Rosie of the River

by Catherine Cookson

  The tall angular clergyman was sitting trying to warm his hands at the fire now in order to cover his feelings. For it was he, really, who had manoeuvred the whole thing and with the help of this family had made it possible. It said something, Sally thought, for Peter and James that they should have seen in their aggravating, loud-mouthed, unpopular associate something worth saving, something good beyond all the flamboyance, the heavy drinking, the loose women, the utter wantonness.

  ‘Come on. Come on,’ said Mr Watson. ‘No more tears. This is supposed to be a joyful occasion. I’m sure Charles meant it to be.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes,’ added Ada. ‘God bless him this night and every day of his life. God bless him.’

  She was cut off by her daughter suddenly crying, ‘Mum! Mum! Listen to me, and listen carefully. Don’t mention to Father Mackin anything about these gifts, or he’ll have half of it off you and onto the plate or in some scheme he’s got going. Now, listen, Mum. Do you hear me? I say it to you again now: you are not to mention this to Father Mackin.’

  Before Ada could speak her father had put in, ‘She’s right. She’s definitely right, Ada. He’d have half from each one of us and on the plate. You know him. You should by now. Has he ever given us a penny for anything? But he sends messages, through Willie there, that they’re collecting for this, that and the other; and what was the message last time? That God always gives back with interest whatever is given to him. And I see he was right in that, at least, because tonight we’ve been given back interest. But not through him.’

  ‘Don’t keep on,’ Ada said. ‘And don’t think I’m a fool altogether, Joe. I know what Father Mackin’s like, always have, not like the Reverend here, who sees we have a box every Christmas. And I’m not of his church, though Joe is. And yet we never cross your church door, do we, Reverend?’

  ‘We wouldn’t dare, would we, Reverend?’ said Mattie, laughing towards the parson now. ‘Father Mackin would have us hung, drawn and quartered.’

  ‘He would that, Mattie. He would without a doubt,’ said Sandy Watson, laughing back at her. ‘It’s as much as he can stand that I’m allowed in the house to see your father.’

  Ada now looked towards their other visitors, and said, ‘You must take us for a very funny lot, Mr and Mrs Carpenter.’

  ‘What we take you for, Mrs Connolly,’ said Fred, ‘is a very brave woman, and it’s wonderful to see life working out well for you all at last. We hope we shall have the pleasure of meeting up with you all again some time soon.’

  What time they left that bare but happy room they couldn’t remember. They only knew that when they got back to the vicarage there was a lovely tea waiting for them, and a very excited Bill, as well as James and his mother, who wanted to know all that had happened at the Connollys.

  Many hours later, when they were home and in bed, which had been heated with hot-water bottles, the last words Sally said before she went into a deep sleep were, ‘Isn’t life wonderful?’

  Chapter Seven

  How many days was it? How many weeks ago was it? How many years ago was it since Sally had said, ‘Isn’t life wonderful?’ Just now, she felt she must have been mad: life was never wonderful.

  For some time she had been plagued by heavy nosebleeds in the wake of a bad cold, the house was colder than ever and, to cap it all, although trade had indeed picked up at the shop, the strain of coping with the increased business as well as everything else at home single-handed had left her depressed, worried and exhausted. And, as always at such time, memories of her lost babies would return, together with the knowledge that she and Fred had not been able to fill the empty rooms with the sound of children’s voices.

  Fred’s love could do nothing to help her, immersed as he was in school work, but she knew he was worried to death. At lunchtime, he would fly home from school and beg her to lie down. But no, her motto had always been ‘work it off’, and the big house needed that motto: it had to be spotless before she would allow herself to settle down in the evenings and at weekends. But the nosebleeds flowed so freely that it took all the strength from her; all she could do was plug her nose with cotton wool and lie still while waiting for it to cease.

  And so it came to a Saturday afternoon in the drawing room, where Fred had her propped up comfortably in the corner of the big couch in front of a roaring fire. He had also made the tea, and there it was set out on a small table by her side.

