The Obsession

by Catherine Cookson

  Beatrice looked at the clock. ‘Ten minutes to three,’ she said. ‘I hope he’s a gentleman who keeps to time.’

  ‘Oh yes, he is. That’s part of his work, making appointments and arranging board meetings and such. He says he feels like a Parliamentary Secretary at times. He made me laugh yesterday when he said he’s always the bridesmaid but never the blushing bride.’

  ‘Your hair’s hanging over your cheek.’ Beatrice put out her hand and, with a finger, she lifted the strand of curling hair from Rosie’s face and placed it behind her ear. It was such a tender action that Rosie leaned swiftly forward and kissed her sister on the cheek. Then sitting down, she murmured, ‘I’m nervous, you know. This is going to be a formal meeting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, sort of.’ . . .

  Three o’clock came.

  Half-past three came.

  And now Rosie, making for the door yet again, said, ‘He must have missed the train, or perhaps he was unable to get a cab from the station. I told him to take a cab.’

  ‘There is plenty of time. Sit yourself down. There’s nothing spoiling; Cook won’t brew the tea until he comes. Come and have a chocolate.’ Beatrice held out the box of chocolates, and Rosie dutifully took one, although she wasn’t very fond of chocolates. But she held it in her fingers as she watched Beatrice eat the cream, then pick up another before she laid the box back on the table. And she forced herself to say, ‘You’ll lose all your appetite for tea if you go on eating those sweets.’

  ‘It’s odd,’ said Beatrice, ‘but they never interfere with my appetite . . . Do come and sit down, dear. You’re getting on my nerves, walking around.’

  It was ten minutes to four when there was a ring on the bell, and they both rose from the couch. And as Beatrice stroked down the skirt of her velvet dress and adjusted the waist, she put out her hand and checked Rosie from making for the door, again saying, ‘Frances will see to it, dear. Now, calm yourself.’

  They heard voices coming from the hall; then the door closed, and presently there was the tap on the drawing room door, and Frances entered carrying a salver on which lay a letter, and she looked from one to the other before handing it to Rosie, saying, ‘It’s for you, Miss Rosie.’

  Rosie took the letter, broke the seal, then read:

  My dear Rosie,

  It is most unfortunate, but I have been called back to London and must leave straight away. I don’t know what this means in regard to my future in America, but I shall let you know later what has been decided.

  I hold you in the deepest affection.

  Believe me. Always.

  Teddy.

  She stared at the sheet of paper.

  No ‘my dearest’. No ‘I love you’. ‘I love you’.

  No ‘how I hate having to leave you’.

  She couldn’t understand it. This wasn’t like Teddy. She had kept his letters: they were warm, loving, even passionate. In a way, they had, she felt, kept her from utter despair during these last few months.

  Automatically, she handed the letter to Beatrice, saying, ‘I . . . I can’t understand it. I . . . I really can’t! Yesterday—’ She stopped speaking. She could not describe his attitude of yesterday, at the thought of their being married and going to a foreign country: he had been as excited as a young boy and full of talk about America and the life there. But, of course, as he had warned her, they didn’t like young men getting married before taking up a post there. However, he had felt sure it would be all right. But as he hadn’t yet put that question to his superiors, this recall to London could have nothing to do with his request to be married before leaving the country.

  After Beatrice had apparently read the letter twice, she said, ‘To say the least, I think it’s very bad manners.’

  ‘It . . . it must have been urgent, else he wouldn’t be recalled.’ Rosie had risen to Teddy’s defence immediately. ‘He’s not the kind of man to be rude. In fact, he is too formal. That is part of his position. He meets so many people he has to be formal. He explained it all to me.’ She suddenly sat down on the couch. And now she asked herself how long she would have to wait for an explanation. He wouldn’t see his superiors until tomorrow, then he would have to write to her and she wouldn’t receive the letter until the next day. That was two full days to wait after she got over today. She didn’t know how she was going to bear it.

  She looked at Beatrice wearing her best dress; and she had gone to all that trouble about the special tea, and she knew of the special effort she would have had to make to be nice. She said now, brokenly, ‘I’m sorry, after all the trouble you’ve gone to . . .’

