Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, if I were you I’d start to live a bit.’

  Nick sighed. ‘Am I in for an advice session, then?’

  ‘No. Well . . . maybe just a bit of friendly advice.’ She looked right at him. ‘Get on with it. Don’t hang about.’

  ‘Get on with what?’

  ‘Your relationship with Alex.’

  ‘There is no relationship.’

  ‘Exactly. But there could be.’

  He frowned. ‘And what’s that to do with you?’

  Rosie shrugged. ‘Absolutely nothing. But you should be having a bit of fun. She’s a lovely girl and she should be having fun, too.’

  ‘What about Victoria?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about her. She’s got her head screwed on. She’s older than all of us.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Funny, isn’t it? Victoria’s ten, but more like forty. You’re thirty-nine and more like seventy, and I’m eighty-seven going on thirty! Nobody’s the age they seem, are they?’

  ‘You know, there are days when I think you’ll live for ever,’ Nick said.

  ‘Oh, heaven forbid!’

  ‘But where do you get your energy?’

  Rosie nodded at the glass beside her bed. ‘Out of a bottle.’ Then she became serious. ‘Oh, there are days when I have to work hard to get up. Days when I wonder if it’s all worth it. But I tell myself it’s only natural at my age. Trouble is, you can’t let that happen too often. You have to fight it. Don’t let it win. Some days my legs don’t want to move at all. But I battle on – and it doesn’t half hurt. I just grit my teeth and get on with it. Other days I have a good cry, and feel completely done in. Then the sun shines and I feel better, and I’m damned if I’ll stay cooped up inside.’

  ‘You’re a star.’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m quite scared, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Scared of what?’ Nick looked baffled.

  ‘Losing it. I feel a bit funny some days. A bit . . . sort of . . . disconnected. Something happens inside. A voice. It’s me, and yet it isn’t me, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Is that what happened at the Russian embassy?’ he asked gently.

  Rosie nodded. ‘I was a bit embarrassing, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  She stared into the middle distance. ‘I think it’s just that I want a bit more time to . . . understand more. I’d like to be . . . and you mustn’t tell me off . . . more at peace with myself before I go.’

  Nick raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to get religion or anything. Well, no more than I have. I’m content to go to church once a month but I can’t be doing with all that happy-clappy stuff – and shaking hands. I always keep this by my bed.’ She picked up a small black book. ‘The Book of Common Prayer. Lovely language.’ She looked up at him and asked evenly, ‘Do you say your prayers?’

  Nick nodded. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Good. I say mine every night. Here I am, an old lady – I can refer to myself like that but you can’t – saying every night, “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child; pity my simplicity; give me grace to come to thee – but not yet.” I always put that bit in. Hope it makes Him smile.’

  He watched as she lay back on the pillow. Calm now. Peaceful.

  ‘He knows, doesn’t he?’ she said.

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Where I came from.’

  Nick nodded.

  Rosie squeezed his hand. ‘Try to find out for me.’

  He sighed. ‘If you want me to.’

  Rosie smiled contentedly. Her eyes were closing. The day’s exertions and the sea air were having their effect. ‘And I always ask God to bless you all. Derek and Anna, Alice, Sophie and Nick. And Sandy. Do you remember her?’

  ‘Yes.’ He half laughed. Sandy had been their first dog. She must have died twenty-five years ago.

  And then her conversation was replaced by gentle breathing.

  Nick turned out the light, kissed her cheek, and quietly closed the door.

  17

  Nevada

  Of uncertain parentage.

  If Nick had been honest with himself he would have realized that the reason he had not arranged another meeting with Alex was that he was too scared. Scared that it might lead somewhere – or that it might not lead anywhere. Or just scared full stop.

  He cursed himself for not having had the nerve to ask her out again when they parted. If he had he would have more of an idea now where he stood. As it was he was clueless.

  He dropped Rosie off at the sailing academy, with only one warning to be careful. ‘Is that all?’ she had asked. ‘You don’t want to walk me in?’

