Rose in her late thirties still had a girlish figure but her face was weathered, with the beginnings of lines around her eyes. Her hair was long, as it had always been, held back in a loose plait (Anna found it impossible to picture her with a short ragged crop, as Michael had described), and she wore frayed jeans, plimsolls and a smocky garment of multicoloured weave, with a pendant of turquoise sea-glass on a thong.
Anna felt a ludicrous impulse to ignore this woman who seemed to be Rose, and instead to move around the small gallery studying the paintings, or to bend and stroke the cat which she now noticed on a cushioned chair near Rose’s easel – a grey long-haired cat that looked at her unblinking. What on earth to say? If she opened her mouth, twenty years’ worth of recriminations and self-pity would scramble to get out.
It was Michael who spoke first. Anna feared that he’d offer to leave them alone together; after several hours in his company, she was more at ease with him than with Rose.
‘Let’s go indoors,’ he said, and Rose nodded, and went around the gallery turning off lights and an electric heater. ‘Come on, Fossil,’ she said to the cat, which chirruped a reply and jumped down from its chair to rub against her legs. Rose’s voice was deeper and less plaintive than Anna remembered.
They went into the house, where the boy Euan was now sprawled on the sofa with some kind of gadget in his hands, pressing keys with his thumbs. Seeing Anna’s bag by the door, Michael said that he must phone the nearby guest-house, there being only two bedrooms here. While he did so, Rose said, ‘Take a seat, Anna,’ and went through to a narrow kitchen. Anna looked at Euan, studying his neat features, straight dark hair and intent expression; trying to decide if he most resembled Rose or Michael, she concluded that he was not greatly like either. After a few moments Rose returned, carrying a tray loaded with glasses, a bottle of white wine and a can of soft drink. Their eyes met briefly as Rose set down the tray on a low table of roughly shaped wood.
What were they going to talk about, with Euan here? Michael said into the phone, ‘Yes, ten-thirty latest,’ and rang off; he turned to face the two women, rubbing his hands together in the manner of an awkward host hoping his guests will get on together.
Rose poured wine. ‘I’ve got you a Sprite, Euan,’ she said; the boy answered, ‘Thanks,’ his eyes on the small screen in front of him. When she’d poured wine and handed it round, Rose sat on a cushioned stool; Michael, on an upright chair by a writing desk, looked from Rose to Anna, holding his glass as if about to formulate a toast of some kind, thought better of it and raised it to his lips without speaking.
‘It’s a lovely cottage,’ Anna remarked, for want of something to say.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Rose. ‘It suits us perfectly, even though Michael has to do all that travelling back and forth. I fell in love with it at first sight. And there’s my studio. I could never live anywhere else.’
‘And your other son?’ Anna asked. ‘Is he around?’
‘Oh, Finn’s off on a sailing weekend. He loves sailing, always has. You probably won’t see him. How long can you stay?’
‘Only till tomorrow.’ Anna thought of the train journey back, of work on Monday morning: so remote from Rose’s settled life. Having been with her for barely fifteen minutes she knew already that Rose wasn’t going to protest, Oh, but that’s hardly any time at all! Can’t you stay longer? Rose nodded, and sipped her wine. ‘You won’t meet Finn then. You’ll have to get the train by about three, and he won’t be back till after dark. He’s gone over to Scilly with some friends.’
‘And you? Do you go sailing?’
‘Only now and then. Michael does. Maybe he could take you out tomorrow morning.’
Anna felt a strong temptation to get up and grab Rose by both shoulders and shake her; so composed, so pleased with her life, with her family; ready to be hospitable to Anna, but only as she might treat a passing visitor in whom she had little interest. Michael, who seemed aware of every nuance, said, ‘It’s you Anna’s come to see, Rosy. Why don’t I go and put the oven on, and you two can stay here and chat. You’ – he addressed the boy – ‘come and give me a hand?’
