‘We have no choice.’ I’m a little stung by her remark about our expectations being too high. Dan and I have lost so much. It’s hard coming to terms with that, but we’re both doing our best in our different ways.
‘Perhaps not. But perhaps you do have the choice of acceptance. That’s a choice that’s always available to us.’
I glance around her room, her world shrunk now to these four magnolia-painted walls, this overheated, chemical-scented air. Does she long for the freedom of her youth? The sweeping white sands and an infinite ocean stretching before her? The possibilities of love and a life to be lived? Or is it enough to hold all of that as a distant memory? The contentment of a life well-lived? Perhaps that’s the inevitable parabola of life – a trajectory of hope and desire which rises to a crescendo and then tails off into the wistful acceptance of old age.
‘Do you wish you’d done anything differently?’ I ask.
‘Of course. With hindsight we always see things so much more clearly. But at the time we muddle through, trying to make the best decisions we can, but making all sorts of mistakes along the way. I think the biggest mistake I made was not realising that there are so many different kinds of love. And that there is room for them all. No one excludes the others.’
I wait, watching her expression soften as she thinks back, remembering.
She fixes me suddenly, with that clear-eyed gaze of hers that seems to see right to the heart of matters. ‘You see, Kendra, I thought there was a finite amount of love to go round. And that I only had the energy to love my children. And I thought that Robbie needed the lion’s share. Those were my biggest mistakes. Whereas now I know better. With the benefit of hindsight.’
She reaches for the glass of water that the nurse has left for her and takes a sip.
‘The love that you have for your children, that is the only pure and simple kind. It’s overwhelming, instinctive, absolute. But it sits alongside the love that you have for your partner, which is another kind of love entirely. That’s anything but simple; it’s far more complicated; and yet it’s the love that we choose, so it should really be the easiest one of all.’ She smiles to herself, her memory drifting backwards into the past again. ‘I remember Rhona asking Angus one day what “infinity” was. And he said to her, “Think of the biggest number you can. Then add one to it. And one more. And one more . . .” Her face lit up as she got it, the fact that you can go on forever, adding one more. That’s how love is. You can keep adding to it. For infinity.’
I think of Dan. Of the distance that’s opened up between us, of how we rarely talk these days. Let alone touch one another. But then I think too of how we chose each other – Ella’s words hitting home – and of how that choice was so easy because it felt so right. I think of how Dan loves Finn and cares for him with such patience and understanding. He’s seemed happier recently, his involvement in the gardening project and at the allotment giving him a sense of purpose, doing him good as well as Finn. Just as writing Ella’s story has given me a sense of purpose too. Supposedly, I’m writing it down for my mother’s benefit, so why do I feel it’s really for my own? She’s a wise old bird, my Granny Ella.
I can see she’s tiring again, so I stand and get ready to go, but she reaches out a hand to stop me. ‘It’s never too late, Kendra. Remember that too.’
She points towards the blue bowl beside her bed.
‘It’s never too late to try to mend what’s been broken.’
1957, Edinburgh
Robbie battled at school. Having missed an entire year, he’d been kept back, so his friends were now one class ahead of him and his sister four; he was jeered at for being too old for his year group, teased about the calliper that he still wore on his right leg and his awkward, jerking gait. During PE lessons he sat on the sidelines, watching his classmates run and jump and play, knowing that he had gone from being one of the most popular boys in his class, and one of the best at football, to a crippled nobody. Each day, when she met him at the school gates, Ella’s heart ached a little bit more as she watched him limp across the playground, trailing well behind his stronger, faster, noisier and more confident peers, an awkward, wounded shadow of the child he’d been a year ago.
And so she continued to try everything she could think of to find ways of helping him to rebuild his strength, to minimise his limp, to regain his confidence and his sense of who, she knew, he truly was: a clever, talented, loving and courageous boy who should not be defined by the legacy of his illness.
The summer was threatening to be one of those unremittingly grey ones, where the east coast sea-mist rolled in to blot out the sun on the few days that the flat, dour cloud-cover parted long enough to allow it to shine. It had rained every day for the past week, despite the fact that it was already mid-June, and the gorse flowers on the hills were bruised and bedraggled. A bit like I am, thought Ella, as she paused in hanging sheets on the line, trying to make the most of the break in the weather and get a long-overdue wash done. She sat down on the garden bench for a few moments, lifting her face to the tentative gleam of sunshine that had broken through a gap in the clouds. She pushed a strand of hair back into the elastic band that half-heartedly bound her loose ponytail. She was vaguely conscious that she really ought to book an appointment at the hairdresser’s, but somehow the days slipped by and she just couldn’t seem to get on top of things. It should have been easier with Robbie back at school this year, but she seemed to have sunk all her energy into getting him back on his feet and now there was very little left over to get herself through the days.
She heard the letterbox clatter and, with a sigh, roused herself to go and pick up the post from the doormat. Amongst the mundane brown envelopes was a crisp, cream-coloured one bearing a row of French stamps and Ella felt her spirits rise a little. She made herself a cup of tea and went back outside to settle herself on the bench and read Caroline’s letter. As she unfolded the sheet of writing paper, a rectangle of white card fell into her lap . . .
Sainte Marie de Ré
5 June 1957
Ma Chère Ella,
How is Robbie getting on? I think of you every day and hope that his strength continues to improve. You sounded so sad the last time you wrote and I know it cannot be easy for you, watching one of your children struggling. So I am writing to you today with two propositions . . .
The first is a little escapism to try to cheer you up. Several of Christophe’s paintings will be coming to Edinburgh shortly. They were first displayed in my little gallery here on the island, and have gone on a journey from here to Paris and then to London. Can you imagine?! And now they are coming to the Royal Scottish Academy to be included in a summer exhibition. So, I am sending you this invitation to the private view and hope that you and Angus can attend. I want you to write back to me afterwards and tell me what you think of the works and how they are received in Scotland. Please go. You see, I am relying on you to be my eyes and ears and help me out in this way.
And now for the second proposition, which requires a little more travelling than simply a jaunt into town: it is that you come and stay with me here on the Île de Ré this summer. Bring Angus and the children and come for as long as you can – the whole of the school holidays, if you like. Imagine how beneficial it will be for Robbie to be in the sun and the sea air (remember those children we used to see lined up on their beds outside the préventorium? You know how healthy this climate is). It will do him – and you – the world of good. And I want to meet your family at long, long last! Christophe spends most of his time in Paris now that he is an artist of some renown, so I will be on my own in this big house with bedrooms that are just begging to be filled with my dearest friend and her children. Please say you’ll come, dear Ella.
I will await your reply with impatience.
With my love to you all,
Caroline xxxx
Ella read the letter through and then examined the invitation. The private view was this Friday. She gazed out towards the hills. The clouds seemed to be clearing and the sun shone a little more strongly, suddenly painting the landscape with a thousand nuances of light and shade instead of the drab greys and flat greens of the past wet week.