Rachel turned carefully beneath the duvet, trying not to disturb Treacle, who had taken to sleeping illegally on the end of her bed. Far from complaining, she liked the feel of him close by, the weight of him against her legs. It was not only comforting, but it made her feel less lonely; he was the perfect companion who asked no questions and didn’t fuss when she cried.
In the throes of sleep she often, out of habit, reached for James, stretching her fingers, expecting to feel his warm skin beneath her touch. The realisation that he was thousands of miles away was a jar to her senses, and recalling the reasons why even worse.
It was early, the grey morning skies a gloomy contrast to the light-filled starts to the day on her island home. She lay in the mattress dip and listened to the sound of her dad in the bathroom through the thin wall, the flush of the loo and the sound of shower spray hitting the plastic base of the bath. His shift at the washing-machine factory started at seven and this had been his routine for as long as she could remember.
She thought about the four bathrooms in the house in Bermuda, three of them rarely ventured into. Now, huddled in this little bed, she marvelled at how they had lived as a family, growing up with just one loo and one shower, never questioning it, thankful for all they did have. Life in their big house on North Shore Road had quickly become the norm and she had to admit it was lovely not to have to plan your ablutions around somebody else’s body clock and not to have to stand with your legs crossed in desperation when you came in from school and your brother took all the time in the world behind the locked door while you banged on it and shouted fit to burst.
She lay on her side and held Mr Bob under her chin with the Tic-Tac box flat in her palm.
I wonder how you are feeling today, James? I wonder when this pain in my chest will go away? I wonder when I will feel happy to wake up instead of disappointed? I wonder if I ever will? Where do you rest, my Oscar? Where do you sleep, my baby? Rachel whispered, thankful for the wave of slumber that swept her thoughts from under her and rocked her back to sleep.
The sharp knock on the door woke her. She must have slept in.
‘Rachel?’ her mum called as she came into the room. ‘Julie’s popped over! Shall we give you a minute to get yourself together? Good. See you downstairs in a mo, then; bring down any laundry and open the window. I’ll go and pop the kettle on.’
She sat up and rubbed her eyes, trying to sort the complex burble of information issued too quickly by her mum. Julie was here, that much she knew, that and she had to get up.
Her sister-in-law sat at the table in the breakfast nook, nursing a cup of tea. Her lank, mousy hair fell over her face and her glasses sat low on her sharp nose, her expression as ever one of disdain. It wasn’t Julie’s fault; it was just her default resting face, as if something or someone had cheated her – the world had let her down again and she expected nothing less. Julie thought most things were unfair: other people’s successes, other people’s luck, other people’s lives. Rachel could hear her nasal sigh: ‘They’re getting another new car! It’s not fair . . .’ The noise she associated with her was a downcast sigh. James had nicknamed her ‘the optimism hoover’. It used to make her laugh.
‘Cup of tea, love.’ Her mum deposited the mug in front of her as she took a seat.
‘Thank you. Hi, Julie.’
‘Rachel.’
Her sister-in-law visibly coloured and toyed with her phone before turning to her mother-in-law, who now had her head in the fridge.
‘Did I tell you I got a lovely shoulder of lamb from Artingstall’s in Chipping Sodbury? I went over for a walk with my sister and it was half price so I grabbed it and have put it in the freezer; thought we’d have a roast on Brian’s birthday weekend.’
‘Oh smashing, love, good idea. I’ll do spuds and a pud.’
Rachel looked from one to the other and was struck not only by the way her brother’s wife seemed to be morphing into her mother-in-law, but also how Julie appeared to be ignoring her.
She wished she had stayed upstairs and eyed the door, wondering how quickly she could make her excuses and leave, and whether anyone embroiled in the birthday-lamb discussion would even notice.
Her mum closed the fridge and came over to the table. Julie budged up and Jean took a seat next to her. She reached over and squeezed Rachel’s hand.
‘Julie said she was nervous about seeing you, didn’t know what to say. I told her it was okay to feel that way.’
Rachel nodded, embarrassed at how her mum spoke for the grown woman, just as she had for Peter. She could picture her brother and his wife having a domestic and her mum chipping in with, ‘Come on now you two, play nicely together!’
