by Libby Page
Kate breathes deeply. “I’m sorry,” she says, wiping her face.
Next to her, Rosemary shakes her head fiercely.
“Never be sorry,” she says, a storm in her eyes. “Never be sorry for feeling. Never be sorry for falling in love. I was never sorry. Not for a single day.”
Kate watches Rosemary twist the wedding ring on her finger.
“And you will meet someone,” Rosemary says, looking up and fixing Kate with her bright eyes. “You just need to be ready to find them.”
They sit as the buses pull up and move off again on the other side of the park. In the silence loneliness is like a third person between them. They nod their heads to it, acknowledging it is there but never calling it by its name.
Kate lets out a sigh and closes her eyes for a moment, aware even with her eyes shut of the shape of the lido in front of her and Rosemary beside her. She feels a sense of relief after talking to Rosemary. Joe may have appeared on the screen of her phone this morning, but in reality he is in Manchester and she is in Brixton, a place she has recently learned to love. They are no longer part of each other’s lives. And as she breathes deeply, the knot inside her loosens a little.
CHAPTER 40
They were together until the end. Rosemary didn’t want to be apart from him and when one of the nurses who came to help suggested moving him to assisted accommodation she laughed out loud.
“Are you married?” asked Rosemary.
The nurse had looked surprised.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Well then, you should remember your vows. In sickness and in health. Till death us do part. I’ve been married sixty-four years and I still remember that.”
The nurse frowned and packed up her things quickly. Rosemary regretted snapping—the nurses were all very kind—but being with him was the only way she knew how to be. She couldn’t bear to think of him alone in a hospital.
Once the nurse had left, Rosemary took George a cup of tea. She pulled the cushions around him and heaved his body up by hooking her arms under his armpits. She held the mug and tipped his head gently, helping him drink the warm liquid. When he was finished she climbed into the bed next to him and held his hand. Each breath was shallow and rattling and made her wince but she tried to hide it.
He was trying to say something.
“Ffff . . .”
“Food?” said Rosemary. “Are you hungry? You’ve just eaten.”
George shook his head.
“Ffff . . . .” he started again. He was lifting his arm, pointing to the wardrobe.
She looked at where he was pointing.
“Photos?”
He nodded. Rosemary kissed his forehead and climbed out of the bed. She dragged a chair over and climbed onto it, reaching for the box on the top of the wardrobe. She took it down, stepped off the chair, and carried the box to the bed. Once she was back propped up against the pillows with the box between her legs she took off the lid and reached inside.
“Look at this one,” she said, holding a photograph out so George could see. “Oh, you were so brown. Just like a walnut.”
She reached for another photograph. They weren’t in any particular order so both George and Rosemary grew older and then younger again as Rosemary took out photo after photo.
“Look at me here,” she said. “I loved that swimsuit. I wish I could still fit into it! And don’t you tell me I wouldn’t look the same in it! Oh, and look at this—the diving board was so high. You were such a good diver, dear.”
She reached for George’s hand.
“Here we are in Brighton,” she said, leaning closer to him and holding the photograph up to his face. “Do you remember the doughnuts we ate on the beach? Mmm, I could go for one of those now. I remember the sound of the seagulls, and how did that song go? Elvis Presley . . .”
She remembered the jukebox and started to sing. She was out of tune but didn’t mind.
As she sang, she felt his hand move beneath hers, squeezing her fingers. Her voice shook but she continued, growing quieter for the words she couldn’t remember and louder for the chorus. Once she had run out of song she stopped singing and gently kissed his cheek. Then she wiped her eyes quickly.
“Enough of that,” she said, her voice shaking. She took a deep breath. “Oh, look at this one, George . . .”
She showed him every photo in the box, laughing and pointing at them, talking to him about each one. Once she was finished the box was empty, her lap was piled with pictures, and George was asleep. She carefully placed the photographs back in the box and put it back on top of the wardrobe. Then she changed into her nightdress and slipped into bed next to George. She lay facing him, an arm across his stomach. She watched him sleeping for a while.
“Good night, dear,” she said.
When she woke up he was still sleeping.
CHAPTER 41
The council won’t return Kate’s calls. In between typing up interviews and proofreading articles she tries the town hall and each time is asked to leave a message. When she asks about the lido she is told the same thing: “Options are being reviewed by the Board.” When she asks to speak to the councillor she is given a number that takes her to another answering machine message.
“No news from the council?” asks Jay as he arrives in the office.
“Is it that obvious? I’m supposed to be doing other work too.”
“No, I was just wondering. How is Rosemary? How are her knees?”
“She didn’t tell me about her knees.”
“She doesn’t want you to worry.”
“Well, I do worry. Just like I worry about what’s going to happen to the lido. I wish I didn’t but honestly, I am worried.”
Things have returned somewhat to normal since the surprise party: Kate has been swimming most mornings with Rosemary before heading into work. She has been writing her articles for the paper—this week focusing on a story about preparations for the Lambeth Country Show—a fair that fills Brockwell Park every year with food stands, music, and farm animals. It is a fun article to write, reminding her of the contradictions and random bursts of sunshine in the city where she lives. But the worry is still there in the background—the fear of what is around the corner for the lido and for how much longer her morning swims with Rosemary can continue.
