Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘I have to go out to do a few things.’

  ‘When would be best to ring, then?’

  He tried to think. ‘Well, look, if she just tries me, and then I’ll try her.’

  ‘But what if we go out?’

  She was irritating him now. ‘I’ll just keep trying.’

  ‘What about this evening? Will you be in then?’ she asked.

  ‘Some of the time. I have to go and see Rosie.’

  ‘Isn’t she with you any more?’

  ‘No. She’s had an accident.’ Nick sighed.

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘She’s OK, but she’s in hospital.’

  Silence again.

  ‘Look, if you could pass on the message, and I’m sure we’ll manage to speak some time today. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘’Bye then.’

  ‘’Bye.’ And she hung up.

  ‘Damn,’ muttered Nick. He had wanted to tell Alex everything that had happened since they had last seen each other – and he’d wanted to tell her about Rosie himself. Would Victoria remember to give her the message more promptly than Sophie had passed on hers?

  Victoria hoped she had given him enough information. He had sounded irritated, but she’d only wanted to make sure he’d be able to talk to her mum, who was agitated – and Victoria knew why. There must be an explanation as to why that strange woman had been on his veranda. She wanted Nick to sort it out. But now she had another worry. Nick had said Rosie was OK, but if she was, why was she in hospital?

  ‘Victoria? Are you there?’

  It was the voice of the next-door neighbour, shouting up the stairs.

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  The neighbour went back to her ironing, and Victoria tried to concentrate on her homework. To no avail.

  Alex had been out to buy a new mobile phone. She had then called in at a bookshop to find something to read after Sense and Sensibility, and settled on Vanity Fair. She had chosen it partly because her daughter seemed to have a lot in common with Becky Sharp, and partly for its opening sentence, which transported her to the days in which she would have liked to live: ‘While the present century was in its teens, and on one sunshiny morning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton’s academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness, driven by a fat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig, at the rate of four miles an hour.’

  Oh yes, that would do very nicely. She walked towards the checkout, but was drawn, for some inexplicable reason, towards a shelf in the second-hand section. It was labelled ‘Travel’. She reached up for a guide to the Isle of Wight, not the modern one that Victoria had been devouring but a battered red volume dated 1919. She flipped it open and read:

  In the opinion of many this is, in suitable weather, the finest of all the fine walks in the Island. The view embraces at least half the Island, from Cowes on the one hand to St Catherine’s on the other, and a considerable portion of the opposite coast. On fair days and foul Tennyson was accustomed to make a daily pilgrimage to this spot, declaring that ‘the air on the Downs was worth sixpence a pint’.

  She smiled, closed the book and returned it to the shelf.

  Nick looked out over the view. Cowes lay beyond the curve of Thorness Bay to his left, and St Catherine’s Point jutted out into the Channel on his right, the lighthouse winking with clockwork precision. The cross on Tennyson Down pointed up to the cloud-filled sky, and he breathed deeply, filling his lungs with clean, cold air. He was glad to be out, and to be alone for a while. For days now voices had echoed in his head asking questions – Rosie’s, Sophie’s, his father’s, Henry’s, his mother’s. Only Alex’s was silent. And hers was the voice he most wanted to hear.

  He walked alone from the cross and down towards the Needles, where he set up his easel and painted at speed. He worked all morning until half past twelve when he packed up his brushes and drove to the hospital to meet Sophie at Rosie’s bedside.

  When he arrived the two were deep in conversation. Sophie was regaling her grandmother with the story of a plantation owner who had asked her to marry him and look after his children.

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I told him to get on his bike.’

  ‘You didn’t fancy life on a plantation, then?’

  ‘This isn’t South Pacific, you know, Rodgers and Hammerstein. Anyway, I didn’t fancy him – or his kids. Spoilt brats. One tried to touch me up.’

  ‘But how did he come to ask you to marry him?’

  ‘Oh, he hardly knew me. He just wanted someone to look after his kids on the cheap.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Rosie.

  ‘It’s true. Better than paying a nanny.’

  Nick listened as Sophie warmed to her subject. ‘I tell you, you’ve got to be careful. Some guys are only after one thing.’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘And an easy life. Just like my brother.’

  ‘That’s me,’ Nick confirmed. ‘Always going for the easy option.’

  ‘And the sex.’ Sophie squeezed his arm, then became serious. ‘I’m sorry about that message yesterday. Was it important?’

  Nick turned to his grandmother. ‘How are you today, Duchess?’

  ‘Better in myself, thank you, love, but, ooh, I do ache – and feel so stupid. Fancy slipping! And I had my new deck shoes on. Now I’m stuck in here.’

  ‘Have they started you walking?’

  ‘Have they? I’ll say. Up and down the ward like a sentry. Huh! But there’s a very nice man who takes me, Joe. There he is – African. He’s very nice, calls me Mrs Madam. His English isn’t very good, but he’s gentle.’

  ‘You want to watch out. He’ll be asking you to marry him before the week’s out,’ Nick observed.

  ‘Ooh, that would be something, wouldn’t it?’ Rosie’s eyes lit up, her old sparkle back.

  ‘Yes. If I were you I’d snap him up.’

