She stood and stared into space as though in a trance. He took a roll of crisp white fivers from his pocket and held them out to her. They belonged to Richard but he’d get over that little problem somehow.
‘You mean you won’t leave Kate and marry me? Or even share a part of your life with me?’
‘That was never on the cards and you know it, so don’t start any fancy nonsense with me.’ He was still speaking pleasantly, his tone the same as when they had shared intimate moments.
‘What will I do?’
‘Go and see your mother, I suppose. First you ought to get a place to live. I want you out of here as soon as possible. There’s always some advertisements in the window of Rosita’s shop. Why don’t you stroll up there now and see if there’s anything you fancy? You’ve got money – that’s better than you expected, isn’t it?’
‘Then it’s all over? Everything?’
‘You knew it couldn’t last, Hattie. We both enjoyed it and now it’s time to end it.’ He attempted to kiss her but she pushed him away with surprising vehemence and ran from the house.
Her thoughts were in turmoil as she walked the street, battling against the fearsome wind, careless of the torrential downpour. She tried to consider how to deal with the frightening prospect of being an unmarried mother. The storm reflected her mood. There was a raging storm both outside her and within.
The shame was just a part of it, although that was bad enough. Heads would turn as she passed and she would catch sight of shared glances and disapproving nods. She’d be used as an example to make other girls aware of the dangers of loving too well and too soon. How would she cope with it all?
Hattie wasn’t one for looking further than the present. Enjoyment was fleeting and to be savoured to the full. If she had considered where the affair with Idris was taking her, she would have believed he would stand by her, tell the world they were in love, not just lovers. After all, she must mean more to him than Kate or he wouldn’t have started an affair in the first place, she reasoned – incorrectly.
She needed a man, a man who would marry her, but how could she find one now, in this state? Thoughts of all the chances she had missed while she was sharing Idris with his wife made fear change to anger, and calmly, coldly, she decided on the best course to take. The first step was to talk to Rosita again. A woman of the world, she’d know how to deal with the dilemma. She was unaware that as she was thinking of her, Rosita was in danger of losing her life in the storm that raged around them both.
At the school shop the next morning, there was a queue of angry customers waiting for Rosita to open. Among the first was Monty and after ten minutes had passed and she still hadn’t appeared, he knocked on the door of a neighbour who sometimes helped out. She had a spare key and at Monty’s request, went up to find the flat empty. Soon the customers went off with their purchases and Monty, who had noted the absence of her car, was watching the road anxiously.
What could have happened? Rosita would have made arrangements if she had intended to be delayed. Efficiency was important to her; she wasn’t the kind to forget something as important as opening the shop on time. When half an hour had passed, he rang Kate. She knew nothing and, running in growing fear, he went to find Richard.
Richard tried his mother, then after several abortive enquiries, he rang the police at Monty’s urging. ‘It might be a false alarm, Richard, but if it isn’t we’re wasting precious minutes.’ He had been aware of Rosita’s absence longer than Richard and his fears had grown at a faster rate.
It wasn’t until Monty pointed out that although it was only seven o’clock in the morning, Rosita was already an hour late opening the shop, and she might have been missing all night, that Richard realized how worrying it was. Then, learning that her flat was empty and her car wasn’t to be found, he felt the churning of real ice-cold panic.
He went back to the office to liaise with Monty and between them they phoned or visited everyone they could think of who would know where she might have gone. It didn’t take very long; the list of her friends was not enormous. She was always too busy working to make a lot of friends.
‘What about Luke?’ Monty suggested. ‘Could she have gone there?’
‘Unlikely. He lives in Cardiff. She would have said if she planned to visit him and I’d have gone too – he’s my friend as well, remember.’
‘But he has a cottage near?’
‘Yes, but – Dammit, it’s worth a try.’ Glad of something to do, some purpose to take away the feeling of impotent frustration and rapidly growing fear, Richard threw himself into the van and drove off.
Rosita had managed to sleep a little but was fully awake long before the queue had formed outside the school shop. She had never been so cold. Huddled against the unyielding rock, she tightened the flimsy jacket around her shoulders, watching for the first rim of light to appear on the horizon. The early darkness, with its promise to imminent change, took her back in memory to the farm.
She remembered getting up on frosty mornings and going into the barns to feed the animals and remembered how glad she had been of their warm bodies and the breath that floated from their mouths and made pictures in the still air. She could have grown to like the farm, if her mother had supported her and stopped Graham from hitting her.
There were rare occasions when Graham had taken her with him onto the hills to check on the sheep. She had liked that and had taken an interest in what he was doing, young though she had been at the time. She remembered wanting to please him, make him like her as much as he liked Kate and Hattie, but some devil inside her refused to let her reveal it. The battle between wanting him to like her and the imp that showed only her worst side went on within her.
The worst side always won. Trying to punish her mother and Graham had only hurt herself; she must have known that, but had been too young to deal with it. Perhaps, she mused, if Auntie Molly Carey had been around, things would have been different. Richard’s mam was one of the few people she could always talk to.
