Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘Scotch, please, old lad.’

  ‘Some things never change,’ said Nick, wryly. He left his father and grandmother while he went into the kitchen to fix the drinks.

  Derek Robertson could not have looked more different from his son. For a start he lacked height, and his manner of dress, while not exactly shouting ‘spiv’, had a showy look, from the slip-on buckled loafers to the black shirt and brown suede blouson. He even had crinkly dark hair and a thin moustache. If you had seen him walking along the via Condotti you would have taken him for an Italian with Mafia connections.

  Nick watched as his father sipped Scotch and enquired after his grandmother’s health. Rosie was doing her best to concentrate, but the alcohol was taking its toll, and she could barely keep her eyes open.

  After ten or fifteen minutes she excused herself. ‘I’d love to sit up and talk to you, Derek, but I’m afraid I must go to bed. I’m completely done in.’ She giggled. ‘Knacked, I think, is the word. Yes. That’s it. I’m completely knacked.’ She pushed herself out of the chair and tottered elegantly towards her son, who rose to meet her. ‘Goodnight, dear.’ She pecked him on the cheek and wobbled unsteadily. ‘Oops. Steady the buffs.’

  ‘Goodnight, old girl. Look after yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t need to. I’ve found somebody else to do that.’

  Nick tried to butt in.

  ‘And it’s not my grandson. I met a very nice gentleman today. In the pub. Henry. Art dealer. Lovely man. Very good company. Mmm. Lovely big hands.’ Without a backward glance she walked carefully in the direction of her bedroom.

  Derek looked at his son. ‘Is she behaving herself?’

  ‘Depends what you mean.’

  ‘Always done her own thing, Rosie. Never been one to conform. Know what I mean?’ He winked.

  ‘Yes.’ Nick paused. ‘Dad?’

  His father was knocking back the remains of his Scotch. He put the glass down. ‘Any more in that bottle?’

  ‘A drop. Are you driving?’

  ‘Only a small one, then.’

  Nick poured a little of the amber fluid into his father’s glass and continued the conversation. ‘Dad . . . I had two guys here today asking for you. Something to do with a package.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I told them it wouldn’t be here till tomorrow. They never bloody listen.’

  ‘Who don’t? And what won’t be here till tomorrow?’

  Derek Robertson knocked back the contents of his glass in one and reached down the side of his chair. He lifted out a small padded envelope.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Nick.

  ‘You don’t need to know,’ replied his father. ‘When those guys come back tomorrow just hand it over to them, will you? They won’t give you any trouble now.’

  ‘But why can’t you give it to them?’

  ‘Because I won’t be here. I’ve got a plane to catch.’ Evidently he recognized Nick’s confusion and irritation from the look on his son’s face. ‘No, don’t worry. They won’t do anything stupid as long as you give them that envelope.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, but it’s all above board. It’s just better if I’m not here, that’s all. I wouldn’t do anything that would put you at risk – or Rosie. It’s just safer for all concerned if you do the handover.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of . . . what’s in the envelope. You don’t need to know what it is.’

  Nick folded his arms. ‘I’m not doing it.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with drugs, if that’s what you’re thinking. You know I don’t do that sort of thing.’

  ‘I don’t care what it is. You’ve no right to ask me to do this.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t. And I wouldn’t unless it was really necessary. It all sounds odd, I know, but it’s perfectly straightforward.’

  ‘Dad, you can’t just swan in here like some shady character, pull out a package and expect me to hand it over to a couple of thugs without asking a few questions.’

  ‘Look, I know it seems suspicious—’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Well, I’m asking if you’ll do it. You’ll have to trust me.’

  ‘Have to?’

  Derek sighed. ‘I’d like you to.’

  ‘I’d like to as well, but I haven’t got much to go on.’

  His father laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Will you or won’t you? Just say yes or no and I’ll be out of your hair.’

  Nick struggled with his conscience. ‘You promise it’s nothing illegal?’