Julie continued to look downward and Rachel wasn’t sure if she was expected to offer solace and help grease her sister-in-law’s verbal path or whether the convention was to sit it out and hope she found her tongue. Both felt like a bloody imposition and her pulse raced.
‘It’s okay, Julie, we can talk about it; it helps,’ her mum cooed.
Helps who exactly? Rachel wondered, but rather than give vent to all that bubbled inside, she kept quiet, reminding herself that there was no perfect response.
‘So how you doing, then?’ Julie asked quietly with an air of reluctance, reminding her of when Oscar had to be coaxed into offering thanks for an unwanted gift, eyes down, fingers fidgeting, feet pointing towards the door.
It didn’t go unnoticed that everyone asked her this, and her embarrassment at a lack of suitable response hadn’t lessened.
‘I don’t know, really.’
While still the best she could manage, it was a thin response that satisfied no one, but that was too bad. She simply didn’t have the words and was actually glad of that, certain that to verbalise the depth of hell into which she had plummeted and the fierce, brutalising grief that dogged her every waking moment would only sour the thoughts and live in the memory of all who had to hear it. Even she in her altered mental state knew that that was unfair.
‘I can’t imagine.’ Julie shook her head.
Lucky, lucky you.
‘We have had a terrible time trying to explain it to Hayden and Nate. Just terrible.’ Julie tutted and seemed to find her voice. Her mum joined in with a sigh, borrowed from Julie no doubt, and a nod, as if confirmation were needed. It was an annoying symphonic duet, lacking empathy and understanding, and was more than Rachel could stand. She took a sip of her tea, preparing for what might come next.
‘I mean, they weren’t that close, the kids, were they, really? Not with you all being so far away, and I think they found him a bit boisterous when he did come over, but they were cousins at the end of the day. I was up sleepless, thinking what to say and how to say it. It’s been terrible.’
Rachel stared at her and felt her jaw muscles clench.
Yes, terrible. So you’ve said . . .
She wondered simultaneously how Julie had been able to make the whole horrific event about her and whether she was aware that to use even the mildest negative association towards her son made her want to grab the Mallorcan cruet-and-napkin holder and smash it over her head.
‘How are the boys?’ She pictured her nephews: ten-year-old Hayden and eight-year-old Nate. Sweet kids, playful and pleasant.
‘They’re fine. At my mum’s. It’s an inset day.’ Julie slurped her tea. ‘So a day off school.’
‘Julie thought it best not to bring them over in case it was too much for you,’ her mum explained.
‘There’s no need to hide them away,’ she whispered, part of her having to admit that to see small children, especially boys, was still very, very tough and it seemed that when outside of the house that was all she saw – boys of Oscar’s age, Oscar’s build . . .
Her mum nodded and reached for a napkin, crying without warning, and this in turn was a trigger for her own tears. It was a reminder that each of them was grieving and there was no right or wrong way. Rachel slipped guiltily from the table and trod the stairs with Treacle hot on her heels. She quietly closed the bedroom door and climbed under the duvet.
Boisterous, loud, inquisitive, funny and wonderful; you were all this and more. My lovely boy . . .
Rachel and her dad continued to walk of an evening, largely in silence, bar the odd observation on the weather or some other exchanged tidbit about their day. Their route was unchanged, out round Engine Common and up to Rangeworthy and then across and back down the Jubilee Way. Her pace better now, she walked along the rain-soaked tarmac without thought or consideration of the conditions, the cool blast of air in the shadow of night often the best part of her day. Their path was lit by the bright lamp posts that would have been out of place on Bermuda’s streets, where many areas were dark, thick with undergrowth and the song of the tree frog, which were sometimes picked out in the glow from cosy house lamps flooding out over the palm trees, giant ferns and twisty lanes.
As they neared home, with her trainers quickening at the prospect of the warm bath that awaited her, they saw Mrs Donaldson coming in the opposite direction. Their neighbour pulled her aging retriever, Rusty, to heel.
‘I thought it was you!’ the woman called, her tone jolly and excited, telling Rachel that she couldn’t possibly know. Her pulse raced and her mouth went dry at what might come next. She looked behind her at the straight line of pavement and realised there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
‘Evening, Margery.’ Brian stepped slightly ahead of his daughter, instinctual in the way he tried to shield her, and her heart flexed because of it.