This You seemed to Anna a strangely perfunctory way of speaking to his son until she realized that of course it was Eu – a shortening of Euan. The boy got slowly to his feet, turning off his gadget with a tinkly sound, and Michael ushered him into the kitchen, closing the door behind them. Rose bent to stroke the cat, which lay purring at her feet, rolling over and showing the pale fur of its underside. ‘You’re a lovely boy,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, a beautiful boy.’
‘What shall I tell Mum and Dad?’ Anna said bluntly.
Rose looked at her properly for the first time, then quickly away, as if her eyes were hurt by too bright a light. ‘You’ll have to tell them, I suppose.’
‘Well, course I will!’ Anna tried to hide her impatience. ‘You don’t seriously think I could pretend not to have seen you, not to know you’re alive? Rose, have you any idea what it’s been like for them? For me, as well?’
On Rose’s face she saw the expression she had noticed before, when Michael and Euan had been in the room; a look of shutting herself peaceably into some inner place. Knowing it was completely the wrong tactic, Anna couldn’t stop herself from blurting, ‘You’re a mother now. How would you feel if one of your boys vanished without a word? Sailed off and never came back?’
‘But I’m not your mother’s daughter, Anna,’ Rose said.
‘Still! She – and Dad – adopted you, brought you up. Don’t you owe them anything?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Rose said, almost irritably. She got up, stirred the ashy logs with a poker and added fresh ones from the basket, kneeling on the rug, and staying there. ‘You can tell them I’m here. Maybe they might come and visit.’
‘Don’t you think you should make the effort to visit them?’
Rose seemed startled by this; she turned, her eyes widening in alarm, and for the first time Anna saw a glimpse of the sister she had known. ‘Oh no. I never leave Cornwall. Never go far from here.’
Later, when Michael drove her up the lane to the guest-house, Anna asked him about this.
‘No, Rose rarely goes farther than Penzance. There’s a group of local artists that exhibit together, and two or three times a year we go over to Scilly on the boat, to deliver paintings to a gallery there. She hates crowds, hates big towns. Penzance is more than enough for her, driving the boys to school and doing the shopping. She has panic attacks – maybe you know that. She struggles to breathe.’
‘I remember a couple of times at school. But it sounds like she’s got worse.’
‘Well, it’s not so bad now, as long as she stays in her routine and the places she knows. She goes to a meditation class – that seems to help. And her painting, of course. She needs that. The odd thing is that she’s quite happy for visitors to come into the studio, even ask questions. It’s as if her artist role gives her a front, a persona. When we first lived in Bristol was when the attacks were at their worst. That’s why I could never push her. I was always afraid she’d run away, or do something drastic.’
‘But now – now she must feel secure, surely? I mean, the worst has happened in a way – I’ve turned up, she’s been discovered – but it’s not really going to affect her much, is it?’
‘Only in a good way, I hope.’
‘It’s not as if anyone’s going to try to drag her back to my – our – parents. But I’ll have to tell them, obviously. Apart from everything else, they’d love to know they’ve got grandsons. That’s how they’ll want to think of your boys. Do you think Rose will let them?’
‘She’ll come round, I’m sure, now that we’ve got this far.’ Michael was turning abruptly into a gateway; the tyres crunched gravel. ‘Here we are. Trelissick Lodge.’
They were in the driveway of a half-tiled Victorian house set among pines. Michael turned off the engine, and said, ‘I’ll come in with you, say hello to Mary. It’s been quite a day for yo
u, hasn’t it, one way and another?’
‘You could say that. Thank you for all you’ve done.’
‘It’s a huge relief, to tell you the truth. I can’t tell you how much. I’m so glad you got in touch.’
He sat silent for a moment, Anna beginning to sense how much his devotion to Rose had cost him – as if Rose, typically, had handed over her burden of guilt for him to carry. If, that was, she had ever felt guilt.
‘Does she ever—?’ Anna began, but Michael was out of the car now, going to the door. Mary, a woman in her fifties, answered his ringing. After arranging to collect her after breakfast tomorrow, Michael gave Anna a kiss and a hug, with far more warmth than Rose had so far shown.
