She turned her head to the side as her mind disdainfully repeated the word ‘disrobe’. Well, they could keep their few trinkets. She wasn’t going to answer the letter, she had enough on her mind without taking on anything more, because the next thing she would have would be a bill for the funeral. She knew solicitors. She had had enough of them with Mr Coulson. Solicitors were supposed to be helpful and arrange one’s business, but all he could advise was that she sell the land. Then, of course, there had been the advice from Helen, that she could let off the annexe, which was really a separate house. Well, let her take her own advice and take lodgers into her home.
Suddenly she rose from her seat, declaring, ‘I can tackle no more today,’ and marched out of the room.
In the hall, she hesitated. She had intended to go into the drawing room, but coming from there was a busy sound, telling her that one or other of the girls was at work. So she went upstairs. On the landing she again paused and peered over the balcony and down into the hall. How was it that the house seemed so empty today? Likely it was because Rosie was away. What would she do when Rosie was married? Of course, she could be living nearby, but that wasn’t the same as living in the house. Still it was preferable to Marion’s choice, to go to India, and Helen’s to live in Hampshire. Of course, Helen would choose that place in order to live near her husband’s titled cousin. Her reason had been that all the men liked sailing . . . And she liked to be among the men, didn’t she?
She entered her bedroom and going straight to a side table she lifted the lid of a box of chocolates, picked one out and put it in her mouth. And as she went to turn away she hesitated, then grabbed up the box and went to the seat by the window, where she ate one chocolate after another. Whenever she felt distressed there was a feeling in her to eat something sweet, and as far back as she could remember chocolates had been a source of comfort.
Suddenly she stopped chewing and pushed the box away. She wished Rosie was back.
She looked around the room. Everything was shining; but the sight brought no satisfaction to her present mood, for this was new and somewhat strange: she had never imagined she needed people. She had always kept her distance from company; chatter and laughter irritated her.
She turned to look out of the window again: the rooks were making their nightly journey home. She was on her feet now. She hated rooks and their constant cawing. She’d take the gun out tomorrow. Although her aim was never as good as her father’s, she was always able to account for a few of them. But the last time they moved their nests they picked on a tree that was nearer still to the house.
The sound of the front door being banged turned her about, and she almost ran out of the room and down the stairs, to see Rosie drawing the pins from her hat; and she approached her, saying, ‘Oh, you look cold.’
‘No, I’m not’ – Rosie was smiling widely – ‘I took the horse bus from the station and walked the rest. It was lovely.’ As she pulled off her coat she said, ‘I’d love a cup of tea, Beatrice.’
‘I’ll ring for it now. Come along to the little sitting room, the girls are giving the drawing room a turnout.’
As Rosie flopped down onto the sofa, Beatrice asked, ‘Did you have a nice meal with Teddy?’
‘Yes. Yes, wonderful. I’ve got news for you. Come and sit down here.’ Rosie patted the sofa cushion near her; and when Beatrice was seated beside her, she gripped her hand and said, ‘I’m so excited,’ and shook her head before she went on, ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it: I may be going to America.’
After a long pause, Beatrice said, ‘What? America?’ Her eyes were screwed up as if she were endeavouring to imagine the distance to America.
‘Yes. Yes, America. You know Teddy was going to take the opening in Newcastle, but he was called in to His Majesty’ – she flapped her hand – ‘that’s what he calls the head one. Well, he is a very important man and as Teddy said, you don’t always get invited upstairs unless you’re going to get pulled over the coals, which he had thought was going to happen to him.’ She giggled now. ‘And what do you think? It was to ask if he’d like to go to America. Apparently one of their men over there collapsed and died.’ The smile went from her face as she added, ‘He was only a young man, and . . . and unmarried. And that’s the point’ – her face had lost its beam – ‘that’s the point. They like their young men to go out there unmarried, but they do make exceptions, and before Teddy put it to them he wanted to be sure I would marry him.’
