The Pharmacist

Alice felt somewhat guilty at her deceit. Not just throwing the pastry away, but pretending to Rachel – it wasn’t her style, she’d always been upfront and direct. But her relationship with Rachel had always been complicated, not what she’d have liked it to be, and it caused her grief to admit it.

2001

Finding appropriate words to portray my relationship with my daughter is almost impossible. A mother-daughter relationship should, at the very least, be warm and loving, yet this was not so in the case of Rachel and me. Any words which do spring to mind are not what they should be, and as Rachel grew, she remained remote, dispassionate, wholly self-sufficient and always quiet in our company.

Although one of the brightest pupils in her year at school, the teachers described her as introverted and withdrawn. We worried about her lack of social interaction, and Rachel rarely showed enthusiasm for anything. Our daughter lived her life following her own self-imposed regime, completing necessary tasks without complaint, both at home and school.

Friends were never invited home. There was no ‘best friend’ to whom she regularly chatted on the telephone. In fact, Rachel didn’t appear to need friends in her life at all. She wasn’t one to initiate conversation and offered only a perfunctory answer if required to do so, offering as little of herself as possible. Tom and I discussed ways to help her enjoy life more but eventually decided that this was simply how Rachel was made and we were never going to change her. And why should we? If she was content in her ways, shouldn’t that be enough for us? Did I wrongly want her to conform to my version of what she should be? Did my own expectations colour what I wanted and expected of my daughter? Then there was always the reminder that she was not our flesh and blood. If this were an issue for Rachel, we would never know. Perhaps she was different simply because of her genetic makeup.

As she entered her teen years, we stopped worrying so much and determined to accept our daughter for who she was. This was not an easy thing to do, mainly because I wasn’t convinced that Rachel was truly happy. Our relationship was ‘cordial’ – what an abysmal way to describe the bond between us! I truly loved her but was never convinced that she understood or reciprocated.

During those years, the need to stretch my mind and broaden my own understanding led me to embark upon an Open University course, an English literature degree. It was Tom’s suggestion, thinking I might enjoy studying and applying myself to something academic I could complete in my own timescale.

I enrolled with great enthusiasm, finding a rich and much-needed fulfilment in becoming a student once again. Had I simply found a job and gone out to work, the burden of guilt that being away from home and family brought would have dragged me down. The course offered the best of both worlds and as flexibility was still necessary for my day to day life, it was the ideal solution. As well as wanting to provide a stable home for Rachel, my mother’s health had deteriorated to such a point that my father could no longer cope alone, so when Rachel was safely off to school, I would go each day to my parents’ house, where I helped to care for my mother. It was a labour of love, and I certainly didn’t do it begrudgingly.

My studies provided respite from the burden of care and I loved the course I’d chosen. When Tom was away working and Rachel in her room, I was able to lose myself in the assignments that regularly needed completing or the many fascinating books on my reading list. My studies delighted me and provided a much-needed focus, something to stretch my intellect, and the time spent in my books became my ‘me’ time which delighted me every minute.

Sadly, my mother was not to see the new millennium and died in December 1999. Mum never really recovered from losing Karen, James and her two granddaughters. Although my mother’s premature death once again brought that all too familiar sadness to our family, we comforted ourselves, knowing she was at peace and reunited with her loved ones. If Mum’s death affected Rachel, she didn’t show it, and, like so many other events, it became just something else which she took in her stride.

During Rachel’s third year in senior school, our daughter was confronted with another tragic incident. A boy in the year below her fell down the stairs at school and sadly died from a broken neck. For such a tragedy to happen on school premises affects the whole community, both pupils and staff. The young boy, Harry, had been sent on an errand for his class teacher and fallen, unnoticed, while the corridors were quiet and the other children were in lessons. Rachel had asked to be excused to visit the cloakroom and was the first to come across the boy’s lifeless body.

Naturally, it was a shock, but she had the presence of mind to seek help from the teacher in the nearest classroom. By the time the teacher called us to the school to collect our daughter, she was pale and even more silent than usual when obliged to recount her experience to the headteacher and later to the police. As we sat with her throughout this ordeal in the headteacher’s study, my heart ached for her. Seeing a fellow pupil dead was something I feared could have a detrimental effect on our daughter. Surely the heartbreak of losing her sister and aunt’s family was enough. It seemed so unfair that Rachel had to cope with another tragedy. I observed my daughter carefully over the following months, fearing it was all too much to cope with.

