The Rain Before it Falls (25 page)

She did not allude to the subject again, after that. And she died just a week or two later.

Rebecca died, too. I saw an announcement placed in one of the newspapers a few months ago. ‘Beloved mother,’ it said. ‘Beloved mother of Peter, Mark and Sophia.’ I had known that already. Not their names, of course, but the fact that she’d married and had children. I saw her by chance in a London restaurant, more than forty years ago. There were four of them sitting around the table – Rebecca, a man, and two little boys – and she also had a tiny baby on her lap. I was supposed to be meeting a friend there and I walked straight in, saw Rebecca and her family, and walked straight out again. Luckily she didn’t see me. Her husband did, but he wouldn’t have known who I was. I hurried off down the street at a terrific pace and had to telephone my friend later that afternoon to apologize. I was so shaken, so surprised. And angry with her, as well, at the time, although that anger slipped away long ago. After all, if that was the compromise she had decided to make, why not? Who was I to judge, just because I couldn’t imagine doing it myself? She had looked happy, very happy. You could see that, at a glance. And probably I was all but forgotten. Me, and Thea, and the two years we had spent together…

I say that, but…

Perhaps I have been living here too long, all by myself. It used to be that days and days would go by, and I wouldn’t have spoken to a soul. More recently, yes, there has been Doctor May – she comes at least twice a week. In fact she will be here tomorrow morning and she will get a surprise, I’m afraid, an unpleasant surprise. I must remember to leave the door unlocked for her…

But I have been here too long, and too much alone, there is some truth in that. Sometimes I wonder if I have not been going a little bit mad. Ever since learning that Rebecca died, you see, I have been living with this… conviction, that…

No, you will think I am being ridiculous.

But supposing it is true? Supposing she
is
waiting for me somewhere?

Why do I cling to this now, after so many years – a whole lifetime – of not believing?

Is it madness?

I shall tell you what I have come to believe, and you can laugh at me if you will. Inside this house it is cold. And so dark outside, and still. But where she is waiting for me, it will be warm, and the sun will be shining, and the blueness of the sky will be reflected in the waters of the lake. Cerulean blue. And we will be sitting side by side again, in the meadow above the little shingle beach, and she will be leaning into me, and it will be as if the last fifty years have never happened.

How strange, that I should be thinking of her, and of that place, now that the moment has come. I always imagined that my last thought would be of Warden Farm, and Beatrix, the night we became blood-sisters, the night we lay together under the winter moon.

But no. That circle was broken years ago. That was how it all started, yes. Everything followed from that night, but the path it set me upon… It was all leading, I realize now, to the day by the lake –
that
was the culmination… Everything after that was wrong. When Beatrix came back, to take Thea away, that was when the world tilted, went out of shape…

But Imogen exists… The rightness of that…

Enough. I am going to fetch them now, from the bathroom. And while I’m up, I must check that the back door is unlocked.

Put this microphone… somewhere…

Right. Here we are. Not quite as many as I thought. Let me… tip them out on the table in front of me… Almost a dozen. I don’t think there should be any problem, in that case…

I wonder how quickly they will work. Perhaps I had better put the music on now, just to be sure.

Oh, the stiffness of my joints, these last few weeks!

Now, yes. Soon the violins, and the woodwind.

‘Bailero’.

Let it wash over me, while I drink a little more. Not hard to swallow these, after all. Slipping down.

There. Now better hide this somewhere. And the glass.

So, it’s done now. No second thoughts.

Ah, this music! The way her voice comes in… floods everything with light… like a curtain being drawn back.

Close my eyes now, and I will see it.

Not dark. Not here. Sunlight. Blue. Ceru…

Oh, I’m going. Much faster than I thought. It’s like a cloud, like riding on a cloud.

Someone pulling me.

Darling…

Are we back now? Soon?

Take my hand. Take it. Pull me towards you.

I see you now.

The lake…

And a little girl too! Just as I knew it would be.

Oh…

Imogen? It’s you?

I imagine her now, sitting here beside me on the passenger seat. Imogen, my daughter. Sighted. About to catch her first glimpse of the old farmhouse.

Never to be. In another life, maybe.

