Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  Praise for Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘Splendid . . . I laughed out loud’

  Rosamunde Pilcher

  ‘Absolutely charming . . . made me understand a lot more about men’

  Jilly Cooper

  ‘A steamy novel of love among the gro-bags’

  Observer

  ‘A fine debut . . . great fun, but also sensitive and sensible with a tuneful storyline. Titchmarsh fans will lap up Mr MacGregor’

  Independent

  ‘I admit it, I like Mr MacGregor. It’s as satisfying as a freshly-mown lawn’

  Daily Mirror

  ‘Humorous, light-hearted and unpretentious. Titchmarsh’s book is strengthened by authenticity. Ideal for romantic gardeners’

  Mail on Sunday

  Also by Alan Titchmarsh

  ONLY DAD

  ANIMAL INSTINCTS

  THE LAST LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER

  MR MacGREGOR

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2004

  First published by Pocket Books, 2005

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Alan Titchmarsh, 2004

  The chapter titles and the descriptions of the roses are all taken from Classic Roses and Twentieth Century Roses by Peter Beales, published by Collins Harvill.

  Poem on page 300 by Mary Frye.

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  The right of Alan Titchmarsh to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia

  Sydney

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-7434-3010-4

  eBook ISBN 978-1-4711-1501-1

  Typeset by SX Composing DTP, Rayleigh, Essex.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

  For Luigi,

  grazie

  Acknowledgements

  My heartfelt thanks go to Suzanne Baboneau for her tremendous support and understanding during the writing of Rosie. Without her forbearance the book would simply not have appeared. Thanks also to Luigi Bonomi, a star among literary agents, for his unfailing help and encouragement, to Hazel Orme for fastidious copy editing which astounds me and makes me smile in equal measure, to Rochelle Venables for organizing things, to Caroline Mitchell for organizing me, and to Clare Ledingham who, as with all my novels, has guided, encouraged and warned. Without their help telling stories would not be nearly so rewarding. Dr. Neil Ashwood patiently advised me on medical matters whenever I rang his number – often at very inconvenient times. His phone-side manner is admirable.

  My family, as ever, have waited patiently for me to emerge from my eyrie in the barn and fed me, watered me and cosseted me whenever I needed the attention. They richly deserve my love and gratitude, and I only hope they approve of the results.

  Author’s Note

  Some of the characters and some of the places in this book are real, others are fictional.

  The Isle of Wight obviously exists, and so do all the places within it that are

  mentioned, except for Nick’s cottage, which somehow nobody has yet

  found, and Sleepyhead Bay, which is based on a tiny cluster of

  cottages in a secluded haven that keen visitors to the Isle of

  Wight will know. I felt obliged to change its name to

  protect it from being overrun. All the characters

  who play an active role are fictional, but real

  people and real events are

  mentioned and it is up to

  the reader to decide

  where reality ends

  and imagination

  begins.

  In a characteristic unique to the species, the ageing queen, having seen her progeny into adulthood, performs an energetic sequence of movements in the final hours before her death. These movements, which may become increasingly frenetic and complex, appear to satisfy some inbuilt urge or desire, but are, as yet, not fully understood. They are most usually referred to as ‘the queen’s last dance’.

  Emerich Hummel, The Russian Honey Bee, 1918

  Contents

  1 Tour de Malakoff

  2 Fairyland

  3 Richmond

  4 Rose du Roi

  5 Alchymist

  6 The Doctor

  7 Vick’s Caprice

  8 Royal Blush

  9 Royal Highness

  10 Gloire de l’Exposition

  11 Danse de Feu

  12 Breath of Life

  13 Belle de Crécy

  14 Nuits de Young

  15 Magenta

  16 Schoolgirl

  17 Nevada

  18 Grandmère Jenny

  19 Zenith

  20 Golden Dawn

  21 Mary Manners

  22 Max Graf

  23 Gloire des Rosomanes

  24 Baronne Prevost

  25 Country Living

  26 Golden Moss

  27 Prospero

  28 Mermaid

  29 Perle des Jardins

  30 Blush Damask

  31 Nymphenberg

  32 Madame Berkeley

  33 Semi-Plena

  34 Fortune’s Double Yellow

  35 Reine des Violettes

  1

  Tour de Malakoff

  Vivid magenta flowers flushed deep purple and fading to lilac grey.

  ‘It’s your grandmother.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She’s been arrested.’

  This is not a conversation that many people expect to have. We know that grannies are not what they were, but even allowing for the fact that many are proficient on the Internet, lunatic behind the wheel and capable of doing full justice to the drinks cabinet, the discovery that our own had been detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure would, if we are honest, come as a bit of a shock. A shock likely to provoke either disbelief or outrage.

  As the policeman at the other end of the line delivered the grave news, in the particularly self-righteous manner that only someone wearing a uniform can, Nick Robertson found himself in the former camp. ‘She’s been what?’