  ‘Oh’ – Beatrice’s tone expressed her concern – ‘please, please, don’t worry about me, just because I put on a decent dress. With regard to the tea . . . well, we have to eat anyway. It was all nothing. But I’m sorry that you are disappointed. It’s very odd. Sit down and I’ll ring for tea.’

  ‘No, no. Please don’t, Beatrice. I couldn’t eat anything at the moment; not even drink tea. I’ll go out for a while.’

  As she turned away Beatrice said, ‘Where are you going?’

  Rosie did not answer. She walked slowly towards the door until her sister’s voice came at her, the tone more recognisable, ‘You’re not going next door to tell them, are you?’

  Rosie turned and looked at her. ‘Yes. Yes, that’s just what I’m going to do. I was going there in any case, after tea, to tell them about the arrangements, so I’ll go and tell them there aren’t any arrangements.’

  ‘You know I don’t like you going there so much, so why do you do it?’

  ‘Because they are my friends. They have always been my friends, and always will be, no matter what happens: and, I’m sorry to say, Beatrice, you can do nothing about it. I’ll always visit them as long as they’re there to visit.’

  After a pause during which they stared at each other over the distance, Rosie turned and went out, closing the door quietly behind her. And now, going to the hall cloakroom, she gathered her old coat and woolly hat, and from a rack at one side of the room she picked up her overshoes. This was the outfit that she always wore when she had to scale the wall. Yet she knew she wasn’t going to scale the wall today, she was going by the front way . . .

  Five minutes later, when Annie heard the tap on the kitchen door, then saw the figure standing there in what she termed ‘her old disabelle’, she exclaimed loudly, ‘Why, what’s the matter, girl? I thought you were—’ but her voice was cut off by Robbie’s. He had risen quickly from the table where he had been eating his tea, and he cried at his mother. ‘Will you get out of her way and let her in? What’s the matter with you, woman?’ Then turning to Rosie, he said, ‘Something gone wrong? I thought . . .’

  ‘May I have a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, hinny, two, three cups. Come and sit down by the fire.’

  There was no more conversation until Rosie had drunk a cup of tea. Then looking from one to the other, where they were sitting on the settle opposite, she said, ‘He didn’t come, but he sent this.’ She took the letter from inside her blouse and handed it towards them.

  It was Robbie who read it first, after which he lifted his head and looked at her but said nothing, then passed the letter on to his mother. But after she had read it she said immediately, ‘Odd business. Do you usually get letters like this from him? I mean, in this sort of tone?’

  Rosie’s head drooped before she said softly, ‘No.’

  ‘Well, there must be a reason for it all,’ Robbie said; and he repeated, ‘Well, there must be a reason and, as he says, he’ll let you know in a couple of days. It was likely written when he was worked up and found he couldn’t come and see you. You say they’ve got an office in Newcastle or some connection there anyway. And it’s also distantly connected with the Government, isn’t it? You never know abo
ut these things, the intricate business that goes on.’ He got up from the settle and dropping onto his hunkers before her, he took her hands in his and said, ‘It’ll all work out. If I know anything, that fella thought the world of you. Yes, he did. So, as I see it, it’s nothing to do with his . . . well, personal wishes, it’s something that’s come up in his business.’

  ‘You think so?’ Rosie looked into the deep brown eyes that held a tender expression in them and, her voice breaking, she said, ‘The worst of it is, I was getting Beatrice on my side. She had put on her best dress, and had ordered a lovely tea. And she was putting on . . . well, trying to be very pleasant.’

  ‘That’s unusual for her.’ Robbie grinned at her now.

  ‘Yes. Yes’ – she nodded at him – ‘Which makes me feel all the worse, that her good intentions and efforts were to no avail.’

  He rose from his hunkers, saying, ‘I’ll have to be away down. Betsy’s foal’s coming.’

  Rosie’s voice and expression changed as she said, ‘But it isn’t due for a fortnight, you said.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But she came in this afternoon and I knew there was something wrong. Well, she practically spoke to me, so I think that she needs help. I might have to get the veterinary man, too.’

  ‘May I come down with you?’

