Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘Why not? I brought her into the world. She’s my responsibility. I can’t mess up.’

  He was exasperated now. ‘Why this obsession with “messing up”? It can’t be right to shut yourself away and not have any relationships of your own.’

  ‘But I had a relationship of my own and it didn’t work.’

  ‘So what? That doesn’t make you a failure. Doesn’t mean you’ll never have a good relationship. But you have to give yourself a chance.’

  ‘It’s a chance I can’t take.’

  Nick stood up. ‘Rubbish! It might be a chance you’re not prepared to take, but only if you’re a coward.’

  ‘I’m not a coward!’ There was a catch in her voice.

  ‘Well, why are you trying to break up with me? What’s the point in that?’

  ‘The point is that Victoria’s life—’

  ‘Victoria, Victoria, always Victoria! What about Alex?’

  ‘I can’t think about me right now.’

  ‘Well, you should. What sort of life is it going to be for Victoria, knowing that she has a mother at her beck and call the whole time, but only because her mother daren’t have a relationship in case it upsets her?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’

  ‘Is it? You have a bright child up there,’ he pointed in the direction of Victoria’s room, ‘and she’ll know it makes no sense for her mother to be alone.’

  ‘She’s only ten—’

  ‘Yes, and she’s sharper than many fifteen-year-olds. But she’s not emotionally equipped yet, and treating her like some china doll isn’t going to help her in that department.’

  ‘And neither is a string of boyfriends.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He was angry now. ‘You reckon I’m the first in a long line, do you?’

  ‘No. But that’s what might happen.’

  ‘It might. But that’s not my intention. I came here because I love you and I want to be with you. And I’ve thought about Victoria, too. I know how important she is to you, and I like her a lot. She’ll become important to me, if you give me a chance. But if you just shut yourself away because of what might happen, then you’ll never know joy. The sort of joy that we knew the other night. Passion, yes, but more than that. Pleasure in each other’s company. And love, too. Deep love. It wasn’t just lust. Or am I the one who’s fooling myself?’

  ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re not.’

  ‘Then don’t break up with me. Please! Give me a chance to show you that I care – for you both. That’s all I ask. A chance to prove myself.’

  ‘But you can’t promise that it will turn out all right.’

  ‘No, I can’t. But I can promise you I’ll try – with every fibre in my body. If it doesn’t work out in the end I’ll have done everything I possibly can to make it work, and that must count for something.’

  The kettle’s shrill whistle brought a halt to the conversation. Alex got up and turned off the gas. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that with Paul coming back and Victoria going off the rails . . .’

  ‘She didn’t go off the rails.’ He spoke softly now, his tone conciliatory. ‘She just got a bit . . . lost inside herself. Needed to find something to cling on to.’

  ‘And I wasn’t there.’

  ‘You were. It’s just that Paul was there, too, and that threw her.’

  Alex turned to face him. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry – sorry you feel it’s all your fault. It really isn’t, you know. You’re a wonderful person. The very fact that you’re having this conversation proves it. But don’t give up on your own happiness because you think it’s the only way to ensure Victoria’s. I can’t believe that’s true. It doesn’t make sense.’

  Alex lowered her head, and he could see tears flowing down her cheeks. She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

  He got up and walked across to comfort her, but she turned away from him and stared out of the window. ‘You’d better go now. It would be for the best. I’m so sorry.’

  He stood for a moment, one hand outstretched as if it was frozen. He lowered it. ‘What a lot of sorries,’ he said. And then, quietly, ‘Goodbye.’

  She did not reply.

  As he left he did not turn back. If he had done, he would have seen the face of a small girl standing in the upstairs window, her body gently rocking from side to side.

  31

  Nymphenberg

  . . . colour varies with soil and weather conditions.

  Only three days before they had all been sitting round the table, he and Alex, Victoria and Sophie, enjoying being together and teasing each other. Now it seemed that it was all over. That it would never happen again. He could hear the echoes of their laughter, the ticking of the clock. He cursed himself for not having fought harder. He’d thought he’d given it his best shot. Well, if he had, it had clearly been wide of the mark.

  So that was that, then. Maybe in a year or two’s time Alex would realize that the days they had spent together had not constituted a casual relationship. It had been special, out of the ordinary – to him, at least. But maybe not to her.

  He would get on with his life. Perhaps he had been right all along: there was no such thing as that sort of love. Not if it lasted so short a time. He had always expected that it would be so. A heightened passion. Nothing more. But he knew his old prejudice no longer held good. There was, indeed, such a thing as deep, all-consuming love. It had shown itself to him so clearly – then slipped through his fingers and disappeared.

  He poured himself a large Scotch and went to the sink for some water. Every sound seemed heightened. The tap gushed loudly. The glass clinked against the edge of the sink.

  He flopped into a chair and took a large gulp. The liquid burned the back of his throat.

  Trying to make sense of it all set his head spinning. How could Alex think that the only way to Victoria’s happiness was to give up on her own? It was so short-sighted, so . . . unreasonable.

