by K. L. Slater
13
ROSE
PRESENT DAY
After work, I drive straight to Kings Mill Hospital to see Ronnie.
I know the ward number already, so I bypass the main reception and follow the signs directing visitors to the upper floors.
Visiting time has already begun so I don’t have to wait around behind everyone else. I buzz the intercom at the secure-ward entrance door and lean forward, speaking back to the disembodied voice. ‘I’m here to visit Ronnie Turner. I’m a friend, his neighbour.’
There is no further reply but an audible click and I push open the heavy swing door.
The smell of antiseptic hits me as I walk into the ward, the quiet emptiness of the corridor outside replaced by the hustle and bustle of a busy staff and patients’ visitors milling around. I approach a nurse at the reception desk.
I explain who I am again. ‘I’m a bit more than Ronnie’s neighbour really,’ I say. ‘I’m a good friend. I’m the one who called the ambulance.’
‘I see. Well, I’m afraid Ronnie is resting at the moment,’ she says. ‘He had a bit of a setback this morning.’
‘A setback?’ I swallow, worried what she’s about to say.
‘He’s been having breathing difficulties, so the doctors have put him on oxygen and they’ve lightly sedated him.’
‘Can I see him, just for a few minutes?’ I ask but she shakes her head.
‘He’s completely out of it at the moment; he won’t even know you’re there. You should come back tomorrow but I’d suggest ringing the ward first, to check he’s up to receiving visitors.’
‘OK,’ I say, and sigh. ‘Can you tell him I came?’
She nods, already distracted by another visitor.
Driving home I think about what the nurse said and begin my usual trick: telling myself the story of how things could get worse. I feel awful leaving without seeing Ronnie. I worry he’ll wake up and be the only patient without someone at the side of his bed.
I know it’s times like this that older people can feel neglected and alone, feel like there’s no one left who cares about them anymore.
I wrack my brains. I can’t see him in person right now but surely there’s something I can do for him that will show I’m there for him… show I’ve been thinking about him?
And that’s when it occurs to me.
Ronnie’s house is in a bit of a state. The least I can do is make sure it’s clean and tidy and pleasant for him to come back to.
I think that’s something that would make a difference.
When I get home, I make a cheese and tomato sandwich and a cup of tea. I don’t fancy anything else, even though the cupboards and fridge are still full of treats from my impulsive bulk-buying session at the Co-op.
My mum was always a big fan of baking and loved making hearty meals from scratch. Practically everything I cook is shop-made and I sometimes feel I ought to make more effort to make nutritious home-cooked meals for myself.
I think it’s generational; women today have it drummed into them that there are more important things to do in life than cook, as though somehow it’s demeaning to enjoy doing a domestic activity. There always seems to be somebody out there that knows what women ought to be doing better than we know ourselves.
By the time I’ve finished my tea I feel quite tired. I’m a low-energy person anyway, always have been. I’d really like to run a bath and soak for half an hour and then go to bed early with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and my latest novel: one of the Man Booker Prize shortlisted titles.
As a librarian, I often feel a bit of a pressure to set an example and read some heavyweight, literary fiction; the sort I sometimes quietly have to keep going back to and reading the last half a page again before it makes any sense.
Tonight is definitely one of those times that a nice bit of light women’s fiction would be preferable.
Still, taking a bath and going to bed early to read isn’t going to help Ronnie. So instead I choose a few cleaning products from the cupboard, grab a couple of cloths and head next door.
I leave the lights on and lock my back door, slipping my keys into the pocket of my fleece. It’s dark outside now and the air feels cool on my face and hands.
My heart starts up, beating its irregular rhythm on my chest wall. I talk myself calmer, just like the therapist taught me all those years ago.
I’m fine. I’m safe. I am breathing myself calm.
I open the small gate, the same one I’ve slipped through hundreds of times as a young girl when I’d pop round to see Ronnie and Sheila.
My mind flits back and for a few seconds I hesitate at the gate and allow myself to slip back in time. I imagine Mum and Dad are in the living room. Billy is building one of his Lego masterpieces on the kitchen table and here I am, just popping next door to take Sheila this week’s Woman’s Own magazine that Mum has finished reading.
A dog barks in a nearby garden and the vision dissolves. I press my hand to the gate, feeling the damp, splintered wood beneath my fingers.
The moment I’m imagining existed once and yet I barely noticed it back then. My family were just there. Nothing to feel grateful for; in fact, quite the contrary. Lots to be irritated by: Mum and Dad bickering about money; Billy constantly asking questions about this and that or badgering me to play another never-ending game of Monopoly.
Annoying me. That’s all they all ever seemed to do back then.
I wish they were still here to annoy me. I wish I’d taken the time to talk to Dad about how he felt, being stripped of his job and his standing in the community within a single day. I wish I’d suggested to Mum we go for a walk together in the abbey grounds, just to get her out of the house and talk about something other than the lack of money and Dad’s drinking.
And Billy. How I wish I had another chance to spend some time with Billy.
I should have played a thousand more games of Monopoly with my brother and talked to him about keeping safe. I should have stressed that it was OK just to turn your back and walk away from any situation that made you feel uncomfortable.
