Rosie

by Lesley Pearse

  The bus conductor directed her where to get off. He said the place was called Swiss Cottage and pointed out she could catch another bus or walk up a hill into Hampstead from there. Rosie was happy to walk; the tree-lined avenue was steep but the sun was warm on her shoulders and it was interesting looking at all the big houses. Some of them were very dilapidated, with overgrown gardens, and they seemed to be shared by many families. Others still maintained a kind of faded grandeur with peeling paint on the front doors but white-stoned steps, stone bird-baths and huge urns full of flowers. There were several bomb sites here too, which, judging by makeshift playhouses built out of old timbers and packing cases, were now used as playgrounds by the children. Although this avenue didn’t have the neatness or even the affluence of the well-kept suburban houses of Woodside Park, Rosie liked it. It was more like the London of her imagination, a street of character and just a little mysterious.

  Her excitement grew as she came to Hampstead village. It was far lovelier than the image she had stamped into her mind from Thomas’s descriptions. Such quaint old shops, enchanting tiny courtyards, cobbled alleyways with dear little cottages, but yet so busy compared with any village she’d ever seen. The women here were so very sophisticated compared with their counterparts in Somerset. Not a head scarf covering curlers, or an apron in sight, but elegant hats, costumes and high-heeled shoes. She lingered in shop doorways listening to their posh voices, noting the way they had pencilled their eyebrows, their glossy lips and manicured nails. Even the mothers pushing prams with a couple of smaller children in tow were attractive and smartly dressed, and she wondered how they found time to make themselves look so nice.

  It took her some time to find Flask Walk, as she kept being distracted by the many fascinating shops. Books, clothes, art materials and jewellery – she felt she could wander here for days and not see everything.

  But finally she found Bryant’s. It was tucked away between a grocery shop and yet another book shop, its tiny bow window full of old clocks and watches. Peering into the gloomy interior she could see only an old man with snow-white hair. He was perched on a stool behind the counter, peering into a watch with a magnifying glass stuck right into his eye. She thought this must be Mr Bryant who Thomas worked for.

  The old man took the glass from his eyes as she stepped into the shop. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, in a deep resonant voice which didn’t seem to match his frail appearance. ‘What can I do for you?’

  For a moment Rosie hesitated, suddenly struck by the thought that Thomas just might not appreciate a surprise visit after all. But it was too late now to back away. The shop was musty smelling and very dusty. Scores of old clocks stood on shelves, some with a label attached showing the owner’s name, others marked ‘For Sale’. Under the glass of the counter were dozens of watches and a large velvet pad displaying pieces of jewellery.

  ‘I just popped in hoping I could see Mr Farley for a moment,’ she said. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘He certainly is. I’ll call him for you.’ The old man beamed at her and got up from his stool. ‘What name shall I give?’

  ‘Rosemary Smith,’ she said nervously, wondering if he’d guess who that was.

  The old man disappeared out the back. It sounded as if he was going upstairs. He called out, but his voice was muffled so Rosie didn’t hear what he’d actually said.

  The old man returned to his stool, and Rosie could hear Thomas coming down. His slow pace suggested the staircase was a narrow, tricky one. As he came through the doorway behind the counter and saw her, he looked stunned.

  ‘I was just passing,’ she said quickly, feeling very foolish. Thomas was wearing a long brown apron over his clothes and he needed a shave. He didn’t look like the smart gentleman she’d kept a picture of in her head. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted your work, I only wanted to say hullo.’

  The old man was standing there watching them both with keen interest. ‘I’m working near by,’ she added lamely.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Rosemary,’ Thomas said, but his tone was very stilted. ‘What a surprise. I had no idea you were in London.’ He looked across at his employer. ‘Would you mind if I popped out for half an hour with Miss Smith?’

  The old man smiled warmly at Rosie, but she sensed he was very curious. ‘Of course I don’t mind. I wish I had pretty young ladies calling on me.’

