“Well . . . so.” Tilda looked horribly uncomfortable. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go up now. The nurses, when he first had this trouble, taught me a special lifting technique. It should do the trick.” Rose watched as Tilda hurried up the stairs, feeling cut out of John’s life all over again, that little girl sitting on the bottom stair, as Daddy kissed her goodbye.
Of course it wasn’t the first time she had met Tilda, if meeting was the right word to describe the first time that Rose had encountered the person who had somehow endured throughout John’s life. Rose first and last set eyes on her when Tilda had been posing for John in his studio, and, sensing her mother’s discomfort about what might be going on at the bottom of the garden by the way she stood and stared out of the kitchen window, drying the same mug over and over again, Rose had decided to go and investigate.
As she had crept in through the studio door, she was confronted with Tilda reclining, nude, on an old chaise longue that Rose remembered John buying as a prop specifically for this piece of work. Rose had been so fascinated by her first sight of a naked person, excluding herself, that she had forgotten to be frightened of the wrath that would rain down on her if John discovered her presence. He had told her very clearly that she was not welcome in the studio while he was painting Tilda. The instruction had stung just as badly as one of John’s rare but wicked slaps across her legs if she angered him. Rose had been perfectly well aware that John preferred his daughter to his wife—after all, he made no secret of it, often pitting the two of them against poor Marian—and the thought that there might be a new favorite on the scene had piqued her childish jealousy. And yet when she had looked at Tilda, lying there on the black velvet, Rose had understood, even at that tender age, why John had become so fascinated with this otherworldy woman.
Tilda’s body was altogether different from her mother’s. It was opulent, luxuriant, an excess of milky white flesh that curved and undulated, flowing out from beneath her mass of dark hair almost like a waterfall flowing over rocks. John had never troubled himself with life models before Tilda, and even then, even when she was so young, Rose suspected that his newfound interest in figure painting had more to do with this one subject than anything else. Rose couldn’t take her eyes off Tilda and neither could John, that was until he spotted Rose in the corner and, roaring with fury, he’d picked her up and thrown her out of the studio and into the dark and rainy afternoon. Rose had hated Tilda from that moment on. And that iconic image that had for so long been imprinted on her mind seemed to have very little to do with the person who had stood at her father’s door a few moments before; it had nothing to do with this old lady.
The black hair, though still thick and long, had been replaced by a wiry gray, which fanned out over her heavy-set shoulders, and the fleshy glamorous body she’d once had had thickened and filled out so that her impressive bosom seemed to take up most of the loose embroidered top she was wearing. Her black eyes were still lined with kohl, and her face, though a little heavier and a touch jowled, was still clearly recognizable. Those heavy lids, the straight nose, and full mouth that had proved so alluring to John were all still there. Not as alluring as the drink, though, Rose reminded herself. John had chosen vodka over Tilda in the end, and that too showed in the lines around her eyes and mouth. And yet, she was still here. She was undoubtedly the mysterious person who brought his food, cleaned his house, did his washing. Were they together or not? Frasier had never mentioned Tilda to her, and John had told her that Tilda left him years ago. What did it mean that she was still so involved in his life, and right now, when her father was lying in bed, ashen gray and weak as a kitten, did it matter? It came as a shock to Rose to realize that she never imagined her father would still have Tilda in his life now. Knowing him, she’d expected him to fail at that relationship, just as he’d failed at everything else. Tilda still being around, in whatever capacity, meant that Rose had been wrong about John in one fundamental way: he hadn’t lost or discarded everyone who’d ever meant anything to him.
Rose paced back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, anxious to know what was going on up there.
“Why can’t we go up?” Maddie said impatiently. “Who is that strange-looking lady, anyway?”
“She’s a friend of John’s,” Rose said, staring at the ceiling.
“Granddad doesn’t have any friends,” Maddie said. “Except us and Frasier.”
“It appears he does,” Rose said.