  Rosie grinned. ‘It’s probably like Sophie says – he’d only want me for the sex.’

  There was a momentary pause, then all three fell about with laughter. Tears of mirth rolled down Rosie’s cheeks, and she squealed in pain as she fell back on her pillow.

  ‘Ow!’ she exclaimed, still laughing. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  ‘Us?’ asked Nick. ‘It was you who said it.’

  Sophie ticked her off: ‘Rosie, that was disgusting.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m old enough to know better. Or, as far as you’re concerned, I’m old enough to have forgotten how to do it.’

  ‘Too much information!’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed. Sex approaching the age of forty.’

  ‘Careful!’ warned Nick. ‘Sensitive area.’

  ‘Ooh, yes! Sorry, I forgot.’ Then her eyes lit up. ‘That reminds me.’ She turned to Nick. ‘Did you tell Sophie . . .’ she glanced from side to side, like a spy, ‘. . . about the legacy thing?’

  ‘Well, I did mention it.’

  ‘Rosie, it’s really not necessary,’ Sophie told her.

  ‘Yes, it is. I’m not having the Government taking it all. I’d far rather you three had it.’

  ‘Well, it’s very kind but—’

  ‘No buts. It’s all sorted out. I’ve given Nick his and he’s put it in the bank.’ She turned to him. ‘You have put it in the bank, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give you yours, Sophie, and you can do the same.’

  For a moment Nick imagined that she was going to reach under her pillow, pull out a small bag and dole out a diamond to Sophie. Instead she said, ‘As soon as your father comes back.’

  Nick was horrified. ‘Dad?’ he managed weakly.

  ‘Yes. I gave them to him for safe-keeping. I couldn’t get to the bank so he said he’d take them for me.’
>
  21

  Mary Manners

  A little prone to rust.

  Sophie knew something was wrong. For the rest of the day Nick was preoccupied, and she assumed it was to do with the woman and child who had come to the house. Open as she was with her brother, she knew that this was not the moment to ask. The relationship, if that was what it was, was clearly at a critical stage, and she kicked herself for having forgotten to give him the message earlier.

  During the day Nick called Alex several times but there was no reply. Then, at around five, the phone was picked up. By Alex. ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hi!’ He felt as though someone had opened a valve in his head, so great was his relief at hearing her voice. ‘I’m sorry I missed you. I didn’t get the message that you’d called until late.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ She sounded cooler than he had hoped. ‘What’s this about Rosie? Victoria said she’d had an accident but there was no need to worry.’

  ‘She’s broken her hip, messing about in boats, but she’s on the mend.’

  ‘Are you sure? It can be tricky.’

  ‘They say that this is the most critical stage. She was a bit dopey at first but she’s pulled round now. She’s almost back to her old self.’

  ‘Oh, good. We did worry.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  ‘We called in but you weren’t there.’

  ‘I was at the hospital.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Look, I couldn’t see you again, could I? Soon.’

  ‘Oh, well . . . it’s a bit tricky at the moment . . . Victoria’s back at school and . . .’

  There was a long silence. He had hoped she would be as glad to hear his voice as he was to hear hers. But she seemed distant. He tried again. ‘Perhaps I can ring you tomorrow, then?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘No reason. It’s just that . . . well, OK. I’ll call tomorrow.’

  ‘’Bye, then.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  He put down the phone, hardly able to believe it had happened. Why had she gone so cool on him? Was this the final brush-off? He ambled out on to the veranda and flopped into a chair. Bloody hell! He’d cocked it up again. But this time he had no idea why.

  ‘Mavis?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Nick again. Any news on Pa?’

  Mavis was a sixty-something, amply proportioned spinster who lived with five cats on the edge of Epping Forest. She had devoted the last twenty years of her life to Nick’s father – as his secretary-cum-personal assistant – but six months ago Derek had decided that he wanted to be more independent and that Mavis was always too keen to tie him down.

  ‘Very little.’ She cleared her throat and took another sip of her sherry. ‘But I have put out some feelers.’

  ‘What sort of feelers?’

  ‘International ones.’

  ‘How did you know where to start?’

  ‘Ha!’ Mavis laughed. And then wished she hadn’t: the smoker’s cough took hold and left her incapable of conversation for a good thirty seconds. When she spoke again it was with a bronchial wheeze. ‘I’ve been following up a couple of old contacts. Eastern European ones.’

  ‘That sounds suspicious,’ said Nick.

  ‘I think they might bear fruit, but your father doesn’t keep me abreast of things like he used to.’

  ‘No. Is there anything I can do?’

  Mavis shook her head, and wished she hadn’t done that either: the cigarette ash had fallen over her freshly laundered crimson satin blouse. She brushed herself down, holding the telephone receiver between her chin and her shoulder then stubbed out the lipstick-stained cigarette. She picked up the spectacles dangling from the golden chain round her neck, and fumbled on the pad in front of her. ‘I’ve come up with a possible sighting in the Baltic and a new mobile phone number.’

  ‘The Baltic?’

  ‘Yes. On a cruise ship. But it was vague and, to be honest, dear, not from a very good source. On the sherbet, you know. But the phone number might be more reliable.’