As with our own family’s loss, the people of Matlock came together once again to mourn the life of young Harry Chapman, and our hearts went out to his family. We gave Rachel the choice of attending the funeral. At fourteen, we thought her old enough to understand and to make her own decision. She decided to attend with us.

Naturally, memories of our own loss came flooding back as once again the parish church was filled with mourners, gathered to say goodbye to yet another of the town’s children, a life ended far too early. I silently railed at the injustice of it all as I witnessed the weighty sense of loss and the pain of Harry’s parents. How much grief could one community suffer?

Rachel coped remarkably well and managed to hold herself together during the service when so many of her fellow pupils were weeping. It was indeed another sad day for the town and most certainly for Harry’s parents. I knew all too well how they must be feeling.

By chance, about three weeks after Harry’s funeral, I met his mother, Brenda, in the High Street, and we stopped to talk. Harry had been in Jenny’s class at junior school, so Brenda and I had met previously on occasions at school events, but I wouldn’t say we knew each other well. Perhaps the fact that I too had lost a child led this poor woman to ask if I had time for a coffee, to which I agreed – it was the least I could do.

We found a quiet tea shop, and when, after ordering our coffee, Brenda broke down in tears, I simply held her, shielding her from the few other customers in the room and silently praying for this dear lady who was on the journey I knew so well, the long, hard road of grief.

The inevitable questions poured from her wounded heart: how could she go on living, would it get any easier, why her son?

‘I don’t have any answers to your questions but I can tell you how I get through each day.’ This was all I could offer and it seemed so inadequate but Brenda’s eager expression encouraged me to continue.

‘I try to view Jenny as a gift from God, a daughter who was mine for seven short years and one who brought me such love and happiness. I would rather have had those few years than not have known Jenny at all, even though her loss still brings pain every day.’ I was blinking back my own tears then.

‘Does it get any better with time? I’m sick of people telling me that it will.’ Brenda was hurting, angry and confused. I recognised myself in her, shades of my own anguish were shining from her eyes.

‘I don’t think the pain gets any less, you simply learn to live with it. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear but this has been my reality. On the positive side, you and I both have other children to live for, and good men to share our grief.’ My words felt so deficient, hollow even, but that was all I had to offer. There are no right or wrong answers. I could only share with her those thoughts that had helped me when I was at the very lowest point.

I knew of no deep and meaningful solutions and was still very much working through my own grief, but as we bared our hearts to each other, I hope she was comforted by our time together. We exchanged phone numbers and over the following months, Brenda visited my home and me hers as we formed a bond, finding in each other someone we could be honest with about our feelings. Our friendship grew, and I was grateful for her empathy as I hoped she was for mine.

Rachel was at the age of making decisions that would affect her future. Choosing which subjects to study was the first major event and we were not surprised when she opted to concentrate on the sciences, particularly chemistry and biology. It was clear that our daughter possessed a sound mind and she’d maintained her position at the top of the class throughout those first years at secondary school.

Speaking with other parents and hearing of their difficulties in getting their children to do homework and apply themselves to lessons, I was unsure if my daughter’s attitude was a blessing or not. Rachel didn’t need so much as a word from us to prompt her to study, and unlike her contemporaries, a social life held no attraction, and interest in boys had not yet materialised.

Perhaps I should have been glad she wasn’t easily distracted from her studies, but there were times when I wished she’d let her hair down and enjoy life a little. But it wasn’t our place to encourage her to be frivolous, especially as she never gave us cause to complain. Other mothers often told me that they wished their children would apply themselves as Rachel did, while I wished she’d enjoy life and even rebel occasionally, just a little, of course.

Over the next two years, my daughter and I studied hard and both reaped the rewards of our diligence. I achieved my degree, and to our delight, Rachel attained eight GCSEs, all A or A-star grades. We couldn’t have asked for more. Rachel took the results in her stride. Our daughter was by then a mature, intelligent young woman, already thinking about the next phase, her A Levels and university. So why then was there an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach? Life had returned to a semblance of normality, and although we would always grieve for Jenny, there should be at least some joy in our home. Sadly, there wasn’t and I felt as if we were simply treading water, waiting for something to happen, but for what, I had no idea.