Showing the way to a large and rather fussily furnished room, Mary was inclined to chat, but Anna wanted to be alone now, to assimilate all that had happened and to think about the big new questions that buzzed around her head. She dumped her bag on a chair and opened the window to let in cold air. At once she was struck by the utter quietness and darkness outside. She was used to that at Rowan Lodge, but this felt different, with the sea less than a mile away; there was a faint saltiness on her lips, on her skin. She was looking, she thought, downhill towards the cove, but could make out only garden trees, dimly lit by solar lamps on the drive. She thought of Rose, moving around the cottage, looking through an open door to check that Euan was peacefully asleep, then getting into bed with Michael. Would they talk quietly together; would Rose be open with him now, and if so, would she express fear, or disappointment, or panic?
And where was Zanna now, Rosanna? This other half-sister, conjured from nowhere, who had walked into Rose’s life with such dramatic results? Shivering now, Anna closed the window and drew the curtains. She remembered what her father had told her: that her mother had given the name Rosanna when someone asked about her children. Anna had thought at the time that the name Rosanna was a muddled conflation of her name with Rose’s. But now …
Her mother had had another baby. Anna struggled to believe it. And if it were true, her father knew nothing of it; she felt certain of that.
How could anyone keep such a secret? What had it done to her mother, concealing such a huge thing for most of her adult life? And had she gone on meeting Zanna, quite unsuspected, for the twenty years of Rose’s absence? Had she known of Zanna’s unannounced visit that day, and kept it from the police, from Dad, from everyone? Secrets had bred secrets, spreading like a virus. And that made it unfair, surely, to blame Rose, who had been caught up like Anna in a suffocating mesh, but had found her own way of breaking free.
Earlier, at Cove Cottage, they had eaten their meal in a book-lined room between kitchen and sitting room, the four of them, knees almost touching under the small table, passing salad and granary bread to accompany the spiced chicken dish prepared by Rose. Only now did Rose ask Anna some of the things Michael had already asked on the train: what did she do? Was she married?
‘I live with my partner, Martin,’ Anna found herself saying; perhaps to have something to show Rose, an indication that she too was loved and wanted.
Had been.
‘Oh, and how did you meet him? What does he do?’ Rose asked.
When Anna explained that Martin was a financial adviser, she saw Rose dismiss him in an instant. Not interesting enough for her consideration.
Anna thought: I’ve always put Rose first. I’ve let my idea of Rose shape my life, my idea of what I want.
‘If you’d like to phone Martin, Anna, please do,’ Michael told her. ‘You won’t get a signal on your mobile.’
Anna thanked him, but said that there was no need. Now, though, lying in bed with the light on, her mind was too active for sleep. Wondering what Martin might be doing, she pictured him watching TV alone, a late film perhaps, or something he’d recorded; he was rarely in bed before midnight at weekends. What would he be thinking?
She’d have to stop this. It was no longer any business of hers, what he did and didn’t do.
Tears sprang to her eyes now, tears of weariness and a sense of both the shock and the anti-climax of this strange day that had carried her from place to place and now left her alone and flat. The gap between expectation and reality was too wide to be filled. Always, over the years, she had had a sense of being owed something big enough to compensate for the emotion she’d invested in Rose, and the need to find her, or at least find out what had happened to her – to have something to fill that void. She had imagined that her reward for faith and persistence would be handed to her all at once, like a lottery winner’s cheque. Now the gap had stretched too wide to be filled.
Anna wept quietly for the loss of Rose, and of herself. She wept for the girl who had spent half her life in waiting.
In the morning Anna saw the cove properly in daylight, saw the curve of granite cliffs that enclosed it in a horseshoe shape, the coastal path rising on either side; she saw distant light on the sea, rays slanting between clouds. The sea towards the horizon dazzled and held the eye with its shifting and glancing colours. Seen from above, the cove was a tricky exercise in perspective drawing, with its odd angles of roofs and chimneys and steps cutting down steeply between houses, the lane winding round to sweep to a halt by the little quay.
