Missing Rose

by Linda Newbery

  ‘I saw Martin today,’ Ruth said. ‘I told him about Rose. Hope that’s OK.’

  ‘Oh …’ Anna was taken aback. ‘I thought he was in Norwich, at a conference?’

  ‘Yes, he was. He left early, after his presentation, and called in at Holtby Hall. We went to the pub for lunch.’

  On the point of asking, ‘Why did he come to see you?’ Anna realized that it was none of her business. Previously she’d seen herself as the central figure in the triangle, but now that she’d surrendered any claim on Martin, Ruth was the pivot. She looked down, unsettled by the cosy picture of Ruth and Martin having lunch together.

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘He’s – he’s gutted.’ Ruth gave her a straight look. ‘And hurt, Anna – deeply hurt, that you kept all this to yourself. He had no idea. You’ve never talked much about her, he said – you always gave the impression it was off-limits. I don’t think you’ve been fair to him.’

  Anna assimilated this. ‘Mm. Maybe. But, Ruth’ – she had to come out with it – ‘didn’t you tell him I was meeting someone? I don’t see how you thought that would help. Unless—’

  Ruth, with a look of being wrong-footed, said, ‘Unless what?’

  ‘I – I thought you and Martin might get back together, if I was out of the way. Especially if you both thought I’d gone off with someone else.’

  Ruth gave a startled snort of a laugh, looked sidelong at Anna, then shook her head. ‘No. No. Is that really what you thought? No. We’re OK now, Martin and me, but there’s too much … too much stuff. Did you really think you could organize things so neatly?’

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, it’s not going to happen. It’s not what I want,’ Ruth said firmly. ‘It’s not what he wants. And I don’t even believe it’s what you want. Look – I shouldn’t have told Martin. Especially as I got it all wrong. The truth is – I was annoyed with you, for letting me down about the wallpapering. There, it’s as petty as that – not because I was scheming to get Martin back. I’m sorry.’

  ‘And I’m sorry about the wallpaper.’

  ‘Stuff the wallpaper! That’s the least of our worries.’

  They exchanged hesitant smiles.

  ‘Course, if you’d only said …’ Ruth went on. ‘And now? You’ve found Rose, and there she is, where she’s been for years, all settled with a husband and children and a nice home. Meanwhile you’ve wrecked your own relationship – shoved Martin out of your life, when he could have been your best support. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘You don’t know how bad things have been,’ Anna said. ‘The things we’ve said to each other.’

  ‘Anna – I saw how upset Martin was today. And for him to let me see that … well. If you thought you could hand him back to me, like returning a library book, you don’t know how much he loves you. If I can see that, why can’t you?’

  Anna shifted in her seat. ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes, really. Please don’t say any more. I can’t even think about it, just now. Come on, let’s start on this.’ Anna passed one of the dishes over for Ruth to serve herself. She thought of Martin arriving back at the flat, finding it stripped of her belongings, not even a note left on the table with her key. She hadn’t told Ruth about that. As a gesture it could hardly be more final.

  Ruth began spooning chicken and spicy sauce onto her plate. ‘What about Rose? When will you see her again? And will you try to meet Rosanna?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s such a lot to clear up first. Dad doesn’t know, I’m sure he doesn’t. And who was Rosanna’s father? Perhaps this starts to make sense of the odd things Mum’s been saying. Talking about Rosanna, when Dad and I always thought she meant Rose. Blurting out her secret, after so many years.’

  ‘Perhaps it means she wants it to be known,’ Ruth said. ‘Imagine the strain of keeping such a big thing hidden. But … where is Rosanna now? Your mum must know.’

  Anna gave a helpless shrug. ‘Surely they can’t still be meeting, with no one ever finding out? Has Rosanna died, or disappeared?’

  ‘I hope not.’ Ruth refilled both their glasses. ‘There’s been more than enough disappearing. Is it a family trait?’

  Now. Today. She could keep putting it off, but the worry is snapping at her with such determination that she may as well surrender. Let it eat her whole.