Even if it meant being rude to someone you knew.
Someone like Gareth Farnham.
I hear car doors slamming on the street and shake myself out of the fog of the past. It serves nobody, this kind of indulgent reminiscing. Least of all me.
Regrets don’t solve anything. Regrets won’t bring my family back, that’s for sure.
I reach into my pocket and fish out Ronnie’s spare key. It’s lived in the kitchen drawer for years but I’ve never had occasion to use it over the years.
Ronnie has never taken ill like this before. He doesn’t go on holiday – not even for a weekend break – and aside from popping to the local shops or very occasionally down to the Station Hotel for a pint he’s literally never out of the house.
I know one thing though: in the future, I don’t want to wish there were things I’d done for Ronnie in his time of need. I want to support him the best I can right now and repay a little of the kindness he’s shown over the years to me and my family.
He’s always done his best to help anyone he can and now it’s time for me to show my own personal gratitude. I think about Miss Carter and her planned ‘get well’ collection and Jim offering to tidy up Ronnie’s garden while he’s in hospital.
There’s a lot of love for him in this community.
I open the door and step into Ronnie’s kitchen, snapping on the light. There’s a bit of a fusty smell in here. I’ve never noticed it before but it can’t have just appeared in the space of a day.
I realise, to my shame, that there’s a lot I haven’t noticed about Ronnie. He’s just been a comforting figure in the background up until now; he’s always there. Like my own family were, I suppose.
I set down the bag of cleaning products on the kitchen worktop. It sounds like Ronnie’s hospital stay might extend a little longer beyond that which I first thought but that’s OK.
By the time I go back ho
me tonight, the downstairs rooms of this house will be fresh and pristine, ready for Ronnie coming home.
And tomorrow, despite Ronnie’s odd instruction as he left for the hospital, I fully intend to tackle the upstairs.
14
SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER
After what felt like a lifetime of waiting for her first ever date, at last Rose was ready to leave the house.
She’d left plenty of time to walk up the street and meet Gareth just after the bend at the top where he said he’d be waiting in his car on the slip road.
‘Where did you say you were going again?’ Ray Tinsley took another swig from his can of lager and belched, throwing Rose a disapproving look as she said goodbye from the safety of the hallway.
‘You look lovely, Rose,’ Billy whispered from behind her and she reached behind her and squeezed his hand.
Despite Cassie issuing detailed instructions, Rose had decided to dress down in the end. She really had no choice if she wanted to keep her date a secret.
She had on a pair of black, tailored trousers, sensible low-heeled court shoes and a white silky blouse her mum had bought her last year from Marks and Spencer. Basically, it was the outfit she’d worn for her art course interview at college last year.
In Rose’s view, it qualified as ‘dressed up’ compared to the jeans, T-shirt and flat shoes or trainers she usually wore day in, day out. But it was an outfit Cassie simply wouldn’t be seen dead in. Hot date or no date.
‘It’s nice to see you making an effort to dress up, love. You look really nice.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Rose looked at her father to address his question. ‘A few of us from college are going for a drink and then to the cinema, Dad. I won’t be back late.’
‘I should hope not,’ he grumbled. ‘It hasn’t taken you long to start going out drinking, since you started at that place.’
‘Now, Ray, that’s not fair.’ Stella lay her hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘Our Rose is a good girl and she hardly ever goes out. Have you got enough money, love?’
Rose nodded. ‘I’ll be off then.’
‘How are you getting there?’ her father barked.
‘Bus,’ she said curtly, as though it should be obvious. Thankfully, Ray didn’t reply.
Rose stepped back into the hallway. ‘Oops, forgot my jacket. I’ll just grab it from upstairs and then I’ll be off.’
‘Have a lovely time,’ her mother called, settling back down in front of the television with a bag of potato chips.
Rose ran back upstairs and quickly brushed on some blusher and a smear of pale-pink lipstick. She’d already used a lick of mascara but that was as much as she could risk in case her parents got suspicious.
If Cassie could see her so dressed down after all the effort she’d put in the other night, she’d be livid.
She rushed back downstairs and straight out of the back door. Billy stood outside in the small yard. ‘I’ll walk up to the bus stop with you, Rose,’ he said.
‘No!’ Her heart was already banging. ‘Not tonight, Billy.’
‘But I’m fed up. I’ve nothing to do.’
Rose glanced at him and thought he really did look miserable. Since she’d started college the previous September, she’d not spent much time with her brother.
There was a ten-year age gap between them but she adored Billy. They used to play board games together: Cluedo; Scrabble; and Billy’s favourite, the seemingly never-ending Monopoly.
But now, with her art course studies and the new volunteering commitment at the local library, she seemed to have a lot less spare time on her hands.
As she looked at him, he turned slightly and she caught sight of a shadow on his jaw.
‘Is that a bruise?’ She reached out a hand towards him.
‘The ball hit me,’ he said glumly, stepping back from her. ‘Last night, when we were playing footie on the field.’
