the door.
‘Hey, Rach! Come in! How were your mum and dad?’ Vicky asked, swinging her legs to the floor from where they had rested on her husband’s lap, like a babysitting teen who had been caught unawares with her boyfriend by the earlier-than-anticipated arrival of the parents. She noticed the almost imperceptible flex of Gino’s jaw and felt that she was imposing, ruining the moment, and this she understood.
‘They’re fine, the same. You know.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Vicky laughed. ‘God love them.’
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ Gino reached for the bottle that nestled on the floor by his feet.
‘No, I’m good. Early night for me.’ She was sure there was a flicker of relief on his face. ‘I am thinking about what to do next,’ she began. ‘You guys have been wonderful to me and I have loved staying here—’
‘Uh-oh, this sounds like goodbye.’ Vicky pulled a sad face. ‘We love having you here!’
‘And I love being here, but I can’t stay indefinitely, and I don’t want to, so I’m thinking what to do next, but just thought I should let you know that I’m either going to get a flat—’
‘Yes, get a flat close by! That’d be so great; then I can see you whenever I want and you can look after Francisco and it’d be so cool.’ Her friend bounced on the sofa.
Rachel nodded. ‘Or I might go back to Bermuda. I need to speak to James.’
‘Of course.’ Vicky calmed a bit, her wine-filled enthusiasm brought under control by this reminder of her life. ‘I do love you, Rach.’
‘I love you too.’ Slowly she backed out of the room and made her way up the stairs.
She lay on the bed and read Cee-Cee’s letter, quite lost in the build-up to her wedding and saddened by Clara’s behaviour.
. . . It didn’t happen overnight, but it might as well have. It was more than sulking; it was like Clara had decided that there wasn’t enough of me to go round and that if I chose Willard then I couldn’t have her too.
‘That’s so sad, jealousy.’ She spoke aloud as she called her husband. Nerves fluttered in her stomach in anticipation of the conversation she knew they had to have. Looking at the time on her phone, she worked out that it would be four in the afternoon; he’d be in the office.
‘Hi, Rachel.’
‘Can you talk?’ she asked, more wary than she should have been when talking to her own husband and her tone threaded with nerves at the topic she was about to launch.
‘Yes, sure. I’m in the car actually, so good timing. Just been back to the house. Cee-Cee was taken ill and so I shot back and have just dropped her at home. She was insisting on walking – you know what she’s like. I had to more or less bundle her into the front seat.’
‘Oh no, what’s wrong with her?’ She sat up, concerned.
‘Not sure, but she didn’t look great. She was a bit breathless and looked clammy. She said there was a sickness bug going around and a friend of hers from church had been ill, so probably that. I told her not to worry about coming in, of course, and to call if she needed anything. I know she won’t, so I will pop in tomorrow on my way home to see how she’s doing.’
‘Good idea, can you take some soup and some flowers?’ She pictured Cee-Cee in her neat cottage.
I will write back to you Cee-Cee – I will write you a long letter. She felt guilty for not yet having replied to her mail.
‘Will do.’
‘Do you think it’d be okay if I called her? Just to check in?’
‘Yes, I think she’d like that. God, it’s hot today.’ He sighed.
She tried to remember the feel of the heat and humidity. The way her hair would hang limply about her face, make-up slid from her cheeks, and to step from the air-conditioned car or house into the outdoors would make her instantly sweat. It was strange how having lived on the island for so many years, it had taken only a few days back in Blighty for her to get used to wearing jerseys and sitting in front of the fire in bed socks, and for her to forget exactly how it
felt to wake in the soft, blue light of a sun-drenched day where the warmth soothed her muscles and softened her mood.
‘It’s night-time here and quite chilly.’
‘Sounds lovely. Do you remember how cold our old flat used to get?’
She heard the smile in his voice as she too pictured their home in Richmond not far from the river, with its high ceilings, stripped wooden floors and pointless low radiators that pumped out heat that would whoosh out of the rattly, drafty windows or up to the space below the roof.
‘Yes. I remember the alarm clock going off each morning and nearly crying because I didn’t want to go and use the bathroom; the floor used to feel like ice under my bare feet.’ She scrunched her sock-covered toes in recollection.
They were both silent for a second, as if each trying to reconcile how much they had unravelled since those heady days of young love in a new marriage when everything and anything felt possible.
