Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘And you accepted that?’ asked Nick. ‘You never felt curious?’

  ‘Oh, I was curious all right, but in those days you had no right to see them. I did have a friend at school who somehow managed to meet her real parents and it had all gone wrong. She was torn this way and that. In a real state. So I thought, no, I’m not doing that. Then my father died when I was fifteen. It was so sad. He had a stroke, and Mum and I nursed him for months before he slipped away.’

  ‘Like Granddad?’

  ‘Yes, but it was worse in a way. I was so young. At least your granddad had had a good life. But it taught me a lot. Made me stronger, I suppose. Then, when I was twenty, Mum was taken ill. I was desperate for her to get better. She was all I had left. There were no uncles and aunts, or cousins that I knew of – anyway, they wouldn’t have been mine.’

  ‘What was wrong with her?’

  ‘Cancer, I suppose. I didn’t know at the time, but I came to realize later. Something to do with her tummy, anyway. She lay in bed getting paler and thinner and I remember knowing one day that she was going to die. Just before the end came – a couple of days before, it must have been – she said she had something important to tell me. Something I ought to know about my real family, but that it might be better if I kept it to myself. I was a bit scared. I didn’t know what she was going to say. All sorts of things went through my mind – that they might be criminals or something. Murderers, even.’ She paused.

  Nick squeezed her hand. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She told me I hadn’t been born in Cheltenham, as I had always been told, but that I was born in St Petersburg and smuggled out of Russia as a baby to avoid a scandal. You can imagine how I felt. It was like a dream – a fairy story. I mean, I lived in Gloucestershire, I was a Cotswolds girl, always had been. I thought she must be rambling but she kept on. She said I had to know, that it was only right. She said that back in 1917 there had been some sort of group of people – what do you call it? You know, when they send diplomats and things.’

  ‘Delegation?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it. A delegation was sent to Russia from Britain – to do with King George the Fifth and the Tsar. They were cousins, you know. Very alike, too. They used to be mistaken for each other.’ Rosie’s eyes were misty.

  ‘And?’

  ‘The Tsar had five children. Olga and Tatiana were in their early twenties by then, Anastasia and Marie were in their teens, and their son, the Tsarevich Alexis, was about twelve.’

  Nick watched her intently. There was an almost trancelike quality about her face. This old lady of eighty-seven was reciting history with a calm lucidity that belied her years – almost as though it were a mantra.

  ‘There was a young diplomat in the delegation. My mother didn’t know his name, only that he came from a good family. Apparently he’d got on a bit too well with one of the elder daughters, as a result of which she became . . . well . . . I was the result.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘But if it’s true, why were you shipped out?’

  ‘There was enough scandal in the Russian royal family already. Some of the Tsar’s cousins had been a bit . . . loose in the years leading up to the revolution. At that time it was just a year away. For one of the Tsar’s daughters to have an illegitimate child would have been unthinkable.’

  ‘But why didn’t they just . . . get rid of you?’

  ‘Abortion? Too risky. Imagine if anything had gone wrong. It was out of the question.’

  ‘But you’re not . . .’

  ‘No. No, I’m not. The Empress, the Tsarina, was the carrier. She was one of Queen Victoria’s grandchildren. Her mother, Princess Alice, was a carrier too, and so was the Queen. The Tsarevich was the only one of the Tsar’s children who was a haemophiliac.’

  ‘But how did they keep the pregnancy secret?’

  ‘My mother’s clothes would have done the job until the last three months or so, and after that I suppose she was simply kept out of the public eye.’

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘In the summer of 1916. I was born in 1917, just before the revolution, and spirited away.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. By diplomatic means, I suppose. Probably in a diplomatic bag. With a bottle.’

  ‘What does it say on your birth certificate?’

  ‘Not much. Two fictitious names were given as my parents.’

  ‘How do you know they’re fictitious?’

