‘Darling, that’s lovely!’ Rose breathed, seeing the rare flash of pride and pleasure on Maddie’s face. ‘Really, really lovely.’
‘It is good,’ John said, standing some way behind them. ‘The girl’s got an eye, that’s for sure.’
‘I know,’ Maddie said happily. ‘I didn’t even really try. It just came out. It’s brilliant. Painting is brilliant.’ She looked John square in the eye, unflinching. ‘I want to come and paint again. Soon.’
Rose felt her heart clench, unable to bear her daughter, who was so rarely and so purely happy, suffering rejection.
‘Come tomorrow,’ John said, so quietly that Rose wasn’t sure she’d heard him.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Rose asked him.
‘Bring the child tomorrow. She can paint, I can work. We can talk more.’
‘You want to talk to me?’ Rose was incredulous.
John looked pained by her scepticism, and suddenly very frail, as if contact with another person did genuinely drain him.
‘Rose,’ he said her name slowly, testing it on his tongue, ‘please understand, I am not a good man, or a kind one. I am not any sort of father or grandfather. I may well have ruined your life and if I have … then I think the booze killed any part of me that would feel guilty about it years ago. But I am a man, and you are my daughter, and I do wish to do for you what little I can. I must be honest, I don’t believe that talking to me will make your life any more tolerable, but it may help you see the way forward from here.’
‘If you are talking about going back to my husband …?’ Rose said warily, very unsure of what, if anything, this remote man was offering her.
‘No,’ John said, turning back to his work. ‘You should realise that the one thing I am not is the sort of person to make another do a single thing they don’t want to. Come back tomorrow if you want the girl to paint, and for us to talk some more. If not, then I shall carry on as before.’
‘I want to come back,’ Maddie said. ‘And paint. I want to paint that wood again.’
‘What time?’ Rose asked him.
‘Makes no odds to me,’ John said. ‘I’ll be in here as long as the sun is up.’
‘That was good,’ Maddie said happily as she and Rose headed back across the yard, Rose caught up in a flurry of confused emotion. It would have been impossible to feel more anger or animosity towards her father than she had in the barn. It had been pure, visceral, pumping through her veins instead of blood. But somehow their meeting had resulted in a planned return visit. Rose wasn’t entirely sure how that had happened, or what it meant, except that for some reason that she wasn’t able to fathom yet, John wanted her to come back. He must do, otherwise Rose was very certain that they wouldn’t have been invited.
‘I like John, actually,’ Maddie said. ‘He’s very interesting.’
‘Good,’ Rose said, pausing and turning to gaze up at the mountains around them, finding their ancient enormity a comfort for her sore mind. ‘I think he liked you too, in his way.’
‘He liked how I painted,’ Maddie said proudly, certain that was more important than personal affection. ‘I am extremely good, after all.’
‘You are,’ Rose smiled, letting her hand rest briefly on Maddie’s shoulder before she inevitably shrugged it off. Maddie had looked more at ease in the company of her strange grandfather, and with a paintbrush in her hand, than Rose had seen her for a long time. Naturally it was easy to blame Richard for Maddie’s sense of unease, the tautness in her face and limbs, the underlying current of anxiety that Rose thought she could sometimes feel vibrating from her daughter. But perhaps she had to accept that at least some of what happened to make her life with Richard so toxic was down to her. If she’d been more experienced with men, if she’d listened to the sense of disquiet that had always been there, even when they were first together and she had thought she was at her happiest … But she’d pushed it away, and pushed it away, ignored her own instincts for that chance of having the kind of normal happy life that she saw going on all around her. For the chance to be anything but like her parents.