Rosie bit on her lip to stop herself from grinning widely. ‘He’s staying over in Newcastle for two or three days because he’s coming to see you. Well, Father being gone, he would like to ask your permission as he would have done of Father. He’s very proper, is Teddy, even though he’s so young. Well, not so young, being twenty-four. He’s staying at the George Inn and he would like us to go there to dinner the night before he leaves. Oh’ – she closed her eyes tightly and hugged herself – ‘I’m so happy I could burst. America! America!’ Suddenly opening her eyes she looked at her sister, then said, ‘You’re not pleased for me? I know, I know it’s awful leaving you. We shall have all left home then, but . . . but you must understand. I’ve been very unhappy lately, since . . . since Father’s business, and to be able to get away . . .’ She was now gripping both of Beatrice’s hands: ‘You could come out there for a holiday. It’s easy now; the boats are so quick. It only takes eight days, and you’ve never been away from here. None of us have. Well, Marion’s now in India, and that’s marvellous. In her last letter she said it was simply out of this world. But you still have Helen near at hand. She’ll visit you if you’ll let her.’ She now drew the hands within hers to her breast and held them there. ‘You’ve never got on very well with Helen, but if you’d only try, Beatrice. She’s so nice. And she thinks about you, she’s concerned for you. She told me so.’
Beatrice practically tore her hands from the gentle grip, and she was now on her feet looking down at Rosie and saying, ‘I don’t want any condescension from Helen or from anyone else. No-one need be concerned for me; I can see to myself. As for you and the news you’ve thrown at me: going to America! You’re not thinking about me, are you? I’ll be left here on my own, but that doesn’t matter. No, it doesn’t.’ She turned towards the fire now. ‘I still have the house, and . . . and that’s all that matters to me. Understand that, having the house and being able to keep it.’ Even as she spoke she knew that it wasn’t all that mattered to her at the moment: she needed company, she needed Rosie. Of course, she wanted the house. It was the main thing in her life, but she wanted to share its comfort with . . . well not just anybody, but with one of them who had grown up in this house and could appreciate it and love it, and foster it, as her . . . She had almost thought, as her father had done. But she didn’t want to think about her father these days.
Rosie was standing beside her now, her voice pleading: ‘You’ll see him, won’t you, tomorrow afternoon? He said it would be tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I’ll see him. In any case, as things stand legally, I’m your guardian, I could object.’
‘But you wouldn’t do that, would you, Beatrice? You know how I want to get away.’
‘But why? Why? This is your home.’
Rosie now almost jumped back from Beatrice as she cried, ‘It isn’t my home! I don’t look upon it as a home any longer. To tell you the truth, I’m much more at home yon side of the wall.’
‘Oh, yes, yes; I can almost believe that, with that common pig-breeder and his mo—’
‘Don’t you dare call him a common pig-breeder! If ever there was a real farmer, he is one. Only he hasn’t got enough land. Now if he had this’ – she swung her arm wide – ‘you would see what he could make of it!’
Beatrice was staring at her wide-eyed now: she was looking at a young woman, no vestige of the child or the girl here; no-one she could
dominate any longer, and that was a necessity as much as was the need for company. Although she might not have been aware of it, she needed to use her questionable power on someone.
As Rosie marched down the room her voice was still loudly indignant: ‘I’m going to America and there’s nothing you can do about it.’
Her left arm thrust out, her hand gripping the mantelpiece, Beatrice became taut as she thought, No, there was nothing she could do about it. Then, her whole body slumping, she dropped onto the couch again and, her hands covering her face, she groaned aloud. She had the unusual desire to cry.
She straightened up, wiped her face with her handkerchief, then took in a number of deep breaths which seemed to signify resignation to the events that were about to happen.
Ten minutes later, in her study, she set about busily tidying her desk. The last thing she did was pick up a number of opened letters that she had not yet answered, and tap them into tidy formation. It was as she did so her eyes fell on the letter she had received from the solicitor, telling of the death of that unknown woman in the nursing home.
