It took several days before she could face going to the Careys’ house. The thought of meeting either Idris or Hattie there was too terrible to contemplate. She didn’t tell Richard of her discovery, although she suspected he already knew.
She did eventually go to talk to Auntie Molly Carey. It was memories of the death of Uncle Henry Carey that made her decide to arrange a meeting with her mother before it was too late. Her opinion of her half-sister Hattie was a separate issue. What she thought of Hattie was nothing to do with reviving her relationship with her mother. Regretfully, Idris was Kate’s to deal with. All she could do was be ready to offer support.
For a long time she thought about the proposed meeting. Auntie Molly Carey was the one to advise her, and after all, she had known them both all their lives. But when she eventually came face to face with Barbara, what would she say? How would they react to each other after so many years and after so much had happened to them both? Days passed and she said and did nothing about it. Then, before she could even talk to Mrs Carey, the matter was taken out of her hands.
Kate was waiting for her when she arrived at Station Row one evening. She wondered if Kate intended to talk about Hattie and Idris, whether this was the discussion she had been dreading.
‘Come up to the flat if you’ve something to talk about, Kate. We’ll have a cup of tea, shall we?’ She knew she was delaying it, but what could she say to this woman to comfort her when she had been so terribly let down by her husband and sister?
But it wasn’t about Idris and Hattie.
‘Rosita, Mam is coming to see me at the weekend. Will you come and say hello?’
Rosita just stared at her. Preparing herself for offering words of comfort, she was completely thrown. Kate went on, ‘I know you’ll need time to think about it after all these years but really, you should see her. Time is passing. Mam’s over fifty and already feeling the dread of drifting into old age without you, her first and best-loved daughter.’
‘Best-loved!’
‘Yes. You were the flesh and blood of her true love, Bernard – that was his name, wasn’t it? She loves us all, but you the best. I’ve always known that.’
The desire to punish her mother was still causing her stomach to tie itself into knots. But Luke’s voice seemed to cross the miles and warn her that this might be her very last chance. He had warned her gently one day of leaving it too late and the hatred within her wouldn’t have an outlet and would continue to ruin her happiness.
‘All right, I’ll come.’
She regretted the words as soon as Kate had left but knew she had to go through with it. If they failed to make any bridges she needn’t ever see her again. It was that thought she clung to as the day approached.
Richard was pleased when she told him but played it down and was matter-of-fact about the whole thing, knowing that a wrong word could make her change her mind. As the hours passed, she became more and more nervous. The day before she and her mother were to meet, she decided, on impulse, to go and talk to Auntie Molly Carey. She’d say she didn’t know what to wear. Yes, that would do for an excuse to talk to her.
Driving down to the house near Red Rock Bay, she expected Mrs Carey to be alone. But the living room was full. She heard voices before she had reached for the knocker. Richard answered the door and after kissing her, said, ‘Kate, Idris and the girls are here.’
‘Then I won’t stay. I only wanted a chat with your mam. It will keep.’ They exchanged a few words, a brief kiss and parted.
As she walked back to the car, Rosita was stopped by Hattie stepping out in front of her. ‘Can we talk for a minute?’ Hattie said and, without waiting for a reply, she got into the car and turned to stare at Rosita. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘Bursting to tell you I’ve been, for weeks, but I wanted us to be alone.’
‘Oh,’ was all Rosita could manage. Somehow Hattie discovering her secret made her meeting with her mother less attractive.
‘I’ve got a bit of a problem, see, and I thought, you being a woman of the world, like, you’ll advise me.’
‘Hattie, I don’t know you. To offer advice to someone you don’t know is asking for trouble. You and I would tackle a problem in an entirely different way. Now, if you don’t mind I’d rather you talk to someone else. I must go, I really am busy and—’
‘Always busy, rushing here and there. Must be great having a life of such importance.’