Forget these fantasies. Pointless. Pull over to the side of the road.

Windows steamed up. Can’t see a thing.

Best get out.

Yes, there it is. And I
do
remember. Was it really only the one time, that I came here? That Christmas? And yet it feels like coming home.

The shape has changed. Something new has been added. But still, this is the place. Where they lived – my grandparents, my mother. Warden Farm.

Get closer.

Car in the drive. Owners must be at home. How to explain what I’m doing here? Who are they? Family, my family? Descendants, cousins? Ivy, my grandmother, died long ago. Must have. Husband too. Too hard to explain.

Up the drive, just a little way. Beneath the oak. Stood there, what, forty years ago? More? Christmas night. Smoking.

Someone at the window. Seen me. Watching me now. Oh God.

Wave. Then back off. Back to the car. Too hard to explain.

Is she coming? No. Mustn’t linger, though. Drive on, drive on quickly.

Where to? Find the village, find the church, find the churchyard. Find my grandmother again.

∗

These Shropshire lanes. Mud everywhere. Burnt umber hedgerows, dishevelled, wind-battered. Ploughed fields rolling on either side. Grey sky, looks as if it knows no other colour. This place feels ancient. Half a century behind the rest of the world. Feels like nothing has changed since I was here, nothing.

Now I see the spire. And a pub: Fox and Hounds. Empty car park. This will do.

∗

Nineteen seventy-two, she died. Don’t remember anything about it, don’t even remember being told. And my grandfather three years later.

Windy spot, this. An easterly wind. Wonder if it’s ever quiet, ever silent? Dead of night, maybe? But nowhere silent any more, not in this country. Traffic noise, even here, heart of the countryside. Must be a motorway near by. Wind in the trees, melancholy sound. Makes me think of time. The sound of time passing, implacable.

These graves have been tended, quite recently. Grass trimmed. Someone is looking after them. Need flowers, though. Will buy some, come back tomorrow. Lovely flowers on that one. Narcissus, bright yellow. Somebody cares. Wonder who…?

Oh. Oh no.

Rosamond. Last October. Six months ago. Only six months! Only six months too late. Here, though? She ended up here? Must have come back. Come back to where she loved.

Oh no. If only I’d come sooner. Just a word, just a few words. Would have meant so much. To her as well as me.

Footsteps. Who’s this?

Man, smiling. Looks friendly. Dog collar. Vicar. Wants to talk. About to speak to me. Turn. Smile. Get ready.

‘Did you know Rosamond, may I ask?’

Thea’s letter arrived one morning in late March. Gill was distantly aware of the chatter of well-bred voices from the radio in her father’s annexe, but otherwise the house was quiet, and the sudden rattle of the letterbox seemed quite explosive. She went to the front door, a half-slice of toast still lodged between the buttery finger and thumb of one hand, and spotted the letter at once amidst the usual jetsam of bank statements and mobile phone bills. The envelope was blueish, the handwriting erratic and spindly. And it was a thick letter: it felt as though there might be half a dozen pages inside, or even more.

It had arrived sooner than expected. Little more than a week earlier, the Reverend Tawn had phoned her with some startling, but welcome news: walking home through the churchyard on a blustery weekday afternoon, he had come upon a gaunt, angular woman with time- and weatherbeaten features, probably in her late fifties, standing over Rosamond’s grave and reading the inscription on the headstone with distress in her eyes. A few minutes’ halting conversation had established that this was none other than Thea, Beatrix’s daughter, newly returned to the country after many years away. He had invited her into the vicarage, sat her down, given her tea and told her all that he knew about Rosamond’s final illness and death. She had listened with keen interest – fascination, even – and, on learning of Gill’s role as executor, had asked to be put in touch with her at once.

‘I wasn’t sure if I should give her your number,’ the vicar had explained over the phone that evening. ‘So I simply took her address instead. Would you like to have it? She’s eager to hear from you.’

Gill had written to Thea the very next day; telling her all about the tapes to which she had listened with her daughters (although she omitted, for now, the details of how they had ended) and describing their hitherto fruitless search for Imogen. A search which might now, she hoped, with this new discovery, be coming to an end.