  She tells Don that she’ll be late home; she’s going to Waitrose after work, ready for Anna’s visit. He offers to come, but she insists that she’ll be quicker on her own. And since there’s an hour between her finishing time and Philip Goss’s first appointment, she actually does go and shop, remembering her list and her Bags for Life. She puts her bags into the boot and drives back towards Meadowcroft, leaving the Audi in a side street rather than in the car park; she doesn’t want to be seen. She shuts her shoulder bag into the boot as well, taking only her keys. An alleyway runs alongside the car park, separated by a narrow strip of trees and shrubs, leading to a housing estate and a children’s play area. She walks along this path until she has a good view through bare trees of the back windows of the health centre, and double doors which are usually kept locked. A row of parking spaces is marked DOCTORS ONLY. Will he use one of those? He’s not a doctor, but surely he’s entitled to a parking space.

  Ten to two. She shivers, standing with hands thrust deep into her coat pockets, collar turned up. A scruffy terrier comes along the path from the estate, snuffling busily, followed by an elderly man who gives her a curious stare. She responds with a curt ‘Good afternoon!’ but feels exposed, not wanting anyone else to see her. Awkward in court shoes and narrow skirt, she climbs the low railing and picks her way into the undergrowth, through rough damp grass, and brambles that snag her tights. Ducking under a branch, she winces as something prongs into her scalp; she raises a hand to disentangle her hair, but her attention is diverted to a car pulling in, a small and jaunty red car – no, that’s not him, it’s a young woman at the wheel. But behind it comes a larger black estate – and she doesn’t know much about cars, but surely he’s more likely to drive something like this. She can see the driver’s face only in profile, but surely this is him.

  Yes. He pulls into a space in the row of doctors’ cars, gets out and opens the rear door, taking out a briefcase. She edges forward. He’s tall and lean, dressed in dark trousers and a casual jacket, a long scarf looped about his neck. His hair is short and neat, but the face – yes, it’s the face she remembers so well: the bony features, the deep-set eyes, all the indefinable things that make a face recognizable as one person’s rather than another’s. He is Phil. He is the boy she idolized as a teenager, his youthful beauty coarsened in maturity.

  He locks his car and turns, and she must have let out a gasp or trodden on a twig; he gives her a direct look, pauses for a moment, and comes towards her. She backs off, intending to walk away quickly towards the housing estate, but in her haste she has enmeshed herself in brambles.

  ‘Mrs Taverner!’ he calls.

  How does he know her name? She gives him a quick, frightened glance, trying to prise a thorny stem from her skirt. When she doesn’t answer he calls again: ‘Sandra? Are you all right?’

  She says the first thing that comes into her mind. ‘I’m looking for a – a cat. One of our patients has lost a cat.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes, she – had it in her car, and it got out.’ This is transparently absurd; there is no anxious patient, no cat, no one else in sight; he must know she’s blathering. She tugs again at the brambles and succeeds in disengaging herself, though she hears and feels a thorn ripping through fabric.

  ‘Here, let me.’ He extends a hand, pushes hawthorn branches aside with the other, and pulls her through, looking at her in perplexity. Feeling her bottom lip trembling, she bites it hard.

  ‘You’ve cut yourself!’ He’s looking closely at the side of her face, where she now feels the warm trickle of blood. ‘You’d better get one
of the nurses to clean that up.’ He pauses, still holding her arm. ‘It is you, isn’t it? Sandra, Sandy? Cassandra Skipton?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she says stupidly.

  ‘I saw you in Reception, the first time I came here. You were busy at your desk, but I heard one of the others call you Sandra and I looked again and recognized you. And you’re Sandra Taverner who takes messages for me. I’ve looked for you a couple of times since, but you’ve never been here.’

  ‘No. I only work mornings.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go inside. You look quite pale. Someone else can look for the cat.’ Solicitously, a hand on her elbow, he begins guiding her towards the front of the building, to the main doors.

  She thinks of the last time he touched her, the first and last – the cry of gulls, the breaking of waves, their shivering bodies coming together for comfort. So long ago that she scarcely recognizes herself, but she can never forget – how can she, when what happened that day has shaped the rest of her life?

  Is he thinking of that, too?