‘How are you today?’ he asked. The loaded question was no longer the first thing they asked, and that in itself was progress. They both now knew enough to recognise that it was a day-by-day process, and that any improvement could be hacked away as quickly as it was gained.
‘I’m thinking about what to do next. I’m considering moving out of Vicky and Gino’s, not that they don’t make me welcome and they haven’t asked or anything, but I want to give them back their privacy in their own space. You know.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know what to do, James. I have thought about moving to a hotel, but that just feels a bit like putting off a decision. Or I could take a flat here . . . or I could come back to Bermuda.’
‘They are all options,’ he agreed. She noted he did not, as anyone with the desire might have done, urge her to come home.
‘I can’t imagine being there.’ Rachel spoke aloud her thoughts.
‘I can’t lie, I feel particularly nervous about seeing you.’
She was glad of his candour. ‘I feel the same.’
‘Do you . . . do you miss me at all?’ he asked. His voice sounded a little strangled.
She held Mr Bob to her chest and answered as best she could. ‘I miss everything about our old life and I wish’ – she closed her eyes – ‘I wish I could turn the clock back to when things were normal, before.’
‘Of course.’
‘But the new us, the us with our hearts shredded and with the memory of what happened so crisp in our minds’ – she looked at Mr Bob – ‘I feel like I don’t want any part of it and putting distance between where it happened and me has helped in some way.’
‘I know.’ His voice was low. ‘It’s a difficult thing, but I was talking to Max at work about it and I suggested that it’s like a phenomenon: when you are grieving, to add another person who is also grieving more than doubles that grief. It turns it into something overwhelming, something even more unbearable. A tsunami.’
‘Yes, it does.’ She paused. ‘I think I will take a flat, for six months maybe.’
‘Yes.’ His confirmation was the push she needed to take the step.
It felt like a door closing.
‘Give my love to Cee-Cee and don’t forget, soup and flowers.’
‘I won’t. And you take care, Rachel.’
She held the phone to her face, aware of another fine strand of connection being severed between them. She slipped down on to the pillows and thought about her mum’s outburst earlier.
I try and keep it all in. I do. I keep it all in and I try and keep all the plates spinning . . . 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!
Rachel looked up at the chimney pots outlined against the inky blue, star-filled sky. It was true; all of them were trying their very best just to get through each and every day.
CEE-CEE
‘Hello?’ Cee-Cee blinked as she flicked on the lamp, pulled the Portuguese shawl up over her shoulders and gripped the phone to her face as she sat up in the bed.
‘Cee-Cee? It’s Rachel. James told me you weren’t feeling too well and I’m worried about you, so thought I would give you a call.’
‘Well, that’s wonderful.’ She felt her heart flutter a little; this was exciting and yet a little invasive. The one thing that stood out to Cee-Cee was that if this girl was worried about her, even a little bit, it showed her grief had shifted from the all-consuming sadness that meant there were no spare thoughts for anything other than her loss. Rachel might not know it, but this was progress.
Cee-Cee realised that she now felt a little self-conscious to be in direct contact with the woman who knew some of the most intimate aspects of her life. She found it easy to write, cathartic even, but this was different. Plus, it was very, very late, almost eleven p.m. ‘I am better now – completely fine! Just a bug. No need for anyone to worry.’
‘I am very glad to hear it.’ Rachel laughed. ‘I’ve told James to come over with soup for you tomorrow.’
‘Well, I don’t need soup! And I don’t need him going out of his way.’ Cee-Cee felt the pull in her gut of anxiety; she did not want the Crofts to think she was incapable of performing her duties.
‘I think he just wants to take care of you. And if I were there . . .’
Cee-Cee was surprised by the swell of emotion in her throat.
‘It’s nice to hear your voice, Cee-Cee. It’s late and I couldn’t sleep.’
‘What is the time in England?’
‘It’s just before three a.m.’
‘Goodness, child! You should be sleeping!’
‘I can’t. My head is too busy. I picked up your latest letter from my mum’s. I can’t tell you how much I love your stories. They transport me back to that time and it’s wonderful. I have just read all about your wedding.’
Cee-Cee beamed. ‘Ah, yes, my wedding. And you know, Rachel, to be able to share my story is something very comforting.’