‘Hello, Brian, Rachel, well, how lovely to see you, dear! Goodness me, you have lost weight; you need some of your mum’s home cooking. Please tell me you are not trying to lose weight; you are positively skinny!’
‘I’m not dieting.’ Her stomach sinking, she bent to pet Rusty, avoiding the woman’s gaze.
‘It is so lovely to see you! I didn’t know you were coming over. How long are you staying?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She swallowed at the unsatisfactory truth.
‘You didn’t pick the best weather – been grim, hasn’t it? You could at least have brought some of that sunshine with you! Mind you, we are off to Lanzarote in three months. Can’t wait – bit of sun, glass of sangria, just the thought of it gets me through the long nights. We are going with some friends from the bowling club. Ray’s not that keen, but I’ve told him you can’t spend your life in front of the telly.’
‘Oh, but it must be lovely for Jean having you here. I thought I hadn’t seen her out and about; that explains it. I know she misses you all so much. It’s not the same when your kids are far away. I’m lucky, mine are only over in Thornbury and the buses are quite good, but even so I wish they were right next door! I can only imagine how hard it must be for her. I bet she’s spoiling Oscar rotten! I remember the last time you all came over and she was feeding him chocolate for breakfast!’ She chuckled.
Brian gave a small laugh at the memory and she too pictured him sitting on the sofa with a chocolate-smeared mouth. ‘What have you had for your breakfast, Oscar?’ she had asked with mock disapproval. ‘Not chocolate!’ he answered, ‘I had . . .’ He put his finger in his mouth and thought hard. ‘What did you tell me to say I had had, Nanny? I can’t remember!’
‘He must be getting big! How old is he now?’ Margery pulled her from the memory and she was grateful. Her heart thudded and she felt the pulse in her throat.
I don’t know what to say to you . . . I don’t know what to do . . . If I tell you, you will tell other people, share this awful, awful news that will itch under your skin and burn an image in your mind until you pass it on and they will pass it on with the same need and then eventually the whole world will know . . . and that will make it real. I like it when people don’t know. I like it that you picture us all at home, in the sunshine, together and not dismantled.
Rachel had known this day would come, and somewhere in the back of her mind she might even have rehearsed words that would sufficiently satisfy the enquirer without causing distress to her or them. But right here, right now on the pavement, standing opposite Mrs Donaldson, with Rusty sniffing at her calf, she was damned if she could remember what those words might be. She heard her dad take a sharp breath and this she understood; it was the pain of recollection, the horror of the facts and the latest reminder of where they were in this stage of grief.
She tried for diversion. ‘I am here on my own, actually.’
Mrs Donaldson was not in the mood for diversion. ‘Oh no! What a shame. Not that it’s not lovely to see you, of course, but I know how much Jean misses that little boy. How old is he now?’
‘He was seven last birthday,’ she offered quietly.
We had a bouncy castle in the garden. James tried to organise games like musical chairs for the sugar-fuelled crew, but they scattered like mice, preferring to run around, and so he gave up and nursed a beer on the diving board. Cee-Cee strung up bunting and balloons in the trees and Oscar and Hank both dressed as Spider-Man and fired Nerf guns at their classmates. A sponge bullet hit Daisy and she cried and Oscar gave her a special Spidey hug by way of apology and let her fire back at him. She took aim and missed. He gave her three goes, she got him in the end, right on the chest, and peace was restored. He went to bed exhausted, but happy . . .
‘Good lord, time flies! Seven! I still picture him as a toddler.’
‘Actually, Margery, we have had some terrible news.’ Her dad swallowed.
‘Oh no, is Jean okay?’ The woman clutched the front of her coat and Rachel saw then that this would be a reasonable assumption – her mum being older and a bit overweight was the first thought that might occur . . . whereas the very last would be anything to do with the healthy, vibrant, beautiful seven-year-old boy who had his whole life ahead of him.
‘Something awful happened’ – he paused – ‘and Oscar passed away very suddenly. It was an accident. At sea.’
She looked up at her dad, thankful that he had found the courage to speak the very difficult words, succinct and formal. She stored them away, noting at the back of her mind that they did not provoke the same jolt of anger as when James had said similar. Her dad did nothing to halt the tears that fell down his ruddy cheeks.
