‘It was a lot of hopes. Too many.
‘I decided to leave it to fate. I would count to ten and if the bus hadn’t shown up by then, I would leave, walk home in the heat, have an iced tea and think things over; but if it came before I got to ten, then I would go into town and go and see Willard at the Hamilton Ferry Port where he worked, and I would have it out, face to face.
‘I started to count. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . and it was as I was about to take a breath and mentally reach for six that the single-decker bus appeared. So there it was, fate had decided.
‘It wasn’t too busy and I took up a seat at the very front, as was my God-given right to do, and sat with my back straight, all the way along South Road and along into Front Street. I jumped off a stop or two early to give me a chance to compose myself. And I walked briskly, nodding hello to the people I knew, and there were many, some like Mrs De Souza calling out, asking after Grandma Sally, and I lifted my hand and shouted back, “She’s good!” – knowing that if I stopped and chatted, I just might never get away or, worse, lose my nerve. My stomach churned at the thought of the conversation I was about to have with the man I loved, and my heart raced in preparation for what I might see. After all, the note had been very clear: “Brazen in the execution of his sin, committed at his place of work.”
‘I tried not to think about my daddy working along in Pitts Bay Road, not five minutes from where I walked, for fear of giving in to my cowardice and running right into his arms and telling him all my woes.
‘I wasn’t concentrating much on my surroundings, but was thinking of how I might address Willard and how, no matter what, I had to remain confident and dignified; this above all else.
‘It was as I walked past Trimminghams that I clashed with a woman not much older than me, wearing lemon-coloured gloves and a white pillbox hat. After I had apologised and accepted hers in return, I heard her mutter to her friend, “Did you see those killer cheekbones? Lucky girl!” and as I might have mentioned, it was these few words gave me the shot in the arm needed to go and do and say what I had to.
‘I spied my husband before he saw me. He was leaning back on the metal handrail with one foot in its shiny, brown, company-issue loafer, raised and resting on the metal grill of the fence that stopped folk who queued for the ferry tumbling into the dock while their noses were in their newspapers. There was a girl stood by his side. I can confirm she was indeed wearing cherry-coloured lipstick, as well as a fancy red-and-white frock with a neat, starched collar. She had one of those bodies that went in and out in all the right places, with a tiny waist and a bosom that needed a whole lot more upholstery than my thin vest could ever have provided. I thought she looked pretty, but I couldn’t hate her for it. It sure as hellfire wasn’t her that had stood next to me in St Anne’s Church, Southampton Parish, and taken them vows!
‘I watched Willard talk to her with his head cocked to one side, so he had to look at her through his lashes, and I saw the slight smile on his face and I remembered the many sweet nothings that had passed his lips while he spoke to me in the exact same way. And truly it felt like a dagger to my heart.
‘I walked over slowly, paying little heed to the policeman who stood in his British uniform on his little raised island at the intersection, blowing a whistle and directing the traffic – horses and carts, buses and suchlike – with his straightened arms and bendy elbows. Willard threw his head back to laugh at something that young Miss Bosoms had said, and it was as he lowered his gaze that the laugh stopped and his eyes widened and just for a second he looked a little afraid and I was glad. I told myself, “Don’t you let him mess with you, Cee-Cee! You have killer cheekbones!” I must be stupid, Lord knows, because at the sight of that look of fright I felt sorry for Willard. He was my dear heart and to cause him even the slightest of harm or worry did not sit well with me.
‘I was some kind of fool.’
‘You were in love, Cee-Cee: a fool in love!’
‘Yes, that I was, Rachel, dear. A fool in love.’
EIGHT
Rachel spread the property paper out on the tabletop, holding her coffee in one hand as she perused the flats for rent, running her finger up and down the columns. Vicky rocked the pushchair back and forth in an effort to calm Francisco, who wailed loudly. There were some pretty one-bedroom places off the Gloucester Road and at rates that were affordable. She knew she and James had savings that would more than cover the costs, and it was only going to be a temporary measure while she figured out what to do next, but this was still a new direction for her and felt very different from when they spent money together as a married couple with a common goal and one earning pot. This felt very different indeed.
‘Bless him, is it wind?’ Glen’s mother, Sandra, asked, as she whipped by with a plate of bacon and eggs resting in her palms.
‘Don’t think so, he might be teething, but I can’t see anything,’ Vicky answered. Her breathing grew faster and her cheeks reddened as her agitation increased. ‘I think I’ll take him outside.’ She looked at the handful of other patrons, wary of disturbing their peace.
‘No, don’t be daft; it’s raining! Give him here!’ Sandra, having deposited the plate, tucked the dishcloth into the leather loop that hung from her funky apron. Francisco almost instantly calmed and rested his head on her shoulder.
‘Ah, love him! This takes me right back!’ Sandra jostled on the spot, patting his narrow back and smiling. Rachel swallowed the tears that surged; she could still feel the imprint of that little bundle in her arms.
It’s a boy! Congratulations! . . . Oh my God, Rach, we did it! We did it! Look at him!
‘Avocado and poached egg on toast!’ came the call from the kitchen, as Keith placed the food at the pass.