She was well acquainted with quotations from the nursery days: A stitch in time saves nine. Big oaks from little acorns grow. Her eyes remained riveted on the paper as her mind quoted. Desperate situations require desperate remedies.
She now lifted the sheet from the rest and read the letter again, her eyes dwelling on the words:
‘her high spirits and hysterical outbursts in which her one desire seemed to be to disrobe, and her fits . . .’
Now she had her fingers spread flat over the letter as if she were pressing it into the table. She looked back down her young sister’s life. There was a thread there. Definitely there was a thread there. She wouldn’t be lying. She now grabbed up the letter, folded it, searched until she found its envelope, which she had thrown into the waste-paper basket, then stood up, and again she took in three long breaths, but for a different reason now.
Two
Rosie was sitting at one side of Annie’s table. Annie was facing her and Robbie was standing behind his mother, his hand on the back of her chair. They were both staring at Rosie as Annie repeated, ‘America?’
‘Yes. Isn’t it marvellous! Oh, please, please’ – she put her hand out across the table towards them – ‘don’t say “it’s a long way away” and “we’re going to miss you”, because you won’t miss me half as much as I shall miss you. But I . . . I want to get away.’ The last words had been spoken in almost a whisper and, her voice still low, she said, ‘And somehow this seems to be an answer to my prayer. I don’t just want to go into the next town, or Newcastle, or Durham, I want to get away, miles away, from that house.’
‘What does Beatrice say about this?’
‘Oh, she was up in arms and threatened that she could stop me going, because I’m not yet twenty-one. But now I think she’s accepted it. Teddy’s coming to tea at three o’clock, and I heard her ordering Cook to make some dainties which’ – she smiled now wanly – ‘pointed to the fact that she wasn’t just going to greet him with “good-afternoon”, and “goodbye”. She’s gone into Newcastle to see her solicitor about selling the land. It’s the only thing she can do if she wants to keep the house going. But she said she’d be back about one o’clock. I’m all churned up inside, Mrs Annie. And oh—’ she glanced up towards Robbie, saying, ‘don’t look at me like that. Please! I shall hate having to leave you. I shall, for you mean so much to me. I mean, you both do. Without you these past years, I think I would have done something desperate . . . perhaps even asked Jimmy Oldham to marry me. He’s only about forty. But then they would have had to get another yard man. Still, he’s always been nice to . . .’
‘Shut up! Stop talking like a town slut!’
She gazed open-mouthed to where Robbie was marching out of the kitchen; then she turned to his mother. Annie’s eyes were cast down at the table on which her fingers were beating out a rhythm, the sound of which seemed to increase loudly in Rosie’s ears as she stared at her and waited for an explanation. And when it came it was simply a statement: ‘Robbie’s very fond of you,’ she said.
‘I . . . I kn-kn-kn—’ now she was stammering – ‘I know that and I’m fond of him, very. But I was just trying to put a lighter side onto why I want to get away.’
‘I know, lass, I know.’ Annie thrust a hand out across the table and gripped Rosie’s as she said, ‘But it’s a funny thing, lass, we never seem to see the things, the important things, that are right under our noses. We should be able to smell their meaning, but we never do. It takes something, I don’t know what, a hurricane, an earthquake . . . a personal earthquake, or just something, before we get our eyes opened.’
Rosie’s face held a perplexed expression and she told herself that Mrs Annie couldn’t be implying what she thought she was implying, because Robbie was twenty-eight years old, and . . . and he had always been like a big brother to her; at times, almost like a father. And he was rough with her in his voice and manner; he never spoke to her softly as Mrs Annie did. Well, not now, he didn’t. He used to when she was little. He would give her piggybacks then. But during this last year or so there had been times when he had hardly opened his mouth to her. And she knew he had gone dancing with Peggy Morgan and Mary MacKenzie. But of course, Mary MacKenzie was married now. And she remembered a young woman who used to call pretty often and Mrs Annie used to tell lies and say he was out. She was a grocer’s daughter, and Mrs Annie said she was after Robbie’s blood. She used to think that was a funny thing to say.