Mrs Donaldson opened her mouth and reached out to Rachel; she gripped her arm tightly. Rusty seemed to sense the change in the air and almost cowered next to her. ‘Rachel! Oh my goodness! Oh no! I don’t know what to say.’ She shook her head. ‘I am so, so sorry. He brought so much joy. Goodness me.’
Rachel nodded, touched.
‘What can I do? How can I . . . how can I help?’
‘You can’t,’ she whispered. ‘But thank you.’
Now at a much slower pace, they made their way home. The weight of the conversation with Mrs Donaldson about their shoulders made the last mile tough. She looked back at the woman and her dog. They hadn’t moved, but stood near the lamp post, as if newly reminded of how quickly a life can change and wary of taking a step in the wrong direction. This she understood. This was what her life was like now, no longer confident that every step was going to fall on solid ground. It meant she navigated her way with trepidation, wary of the fall.
Forgoing her bath, Rachel eschewed her mum’s offer of cocoa and carried her aching bones to bed.
As she lay there her phone rang. It was James.
‘Hi,’ she whispered.
There was a pause, ‘I was just . . . just thinking about you. Are you okay?’
She cried noisily and he matched her tear for tear across the miles, their distress a duet that erased the distance between them. No matter how far apart, they were still two parents who had created one heart that no longer beat.
‘James!’ she managed.
‘I know. I know . . .’
They sobbed until he broke the rhythm, ‘I . . . I need to go, Rach. I am in the line at the bank and people are looking at me and I need to get home . . .’
She let her distress wash over her, cradling the phone to her. She could hear the murmur of her parents’ conversation, talking at a lowered pitch in the kitchen. Her dad was probably filling her in on their encounter with Mrs Donaldson. Rachel clung to Mr Bob and rubbed the smooth Tic-Tac box on her cheek. She pictured her dressing-gown pockets full of wet sand on that day; it played in her head like a home movie, over and over and over. Mrs Donaldson had looked shocked, bewildered, and this too she understood. It was still a shock to her that Oscar would forever be seven, missing his arrival into double figures and so much more: starting big school, university, his first girlfriend or rather his first proper girlfriend – one he didn’t fire a Nerf-gun pellet at. She pictured Daisy and Hank and all of his classmates who would go on to do all the things denied to him because of one moment of inattention, one casual wander too far.
She considered, as she often did, that one second where he would have been airborne and things could have been so different, that one second when she had a glorious opportunity to turn this life-destroying event into nothing more than a ‘that was close’ moment. She pictured grabbing him, pulling him back on to the deck, smiling and kissing his freckled face whilst chastising him, relief pouring from grateful lungs and a heart full of thanks. If only she had not in that moment been sleeping, having sex, laughing with James as they sought pleasure with the door locked. Inattentive. Distracted. Responsible.
Rachel heard the doorbell and waited with her head lifted slightly from the pillow to hear her mum’s familiar sing-song greeting. The doorbell rang again. With no small measure of reluctance, she flung the duvet back and grabbed her dressing gown, pushing her arms into it and fastening it around her waist without haste, hoping that by the time she opened the part-glazed front door, the caller would have given up and gone, saving them both the pain of interaction. No such luck. She could make out the blonde top of a head through the small glass pane and hoped it wasn’t Julie. Her sister-in-law was more than she could cope with today. Any day.
But it wasn’t Julie.
With her slumbering, red-haired, eight-month-old in her arms, it was her best friend Victoria, whose parents lived further along the street and with whom she had walked to school and shared her formative years, until the lure of a life with her beloved James Croft took Rachel far, far away.
The two women stared at each other and there was a moment when neither spoke. They exchanged a look of pure sorrow as understanding flowed between them like a current. Friends and mothers.
‘My mum told me you were home. I didn’t know you were coming back or I would have been straight over. I wrote, I called and I have not stopped thinking about you for a single second.’ Vicky breathed. ‘Can you hold him while I go and grab his baby bag?’ Without further discussion or hesitation, as was her way, Vicky placed the sleeping Francisco in her arms and dashed back up the path. Her friend would never know what this gesture meant. She thought of Julie and Peter, who kept her nephews away, building the drama, stoking the fear, and yet here was Vicky, not only unafraid to broach the subject, but trusting her, one mother to another, to hold her most precious thing.
