Missing Rose

by Linda Newbery

  Frustration jittered through her; she had to do something. She looked again in her wallet. She had enough coins for another call. Another chance. Better not waste it.

  ‘Martin,’ she said to his voicemail. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been awful. I want to be with you. I love you. Please believe me.’

  Perhaps he’d delete it. Maybe without even bothering to listen. She would wait and wait, and nothing would happen, and she deserved no better. She had emerged from one kind of limbo to create another for herself.

  She stepped outside and filled her lungs with air. It should have been invigorating, but she felt hollow, and suddenly exhausted, ready to flop to the ground and lie there. But she saw Rose hurrying along the final stretch of track, her feet skidding on loose stones.

  ‘Wait!’ she called, as if Anna was about to head off somewhere.

  ‘What?’

  Rose’s pace slowed as she came closer.

  ‘What you were asking. Up there. Why I didn’t ever … I just couldn’t. It was too big, too horrible, what I’d done. I couldn’t face it. Couldn’t bear to think about it. Couldn’t ever go back.’ She spoke as if stating a simple fact. ‘Don’t you see?’

  Anna gazed back at her, seeing, for the first time, something like pleading in Rose’s expression.

  ‘I don’t, Rose,’ she said. ‘I don’t see. But I’ll have to try.’

  Behind her, in the pub entrance, the payphone started ringing.

  Rose started again. ‘You see, I—’

  ‘Wait. Let me get that.’ Anna darted in and snatched up the receiver; her pulse pounded in her ears. Please, please …

  ‘Anna?’ Martin’s voice; she closed her eyes. ‘Where are you?’

  29

  July

  The engine noise rises from the low sound of taxiing and the forward surge presses her to the back of her seat. Grass, buildings and vans rush past in a blur of speed. She had forgotten that flying, or at least this part of it, the takeoff, always frightens her. And of course it’s too late: she can’t change her mind and get off.

  Everyone takes for granted that you can get into a plane and fly to the other side of the world, but it seems crazy and impossible that this big, heavy piece of machinery will launch itself into the air. As she feels the upward tilt and sees how quickly the ground drops away, she knows this can’t work; the aircraft will strain and strain to climb into the sky, only to give up the struggle and flop back to the ground, splat on the runway.

  Don clasps her hand and smiles, and she takes deep, regular breaths. He’s here; it will be all right. And although she remembers – so vividly – the sense of dread taking her over, choking her, blurring all her senses, she knows how to acknowledge the feeling and observe it and wait for it to pass. Her thoughts are beginning to obey her instead of running wild. She knows where she’s going and why, and this is the way to do it. It’s a different place, now, inside her head, and she doesn’t mind going there. She pictures an apple tree, the tree in the garden she is getting to know. Small green apples are forming on its branches. The garden is full of early morning light, and she sits on the bench and looks at it, attuning her thoughts to the slow life of a tree. It’s clear in her mind, and she can go there whenever she needs to.

  So much change. But she has come through, as the therapist said she would. It’s not insanity. It happens to lots of people. There are words for it, explanations, strategies, and that has turned it into something that can be treated and tamed. She is still herself, not lost after all.

  Don made sure she had the window seat, and she has a good view. It’s a long while since she’s flown anywhere. As she gazes out, she thinks of home, down there somewhere: both of them, the Sevenoaks house, and – farther into Kent – the house she can now think of as home, whose garden she already misses. The pattern of roads and houses gives way to green, so much green, stretching so far: shades and shades of it, clumps of forest and fields of crops already turning dusty yellow, but all that soft green is reassuring – you’d think with global warming there wouldn’t be so much left, but it’s everywhere she looks. There’s a glittering thread of river, and a ribbon of motorway, and then scarves of cloud drift by like veils and for a while it’s all mist, and she sees moisture flecking the window. The light has changed, it feels like being underwater, and she thinks she won’t see any more, but then there’s a sense of sunlight above and they’re rising to meet it, and suddenly there’s a stillness and calm, and all sense of racing and climbing is gone.