  She was beginning to feel better now and think how lucky she was to have someone like Fred, who always took such care of her at times like these.

  As he poured out another cup of tea for her he said, ‘Do you know where we were this time a month ago?’

  She had to think for a moment, then said, ‘The Connollys’ kitchen.’

  ‘Yes, the Connollys’ kitchen, and the gold mine Mr Watson brought in and the tears and the laughter. If it had been in a play you wouldn’t have believed it.’

  Suddenly, Sally said, ‘Don’t you think it’s odd we haven’t heard from Rosie for some weeks?’

  ‘Yes and no. She’ll be up to her eyes in work now that she’s under Miss Barrington; and don’t forget she’s staying with her grandmother, and her father’s bound to be there for two or three days in the week.’

  It was just at that moment that the phone rang. During the past week they had had an extension taken into the drawing room to prevent having to jump up, it always seemed, immediately they had settled down in the evening. So now, all Fred did was reach out to a small table on which the extension stood and say, ‘Yes, this is…’ But before he was halfway through the voice came quite clearly into the room: ‘May I speak to Mrs Carpenter, please?’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Miss Collins. I am companion and help to Mrs Stevenson senior.’

  He passed the receiver over to his wife.

  ‘Oh, Miss Collins; this is Mrs Carpenter here. We were just talking about Rosie; I hope nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid there’s a lot wrong, Mrs Carpenter; but not really with Rosie. Something very tragic could have happened. Fortunately it was prevented, but only just in time. She wanted you to know about it and asked me to ring you. I think I’d better start from the beginning. Have you a moment to listen?’

  ‘Oh, yes; yes, of course. My husband is sitting near me: we are very anxious to know what has happened.’

  ‘Well, I think you already know that Mr Stevenson is moving his work down to the south. He found a factory on a very good site; but it was much larger than his original one. However, he decided to take it and sell the one in Birmingham; and fortunately this was settled in a very short time. Well, last Wednesday he was saying goodbye to those of his workers who would not be coming south with him and had opened a few bottles of beer as a send-off. They were quite satisfied with the financial arrangements he had made, such as pensioning off the older ones and having made sure that the others would be kept on by the new firm who had bought the factory. Twelve of the single women staff were moving with him, as were the manager and the four department heads.’

  It seemed that Miss Collins was pausing for breath, and Fred and Sally exchanged worried glances. Then the fluttering voice continued.

  ‘So everything as you can imagine was very pleasant. Then after the workers had gone, the manager and the heads of department adjourned over the yard to the office to have a last word with Mr Stevenson, who, I understand, was walking through all the workshops as if saying his last goodbye to them. You see, the factory had been built by his great-grandfather towards the middle of the last century. However, instead of leaving it by the front door, he must have continued to the back of the building and left by the side door, because it was from outside that the men in the office heard the scream. They ran out and along the front of the building and up one side, but saw nothing until they came to the back and the open scrubland, across which two men were scrambling. Knowing the land was surrounded by a high wall, they went after the intruders, and there was much scuffli
ng. But when at last they had the men firmly on the ground and it was obvious the blood on their hands and faces was connected with the cry they had heard, the police were sent for.

  ‘It was almost dark, I understand, and the man who had been sent to ring for the police could have missed the body that was lying against one of the sheds had it not been for the snuffling of a stray dog. And there to his horror he saw his boss, the man who had shaken his hand only half an hour before while telling him what his position would be in the new firm. So he phoned not only the police but for an ambulance as well.’

  Again Miss Collins paused for breath; then went on, ‘It’s another long story and I will cut it short. The men they found were two of the younger Mrs Stevenson’s many nephews, and from the moment they were in the police station and being questioned they blurted out that it was Mrs Stevenson who had paid them to give her husband a ‘going over’. That was the term they used, and I understand they had added that she herself meant them to murder her husband. She had paid them two hundred pounds each with more to follow, but they had both agreed that they weren’t going to carry out her wishes; they would mess him up a bit—oh, yes, because they didn’t like him themselves, they admitted—but murder was a different thing. They weren’t going to swing for doing her dirty work.’