She became aware of company. Hundreds of gulls had settled on the sheltered side of the island during the night and now the winds had eased, they were cackling and calling, preparing to leave. They rose in groups of a dozen or so at a time, joining the rest wheeling around her, creating a deafening hullabaloo, before setting off across the still-turbulent waters in search of food.
The grass was shining in the pre-dawn light and rabbits were grazing quietly around her. She squeaked with her mouth to coax them closer but they ignored her and went on feeding.
She had to get up and walk back to the beach as soon as the waters parted. If anyone were to see her, she would have to get to the most likely spot to be seen. The saddest thing was, no one would miss her until morning and then it would only be a line of disgruntled customers wanting their ‘twenty fags and my paper, love’. What I want is a bath and a cup of tea, she thought miserably. Ben Gunn, she remembered, had wanted cheese when he had been rescued from that mythical Treasure Island.
Her ankle was swollen and rather stiff. If she was going to make her way back to the causeway, she ought to start. She looked at her watch. Four o’clock. Plenty of time; it was still too dark. At five, she began to make her way slowly down from the shelter she had found and crawled to the middle of the grassy plateau above the beach. The tide was out. It seemed impossible that all that swirling water had gone. She had to get across as soon as she could now it was light, and the prospect made her ankle throb in anticipation of movement.
Luke woke early and couldn’t return to lazy slumber. It was irritating not to be able to sleep when it was pointless to be awake. He sat up in bed and read, tried again to close his eyes and rest but eventually gave up, washed in the large china bowl and went downstairs. He made tea and went out into the glistening dawn. The air was clean and sweet; the storm had moved on but there were still sudden gusts that rattled loose metal somewhere and made it screech and grate complainingly.
The night had left a
litter of fallen branches and assorted rubbish around his doorway. It had also left a newly washed array of brilliant greenery: the leaves of stunted trees near the cottage were dust-free and polished. He stood and admired nature’s handiwork for a moment, then pushed the larger pieces of wood away from the door with Wellingtoned feet and went onto the beach.
A gust of wind hit him as he left the lee of the cottage and made him stagger. The noise seemed far less than when he had been inside but the wind was still fierce enough to block all other sounds. A stick flew up and hit him as he went to check on his boat.
He had been right about the driftwood. For a while he worked methodically, putting the largest pieces in a pile ready to be sawn into useable lengths and filled a woven basket with smaller pieces. He looked across at the island, realized his glasses were covered in salt, cleaned them and looked again. The grass beyond the beach was a very bright green in the early-morning light. Perhaps he would walk over and see what the storm had brought. It would mean being late but there wasn’t anything Jeanie couldn’t deal with; she was a very capable person.
He stood enjoying the still-blustering wind and the sense of being the only person in the world. Then he thought he saw a movement over on the island. Not a fisherman, surely? Not in weather like this. It must be flotsam. It was amazing what turned up on the sea’s edge after a strong wind and high tide. But he continued to stare.
There was something waving in the wind. An edge of cloth? A sack, perhaps, caught in the rocks. Then the object moved and he saw something waving rhythmically. There was someone out there! There must have been a shipwreck. He looked around wondering how best to deal with the emergency. The boat? Or walk? The boat would be risky and would mean going a long way following the shore before making for the island to avoid the strong currents. But if the figure was an injured man, how could he get him safely back? Better run to the phone box, but no. This was his person. He was here and it was up to him to perform the rescue.
A motorboat would be the answer. He waved back frantically until he was sure the person had seen him then disappeared into the cottage before hurrying towards the next bay, where the water was always deep and where he moored his boat. He prayed as he ran that the boat hadn’t been damaged by the storm and was relieved when he found it apparently unharmed. He had taken a blanket and as a precaution an extra anchor. The engine started without fuss and he headed for the island, warily avoiding the dangerous currents that pulled so fiercely.
Throwing the anchor overboard, he jumped into the swirling water, waded ashore and walked to the figure lying on the sand.
‘Rosita!’ He stared in disbelief at the bedraggled and exhausted woman. ‘Whatever possessed you to—’ He wasted no more time in explanations and recriminations; taking off his sweater he gave it to her, and also the jacket he wore, and wrapping her in the blanket he carried her to the boat.
He was filled with remorse as he turned the boat towards the shore. Why hadn’t he sensed she was in trouble? He had always believed he had an extra sense where Rosita and Barbara were concerned. He had lain in his bed, complaining about not being able to sleep, and all the time Rosita had been out there in desperate risk of hypothermia and death. He smiled reassuringly at her.
Dressed in his jumper and with her hair awry, her face devoid of make-up, Rosita was startlingly like her mother. Her colouring was different – she obviously followed Bernard Stock in her brown eyes and darker skin – but seeing her now was like turning back the pages of time and seeing Barbara as she used to be, shabbily dressed and surrounded by the unruly Carey mob.
His heart ached with happiness at the memories. Why hadn’t he snatched the opportunity when it offered itself? Euphoria changed to harsh truth and less happy memories flooded back as he stepped out along the road back to the cottage.
Because his father had frightened him with fears of his unacceptable sexuality, that was why. He hadn’t had the knowledge, maturity or confidence to realize his father had been wrong. It had taken Martine to make him accept that. He smiled at Rosita again. ‘We’ll get you to hospital within the hour,’ he said softly.