  Then he drove on to Newport and the public library. The librarian was one of those polite but contained women who so often preside over books. She listened attentively while he enquired about the best way of tracing one’s ancestors, and recommended him to the parish registers in the churches where his parents had grown up, and the National Archive in Kew. ‘It’s a bit more tricky than that,’ confessed Nick. He wanted to ask the question without giving too much away. ‘You see, my grandmother came from Russia when she was a baby, and the National Archive doesn’t have any record of her real parents.’

  ‘Well, no,’ confirmed the librarian, over the top of her rimless glasses. ‘That’s why it’s called the National Archive – it doesn’t deal with other countries. The best place to start, I suppose, would be the Russian embassy in London. They could point you in the right direction.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He made to leave, feeling dissatisfied. Half of him wanted to tell the librarian the entire story, and watch her eyes widen as she realized who she might be talking to. He turned back and asked the woman another question. ‘You know the Russian revolution?’

  ‘I am acquainted with it.’

  ‘After the assassinations . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, all the immediate royal family were killed, weren’t they?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘I’d like to find out who is their closest descendant.’

  She took off her glasses and asked, just a touch patronizingly, ‘Do you have access to the Internet?’

  As he switched on the computer he wondered if Rosie had been there before him. Could the quest for her ancestry have been the reason why she had been to computer-skills classes at night school? Why else would she need to be computer literate?

  He called up assorted sites with the word ‘Romanov’ in the title and, after some sifting, found one that looked promising: ‘The Romanov Imperial Dynasty in Emigration XX Century by Sergey P. Shishkin, translated from Russian by R. Konnoff.’ The typeface and layout of the document had a utilitarian look. Primitive, somehow. East European.

  He felt a frisson of excitement as he started to read:

  The Romanov Dynasty began with the ascension of Tsar Mikhail Fedorovich, to the Russian throne in 1613. Though still a young dynasty, by the 18th century the succession was seriously tested. Although with the accession of Peter III the crisis ended. Peter III was the son of Grand Duchess Anna of Russia and Duke Karl-Frederic of Holstein-Gottorp.

  The names were a bit of a mouthful. Not exactly in the Nick Robertson mould. He read on:

  His aunt Elizabeth, Tsarina of Russia, adopted Peter and the Romanov Dynasty was saved from extinction. In 1797 at his crowning, Peter’s son, the Emperor Paul, wishing to prevent a return to the ‘epoch of palace revolutions’ issued Succession Laws. The succession was now law and prevented the arbitrariness of the reigning emperor.

  Under the ‘Pauline Laws’ the succession followed a certain sequence, and each member of the Romanov Dynasty’s place in that sequence was clearly laid out. The succession was based on seniority. The Emperor as head of the family and after him his eldest son was heir, then son of the eldest son and so on. In the event that the senior line dies out, the throne passes to the next male line closest in relati
on to the last reigning Emperor.

  Nick felt relieved: if his grandmother had been born of a daughter of the Tsar, perhaps it didn’t count. Then he scrolled up: ‘If the male line dies out completely, then the throne passes to a female closest in relation to the last reigning Emperor.’

  Damn. That theory had been shot down in flames. The next statement seemed almost tailor made for Rosie: ‘Also, no member could now be denied their succession rights, except those who had voluntarily relinquished them.’

  He slumped back in his chair and took a deep breath. So there it was. If she could prove she was of the female line, and should the monarchy be reinstated, Rosie could legitimately claim her position as heir to the Russian throne.

  For one brief moment in his life, Nick understood what it was like to be a male Cinderella. At any time in the future he might be whisked away and made to rule his country. He could be only a hair’s breadth away from becoming Tsar Nicholas III, after Tsar Derek had taken over from Empress Rosie. No: Empress Alice Marie Xenia. There was no denying it had a certain ring to it. A vision of Alex in a tiara flashed into his mind. He shook his head to clear it of ridiculous thoughts. But what a prospect.