Perhaps it was her anxious, frightened, overprotective, uncertain mother that was stifling Maddie the most, Rose thought as she remembered the sense of creeping dread that used to pervade her as she made the slow walk home from school to where her mother would be waiting for her, waiting to unleash all her unhappiness and sorrow onto her daughter’s shoulders. Rose dreaded sliding the key into the lock, knowing a tidal wave of misery was waiting for her on the other side of it, and yet she always opened the door. She always went in. What if, even at this young age, Maddie’s oddness, which set her so far apart from other children her own age, was really caused by Rose, by her failure to stop her unhappiness leaking out through every pore, no matter how much she tried to hide it? Being free of Richard, even if only for a little while, had seemed to breathe life into her. She felt like a wind-up toy, finally able to release all that pent-up energy after sitting on a shelf for so long. Rose had to acknowledge that she felt released, here in the wild country, and perhaps that was slowly starting to rub off onto Maddie too.
Rose had come here chasing a pipe dream, a fantasy, but the reality was that nothing else mattered but Maddie, because if it wasn’t for her odd, awkward, strange, distant little girl and a battered and tatty old postcard with a few lines scrawled on the back, then Rose would have walked into the sea after her mother a long time ago and have been glad to feel the cool, soft waves closing over her head. And just as Rose didn’t want Maddie to dread coming home to her, neither did she want to leave her with the legacy her mother had. It was time to thank Frasier for keeping her heart beating when it was almost ready to give up hope. After that she could try her best to forget him.
Albie had told her that she was bound to bump into Frasier; that any day now, she’d turn a corner and he’d be here. It seemed strange that she’d found her way to this random, abstract corner of the world to find the converging threads of her past and future meeting head-on. If she just stayed here and did nothing, then one day she would do the thing she’d dreamt of for a very long time. She’d see Frasier again. And even at her most rational and pragmatic, Rose could not imagine how the world might continue after that moment, even if it was, as Shona seemed certain, an epic anti-climax.
How childish of her to believe that somehow he would just walk into her life like a knight in shining armour and rescue her. It was time she stood on her own two feet, forgot her silly romantic notions and got on with the business of being a grown-up and a parent. Perhaps she had come here seeking something that didn’t ever truly exist, but even if that was true the look on Maddie’s face when she’d been painting was reason enough to go back and see John again tomorrow; it was reason enough to stay for as long as she could.
‘Do you know, I wouldn’t mind going up one of those big hills,’ Maddie said, squinting at the horizon, where the sun was doing its best to burn away the thick insulation of cloud.
‘What, now?’ Rose asked her. To be honest, walking up a hill was the very last thing that she had in mind right now, but it was so surprising for Maddie to want to do anything physical that she didn’t like the thought of turning her down. And besides, Rose had a feeling that if there was ever a place to clear her head of all the cotton wool and confusion it was packed with, then halfway up a very big hill would be just that place. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it will hurt to go a little way. Looks like the rain’s going to hold off for a while. There’s a footpath over there, I think.’
Rose pointed towards a stile across the yard, bridging a fence that led into a field of sheep, a worn-away path snaking up the more gentle slope of the mountain.
‘We are like archaeologists about to open the lost tomb of Tutankhamen!’ Maddie said, charging off across the yard with a sudden burst of energy, just as a shiny, outsized 4x4 Audi rolled into the yard, missing squashing her by mere centimetres.
Maternal fury filling her instantly, Rose marched across, squ
elching mud to confront the driver, pulling open the heavy door before he could turn the engine off.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she shouted as he climbed out of the car. ‘You almost killed my daughter with your idiotic driving!’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said instantly, rubbing his hand through his blond hair. ‘Truly. I wasn’t expecting a child in my path. I’ve been here many times and there have never been any small children before!’
‘You’ve never seen any small children before – that’s your excuse, really …’ Rose faltered to a stop, her mouth freezing before it could form another syllable as she realised who she was looking at. The man who had almost run her daughter over was Frasier McCleod. The moment she’d just been anticipating had arrived without any fanfare or warning, and there, sitting in the driver’s seat, looking slightly flushed and awkward, was her pipe dream in the flesh. He hadn’t changed, not a single bit, since the moment she had first set eyes on him standing on her doorstep. And yet she had; she’d changed almost completely, and most radically in the last few hours. With a freezing cold shock, Rose realised that Frasier McCleod was looking her right in the face, contrite and concerned, and completely oblivious to the fact that they had ever met before. He had forgotten her.