  ‘Because I tried to trace them.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About six months ago. I’d always thought the names must be made up, so I went to check at the Public Records Office – the National Archive, they call it now – in Kew. It’s just down the road from your mother. They have no record of any married couple called George Michaels and Matilda Kitching.’

  ‘Maybe they weren’t married.’

  ‘I thought of that, so I tried that avenue, too. I could find a George Herbert Michaels, but he was the wrong age and lived in the wrong place. I couldn’t find any Matilda Kitching.’

  ‘So they were just made up.’

  ‘Yes. By the people who smuggled me out, I suppose.’

  ‘But you said your real name was Alice Marie Xenia.’

  ‘That’s what it says on my birth certificate, but my mum – the one who adopted me – always called me Rosie because she didn’t want people to start asking questions.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it have made sense for whoever sorted out your birth certificate to have called you Gladys or Doris rather than Alice Marie Xenia?’

  ‘Oh, they could pass as British names. I like to think someone was being kind to me about my heritage.’

  ‘And after you came over here?’

  ‘They were all killed. But you know that – if you know your history.’

  Nick nodded.

  Rosie took a deep breath. ‘I can remember the dates off by heart. The Tsar abdicated on the fifteenth of March 1917 and on the sixteenth of July 1918 the whole family was assassinated. I can’t think of it without feeling terrified. It was at Ekaterinberg. In the House of Special Purpose. Isn’t that a dreadful name?’

  Nick saw Rosie’s fist tighten and her knuckles turned white.

  ‘Wasn’t there something about one of them escaping. Anastasia?’

  ‘She was an impostor. Her name was Anna Anderson. The Tsar’s cousin – another Grand Duchess Olga – escaped to Britain with her sister Xenia on a British warship, and she met all the impostors. She knew Anna Anderson was a fraud. No. They all died. They were herded into a basement room and shot. All of them. Even little Alexis. And my mother’s dog.’

  ‘So you know which one was your mother?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosie got up from her seat and walked into her bedroom. For a moment, Nick wondered if she would come back. A few minutes later, she returned, the tears wiped away and her lipstick refreshed. She held the framed photograph that had always stood in her hallway, of the man in the army uniform, the boy in the sailor suit, the girl with the wonderful eyes and the clear complexion.

  In a moment of realization, Nick knew what she was going to say. The photograph was so familiar, but he had failed to make the connection. The obvious connection. Until now, it had always been just a man with a beard, a pretty young girl and a small boy, playing together in the snow.

  ‘That’s my grandfather, the Tsar, my uncle the Tsarevich, and my mother, the Grand Duchess Tatiana.’

  Nick took a deep breath. ‘And you believe all this?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I know it’s true. I can feel it’s true.’

  Nick stared at her.

  ‘But why should anybody want to believe me, an old woman from Cheltenham? I mean, I don’t look like a grand duchess, do I? And I certainly don’t sound like one. It’s the most ridiculous story they’ve ever heard. It’s the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard. But I loved my mother – the one who adopted me – and she wasn’t a liar. I could see h
ow frightened she was when she told me, but she wanted me to know. It was so important to her.’

  ‘But who told her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Someone who was involved, presumably.’

  ‘So if it’s true, it means . . .’ He was trying to make sense of it all.

  Rosie brightened. ‘Yes. It’s funny, really, isn’t it?’

  Nick stood up. ‘It’s not funny at all. It’s unbelievable. I mean, if your adoptive mother was right, then I’m . . .’

  ‘Yes, love. You’re in the line of succession to the Russian Imperial Throne. After your dad, that is. But somehow I don’t think Tsar Derek has the right ring to it. Do you?’

  10

  Gloire de l’Exposition

  Loose and untidy.

  Nick didn’t sleep much that night. Well, you wouldn’t, would you, after being told you were an heir to the Russian throne? Early the next morning, he lay in bed scrutinizing the planking on the ceiling and wondering if he really had gone mad. There were a hundred unanswered questions in his head. Had Rosie really told no one else the full story? Was she telling the truth, or was she simply unbalanced? She certainly seemed convinced. Had his parents any idea at all? Why had the details never surfaced before? Enough stories were being dug up about the Tsar and his family, why had this one not been unearthed?