  Thomas went back into the passage and came back a few seconds later with a jacket replacing his apron and carrying his walking stick. Then opening the door he ushered her out. Once in Flask Walk he took her arm with his spare hand and led her away from the shop as if he was in a hurry. ‘You shouldn’t have come like this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You’ve caught me on the hop.’

  It wasn’t the warm welcome Rosie had expected. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I just wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘You did that all right,’ he said and without saying another word led her right to the back of a nearby café.

  It was only once they were seated, well away from the other customers, that he leaned nearer to her and spoke in a low voice. ‘I am pleased to see you, Rosie. But you should have written and given me some warning. Mr Bryant must be wondering who you are now, and it’s hard to think up a plausible tale on the spur of the moment.’

  His eyes hadn’t met hers as he spoke, and for the second time that day Rosie was reminded sharply of just who she was. ‘I didn’t think,’ she said, and to her dismay her eyes began to prickle with tears.

  ‘For goodness’ sake don’t cry,’ he said quickly and patted her hand. ‘It’s just that word’s got around I’m a key witness in the trial next week. It’s made everyone interested in me.’

  Along with feeling awkward, Rosie now felt surprised and very stupid. In all the time they had been corresponding, Thomas had never mentioned the trial, or being a witness. She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her that he would be, it seemed perfectly obvious now. But maybe she wasn’t as smart as she’d always supposed.

  ‘They couldn’t guess I’m Cole Parker’s daughter, could they?’ she whispered.

  As the waitress picked that moment to come to their table, Thomas couldn’t answer. Rosie watched him closely as he ordered tea and two ham sandwiches. He had a natural, easy way with him, smiling at the woman as he spoke as if she was very important to him. She realized it was this gentlemanly quality along with his thin face and blond hair which had made him so much like Ashley Wilkes in Gone with the Wind. She thought women must find him very attractive.

  ‘I doubt they’d guess who you were just by looking at you,’ Thomas said once the waitress had left with his order. ‘But I’ve had several reporters sniffing around me already. I’ve been astounded by how much they know about me, Heather and your family. Maybe I’m getting paranoid, but I do feel as if I’m under a microscope. Now just imagine if one of them should amble by today and see me with a pretty young thing like you – aren’t they bound to wonder who you are?’

  Rosie looked at him bleakly. Thomas blushed and dropped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, love. I must sound ridiculous to you. But just imagine if someone did make the connection? It could make me unbelievable as a witness, not to mention blowing the cover Miss Pemberton has arranged for you.’

  Rosie hadn’t considered that. ‘I’m so sorry. I’d better go,’ she said, getting up from her chair. She was afraid she just might cry and that way she would certainly draw more attention to herself.

  ‘No,’ he said, catching hold of her arm. ‘No, you can’t go now.’

  Thomas was so overwrought he couldn’t think straight. In the last couple of weeks as he’d prepared himself for the trial he hadn’t eaten or slept. Childhood memories of Heather plagued him. The camp in Burma and all the atrocities he’d witnessed kept coming back, however much he tried to banish them from his mind. He had believed he’d worked all the rage out of his system about that a long time ago, but now he found he’d just suppressed it.

  In calmer
moments he realized he was using Cole and Seth Parker as whipping boys for every single thing that haunted him and to a certain extent some of that hatred had begun to wash over on to Rosie too.

  But now that she was sitting here in front of him, her blue eyes brimming with unshed tears, he was brought up sharply. She was just a child, one who’d been stripped of everything – her home, family and her innocence. It was him who’d held out the hand of friendship to her in the first place, and maybe with hindsight that was foolhardy, but it wouldn’t be right to turn his back on her now.

  ‘It will look even odder if you go rushing off now,’ he said hastily. ‘Besides, I want to know about what you’re doing here in London. Stay and tell me.’

  Rosie told him about her job.

  Thomas immediately pictured a ward he’d been in for a time. It was full of men who’d lost their minds during the war, and it was another ugly picture he had no wish to recall.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ she said when she saw the horror in his eyes. ‘It’s just another kind of nursing.’