“It will be a real shame if it does close,” Jay says. “Just like Rosemary said about the library: they protested it but it was only afterward that they realized what they’d lost.”
“That’s actually a really good idea,” says Kate, glancing up from her computer. Jay looks confused, his light eyebrows scrunching up on his face. It makes Kate smile but she tries to hide it.
“Thanks, I have plenty of them,” replies Jay. “But what was this one specifically?”
“A protest,” says Kate. “We should hold a protest.”
Jay is nodding. “Yes. The one thing that would have improved that picture of Rosemary at the town hall would have been if she was holding a placard.”
“Come on, I’m being serious.”
“So am I. If you’re serious about a protest, you need to think about how it will look on the front page. Think of how it will photograph.”
“So you’ll help us then?”
“I don’t remember you asking nicely.”
“Will you help us, please?”
“Of course I will. We can brainstorm tomorrow over dinner.”
Kate nods and turns back to her computer to hide the wide smile that is spreading across her face. She realizes it is the second time someone has asked to dinner recently.
The next evening while Kate gets ready she sprays perfume into her room and then dances through it in her underwear. She read in a magazine that this is the best way to put on perfume. It is not the most elegant.
“Help!” she texts to Erin as she opens her wardrobe and holds two different dresses up to her chest while taking a photo. “What should I wear?”
She watches with anticipation
as the dots move on her phone indicating Erin is typing.
“You’d look great in both,” comes the reply, “but I’d go for the blue one.”
Kate smiles with relief, at the same moment that the doorbell buzzes.
“Shit,” she says, pulling the dress over her head. As she wriggles into it she slips her feet into the sandals that are by the door, knocking over a pile of her books as she does so.
“Shit,” she says again.
She can hear Jay laughing through the front door.
“I’m coming!” she yells, pushing the books aside gently with her foot. Her denim jacket hangs on the banister at the end of the stairs and she reaches for it and shrugs it onto her shoulders. The pocket catches on the handlebars of the bike that is propped up in the hallway and she untangles herself before opening the front door.
“Wow, you look a mess.” Jay laughs. He is leaning on the low wall outside the front door, the evening light picking out the strawberry in his strawberry blond hair. She straightens her dress.
“Charming!”
“I didn’t mean it as an insult. You look scruffy but lovely. I like that about you.”
Kate doesn’t know what to say so she doesn’t say anything. Instead she pulls the door shut and steps out into the street.
“I’ve got something for you,” he says once they are outside. He hands her a flat package.
“I didn’t know whether to give it to you now or later so thought I’d give it to you now. But maybe I should have given it to you later because you’ll have to carry it now.”
“Thank you. And it’s okay, I have a bag,” she says as she opens the wrapping paper. It is a frame; in the frame is the photograph of Kate and Rosemary by the pool. She holds it out in front of her and looks at it as if lost.
“I’m sorry, maybe I should have bought flowers.”
“No, it’s perfect. Thank you,” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat.
They walk in silence for a while. A fox runs across the road in front of them and disappears through a gap in someone’s garden fence.
“This is a nice street,” says Jay, looking down the tree-lined road and up at the big windows of the town houses. Some are split into two or three flats; others are family homes with toy cars and swings in the small front gardens.
“It is. I can only live here, though, because I share a house with four other people.”
“What are they like?”
“I don’t really know. We don’t see each other much. I didn’t know that living with so many people could be so lonely.”
They don’t look at each other as they walk, but she is very aware of the shape of his body next to her on the pavement. She doesn’t mean to be so honest with him but it happens before she can stop herself.
“Tell me about it,” he says. “I have three sisters.”
“Three? That’s a lot of feminine energy.”
“I know, right? My dad and I were ganged up on a lot of the time. We’d often sneak out together with our cameras just to escape from them. He was the one who got me into photography.”
Kate finds it surprisingly easy to imagine a young Jay and his father with cameras around their necks and matching strawberry blond hair, escaping from a house full of women. She realizes she has worked with Jay for nearly two years but has never really asked him anything about himself before. The thought embarrasses her and she finds herself making up for lost time.
“And what about the rest of your family? When we were at the lido the other day you mentioned you have nieces and nephews?”
As they walk Kate learns for the first time about Jay’s family: his two sisters who still live in London with their husbands and children, and one who lives in Edinburgh with her partner. She turns to watch him every now and then, his face lighting up as he talks about his nieces and nephews. She learns he has lived in South London all his life, in Croydon and Peckham and now Brixton. She tells herself that the only reason she never asked before was that she already guessed this from his accent, but she knows that isn’t entirely true. She just never thought to.
“How about now—do you live with flatmates?” she asks him.
“Yes, just one, though, my friend Nick. He’s a musician and works in a bar so we don’t often see each other. Most of the time I have the place to myself. It’s just a tiny basement flat that is constantly damp but I like it.”