  He got up, showered, and went out on to the veranda with his bowl of cereal. A skein of mist hung over the sea and a watery sun was doing its best to break through. The echoing cries of seabirds floated up from Thorness Bay. He shivered in the morning chill. It was six thirty. In half an hour Rosie would be up and about. He would leave early, give himself time to think – although half of him thought there was little point. It was just a story. How could it be true? Rosie’s adoptive mother might have believed she was telling the truth, but in the delirium brought on by morphine who could think straight? She might have been well meaning, but that didn’t necessarily make her story accurate. Rosie had probably been born in Russia and smuggled to Britain, but that was about it. She had no proof even of that.

  It was ludicrous – laughable, even. But he couldn’t bring himself to laugh.

  He looked at the car in the lee of the house wall. He would have to clear out the old boathouse to make room for her. Keeping a Morris Minor van out of doors was one thing, but a drophead MG wouldn’t stand up to the elements quite so well. Salt spray had done for the old Morris over five years, and it would probably polish off an older sports car even more quickly. Tonight he would start the clearance operation. But his thoughts refused to be marshalled into the mundane.

  He wished he could talk to someone about the events of last night, someone who might help him straighten out the tangle of thoughts in his head. Debs would have told him to get himself sorted. Snap out of it. But Debs wasn’t there anymore.

  Henry? No. And, anyway, Henry was the island’s most accomplished gossip. What Henry heard one week, the Isle of Wight County Press reported the next. He meant well, but no. Not Henry.

  Alex? He would call her and make amends for the night before. But not yet. It was too early.

  He loaded his painting bag, board and paper into the car and folded down the hood. Then he released the handbrake and let her roll down the track before starting up out of Rosie’s earshot.

  The mist was clearing. He drove on past green fields and light woodland, the stumpy tower of Shalfleet church, then turned right on the narrow lane that led to Newtown Creek. He drew up on a rough gravel car park, took out his bag and board and made his way along the boardwalk that crossed the narrow inlets. The tide was on the turn, beginning to fill the muddy arteries that glistened in the early-morning sun.

  He found a spot for his folding chair and easel, and set to work, trying to keep his mind on what lay in front of him: a pallid sky, humps of wetland turf, and the slowly filling miniature estuaries, linked with their planked bridges. Three small boats bobbed gently in the river, their owners still asleep below decks.

  Newtown had always been a special place. It was where he and Debs had come on their first date. Supper at the New Inn, then a walk across the creek. Now he tried not to let it put him off the place. It was too ancient and beautiful a spot to be given up for sentimental reasons. Although if he had really loved her he wouldn’t want to be here and reawaken all those memories.

  Maybe he would never fall completely in love. He’d never experienced the earth-shattering, life-changing force that was supposed to infuse your every fibre and prevent you thinking of anything else. And if it hadn’t happened by the time you were thirty-eight, what was the chance of it happening at all?

  Anyway he wasn’t sure he believed in it. If brainless teenage pop stars could do it on a daily basis what value was there in it? True love – real love – wasn’t like that. It was a known fact. People stayed together for a long time because they got on. Because they were friends. Because they liked each other. Not because they were ‘in love’. That sort of love didn’t last. There was enough proof of it all around him. You could have one thing or the other: loving friendship for keeps, or a short-lived mind-blowing passion.

  Look at Henry. A couple of years ago he’d been besotted by a young art student from Derby. He’d taken her paintings, then her body. Then she had taken him for ten grand and disappeared. Poor Henry. Soul-mates, he’d said they were. But the girl gave her soul to someone else and left Henry with a hole in his pocket.

  For three hours he worked on the painting, until the light had changed too much. Then he packed away his paints and walked back to the car. The three boats were hauling up their sails to catch the breath of wind that was ruffling the surface of the water. Now the muddy creeks were turning into rivulets, swirling into hollows by grassy banks.