There was no envy in the words. Her face showed genuine admiration. Cautiously, expecting the subject to be the affair with Idris, Rosita said, ‘I’m not the one to help you.’
‘Yes, you are. Following your rules I was. Going all out for what I wanted, just like you said, so you’re a bit responsible, see.’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s like this, see. I’m going to have a baby and, well, I don’t know what to do about it. I thought you, being so worldly and everything, you’d help me make up my mind.’
‘Make up your mind about what?’ Caution deepened. She wondered if she were physically strong enough to push her overweight half-sister from the car, and decided she wasn’t.
‘I don’t know whether to have the baby or not,’ Hattie continued, smiling. She seemed oblivious of Rosita’s growing anger.
‘I don’t want to hear this!’
‘You don’t have to have the baby, I know that. There’s plenty of choice. I’ve got to think about what’s best for me.’
‘If you’re thinking about an abortion then I don’t want to hear! Do you understand? Go to a backstreet Gwrach and murder your child if you must, but don’t talk to me!’ Rosita’s voice was warningly low but Hattie was blissfully unaware of the distress she was causing.
‘Get rid of it? I had thought of that. Having a baby would spoil my life quite a bit. It wouldn’t be much fun having to drag a child around with me everywhere I went, would it? Me not being married an’ all.’
‘I think you should go! Now, this minute!’ Rosita saw an image of her mother talking exactly the same way as Hattie was now and all her unhappiness was rekindled in a way it hadn’t been for years.
Hattie chattered on, oblivious of Rosita’s growing pain and anger, her silence convincing her she was talking to an interested and admiring audience of one. ‘The man, the father, like, he won’t marry me. At least, I don’t think he will. So the sensible thing would be to lose it and try and forget it ever happened. Get on with the rest of my life. Don’t you think that’s best for me?’
‘That’s between you and your conscience,’ a trembling Rosita managed to say.
‘Of course I could have the baby, then get it adopted. Or fostered might be better!’ She looked as though the idea had just occurred. ‘Then,’ she went on, ‘one day, when I’m older I could find her and—’
Rosita leaned across, opened the door and asked her to leave, giving her a fierce but ineffectual push. It was clearly Idris’s baby and choking misery as well as compassion for Kate, whom she had grown to like very much, made it impossible to listen to any more.
More importantly, Hattie had confirmed the reason she hadn’t wanted to see her mother all these years. Hattie was exactly the same type as Barbara, thinking the same thoughts as when Barbara had discovered she – Rosita – was on the way. Rosita was shaking as she imagined her mother discussing whether or not to allow her to live and if she did, then whether it might be nice to let someone bring her up and return her when all the problems had faded. History was repeating itself.
She used both hands and pushed a protesting Hattie from the car and drove off, tears stinging her eyes, her throat threatening to burst with held-back sobs.
Around the corner she stopped and allowed the tears to fall. How could she ever meet her mother with anything but hatred? Barbara’s own daughter was growing up exactly the same as her mother had been: calculating, callous and self-centred. She closed her eyes and saw in her mind a kaleidoscope of memories, mostly of Richard, showing him at various stages of his life, g
rowing from a boy to a man. She opened her handbag and took out the faded and creased photograph of Bernard Stock, her father. At least she didn’t carry the blood of the harsh and unkind farmer, Graham Prothero.
Starting the engine again, she felt isolated from everything; unreal, invisible and completely alone. She knew how her mother must have felt about her; she had been unwanted, a nuisance, a burden to be discarded as soon as possible. Hattie’s attitude was the same as Barbara’s had been. She had no right to be alive. She didn’t belong to anyone or anywhere. If only she could drive non-stop until she had left everything behind again, just like when she had run away from the children’s home and met Miss Grainger. Perhaps it would work again but this time she would emerge as an independent woman with no memories to hold her down and prevent her from being happy.