Unprepared for the tidal wave of emotion that raced through her body as she looked into his sea-green eyes, Rose struggled to steady herself. For her it was as if years of being without him, of not knowing him, never even speaking to him, vanished in an instant. Rose felt like she was looking into the eyes of an old friend – more than that, of the love of her life.
Frasier, however, obviously felt like he was looking into the eyes of an irate mother, with a taste in clothes that were far too young for her and an edgy hairstyle that looked like she meant trouble and should probably not be messed with, as she stood frozen like a manic mannequin, her hands glued to her hips. He studied her face, his expression a picture of confusion and concern.
‘I really am dreadfully sorry,’ he said in his soft Scottish accent. ‘I know I am completely remiss. There is no excuse. I can only hope that you will forgive me as no harm is done.’
‘Yes, fine, whatever,’ Rose managed to say, barely raising her voice above a whisper, battling to blink away the tears that had suddenly sprung to her eyes.
‘Are you OK?’ Frasier asked her as he climbed from the car. Reaching out, he touched her on the forearm. ‘Is it the shock? I really am so sorry.’
‘I’m fine,’ Rose said, wiping away the tears with the edge of her thumb, as she dared to glance at him. It was odd to see him so close up, so very real and yet not so very different from her idealised version of him. It seemed that an hour of really looking at him had indeed etched his image onto her mind. He looked a little older, for sure, with crinkles around his eyes, and he carried himself differently, with a self-assurance that was new, to Rose at least, but in every other aspect Frasier McCleod was just as she remembered him. He was lovely. ‘I’m fine, really.’
‘Why aren’t we venturing into the Valley of the Kings?’ Maddie asked, eventually making her journey back from the stile where she had been sitting for some time staring up at the sky, waiting for Rose to finish whatever it was she was doing. She glowered at Frasier, clearly blaming him for her plans not coming to fruition.
‘I was just talking to F … this gentleman,’ Rose said.
‘Valley of the Kings, hey?’ Frasier grinned at Maddie, who scowled at him. ‘Off to unwrap a few mummies, are you?’
‘No, that would be a desecration,’ Maddie scowled at him. ‘We are archaeologists, not grave robbers, and besides, this isn’t really the Valley of the Kings, that is in Egypt. This is the Lake District, although I haven’t seen a lake yet, so I don’t know why they call it that. It should be called the mountain district.’
‘Right.’ Frasier raised an amused eyebrow, his hand dropping from Rose’s arm, leaving an imprint of warmth, which quickly chilled. ‘I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Frasier McCleod, Art Dealer and Agent, John Jacobs’ art dealer and agent, to be precise. This is his land you are crossing, which strictly speaking is fine, it is a public right of way, but that doesn’t make him any more happy about it, just so you know. He’s not completely averse to throwing things at ramblers.’
‘We know who John Jacobs is,’ Maddie began. ‘He’s my –’
‘John knows we are here,’ Rose said, interrupting her daughter.
‘Oh, really?’ Frasier looked interested. ‘It’s so unusual for him to have visitors. How do you know John?’
‘She’s his –’ Maddie began.
‘Oh, um, I’ve known him for a long time,’ Rose hedged, waggling her eyebrows at her thwarted daughter, hoping she’d get the message. But Maddie, who wasn’t the greatest at picking up subtle signals at the best of times, seemed to be bursting at the seams to tell Frasier who they were. And fair enough really – how could Maddie know that Rose didn’t want him to find out who she was that way? She didn’t want to see him struggle to recall their meeting and laugh it off, as an incident that had passed fleetingly and without consequence for him, vanishing into the past without significance.
‘Really? How odd. I’ve known him for a long time too, and yet we’ve never met …?’ Frasier looked puzzled and Rose looked at the toes of her boots. ‘Anyway, is he in the barn?’
Rose nodded.
‘We’ll take you,’ Maddie said. ‘You can see my painting. It is very, very good. And it only took me twenty minutes. I don’t know why John takes so long to do his.’
