by Jill Childs
On the far side of the river, a battered Land Rover was parked just above the slipway. A crewing car. Teams of rowers, hearty public-school boys with floppy hair and branded gear, carried two boats, upturned on their shoulders, from a boathouse to the water’s edge. Their calls to each other, jovial and mocking, flew on the breeze. Jeremy and Roland and Sebastian.
Mallards and Canadian geese scrabbled away from the bank as the boys lowered their boats into the water, making sudden waves. They waded out into the shallows and clambered inside and their oars slapped the water.
A middle-aged woman in a headscarf and sensible shoes strode past me, her eyes too scanning the river, the boys and their boats. Her dog, a wiry terrier, ran back and forth, nosing in the bushes. The air between us was thick with the scent of blossom and rising sap.
You used to scoot here, up and down this path. We played hide and seek in those bushes. It was just there, at the far end of the path, close to the rampart of the bridge, that you crouched and looked down into the water and said you saw Catherine in the depths of the river, waving to you. Saying, when I found you: I wasn’t lost, Mummy, I was right here. I swallowed hard, wiped my hands across my eyes.
I paced back and forth, restless and afraid, then stood with my back to the railings, leaning back against the flaking metal, waiting.
I recognised him from a distance, as soon as he came down from the bridge and turned into the park. He had you by the hand and you ran at his side, uneven and stumbling as you struggled to keep pace with him.
His strides were loose and long and his coat flapped round his knees and I sensed the strength in his body, the lean muscle I once found so attractive and which now only frightened me. His hair stuck out in clumps as if he’d raked through it with his fingers and his chin was dark with stubble.
I lifted my hand. He saw me but didn’t respond. He steered you instead to the far end of the path, some distance from me.
You twisted and strained, held tight by the wrist, and shouted: ‘Mummy!’
When I started to walk towards you, he called: ‘Stay there!’ Then, to you: ‘Be quiet, Gracie.’
He pushed you down, sitting you on the edge of the low wall that ran beneath the railings. I waved at you, trying to make a game of it.
‘Hello, my love. Be a good girl. Do what Uncle Matt tells you.’
I was close enough now to see him properly. His eyes were red-rimmed and bright and he was agitated, shuffling his feet, brimming with anxious energy.
A blast of sound flew out from the river and he started, looked round.
He doesn’t trust me, I thought. He’s afraid of what he’s done, of the police.
The current drew the schoolboys further into the river and they rowed, backs bending, muscles straining, searching for a common rhythm. Their coach, a young man in a speedboat, shoulders hunched in his windcheater, made loops against the tide and shouted instruction through a megaphone.
Matt swung his eyes back to me. You sat at his feet, your head low between your knees. You looked unhappy but resigned, studying your shoes, the path, waiting for this strange adult drama to play itself out and for normal life to resume.
‘Why did you have to spoil it?’ Matt’s voice shook. ‘Why? What’s the matter with you?’
I took a quiet step towards you both. ‘I’m sorry. It was just a shock, that’s all. Maybe you’re right. We need to talk. Maybe we can work it out.’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t mean it. You don’t care about me.’ His fingers made furrows through his hair. ‘After everything I did for you. I looked after you, didn’t I? What more could I do? I did everything on your terms. Don’t you see? For what? You only care about yourself.’
I took another small step. ‘That’s not true. I do care.’
His face was pinched. ‘Don’t you know what it cost, that trip to Venice? I don’t earn a lot. But I didn’t complain. I wanted to make you happy. That was all.’
I nodded. ‘It was wonderful, Matt. We were happy, weren’t we? It was special.’
His face clouded. He seemed lost, vague, a different person from the calm, capable man I thought I knew.
‘I thought you were special. But you’re not, are you? You’re just like her. You’re all the same, in the end. You take and take and when there’s nothing left, you walk away.’
His words came more thickly now, as if he almost forgot where he was, that we were there with him. ‘I can’t go on without you, Jen. Without you, what’ve I got left to live for?’