  Suddenly he saw Victoria as a little demon. ‘No!’ he said aloud. He wouldn’t take it out on her. After all, he had hardly been given a chance to know her. She was old-fashioned in some ways, and yet an innocent child in others. But she was companionable, refreshing – he knew they would get on, that she would come to appreciate his sense of humour. He almost smiled. Then he remembered that awful day. Debs had only been three months into her pregnancy. There was always a reason for these things, the doctor had said, but it had been a bitter blow. They thought they might try again. But somehow they never did. They never told anybody. Just kept it to themselves, as usual.

  He remembered the rawness of it all. The bitter disappointment. He recalled the long walks he had taken afterwards, alone across the downs, trying to stay positive. How much did that have to do with their splitting up? Could he have been a better partner, offered more support? But it was a pointless exercise. Debs had gone. It had not worked. For whatever reason.

  Maybe that was why he had been so happy to get to know Victoria, why he hadn’t minded the prospect of taking on a ready-made family. Others might have seen it as a burden, but for him it would have been the fulfilment of a dream. A dream not dreamed for fear that it could never become reality. Now he had to put it out of his mind again. This was reality. Bitter and plain.

  Now he would never know Victoria properly, and she would never know him. In trying to ensure that her daughter was not exposed to life’s sadnesses, Alex would also be shielding her from potential joys. It was all so unfair – unfair on Victoria, unfair on Alex and, yes, unfair on him.

  He drained the glass and went to bed.

  It was Saturday, and the beginning of June. Cowes would be seething. The prospect of fighting through the crowds did not appeal. He showered, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then had a bowl of cereal and a mug of tea.

  Normally he would talk to himself from time to time. It seemed quite natural. But not this morning. He was silent. His jaw ached from being clenched. The newspaper was full o
f party politics and the sexual indiscretions of people he had never heard of. He made a mental note to cancel it. It was a waste of money. How did all these things ever affect his life?

  He walked out on to the veranda. It was a grey day, and the wind was from the east, cold and bullying. Not like June should be. He shivered, went back inside and made his bed.

  Then he sat. And sat. And felt sadder than he could ever remember having felt before.

  Henry was beside Rosie’s bed as soon as the hospital doors opened.

  ‘You’re amazing!’ he said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Look at you! It’s barely eight thirty and you’re all done up and ready to go!’

  ‘Well, they wake us up so early, and I’ve never been one to hang around. Not that I’ve got much choice on that front.’

  ‘How’s the walking coming along?’

  ‘Slowly. And it’s a bit painful.’

  ‘More than a bit, I should think.’

  ‘We won’t go there. Anyway, I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘That sounds dangerous.’

  ‘Be serious, Henry. If I do come and stay with you . . . well, there are one or two things I want to sort out.’

  ‘Yes?’

  She was clearly trying to measure her words. ‘Well . . . I will have my own bedroom, won’t I?’

  Henry threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Of course you will! Good heavens! The very idea! I’d be struck off.’

  Rosie brightened. ‘Well, I knew I would, really. It’s just that we’ve never talked about . . . arrangements, and I thought we should.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Henry tried to suppress a smile, not altogether successfully.

  ‘And then there’s the problem of getting dressed. I’m very self-sufficient – I’m not a helpless old lady – but at the moment it’s a bit difficult to . . .’

  Henry patted her hand. ‘I’ve thought of all that. The niece who’s coming over to help me in the gallery is a sweet girl, and she can do all the bits you wouldn’t want me doing.’

  ‘I see.’ She looked thoughtful.

  ‘It’s one of the reasons they’re allowing you to come out early – because I can arrange for you to be looked after properly.’

  ‘Why are you going to all this trouble? I’m no catch, you know.’

  Henry laughed again. ‘On that subject, madam, I beg to differ.’

  Rosie frowned. ‘Oh, come on, Henry. You know as well as I do how old I am.’

  Henry assumed an expression of wide-eyed innocence. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do.’

  ‘Well, let’s say we’ve both been economical with the truth and leave it at that.’ He winked.

  ‘You’ve still not answered my question.’

  ‘Well, you’re not Mount Everest, if that’s what you think.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Rosie looked baffled.

  ‘I’m not doing it just because you’re there.’ He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling. ‘Do you really want to know? Honestly?’

  Rosie nodded. ‘Yes. Honestly.’

  ‘There are two reasons.’ Henry shuffled about in his chair, then pushed his hands into his pockets and spoke to the floor. ‘One is because when my mother grew older I saw what an amazing lady she was. I saw what she’d been through, and how she’d survived. I never managed to tell her that, and I was too late to help her at the end.’

  ‘I see. So you’re salving your conscience by looking after me?’

  He looked up. ‘A bit,’ he admitted. Then he looked directly at her. ‘The second reason is that I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you in my entire life.’

  ‘Oh, Henry!’ She smiled, then looked down coyly, and smoothed the bedcover.