But nothing in life was funny any more. For a moment she was sorry that she was going to America because she would miss these two people. She loved them. Yes. Yes, that was the word, she loved them, like she hadn’t loved anyone in her own family, not since her mother had died anyway. But she was fond of Helen. Oh yes, she liked Helen . . . Why was she sitting here, her mind muddling all her thoughts?
Annie said suddenly, ‘Go on, have a word with him.’
‘He’ll go for me, the temper he’s in.’
‘Well, what d’you expect, lass?’
‘I expect him to wish me to be happy and to get away from next door. He hates that house as much as I do. In fact, he’s hated it longer. I thought he’d be happy for me.’
Annie rose from the table and turned to the stove and she repeated, ‘Go on; have a word with him.’
Slowly Rosie rose from the chair and left the room. She knew where he’d be, and she made for the cowshed.
When she opened the door he was standing at the far end, rubbing down one of the animals with a bundle of straw.
‘Robbie.’
He turned to look at her.
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry if I upset you by saying such silly things.’
‘Forget it.’ He turned and went on with the job in hand.
‘I can’t forget it. I . . . I’ll likely be going away sooner than ever I thought I would. And no matter what happens I’ll . . . I’ll miss you. You don’t know how I’ll miss you.’
‘Then why are you doing it?’ He had swung round, thrown the straw to one side, and now was close to her, his face almost touching hers. And he demanded again, ‘Why are you doing it?’
Of a sudden she couldn’t answer him. Her throat was full. The tears spurted from her eyes and she gulped as she gasped, ‘You . . . you know why. You know why. I just must get . . . get . . .’
‘If you want to get away, there are other means of doing so.’
‘No . . . no . . . nobody else had asked me to marry . . . them.’
‘Oh my God, girl!’ He now had his arms about her, holding her close. ‘Don’t cry, love, don’t cry. I understand. I understand.’ Then in a whisper he said, ‘Nobody had asked you to marry them? Good God! Bloody blind fool! Don’t, love, don’t cry like that. It’s all right, I understand. Yes. Yes, I understand.’
Her tears subsiding, she drew herself from him, saying, ‘I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry.’
He looked into her eyes, his voice still quiet. ‘All I want is for you to be happy, Rosie. All I’ve ever wanted, my main aim in life even, since I dragged you down from the tree, was that you should be happy and keep that youthful spirit that made you different from everybody else. And it’s still there, I know it’s still there. It’s concealed at the moment; growing up always does blanket it down for a bit, but it’ll come back. You’ll see. Wherever you are, in America, or Timbuktu, it’ll come back. Come on now! Don’t start again, ’cos Mam will knock me block off for upsetting you. You’ve had enough upsets lately. You want a little happiness. Believe that, Rosie, believe that’s all I want for you, to be happy.’ He now just stopped himself from adding, ‘And me along with you. Oh yes, and me along with you.’
He put an arm around her shoulders and led her out of the cowshed and back to the house. And in the kitchen once more he said to his mother, ‘You haven’t guzzled the last of that hard stuff, have you?’
‘What d’you mean?’ she came back at him; ‘I don’t guzzle any of it. But I could put me name to who does.’
‘Well, let’s drink to America, eh? Let’s drink to America.’ He smiled at Rosie, then turned to his mother, and he thought for a moment that she too was about to burst out crying, and he bawled at her, ‘Don’t stand there like a stuffed dummy, woman! Go and get the bottle.’
As Annie lifted the half bottle of whiskey from the dining room sideboard, she bit tightly on her lip and said to herself, ‘Annie MacIntosh, you’ve got a son in a million.’
The sight of Beatrice entering the drawing-room wearing her best dress brought Rosie to her feet, saying, ‘Oh, you do look nice, Beatrice. I’ve always liked that frock; it suits you. And thank you for getting dressed and for the tea. My goodness! In the kitchen, you would think there was a party, the things that Cook’s done. What time is it?’
The Obsession Page 9