“Well, we’re his relatives,” Maddie said. “We are more important. I want to see what’s wrong with him. I’ve been good, staying down here all this time. Why can’t I go up?”
“Wait just a little,” Rose said, guessing that John wouldn’t want either of them to see him needing help to get clean and change. They sat there for another half an hour, in silence, listening to thumps and scrapes over their heads, the sound of running water rattling down the pipes and then, finally, Rose heard Tilda call her name from the top of the stairs. Seeing that she couldn’t hold a worried-looking Maddie back any longer, Rose beckoned for her to follow.
“Come on, then,” Rose said, putting her arm around Maddie’s shoulders. “But no questions. John is tired and poorly. I’m sure he’d like to see you if you don’t wear him out with talking.”
“I wouldn’t!” Maddie protested, following Rose up the stairs, perhaps a little nervously. After all, she didn’t know what to expect either, after everything that had gone on around her.
When they got to the bedroom, Maddie holding onto Rose’s waist from behind, they found Tilda sitting on the edge of the bed, John’s arm hanging loosely around her waist, as she brushed the wisps of hair from his forehead. It was a picture of tenderness and love, full of an easy affection. They sprang apart at Rose and Maddie’s approach like illicit lovers, which was, Rose supposed, what they were, even now. Set out on the bedside table were three blister packs of pills, all half empty. Smiling reassuringly at Maddie, who peered out from behind Rose’s legs, and glancing at Rose, Tilda popped one out of the packet and gave it to John, holding a glass of water to his lips to help him wash it down.
“What is that?” Rose asked her, advancing into the room, leaving Maddie hovering uncertainly by the door. “What are you giving him?”
“Pain relief,” Tilda said, covering John’s hand protectively, which infuriated Rose for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, perhaps because with Tilda around he seemed like suddenly half the man, as if she literally diminished him.
“What for? What’s wrong with you, John?”
“A year or so ago—” Tilda began, but John cut across her.
“I’ve got arthritis. I hate it, it’s ruining my life. I try not to talk about it. Sometimes I forget to take the meds—so many now, I’ve got to take. I get bored with it. And then I pay the price, fall out of bed and can’t move again, silly old bastard. Seized up like a rusty old tin man.”
“I thought you said it was a dizzy spell,” Rose said, biting her lip. What wasn’t he telling her?
“It was: withdrawal from the damn meds. I’ll be fine, a little rest, some food and water. Are you worried?” John held out a trembling hand to Rose and she crossed the room to sit beside him, ousting Tilda from her position on the bed. As soon as she sat down, Maddie came to join them, looking up at the curious-looking Tilda with naked distrust.
“Why didn’t you tell me before about the arthritis?” Rose said, glancing back at Tilda, who now stood by the door. “I could have got your pills, made sure you didn’t forget to take them!”
“I don’t expect you to come here after all these years without a father and nurse me like I’m your child,” John said firmly. “And besides, Tilda knows what to do. A few hours’ rest, let the pills kick in, and I will be fine and everything will be back to normal.”
“You look gray,” Maddie said from the crook of her mother’s arm. “Are you going to die?”
“One day,” John said, smiling weakly as he reached out, briefly touchi
ng Maddie’s cheek. “But not today, I promise you.”
“Or tomorrow,” Maddie said. “Or until I’ve finished my paintings?”
“Deal,” John said, a twitch of a smile lifting his mouth.
“I’ll go,” Tilda said. “I brought groceries, some juice. Maddie, shall I make you a snack? Let Mum and Granddad talk.”
Maddie twisted her mouth into a knot of rebellion, and Rose braced herself for a classic Maddie moment. Amazingly, though, it did not come. Rose watched astonished as Maddie visibly controlled what she longed to say, sensing it would not be right, and nodded.
“OK, but I don’t like butter in my sandwiches.”
Rose waited until she heard Tilda and Maddie descending the stairs. Looking at John’s hand, which still rested in hers, so old and, now she came to think of it, beginning to be misshapen and twisted by arthritis like a gnarled old tree, she had to force back the tears that threatened in her throat.