  She can’t go in. She flings herself away from him.

  ‘It wasn’t true, what you told me. I know that, now. You lied to me and – you lied to Roland.’ The words jerk out of her and echo around the car park in the silence that follows. He steps back in shock.

  They stare at each other, then his mouth clenches and twists, in an expression she remembers, and he says, very quietly, ‘Yes. I did. I wasn’t as brave as he was.’

  ‘His song,’ she accuses.

  ‘Yes. I’ve still got it.’

  She lifts both hands to her face, holding in the sobs that bubble up. ‘Excuse me,’ she blurts, and she runs towards the road. It feels odd to run, strangely liberating, as if she might acquire spring heels the way she sometimes does in dreams, taking giant strides, never tiring. In reality she’s clumsy in her court shoes, almost losing one as her ankle twists.

  ‘Sandy!’ Phil’s voice rises in warning, and a car turning into the drive jolts to a halt, the driver giving her a self-righteous glare. She slows to a walk, but marches on at a fast walk that’s almost a jog, gulping down tears. When she glances back she sees that Phil hasn’t run after her, but is standing with head high, watching to see where she goes.

  He said it. He said it. He lied. And his lie killed Roland.

  It’s come out wrong, too quickly. But now he knows her, he’s known all along, and there’s only one thing to do. When she gets back to the car she slings herself into the driver’s seat and inserts the key in the ignition, her hand shaking. She catches sight of herself in the mirror: tear-stained face, hair dishevelled, blood trickling down her forehead and coagulating in her eyebrow. She finds a tissue in the glove compartment and dabs at her face with it. Her thoughts race, and the feeling of dread is back in full force, her shadow, always waiting. She must run. Run away as far as she can, before anyone tries to stop her.

  Don – what did Don say he was doing? He has to be out. She can’t face him. She fumbles with her mobile and dials home, and yes, the recorded message comes on after a few rings. He’s out. Thank God. If she hurries, if she’s lucky, she can get what she needs and be out again before he knows she’s gone.

  27

  Arriving at her parents’ house, by taxi this time, Anna found her father in a state of agitation. He opened the door, talking rapidly before she’d got inside.

  ‘I don’t know where she is! She’s gone off somewhere. I would have phoned earlier, only I was sure she’d turn up. But she hasn’t.’

  ‘What’s going on, Dad? What’s happened?’

  With a sense of foreboding, Anna followed as he led her inside, talking all the way.

  ‘No note. Nothing. She left the shopping in bags on the kitchen floor. Frozen stuff and all, ice cream melting. Then the phone call.’

  ‘What phone call? Dad, tell me what happened, in order.’

  They went into the kitchen, Don telling Anna that he’d spent the afternoon at Kathy and Malcolm’s, helping Malcolm to cut down conifers in their back garden. This had taken some while, but Don had kept an eye on his watch, having promised Sandra to be back in time for the meal with Anna. Malcolm drove him back, and he went indoors expecting to find her busy in the kitchen. ‘But the car wasn’t here. I thought at first she’d taken longer than expected, or forgotten something and gone back to Waitrose. Then I saw the bags of shopping. I couldn’t work out what on earth had happened. I went upstairs and saw the mess in our room – you can see – it looked like she’d been opening drawers, pulling things out in a hurry. At first I thought we’d been burgled, but her bag’s not here, or her keys. No car, either. So then I thought – God’ – he covered his hands with his face – ‘someone had broken in and forced her to drive off at knifepoint or something—’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘– and I was about to call the police, when the phone rang and it was someone from the health centre, a physiotherapist – um, Phil, Phil Goss. He was concerned because he’d met her in the car park and she seemed upset. About two, this was. He’d phoned earlier, left two messages. Wanted to check she’d got home safely. He said something about knowing Roland.’

  Anna tried to make sense of this. ‘He told her he knew Roland? That’s what upset her?’

  ‘I don’t know. He said she was already agitated when he first saw her. He tried to stop her but she ran off crying.’

  ‘Ran off crying? And you’ve no idea what …?’

  Don shook his head, unable to speak.

  Anna said, ‘Have you phoned the police?’