Gill tossed the other envelopes impatiently on to one of the kitchen work surfaces and sat down at the table with Thea’s letter. Sunlight spilled over the domestic clutter, the breakfast debris, spun back and reflected by the glass panels of the conservatory beyond the kitchen windows. Outside it was a stubbornly cold spring morning, and dew still lay thick on the lawn, pale and glimmering. Gill had been about to shower and put some warm clothes on, but that could wait now. She slit the envelope open with a butter knife, spent a moment or two adjusting her gaze to the difficult, unfamiliar handwriting, and then began to read, her eyes darting and eager.

Thank you [Thea had begun] for your very full and friendly letter.

To be honest, I’d forgotten about the portrait of Imogen. Forgotten that it even existed. There’s so much from that time that I’ve forgotten – or maybe blotted out. It’s a quarter of a century ago, after all! And sometimes seems even longer, to me. But anyway – good to know that you have it. I’d love to come over and see it some time, if you’ll let me.

As for what you told me about the tapes Rosamond left behind, I am simply amazed. So you’ve heard them, and you know the whole story. I don’t know how that makes me feel – slightly uncomfortable, I suppose – but pleased that you still wanted to write. Some people, when they learn about what happened back then, find it hard to forgive me – or even treat me as a normal human being. So I’m very grateful to you, for not being like that. I take a lot of comfort from it. Especially as you are (however distantly) family, and family is the most important thing in my life. Perhaps you will think that a peculiar thing for me, of all people, to say, but I think from the tone of your letter that you’ll understand what I mean. I hope so.

Now, there’s something that I owe you in return: news of Imogen. It’s quite a long story, which I want to tell you from the beginning. So please be patient with me and try not to mind if I start rambling here and there.

I suppose the place to begin is the time when Rosamond and I quarrelled and broke off contact.

After coming out of prison I made the mistake of marrying the wrong man. His name was Derek Ramsey, and he was very cruel and controlling. Altogether I was with him for about ten years. He’d seen my picture in the newspaper before my trial and he’d written to me while I was in prison. He belonged to a small and peculiar offshoot of the Mormon Church, and something about my situation had struck a chord with him. He had all sorts of theories about why I’d done what I did to Imogen: they all boiled down to the idea that Satan was within her, and what had happened to her was some kind of punishment that she deserved. I was in such a desperate state in those days, and so full of guilt, that I managed to tell myself that I believed him. It was a horrible, horrible lie, but I can see now that it must have made me feel better, given me some way of being able to live with myself after what I’d done.

The years went by, and our life together became more and more intolerable. Slowly, some little spark of independence, and humanity, that must always have been glowing inside me reignited itself and burst into flame. I left my husband, and I’ve never seen him since.

The main thing that kept me going during this time was an incredible, almost overpowering desire to see Imogen again. By the time I left Derek, she would have been about sixteen years old. I didn’t want to disrupt her new life in any way. I just wanted to see her and know that she was happy.

Rosamond had once given me an address for my daughter’s new family, and that was where I went. They had moved on, long ago, but fortunately the current residents of the house had been left with a forwarding address. It was an address in Toronto.

I took this as a very hopeful sign. My mother had also moved to Canada, and although we hadn’t been in touch for many years, I’d also recently had the idea of going out there to see her. It seemed that fate (not God – I didn’t believe in Him any more) was deliberately pointing a finger towards Canada and telling me to go there. So I booked my plane ticket and left.

I arrived in Toronto, checked into a motel on the outskirts of the city, and the very next day I hired a car and drove over to where Imogen’s family lived and parked right opposite their house. Of course this was a risky thing to do because I wasn’t really allowed to have any contact with her. It was a Sunday morning. I stayed there for a few hours and just before lunchtime they all came out and got into their car. You have to remember that I hadn’t set eyes on my daughter since she was three years old, and I wasn’t at all sure that I’d even recognize her. However, I have to say that the white stick was a bit of a giveaway! Even without it, though, there would have been no mistaking my Imogen. She had grown up very tall and beautiful, with her blonde hair cut into a nice bob, and she carried herself very gracefully. There were two other children besides her – younger children, two boys – and a big brown Irish terrier who they all made a lot of fuss of. You could easily tell that they were a close and happy family.