“It’s just arthritis, nothing else?” Rose asked John.
“I’m fine,” John said. “Or I will be. I am very touched that you care.”
“Of course I care!” Rose said. “How could I not? We still barely know each other—I couldn’t stand to lose you again now.”
John squeezed her fingers hard, unable to say anything more.
“So you and Tilda, are you still together?” Rose asked him quietly, not taking her eyes from his hand.
“We are . . . married,” John said, “although we haven’t lived together for a very, very long time. Ten years at least.”
“Married!” Rose looked up at him sharply, shocked by the news. It never occurred to her that he’d married Tilda. “When?”
John withdrew his hand from hers. “As soon as the divorce came through. I think we both acknowledge that we married at the wrong time, for the wrong reasons. I barely remember the wedding day, or the first year of marriage, for that matter. Tilda left me when the drinking became too much and she couldn’t take any more. She hoped I would change for her, that there would be children, a home, a normal life, but none of that happened. She gave up a lot for me, and in the end I gave her nothing in return. I killed almost all the love she ever had for me. She couldn’t even bring herself to come back to me after I sobered up and, once sober, I wasn’t sure that she should anyway. I’d hurt her too much too, you see. And I don’t blame her for not wanting to risk that again. She lives in Keswick now, runs a little jewelry shop. She still thinks enough of me to get me food once a week, clean up now and then. Help me when I become . . . ill. We are friends, I suppose. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know how to.”
He looked down at his hands, lying limp on top of the sheets.
“I just can’t take it in,” Rose said, aghast. A few hours ago Tilda had been a ghost from her past, an unwelcome memory, and now she was here, very present and, more than that, her father’s wife. “All this time I thought you and I were making progress, and you were secretly discussing me with her.”
“No, not at all. All I said was how pleased I was that you were here, and how I didn’t want to chase you away by telling you about her, which hurt her, but she understood. I know how much you must hate Tilda, with good reason, I suppose. But she is not a bad person, Rose. I’ve damaged her as much as I’ve damaged you. Don’t hate her now, please. I . . .”
Rose waited for him to finish his sentence but no more words came, as he leaned back into the pillow, looking suddenly exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” Rose said, shocked by his frailty. “Tilda being here isn’t going to chase me away and I don’t want to hate her. I’m just . . . I didn’t expect her to still be in your life and I didn’t expect you to be so . . . old.”
The faint ghost of a smile hovered around John’s graying lips.
“I suppose I deserved that,” he said.
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Rose said. “I just mean that in my head you’ve always been this big lion of a man, invincible. And now, now I see you are not.”
“I am very far from it,” John said, his eyes drooping with tiredness.
“You need to sleep, Dad,” Rose said.
“Say that again,” John said hazily.
“You need to sleep,” Rose repeated.
“No, the other part.”
“Dad,” she said, smiling as he drifted off to what looked like a restful sleep at last.
• • •
When Rose got to the bottom of the stairs, Maddie was staring suspiciously at Tilda over a large glass of juice, each regarding the other silently.
“Rose, I’m sorry about the circumstances,” Tilda said as she got up a little stiffly. “It is really nice to see you here. It means so much to your father.”
“He’s said more than enough to let me know how he feels, thank you,” Rose said, mindful of Maddie listening intently.
“This must all be so strange for you,” Tilda said, smiling pleasantly. “I know you must have mixed feelings about meeting me, to say the least. I don’t blame you. So, cards on the table. I’m not going to try and make you be friends with me, I don’t want to stand in the way of you and John getting to know each other, but if John wants or needs my help I will come, just as I always have. And I’d ask you not to try and come between us and what little we have left. Does that seem fair?”
“Who are you again?” Maddie asked her.
