RACHEL
Rachel glanced at the bedside clock. 5.30 a.m. Exactly five minutes since she’d last looked. She sighed. After tossing and turning for most of the night, she might as well accept the fact that she was unlikely to get any more sleep. Far better to dress and go for a walk. Try to let the fresh air clear her mind.
Dressing quickly and pulling on her jeans and sweatshirt, she crept downstairs. No shower. She didn’t want to disturb BB. Quietly she opened the front door and let herself out.
Passing Johnnie’s cottage on the way into town, she wondered how he was coping with Carla’s teething. She hadn’t heard from him for some days now – not since the night she’d fled, panic-stricken, from his cottage. Carla’s teething pain had probably been helped by a visit to the chemist, but she hadn’t liked to tell Johnnie the problem would be there for months yet.
Deserted streets felt strangely alien as Rachel walked quickly through Fairfax Place and onto Newcomen Road. She could sense the town stirring – the strident noise of an alarm clock coming from an open window, the smell of brewing coffee floating past, bundles of newspapers left in front of the closed newsagent’s door waiting to be sorted – but met no-one as she walked out of town. The absence of people served to reinforce her current sense of once again being an outcast.
Turning at Warfleet and walking in the direction of the castle, the jumble of questions in her mind had combined to form just two. To leave? Or to stay and to hell with the consequences? Decisions! Decisions!
St Petrox church, perched on its rock at the head of the river, beckoned as Rachel stood and looked out to sea. She hesitated before walking towards it and pushing open the gate and entering the church yard. Rose petals from a recent wedding littered the path. A typical ancient cemetery unfolded as she wandered around.
Humps in the grass where graves had lost their headstones. Ancient memorial stones at a crazy angle. Lichen-covered grave stones. Fallen slabs, their carved letters battered by the elements out here on the cliff undecipherable.
A headstone where she could just make out the inscription, ‘Beatrice. Beloved daughter. 25 May 1895–20 February 1896’, had her wiping a tear away. Seven months. Younger than Carla was now.
Carla. Should she accept Johnnie’s offer and become the child’s godmother? So much of her wanted to say yes. Longed to be in her and Johnnie’s lives. She could treat Carla as the daughter she’d never had. Accepting though would mean becoming involved. Being truthful about the past.
Rachel bent down and picked a daisy growing on the child’s grass-covered grave. To stay – one petal pulled. To go – another petal pulled. She liked Johnnie and that kiss had confirmed what she’d suspected. He liked her too. Wanted more. Moving the tentative friendship they’d formed onto a different footing – a full-blown relationship – wasn’t possible. Was it?
More petals pulled in the daisy game she’d not played since childhood – yes to stay, no to go, yes, no, yes. She should never have returned. Far better to leave the past undisturbed. Return to her life in France with Hugo and family.
The daisy had five petals left. No, yes, no, yes … no. Rachel’s lungs hurt as she let a deep sigh go.
Closing the churchyard gate behind her, Rachel began to make her way back to Dartmouth. She’d have a holiday somewhere and put the house on the market when she returned. Hugo could visit as planned and then she’d leave – go back with him to France. Decision made. Time to move on. Now to start the process of leaving.