  It was Annie who put in, ‘You’ve got your good frock on, lass,’ at which Rosie turned to her, a half smile on her face as she said, ‘But I’ve got my old coat with me, if you’ve noticed.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you have.’

  Robbie helped her into her coat; then handed her the woollen hat and for a moment his hands indicated that he was going to put it on her head; but they paused halfway and he handed it to her.

  Annie said nothing the while she watched her son pull on his coat and cap, then put his hand on Rosie’s elbow as he led her out of the door. And a strange thought ran through her mind as she combined two quotations and put them into her own words, ‘God’s slow but He’s sure, and He takes a number of sideroads His miracles to perform.’

  It was three days later when Rosie received the letter. She took it up to her bedroom to read, and its contents so stunned her that, after reading it for the third time, she let it flutter to the floor. And she sat on the bed staring ahead of her, until a tap came on the door. It was opened by Beatrice. ‘What is it, dear?’ she said. ‘You’ve had news?’

  Rosie looked at her, but she couldn’t speak for the moment. She pointed to the floor, and Beatrice picked up the letter. But before she began to read it she walked to the window as if to see it in better light. Then, after a moment, she said, ‘Oh, dear me! Dear me! I’m so sorry,’ but instead of turning about to look at the dejected figure sitting on the side of the bed, she addressed the window again, saying, ‘Dear me! Dear me! What a thing to happen.’

  Only then she turned towards Rosie, saying, ‘What are you going to do? But then, what can you do? I . . . I never expected this of him.’

  She handed back the letter to Rosie who, after glancing at it again, folded it into four and put it back into its envelope. Then she too rose and walked past her sister and out onto the landing. And this very action puzzled Beatrice, because her sister wasn’t crying.

  As she followed her along the landing, she said, ‘Where are you going, dear?’

  She had received no answer before they reached the bottom of the stairs, but there, she added, ‘Let us have a cup of coffee, and . . . and talk this thing over.’

  For the first time Rosie spoke. ‘What is there to talk over? Nothing could be more final than this letter.’ She lifted it up almost in front of Beatrice’s face. In fact, Beatrice retreated a step in something of alarm, as she muttered, ‘You . . . you mustn’t take it too deeply. These . . . these things happen. Come and . . .’

  Her words broke off as she saw Rosie walk towards the cloakroom, and she cried at her, ‘No! No! You are not going next door, not in that state.’

  She now rushed across the hall and attempted to pull the old coat from Rosie’s hand, at the same time crying, ‘It isn’t right! Have some dignity, girl. One doesn’t go and spread one’s troubles far and wide like a common individual.’ Her voice now dropped as she continued more rapidly, ‘You expect that from the servant class. But remember who you are; and you belong to this house . . .’ Beatrice could not have sprung back quicker had a gun been pointed at her, for Rosie’s voice was menacing as she yelled, ‘Damn the house! Blast the house!’

  Then Beatrice found herself almost tumbling back against the grandfather clock as Rosie’s arm thrust her away. It was characteristic of Beatrice that she turned and steadied the clock with both hands, then looked up into its brass face as if for assurance that it had not been damaged, before she turned again on her sister, who was now at the front door. But such was her astonishment and more so her amazement when her emotion was streaked with fear and she asked herself if it could be possible. But her mind refused to explain why it was asking this . . .

  When Rosie neared the cottage, it was to see Robbie leading the horse and cart through the gate, but he didn’t notice her until he left the animal to go back and close the gate.

  He looked at her open-mouthed for a moment before he said simply, ‘Rosie!’ Then going close up to her he looked into her face. He didn’t ask any questions, but said, ‘Go on in; I’ll be with you in a minute, after I’ve put her in the stable.’

  In the kitchen Annie greeted her in a similar way. On a high note, she said, ‘Rosie! What is it?’

  Annie watched the girl drag off her coat and hat and throw them across one of the kitchen chairs, then go and sit in the corner of the settle, from where she stared into the fire.

  When Annie sat beside her, Rosie did not turn to her, and so, in an embarrassed and troubled fashion, Annie muttered, ‘I think what you’re in need of, girl, is a cup of tea.’ And at this she got up and went about the process of making it, and nothing was said until Robbie came hurrying into the room and to the settle where, sitting beside her, and in a manner quite different from that of his mother, he said, ‘Come on now; spit it out! What’s happened? You’ve heard from him?’