  Thomas had been in regular contact with Miss Pemberton regarding Alan and from her letters he’d formed an opinion that the woman was very wise and caring. But now, on hearing where she’d sent Rosie, he wondered if he was mistaken about this social worker. Hadn’t Rosie been through enough already without subjecting her to more horror?

  He thought for a moment before making any comment. ‘Yes, I suppose it is just nursing,’ he said guardedly. ‘I’m probably prejudiced about mental asylums like most people. But are you happy there?’

  ‘Yes, really happy,’ she said, unconvincingly. ‘I like being in London. The other girls are nice. I’ve got a lovely room. Some of the patients are kind of sweet.’

  Thomas looked into her eyes and saw the truth clouding them. She loathed it, but she believed she had no right to anything better. Any antagonism he’d built up in the last couple of weeks for her being part of that appalling family vanished in sympathy for her. ‘Oh Rosie,’ he said, shaking his head sadly. ‘You don’t have to pretend to me. It’s awful, isn’t it?’

  Rosie gulped hard.

  Until today she had thought of Thomas Farley as almost god-like. Courageous, intuitive, compassionate, all-seeing and so very strong, and she’d wanted to cling to him for security. But all at once she realized the strain of the forthcoming trial had sapped his strength. His skin was grey, his eyes had dark circles beneath them and she guessed he was living on his nerves. He chose to befriend her because he was a generous-hearted man, but yet she could only serve as a constant, bitter reminder of the men who killed his sister. She had to back away from him, it wasn’t right to allow him to worry and concern himself with her at such a difficult time in his life.

  ‘It isn’t awful at all,’ she said, forcing herself to laugh gaily. ‘Strange, a bit disgusting sometimes, but it’s a great deal better than putting up with Mrs Bentley’s constant criticism. I like working with other girls, we have lots of laughs and I’ll soon get used to the weirdness of it all. In fact the main reason I called around today, besides telling you I’d come to London, was to suggest we give up writing to each other.’

  Thomas raised one eyebrow inquiringly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I don’t get much spare time for a start,’ Rosie said. ‘But apart from that the other girls reckon Matron steams open their letters, and we wouldn’t want that, would we? We could always pass any messages on to each other through Miss Pemberton if we need to.’ She paused breathlessly, hoping she’d managed to create the right light tone. ‘Now, have you had any news from Alan?’

  If it hadn’t been for the waitress coming back with a tray, Thomas might have pursued the subject further to make sure Rosie meant what she said. But a moment or two’s respite gave him enough time to see it was the ideal solution to his dilemma. It was also possible Rosie needed a clean break with the past.

  ‘Mrs Hughes wrote on Saturday,’ Thomas said once the tea and sandwiches were on the table. ‘Alan’s settled in well at his new school. He didn’t even cry on the first day and when she picked him up at three-thirty he was full of it. It sounds like he’s very happy.’

  Over their sandwiches Rosie steered the conversation well away from personal matters. She told him about the girls she worked with and Thomas spoke of painting the living-room of his flat above the shop.

  ‘It can’t have been touched since the turn of the century,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve painted it white now and it looks so different. I’m going to tackle the kitchen next.’

  Rosie looked at his thin, unshaven face reflectively. She had always disliked seeing her father or brothers that way. It seemed brutish somehow. Yet for some odd reason Thomas looked quite the reverse; in fact she wanted to reach out and caress his bristly chin, and tell him not to worry about anything. She thought his life above the shop mending watches must be very lonely and she wondered if he cooked proper meals for himself. ‘You should find a lady friend,’ she said reprovingly.

  ‘And you ought to find yourself a boyfriend,’ he retorted, waggling a finger at her. ‘Get out dancing with some of those other girls.’

  ‘I don’t know how,’ she admitted a little shamefacedly.

  ‘Then why don’t you learn?’ he suggested. ‘There’re often classes advertised. It doesn’t cost much.’

