by Polly Young
They’d met on the way to work. “I’m a solicitor. James spotted me on the pavement from his taxi.”
“How romantic”
“Not really. He’d forgotten his wallet; picked me up thinking I looked rich.” She looked him straight in the eye. “He makes pies. It’s great: he can do it from home and look after the children.”
He was sitting next to a real life example of ... who was that girl Rosy harped on about? Caitlin Moron? Well, he never. He cheers-ed politely.
“He loves our kids more than anything. He was much surer than I was — even before we married — about kids. So refreshing in a man.”
David swallowed and dug out his wallet as the buzz of conversation lulled to a murmur under the compere. As the waitresses resumed their orbit with petits fours, bidding began. First up: a family holiday to Euro Disney. Alarm bells jingled as he realised he’d rather win this than the signed, framed Manchester United programme. He’d known he was broody but this was a whole new ball game.
Chapter 17
Rosy watched beige, dehydrated clumps of powder rise to the surface of the plastic beaker as she stirred. Did anyone else ever buy chicken soup from vending machines? It was as bland as the selection of ancient women’s weeklies and hospital newspapers. She put the beaker down and squeezed Judy’s hand, mainly to stop her own shaking.
Judy George was dry-eyed. She’d been dry-eyed when the letter from the consultant at the hospital had arrived confirming Charles’ Gleeson score of 7, dry-eyed making the urologist appointment. Dry-eyed calling Ollie to update him and dry-eyed as Rosy and she had listened to Charles heave in the bathroom, thinking the house was asleep. Even with her husband in theatre, she seemed in control.
“Look, darling: an article on Anti-Paxos,” she pointed unsteadily to a page in Good Housekeeping. “Our first anniversary. Perhaps we’ll go this summer.”
Rosy had learnt in the last couple of weeks it was easier to go along than challenge her mother’s choice of conversation. Trying to take her mind off Angus and David had not been as difficult as she had thought: Vic was right — every ounce of her worry was directed towards her father. There hadn’t been a peep from Angus. She slurped her soup, picked up a copy of the Lytton parish newsletter, Villigant! and felt everything but her fingers freeze as she read a headline at the bottom of the front page. ‘Sailing Instructor Dismissed After Sex Claim’.
She scanned the piece quickly. It was very short. She absorbed the important bits: facts that confirmed the last thing she wanted to know. An instructor at Crabham Sailing Club was the subject of a sexual allegation made by a parent of one of the students. He had been accused of inappropriate behaviour on club grounds last year, and had continued to molest the parent in question during the early part of this year. No names were given. The article ended with a statement about the number of false accusations directed towards instructors and teachers in general, concluding that children’s safety was paramount.
“Mum?” she squeaked.
Judy’s eyes softened as she imbibed the information. “Oh dear,” she whispered finally. “I knew he had a thing ...”
“ ... for older women. We all knew that,” Rosy was irritated. “But you know what, Mum? It wasn’t just older women. There were some quite attractive younger ones too.”
Judy looked at her daughter. “Darling, I know you and Angus were good friends. But in the light of these — ah — revelations, don’t you think you should turn your attention to David?”
Her father was having his prostate removed next door and this was what was on her mother's mind? “I thought you couldn’t stand him!”
“I couldn’t stand what he had done to you, darling,” Judy said softly. I couldn’t bear to see you so sad. But when he came over from Paris on Valentine’s Day .. “
“He brought me Steph Gables. I know,” she said dully.
“And he has called SO many times. You haven’t returned his calls once.” Judy folded the magazine and eyeballed her daughter. “Have you?” Enough was enough. Suppressed hurt and worry came bubbling to the surface as Rosy stood up, knocking chicken soup off the table and burning her legs.
“NO! Because I don’t know what to say, Mum. I don’t know if I want to marry him or if I want to tie him to a stone and drop him off a Wight Link ferry. I don’t know if I want to see Angus or forget about him for the rest of my life. But I do, more than anything, want Dad to get better and for you to stop pretending that everything’s ok ... when it quite obviously isn’t!” Tantrum over, she marched to the loo to grab a paper towel.
