Missing Rose

by Linda Newbery

  Things became hazy. People overflowed into the garden, though it was bitterly cold outside; the sweet smell of pot mingled with cigarette smoke. Then Phil and Roland were here after all, with Dempsey. Someone changed the record to a Kinks album, and the mood was instantly more excitable; Dempsey began strutting and posing, clearing a space around him. Roland, in black shirt, shades and a trilby hat, made for a group drinking in the kitchen, but Elaine headed him off, grabbed his hand and pulled him into the front room and the dancing. Roland wasn’t extrovert like Dempsey, but still a good mover; he danced in an ironic, self-mocking way, face deadpan. Sandy found herself partnered with a lanky shy boy, someone’s brother, but it was too hot and crowded now, smoke stinging her eyes. She escaped outside, looking for Phil, hoping for maybe a few words from him, an acknowledgement.

  When the cold drove her back indoors, she saw that Elaine’s second string had been demoted to DJ, and with Roland firmly in her grasp Elaine requested something slower. At first Roland played along as she snaked her arms around him and pressed her hips against his, her hand moving down his spine. Then, abruptly, he pushed her aside with a vigour that sent her stumbling into the arms of a surprised Dempsey. ‘Woo-ooo-ooh,’ someone hooted, as Roland elbowed his way out of the room. Elaine recovered enough to smooch with Dempsey instead, in a jokey way, but five minutes later she was in tears in the kitchen, cutting between Sandy and the shy boy who were moving towards a first fumbling kiss.

  ‘Did you see?’ Elaine raged, grabbing Sandy’s arm. ‘Did you see what your brother did?’

  The boy backed off, easily deflected. Sandy and Elaine retreated to the top stair, Sandy consoling, Elaine sobbing angrily, her mascara running in sooty streaks. ‘Shoved me away like I was a piece of dirt! – oh, why did I want him to come? The whole party’s ruined now. I don’t even want to be here.’

  ‘Shh, shh. Forget about it. There are lots of other boys.’

  ‘Gah! You know Roland’s the only one I care about! He acted like I’m hideous or something – disgusting …’

  Her distress, childlike and oddly endearing, made Sandy want to offer her something.

  She whispered, ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Laine, really there isn’t. It’s him.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ Elaine snivelled.

  ‘It’s not girls, with Roly. He’s – you know—’

  At once Elaine stopped sobbing and looked at her wide-eyed. ‘Are you kidding me? Christ, you’re not, are you? Your brother’s a poof? My God!’

  ‘You mustn’t tell anyone.’ Sandy was alarmed by Elaine’s quick understanding, her abrupt change of mood. ‘Look, wait – it’s a secret, right? I only told you because—’

  She grabbed Elaine’s arm; Elaine flung her off, lurched to her feet and hurried downstairs, regardless of her spoiled make-up and smudgy eyes. Sandy scurried behind as she headed out to the garden, pushing past a couple who sat entwined on the doorstep. Phil and Roland stood smoking by the fence.

  ‘Hey, you two! So!’

  ‘Laine, wait—’

  ‘This is a surprise,’ Elaine went on, loudly enough to turn heads. ‘Not really fair to us girls, though, is it? Oh, sorry – am I interrupting something? It’s darker down the far end if you want privacy. Only mind the faggots by the shed.’

  Roland’s eyes flicked to Sandy; she looked down.

  ‘What’re you on about?’ Phil said easily, tapping his cigarette; glowing ash dropped to the lawn.

  ‘Come back in, Laine,’ said Sandy, pulling at her. ‘You’ve had too much to drink.’

  ‘Correction. I haven’t had enough.’ Elaine was swaying as she turned on Roland. ‘Bit sneaky, isn’t it, all those songs about girls? But, no, I get it. Your fans wouldn’t be so keen if they knew you were going at it with each other.’

  Phil laughed. ‘What’s this all about? What’s put this into your head?’

  ‘It’s obvious, now,’ Elaine said, her voice harsh. ‘Can’t think why it took me so long.’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish, little girl. Have your tantrum – I’m heading off. This is just a kids’ party.’ Phil dropped his cigarette and ground it with his heel, then strode towards the side gate, not looking back. Roland stood in indecision, watching him go.

