“Surprisingly no. I did find some things that I think were from the previous people who lived here – a cupboard which I don’t think any of you ever found. Silverware, all wrapped up in Irish linen. I’ll take it with us.”
We followed her into the dining room, the huge table still there as it would remain, part of the house for the new owners. I rubbed the polished walnut with my hand, remembering the conversations and arguments and announcements we’d had around it.
Right now though, it was filled with boxes.
“These are the baby boxes.” Marie looked a little concerned. “Rachael had one for each of you and I do remember coming across them when we cleared the Oxford house and now I feel bad because I forgot about them.”
It was Jackson who got to them first, peering into the one with his name on it. “I’m going to guess that these are - ” he paused. “Have you checked inside them, Mum?”
“Of course. I knew what was in them years ago, but I just forgot about them. And if I remember what’s in them, there was no good time to ever give them to you. Certainly when you were kids wasn’t the right time.”
“Now’s probably not the right time.” I headed to my box, never one to be able to put things off. I opened it up, finding the blanket that I’d probably been wrapped in when I was born. There was a pair of tiny pink satin shoes, photographs fromwhen I was first born, held by my mother, Rachael who looked so young. She had tears on her face but was smiling.
She’d had the four of us as close together as I’d had my girls. I had no idea whether she’d planned to have pregnancies so close together. I kind of had. We’d never really said, let’s have another now, but we hadn’t done anything to stop getting pregnant until after I’d had Quinn and been told that another pregnancy would be high risk.
I would’ve had another and taken the chance. We were lucky, we could afford a big family and I didn’t need to work, although I did love my job, but Killian put his foot down and I was told that if it was a choice between me and another baby, he’d pick me every time, so he’d had the snip.
Apparently having a vasectomy was the equivalent to a C-section. Who knew?
I found a crocheted baby hat, although I’d never know who’d made it. There was a baby book, my weight and length written in it, as well as photographs of me as a new born. There were stuffed toys in there too and a letter.
I plucked it out of the box.
“Did you read these?” I looked at Marie, who was seeming nervous.
She nodded. “I read yours and Max’s. Be careful when you read them, they’re sad, Claire.”
Jackson had stopped looking through his box. “What’s in Callum’s? Does he have a letter?”
Marie was the quietest I’d ever seen her.
“No. There’s no letter in Callum’s.”
I knew her too well. “Was there a letter in Callum’s?”
She nodded. “There was. I saved it elsewhere. Your dad doesn’t know what was said in it and Callum didn’t need to know. It served no purpose other than a woman who clearly wasn’t well venting her feelings at the time.”
“What did it say, Mum?” I needed an idea, because what she told me would affect the decision I made next.
“She said she wished she’d never had him and words to that affect. Please don’t tell him that.” She pulled her long, curly hair back into a low ponytail. Only now was it streaked with a few grey hairs, which was a miracle when considering what we’d put her through.
I opened my letter and scanned it through. She’d told me she loved me, she’d told me about how she’d always wanted a daughter but she wished I would play with dolls and have longer hair. Then she’d written about how hard it was and how I’d find that out when I had babies of my own. I looked at the date.
It was written two days before she’d died.
“I’m going to read Max’s,” I announced, folding the letter up and placing it back in the envelope. “Jacks, have you read yours?”
Killian picked up the envelope and opened it, not asking for my permission. I knew what he was doing. A second pair of eyes to stop any knee jerk reaction from me being one I’d regret.
Max’s box had more content in it, more clothes, more school reports from when he’d first started. His letter was much the same as mine but included a long paragraph about not turning out like his father. I handed it to Jackson, who passed me his letter.
Jackson’s was shorter, less obviously distressed, but telling of a woman whose mind was not healthy.
My heart broke for her and for my dad. They’d had no support from their parents, living in a big house in the middle of the countryside with only paid help. So young and inexperienced, both with deep-rooted issues like we all had.
Only I’d had the support of my family. Marie. My dad, in his own way.
Rachael had really been on her own and probably had post-natal depression.
