After stuffing themselves they lay on the deck sunbathing.
‘Have you kissed many girls?’ Rosamunde asked coyly, rolling onto her side towards Stephen.
‘A few,’ Stephen grinned. He propped himself up on his arms and looked into her amber eyes. Then suddenly he looked serious, so unlike him. ‘You’re different, though, Rosamunde.’
Rosamunde met his gaze, before reaching over and planting a gentle, tender kiss on Stephen’s lips as if to seal a deal. They lay silently then, hand in hand, as the boat swayed lightly beneath them, until Stephen’s nose began to turn pink and they took turns diving off the deck into the depths of the sea below them.
By the time they returned to land Rosamunde knew something had shifted in their relationship. Her legs were wobbling as she climbed ashore, and she knew it wasn’t just the contrast between sea and land. They were trembling with love and anticipation. There was no going back.
9.
MONDAY 24TH NOVEMBER 2014
Monday morning dawned cold and dark. A howling wind was bending the willow tree towards Rosamunde’s bedroom window, as if it was desperate to climb through the thin panes to the warmth of the room inside. Rosamunde wondered if she might cancel her visit to London after all and remain wrapped in the comfort of her duvet today, but she reprimanded herself for her idleness and pulled her slender feet out of bed into the cosy slippers she’d had the forethought to place within reach the night before.
Before she left, Rosamunde poked her head around the door of Bernie’s study to say goodbye. He was still in pyjamas and sat in his armchair with a mug of steaming tea as he listened to Radio 4. Rosamunde loved this room. It had such an air of masculinity about it, with its aroma of dusty old books and Old Spice. The room was only small and three of the four walls were lined with books and various knick-knacks, which made it seem even cosier.
Bernie’s antique desk with its dark green leather blotting pad stood proudly against the other wall and rather than having a practical, ergonomic office chair he used an old dining chair with a vicious-looking upright back. An old oak chest stood to the side of the desk and housed a radio and various family photos. There was a bag of golf clubs in the gap between the desk and the chest, even though Bernie hadn’t played for years, and fishing rods were crammed into the same gap although Rosamunde had never known her father to go fishing. He was a dreadful hoarder but it made for a room that was endlessly fascinating and a perfect tableau of Bernie’s life.
At Thatchley station it was still dark and soon the rain began. Slow, large drops at first, followed by an almighty downpour. Rosamunde shivered inside her velvet coat and pulled her scarf over her head for protection. She was relieved when the train for Totnes finally charged into the station and she was able to find a seat in the stuffy warmth of a remarkably full carriage. She supposed her fellow passengers were heading to Totnes or maybe on to London for a Christmas shopping excursion. The thought made her realise that, of course, she too would need to buy presents. She found an old notepad and a poorly working biro in her bag and, locating a blank page, began to make a list of the family and friends she would need to buy for.
Rosamunde was engrossed in this task when she found herself being spattered with raindrops again, as a late and out-of-breath passenger thoughtlessly shook his umbrella before squeezing himself opposite her into the only available seat remaining in the carriage. Rosamunde begrudgingly moved her handbag from the table and the man began to spread out his newspaper in another inconsiderate move. It was only after he had finally ruffled his paper into an arrangement he was satisfied with that Rosamunde saw his face.
‘Benedict?’ she asked, though she was not sure why, since this man was clearly Kizzie’s brother – those dark curls and round, dark eyes were features he and his sibling still shared, though Benedict’s hair was scattered with some flecks of white. Although Rosamunde had come across Benedict now and again in her adult years she still always thought of him as Kizzie’s annoying younger brother.
‘Oh. My. Goodness,’ Benedict remarked as he absorbed the fact of Rosamunde’s presence opposite him (Yes, definitely gay, Rosamunde thought). ‘I can’t believe it! I haven’t seen you in . . .’