Rachel turned and caught sight of herself holding the boy in the hallway mirror. She pictured standing in the exact same spot, holding Oscar at a similar age. It was the most beautiful, sweet torment imaginable. She had forgotten the exact feel and weight of a sleeping child in her arms. Dozing with abandon, entirely trusting, as his little head lolled against her shoulder. Lowering her face, she inhaled the distinct scent of his toddler’s scalp and fought not to crumble under the memory that surged in her veins. Vicky returned with a large, padded bag of baby paraphernalia, which she hitched up on her shoulder before taking her friend in her arms, enveloping her and her child.
‘Rachel! Oh, Rach. My mum told me when it happened. She bumped into Brian. I can’t believe it. I just can’t.’ Vicky placed her fingers on the side of Rachel’s face, as they cried. ‘I would give anything for you not to be going through this. It is so cruel and must make the world seem like a wicked place.’
‘It does.’ Rachel let her lips graze Francisco’s head in a kiss.
‘I loved Oscar. I loved him; he was just like you: so funny and feisty and smart. I can’t imagine a world without him in it. I can’t believe that Francisco won’t get to know him. I used to picture that all the time, the two of them hanging out. It doesn’t seem possible.’ Vicky shook her head, and far from finding the conversation distressing, Rachel was strangely comforted by her friend’s ability to speak about him with such ease. It was again something no one else had quite managed, herself included. Even her mum framed each reference to her son with the stutter of nerves and a swallow of unease.
Vicky held her arm. ‘I don’t know how to take this pain away from you, but I will do anything. What you are going through is the last thing in the world I wanted for you, my lovely mate. And I know that there are no words so I won’t try to find them. Let’s just go and sit on the floor of the front room like we used to.’ She turned right with confidence, into the small, square lounge where they had whiled away many an hour, lying on their tummies on the rug, watching episodes of Friends and Big Brother, dipping into a shared bowl of popcorn.
Rachel hiccupped her tears and cradled the little boy to her chest.
‘Let’s pop him on the sofa.’ Vicky dumped her baby bag on the floor and removed a couple of cushions and Rachel lowered him gently until he lay, arms wide, still sound asleep. Vicky fetched his knitted blanket and tucked it around his sturdy legs and fat little feet clad in red-and-navy striped socks. She used the cushions she had removed to build a little wall along the edge, hemming him in so he wouldn’t fall.
They sat on the rug with their backs against the sofa, Francisco sleeping behind them. ‘Did Oscar snore like an old man?’ Vicky asked.
‘Not really, it was more a sweet snuffle.’
‘This is weird for me, Rach. I have known you nearly my whole life and yet I don’t know what to say right now. I’m not equipped, so if I mess up just let me know.’
‘You’re doing fine.’ She spoke earnestly.
‘I think it’s best if we have a sign.’
‘What kind of sign?’
‘If I say or do something wrong or that makes you feel uncomfortable or if you just want me to shut up, then we should have a sign or a word that means I know instantly and we don’t have to discuss it, we can just change tack.’
‘Okay.’
They both looked towards the window. Vicky spoke first: ‘What about a word like “peaches and cream”? You would only have to say that and I would know to change the subject or the scenery.’
‘That’s three words,’ Rachel pointed out.
‘Well, this is why you got two A levels and I could only manage a diploma in art.’
Rachel smiled warmly at her friend, only realising now in her company just how much she had missed her. A rush of tears, matched by Vicky’s, instantly followed this flicker of happiness. They sat crying and holding hands for some while.
‘I like the idea of a code. “Peaches and cream” is good,’ she managed eventually.
Vicky blew her nose on a tissue and rubbed her eyes; she took a deep breath and exhaled, as if readying herself. ‘How’s James doing – stupid question, I know. I just really want you to talk about James so I can gauge how you’re feeling about everything.’
Rachel swallowed. ‘He is broken, like me, but going to work every day and has sort of created the illusion of normal to a degree. We talk once a week or so and it’s awkward and comforting at the same time. He called the other night and he was in the bank and we just sobbed and strangely that made me feel better, more connected to him. But sometimes I feel so angry with him I want to shriek, and others I miss his arms around me. I am very confused.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘I can’t seem to help it. I keep thinking if only we hadn’t got that bloody boat . . .’ She let this trail. ‘Cee-Cee, our housekeeper, is around. And she’s great.’ She disliked how this sounded – as if she had handed the baton of this very important role in her husband’s hour of need to Cee-Cee. She disliked even more the element of truth in it.
