Bunting - Island Song

1994

Helene was sleeping, her shallow breaths barely audible over the whirr and beep of the machines. Each breath was hesitant, like a wave that appears to stand still at the crest before it breaks. From time to time, Roz followed the whispered intake and exhalation, wondering if there would be another. Her mother was holding on longer than the doctors had expected.

Her soft white hair was awry. Roz found it easier to focus on her hands, which still described the character of her life: elegant, but worn. Long fingers with two rings the engagement ring with the large single diamond, and the band of gold, which had thinned over the half century of use. Nails short and never polished. Gardeners hands, and rougher than you would expect.

Helenes eyes opened and fell on Roz, sitting beside the bed.

Youre back, she said, her voice surprisingly steady. The funniest thing. I dreamed we were on the clifftops, that time in Devon when the three of us went away together after and do you remember? It was so hot not a breath of wind. We sunbathed.

Roz did remember. It had been about ten years ago, shortly after her marriage had ended. Helene and Justin, Rozs father, had been walking through the woods ahead of her, and once they came out on top of the cliffs they sat down to wait. As Roz arrived, Helene stripped off her shirt and lay back on the turf in her black bra, luxuriating in the suns warmth on her skin. Her sunglasses were pushed to the top of her head, her eyes were closed and a smile hovered around her mouth. Roz caught Justins eye briefly as they shared their appreciation of the indomitable woman between them. Roz flopped on the ground and Justin put his arm around her shoulder. She leaned against him, and felt a familiar comfort as he kissed her hair. That was the moment when life started for her again when she was able to feel happy once more.

You were so sad at that time, after Nick. It broke our hearts. The sunshine brought us all back to life, said Helene.

Roz closed her eyes and thought of the Devon cliffs, the sound of the sea on the rocks and the sweet smell of earth and grass baking in the heat.

I was happy then, murmured Helene.

Roz knew what her mother was not saying: that the moment had been rare, and that happiness had often appeared to be just out of Helenes reach. Roz had never understood: a loving husband, a busy family, a cherished home many would regard Helenes as an enviable life. Roz had instinctively withdrawn from Helenes unease, as if it had been contagious.

Through the hospital window Roz watched the summer rain ease and a bar of soft yellow light unexpectedly open up on the horizon. Roz liked resting her eye on that point where the city petered out south of Crystal Palace, and the chalk rose up to form the downs of Kent on its way to the coast. Roz gathered up her bag to leave.

Helene reached out for Rozs hand. I was never going to let you go, she said. I managed that at least.

Sorry, Mother, said Roz, confused. Ill be back tomorrow. Same time.

Helene held fast to her hand. Thank you, dear Rosamund.

Roz bent over and smoothed a strand of Helenes hair across her forehead, before kissing her cheek, as her mother had done for her as a child. And then so softly that Roz wasnt sure she had heard right Helene added, I was so proud of you. Of your courage. You and me together, we came a long way.

Later, in her flat, Roz thought of Helene on the cliffs and was pleased that the memory had found its way into her mothers dreams. She liked the image of her as a woman who had taken life in both hands, even in her sixties, rather than as a fragile body battered by illness.

This business of dying was disorganizing her thoughts. That evening she was trying to catch up with some work on a case, the papers spread over the dining table, when another memory interrupted her. The detail was vague, but she knew she was in the garden at home in London. She must have been about eight or so, because she was carrying Jim, and he was wriggling to be put down. She remembered clearly the weight of him on her hip as she tried to imitate how her mother held the plump baby. Helene was wearing a pretty smock dress, and in the sunshine the pale fabric stood out against the dark green foliage behind. Her face was unfamiliar, flushed and full with the weight of two pregnancies in almost as many years. Edward was sitting on Justins lap. A blue tablecloth, a vase of flowers. Perhaps they were having lunch in the garden. Helene handed Justin a plate of food and was telling him something.

Abruptly, Helene stopped talking, and jumped to her feet. The colour drained from her face and her eyes widened with panic. Justin put Edward on a chair and moved swiftly to put his arms around her. She began to sob and was clinging to him. Roz stumbled to comfort her mother, still carrying Jim, who was slipping from her grasp. She buried her face in the folds of her mothers dress, breathing in her sweet, soapy smell, feeling the bone of her hip, and her mothers body shuddering. Jim broke free and dropped to the ground, howling.

A plane was roaring overhead, low over the roofs. Justin was saying, Its the Queens birthday parade. The next moment, the nanny scooped up the boys and pulled Roz by the hand into the kitchen.

Roz couldnt remember any other occasion when she had seen her mother cry, let alone with that kind of hysteria. Perhaps she had misremembered it. She would ask her in the morning.

Early the next day, the telephone woke her. Helene had died peacefully in the night. The tears slid down Rozs cheeks as she dialled Jims number in France.

She was on her own at the end? Jims voice was thick.

Roz nodded silently.