  ‘Good God, no. It’s just . . . well . . . private. That’s all.’

  ‘But you can’t do it yourself?’

  ‘If I do it there might be a lot of questions that I don’t want to have to answer. Yet. If you do it, there won’t be. They know it’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Oh, they know me, then, do they?’

  ‘Well, I’ve told them about you.’

  ‘You told them where I lived as well.’

  ‘I had to. Look, son, I’ll tell you one day, when it’s all sorted. For now I just need you to do this one small thing for me. OK?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘I don’t believe this is happening to me.’ He stared at his father.

  His father stared back at him. They had reached an impasse. Then he played his trump card: ‘It’s to help Rosie. But I can’t tell you any more.’

  Nick threw his hands into the air. ‘Oh, come on!’

  ‘It’s not what it seems.’

  There was a silence. Nick was annoyed with himself for having been cornered. He had little choice. And his father knew it.

  ‘OK – but I must be mad.’

  ‘And I must be going. Those ferries are a bugger – never turn up when you want them to.’ He slapped Nick on the back and made for the door.

  ‘Dad!’

  His father turned.

  ‘When will I see you again?’

  Derek Robertson shrugged. ‘Not sure. Probably later rather than sooner.’

  He swung out of sight, and Nick ran after him, calling in his wake, ‘What do you know about Russia?’

  His father stopped dead in his tracks half-way down the lane, then turned to face him. His expression was serious, with the merest hint of alarm. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Rosie’s past. What do you know about Russia?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Bloody big country, Russia. Lot of people.’ He got into his car, slammed the door and drove off into the night.

  13

  Belle de Crécy

  At best, can be one of the most beautiful in its group; at worst, horrid.

  How she had managed to be up and out of the house before him was a mystery. He knew she hadn’t had that much to drink, but it had affected her. Why wasn’t she stumbling around with a hangover?

  Nick was rattled by her apparent self-sufficiency, and that he had not asked more about her sailing course. Where was she? Who was she with? When would she be home? Then the absurdity of the role-reversal struck him, and he felt slightly ashamed.

  He ruffled his hair in some attempt to increase his cranial circulation and, therefore, his grasp on life, yawned and gazed out at the sea. She had chosen a good day to start: perhaps a force three – enough wind to fill her sails, but nothing strong enough to give trouble.

  The ship’s clock on the kitchen wall told him it was eight thirty. He went to fill the kettle, and saw an envelope propped up against it. He opened it and found his birthday card. He had quite forgotten. He was thirty-nine.

  But the card lifted his spirits. It was not of the ‘Happy Birthday to My Favourite Grandson’ type, with a couple of verses of Patience Strong to see you gaily through the coming year, instead it bore a black-and-white thirties photograph of a man in a suit holding the hand of a delicate-featured girl who was staring, rather distractedly, off-camera. The caption above it, in purple, read: ‘Emily is to
ld that “Philip’s 12 inch” is, in fact, his television’.

  He opened it and read the inscription: ‘Sorry! Thought this might make you smile! Thanks for putting up with me. You’re one in a million. (Or rather more, actually.) All my love, Rosie xxx’.

  He looked at the front of the card again and laughed out loud.

  The United Kingdom Sailing Academy nestles alongside the river Medina in West Cowes. It is a modern building with a slipway that leads down to the water; boats carrying sailors of little or no skill can be safely launched there. In the small classroom Rosie looked about her. She was the oldest by a good twenty years and felt rather smug. There were half a dozen teenagers, three forty-something married couples, a single man and a single woman in their sixties.

  In her new baggy sailing shirt, pink cotton trousers and deck shoes she felt very much the part. She’d left the stick at Nick’s.

  Within a few hours she would be out on the water, and a lifetime’s ambition would have been fulfilled. She thought, fleetingly, of her grandson, and hoped he would have a good birthday. But today the painter that held her attention would be made of rope.