Staring into the mirror above the sink gave her a shock. She hadn’t seen the inside of a hairdresser’s since before Christmas and her hair was feathery with split ends. Her skin had a dullness about which she had no inclination — or money — to do anything about it. She splashed her face and neck with cold water and rubbed a paper towel over them. Not blessed with the type of skin that looked refreshed after a dousing, at least she feltfresher for it. She pinched her cheeks and decided not to rest until she knew her father was through his operation and had heard Angus’ side of the story.
She returned to clean up. Judy squeezed her shoulder and apologised. As they embraced, a young doctor approached and cleared his throat.
“Yes?” Judy and Rosy spoke simultaneously. They followed him into a small room with grey sofas.
“Charles has come through the surgery as well as we hoped,” he said gravely. “There was a cluster of cancer cells around the prostate, which we have managed to eliminate completely. However, we will need to wait for the results of the tests we are carrying out now before we understand just what the outcome is. By that ...”
“ ... you mean if he still has cancer,” Judy choked.
“He will be round from the anaesthetic and should be up to receiving visitors immediately if he wants to.” Rosy looked at her mother. The woman who used to hold the answer to everything from ‘what do dogs dream about?’ to ‘what can I do?’ and realised Judy had thought her husband would die today.
“Mum?” she whispered, “see Dad by yourself. I’ll come back this evening. I’ll phone Ollie — don’t worry about us.”
As she watched her mother depart, supported by the doctor’s arm, she pulled out the newsletter again.
* * *
Tom Mason was killing time lopping hawthorn off the hedges. Green fronds paved the road and half a bumpy hour later Rosy pulled up next to Angus’ tree. Seeing it in full bud gave her a curious feeling of pleasure as she hopped out of the car but her throat constricted as Angus emerged from the house. He looked grim, and was carrying an enormous holdall. He saw Rosy, stopped and put the bag down slowly, like an armed robber caught in the act.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
She took in the Triumph’s open boot; inside were squeezed another two bags and what looked like a tent. His Wellington boots. A gas stove.
“Running away?”
“Yes, I suppose it would do to you.” He looked at her for a long time, before turning.
“What’s going on, Angus?”
The look in his eyes told her he knew exactly what she meant.
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“You’re not bloody Jason Bourne. It’s ok, Angus. It’s not your philandering I care about: I should have known you were an incurable ladies’ man from the first day we met. It’s not the running away that bothers me either — though it is the most cowardly reaction I can think of. No. It’s that you lied. About everything. At least David has had the decency to try to put his mistakes right.” She bristled with anger and hurt.
He slung the bag into the boot and slammed the door shut. “I hope your father is ok.”
“Don’t you dare bring my father into it,” she tried to keep her voice level. “If you cared even the slightest, you would have been in touch before now. So don’t pretend you give a shit about the situation. My father is a stronger man than you will ever be.
”
Angus swayed like a lion shot with a tranquiliser. He really seemed to have nothing to say. As she watched him, he seemed to shrink backwards.
“Whatever you’ve done,” she said finally, “I hope it was worth it.”
The trees whispered above them and the April sky reminded her it was time for new beginnings. If Angus was leaving she’d cope. She would soldier on.
“I hope so too. May I call you?”
“I don’t think so,” she said coldly. “I can’t think what we might have to say.”
“Fair enough,” he said, and shrugged. “I really do hope things work out.” He climbed into the Triumph and slammed the door and it was all she could do to stop herself wrenching it back open and beating him with her fists. Instead she stood, composed, on the verge.
“They will,” she whispered and started walking towards home. And for the first time since Paris, she almost believed it.