She drove out of town to the quiet beach near Gull Island and stepped out onto the rocky shore. The tide was far out and her feet took her onto the seaweed-slimed causeway towards the island without thought. Her mind was still ringing with the words spoken by Hattie and which, in her distress, she imagined spoken thirty-four years before by her own mother.
Slipping and sliding, cutting her legs on sharp rocks and barnacles, she felt nothing, although blood ran down her legs and gathered in her shoes. The sun was long gone, leaving a darkening sky and making way for a storm. Clouds rushed towards her, approaching from the west, carrying moisture from the wide expanse of the Atlantic ocean. But her surroundings were irrelevant; unseen, unfelt and no longer of any importance.
The wind, a forerunner of the approaching storm, lifted her jacket and touched her skin through her undergarments, but she disregarded the chill. Dark swirling water began to fill the space around the island and deepen the pools. Fish and small crustaceans eagerly searched the replenishing tide for food and Rosita walked on without reducing or increasing her speed. The whole journey was a dream.
When she was a few yards from the island shore, the tide deepened and with added strength it sucked and pulled at her legs. It seemed determined to force her out into the wicked race of water coming at speed around the rocky outcrop of land, where she would be immediately out of her depth and in waters so irresistible she would be helpless to choose her own destiny.
She didn’t care; nothing mattered any more. Her eyes were staring but seeing nothing. The spray had covered her glasses with an opaqueness that inhibited her sight but she didn’t notice. Yet, there was, deep within her, some instinctive seed of survival that forced her to deny the greedy water its prize, and pull herself towards safety. She held on to the jagged rocks and tore her hands as the water tried to dislodge her. Straining every muscle, she battled against the enormous force of the sea and inch by inch pulled herself towards land.
When she eventually dragged herself out onto the beach, she was waist-deep in water and the waves touching the rocks and bouncing in every direction leapt and frolicked and soaked her completely. She was exhausted and crawled to lay on the sand until she felt the tide touching her feet. Then instinct prevailed once more and she crawled higher up the beach and stopped when she reached the reedy grass on the higher ground.
Cold, wet and without food, she was alone and no one knew where to find her. She wasn’t worried. It simply didn’t matter.
Chapter Sixteen
LUKE SPENT SEVERAL days each week travelling to sales and book fairs and other shops, buying stock or collecting pre-ordered items, but when the weather was good and he was at home, he often went to the cottage straight from the bookshop. He usually rang his housekeeper before mid-afternoon so she would know whether or not to prepare a meal for him. There were no other arrangements necessary.
On the day Rosita talked to Hattie, he had arrived at the beach near Gull Island early and parked his car out of sight at the back of the cottage. He walked for a while then, as he sensed the approach of the storm, he gathered driftwood for the fire and prepared for a cosy evening in with his books. Even in mid summer, a fire was friendly company.
He didn’t see the Anglia arrive or see Rosita’s staggering walk across the rocky neck of land to the island. While he sprawled in front of a roaring fire, a drink at his elbow and a book in his hand, he had no thought of there being anyone out on the storm-swept protuberance of land only yards from where he idled the hours away.
The storm was a violent one. As he sat and read, Luke was constantly aware of it as things began to roll about outside the cottage and occasionally bang with a suddenness that made him start. Once he went out to rescue a bin that was rolling first one way then another and threatened to go on all night. Outside, the night was black, with rain coming down in solid torrents and blanking out everything beyond his nose. He was soaked in the few moments it took to anchor the bin. He paused though, and looked towards the turbulent water and the island. Both were unseen; only memory told him they were there.
It was almost midnight when he stretched, considered setting off back to Cardiff, then changed his mind and decided to stay the night. The weather was really wild, the wind pausing now and then before lashing at the walls in increased fury. More unseen objects were rolled about before its angry breath. Better to stay where he was, warm and comfortable, rather than risk driving through the lanes and perhaps meet a fallen tree, or worse, be hit by one. Better to rise early for the six-mile drive to the shop.