  For answer Rosie put her hand into the pocket of her house dress and, without looking at him, handed him the letter.

  What he read was:

  My dear Rosie,

  I don’t know how I am going to begin this letter, for my mind is in such a turmoil, so I had just better state facts. I have been told by the powers that be that they do not allow their younger members to marry before they have established themselves abroad. On the other hand, I know that they couldn’t really stop me from marrying. But should I take this step, then I would be deprived of promotion. Moreover, I could be sent to some outlandish country, and in a very subordinate position. From what I understand, they have already made arrangements for me to go to America to fill in this particular post that has become available by the unexpected death of a young member of the firm.

  So, you will see, my dear, the position I’m in. By the time you receive this letter I shall be on my way to America. But I can assure you, it is with a sad and heavy heart, for you know, Rosie, I have always held you in deep affection. But now, under the circumstances, it would be unfair and unwise to hold you to any promise. As I’ve explained above, I don’t know what my future holds in this new country. Try to understand my situation, Rosie. All I can say is, I am too troubled to write any more, but will always hold you in the highest affection and will never forget our friendship. Forgive me and think kindly of me, if you can, my dear Rosie.

  Teddy

  Robbie sat there, the letter still in his hand, until Annie’s voice demanded, ‘Well, what does it say?’ And at this he handed her the letter. After reading it, her response was the same as his; silence, until she suddenly burst out, ‘The dirty swine of a man! I’ve heard plenty of tales about
jilting but never read one. He’s a . . .’

  ‘Mother!’ It was a deep throaty demand, of which Annie took no notice, for she cried at him, ‘I’m not going to keep me tongue quiet, not for you or anybody else. I’ll say again, he’s a swine!’ She now hurried to where Rosie was sitting, her head bowed, and thrusting her doubled fist under Rosie’s chin, she brought her face up with a jerk and, looking down into it, she said, ‘He’s not worth your spit.’

  ‘Shut up! Mother, will you?’ Robbie was on his feet now, pulling her away from Rosie’s side. ‘And listen to me for once. I feel there’s something wrong here. There’s more in that letter than meets the eye. I’ve met that young bloke, and that letter and he don’t match.’ He now turned to Rosie who was staring up at him and he demanded, ‘How was he when you last saw him? I mean, in his manner.’

  How was he? She turned her head to the side as if thinking. He had been wonderful, excited. After they had eaten they had walked in the park and he had pulled her into the shadow of some bushes and had kissed her. Oh, how he had kissed her. But nevertheless, besides all that, she knew he was ambitious. She knew he wanted to go to America, his heart was set on it. He had told her that one star had dropped from heaven into his hands and that was her. And now another had been presented to him, an opportunity he imagined would never happen for years. A position in America was a goal that those in the office were all aiming for. They would be jealous, he had said; there would be a lot of talk. But God had spoken: he had raised his head and wagged his finger and had said, ‘You’re to go to America, Golding. Fitzsimmons has unfortunately died and you are to take his place as soon as possible.’

  She looked back into Robbie’s eyes, as she said, ‘He . . . he was as usual, kind and—’ her head bowed again as she muttered, ‘loving.’ Then as if her tongue had become loosened, she turned to Annie and went on, ‘And I was excited, too. Oh, Mrs Annie, I was excited at the thought of leaving next door. Never having to live there again. To get away from Beatrice. And yet’ – she shook her head quickly now – ‘she’s . . . she’s been quite good over it. More kind than I ever thought she would be. But’ – her voice sank – ‘nevertheless, she’s still Beatrice, and she has her house. Oh, yes. Yes’ – her voice rose as she nodded from one to the other – ‘her house. She’s mad about the house. I told you, didn’t I? Her and her feather dusters, and one mustn’t do this and one mustn’t do that. It isn’t done. It isn’t done. What isn’t done?’ She got to her feet now. ‘It isn’t done to be happy; it isn’t done to want to be loved; it isn’t done—’ Her voice rose to a crescendo, and then there came a sound like a wail from her lips and the tears spurted from her eyes.