There is no one else . . . Willard gone . . . Oscar gone . . .
‘Comforting. Yes,’ Rachel agreed. ‘And I appreciate your advice because you know how I feel, you know what it’s like. Most people don’t. And of course, I love that you loved Oscar.’
‘Oh, I did! I did! I can’t lie to you, my heart is damaged. I miss that little English boy.’
‘I know, and he was so lucky to have someone like you in his life.’ Cee-Cee caught the catch in Rachel’s voice.
It was me who was the lucky one.
There was a moment or two of silence until Cee-Cee spoke.
‘Will this call be costing you a fortune?’
Rachel sniffed. ‘No! No! It costs nothing as long as I call after a certain time; I got a deal with Three.’
‘Oh, right.’ Cee-Cee had no idea who or what that was.
‘Cee-Cee, can I ask you what happened after your wedding?’
‘Oh, it’s a long story.’
‘I have a large cup of tea and I am quite comfortable sitting on my bed.’
Cee-Cee moved up the bed and rested her back on the headboard. She took a deep breath and felt her spirits soar in anticipation of telling this woman, still a stranger in so many ways, the details of her life.
‘Well, I think in particular about one hot, hot August day. Apart from the heat it was nothing but an ordinary day, at least it was until I received a letter – more accurately a note – pushed into the mailbox and without signature.
‘The paper was unremarkable, faintly lined and torn jaggedly from a notebook. It wasn’t written in fancy ink pen, but a plain old ballpoint. The second note that had been surreptitiously cast in my direction, and whilst of a very different nature, it had just as much of an impact as the first.’
‘What did it say?’ Rachel prompted.
Cee-Cee smiled at her interest. ‘Well, I can see the words now, scrawled off the lines, and if the contents of the note hadn’t been enough to send fire into my veins, then this poor line-discipline was in itsel
f more than enough to cause a flicker of irritation. It was no more than four lines that said: “Willard has broken your trust. He is not faithful. And he is brazen in the execution of his sin, committed at his place of work.” And it was signed: “A friend ”.’
She heard Rachel gasp. ‘Huh, no!’
‘Yes!’ Cee-Cee was happy to hear Rachel so engaged and her obvious shock bonded the two closer, they became allies. She felt that this was a good distraction for the girl, as well as a joy for her to have someone to tell her story to. ‘And I don’t mind telling you that I fell backward on the veranda, sinking down into Grandma Sally’s chair. The breath left my lungs and I was hot, so hot, I could feel the warm beads of sweat running down my face.
‘Willard, my husband of eighteen months was carrying on with someone.’
‘Cee-Cee, that is awful. Just heartbreaking – how did you know it was true?’ Rachel asked.
Cee-Cee, touched by the girl’s sympathy, pictured herself as a bright newly-wed whose dreams were fading like the bloom on her dried bouquet.
‘I just knew it. I felt it. And as God is my witness, I am ashamed to say that all I could think of was: why hadn’t I been able to keep him happy? Why wasn’t I enough? How had that joyous bubble in which we had existed come to burst already? And more important, what would happen now?
‘As I sit here tonight, I wish I could reach down to my nineteen-year-old self and say, “It’s nothing to do with you, Cee-Cee Templeton! It is all him! Feeling blue and down in the dumps is like howling at the wind and rain while a storm rages – ain’t nothing you could have done to prevent it!” Not that it would have hurt any less.
‘Grandma Sally came outside, alerted by my crying, and asked what the matter was. Now, apart from the goings-on in our marital bed and the strength of devotion I felt to the man I was married to, I had never had a secret from Grandma Sally, and without hesitation I handed her the note. Well, she read it and read it again and she gave a tight-mouthed little shake of the head and said, “You need to put on your best dress and you need to go and see him at his place of work. You need to face it head-on.” She might have been right, but as I stood at the pale stone bus shelter in my best dress, a pale-blue cotton frock with a white tie belt, only usually worn for church and Cup Match weekends, I felt my nerve fade and my legs turn to jelly. I looked at the bend in the road and wondered if it might be possible to make out I hadn’t seen the note, to keep quiet about the whole thing and hope that Willard might settle down and that Grandma Sally might not raise the subject and that my faith in him might heal.
The Coordinates of Loss Page 20