  He drove through sleepy Calbourne and sprawling Carisbrooke to Newport and went into a bookshop. Under the section headed ‘European History’ he found what he was looking for: a book on the Russian royal family. He looked around as he bought it, just in case someone was observing him, then felt embarrassed at his own stupidity, and watched the shop assistant drop the book into a carrier-bag with his receipt. She clearly hadn’t rumbled him, which was a relief.

  By the time he had returned to the Anchorage Rosie had gone out. He made some coffee, and opened the book.

  Three hours later, he closed it and sat back in his chair, strangely apprehensive. He was now acquainted with the Tsar’s family – he still couldn’t begin to think of it as his family. He knew about Rasputin, Lenin, the Bolsheviks, and the murderous Yurovsky. He had read about Olga, the eldest of the sisters, shy, with long chestnut hair, bookish and close to her father. Tatiana was the most elegant, tall and willowy with grey eyes and auburn hair, an accomplished pianist, full of energy, and regarded by the rest of the children as their unofficial governess. She was devoted to her mother, often washing and dressing her hair, always attentive to her needs.

  There were the two younger daughters: Marie, the prettiest of all, whose dark blue eyes were known as ‘Marie’s saucers’, and the dumpy, mischievous Anastasia. She had been the tree-climbing tomboy, the practical joker who had hidden stones in snowballs until one had knocked Tatiana out cold and brought Anastasia to her senses.

  And then there was the Tsarevich, Alexis, known in the family as Alexei. The haemophiliac child had been next in line to the Imperial throne, and was a martyr to the disease, which caused regular internal haemorrhaging, made his joints painful, and a nosebleed life-threatening. Nick felt sorry for him.

  He had read of the Tsar’s mishandling of power, and of Alexandra’s devotion to him. From what he could remember of history lessons, the Tsar had been portrayed as an autocratic tyrant, but his reading led him to wonder if that had really been so. One authority in the book had suggested that he was every bit as effective a ruler as his cousin George V, but what had been seen in George as positive attributes were regarded in the Tsar as weaknesses.

  Would he ever know? Did it matter? But whether he was rel
ated to them or not, the story was compelling, and the way in which the Imperial family had met their end was shocking and inhumane.

  He looked at his watch. Half past one. Alex would probably be out painting. He had her mobile phone number but was reluctant to call. Then his own phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is she with you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is Rosie with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was his mother. She was not calm.

  ‘Bloody typical! I’ve arranged for her to see two lots of sheltered accommodation and she’s buggered off.’

  ‘Well, did you ask her if she wanted to see them?’

  ‘I arranged it with her the other day.’

  ‘Yes, but did you ask her?’

  ‘I told her I’d—’

  ‘Yes. You told her.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect? She’s eighty-seven, for God’s sake.’

  ‘But she still has opinions.’

  ‘Yes. And look where they got her. Honestly, Nick, I’d have thought you’d more sense.’

  ‘Than what?’

  ‘Taking her in and encouraging her to think she can be independent.’

  ‘But she can. It’s just that she gets a bit upset now and again. It’s not surprising, is it?’

  Most daughters-in-law would have been only too willing to relinquish a relationship with their mother-in-law on the breakdown of their marriage. Not so Anna Robertson. Rosie was a loose end, and loose ends had to be tidied up.

  ‘Well, she’ll have to come back and look at these two places. I’ve made appointments.’

  ‘Unmake them. She’s here for a while now.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Not sure. Till she feels better.’

  ‘What she regards as “feeling better” is hardly likely to be much of an improvement, as far as I can see.’

  ‘Well, cancel them for now.’

  ‘Only if you promise to send her back.’

  ‘I can’t do that. She’s not a child.’

  ‘Now, listen, Nick—’

  ‘No, Mum. You listen. She’s getting on and she’s a bit unreliable, but that doesn’t mean you can shut her away.’