* * *
Spring days were wasted in London thought Rosy, winding the window down to catch the skylarks’ salute. Where in London did you notice rabbits poking their heads out of burrows to brave the outside world, or feel the wind whip warmth into your cheeks on top of a hill? Some of her favourite memories centred around the spring picnics they would take with the rest of their neighbours: an ‘eggstravaganza’ as Ollie called it at Easter, when bonnet decorating and running races occupied the children as they gorged on chocolate eggs and soft drinks, whilst the adults lazed on rugs with Scotch versions of both. She parked with the sole intention of walking until her legs gave in. With provisions and a bowl for Storm, she felt equipped to deal with some decision-making.
Passing through a kissing gate, she spotted a hawk on the horizon, hovering over a hedge. Storm was engrossed in sniffing every hillock and hump she came across, so Rosy stood and watched the magnificent bird hang in the air for what seemed an eternity.
That was the problem: time didn’t stand still. If David could be suspended in Paris fixing women’s appearances and she could continue with her job in Lytton with no distractions, life would be so much simpler. But that’s not how it worked: and wouldn’t it be boring if it did? There were no happy endings: that much she was beginning to learn. It would be obscenely easy if there were. At some point, the hawk would swoop and catch something — or someone — in its grip. She thought of her father, and the conversation they had had the night before.
“Rosy darling.” His eyes had been bright with drugs and snatched-back life. “I don’t plan on leaving this world for a long time yet.”
“What do you call a nurse with a spade on her head?”
She gave up.
His eyes twinkled. “I call mine Doug, she looks so butch.”
She squeezed between gorse bushes, dodging mud and trailed by Storm who was in seventh heaven. They passed a brigade of walkers with sticks, compasses and maps in Barbours and woolly hats. The air was fresh; the type that sorted the men from the boys: t-shirt weather for some, Arctic for others. Rosy was comfortable in her padded gilet, though a year ago would rather have maimed herself than be seen in such garb.
David weighed heavily. His last phone call had come just as she’d returned from hospital. She had ignored it, of course, but there had been something in his voicemail, something insistent that had made her listen. As well as his usual, “Rosy, I miss you; I love you; I’m sorry; please call,” there had been something more urgent. She had almostcalled him back and the ‘almost’ had spurred her to walk. Usually she and Storm did a circuit of the Lytton headland but today she needed something different. Angus’ departure had left a hole in her heart. Vic’s “one less to worry about then,” was true ... but where did that leave her? Even if she’d wanted to follow him she’d no idea where he was, thanks to her own pig-headedness. She kicked a stick. Storm pounced.
With less than eight weeks to the wedding, the only thing to do was to bite the bullet and call David. Each time she thought of him she was aware of a subtle melting of her heart, like the Arctic ice sheet. She lashed out at the gorse with the lead. He had made an effort, hadn’t he? The last six months had been hell but he must have had his own private torture. Part of her was desperate to find out more about his fellowship and plans for when it finished. Just a few months previously she’d known which boxers he was wearing. She missed the familiarity; missed sharing a home with someone else; someone who wanted to share it with her. Face it. She missed David.
She emerged at the top of the trundle where the view of the Downs hit her like a James Bond opening. As she took in vista, she knew there was a call she was going to have to make, and soon.
Chapter 18
“So you’ve seen one you like?” asked Vic politely, sipping lemonade under the shade of a large umbrella outside the Moon. Her voice was automaton and May sunshine reflecting on her platinum hair made her voice seem even icier.
“It’s lovely Vic,” Rosy said cautiously. “Storm’s had a good root around and bagged her corner. She’s being a right dog in the manger.”
It was the best she could muster. Vic’s disapproval of the decision to buy a house with David couldn’t have been clearer if she’d written it on her forehead and marched round Lytton banging saucepans. The reconciliation had been quick; the decision to buy a house even quicker ... but they had a wedding to plan, didn’t they? They had to move quickly. Literally. A sale would take a good few months and they didn’t very well want to start married life apart.