  ‘Lovers’ tiff?’ mocked Elaine.

  ‘Roly, I didn’t mean …’ Sandy faltered.

  Briefly his gaze met hers.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon make up,’ Elaine told him. ‘I expect you know how.’

  In answer Roland grabbed hold of her shoulders with both hands, and pushed his face against hers in a rough semblance of a kiss; as she squealed and resisted, he held her hard against him. ‘Is that what you wanted?’ he said, snarling the words into her face; then he almost dropped her, turned and walked away fast. Moments later raised voices could be heard from the street.

  ‘He’s mad, your brother – barking mad.’ Elaine bent forward, clutching her stomach. ‘I feel sick—’

  ‘Get a drink, everyone – it’s nearly midnight!’ someone yelled from the kitchen, and moments later cheers and yells almost drowned out the sound of Elaine retching into the shrubbery.

  Standing by, Sandy could think of no way of unsaying what she’d said, of putting right the damage she’d done with those few disastrous words.

  Phil’s insistence on doing things in order meant buying fish and chips at a café in Ryde, eaten in reverent near-silence. Then they hitched a lift in a van as far as Yarmouth, where a wide creek bristled with masts; they walked from there, thumbing, until a farmer towing a trailer stopped and took them on to Freshwater Bay. Sandy’s parents had impressed on her the dangers of hitch-hiking and she’d only done it once, with Elaine, but Phil took for granted that it was the only way of getting about. She was safe enough with him; it wasn’t like hitching alone.

  Freshwater Bay was a small settlement: a couple of hotels, a lifeboat station and a few houses in a dip between hills. To the west, downland rose high, dropping in sheer chalk cliffs to the sea. Phil and Sandy walked in the other direction, along a path close to the edge of lower, sandy cliffs. The wind gusted into their faces. Below them, waves rolled greyly in, breaking into foam on the long stretch of sand. Not much used to walking, Sandy had to scurry to keep up with Phil, who strode head down, not looking back. Irritation rose in her. Why couldn’t he have told her they’d be doing this, so that she could have worn boots, instead of light slip-on shoes that rubbed her heels and were already clagged up with sheep turds? This whole thing was pointless anyway; Roland was in the churchyard at home, and the unfamiliar surroundings seemed only to emphasize that she wouldn’t find him here, or anywhere. Nevertheless a kind of exhilaration grew in her as she looked down at the beach, the wind snatching at her hair and thrumming in her ears. The light dazzled, and the salt-laced air charged her with energy, making her feel she could shrug off tiredness and run and run.

  Now Phil waited for her to catch up. Finding a sheltered dip, he slid down to sit on the grass; she dropped her bag and squatted next to him. A footpath led down to the beach, with a handrail for the steeper sections, and steps of bleached wood. A notice warned that swimmers should take care of strong undercurrents.

  Phil reached into his canvas bag and took out a roll of plastic with soft brown stuff in it, a packet of cigarette papers and a lighter. ‘A spliff, first. Same as before.’

  He tapped and rolled, and sealed the paper, seemingly expert. Sandy hid her surprise; maybe he thought she did this all the time? When Phil had taken a couple of drags, he passed her the joint, the tip compressed, slightly moistened by his lips. Briefly she relished the intimacy of sharing. He’d done the same thing with Roland, and she knew he would prefer Roland to be here now.

  ‘Cassandra’s a great name,’ he said. ‘Better than Sandy. She told the future, didn’t she? About the Trojan War. Only no one listened.’

  Sandy tried not to cough as she inhaled, feeling the sweet hot rush into her lungs, anticipating the light-headedness
that would surely follow. ‘So what did you do next? When you came here with Roly?’

  ‘We swam.’ Phil grinned at her, taking back the joint. ‘We ran in with our jeans on. People looked at us like we were mad, but it was hot enough to dry off in the sun. We came back up here and had another spliff. Then hitched back to a pub and had a few drinks till it was time for the boat back.’

  ‘But that can’t be all!’

  ‘It’s not all.’ He looked down; Sandy saw the tremble of his lips. ‘It’s my fault. My fault he’s dead.’

  ‘How can it be? It’s mine.’

