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Eight months later
September 2001
It took me eight months to find the strength to go and see Margaret. In that eight months my marriage to Liam was over in all but name. At Jonathan’s suggestion I had gone to talk with Michelle. He’d thought it would be good for me to share my grief with another and he was right.
We’d had lunch in London and I’d come away from our meeting feeling a little more settled in one way, but less so in another. From speaking with Michelle I knew that her and Jonathan’s marriage wasn’t good, and this made me sad, but I also knew that if they did ever split, and I hoped they wouldn’t, it would be amicable. When Liam and I finally got around to a divorce, ours wouldn’t be. He’d never fully denied having an affair, and had managed to evade the subject cleverly. Liam was good at that. This avoidance on Liam’s part – to acknowledge anything – made my grief and anger at Joe’s death even harder to bear.
I had told Liam about Margaret looking after Michael Hemmings as a child, and about the day Joe stayed with his grandmother when Hemmings had visited. Liam had said very little, but his body language suggested that somehow I was to blame. Liam’s unsaid thoughts – that it was my fault about Joe – resonated, and sent me further into the ocean of dark blue grief from which I seemed unable to climb out.
Although I had to confront Margaret about Michael Hemmings’ contact with Joe, there was also a part of me that wished to make some semblance of peace with her.
Perhaps my dad was right. You find it so easy to vilify her, love, it’s always been a problem; he’d said only recently.
As a child I’d loved my dad to distraction. He had been a good father, done all the things a dad should do: ferried me around as a teenager, took me to secondary school sporting events without fail, helped me move digs numerous times as a student at university. What I couldn’t work out was why I’d felt less sure of our relationship since Joe’s birth.
He’d worked for himself and so was often able to pick me up from school, and then there would be only the two of us. One of those days remained with me as clear as spring water.
‘Dad, I got three stars for my science,’ I’d said.
‘That’s great love,’ he replied. ‘Make sure you tell your mum when we get home.’
‘She’s not bothered.’ My excitement at my three stars already shrivelling.
‘Don’t talk about your mother like that.’ He’d turned his gaze away from the road and said slowly, ‘You have to be more considerate, Rachel.’ His eyes travelled back to the traffic ahead. ‘It’s your attitude that riles. It’s not just about you, love. Do you ever ask her about her day? Help her out at home? You can be a bit selfish.’ He paused. ‘And she doesn’t like it when you make things up about her.’
‘I don’t make things up...’
‘Your mum says you do,’ he said. ‘The door thing?’
‘I didn’t make that up. She knew my hand was there, and she slammed it.’
‘I don’t think you even know you’re doing it sometimes.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Your mother gave up a lot for you.’
As was usual during these conversations with Dad I ended up confused and disconcerted. It was only since having Joe that I’d noticed his adeptness at putting a spin on anything my mother did.
And so. And so. lispI went to see Margaret. And on that day, just before I left and for the first time in months, I smelt the toffee popcorn.