London: strangely the word didn’t excite her like it used to. The thought of living there again made her feel — how could she describe it? — like needing a suit of armour first. But her friends still lived in London. It wasstill exciting. It was just so far away from ... what? she asked herself sternly. Her father was on the mend and Angus wasn’t exactly pining in Lytton. Not that that mattered ...
Vic’s patience was tissue thin. “If you’re going to stare into space like a love-sick Bieber fan, I may as well go.”
Rosy was hurt. Why couldn’t Vic just be pleased for her? At least the men situation was sorted. Mrs Pettigrew. The name loomed in her head, changing colours like WordArt.
Rosy walked Vic to her car. “I know this is difficult for you to accept but David and I really are getting back together. We really are buying a house, and we really are getting married. And I really am happy.” There, she’d said it. The words had come out and her nose hadn’t grown. It must be true.
Vic gave her an odd look. “I hope so, Rosy. You seem happy to have come to a decision. I just hope that when Angus comes back you feel the same way.”
Rosy kicked that thought to the kerb and said, “you’ll be my bridesmaid still?” Hearing the whine in her voice wanted to kick herself too.
Vic nodded, kissed her and gave Storm a pat on the head. “See you soon Rosy Posy,” she said sadly.
Rosy stood feeling as flat as her Coke. Foil crisp packets glinted in the sun and beer glasses sparkled and winked, as bright and shiny as her engagement ring which, looking at it, also seemed rather empty. As she wandered back to the house, trailing Storm, she realised she didn’t have to wait for Angus’ call —or have to summon the courage to call him herself. What if she did some digging? She needed to know exactly what had happened — however turgid the details — to get him out of her head for good and David need never know. And she could walk down the aisle with a clear conscience.
With a spring in her step, she upped the pace. Arriving home, she bundled Storm into the car and checked her watch. 5.30pm: with any luck, he might still be there.
* * *
The sailing club car park was deserted. Rosy pulled up and marched through the dinghies towards the entrance, only to catch the man she wanted to see coming out of the building, heading in the opposite direction. Mr Sidcup was in a rush: pulling on his military style overcoat and fumbling for his keys, he looked disinclined to chat. Rosy, in her infinite wisdom, chose to ignore the signs.
“Mr Sidcup!” she panted, running up to him an
d trying to help with his sleeves. “Do you have a second?”
He looked at her quizzically. “Do I know you ..?”
"Rosy. Rosy George. You know my friend Ang .. Mr Hart.”
He waited until she had composed herself. Feeling like a child in the wrong classroom, she looked at her feet. “I wanted to ask about Mr Hart.” What a weak excuse for an interrogative publicist she was. His eyes narrowed.
“I mean, I know he’s left, but I’m not sure where ...” she faltered. She wanted to know whymore than where.
“Neither am I, Miss George.” His bushy eyebrows met as he frowned.
“But you must!” she exclaimed as he started to move away.
“I really don’t know where he is. The allegations brought against him were serious and the club had no alternative other than to dismiss him.”
Rosy reeled like she’d been slapped. “I don’t believe Angus could do anything to warrant this sort of treatment.”
He looked at her for a long time and put his briefcase down on the tarmac. “Neither do I,” he said softly. “But rules are rules. If Angus returns I won’t shun him in the street. He is welcome to come and see me personally at any time; unfortunately he may not come near this sailing club. I must be on my way. Have a lovely Bank Holiday.” He picked his briefcase back up and turned smartly.
Angrily she watched him depart. What an idiot Angus was for staying away. Didn’t he want to clear his name? But then he must feel as she did: confused, trapped. Helpless.
* * *
She drove quickly to Stuart’s house. The sun was beginning to set as she negotiated irate geese and killed a wheel spin in the mud. Stuart answered the door looking genuinely pleased to see her.
“Where’s Angus?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, Stuart, come on. We both know that’s not true.”
“Honestly I’ve no idea. Haven’t heard from him in weeks and his mobile just rings. Bit worried to be honest — though I know Angus can look after himself.” He waited a beat. ‘Would have thought you’d be first on his list of people to call.”