Blood throbbed in my ears. I took another step towards you, my eyes on your lowered head. You picked up a stub of stick and traced a pattern on the concrete.
‘Maybe I was too hasty. Maybe we could give it another go. If you want to?’
He didn’t seem aware that I was moving, closing the distance one slow step at a time.
I kept talking. ‘Do you want to do that? Give it another try?’
I was only a few metres from you now. If we caught him by surprise, if you realised what I was doing and suddenly ran, I might snatch you up, save you from him. My body ached with longing to hold you. It was so intense, I could almost feel you in my arms, your hard, slim body pressed into my chest, the sweet, fresh smell of your hair, your skin warm and soft against my face.
A sudden blast of static. We all jumped.
Out on the river, the coach screamed: ‘No, Justin! No!’ A pair of mallards, startled by the noise, rose from the water, honking, and soared high through the air.
The megaphone split the quiet: ‘One, two! One, two!’
Matt came back to the present, as if from a dream.
‘I loved you so much, Jen. I adored you. I really thought—’ He saw now, I read it in his eyes, how close I’d edged towards you both, that I was steadying myself, choosing my moment, ready to pounce.
He reached down in a single strong movement, grabbed you round the waist and hoisted you up, pinning you under his arm even as you struggled, kicking, beating feebly on his chest with your fists.
‘Gracie!’ I screamed, transfixed.
He stepped in a single, fluid movement onto the low wall, swung a leg over the railing, then climbed over altogether, balancing on the far edge of the narrow wall, one hand on the rail, holding himself in place, the other locked round your waist.
His eyes were on mine, bright with self-pity.
‘All I ever wanted was a family. A family of my own. Was that so wrong? Was it?’
He leaned away from the railing, suspended over the rushing river below, holding my gaze as if it were the one thread that held him steady, held him to life.
‘Matt. Please.’
The sounds all around us, of the park, of the road, of the river, fell away to silence. The world held its breath, watched with me. He hung there, his eyes on mine, you clinging now in fear to his side, then with a sudden twist, he jumped, falling into nothingness, still clutching you.
Time stopped. You hung there, your eyes wide with shock. Your hair, caught by the rising breeze and shot through with sunshine, flew out from your head in a circle of perfect yellow. You were suspended there, for barely a second and forever. Then you fell, plummeting, and disappeared from sight.
I ran to the railing, clambered over and jumped.
Fifty-Eight
A smack, so hard it seems to shatter my bones, to break me in pieces. The shock of cold. Water filling my mouth, my ears, my eyes. Splashing, closing over me. White sky, high above, blurred by a wash of brown. Light flying in shards and specks on the surface, disappearing. Bubbles bursting in my ears, then the slow, dense whoosh of underwater quiet.
My mouth, opening, drawing in liquid. Peat and mud and filth. My feet kicking out, frantic, trying to stand, finding nothing, slipping, falling through emptiness.
My head breaks the surface. Water in my throat, then both air and water. Eyes, blinking, water-logged, struggling to clear. Air noise: wind, birds, shouts. A blur of greenery high above, bright sun, the bank already drawin
g away, the current catching me, sweeping me, into the depths.
Ahead of me, you rise and fall, arms flailing, eyes panicked, your mouth too full of water to scream. The surface churns to foam. I throw myself forward through the current, my lungs bursting, arms pumping, straining for you, Gracie, my love, my life, seeing you swept on always by the water.
The tide draws us both into the narrowing, sucking channel of the bridge, funnelling us together through one of the high Victorian arches. My fingers lock round your hair and I pull your head towards me, rest it on my chest, my hand cupping the curve of your jaw, willing you to stop struggling, to be still against me and let me hold you, keep you afloat, keep you here in this precious world with its sun-flecked water and rushing noise. I hold you steady in the current, my body flat under yours, bearing your weight as water washes over my face. My eyes close.