  ‘It’s true! You make me laugh, you exasperate me, you make me question things but, above all, you make me glad to be alive.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Rosie glanced away. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Through the dampness in his own eyes, he saw the tears in Rosie’s. ‘Don’t say anything, then.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Don’t they serve coffee in this place? I’m dry as a bone.’

  ‘Not until nine o’clock, but if you turn on the charm with that nurse over there I’m sure she’ll oblige. In a manner of speaking.’

  Alex would happily have stayed in bed. She had woken early, but couldn’t muster the will to get up. She stared into the middle distance and thought of him. Endlessly. But this wouldn’t do, she thought. She had to get on. She had a child to sort out. On Saturday mornings Victoria went to a swimming class. She had to be showered and fed before being driven to the leisure centre.

  Alex looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was a quarter to eight. They had to be there by nine thirty. Plenty of time yet. Plenty of time to . . . what? Brood? Mope?

  She threw back the covers, got out of bed, stretched, then caught sight of herself in the mirror, standing there with her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her body encased in a baggy white T-shirt. God, she looked old and weary. She hadn’t felt like this for ages. She’d managed to buoy herself up when Paul was with the new woman in his life – she knew she didn’t want him, so what did it matter who he was with? But the emptiness she felt now had nothing to do with him. She was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. Wearily she crossed the landing.

  She tapped on Victoria’s door, then opened it. The child was sitting up in bed with a book.

  ‘Don’t you ever stop reading?’ asked Alex, teasingly.

  Victoria shook her head, still concentrating.

  ‘What is it today?’ She pushed back her hair.

  Victoria held up Sense and Sensibility.

  ‘Again?’

  Victoria shrugged. ‘I like the stories.’

  ‘Do you know how many other ten-year-olds read those books?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very few.’

  ‘It’s not wrong, is it?’ Victoria asked anxiously.

  ‘Of course not.’ Her mother ruffled her hair.

  ‘Read a bit to me?’

  ‘Oh, love, I don’t think I can focus at this time in the morning.’

  ‘Please!’ There was insistence in her voice, but not of the sort that foretold a tantrum. Not the sort of insistence that says ‘if you don’t I’ll make your life hell for the rest of the day’. Just a positive note that made Alex sit on the edge of the bed and take up the book.

  ‘From there,’ instructed Victoria, pointing to a passage near the end of the book.

  ‘Budge up, then.’ Alex slipped into bed beside her daughter, who rested her head on her shoulder as she read.

  ‘ “Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another!”’ Alex stopped.

  ‘Go on! Go on!’

  Alex spoke more softly now. ‘ “. . . and that other, a man who had suffered no less than herself under the event of a former attachment . . .” ’

  She closed the book. ‘Oh,’ she murmured.

  32

  Madame Berkeley

  Somewhat muddled . . .

  It was midway through the afternoon when the hospital called. Nick was cleaning a wooden garden bench with wire wool. It was a mindless task, but the only thing he could settle to. When the phone rang he dropped what he was doing and ran inside, hoping it might be Alex. When he discovered it was a nurse, his heart sank.

  ‘Mr Robertson? It’s Sister Bettany from the hospital.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked, knowing she wouldn’t have called if it had been.

  ‘It’s Mrs Robertson. She’s a little under the weather and we wondered if you could come in.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be there as
soon as I can. Is she . . .?’

  ‘She’s comfortable at the moment, but I think she’d like to see you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  His mind raced as he made the short drive to the hospital. The sun had come out now, but it didn’t seem to matter.

  As he walked down the corridor to the ward, Sister Bettany put her head out of her office and beckoned him in.

  ‘Is it serious?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s difficult to say,’ she said. ‘She has a urinary infection. It sometimes happens and it does cause the patient to be a little confused. She was fine earlier, but she’s declined over the day. She’s a bit disorientated, too, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But will she recover?’

  ‘Oh, we hope so. She’s strong for an old lady, but we must take account of her age.’

  Nick was more worried than ever now. It was the one thing he had never expected to hear. Nobody took account of Rosie’s age, because she took no account of it herself.

  He walked along to her bed. Her eyes were closed. He sat down and took her hand. It felt warm and soft. He squeezed it gently and she opened her eyes. When she saw him she smiled. ‘Hello, my love. How are you?’ she whispered.

  He was appalled to see her so weak – she had been making such good progress that he had come to believe she was invincible.

  ‘I’m fine, but what about you?’

  She tried to say something, failed, and drifted off again. Her eyes closed and flickered.

  He sat with her for the better part of an hour as she slept fitfully. Then he walked down to the office and waited for Sister Bettany to return from her rounds.

  ‘We’ll keep a close eye on her for the next day or so,’ she said. ‘Pop in whenever you want. I’ll make sure the nurse on duty knows.’

  ‘Thank you.’ It was all so sudden. Things seemed to have been going so well. He asked the obvious question. ‘Does this mean she won’t be coming out quite so quickly?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. We’ll just have to play it by ear now.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He hesitated. Then he asked, ‘How serious is it?’