‘I suppose he has no choice if he has to work; he can probably only function by creating that illusion.’ Vicky, as ever, offered a caring, balanced view. This was just one of the things that Rachel most loved about her.
‘Yes. I understand that. But it was hard being with him. Too hard. We couldn’t talk easily and when we did it escalated into a fight in an instant, flared into us saying the most hurtful things before we had time to think about it. It was like everything he said to me and everything I said to him was a match to kindling. We both needed space.’
‘I guess you are both too hurt to think straight.’
‘We are, but I could never have imagined a situation where we would think that the solution was to be apart; never.’ She closed her eyes briefly and pictured dancing together on their wedding day. How quickly can we get rid of all these guests? he had whispered into her ear as he held her close . . . ‘I guess the point is there is absolutely nothing about my life right now that I could have imagined.’ She looked around the small living room. ‘James and I are fragments of ourselves and none of this has a rule book. It’s like we are floating, broken.’
‘Because you are, honey.’ Vicky squeezed her hand. ‘You are.’
Rachel nodded. ‘Yep.’
‘Can you talk about what happened or is that peaches and cream?’
‘I can talk about it a bit,’ she whispered. ‘We’d taken the boat out and I woke up happy, I remember that much, and it was the last time I felt happy. And I don’t think I will ever feel happiness again. Not that I mind – I don’t. I kind of want to feel this sad as it keeps me tied to Oscar and what’s happened and I don’t want to forget a second of him, don’t want it to dilute. Does that make any sense?’
‘Not to me,’ Vicky answered with typical candour. ‘I think I would have to keep looking forward just to keep going, but you have a unique and terrible outlook and only you know what will get you through this. There is no right or wrong. Only what’s right for you.’
‘I left the cabin and Oscar was not on the boat. He’d . . . he’d just gone.’ She felt the prick of pain in her chest, remembered jumping into the ocean in her pyjamas, screaming, crying and calling out to him, Oscar! Oscar! and she could hear James in the water on the other side of the boat, screaming louder than she had ever heard . . .
‘And I know I should be there for James; I know we should be there for each other, but . . .’
‘But what?’ Vicky coaxed.
Rachel looked at her friend, preparing to speak the thought that had lain dormant on her tongue since that moment when she looked up at him on the police boat. ‘I blame him to a degree.’ She let this sink in. ‘And he blames me and we are both right to do that.’
‘No, no, it was an accident, Rach.’
‘I know, but we’d had a bit too much to drink and when we woke up in the morning, instead of going instantly to find Oscar and make his breakfast’ – she took a deep breath – ‘we had sex and lay there looking at our phones for a bit. Can you imagine?’ She folded her arms over her raised knees and gave in to the tears that fell. ‘I looked at a news article about The Real Housewives of New York, just some irrelevant gossip and I sat there reading that, instead of . . .’
Vicky twisted her body to face her. ‘Rachel, we have all done that and worse and it is right that you mourn your boy, that beautiful boy.’ She broke away, as her voice cracked. ‘And I don’t know how you recover, I really don’t. But waking up and checking your phone is just normal life. God, I have left the back door unlocked with Francisco asleep in his pram in front of it, and then felt a wave of relief that no one sauntered in and took him. I have left candles burning on the mantelpiece, forgetting to blow them out, and only noticed in the morning, thankful the bloody house didn’t burn down. I’ve jumped amber lights in a rush and not got T-boned by a lorry. I have even had a glass of plonk or two and it was only when I went upstairs that I realised Gino and I hadn’t switched on the baby monitor and Francisco was screaming so hard he’d been sick. There isn’t a parent in the land who hasn’t done this shit. But I was lucky.’
‘I wasn’t lucky,’ she whispered.
‘I know. But you can’t beat yourself up. You can’t.’
‘James said that I wasn’t the best mum, that my social life was more important.’
‘Well, that’s not true!’ Vicky cut in. ‘You were a great mum.’
You were a great mum. Not are a great mum. That’s over. Done.