‘. . . fifteen years,’ Rosamunde finished. Benedict leaned across to embrace her, managing to knock his neighbour’s polystyrene cup of tea across the table and into everyone’s laps. After a great deal of mopping up with hopelessly un-absorbent napkins Benedict and Rosamunde found themselves able to catch up with each other’s news, skirting around the issue of relationships as only two people renowned for being disastrous in love will do. Rosamunde discovered Benedict was now a potter by profession.
‘A potter? In Potter’s Cove? That’s ridiculous, Benedict!’ Rosamunde laughed.
‘I know, it’s sad, but there you go . . . I love it here, I don’t want to move, and I love my job too. So I guess I’m stuck being the cliché of a potter in Potter’s Cove for now. Although, to be frank, I’ve lost my motivation at the moment. That’s why I’m working in The Dragon’s Head. When I split up with Clara she managed to take my creative inspiration with her.’
Rosamunde understood that Benedict had finished with Clara after realising he was ‘batting for the other team’, as Bernie would say. Rosamunde knew she should feel sympathy towards poor Clara, who’d been planning their wedding virtually since they were children. They were a couple for many years before Benedict’s sudden realisation three years ago; Rosamunde had been amazed to read of such a dramatic story as she’d checked her emails at a sweaty cyber-café in Bali.
The trouble was that Clara had been a source of even greater irritation than Benedict when Rosamunde was growing up. As a small child she was simply whingey and unimaginative (Rosamunde and Kizzie always had to invent the games they played), but as she’d got older she’d become bitchy and backstabbing, traits that had accompanied her into adulthood. She’d never managed to shake off the whiney voice either. All in all, Rosamunde felt Benedict had been granted a lucky escape.
Despite the less than promising beginning to their encounter, Rosamunde found herself slightly disappointed when they reached Totnes and were required to go their separate ways; Benedict was indeed going Christmas shopping and Totnes was as far as he was prepared to venture on this miserable November day. Rosamunde was forced to admit he had become a lot more appealing over the years. He was still a little bumbling and clumsy, but she hadn’t realised how amusing he was until now. And he’d somehow grown more comfortable in his own skin, perhaps down to finally acknowledging his sexuality. As a result he was really rather good company.
Rosamunde was hoping they would have an opportunity to meet up back in Potter’s Cove when Benedict told her he was going to be helping Bernie build the props for the nativity play, so they would no doubt be seeing plenty of each other in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Rosamunde was glad. She smiled to herself. Kizzie would be amused at this turn of events. Perhaps they would finally be friends.
By the time Rosamunde arrived in London the sky was clearing and a weak sun had begun to emerge. She hopped in a taxi to Notting Hill and, before ringing the bell of the terrace’s smart red door, took a deep breath. She loved her sister but she knew she would need the extra oxygen. She was right. Within moments she was being squeezed into a tight hug by Rachel who was simultaneously shouting at her children and typing an email on her BlackBerry.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ she apologised as she discarded the phone on the tiled flooring of the hallway (Would it still work? wondered Rosamunde), pushed back her red curls and examined her sister with what Rosamunde knew was a very critical eye.
‘Gorgeous!’ she declared before slightly reducing the compliment with, ‘Or at least you will be once we’ve been shopping. And you need to eat more. You’re too thin. It’s ageing past forty.’
Rachel was exactly the same as always. Rosamunde had known she would be able to count on this, as her sister was a constant sort of person, in a const
antly surprising and unconventional fashion. She looked just as glamorous as ever, with her curly red hair beautifully cut, her lips glossy and red in her signature style, and wearing an entirely impractical white cashmere sweater with fur cuffs and black skinny jeans tucked into sky-high boots.
Rosamunde was permitted a brief but fun-fuelled hour with her niece and nephew. Lily and Art were roughly six and three (both conceived with the assistance of IVF) and, despite having no recollection of who she was, they accepted her with the enthusiasm and gregariousness of their mother. Lily was particularly delighted, having been allowed the day off school to see her aunt. They excitedly gave her a tour of the house, chattering over one another and fighting over whose turn it was to hold Rosamunde’s hand. The house, an Edwardian terrace, had the same sort of décor she recalled from her sister’s old bachelorette pad in Adam Street but on a grander scale. There were zebra print sofas in the sitting room, facing each other on either side of the marble fireplace, and one of the walls was painted a vivid red. It was a style very different from Rosamunde’s own – she preferred vintage pieces, from Victoriana to 1950s kitchenware – but it was marvellously dramatic.