  ‘Arrested, sir. Well, detained, actually.’

  ‘But what for?’

  ‘Disturbing the peace.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In London, sir. She’s at Bow Street police station. If you could come and collect her? We don’t want to release her on her own and . . . well, I’d rather not say any more over the phone, if you don’t mind. We’ll fill you in when you get here.’

  ‘But why me?’

  ‘Yours was the name and number she gave us, sir.’

  There were many things Nick wanted to say, the first being ‘But I live on the Isle of Wight.’ Instead he settled for ‘Right. It will take me a couple of hours to get there.’

  ‘No problem, sir. We’ll keep her comfortable.’

  ‘She’s all right, isn’t she? I mean, she’s not hurt?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. She’s absolutely fine. Keeping my officers we
ll entertained.’

  ‘She would. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ And that was it. No more information.

  What had she done? And why hadn’t she called his mother? She was nearer. But the answer to that was obvious: his mother would have given her mother-in-law what-for. Or his father – her son? No again. Nick’s dad would be at the races – or at some surreptitious meeting for his next money-making wheeze. Not much chance of finding him at the end of a telephone: his mobile number changed almost weekly.

  Which was why, on a bright May morning, when birds were carolling from the tops of tall chestnut trees, and when he should have been enjoying the maudlin pleasure of staring out of the window and moping about the end of a three-year relationship with a girl now sitting on a British Airways flight to New York, he found himself rattling into Waterloo Station on the eleven fifteen from Southampton. Briefly he pictured his grandmother sitting in a cell, huddled in a corner, cowed and tearful but, if he was honest with himself, he knew that was unlikely.

  He wasn’t wrong: he found her at the front desk of the police station, regaling a wide-eyed trio of uniformed officers with the reasons behind her forecast for a Chelsea victory over Manchester United the following day. She looked round as he came in and smiled at him. ‘Hello, love! Come to take me home?’

  He nodded.

  The desk sergeant broke away from the group, looking sheepish, negotiated the narrow opening to one side of the counter with some difficulty and beckoned Nick towards the room opposite. ‘Would you mind, sir?’ As the door closed behind them he heaved a sigh. ‘Quite a character, your granny.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I should think she takes a bit of looking after.’ The lumbering policeman, whose unnaturally long arms gave him an ape-like appearance, was doing his best not to smirk.

  ‘Well, most of the time she’s fine.’

  ‘Lives on her own, I gather.’

  ‘Yes. She’s not helpless,’ Nick said defensively.

  ‘Oh, I can see that. But it might be worth keeping an eye on her.’

  ‘I do, when I can, but I live—’

  ‘I know, sir. It must be difficult—’

  Nick interrupted. ‘What’s she done? Nothing serious, surely?’

  ‘Well, not serious. Just silly. We’re letting her off with a caution. There’ll be no charges. I think the embassy was surprised more than anything. It’s normally students who chain themselves to their railings. And dissidents. Not that we get many of them nowadays.’ Then: ‘We don’t get many grannies either.’

  ‘No. I suppose not,’ Nick said, thoughtfully. Disbelief had been augmented by irritation. There were so many things he could have asked, but in the event he only managed, ‘I mean . . . why did she do it?’

  ‘Some sort of protest. Mind you, her equipment wasn’t up to much. One of those bicycle safety chains. The sort with a combination lock. We just snipped it off.’

  ‘I see.’ He thought about it. It would have been his grandfather’s. She wouldn’t have sent it to a jumble sale yet or a charity shop.

  ‘The worry is that I think she rather enjoyed the attention. We’d prefer it if she didn’t do it again. We’ve enough on without coping with protesting pensioners.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll try to make sure she stays out of trouble.’

  ‘If you would.’

  ‘Can I take her home then?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He hesitated. ‘Can I just ask you, sir . . .?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What your granny was saying. I suppose it’s just her funny way, isn’t it? I mean . . .’ He brought one of the long arms up to tug at his left ear, then looked at Nick sideways. ‘She’s not really related to the Russian royal family is she?’

  ‘What?’ It was one of those defining moments: the sort that make all sounds subside, all movement grind to a halt, and the world seems to take a deep breath. The moment when your granny, whom you’ve always perceived as adorable and ever-so-slightly . . . individual, might have turned a corner that you’d hoped would never appear on the horizon. The policeman must have misheard her. Sounds emerged once more from the corridor. There was movement, too.

  Nick shook his head. ‘No. I think you misunderstood. Her family was Russian. Gran left when there was all that bother with the royal family when she was a baby. She’s lived in Britain ever since. Always felt bitter about the revolution, though. I think her mum was caught up in it.’

  The policeman stared at Nick for a moment. ‘Well, the embassy were very good about it. They had a particularly reasonable attaché on duty today. I suggested to him that your granny was just a bit – well, doo-lally.’