  The padded envelope sat, tantalizingly, at the end of his bed. He stretched out a hand and felt it, in the same way that a child feels a Christmas stocking, in an attempt to gauge the contents. The package gave nothing away. He got up and looked out of the window again. The sun was glinting on the water. It was the perfect May day. The perfect day for a birthday.

  What a joke. Here he was, with half the troubles of the world hanging round his neck, plus a mad granny who thought she was a cross between the Empress of Russia and Ellen MacArthur, and a package of heaven-knows-what waiting to be collected by a couple of heavies who would probably break his legs. His car was likely to be impounded at any moment by a debt collector, his father arrested for trafficking in stolen goods, and himself banged up for perverting the course of justice. Even the most optimistic soul would have to admit this was not a promising way to celebrate the end of your fourth decade.

  And then he saw her walking up the lane, Alex, with a packet in her hand. She saw him at the window and waved. She was alone.

  ‘Hi! Come in.’ He was at the open door to welcome her.

  ‘You look happy.’

  ‘Don’t be deceived by appearances.’

  She leaned towards him and kissed his cheek. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Grannies talking to ten-year-olds.’

  ‘Ah!’ He smiled apologetically.

  ‘You not having a good day, then?’

  ‘Oh, just things.’ And then he felt guilty for not welcoming her properly. ‘But it’s my birthday, so I’ll put on a show.’

  ‘Oh dear! All a bit too much for you, is it?’

  ‘Rather a lot’s happened in the past few days. And I’m sorry about the other night. I was a bit impatient with Rosie. I shouldn’t have been but . . . well . . . Anyway, coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  Once inside, she turned to him and held out the packet. ‘We made this for you, we girls. Victoria’s holed up with her friends, or she’d have come as well.’

  He looked at the home-made envelope, which bulged at the seams, and at the scraps of coloured paper and feathers stuck to it. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You may well ask. Open it.’

  Carefully he pulled at the seams of the home-made envelope, and tipped out the contents on to the kitchen table.

  ‘Oh! Treasure trove!’

  ‘It’s silly, really. Beachcombers’ booty.’

  He gazed at the objects that had tumbled from their paper wrapping: a tiny starfish, the black purse of a dog fish egg, green and blue glass shards washed smooth by the sea, two shiny razor shells, a piece of bleached white coral and a dozen or more shells that were no bigger than his thumbnail in creamy white, soft purple and dusky pink. ‘They’re beautiful.’

  ‘And very expensive.’

  ‘What a wonderful present.’ His eyes darted over the treasures. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Then he looked up at her in her loose white shirt and calf-length jeans, the shiny dark hair held back today with a tortoiseshell clip. He stepped forward, put his arms round her and gave her a hug. ‘That’s the nicest thirty-ninth birthday present I’ve ever had.’

  She grinned. ‘I’m glad.’

  He bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a birthday supper, do you? I mean . . .’

  ‘Just the two of us?’

  ‘Well . . . if that’s all right.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask permission,’ she teased.

  ‘Of course.’

  She laughed. ‘I’d love to.’

  Over coffee they talked of Rosie’s foray into the world of spinnakers and mainsails, and of Victoria’s day on the beach with the friends she’d made in Sleepyhead Bay. Then Alex said she’d better be getting back before Victoria outstayed her welcome with her holiday chums, and he arranged to pick her up that evening. They parted with a double-cheeked kiss on the veranda.

  He came back inside and picked up the padded envelope again. He stared at it, then squeezed it. It was fastened with staples. It would be a simple job to bend them back, open the end and examine the contents. Half of him wanted to, the other half urged restraint. The first half won. After all, if you’re going to get yourself into trouble, you might as well know what for.

  Carefully he slipped the blade of the kitchen knife under each staple, prised back the teeth, then popped back the flap and eased out the contents. The self-sealing polythene bag seemed to be full of cotton wool. He pulled it open, and tipped out the contents on to the kitchen worktop, lifted away the soft wadding, and out fell four stones that glittered and dazzled in the light from the lamp.