  ‘But how is Mr Stevenson?’ Fred put in impatiently.

  ‘Well, Mr Carpenter, I’m glad to say not as bad as we thought at first. You see, his head was badly cut and both men said they never hit him on the head with anything. It was when they knocked him down that he must have fallen on a sharp-edged piece of stone because his skull was cracked. His body was in a state: he had two broken ribs and was badly bruised all over. He must have been kicked. His mother and Rosie sat in the hospital all during that first night; but then Mrs Stevenson, you know she is not a young woman, took ill and had to be taken home. And I think that Rosie has hardly left the hospital since then. But this morning she asked me to get in touch with you.’

  ‘And Mrs Stevenson junior, what has become of her?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Oh, she has been taken into custody. She denies everything, of course, and it seems odd how all her nephews and nieces have disappeared. The boy Philip is with us now and he’s glad to be here. The other girl, Lucy, well, she has gone to the elder daughter’s, her married sister. The house is closed up and likely to remain so. Rosie is greatly upset because she is very fond of her father. And Miss Barrington, who, you know, instructs Rosie, has been a great help. She knows how to deal with reporters and such.’

  It was at this point they realised that, Miss Collins having mentioned Miss Barrington and reporters, they were likely to be in for further long explanations. And then the front doorbell rang and Bill barked furiously. Fred got up to answer it and Sally said, ‘I’m sorry, that was the dog barking, because we seem to have a visitor, but thank you very much indeed, Miss Collins, for ringing us to let us know what has happened. I’ll be in touch with you again shortly. Give my best regards to Mrs Stevenson senior, please, will you?’

  ‘I will, Mrs Carpenter, I will, and thank you. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Sally put down the phone and gasped, ‘Oh, my goodness!’

  She had never met Miss Collins but she had heard much about her. Everybody liked her, she was a good housekeeper and a friend to the old lady. Perhaps, though, what Miss Collins wasn’t aware of herself was how much she was enjoying this event—it wasn’t every day such sensational things happened in a family—and this had come over clearly in their telephone conversation. However, although Sally found Miss Collins’ attitude slightly repellent, the events she had related went a long way to explain why the old lady would have nothing to do with her son’s wife. She had obviously been right.

  Fred now came in, saying, ‘It was just a fellow collecting for the bazaar: had we any old clothes et cetera? How did you get rid of her?’

  Sally looked at him as he sat down on the side of the couch. ‘You felt the same as I did, then?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’ve met so many Miss Collinses; they love giving you the gory details.’

  She said nothing to this, but thought how often it was that they both came to the same opinion about a number of people…worthy people. Miss Collins, no doubt, could be classed as very worthy. Somehow, though, Sally didn’t feel that Miss Barrington would fall within quite the same category.

  ‘That woman must be a demon.’

  ‘The mother?’

  ‘Yes, of course the mother. And her husband was certainly very aware of it: look how he wasn’t for letting Rosie out of his sight that day until he had her clear of the boat and her mother’s hands. But to think that she would pay to have him polished off.’

  Fred shook his head slowly as though he were unable to fathom the depths to which hate could sink. Not wanting to think about that, Sally said quickly, ‘I’m going to phone the hospital and see if Rosie is there; she might be in the waiting room.’

  ‘I would try her home first, but I’d wait an hour or so in case Miss Collins is hovering about.’

  It was just after nine when Sally rang, and a young voice answered, saying, ‘Yes? This is Mrs Stevenson’s.’

  ‘Oh, is that you, Philip? This is Mrs Carpenter here.’

  ‘Oh; hello, Mrs Carpenter.’ His voice was bright. ‘You’ll want to speak to Rosie?’

  ‘Is she in?’

  ‘She came in about ten minutes ago. I don’t know whether she’s in her bedroom or up in the schoolroom, but I’ll get her for you.’

  Sally waited a few minutes, and then a voice said, ‘Oh, hello there. Am I glad to hear you!’