She wanted to see Rose’s paintings; to interpret and compare, finding herself lacking, no doubt, in comparison, glad of the ready excuse that she hadn’t painted for years. When she mentioned that she’d like to see them properly, Rose unlocked the studio and turned on the heater. ‘Here it is. See for yourself,’ she said offhandedly, then made a desultory effort at sorting through papers and sketchbooks on her desk, occasionally glancing up to see what Anna was looking at. There were landscapes and seascapes, some in watercolours, most in acrylics. Anna preferred the odd little glimpses: a half-open garden gate, a clump of thrift clinging to the cliff, a rowing boat pulled up to rest on a pebbled shore. Then there were seabirds, all done in watercolours, looser in style. Gannets, purple sandpipers, oystercatchers with startling red-orange bills against their pied colours. Backgrounds were washed in, lightly indicated: lichencoloured rocks, clumps of samphire, wet sand washed mirror-smooth or marked with the tread of webbed feet. They were proficient but unremarkable. To Anna, Rose’s story needed a more dramatic outcome, worth the cost to everyone concerned: she ought to be a Barbara Hepworth, a Gauguin, producing ground-breaking work rather than pleasant souvenir pictures of the kind seen in countless shops and galleries along the coast. Anna felt, illogically, as if Rose had snatched the privilege of being an artist, taken the one chance available, and set up a cosy little industry. Through Anna’s mind floated the more dramatic colours and forms of the work she’d once imagined herself producing.
‘You can have one, if you like, to take away with you,’ Rose said, not looking up.
‘Can I? Thanks.’
It was the take away that echoed, as if Rose couldn’t wait to get rid of her. Anna fought back Stuff your pictures, deciding that a gift from Rose was the very least she deserved – some kind of proof that she existed, perhaps. She spent some while before choosing turnstones: two plump birds, at rest by a humped rock; behind them, waves washing in, creaming into patterns of foam. Like all the paintings it was signed Rosalind Sullivan, a name that was beginning to mean something in Anna’s mind. Only now did she notice that there were no people in Rose’s work.
Rose sealed and taped it in bubble-wrap for Anna’s journey home, then suggested that they should go for a walk while the weather was fine. ‘You’d better borrow my walking boots. We’ve got the same sized feet – at least we used to have.’ She looked momentarily discomfited by this we, by this admission of former intimacy. ‘You won’t get far in those heels.’
Anna pushed her feet into Rose’s boots, spreading her toes, adjusting to the indentations of different feet.
On the cliff-path, Anna’s black coat billowed and flapped, and her red scarf flew out like a banner. With Rose, Michael and Euan, she walked head down into
strong gusts from the west, picking a way up the steep path, scrambling over boulders, standing like figureheads to look down into the next bay and the steel-grey sea, with waves breaking into white crests, far out. That meant it was rough today, Euan told Anna, with the air of imparting expertise.
‘I don’t know how you can live in London, Anna.’ Rose’s words were whipped away into the wind. ‘I couldn’t stand it.’
It was the kind of remark Anna had come to see as typical of her: exasperating but true. Anna thought how cocooned Rose was here, if she could be cocooned and at the same time exposed to the Atlantic – so removed from cities and commerce and the need to earn a living; because surely, unless Rose’s paintings were far more successful than Anna had reason to suspect, she couldn’t support herself by her earnings or contribute a great deal to the family finances. Yet Anna did agree.
‘I don’t know how to live in London, either.’
‘Why do you, then?’
‘Well – because it’s convenient, I suppose. Has been, anyway.’ Anna paused; she would have to abandon the fiction that she was living happily with Martin, and wished now that she hadn’t mentioned his name. Then she saw that Rose wasn’t listening, wasn’t really curious. Convenience had never been much of a priority for Rose: her own, or anyone else’s.
Time was running out. They had lunch at a pub in the next bay before walking back, gusted and buffeted, the wind behind them now; Rose called a warning to Euan not to go too close to the cliff-edge. Anna had spent very little time alone with Rose and saw now that she wasn’t going to; that Rose had, possibly, engineered the windy walk and the pub lunch with other people around them precisely to prevent Anna from confronting her with things she preferred not to examine.
Missing Rose Page 27