  Could a future tsar of Russia continue to live on the Isle of Wight? Would he be allowed to get on with his life, or was there some kind of ‘court in exile’ that would govern his every move? Perhaps there was a temporary palace that came with the job. No: it was a destiny, not a job. He was destined to rule his people, wisely and responsibly. ‘I will be good,’ Queen Victoria had said, on her accession to the throne. He remembered that from school. Yes, he would be good.

  And then he read the paragraph that followed. It ended his reverie and brought him down to earth with a welcome bump:

  The laws were further altered in 1820, and to be considered a member of the Imperial House, members of the family had to marry a person of equal rank; meaning persons from another sovereign house.

  It seemed as though the words spoke only to him – to warn him off. He read on: ‘Accordingly, the offspring of these marriages were considered dynastic, while children of morganatic (unequal) marriages were not considered members of the Imperial House.’

  So there it was. If Rosie had indeed been next in line to the Imperial throne, she had relinquished her claim when she had married his grandfather, who was not, as far as Nick knew, a ‘person from another sovereign house’.

  For a moment he felt slightly disappointed. He had not become entirely comfortable with the idea, but it had held a certain appeal.

  He read the rest of the article, and discovered that the current heir to the Russian throne was Grand Duchess Maria Vladimorovna who was now forty-one and living in Madrid. Well, at least she was older than he was – by a couple of years. She had also had the foresight to marry Prince Franz of Prussia, keeping the marriage dynastic, and they had a son and heir: Grand Duke George Mihailovich ‘the present successor to the Russian Throne’.

  So that was that. If Rosie had once been heir to the House of Romanov, she was heir no longer. And neither was he. But if Rosie had surfed the Net, how had she not found this particular site, or another offering similar information? After all, he’d turned it up in a matter of minutes. Perhaps that was not her concern. Perhaps it was simply acknowledgement of the truth that was important to her. The confirmation that she was who she thought she was.

  He would ask her when she came home. But that night Rosie didn’t come home: she went instead to Queen Mary’s Hospital in Newport, with a broken hip.

  18

  Grandmère Jenny

  Beautiful when behaving itself.

  Nick sat by the hospital bed in which Rosie was sleeping. Occasionally her face would contort in pain, but then it would relax again as the drugs took over.

  ‘She’s been sedated,’ said the doctor. ‘It was a clean break and we’ve put her back together again. It wasn’t the artificial hip, fortunately.’

  ‘And will she be all right?’

  ‘Well, at her age it’s difficult to say. It will take her a while to get going and it’s likely that she’ll be less mobile than she was before. That said, she’s fit for her age.’

  Nick stroked Rosie’s hand, and listened to her breathing.

  ‘We’ll need to keep her in for a while, get her on her feet as soon as we can, and then I would suggest a period of convalescence in a home. There are one or two good ones on the island – unless you want her to go back to the mainland so that she can be nearer her friends?’

  ‘I’d rather she was here, but I’ll have to check with the rest of the family. My mother’s on her way.’

  ‘Yes, of course. We can talk about it later. She’s in good hands for now.’ The doctor saw the look in Nick’s eyes, and answered it: ‘The next few days will be the most critical. After that we’ll have a better idea of how she’s progressing.’

  Nick looked back at Rosie. No longer in her lacy nightdress with the pink net over her hair, she was wearing a rough-textured hospital gown that was far too big for her, and her normally neatly curled hair was lopsided and unkempt. Carefully he brushed a wisp off her forehead and into place. Her hands lay on top of the bedcovers, a plastic identity bracelet on her right wrist. She looked like a refugee. Except for her nails: as always they were perfectly manicured, the varnish deep red and unchipped. Even now. It was all he could do to hold back the tears. He gritted his teeth.

  The sound of sensible shoes on a hard floor broke in on his thoughts. He looked up. His mother was standing over him.

