BooksBarbecue
Back Again, Rachel
Chapters (98)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. 92
  96. 93
  97. 94
  98. Acknowledgements

‘You’re not a vegetarian, you’re just a notice-box. Eat the potatoes and vegetables. Or bring a KitKat in your handbag.’

‘We should have a vegetarian option,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll ring them tomorrow.’

‘On your head be it. Now, girls, the dessert! We’re having a chocolate mousse with real gold leaf on it. I had it once in that restaurant in New York—remember? Where Dad got food poisoning—’

‘Which time?’ I asked. Dad got sick whenever he left Ireland—something always went wrong. We were such a neurotic family.

‘It was a lovely place,’ Dad said. ‘It wasn’t their fault.’

‘Well, if it was food poisoning, it kind of was,’ Helen said.

‘Maybe it wasn’t actual food poisoning—’

‘It’ll be hilarious,’ Mum mused. ‘Those bitches won’t know whether to eat it or bring it home!’

‘How about we have a special cocktail made for the night,’ Claire said. ‘We could name it after you.’

‘That’s a great idea!’ Dad said.

Mum considered it, then shook her head. ‘They’d say I was showing off.’

‘I suppose they would.’ Dad seemed disappointed.

God almighty, the world Mum inhabited had complex, illogical rules. I’d never understand them.

15

‘Off you all go now,’ Mum said. ‘Dad and I need to watch our show.’

‘Rachel, come to ours for dinner?’ Margaret offered. ‘Garv is making enchiladas.’

It was an attractive offer. Margaret, Garv and their two children, JJ aged fifteen and Holly aged thirteen, were a lovely family—very harmonious. A calm household where there was always homemade cake in a tin, armloads of wildflowers bursting from vases, and stacks of elderly Agatha Christie novels waiting to be read.

Of all of our homes, Margaret’s would be the best in which to recover from a nervous breakdown.

In the bleak days after I’d sold the apartment Luke and I had owned and left New York, I’d lived there for five months. In the most gentle way, that little household had kept me going. If ever I was flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, wondering about the point of anything, a light rap would sound on my bedroom door and somebody would ask for my help to make a casserole or walk the two elderly dogs or rake a flower bed.

It was where my love of gardening ignited. Margaret’s husband Garv had me out there every weekend, weeding, composting and planting. Obediently I was going along with it, half-heartedly enjoying myself, until one Sunday morning, he said, ‘Something to show you.’ Drawing my attention to an expanse of wildflowers pushing their way up through the soil, he said, ‘The seeds you put down seven weeks ago? This is what happens.’