  Nick’s eyes widened. ‘Not within her earshot, I hope.’

  ‘Er, no. I thought it best not to.’

  ‘Wise man.’ He smiled ruefully.

  ‘So, if you could just make sure she gets home safely. And maybe keep her away from bicycle chains for a while.’ He pointed to the old safety cable lying in a corner, and as the limb revealed its full extent it occurred to Nick that this really was the long arm of the law.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. It won’t happen again,’ he said, and added, under his breath, ‘I hope.’

  She was standing by the front door of the police station, smiling, silver-grey hair in its familiar soft curls, sensible shoes polished and tweed skirt pressed. Thanks to the morning’s excitement, her pale blue eyes sparkled, and she pushed her hands deep into the pockets of the red, woolly jacket.

  Nick’s greeting came as a bit of a let down.

  ‘Come on, Granny.’ Nick’s tone was impatient.

  She frowned. ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘All right, then – Rosie.’

  ‘Better.’

  He sighed. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Ooh! Yes, please. Best thing anybody’s said all day.’

  ‘I thought police stations were famous for their tea.’

  ‘Yes. But they don’t do Earl Grey. Terrible stuff, theirs. Colour of oxtail soup.’

  ‘There’s a café across the road. Come on, they’ll probably do a range of designer teas.’

  She stood quite still and shook her head.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m not having tea there, designer range or no.’

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘The Ritz.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘As a celebration.’

  ‘A celebration of what?’

  ‘Mission accomplished.’

  ‘What sort of mission? You’ve just been arrested.’

  ‘I achieved what I set out to do.’

  ‘Which was?’

  She pulled up the fake-fur collar of her coat and held it with a leather-gloved hand. ‘To draw attention to my life in exile.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie!’

  She fixed him with flashing pale blue eyes. ‘I mean it.’ The stern expression subsided and she grinned. ‘Oh, go on, take me for tea at the Ritz. You look as though you could do with a bit of fun.’

  He shook his head. ‘What are you like?’

  She put her head on one side. ‘A duchess?’

  He felt the same stab of unease that had shot through him when the policeman had mentioned the Russian royal family. He thought it best to shrug it off. Right now an attention-seeking grandmother was not an enticing prospect. ‘Just don’t push it. We’ll go to Brown’s, not the Ritz.’

  ‘Cheapskate.’

  2

  Fairyland

  Soft pink . . . borne in large trusses.

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t look so smug.’

  Rosie sipped the Earl Grey in the china cup. ‘Why shouldn’t I? Look, we’ve even got a tea-strainer.’

  ‘Because you should be ashamed of yourself. Wasting police time.’

  ‘Well, it was all in a good cause.’ She sat in the corner of the large chintz sofa, under the towering grandfather clock, looking about her with wide eyes. ‘This is nice, isn’t it? Classy sort of place. Didn’t Ag
atha Christie set one of her murder mysteries here? I saw it on the box. Lovely costumes.’ Her eyes, lively and enquiring, darted around the opulent lounge.

  ‘I think that was Bertram’s, not Brown’s. Anyway I’m glad you like it. But don’t get too used to it.’

  ‘Mmm. Not much chance of that.’ She picked up a tiny cucumber sandwich, and popped it into her mouth, whole, chewing it purposefully and scrutinising her surroundings. ‘Look at him. Over there.’ She gestured towards a small, bespectacled man in a light grey suit. He was systematically putting away the contents of a tiered cakestand, looking around the room from time to time as though he was waiting for someone. ‘He looks suspicious. Do you think he’s here to meet a lover?’

  The reply was impatient. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Well, he might be. They come in the most unlikely disguises, you know.’

  ‘Who do?’

  ‘Lovers.’

  ‘Like duchesses.’

  She avoided his eye, then muttered, mock-absentminded, ‘What, love?’

  ‘What were you telling that policeman?’

  ‘Have you finished with the sandwiches? Shall we go on to the cakes?’

  ‘Is this how it’s going to be now?’

  ‘How what’s going to be, love?’ She was examining the cakestand.

  ‘Are you going to carry on being childish?’

  She looked hurt. ‘That’s a bit mean.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. Very. “Childish” is a very mean thing to say.’ He saw that her eyes were glistening with tears.

  ‘Oh, don’t do that!’ He searched his pockets for a handkerchief, found it and handed it to her. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Rosie blew her nose. ‘Oh, yes, I know what you mean. Don’t be any trouble. Grow old gracefully. You’ve had a good life. You’re eighty-seven. Why can’t you just be a normal granny? The usual stuff.’

  ‘Well, what wrong with that?’

  She wiped the tears off her cheeks, and he glimpsed smears of mascara and rouge on the white lawn. ‘I’m cross.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fed up – fed up with people.’

  ‘Has Mum been at it again?’

  ‘A bit. But it’s not just her.’