He liked the sound of a storm when he was inside. The cottage was old but solidly built and he could laugh at the wind, locked away from its power, cheating it of its intention to do harm. He thought of the people who were out in it, seamen most of all, and policemen and emergency services, and he was thankful.
Before he settled into bed he stood by the window and looked out over the sea. The island was invisible in the darkness apart from the fluorescent white of angry waves as they reached the beach. Tomorrow, he thought idly, would be a good day for collecting driftwood.
Rosita struggled to find protection from the waves that were breaking with increasing force over the cliffs of the island. She had to move although the effort was daunting. Every time she rose to her knees, the wind pushed at her and once succeeded in rolling her over with a casualness that was terrifying. The noise was deafening, an orchestra of ululating wails, sudden slamming, weird howls that sounded animal-like and a whispering, threatening drone. The fury of movement and sound convinced her that this was a night she wouldn’t survive.
She dragged herself to where a slight overhang of rock gave at least the presence of shelter and cursed herself for her stupidity. Her clothes were soaked and she huddled miserably against the rock face and tried to pretend they were not. ‘Richard,’ she sobbed. ‘Where are you?’
It was impossible to sleep with the wind slamming and threatening to move even the solid rock against which she sheltered. She wondered if Luke were in the cottage and thought not. It was usually weekends when he came. The reminder made her shiver with increased panic as she realized there were hours before morning gave even a slight hope of rescue. I am alone, she thought, engulfed with melancholy. No one even knows where I am. Too weak to walk back across the causeway. How can I hope for rescue?
Idris was not a happy man. For a while it had been fun to have an affair with Hattie but things were turning sour. Kate had guessed and was threatening to leave him. That would never do. He needed Kate and he didn’t want to be parted from Lynne and Helen. He would have to tell Hattie goodbye and suggest she find somewhere else to live. It was over and he hoped she would be as willing to end it as she had been to begin it.
He had always courted danger in his love-life. The imminent threat of discovery had been the spice he needed to fully enjoy any illicit relationship. The most exciting had been Hattie. Being Kate’s sister was enough at the beginning; the enormity of the idea, the danger it encompassed, had kept him awake night after night until he had approached her and found her willing.
Then risking making love to her in the house while everyone thought he was alone, while his family w
ere in London. Creeping about and ducking under windows as they moved about from room to room, exaggerating the dread when someone called and Hattie had to run, giggling, her plump body clad only in a towel, up the stairs.
Best of all was the evening they had made love in the kitchen, while Kate was walking back to the shop to find her handbag. Listening for her return and holding Hattie in his arms until the very last moment, when Kate touched the lock with her key. That had been fantastic!
He was waiting for Hattie now. Kate was out and they were hoping for one of their joyous sessions. He decided they would make love for the last time before he told her it must end, but she came in with an expression on her face that knocked his romantic approach for six.
‘Idris, I’m going to have a baby,’ she blurted out as she opened the door.
‘Bloody hell, Hattie! You could have told me gently, not shot it at me like that!’
‘Sorry, but I’ve been trying to say something for days and, well, it’s a hard thing to tell anyone, isn’t it?’
‘What will you do?’
‘What are we going to do, surely?’ she replied, looking at him with those dark eyes he had once thought attractive and now seemed dull and unpleasant.
‘Sorry, love, but I won’t leave Kate and the girls. If you tell her about me I’ll deny it. You can’t prove anything, we’ve been too careful for that. Today I was going to tell you “goodbye”, anyway, and ask you to find somewhere else to live.’
‘Idris! You don’t mean that!’
‘Damned right I do. It was fun, mind. I can’t deny that. You were a lot of fun, but that’s all it was. If you weren’t careful enough to avoid this mess, well, I’m sorry but it isn’t my mess – it’s yours.’ On impulse, suddenly remembering some cash he had in his pocket, intended to pay a large bill for Richard, which he had forgotten to do, he said, ‘I can give you some money.’
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