Sudden lightness. All at once, the weight of my body falls away and I soar, rising clear of the river’s dirty, snatching water. Below, I see my own body, gently rising and falling, arms limp, legs splayed, with you, lying on your back on top of me, your own human life-raft, your panicked face white and turned to the sky.
Coach in his speedboat, the motor racing, bounces like a skimming stone across the surface towards us. His face is grey with shock. He reaches over the side, tipping the boat, gropes for your billowing clothes, your arm and drags you up.
You hang there on the side, then flop, a caught fish, smack into the bottom of the boat. He, panting with exertion, pumps your arms, puts his mouth to your chill, dark lips in the kiss of life.
My body, inert now, moves rapidly away from him, lost in its own silent music, floating on downstream.
The boys watch from their boats. Chastened by the horror of it. Oars dangling. One, Jeremy or Roland perhaps, bends over the side and vomits noisily into the water and no one mocks him.
Far ahead, further downstream, Matt drifts ahead of me, face down, unseeing and unseen. His hair streaks in tendrils from his skull. His coat, bloated now by mud and water, spreads round him. A stream of blood trails from the gash where his head, driven forwards by the current, crashed against the rising stone arch of the bridge. The blood divides into streaks and finally disperses.
Now I am soaring, seeing the boats, the bridge, the river all shrink as I draw away from them, propelled with a great whoosh of energy into a swirling tunnel of darkness and, even as I fly down it, I think: you told me. This is what you said and I didn’t believe you, why did I never believe you, my love, when all you ever told me was the truth?
A pinprick of light at the end of the spinning vortex grows like an exploding sun and we seem, both of us, the light and I, to rush always towards each other.
I hear nothing but I feel myself soaked in laughter. In peace. A figure then, emerging as a silhouette from the brightness, steps forward, arms open to embrace me. My father. A smile on his face, those kind features I’ve almost forgotten, his eyes gentle, his hair jet-black as if he were again young.
And even as I sense him, another figure emerges, smaller and more distant and I fly forward to greet you, weeping with joy, my arms reaching for you, my lovely girl, hearing your giggling and seeing your smile, your eyes on my face. Gracie, my love. Thank God. Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me again.
And you cling to me, your arms warm and tight round my waist and your hair soft and sweet-smelling and your eyes, when you tip back your head to look up at me, more radiant with love than I have ever seen on this earth.
‘I can only visit, Mummy,’ you say. ‘I’ve got to go back.’
‘Gracie.’ It’s all I can say. ‘Please. Not yet.’
But even as I try to speak, to cling on to you, your words are lost and you fall backwards, away from me, out of the radiance and back into the darkness we call life.
Venice, eighteen years later
Something’s changed. I sense it at once, as soon as you appear. You step with care up the worn stone steps from the vaporetto and emerge on the edge of the Piazza, your leather travel bag in hand. You are always beautiful, my love, but today your eyes are preoccupied, thoughtful, and I watch you from a distance, wondering why.
We meet often here in Venice, always at this time of year. In April, the city is still lazy with pleasure, relieved to have emerged once more from the chill and fog of winter but not yet hardened by the summer heat and the invading tourists.
It is still early in the day and the air blowing into Piazza San Marco from the Lagoon is fresh and salty. Waiters, crisp and self-important in formal dress, set out tables and metal chairs along its fringes. Shopkeepers clatter open their shutters. Street cleaners in green municipal coats sweep and sluice.
You walk slowly, your loose coat billowing, and send up swirling, wheeling arcs of pigeons. You are dwarfed by the great Basilica with its round arches and vast domes. Its gold façade glints in weak sunlight. You pass the foot of the red-brick Campanile, which shoots an eternal arrow to Heaven.
A waiter pulls a chair for you as you approach the café and his smile as you settle is part-chivalrous, part-flirtatious. You sit, your face lifted to the sun, looking back across the vast grandeur of the Piazza. You seem a little lost. Your eyes stray to the waterfront where you’ve just disembarked and your expression is wistful.