  He had never seen such astonishingly beautiful diamonds.

  He felt sick. Quickly he put them back into the wadding, careful to avoid marking them with fingerprints, then slipped it back into the polythene bag, the bag into the padded envelope, and nipped the jaws of the staples into place. The whole operation had taken no more than a couple of minutes.

  He put the envelope under a cushion in the sitting room and sat down to think. His heart was hammering and his mind raced. Were the stones stolen? Surely not. His father had always lived on his wits but had never been on the wrong side of the law. And yet he said he was leaving the country by plane. Why, if he had nothing to hide? And why couldn’t he hand over the diamonds himself?

  It was all so ridiculously unreal.

  For a moment he toyed with replacing the stones with something else, then banished the idea. If he did so the men would be back and he would be more deeply involved in something that, with any luck, would simply go away once he had handed over the envelope.

  What were they worth? He’d never seen diamonds of that size before. They’d fetch thousands.

  His hands shook.

  A knock at the door brought him to his senses. He looked up and saw the silhouettes of the two burly men. They had come for their packet.

  It was six o’clock when Rosie returned, her cheeks flushed with fresh air and excitement, but her eyes betrayed her tiredness. She flopped into a chair and said, ‘Oh, yes, please!’ when Nick offered her a gin and tonic. ‘What a day. I don’t remember when I last enjoyed myself so much. And the instructor said I was wonderful. He couldn’t believe I’d picked it up so quickly. He says I’m a natural.’ She took a sip from her glass, then looked up at him. ‘How are we celebrating your birthday?’

  ‘Ah.’ A pang of guilt caught him. ‘Well, er, I’ve arranged . . . to go out.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’

  He heard the disappointment in her voice.

  ‘With Alex. You could come if you like.’

  Her face was like that of a spaniel who has just been chastised. Then she smiled. ‘And Granny came too? I don’t think so. You go and enjoy yourself, love. I’ll have an early night. We sailors have to be up in good time – deck
s to swab, ropes to coil, that sort of thing. And we’re sailing at Gurnard tomorrow.’

  He crouched in front of her and rested his hand on her knee. ‘I’m very proud of you, you know.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you, but you’ve saved my life, love, when all around me were thinking only about theirs.’ She patted his hand. ‘You go and have a lovely time. Just don’t make a noise when you come in.’

  ‘You’re not overdoing it, are you?’

  ‘I’m pacing myself. I told you.’

  ‘Well, make sure you do. It’s hard work keeping up with teenagers – and I should know. I’m thirty-nine, after all.’

  ‘So you are! And that reminds me. Could you nip into my bedroom and fetch the little packet that’s on my bedside table? I’d go and get it myself only my grandson tells me I have to be careful.’

  He went to her room, thinking it had been quite a day for packets, and returned with a small parcel that was, perhaps, three inches square. He gave it to her, and she handed it straight back to him.

  ‘Happy birthday, my love.’ She took another sip of her gin. ‘Just a little something.’

  He fingered the parcel, and his unease about her financial status was reawakened. ‘You haven’t done anything silly, have you?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. Old lady’s prerogative.’

  He pulled off the wrapping to reveal a small box. For the second time that day, his heart thumped. He hoped she hadn’t been ridiculously rash. He lifted the lid of the box. A diamond winked at him.

  It was the same size as those he had seen earlier in the day.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Your present.’

  ‘Well, yes . . . but . . .’

  ‘Now, stop making a fuss and just admire it.’

  ‘But – but – what am I going to do with it?’

  ‘Keep it for a rainy day.’

  ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with you?’

  ‘But, Gran – I mean, Rosie, you’ve bought me a car, and now this and – I mean your bank account—’

  Rosie raised an eyebrow. ‘Someone’s been talking.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wondered how long it would be before she found out.’