  And, after all, it’s exhilarating rather than terrifying. They’ve done it, and the plane will take them to Sydney, to Zanna and the baby, her new granddaughter. She settles back in her seat, releasing the clench of her hands, thinking how small the world seems, and how enormous. In Australia there is Zanna, and in London there’s Anna, and in Cornwall, Rose. Her three daughters. She can say that, if anyone asks. ‘Yes, I’ve got family. Three daughters, and three grandchildren.’ And no one finds that very startling. No one other than herself, because of Rose: Rose who has jumped somehow from adolescence to adulthood, and is a mother herself now and not the same Rose as the Rose who preserved herself at eighteen. This Rose lets herself be seen only briefly; they’ve met twice now, at the hotel, and Sandra senses that it won’t ever be different. She finds this logical, accepting it as her due: Zanna came back, so Rose went away. Somehow, now, they’ve all balanced themselves, like figures in a dance: they come together, they whirl apart, held in a changing pattern. But she can see their faces now; she can tell them apart, call them by their separate names and know where each one is likely to be.

  Now she has more than she ever dreamed, and her only fear is that it will all be snatched away again. The tiny shoes with the daisy fastenings are in her suitcase, and soon, soon, she will be holding a baby in her arms, marvelling at its newness and completeness, and that in spite of everything this child has come into her life.

  The clouds and the weather are underneath the aircraft now, fleecy and dimpled and touched with pink, and she could easily think that if she parachuted out of the plane and landed on that cloud mattress she could lie there, drifting and basking. It seems oddly normal to be up here in the sky – hardly moving, it seems now – with stewardesses coming along the aisle offering drinks.

  Don is leaning over to look. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  She laughs. ‘It’s amazing to think that up here the sun shines all the time. Does that sound silly?’

  ‘No, love,’ says Don. ‘Not in the slightest.’

  And she thinks that if she died now, this minute, she’d die happy.

  ‘Text message,’ says Martin, touching Anna’s arm.

  ‘Mmm?’ She stirs, looking up at him.

  He is sitting up in bed, naked but for his glasses, his laptop open on the duvet. ‘Your mobile. Just now. Incoming.’

  Anna pushes back the bedclothes and fetches the mobile from her bag. ‘Dad! They’ve arrived. They’re in Sydney.’

  ‘Good,’ Martin says absently. His eyes are on the screen.

  He’s on RightMove, his new addiction. Anna leans over, propping her chin on his shoulder.

  ‘Isn’t it strange,’ she says, ‘to think that somewhere there’s a house that’s going to be ours? It’s waiting for us.’

  ‘We’ll find it,’ he says. ‘Even if it takes a while. Maybe this is it. Have a look.’ He shows Anna floor-plans, a map, an aerial view.

  ‘Nice!’ she approves, leaning forward to look more closely.

  ‘There’s even an outbuilding – hang on – here. That could be your studio,’ Martin says. ‘Shall I ring the agent? Perhaps we could go and see, after the Clavering one.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Why not? Worth a try.’

  ‘It does look good.’

  ‘And the garden,’ says Martin. ‘Just wait till I show you the garden.’

  August 1987

  A beach day, on holiday. A long afternoon of heat and salt breeze, an afternoon that feels ne
ver-ending. Rose and Anna, in shorts and Tshirts, were down on the beach at low tide. Dad was reading his book, Mum had gone off for a walk by herself.

  They were making a beach collage. Rose had started it, and now Anna was joining in, under her instruction.

  ‘I want more shells. See? Like this.’ She was making a huge bird, a large and predatory-looking bird, with wings outstretched. She had sketched it with a stick, had fashioned a rough nest of ribbon-weed and bladder-wrack, and now the bird’s plumage must be given a texture. Anna scurried about the rock-pools, wanting to please, wanting to find something special and unusual. She found crab-claws; she found glossy weed the colour of henna, she found small bleached bones which Rose took from her in delight, spreading them out to examine them.