  Phil nodded. ‘Yeah. That too. We messed things up, between us. Messed him up.’

  ‘At the party?’

  ‘And before.’

  ‘You mean he told you?’ Sandy guessed.

  ‘Told me—?’ Phil looked sidelong at her, then understood, shaking his head quickly. ‘No. No. But he gave me the song. The one he started when we were here. It was the night before the party. We’d been practising with the others, in our garage. Brian was going through stuff, ready for our next gig. After, the others left, and Brian was out in the van, and Rolls gave me a bit of paper. “Finished it last night,” he said. “Don’t read it now,” he said, “read it later.” And he went off home.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I read it.’

  ‘You didn’t like it?’

  Phil shook his head slowly. ‘I sure as hell wasn’t going to sing it. Even if no one else knew. Most of his songs, any of the romantic or sexy ones, anyway, were about girls. At least, I thought so. This was different. It was about … us, that day. Only there was no us, as far as I was concerned. We were good mates. We had a great day here, but not like he thought. I’m not – you know.’

  ‘So what did you do? What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. Hadn’t thought what to say. I hoped he’d know, and just drop it. But—’ He swallowed with an effort, spoke again. ‘Then the party, and Elaine barging in.’

  ‘So that wasn’t news to you, what she said? About Roland?’

  Phil gave a sort of wincing huff. ‘No. No. If it was only the song, and me saying forget it – well, that’s not like everyone knowing. I mean, thinking they did. Joking. Saying things.’

  ‘And – was that the last time you saw him? When you were shouting at each other outside Elaine’s?’

  ‘Yeah, I – told him we were all finished. The Merlins, everything – I didn’t want any more to do with it. With him. Told him I’d torn up his stupid song, and all his songs were rubbish anyway. Then I went off to another party and got smashed. Day or two later I thought maybe it wasn’t such a big deal, we could forget it – I hadn’t said anything to the guys. So I phoned, and your mum answered. She went to get him, then came back and said he was out. She’s a hopeless liar, your mum. Rolls was blanking me. I’m not surprised, the things I called him.’

  ‘Oh – Phil.’

  He gave a hopeless shrug. ‘Thought about coming round to see him, but – well, I didn’t. Then it was too late.’

  She said, ‘And did you tear up the song?’

  ‘No.’ He placed a hand on his canvas bag. ‘It’s in here. At least I’ve got that. It was the last thing he wrote, or I suppose it was.’

  If only, if only. If she hadn’t said, if Phil hadn’t, if Elaine hadn’t – Roland would be alive. If, if, if. She would never escape from if only.

  Sandy got up and walked towards the path, and the flight of steps down to the beach below. She stood on the top step with a sense of nearing the end of Roland’s journey, the end of his life. What had been in his mind as he walked down to the sea’s edge? Had he known what he was going to do? Or had he just come here to think, to get away from Phil, from her, from everyone?

  With a sense of inevitability she began to walk slowly down to the beach. A young couple, well wrapped up, called a cheerful greeting as they passed, the man throwing a ball for a black Labrador that leaped joyfully into the water. The tide was half in, or half out; Sandy couldn’t tell which. She walked out to the tideline, feeling the gritty crunch under the soles of her shoes. The wind came off the sea, March-chilled; goose-flesh prickled her arms. It must have been far colder for Roland, in January. She pictured him standing here, alone, lost, unreachable; then she felt a shivering at the back of her neck as Phil came to stand close.

  ‘The LSD.’ She turned to him. ‘Where did he get that? Had he taken it before? Do you think he knew what he was doing – I mean, did he want to drown, or, you know, just let his mind go and float, like John Lennon said?’

  Phil puffed out his breath. ‘Wish I knew. Bit of a pothead, old Rolls, but I never knew him take acid. It was something we all talked about, like we knew. But I don’t think any of us had done it. Maybe he got it from someone at the party. Don’t know about you, but I’d rather think it was an accident while he was on an acid trip. And I hope it was a good one.’