  The grilling took place in the hospital waiting room – sotto voce, thanks to the presence of another couple who were waiting for news of their father in the wake of a stroke.

  ‘Well, how did it happen?’

  ‘She slipped.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On a boat.’

  ‘Oh, Nick! What was she doing on a boat?’

  ‘I told you, she was on a sailing course.’

  ‘Stupid idea.’ Anna Robertson’s face was a picture of righteous indignation.

  ‘Well, you were right, weren’t you? And I was wrong. I just wanted her to have a bit of fun. And so did she.’

  ‘And this is where it’s led. So, what happens now?’

  Nick was leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He delivered the information to the floor, rather than to his mother. ‘They’ll have to keep her in for a while, get her moving. Apparently the next few days are the most critical, in terms of her future mobility, and then they recommend a convalescent home.’

  ‘Of course. Whereabouts?’

  ‘I suggested here, but I thought you’d probably have an opinion on that.’

  ‘It’s out of the question. She’ll have to come back to Richmond where I can keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Lucky her.’

  ‘Nick!’

  He sat up. ‘Well, we want her to get better, don’t we? And she’ll need encouragement for that, not you barking at her all the time, telling her what she can’t do.’

  ‘That’s not very kind.’ She looked hurt.

  ‘No, Mum, but it’s accurate,’ Nick continued stubbornly.

  His mother seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but she failed to articulate it.

  ‘Look, you’ll only get cross with her. You know you don’t get on, and it would probably be better for both of you if she stayed on the island.’

  Anna shrugged.

  ‘Anyway, let’s just see how she gets on over the next few days.’

  ‘Does your father know?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve tried ringing him but there was no reply. I think he was going abroad.’ He avoided meeting her eye. There was no way he would mention the package, or explain that contacting his father had proved impossible. Every time he thought about it he felt irritable and powerless. He had even called Derek’s former secretary, Mavis, who knew everything, but she, too, had drawn a blank – and where the redoubtable Mavis failed, it was unlikely that even Interpol could
succeed.

  ‘So what will you do?’

  Not ‘what will we do’, he noticed. ‘Wait until he gets in touch. That’s all I can do, unless I keep ringing him, and there doesn’t seem much point in that. Anyway, he’s probably changed phones yet again.’

  ‘More than likely.’

  ‘So you don’t know what he’s up to, then?’

  Anna grimaced.

  ‘Silly question.’

  ‘Yes.’ She drummed her fingers on her handbag. ‘Is she likely to be asleep for long?’

  ‘A few hours. She’s only just come out of theatre.’

  ‘I see.’ Anna glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve a meeting tonight and I really can’t miss it. If you think I should sit by her I will . . .’

  ‘No. You get back. I can keep an eye.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. You get off.’

  Anna got up and smoothed down the front of her black poncho. She laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow, yes? Work out what to do.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Don’t be angry with me, Nick. I’m only trying to do what’s best.’

  ‘I’m not angry. I just . . .’ But the words would not come. He turned to look out of the window as the light faded and the purple haze of dusk settled on the hospital car park.

  The doctor had suggested he get some rest and come back the following morning, when Rosie might be more compos mentis. He tossed and turned, willing her to pull through. A phone call to the hospital at nine o’clock confirmed that she had had a comfortable night, and was now sleeping peacefully.

  ‘Peacefully’ sounded as if she’d given in, and that wasn’t Rosie. He admonished himself for the thought and confirmed that he would visit her at lunchtime when she would be sitting up, they said.

  He went into Rosie’s bedroom. It was tidy and ordered, the photo of the Tsar, and a smaller one of Granddad, on the bedside table. One of her new boating shirts lay neatly folded on a chair by the chest of drawers. He could see her nightie peeping out from under her pillow. She had only been with him for about a week, and already it seemed like for ever. Her travelling alarm clock ticked loudly, but the house was strangely quiet without her. Life was quiet.