  ‘Oh, yes! It can have those for feet. White bony feet.’

  Encouraged, Anna set off again, returning next time with a handful of glass, sharp shards of green and brown.

  ‘Look.’ She held them out for Rose’s scrutiny.

  ‘That’s good! Put them down there. But don’t cut yourself.’

  There was a small chinking and grating as Anna laid them on the sand. One of the pieces caught her attention; she picked it out and held it in her palm.

  ‘This one’s different – see?’ It was an irregular shape of soft blue-green, misted over as if by surf, tumbled and sanded into smoothness. She touched it reverently with her finger. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ she appealed to Rose. ‘Like a piece of the sea.’

  She had found a small gem, a piece of treasure.

  ‘It’s sea-glass!’ Rose said, taking it. ‘The rest is just smashed bottles, but this is much older – real sea-glass. It must have been waiting for us to find it.’

  ‘Is it valuable?’ Anna asked.

  ‘I don’t s’pose so. But I’m going to keep it.’ Rose crouched, and put the fragment carefully aside from the rest. ‘Make it into a necklace or something. The other bits we’ll use for eyes. Now, more shells – razor shells, these long ones. I want them for feathers.’

  Slowly their shadows lengthened over the footmarked sand; two shadows, crossing, becoming one, separating again. The lull of waves gave a rhythm to their movements. Anna’s bare legs were dusted with fine silvery sand; she felt grittiness between her toes, the give and tilt beneath the arches of her feet as she stepped carefully around the spread-eagled bird. Rose selected and placed and rearranged, stood back to look, made small adjustments. The bird had acquired a life and spirit of its own. Dad came, looked and admired, and asked if they wanted ice creams at the beach café. Rose shook her head: not yet. Not till the bird was finished. They couldn’t leave it.

  ‘But when the tide comes in …’ said Anna in dismay, only now thinking of that. ‘It’ll be washed away.’

  ‘I know! That’s the point.’ Rose was moving quickly, cradling shells in her hand, placing them decisively. Anna sensed a briskness in the waves as the breeze freshened; the sand would soon be covered, their work smoothed to nothing.

  ‘I wish I’d brought my camera,’ said their mother, returning from her walk.

  Rose was satisfied at last; she took several paces back, looked at her creation and smiled. ‘But you haven’t. You’ll have to look and remember. A photo wouldn’t catch it properly.’

  They seemed caught in the bird’s spell, all four of them, held by the sternness of its gaze. Anna imagined it ruffling its plumage of stones and shells, flexing its wings, and soaring over their heads, a dinosaur bird come to life.

  We made it, she thought, but it’s not really ours.

  She gazed down at the bony claws, the staring glass eyes, the wings poised for flight.

  Acknowledgements

  Several people have read bits or all of this book in its various drafts (and under various titles). Special thanks go to Jon Appleton, Adèle Geras, Alison Leonard and Celia Rees, for their encouragement; also to David Fickling, Bella Pearson, Simon Mason and Tilda Johnson for editorial input, to Catherine Clarke and Michele Topham at Felicity Bryan Agency, and to everyone at Doubleday. As always I owe a big thank you to Linda Sargent, to whom the book is dedicated, and to Trevor for various kinds of support.

  About the Author

  Linda Newbery is a distinguished author of children’s and teenage fiction whose last young adult novel, Set in Stone, won the Costa Children’s Book Award. As a child, she was a secret writer, filling exercise books which she hid in her wardrobe. She now lives in an Oxfordshire village and Missing Rose is her first novel for adults.

  Also by Linda Newbery

  The Shell House

  Sisterland

  Set in Stone

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  www.transworldbooks.co.uk

  Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

  First published in Great Britain as Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon in 2014 by Doubleday

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Black Swan edition published as Missing Rose in 2016

  Copyright © Linda Newbery 2014

  Linda Newbery has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Extract taken from Lord of Flies © Estate of William Golding and reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473541894

  ISBN 9780552773829

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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