  ‘Look, you’ve just got in, you must be very tired. I just want to know how your father is.’

  ‘Dad’s on the mend, thank God. And yes, I’ve just got in, and I am very tired; but I’d rather put off sleeping for another three days if I could have a word with you. I’m up in the schoolroom. I was getting a book to look at just in case I couldn’t get to sleep. I haven’t been to bed since Wednesday.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie, you poor dear. It must have been awful for you. I wish we were nearer.’

  ‘There’s nobody wishes that more than me, I can tell you, Mr and Mrs C. Oh, yes, how I wish you both were nearer. Everybody’s been so kind, and Miss Barrington has just gone home; she’s been very good, seeing to things. And Miss Collins is up with Gran. I understand she gave you all the gen.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, and more,’ Sally replied, on a slight laugh.

  ‘Have you ever noticed,’ said Rosie, with a semblance of her old self, ‘how good people can be boring?’

  It was Fred now who got a word in first, saying, ‘Rosie, you’re telling me: there’s no better bores than the good ones; but, then, they all mean well.’

  ‘Yes; that’s the awful thing about it,’ said Rosie, ‘they make you feel guilty. Anyway, dears, there’s plenty of people, good and not so good, here that I could talk to, but I find that I can’t open myself up somehow, except to Miss B; and then it’s a different kind of talking. It’s very strange, but there I was sitting by Dad last night in the hospital. It must have been about one o’clock this morning, really, and I was half dozing, thinking about you two and wondering why it was only a matter of a few weeks ago that I had first met you both. It seems as if I’ve known you for years and years and you were the only real people in my world. And, you know, when I did meet you the first time, it was with the boys; it was not until the second time, when I came back crying, that I really got to know you. I had always felt a great void inside. It seemed that people didn’t really like me, in fact I knew my mother hated me, but I also felt there must be different people somewhere. There must be people who wouldn’t look down their noses at me, there must be; but I never met them till I met you two, and you both jumped up from the couch and sat one on each side of me. You took my hands, and then you, Mrs C, took me into your arms, and somehow I knew that from that moment the void was filled; and no-one I have met since has adde
d anything to it.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie. Rosie. Here I go again. Even the thought of you makes me cry. We came into your life because you needed us, and you came into our lives because we needed you. We lost two babies a long time ago, we had neither a son nor a daughter. To us you’re like a long-lost child, someone to help and love. Fred here saw that from the beginning, and also that there was amazing material in you; it just wanted bringing out. And he was right, but only up to a point, because I want something of the old Rosie to be still alive when the polished Rosie takes over.’

  ‘Eeh, now!’ Rosie’s voice was cracking. ‘I’m bubbling too. And I’ll tell you it’s very strange you saying that about remaining myself when the new Rosie takes over, because something like that came out the other afternoon between Miss Barrington and me. I was sitting exactly where I am now. It was the end of the session. It had been a long day and I knew I had done some good work and pleased her, for I’d made use of my first lessons in Latin and, feeling pretty satisfied with myself, I said, “Now that’s put another layer on my façade.” And what d’you think she said to that? In her stiffest of voices she said, “Rosie, all the façades in the world cannot blot out the real self underneath.”

  ‘When she said that, I came back with “Then there’s little hope for me,” to which her answer was, “It’s up to you. It’s only through time and will-power that you will find the answer. You have no control over your allotted span other than how you use it through the power of your will; and that, in the end, will prove that your façade, however thick you have made it, has not got rid of your real self. And if you are wise you won’t allow it to: you will use your façade only as a means of taking you from one level to another and so behaving accordingly: not looking up your nose at some and down your nose at others. And if the façade is doing its work it will teach you to listen and not to show off to some bright spark that you know as much about a subject as he himself does. You will, I hope, come to learn that the clever people of this world, the really knowledgeable people like Socrates, will underplay themselves, and, like him, they, too, will speak the truth when they say that they’re ignorant of so many things, that in fact they’re still learning their own trade.