  When they parted outside the café Thomas waited before walking back up Flask Walk, and watched Rosie dart nimbly through the traffic on Haverstock Hill. An unexpected lump came up in his throat, catching him by surprise. In her checked skirt and sweater she looked no different from any other pretty adolescent girl. She appeared so carefree, it was hard to believe that she was nursing such a huge, dark secret. He wondered who she would turn to when her father and brother were hanged, for it certainly couldn’t be him.

  ‘That’s not your problem,’ he told himself firmly as he turned away. But somehow he knew Rosie had dug herself a little place in his heart and he wasn’t going to be able to forget her that easily.

  The shine seemed to have gone off the day after Rosie left Thomas, but she still looked in all the shops in Hampstead High Street, and made her way up to the heath as she’d planned. But sitting there in the sunshine by Whitestone pond, she suddenly felt utterly desolate.

  There were women and children all around her, girls only a few years older than herself with babies in prams, other women playing with toddlers and a whole family with five or six children sailing boats on the pond. She could sense all these women’s happiness, and felt that not one of them had anything more serious to hide than maybe spending a little too much housekeeping money.

  Until now she hadn’t thought beyond her father’s and brother’s trial. It was like a high fence blocking out the view. But all at once it was as if she could see over the fence, and she didn’t like what lay ahead one bit. Thomas was wary of being seen with her now, and she doubted he’d ever want to clap eyes on her after the trial. Just about every person in England would follow the court case, the names Cole and Seth Parker would go down in history and every detail of Rosie’s family and home life would become common knowledge.

  It was all very well for Thomas to urge her to go out dancing and find herself a boyfriend, but had he for one moment considered what a potential minefield that might be? So maybe there wasn’t any harm in going out dancing with Linda and Mary. But just suppose she did meet a boy she really liked? What then? Should she carry on with the same story she’d told the girls?

  Rosie felt desolate. Telling lies to keep a job was one thing, but she didn’t like the thought of deceiving someone if she grew to care about them. But who would want her if she told the truth? Looking even further ahead, no decent boy would want to marry into the Parker family.

  She remembered how she had thought her father’s crime was like an indelible mark on her forehead. Now she knew Seth was involved too, it was far worse than that. It was like being a carrier of a hereditary disease; she might have no symptoms herself, but no se
nsible man would risk having children with her.

  It was after six when Rosie got back to Carrington Hall. She used her key to go in the side staff door, and hearing Mary Connor’s laughter coming from the dining-room, she went straight along there instead of up to her room.

  Mary, Linda, Brownlow and Thorpe were just having their tea. They all looked up at her as she came in the room.

  ‘Where’ve you been today?’ Mary asked.

  ‘To the library, then I caught a bus to Hampstead,’ Rosie replied.

  ‘Sounds fun-packed,’ Mary said with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘It was nice,’ Rosie said indignantly. ‘Hampstead is really lovely.’

  ‘Well, sorry if this is gonna spoil it for you,’ Linda chimed in, ‘but Matron wants to see you in her office. I think she’s bleedin’ well on the warpath.’

  Rosie immediately thought of this morning’s events and her blood went cold.

  ‘What have you done?’ Mary asked, her blue-grey eyes widening.

  ‘Nothing that I know of,’ Rosie shrugged. ‘I suppose I’d better go and find out.’

  ‘Come in,’ Matron replied to Rosie’s tentative knock on the office door. By day this room was the domain of Mrs Trow who did all the administration work, but Matron had a habit of going in there around this time of day, the girls said to snoop on Mrs Trow’s work.

  Rosie walked in and found Matron sitting at the desk. The office was very small, a partitioned-off part of a much bigger room which had no real windows, only a pane of glass looking out on to the staircase. A large desk with a typewriter took up most of the space, metal filing cabinets the wall behind, and crammed into the remaining space was a series of pigeon-holes, one for each patient, with medical reference books and stationery piled on top.

  ‘Bell said you wanted to see me,’ Rosie said from the doorway.

  ‘So I did, you disgusting wretch,’ Matron spat at her. She leapt out of her chair and caught hold of Rosie by the shoulder, dragging her in and kicking the door shut behind her before Rosie could even blink. ‘I’ve met some filthy girls in my time. But never one to equal you.’