‘I think about all the things I could have done differently throughout his whole life, but also because we don’t know when he left his room. It’s possible, isn’t it, that had I got straight up and gone into him, he might have still been in bed and I would have woken him and he’d still be here?’ She let her head drop to her chest. ‘I mean, just because we couldn’t see him, couldn’t find him, doesn’t mean he wasn’t still close, and by the time the police got there with proper search crews and equipment he had gone too far, just disappeared. I keep thinking over and over that if only we had looked differently, or harder, or sooner! I don’t know.’ She rubbed her temples. ‘But the thought that I should have done something differently – I never stop thinking about it.’
‘Oh, Rach. Yes, it’s all possible, but you can’t change it. You have to try to let those thoughts go.’
‘It’s hard.’
Vicky sidled closer to her friend across the rug and held her once again in her arms. She kissed her forehead. ‘I know it is, my love. I know.’
This was how they sat for a minute or two.
‘Shall I brush your hair?’ Vicky dug into the baby bag and pulled out her Denman brush.
Rachel bumped forward and Vicky sat behind her, brushing her hair with long strokes that eased the throb of her scalp and took her away for a moment or two.
‘I have always loved to brush your hair. It’s incredible, so long and shiny. Beautiful.’
Rachel closed her eyes, not in the mood for any kind of compliment.
‘What’s it like being home?’ Vicky asked.
She thought about the crappy interactions with Julie and Peter. ‘I think it’s always hard to go home under any circumstances, let alone now I am so messed up. Peter and Julie drive me crackers, and Mum means well, you know.’ She shrugged.
‘I love your mum and dad, you know I do, but you can’t stay here in Yate – you’ll go mad.’
‘I’m already mad.’ She picked at her thumbnail, ripping it with her teeth.
‘Madder, then. How long are you thinking of staying in the UK?’
‘I don’t know.’
Maybe a little while longer, maybe forever, I can’t think too far ahead . . .
‘You need to come to where I am so I can look after you. And you need to be near life, not sat here looking at the four walls. I don’t think it’s healthy for you. And where we are in Bishopston is good for that. It’s bustling. You can come and stay with us for as long as you want. You know that. We have a spare room and it’s just waiting for you.’
‘I don’t need looking after.’
Vicky laughed. ‘Actually, you do. And it wouldn’t be the first time. Do you remember when we left the Mandrake that time and you said the exact same thing?’
Rachel pictured the nightclub that had been a favoured haunt of their youth.
Vicky mimicked her voice: ‘“I don’t need looking after, Vicks!” God, you were adamant, and the next thing I knew you’d jumped on that bloke’s mountain bike and nicked it; he called the police and we were all chasing you down to the Watershed and the shit was hitting the fan and they were all screaming at me, as if it was my fault, and by the time we all got down there, you had crashed into the fountain and wet yourself.’
‘Oh, Vick!’ She leaned back and placed her head on her friend’s lap. ‘That feels like a lifetime ago. I can’t remember feeling anything other than like this. I miss him so much. It hurts.’
‘I know, my babber, I know.’
‘And I wasn’t joking; I am mad.’ She paused to choose the right phrase. ‘I only half believe that he is not coming home again. I used to think he might be being cared for by mermaids or something similar in an underwater city.’ She looked up to see the look of sadness cross her friend’s brow. ‘And then I thought he was on a giant sea turtle, surfing the waves and whooping and hollering! Having the time of his life, as he gallivanted far, far out at sea.’
Vicky gave in to a kind of strange, strangled sob.
‘I told you I was mad.’
‘Not mad, darling, just broken, grieving.’
At that moment Francisco woke with something like a giggle and kicked his arms and legs, unfazed by the strange environment, and his happy gurgle changed the atmosphere in an instant.
‘Hello, darling! Hello, you!’ Vicky cooed, as she scooped him up and grabbed his bottle. ‘Here, Rach, give him this while I sort his nappy out; he’ll need his bum changing.’
Rachel sat back against the sofa and held the little boy in her arms, watching as he guzzled his drink with both hands on his bottle. She had quite forgotten the total preoccupation with which they did this, fixed on nothing other than drinking and filling that tum. It was lovely to see.
If I had this time again, Oscar, I would never let you out of my sight. Not for one single second, I would not play tennis or go shopping, not ever. I would be a better mum. I would hold you close to me and never, ever let you go . . .