  Sandy was silent, watching the waves, letting herself be mesmerized by their rhythm: the wash and lull, the hiss as they sucked back, pulling rivulets of grit in the undertow. You could be pulled in, let your eyes go swimmy and the sound wash into your ears, so that the waves infiltrated your mind. You’d think they were calling you, that you could drift away and dissolve, become part of the whole timeless rise and fall of the tides, pulled by the moon. Even without acid or alcohol you could start to think that.

  She hoped the moon had shone, that the stars had dazzled and danced on the water, that his last moments had been wondrous. She hoped it had not been like dying. But the cold, the icy grip of sea-water in January – that would have been enough to kill him, and however you died you had no choice but to go there on your own. The thought of wading into the grey, heaving mass was enough to make her shiver and huddle more closely into her coat.

  ‘So. This is it,’ Phil said. ‘We ought to do something, say something. To make up for that crap funeral.’

  ‘His song. You’ve got it there. Sing it. Sing it for him. It’s what he wanted.’

  Phil looked at her in dismay. ‘I can’t!’

  ‘You can. Isn’t that why you’ve brought it?’

  Slowly, his lips pressed together, Phil reached into the side pocket of his bag and brought out a folded sheet of paper. He studied it, not letting Sandy see.

  ‘I can’t. Couldn’t,’ Phil said, with a crack in his voice. ‘It’s too … and there’s no tune.’

  ‘But it’s his last – please, Phil, could I at least see? It’s his – his handwriting. It’ll be like he’s here.’

  Phil was biting his lip. He refolded the paper, stood silent for a moment, then pushed it into her hand and turned away.

  Roland had written in fountain pen, broad-nibbed, with the black ink he always favoured. Long downstrokes with swooping tails gave character and determination to his words. Sandy knew his writing so well that it was like hearing him speak. Words, chords pencilled in at the sides. Only a Day, she read:

  The earth turned on its axis/

  Creating night and day/

  And clocks ticked through the hours/

  In the usual way/

  But something changed for ever/

  On that incredible day/

  CODA: Only a day/

  Only a day/ (overlapping)

  Only a day/

  Yes it was only a day/

  We travelled to the island/

  Then we came down to the bay/

  And the words were lost inside me/

  The things I never could say/

  Too big a risk to tell you/

  You might have laughed it away/

  You’d think I was only teasing/

  That it’s some new game to play/

  I’d better stop pretending/

  That you could want me that way/

  And I knew I’d never have my fill/

  On this or any other day/

  CODA: Only a day, etc … Do you remember that day (Riff)

  Then a feeling passed between us/

&nb
sp; That words could never convey/

  And I know I wasn’t dreaming/

  No need to shrug it away/

  In my mind you’re standing with me/

  Looking down at the bay/

  And I’ll keep us there for ever/

  The way I wish we could stay/

  CODA: Only a day/Only a day/Only a day … (repeat to fade)

  Sandy gazed and gazed at the words, thinking of Roland writing them alone in his room. From what Phil had said, he must have finished it the night they’d talked – the vodka night, as she thought of it. He’d gone upstairs and finished his poem, while she slept in the next room. Maybe because of the conversation they’d had. It was his last song. A song full of joy and love that had led to his death.

  ‘Roly,’ she whispered, and looked at the poem for one last time before refolding the paper. She went after Phil, who was walking slowly along the tide’s edge, head down.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘It’s beautiful. Keep it.’

  Phil held the page in his hand for a few moments, looking at it, before putting it carefully back into his shoulder bag. Sandy stooped to pick up a pebble, choosing a flinty one; she weighed it in her hand, feeling its smoothness and its one sharp edge, then threw it into the sea, as far and as hard as she could. Phil did the same. He didn’t look at her, but she saw his eyes shiny with tears.

  She touched his sleeve; then his arm went round her and they stood together without speaking. At first she thought only of the comfort of another body warm against hers, sheltering her from the wind; her face was against his jacket, his arms held her, and here was the one person who knew exactly the blend of pain and guilt, anger and bewilderment that held her and wouldn’t let go. It was too cold to linger; they retreated up the beach, still linked, to a notch in the sandy cliff that offered shelter. There they huddled together, embracing like survivors. Their first kiss tasted of salt, his tears and her own; then hands reached and grasped and slid inside clothing, and her breath quickened with his. Her head swam with the certainty that Roland was here too; that they were doing this for him.