  ‘Right.’ Nick picked up a pen.

  ‘But I’ve tried it and there’s no reply.’

  ‘Damn. Has he done a bunk?’

  Mavis took another restorative sip. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so. He’ll just have gone to ground until the deal’s done.’

  ‘What sort of deal?’

  ‘Now, you know better than to ask me that. There was a time when I would have known all but couldn’t tell you. Now, alas, I cannot tell you because I know bugger-all. Your father no longer tells me what he does or where he goes. Sad . . . but there we are.’

  ‘But I feel so out on a limb.’

  Mavis beamed to herself. ‘Join the club, dear. Your father prefers to work as a free agent nowadays.’

  ‘Agent? What sort of agent?’

  ‘Don’t be dramatic, dear. He’s never done anything on the wrong side of the law and I’m sure he’s too old and too wise to start now.’

  Nick sighed. ‘I do hope you’re right.’ And then he asked, ‘Is there really nothing we can do?’

  ‘No, dear. I’m afraid there isn’t. I’ll give you the phone number and you can keep trying it, but other than that I’ve nothing to offer.’

  Nick took down the number and thanked Mavis for her trouble.

  ‘That’s all right dear. Send me a bottle of sherry at Christmas.’

  He would try to remember. And he tried the telephone number. It did not even offer a number unobtainable tone. The line was dead as a doornail. Just like his love-life.

  That evening he sat down to supper with Sophie. He was not the best of company.

  ‘Come on, then, what is it?’ she asked, spooning up her melon.

  ‘Sorry?’ He was preoccupied. Distant.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘Yes, there is. You’ve not said more than half a dozen sentences all day.’

  ‘Oh, just girl trouble.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got more than most, I suppose.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Four all told. Alex and Victoria, me and Rosie. Which ones are you especially worried about, as if I didn’t know?’

  Nick nodded in the direction of the mainland.

  Sophie smiled indulgently. ‘On your own tonight, then? Only Sis for company.’

  Nick poked at the melon on the plate. ‘No need to rub it in.’

  Sophie looked guilty. ‘Maybe I’ve frightened her off – by being here, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. She’s not that feeble.’

  ‘Certainly didn’t look feeble.’ She popped a piece of melon into her mouth.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning nothing at all. Just that she seemed very . . . capable.’

  ‘She is.’ He laid his fork on the table and leaned back in his chair. ‘I mean, I said I hadn’t got her message until late–’

  ‘Oops, sorry.’

  ‘–but she didn’t seem to hear, just asked how Rosie was and said it could be a tricky time.’

  ‘In more ways than one,’ muttered Sophie.

  Nick leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. ‘Was she OK when you saw her?’

  Sophie shrugged. ‘Suppose so. Didn’t really concentrate. I mean, I don’t know her so I can’t exactly fill you in on her mood.’

  Nick slumped back, looking distracted. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘If anything, she looked a bit disapproving,’ confessed Sophie. ‘Saw her eyeing up my rucksack. Probably thought I was some sort of traveller.’

  Nick sat up. ‘Did you tell her who you were?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Did you say you were my sister?’

  Sophie hesitated. ‘I . . . don’t think so.’

  Nick got to his feet and pointed at the rucksack lying in the corner. ‘That was on the veranda, with airline labels all over it and you didn’t tell
her who you were?’

  ‘Well, no. But what have my stickers got to do with it?’

  ‘You – What’s the female equivalent of a plonker?’

  Sophie looked bewildered. ‘Silly bitch?’ she offered.

  Nick nodded. ‘And how.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I still don’t see where you’re coming from.’

  ‘Alex comes here to tell me she’s going, and she sees you sitting on the veranda.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And she knows I had a girlfriend who ran off to America.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sophie sat quite still, and then said, ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘Yes. Oh, God. She only thinks that Debs has come back.’

  Sophie did her best to keep a straight face, but failed dismally. Her mouth spread into a grin. ‘You mean she thinks I’m . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nick.

  ‘Debs the Delight?’

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  Sophie did not agree. In fact, she couldn’t speak for laughing.

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There was a pause in the conversation, and Nick wondered if Alex was about to say, ‘That’s a likely story.’ But she didn’t. Instead she chuckled and said, ‘How silly.’

  ‘Silly of her not to say.’

  ‘And silly of me to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘Typical Sophie. She gets it from our mother. She’s a great sister – love her to bits – but she can be a bit short with people she doesn’t know.’

  Alex brightened and made to brush it aside. ‘Yes. Well, never mind.’

  ‘No, but I do mind.’

  ‘Do you?’

  There was a pause. Quite a long pause. ‘Yes. More than I realized.’

  ‘Oh. That’s very nice.’

  ‘Look, can I see you again – soon?’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Tomorrow night?’

  ‘Well, I . . . yes . . . I suppose so.’

  ‘Shall I come over to you? I mean, you’ve been over here a lot lately.’

  ‘No. No. I’ll come to you. I’ll just have to find a sitter, that’s all. Oh, and I have a new mobile. Same number, but it works now.’

  ‘Right. See you tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And . . . er . . .’ He fumbled for the right words.

  ‘Yes?’