‘I frequently wonder the same thing,’ Frasier said, smiling at Rose, who continued studiously to avoid his eye. Maddie loped off ahead of them, clearly delighted to have an excuse to return to the barn, and Rose trailed along beside Frasier, wondering if he would even remember meeting her at all, once it all came out that she was John Jacobs’ daughter. Now, after coming all this way, searching for this man, she discovered that she wanted nothing more than to keep things as they were, after all. To keep Frasier as that happy memory that had meant so much to her. She would rather that these last few moments as polite strangers could stretch on for ever than face the awkwardness and embarrassment that was sure to follow. As they reached the barn, Rose was not aware that Frasier had stopped a few paces behind her until he said her name.
‘Rose …’ At first he said it so quietly that it was almost like a whisper, uncertain. Rose paused, turning round to look at him to find a slow smile spreading over his face. ‘Of course, it’s you, it’s Rose. You are Rose!’
Before Rose could react, Frasier had enveloped her in a hug so tight that she couldn’t breathe, speak or laugh. For one second, maybe two, she stood with her face pressed to his chest, feeling his thundering heart beat time against her cheek. And then he released her as quickly as he had embraced her, leaving Rose feeling a little giddy and unsteady on her feet, and him looking awkward and surprised at his own reaction, to say the least.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, flustered. ‘It’s the surprise, the wonderful surprise of seeing you again. It made me forget myself.’ His expression was one of pure incredulity. ‘So, you made the journey to see your father at last. I’d hoped to hear from you, you know, after I wrote to you with his address, a few years back, as soon as I’d got him sober. He told me not to tell a living soul where he was, but how could I not tell you? How could I not, when I’d seen you so sad … so lost? I thought I’d worry about how angry he’d be with me after you’d reconciled. But when I didn’t hear back from you I’d assumed you moved, or decided not to contact him …?’
‘You wrote to me?’ Rose said, her mind struggling to keep up with the words tumbling out of Frasier’s mouth. ‘Another letter, apart from the postcard, you mean?’
‘Yes. You didn’t get it?’ Frasier shook his head. ‘How Shakespearean. It must have got lost in the post. I could have phoned you, of course, but, I don’t know, it never occurred to me. I suppose I thought you’d made your choic
e and you were sticking to it.’
‘You wrote to me,’ Rose said almost under her breath, somehow certain that Richard had something to do with the letter’s disappearance. Most likely it had simply been delivery of information about her father, which was more than enough reason for Richard to want to destroy it, but if she’d seen it – if she’d seen Frasier’s handwriting again, all those years ago – perhaps that would have been enough to prompt her to leave. Perhaps she might have saved years of her life.
‘I didn’t get it,’ Rose repeated unhappily.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter now,’ Frasier reassured her, although to Rose it mattered very much. ‘You are here now. So how did you find the old bugger anyway? It’s not easy, he’s an official recluse. I’ve known journalists who say finding the Holy Grail is a synch compared to Mr Jacobs.’
‘I …’ Rose almost told Frasier she had been following the clues to him, not to John, and then thought better of it, remembering the crushing disappointment she had felt only a few seconds before. It should be enough that Frasier remembered her, and thought of her as fondly as he clearly did. She would only make things awkward between them if she told him the real reason why she came here, not to mention look a bit, well, mad, frankly. And, as Shona had brutally reminded her, his life could contain a wife, children, lovers, dogs, and a hundred more reasons why he wouldn’t want to know that she’d come here to tell him she thought she very well might love him. ‘Actually, it was you that led me to him in the end. The postcard you sent, it was the only link I had to … to him. That’s why I came to Millthwaite. I didn’t know what I would find here when I came, if anything. I just … I felt like I had to come. And here he was – a miracle, really.’
‘You followed your heart.’ Frasier studied her face for a moment longer. ‘God, Rose, I’m such a fool. I did know it was you; from the second I saw you, inside I did. But the hair, the clothes, the context, they threw me for a minute or two.’
Dearest Rose Page 14