“I suppose toads do like the damp.”
“Ouch!”
“That’s getting you back for calling me a mess!”
“A hot mess.”
“Is that better?”
They turn to each other and smile.
“Come on, we’re nearly there.”
They turn off the street and along the road that traces the perimeter of the park. When they come to one of the apartment buildings they turn into the parking area and small courtyard outside. Rosemary sits on a low wall by the entrance. She is wearing a pale green dress and a matching jacket. She holds a small handbag and looks at her watch and then up as she notices the pair walking toward her. As Kate reaches her she smells Lily of the Valley.
“Rosemary, you look beautiful,” says Kate.
“A vision in green,” says Jay.
“Oh, this; I haven’t worn this in years. I’m surprised it still fits,” she says, but she smiles.
“Thank you for inviting me.”
“Think of it as a work meeting; we need you here, Rosemary,” says Kate. “If it wasn’t for you, none of this would have started.”
“Still, it’s nice to get out—and to have the company too.”
“And besides,” says Kate, “you cooked for me. I’m sorry I’m not a great cook but what I can do is take you to the best pizza place in town. Or at least that’s what Jay tells me—I’ve never been before.”
“You’ll both love it,” says Jay. “Best pizza outside of Italy.”
As the three of them walk, Rosemary between Kate and Jay, Kate wonders what they must look like. Perhaps they look like two children taking their mother or grandmother out for dinner. Or maybe they just look like what they are: three unlikely friends. And as she thinks it she realizes something for the first time since moving to London. She has friends.
They enter Brixton Village through one of the arches on Atlantic Road. It takes a while to cross the street, which is busy with traffic and a van making a delivery to the new Mexican restaurant on the corner. It is part of a chain but with its brightly painted façade and handwritten chalkboard outside it could easily be mistaken for a family-run business. They wait to cross outside a shop with pots, pans, and dustbins hanging outside its brightly lit window.
Their pizza restaurant is tucked into a corner of the Village opposite a butcher’s. At the front of the restaurant is a counter where people buy individual slices of pizza. A cyclist in Lycra leggings and a jersey holds his helmet under one arm and orders a slice before his journey home. Next to him a mother holds the hands of her two children, their faces tilted eagerly to the counter.
Jay leads Rosemary to a seat on a wooden bench tucked under a long table. There are candles on the table and metal pots filled with flowers.
“Shall we order some wine?” says Kate. As they wait to order Kate looks around her, taking in the sounds and the smells in the market. It is noisy and busy with people laughing and talking. The smell of the pizza cooking in the wood oven makes her wonder how much good food she has missed out on with all her microwave meals.
The evening passes with wine and pizza. Rosemary starts eating with a knife and fork until she sees Jay and Kate picking theirs up and she does the same. She spills tomato sauce on the table but doesn’t care. They drink two bottles of wine between them. Jay tops up their glasses without them noticing.
As they eat they plan ideas for the protest, Kate scribbling notes.
“I’ve decided to start an online petition,” she says. “I’ll share it on the ‘Save Brockwell Lido’ Facebook page. I should have done it sooner,
but hopefully it will still help.”
“Good idea,” says Rosemary. “You can write about the petition when you write about the protest too.”
“We need something for the protest that will really make a splash,” says Jay, “if you’ll pardon the pun.”
“It needs to be something that works visually,” says Kate. “We could make banners and hang them at the end of the pool? But what could they say? ‘Save Brockwell Lido,’ ‘Just keep swimming,’ ‘Don’t pull the plug on our lido’ . . .”
“I like that one,” says Jay, and Kate writes it in her notebook.
“What about rubber ducks?” says Rosemary. Kate and Jay turn to look at her. Then the three of them burst into laughter.
“It’s perfect,” says Kate. “And I think I know someone who can help us too.”
Rosemary’s cheeks glow pink and she smiles. Kate feels herself smiling too.
Later in the evening a band sets up opposite the restaurant: a folk singer and two guitarists. The music is loud and at first Kate feels her heart rate start to rise with the noise.
“Will you make an old woman happy and dance with me?” says Rosemary suddenly, pulling herself up and reaching a hand down to Kate. Kate looks up, startled.
“Oh, I’m not much of a dancer.”
Kate remembers school discos where she would hide in a corner, watching her classmates laughing and moving their bodies with such ease, and wishing she could do the same. After a couple of years she stopped going altogether. When she was at university she always made excuses when her fellow students went out clubbing. They quickly stopped inviting her.
“Neither am I,” says Rosemary. “But that doesn’t matter. I just enjoy it.”
Kate looks up at Rosemary and suddenly thinks that maybe she is right. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Any of it. She stands up.
“Okay, let’s dance,” she says.
The two women move away from the tables and into the passageway in front of the musicians. Then they reach for each other’s arms. Rosemary is slow and Kate is clumsy, but they dance. The guitarist and singer smile at them, and people in the restaurants turn to watch. For once Kate doesn’t notice them; she is too busy looking down at her feet and then up at Rosemary.