“It seems fair,” Rose said, relieved that she wasn’t to be forced into some reunion with a woman she’d last seen naked and who had loomed over her life like a shadow for so long. This Tilda, this sixty-something woman, seemed almost like a separate entity from that woman who had haunted her life up until now. At least now that specter could be exorcised for good. Still, Rose did not feel like throwing her arms around Tilda and forgiving her. After all, she was a very significant part of why Rose’s life had disintegrated so rapidly, her fragile sense of security washed away with one single tide.
“Who is she?” Maddie persisted, looking at Rose.
“I’m Tilda,” Tilda said. “I’m a good friend of John’s. I look in on him sometimes.”
“Well, you don’t need to anymore,” Maddie said, perhaps picking up on the tension in the room. “He’s got us now. We’re related to him.”
“I know, and that’s lovely, but John and I—”
“Anyway,” Maddie said, “he won’t need you now, will he, Mum? Now that we are going to live here.”
Tilda looked at Rose, who hurriedly covered up the surprise in her face as she met the older woman’s gaze.
“Is that right?” Tilda asked her. “Only John didn’t mention anything.”
“Oh, so he doesn’t tell you everything, then?” Rose said, sounding more cruel than she meant to. “We’ll stay for today and tonight, make sure he’s OK. But we don’t have plans to exactly live here. Not yet, anyway.”
“Right,” Tilda said. “I brought the ingredients for shepherd’s pie; it always tempts him when he’s been—”
“I can do it,” Rose said, looking pointedly at the door, “if you want to go.”
Tilda’s expression flinched. “Of course, if that’s what you want. Tell him to call me if he—”
“I’m sorry,” Rose said, suddenly realizing she was being cruel, not to the seductress who stole her father away but to a concerned and very worried older woman. “I don’t mean to be unkind to you. It’s just . . . I didn’t know about you until just now. And it would mean a lot to me to be able to look after my dad for tonight.”
“I understand, I do,” Tilda said. “Rose, I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened. I’m so sorry that I played a part in hurting you.”
“Thank you,” Rose said. She didn’t know how else to respond.
Rose felt a pang of regret as she saw the sadness on Tilda’s face as she picked up her bag and left, knowing that she was behaving badly and unfairly, but unable to stop her nine-year-old self from kicking out at the woman who’d hurt her so deeply. There was time enough to reach
an amicable place with Tilda. It didn’t have to be today.
“Who was that woman?” Maddie repeated, as Tilda left and Rose was staring into a bag of ingredients, wondering if she even knew how to make shepherd’s pie.
“That was Granddad’s wife,” Rose said.
“So my grandma?” Maddie asked her, wide-eyed.
“No,” Rose said. “Granddad’s second wife. She’s not related to us.”
• • •
After a good deal of guess work, quite a lot of good luck, and some creative help from Maddie, Rose managed to cobble together something that looked like an approximation of shepherd’s pie. Maddie took great pleasure in peeling the potatoes, although Rose had to stop her at one point when she became so obsessed with getting them perfectly round that she was peeling them almost to marble size, and Rose guessed what to do with the lamb mince so that it looked rich and brown and just about right.
There were a set number of dishes on Richard’s list of favorites that Rose knew how to execute perfectly, from steak and ale pie to calamari. But Richard had not liked shepherd’s pie and so Rose had never learnt to make it. Another unexpected aspect to her new life, she thought, smiling to herself as Maddie pretended to wash up but really was just enjoying playing in the warm soapy water. Now she could learn to cook all sorts of exotic dishes: shepherd’s pie, toad in the hole, maybe she would even go crazy and tackle a lasagne. When Rose thought about her life, and how very desperate it had been, how almost comically stupid her narrow existence was, she found that she wanted to laugh out loud. And she would have, except she was still afraid of Richard hearing her. Richard never did like her laughing.
“This is nice,” Maddie said, filling a milk bottle with water and pouring it over the back of her hands. “I mean, I know Granddad is sick, and that is bad, but he’s not going to die so then this can be nice, can’t it? You and me and cooking. I like it.”
The Runaway Wife Page 26