‘Glen! Order up for table five, but I’ve got my hands full!’ Sandra called across to the bar where her son made coffee; clearly she had no intention of handing back the baby and getting on with her job.
‘Oh, Sandra, give him to me.’ Vicky stepped forward.
‘No, love, I’m having the time of my life!’
‘Avocado and poached egg on toast!’ The call this time was louder and sharper.
Rachel scooted away from the table and walked to the back.
‘I’ll take it. Table five?’
‘Yes, and come straight back for the soup.’ The grumpy-faced Keith tutted.
She wasn’t sure if he was joking, having expected at least a small nod of thanks. Glen smiled at her from the coffee bar as she placed the plate on the table and pointed to the jam jar full of cutlery. ‘Soup won’t be a sec.’
‘Can I get some ketchup?’ the girl with the avocado called after her. Rachel bit her lip, wanting to ask who in their right mind would put ketchup on avocado? She got to the bar as Glen pulled a bottle from under the counter and slid it over to her, whilst taking payment from one customer who was leaving and monitoring the progress of a coffee spewing from the complex machine for another. With the ketchup deposited, Glen’s grumpy dad called, ‘Soup!’
She rushed past Vicky and Sandra, who laughed quietly as she collected the bowl and chunk of soda bread and took it to the table.
Sandra sat in the seat she had vacated as another customer grabbed her arm. ‘Where’s the loo?’
‘Oh, at the back, on the left. Mind the step as you go in!’
‘Excuse me, but can I get more toast?’ a man at the bar called.
‘Of course.’ She nodded and went off to ask Keith for the order.
Things settled after the mid-morning brunch rush and Rachel went back to the table where Francisco now slept soundly and Vicky laughed, looking quite at home.
‘You are a doll. Thank you.’ Sandra smiled at her, careful not to move and disturb the slumbering infant on her shoulder.
‘Yes, thank you for that,’ Glen chimed. ‘Don’t suppose you want a job?’
‘A job?’ She wrinkled her brow.
‘Yes. Doing what you have done th
is morning, but we give you money in exchange for your services!’ He laughed.
‘I know how a job works.’ She looked at her friend, seeking support. What she got was something quite different.
‘You should definitely take the job. We would probably get a discount on carrot cake and that alone is worth it. Plus, I now know where I can get free babysitting. I might never leave.’
‘Trouble is I don’t know how long I’m going to be here.’ She looked down at the floor, feeling torn.
To take a job made things seem permanent, but she had to admit the idea of earning her own money and doing so in a place in which she liked to spend time was quite appealing. She remembered the day she left her job in digital marketing, a senior role she reluctantly relinquished when she was eight-and-a-half-months pregnant and her boss, Irene, was worried about her waters breaking on the new carpet.
‘You’ll be back in the saddle before you know it!’ Irene had boomed and Rachel had believed her, unable to imagine choosing to stay at home and look after her baby full-time, thinking it would be a matter of balancing her career and motherhood. But one look at Oscar and stay at home she had, and she had loved it, every second.
‘Long enough to rent a flat by the look of things.’ Sandra drew her from her thoughts, eyeing the paper, still spread on the tabletop.
‘Have you worked in a café before?’ Glen asked, his brawny arms folded across his chest.
‘Yes, but not for a long time – while I was at uni.’
‘And what did you do after uni, what was your last job?’
She looked at Vicky, wondering how her morning coffee had turned into a work-experience session and now this informal interview.
‘I worked for a train company, before moving abroad.’
‘Oh well, customer service is customer service, isn’t that right, Glen?’ Sandra chirped.
‘Yep.’ He nodded. ‘You’d get your own apron.’ He twirled around, modelling the thing that he considered might be the enticement she needed.
Rachel raised a small smile. She and Vicky exchanged a look and neither divulged the fact that Rachel had ended up as head of digital marketing before giving it up to become a mum, Oscar’s mum. Employment laws meant it wasn’t possible for her, as a non-permanent resident, to work in Bermuda. Her plan had always been to re-establish her career when they came back to the UK, whenever that might be. Running around a café with plates of toast could not have been further from her mind. It felt a bit like starting again.
She heard Cee-Cee’s words loud and clear: And then one day, like you, I realised that I needed to navigate this new life. Start over. You need to find a way, like I did.
She looked at Glen’s hopeful expression. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘So this is the sitting room, it’s bright and sunny.’ The estate agent stood back and let her walk into the room on the first floor. He was right; it was bright and sunny and with a glorious view along the street of chimney pots – it would do just fine. And though it was a far, far cry from the view out over the horizon on North Shore Road, she liked the neat galley kitchen that looked on to the sitting room, the big bedroom and the Victorian-styled bathroom.
‘I think I’ll take it.’ She made the decision there and then. The main advantage too was that it was mere minutes from Vicky and Gino’s – a safety blanket of sorts.
‘I don’t think you’ll regret it; it’s a cracking flat and will be nice once you’ve made it your own, brought all your furniture and your bits and bobs in.’