By midday Rosamunde was hauled away by Rachel who, after dispatching instructions to the nanny, led her sister off for the important business of shopping and lunch at Harvey Nichols. It wasn’t a lifestyle Rosamunde herself would have the energy or the desire to maintain, but it was just the ticket on occasion. A tonic. Just like Rachel.
The shopping was a great success. Rosamunde was persuaded to buy a beautiful midnight blue cocktail dress, strapless with an intricate lace overlay (although quite when she’d wear it she had no idea) and a cream faux-fur coat to replace her tatty old velvet one. A brief stop at the cosmetics counter ensured she was stocked up with various creams and make-up essentials Rachel swore Rosamunde couldn’t live without. She loved how contagious her sister’s glamour was.
Then, over a late lunch, the sisters barely drew breath as they caught up with each other’s news. Her cheeks pink from the champagne bubbles, Rosamunde asked after her sister’s love life, a topic that was never dull.
‘Oh gosh, well, Simon’s delightful as ever,’ Rachel replied. Rosamunde eyed her beadily. Simon was Rachel’s devoted husband, but she knew full well there would be more to Rachel’s love life than Simon.
‘And, well, there is the small matter of Andrés. I met him at London Fashion Week – a twenty-three-year-old model with cheekbones to die for. You’ll love him. Can’t understand his accent at all – he’s Spanish – but truly, he’s divine.’ Rosamunde couldn’t help but smile. Her sister took an unusual approach to marriage but somehow it was impossible to reproach her for her behaviour.
By pudding they had moved on to the topic of Christmas. It was decided Rachel and her family would arrive at Potter’s Cove on the 20th December – the day of the local Christmas market – when she and Simon would have finished work (Rachel was an image consultant and Simon a high-flying lawyer), so they could enjoy their first family Christmas in years. There was no question the get-together must take place in Potter’s Cove, since it was Bernie’s busiest time of year. Rosamunde told her sister about the nativity play, and the story of Joseph and Mary had Rachel spluttering champagne with mirth, at which point she had one of her impulsive ideas.
‘Of course!’ she shouted, raising glances from their fellow diners. ‘A party! We must have a party after the nativity play. It’ll be so much fun! We can invite everyone we know,’ she declared. ‘We’ll hang fairy lights all around the house and serve mulled wine and warmed mince pies.’
While recognising that much of the organisation would land on her shoulders, Rosamunde began to feel a flicker of excitement. It had been many years since their last Christmas party and perhaps it was time – finally – to slay the ghost.
10.
AUGUST 1986
The end of the summer holidays had never been so depressing. Rosamunde and Stephen had spent the entire six weeks with one another, which was nothing unusual for summer holidays in Potter’s Cove, but this year their budding romance had imbued their time together with such excitement and anticipation that Rosamunde had never felt so alive. She found herself full of boundless energy and with a patience for others she’d never before experienced. When Rachel hogged the bathroom for hours on end she refrained from hammering on the door in frustration. When Clara and Benedict followed Rosamunde and Stephen around the village like a couple of puppies, she hardly minded. Even Granny Dupont’s regimental bossiness had failed to irritate Rosamunde this summer.
But when the last day of August dawned and Stephen’s father arrived in his Mercedes to collect him Rosamunde found herself clinging to Stephen for dear life, her arms gripped around his slim torso. She was beside herself with anxiety. How could they possibly manage to be apart for a whole year? Would he find another girlfriend as soon as he returned to Reading? Was this just a holiday romance for him? No, she knew that wasn’t the case. But she didn’t know whether they could keep their feelings alive through letters and telephone calls until next July.
‘I’m going to have to go, babe,’ Stephen mumbled into her ear as he stroked her hair. Tears sprang to Rosamunde’s eyes. She’d been determined not to cry but was suddenly in danger of losing all self-control.