Fixing up a simple crutch to support her injured ankle, he helped her to the car after wrapping her in extra blankets and feeding her hot soup to continue the warming process. She was dressed in a pair of his trousers and several jumpers, a scarf was wrapped around her head and Luke thought she looked utterly beautiful.
‘You’re so like Barbara,’ he said in admiration. To his alarm she reacted strongly.
‘NO! I’m NOT like her and never could be!’
‘All right,’ he soothed, seeing her face tense with the threat of tears. ‘Not in spirit, I know that. Barbara was far too unsure of herself to manage what you’ve achieved, but just now and then, an expression …’ His voice trailed off. Rosita was determinedly not listening.
As they turned right at the T-junction at the end of the lane, Richard was hurtling towards them from the left. They missed each other by less than a minute.
Richard searched and, finding Rosita’s car, he wailed in his grief and drove straight to a telephone box to tell the police of his find. He stood and stared across at the island until they came, convinced she was dead. He answered their questions mechanically and then watched as they went over and searched the small island.
Numb, drained of all emotion, he prepared himself for confirmation of his fears. He felt lightheaded and deathly ill. The world was going on around him without him taking part. He saw the men walking methodically over the higher area of the island, pushing vegetation aside with sticks at each step. Now and then, one would pause and bend down. Each time that happened, his heart would leap painfully as his body came momentarily back to life.
All he could do was wait for the words he dreaded. They would find her body, he knew they would. When a motorcyclist arrived with the message that she was safe, and in hospital, he didn’t believe him for a moment, so certain was he that she was dead.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked stupidly.
The following day, Rosita came home with nothing more than a strapped ankle to show for her stupidity. She sat propped up on her couch while Richard fussed and watched her every move.
‘I never thought you were such an old hen,’ she teased.
‘I never thought you had less sense than a day-old chick!’ he retorted.
The flat was full of visitors for most of the following three days. Besides Richard and his mother coming every moment they could spare, there was Monty, Kate and of course Luke, who wouldn’t leave until he was certain that she was all right.
On one of the rare moments when there were just the two of them, Richard asked why she had been so foolish. Rosita didn’t try to explain. She couldn’t talk about what Hattie had said and the way she had revealed her casual attitude to the new life within her. It was bound up with Rosita’s unfortunate childhood and very painful. How could she explain the disturbed memories and thoughts that had caused her to be so careless about her own life? She did tell him Hattie was expecting a baby.
‘I didn’t ask who the father was but there’s no doubt, is there? It must be Idris, your oh-so-charming brother.’
‘There was something going on, but I didn’t want to tell you,’ he said. He didn’t develop the subject. Rosita stared at him, surprised at how shocked he looked.
‘Now,’ Richard said brightly, ‘Mam wants to know what she can make for your tea.’
‘Poor Kate,’ Rosita whispered sadly.
‘Poor you! It’s yourself you should be thinking of now, not other people’s problems. It’s just you and me, Rosita, that’s all that matters now. Remember that, won’t you?’
Between them were thoughts unshared that isolated them from each other. Luke, to whom she had told everything, insisted she discuss it with Richard but she refused. The time wasn’t right. Instead, she created added enthusiasm about their engagement party, now only days away.
With the shops running satisfactorily, Rosita
luxuriated in a few days of doing nothing. Three days before their engagement was to be announced, Richard called with the books from the shops. Her ankle was still painful but she put away the stick she had been using, determined to cope.
‘On Monday I’ll be back at the shop,’ she told him.
‘Only if you come out for a meal tonight and prove your ankle is strong again, and if you agree you’ll need an assistant for a while,’ Richard said firmly, and for once she didn’t argue.
They went to see Mrs Carey on their way to the restaurant, Rosita laughing at the awkward way she walked.
‘There’s lovely!’ was Mrs Carey’s greeting. ‘On your feet again. And thank goodness too.’ She brought a chair forward. ‘How about a nice cup of tea, then?’
‘We can’t stay, Mam. We’re just off to eat. There’s a table booked for half an hour’s time.’
‘Come tomorrow and stay longer?’ She turned her head enquiringly, like a little bird, Rosita thought affectionately.
‘Tomorrow for sure,’ she said.
‘Was that the door?’ Mrs Carey said a moment later. ‘What a night for visitors. Now who can that be?’ she chattered on, asking herself questions and guessing answers. She went to the door and came back with Hattie.
‘Glad you’re here,’ Hattie said. ‘I saw the van go past the house and guessed you were coming here. Got a bit of news, I have, see. I’m going to have a baby.’
Mrs Carey sat down suddenly and stared at her. ‘Getting married then, are you?’ Her first thought was relief that she would be getting from under Kate’s feet, unaware that she had already left.
‘Well, it’s up to him, really.’
‘Who?’ Mrs Carey demanded. ‘Tell us the father’s name.’
Hattie turned and smiled sorrowfully at Rosita. ‘Sorry, Rosita.’ Into the silence she added, ‘It’s Richard, see.’
Gull Island Page 33