‘Look, tomorrow night, we’ll do something together.’ She walked towards the alleyway at the side of the house and turned back to look at his forlorn face. ‘I promise.’
‘What’ll we do though?’
‘I dunno, Billy. Whatever. Think of something you fancy and then tell me in the morning.’ She didn’t look back at him again; she needed to get going.
Rose reached the agreed meeting place on the slip road a good five minutes early and was surprised to see there was already a silver Ford Escort parked there.
She felt the blood rush to her face and it took all her resolve not to run back home again.
As she approached the car, she heard loud music and realised Gareth had his window wound down. ‘All Rise’ by boy band, Blue, boomed out, drawing a look of disapproval from a dog walker over the road who, fortunately, Rose didn’t recognise.
Ducking her head and peering through the passenger-side window, she checked that it was definitely Gareth in the car. He winked at her and so she dragged in a lungful of air and opened the door.
‘Hello, Rose.’ Gareth smiled and turned the music down. ‘You look nice.’
‘Thanks.’ She climbed into the car. He turned in his seat and stared at her. The heat in her face and neck increased. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ He smiled, touching her cheek. ‘I’m just looking at your loveliness. That’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she squeaked, silently wishing the ground under her seat would suddenly open up and swallow her whole.
And anyway, it wasn’t alright, not really. Even without a mirror, she knew she looked one big awful mess; red hair, red face. She was clearly out of her depth and should never have come here.
Gareth twisted back to face the steering wheel and turned the key. The ignition coughed but didn’t catch. He turned it a couple more times.
‘I love your colouring,’ he said, watching as she pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Your red hair and smooth skin.’
Rose didn’t want him to say things like that just to try and put her at ease. She hated the way she looked.
‘You’re lovely.’ He smiled at her, still watching as she became engrossed in picking at a nail. ‘Not used to compliments, are you?’
She shrugged, wishing he’d just get off the subject.
‘Well, you’d better get used to it because I think you’re beautiful.’
The car kicked into life at last and Gareth pulled out onto Hucknall Road. Rose silently released a long breath.
‘You got out of Colditz OK, then?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Past your dad, I mean? I thought your old man was the reason I had to pretend to be a college girl on the phone last night?’
He grinned at her and Rose found herself laughing at his comment and, in turn, she felt her shoulders relax a little.
‘It was fine,’ she said. ‘Dad questioned me a bit about where I’m going and how I’m getting there. Then my little brother, Billy, offered to walk me up to the bus stop, which I could’ve done without.’
‘Little brother, eh? Sounds like a little nuisance, more like.’
‘He’s no trouble, really.’ Rose smiled impishly. ‘In small doses.’
15
SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER
Initially, Rose had felt a little vexed that the journey to the cinema would drag on painfully, hampered by her lack of confidence. But they chatted on quite easily about this and that.
‘Where did you live before you came here?’ Rose asked.
Gareth fiddled with the music, turning it high and then low again.
‘Before you came to Newstead, I mean,’ she went on. ‘I can’t quite place your accent. It doesn’t sound like Nottinghamshire but—’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start,’ he cut in. ‘I’ve lived all over the place. All over the country, the world even.’
‘Wow,’ Rose said, genuinely impressed. ‘Like where?’
‘Is this a formal interrogation? Do I need my lawyer?’ He laughed and she joined in.
‘I’m jus
t envious,’ she said. ‘I’ve never even been abroad yet.’
‘Really?’ He looked at her, his face shining. ‘That’s so sweet.’
‘It’s not sweet, it’s sad.’ Rose pulled a face. ‘Furthest I’ve travelled from the village is to Newquay, in Cornwall.’
‘A proper little girl next door, aren’t you, Rosie? Pure and unspoilt.’
She clamped her lips together and looked out of the window.
‘My dad was in the army,’ he said. ‘He was based in Germany but we’ve been all over the place.’ He hesitated before carrying on speaking. ‘To be honest with you, my family broke up when I was younger. Silly, really, but I still find it painful to talk about.’
‘Oh! I’m sorry,’ she said quickly, berating herself for not behaving more sensitively. ‘I totally understand and I didn’t mean to pry.’
A few moments of awkward silence and then they began chatting again.
Gareth seemed far more enthusiastic discussing the upcoming regeneration programme he was involved with.
‘We’ve a whole roster of stuff planned that will eventually provide jobs for the local people.’
‘It sounds brilliant, just what the village needs.’ She beamed. ‘If things improve around here we’ll all be very grateful to you, Gareth.’
He laughed. ‘It’s all in a day’s work for me; I’ve never been one for a lot of fuss. Soon we’ll have a whole team of people working on the project, including local volunteers. You know, if you wanted… oh, it doesn’t matter.’
Rose looked at him. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Just that if you were interested, we could probably use your help as a volunteer but I know you already do some of that at the library.’
Rose thought about her dreary afternoons with Mr Barrow, who unwrapped his ham salad sandwich each day at precisely noon and measured the book spines with a ruler so the labelling remained exactly level.
She loved working amongst so many wonderful books but time spent there was staid and predictable rather than exciting, as she felt sure it would be working with Gareth and his team.