‘Hey, don’t cry.’ Stephen looked at her, rubbing her tears away with his thumbs. ‘Look, I’ll speak to my parents. Maybe I could come down to Potter’s Cove during the Christmas holidays this year?’
‘Really?’ Rosamunde was suddenly more hopeful. ‘Do you think they’ll agree?’ Stephen smiled.
‘I’ll work on them. Give me a couple of weeks. I’ll call to let you know. And we’ll write, okay? I’m rubbish at letters, though, so don’t laugh at my spelling.’
‘I won’t, I promise.’ Rosamunde sniffed, under control again, clinging to the hope that Stephen’s plan would materialise.
As she stood in the road, waving at the car long after it had disappeared from sight, she determined to make herself a countdown calendar for the days until the Christmas holidays. She would hide away in her bedroom to do this as she recorded the Top 40 on her new tape recorder. Her heart was aching but she would be okay. As long as Stephen loved her she felt she would be all right.
Two weeks later a phone call came, as promised. Rosamunde’s heart pounded as Stephen told her his parents had agreed he could visit Potter’s Cove for Christmas, but that he wouldn’t be able to stay with his grandmother as she’d decided to move to Reading to buy a bungalow near to Stephen’s family home. Rosamunde was mortified that Stephen’s link to Potter’s Cove – and her – was about to disappear.
‘It’s not a problem,’ Stephen told her. She could imagine him shrugging, sitting in the hallway of his house with his back against the radiator, next to the telephone table. She’d never been there but he’d described his house in detail so she could imagine him better.
‘But how can you come to Potter’s Cove if your gran’s not here?’ Rosamunde asked, hoping she wasn’t being terribly dim.
‘Stay with you, of course,’ Stephen suggested. ‘Why not?’
‘But . . . Well, I mean . . .’ Rosamunde found herself lost for words. Would her father agree? Of course he would. But Granny Dupont?
‘I love the idea!’ Rosamunde declared, finally. ‘But I’ll have to work on my grandmother. I’ll call you in a week.’
Granny Dupont wouldn’t countenance the idea. She had experienced a very strict upbringing herself and, since her daughter Marguerite’s death, had taken on a great part of the responsibility for ensuring Rosamunde and her sister were firmly disciplined. Her job was not especially easy due to the fact that, whenever she went home to Exeter, Bernie was both unable and disinclined to maintain the rigid structure she imposed on the girls. Their childhood had therefore been a strange mixture of complete and utter freedom interspersed with discipline and rigour. Rosamunde knew which she preferred. Unfortunately, since Granny Dupont h
ad retired last year from the girls’ school where she taught French, she had started to visit them far more often, which meant her strict regime was being inflicted on Rosamunde at the very age she was ready to rebel. Rosamunde had generally been a biddable child, far more so than Rachel – who at eighteen was now beyond Granny Dupont’s reach – but at fifteen she was all set for mutiny. She would not give up on her opportunity to have Stephen to stay at the Vicarage this Christmas. Whatever it took.
Rosamunde tried everything. Pleading. Sulking. Screaming. She decided to ignore her grandmother entirely, remaining mute whenever she was addressed. Nothing worked. Indeed, with every new attempt to get her own way, Granny Dupont seemed to steel her determination further. They were a fearful match for one another, neither prepared to concede defeat. The atmosphere at the Vicarage became so hostile Rachel packed a large bag and decamped to Tim’s house indefinitely, and Bernie found himself spending longer and longer in The Dragon’s Head each evening.
‘Another pint, Vicar?’ asked Shirley, the barmaid. It was a Thursday evening and Bernie was having a breather from the on-going feud at the Vicarage. He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. The night was young, really. Supper wasn’t until eight.
‘Please,’ he replied and Shirley flexed her arm muscles as she poured another pint of Stiff Sheep Ale.
‘On the house, my love,’ she said, pushing the pint towards him. ‘Still can’t get over what a wonderful christening you did for my little Kevin.’
Christmas at the Vicarage Page 5