You’re waiting for someone, my love. I know you too well. Your thoughts are divided between me and this unknown someone, and at once I am both hopeful and afraid for you, as only a mother can be.
The waiter brings you a glass of ice-cold orange juice, freshly squeezed, and a brioche. You love them. You always did. No coffee though. That surprises me. You seldom start with the day without it.
You are more radiant today, my love, than I think I have ever seen you. Your skin glows. You are young and happy and very lovely. The waiter sees it too. He hovers, lingers too long when he returns to remove the empty plate, smiles as he asks if there’s anything else you’d like.
When he leaves, you put on your sunglasses and tilt back your head, basking in the early sunshine. Waiting.
I am only here because you are thinking of me, of that strange, intense time we shared in Venice, all those years ago when you were a little girl. This place is special to you because you know you always find me here and now, I sense, you’ve brought someone else to share it.
I wait quietly with you, watching, grateful to be here again, to be with you.
I miss you. Sometimes it seems as if that is all I am now. An emotion. A depth of love for you that even death can’t destroy. If I exist at all, it’s only in these moments. Moments when you think of me. When you stop and pause in the midst of all your busyness, your helter-skelter of a life, and remember me and at once, here I am, right here, with you. Do you feel me now?
Richard gave you my jewellery when he cleared the house and for a long time, when you were a teenager and brim-full of feeling, you wore it and I was glad to be so often with you.
No one else can ever be your mother. Not even death can take that from me. And although no one else could ever replace Catherine, Ella loved you. She cared for you as if you really were her own. I’m grateful to her and to Richard too. The three of you learned to be happy and found joy in each other as a family, despite all the suffering that went before. Perhaps Angela was right. Perhaps you were always in God’s hands. Perhaps He is taking care of you. Perhaps His universe is, after all, unfolding as it should. I still don’t know.
And there he is. A man strides quickly across the Piazza, sending up clouds of scattered pigeons, hurrying as if he’s late. A young man, perhaps three or four years older than you. He wears his hair long and his shirt and trousers need pressing but as he hurries across the stone flags towards you – as he catches sight of you there, languishing in the sun with your eyes closed – he smiles to himself and his eyes are so full of love that I forgive him the crumpled clothes and decide yes, this is a kind man, a good man and clearly he is in love with you, as any sensible young man should be.
He creeps round the table and approaches you stealthily from behind, cups his hands over your sunglasses and when you jump, he says: ‘Guess who?’
And you laugh and say: ‘The waiter?’
‘What waiter?’
‘The handsome one who’s been keeping me company all this time. Where were you? I’ve almost finished.’
He pulls out a chair and sits beside you, leaning in to make his excuses, to kiss you and in the kiss everything is forgotten, everything is forgiven. I am still here with you, my love, but at a distance now. Which is exactly how it is supposed to be.
Later, when he finishes his coffee, he pulls back your chair and helps you to your feet with such care, such tenderness that my heart sings.
And then I see. Finally, I understand why you’re so very lovely today. The soft swell is barely visible under your loose clothes but, as you walk, you touch a protective hand to your stomach and although it lasts only a moment, it’s a gesture I recognise at once, from the time long ago that I was carrying you and so full of happiness I could barely contain it.
And that’s when I realise that I have nothing to fear. I will not be erased by this man and your love for him. I will be remembered all over again, in your future child and your love for her and in the overwhelming joy she brings you, as powerful as the joy you gave me.
And you’ll understand, finally, why I jumped without hesitation into the river that day and why, my love, you would too, to save your own daughter’s life.
I don’t know what happened to me when you were pulled alive from the river and I was not. I don’t know what it meant. The flight into the light. The sense of peace and of finding my father.
I know what many people would say. And perhaps they’re right. Perhaps it is just chemical. The fantasy of a desperate, fading mind as it fights to hold on to life. Perhaps I have now come to dust and exist nowhere but here, in your memory.