Rachel looked from the grey matte walls and white skirting boards, cast-iron fireplace and empty bookshelves to the letting agent. ‘Furniture,’ she muttered, as if realising for the first time that all she had in the UK was a bag of clothes, a rather ratty stuffed toy and a small Tic-Tac box full of sand.
When the day of the move came, her mum and dad insisted on donating a mattress that had lived under the bed in Peter’s old room for some time. It would do. It was after all only for six months and then she would either be heading back to Bermuda or seeking something more permanent. She tried not to think too far ahead, ridiculously hoping that a solution would present itself and save her the anguish of making the difficult decision about what came next. The result was this half measure, a sparse flat dotted with her meagre possessions – limbo. It did, however, feel quite pleasing to hang her clothes in a wardrobe without worrying that she was encroaching on someone else’s living space. She declined the offer of donated pictures and a TV, not wanting to make it too homey or established, not wanting to get too attached and also at some level quite liking the austerity, the hint of discomfort that kept in her a place of mourning and suffering. It helped to keep her ache for Oscar alive.
As she finished arranging the bouquet of lilies, a gift from Vicky and Gino, into a glass vase, also gifted by her friend, her phone rang. She popped the vase on the windowsill in the bedroom, the blooms instantly brightening the place.
‘Hi, James.’ There was a split second when she forgot their estrangement and, concentrating on the flowers in the window, answered the call with her usual joy at seeing his number pop up, just as she had done thousands of times. In the past they had been quick calls from him to share something funny he had seen or to ask what was for supper or if she wanted to attend a function they’d been invited to or to see how Oscar was. She gathered herself just in time, reeling in her note of enthusiasm for her next question: ‘How is Cee-Cee doing?’
‘Well, she’s back at work and as you can imagine doesn’t want any fuss.’
‘I can imagine. I spoke to her on the phone; we had a lovely long chat.’
‘Yes, she said; I think it made her day. I’d say she’s a bit slower than usual. I left for work the other morning and she’d arrived early, and as I was leaving I saw her asleep on the sofa, so I put a blanket on her and drew the curtains.’
‘You are a good man, James.’ This she meant.
‘Of course she didn’t mention it when I next saw her and clearly doesn’t want it mentioned.’
She pictured the quiet, industrious lady with the upright stance and sense of pride.
‘So,’ he began, ‘I got your email with your new address and stuff. You went for it, found the flat.’ His tone was neither congratulatory nor disapproving, but rather neutral, which to her mind was more damning, indicating his lack of passion either way.
‘Yes. It’s small, but fine and handy for where I need to be. I’ve kind of been offered a job. Which I think I might take.’
‘A job?’ She heard a note of disapproval. ‘What job?’
Rachel felt awkward discussing it; it had been one of the hardest things about living in Bermuda, her inability to work, and having taken a break to look after Oscar before they left the UK, it had always irked her how any career aspirations had been put on hold while James worked hard and soared ever higher. Not that she would have given up one day of being a stay-at-home mum, recognising it as the privilege it was. But she had always felt a little torn once Oscar had started school, Cee-Cee had come into their lives and her time was her own to be spent idling. And I missed out, I know I did; all the days I chose not to collect him from school, time wasted when I could have been with him – my own private torture.
‘It’s working in a café. I think it might be good for me to do something now that I can. It gets me back in the habit of working, plus it means I won’t be raiding our account. I want to pay my own way,’ she whispered.
‘So a new home and a job, that’s quite a move forward, Rach. I’m pleased for you.’
His words felt like a new distancing between them and she was surprised by the twist of regret in her gut.
‘Well, it feels right for now, that’s all, and I’ve taken the lease for six months so I can regroup after that and take stock.’
‘Six months?’ he questioned. ‘That can feel like a lifetime.’
She knew he referred to the fact that it was a little over eight months since they had lost
Oscar. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘And yet at the same time a blink of an eye.’
‘Yep. I don’t go into his room. I can’t bear to, but I suppose we should talk about his things.’
‘There is nothing to talk about,’ she answered in a clipped tone, feeling the grip of helplessness at the fact that if he decided to disturb Oscar’s room, or God forbid get rid of any of his belongings, there was very little she could physically do about it, being so far away.
‘Okay. Okay, Rach.’
She changed the topic. ‘I know you said that working hard was a good distraction for you, stopped you thinking.’
‘That’s true.’ He sighed. ‘I am almost on autopilot during the day, and if I can climb into bed exhausted then there’s a good chance I might get some sleep; otherwise I lie awake listening to the sea and thinking, overthinking.’
Rachel closed her eyes and could hear the sound of the sea lapping the boat on the morning she had woken on that bright, beautiful, terrible, life-changing day, and just like that her tears manifested themselves and she was again lost to a tidal wave of sorrow. ‘I have to go, James . . . I’m sorry. I have come over really sad.’
‘That’s okay, happens to me all the time. I understand.’
She nodded, knowing that he might be the only other person in the whole wide world who did.
‘Speak soon, James,’ she mumbled before ending the call and sinking down on to the duvet-covered mattress that sat in a corner of the bedroom of her rented flat.
The Coordinates of Loss Page 21