  ‘Yes – someone’s been round to take details, a WPC. But, I mean, it doesn’t sound very much, does it? A woman goes out unexpectedly.’

  ‘What can we do? Have you tried all her friends? The Oxfam shop?’

  ‘Yes, love. The shop was closed by that time but I found a number for Angela – she’s the manageress – but she hasn’t seen Sandra since last Friday. I don’t know what to do. There’s no point going out searching. She’s got the car – she could be anywhere. I should have gone shopping with her. I offered, but she said no.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, Dad,’ Anna told him. ‘You can’t be with her all the time. Something’s obviously been worrying her.’ She hesitated, wondering whether this was the time to drop the name Rosanna into the conversation, but only said, ‘You’ve tried her mobile, obviously?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Don, ‘and got voicemail. I left a message saying Where are you? Phone as soon as you get this.’

  They stood for a moment, looking at the bags of shopping which Don had only half unpacked. He was staring at them hopelessly, breathing fast; Anna looked at him anxiously, afraid he might cry. It was so horribly like the day Rose left: trying to think of every possible explanation, assuring each other that nothing was amiss.

  ‘Dad,’ said Anna, ‘you finish this, and I’ll have a look round upstairs – see if I can work out what Mum was looking for.’

  ‘OK, love,’ said Don, with a little uplift of hope in his voice.

  Upstairs Anna remembered Ruth’s joking remark that running away was a family trait. Had something tipped her mother into desperation? It’s as if she knew what I’ve found out, Anna thought, and she’s running away from it. But where to? Where would she go? Anna could only think of the unlikely explanation – no, impossible, surely – that her mother somehow knew where Rose was, and was heading for Cornwall.

  In her parents’ bedroom a drawer was half open, a sweater thrown on the bed; the skirt and jacket her mother had presumably worn for work were behind the door, the jacket skewed on its hanger, one shoulder and sleeve drooping. In the wardrobe, other garments lay crumpled on the floor. Picking up the black court shoes strewn haphazardly on the carpet, Anna saw that they were crusted with dried mud. All this was so unlike her mother’s usual tidiness that some stranger might have entered the room to ransack her belongings.

  Above the main part of the wardrobe was a cupboard space in which her parents stored their s
uitcases. Anna was looking now for the fabric holdall her mother had recently bought in the John Lewis sale, but it wasn’t there with the cases. In the bathroom only one toothbrush stood in the holder; her father must have missed that. Alarm clutched at Anna’s stomach as she registered this evidence that her mother hadn’t popped out for a minute, hadn’t gone to see a friend, hadn’t simply wandered off forgetfully, but had decided to leave. In a hurry.

  It must be connected with Rose; Anna could think of nothing else. Had Rose decided to get in touch? Phoned, told their mother where she was? That seemed highly improbable, but maybe she’d done it on an impulse, or at Michael’s suggestion. What else would make sense?

  Anna sat on the bed and picked up the mauve lambswool sweater discarded there. Holding it to her face she breathed in the smell of fine wool and a faint trace of light floral perfume. She tried to imagine herself as Mum, to enter into her thoughts, find out where they led. But how well did she really know her mother? She would have said that she knew her better than anyone; but she rarely thought about it, taking for granted that there would always be Mum and Dad, living in this comfortable house, here whenever she felt like returning. This woman who played the role of Mum had secrets, a past she desperately wanted to keep hidden.

  How desperately? Enough to drive her to … Anna could hardly frame the thought, but she’d been here before – they all had, speculating about Rose, and the possibility of suicide—

  A car was pulling up outside. Anna ran to the front bedroom, hoping to see the Audi with her mother at the wheel, but instead it was a police car. She clutched at the windowsill, her pulse beating in her ears. Two policewomen got out of the car and walked towards the front door. She’s dead, Anna thought: they’ve come to tell us she’s been found. She’s killed herself or smashed the car into a tree. This is the last moment of not knowing.

  She went downstairs on unsteady legs, to open the door before her father did.

  ‘Ms Taverner?’ said one of two smart young women who stood there. ‘Is Mr Taverner here?’