Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  I obviously slept, because the next thing I knew there was a tremendous banging at the door. I woke up with a start. The fire was almost out, it must be very late. I glanced at my watch. Quarter to two. God, it was the middle of the night, who the hell was out there? I went towards the door, but as I did, a face came to the window. I gasped and jumped back in fright. Then I realized it was Joss. Except he looked very strange, very pale. He tapped on the window. ‘Open up!’ he mouthed. I stared at him. The last time he’d seen me I’d been dancing around this room stark naked, and now here he was, back again in the middle of the night. What did he want? What could he possibly want that couldn’t wait until morning? Suddenly, the exchange with Michael came back to me. ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’ I’d said. ‘No, and let’s hope you don’t find out why,’ had been his ominous reply.

  Joss was still watching me through the window. I crept to the front door and stared at the white paint, knowing he was just on the other side. My heart was pounding. Don’t be a fool, Rosie, a voice said, you’re just frightening yourself because you’re here on your own. You’re running typically true to female form. He’s perfectly all right, he’s your landlord, for heaven’s sake, and he’s a respected sculptor. Good God, he’s practically famous!

  Steeling myself, I reached up and shot back the bolt at the top of the door, but before I could turn the handle, Joss had pushed the door open himself. He barged inside, bareheaded, covered in snow, and a blast of cold air came in with him. He shut the door behind him. As he turned to face me, I stepped backwards, instinctively clutching at the neck of my jumper, thankful at least that I hadn’t gone to bed and wasn’t standing here in my pyjamas.

  ‘What is it?’ I whispered. ‘What d’you want?’

  He gazed down at me from his great height. He looked pained, as if he was about to do something he didn’t want to do, something that was against his better judgement. My mind whirled. He’s got a knife, I thought wildly, or a gun. Or maybe it’ll be just his bare hands, they look big enough. My eyes flitted to the poker by the fire.

  ‘Sit down, Rosie.’

  ‘No!’ I squeaked. I began to inch towards the poker. If I could just get one blow, one good blow. My heart was pounding.

  ‘Rosie, I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news. Your sister would have delivered it but the snow was too bad for her to reach you.’

  One more step and I’d be able to reach out and – suddenly I stopped. Bad news? What bad news? It was then that I realized his face was not so much white with anger as white with shock. I stared at him, frozen with a different sort of fear.

  ‘What?’ I whispered. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Rosie, I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband is dead.’

  Chapter Ten

  I gazed at him, stupefied. ‘My husband?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Rosie.’

  ‘Well, no, no, don’t be. I mean, he can’t possibly be dead, you must have got it wrong. I saw him this morning.’

  He led me to the chair I’d just vacated by the fire and I remember thinking, gosh, what a terrible mistake to make. What a thing to say. I mean, imagine if I’d loved him or something?

  Joss sat me down in the chair and perched in the one opposite. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands tightly clasped. His face was still strangely pale. Shock, I suppose, imagining he had a horrific message to convey.

  ‘He collapsed in his club, apparently. He was taken straight to hospital but he died sometime around midnight. There was nothing they could do.’

  I stared at him. Something in this rang true. What was it now? Ah, yes, the club. But no. No, it still couldn’t be. I shook my head.

  ‘Your sister Philly called. She tried to get here to break it to you herself but had to turn back on account of the snow, and of course there’s no phone down here.’

  Philly rang? Well, why would Philly do a thing like that, unless – I stared. Suddenly it struck me, right between the eyes with all the force of a runaway truck. Good God, it was true. He was dead. Harry was dead.

  As I gazed at Joss, I realized I was curious to know exactly how I felt. Shocked of course, but that was more disbelief than anything else, but now that I believed, I felt very – yes, grown up. Something momentous, the sort of thing that only happened to other people, had happened to me, and everyone would talk about it. They’d say, there goes Rosie Meadows, of course you know her husband died. How strange. And I didn’t feel sad either, just – rather numb. Rather cold. I kept looking at Joss, but I wasn’t really seeing him, just using his face as a screen, staring through it, beyond any consciousness of him. He didn’t say anything either. Just watched me in silence.

  ‘Was it – was it his heart, or something?’ My voice sounded odd. Out of practice. Yes, it must have been his heart. Too much weight. Too much pressure.

  ‘No, it wasn’t his heart, it was food poisoning apparently.’

  ‘Food poisoning! But – where, in the club?’

  ‘That’s unlikely. It wouldn’t have affected him as quickly as it did. No, they reckon it was something he ate the day before. They’re pretty sure it was some kind of fungi, a mushroom of sorts.’

  It seemed to me that the world stood still for a minute. There was a terrible silence. My arms went rigid in the chair. ‘A … mushroom?’

  ‘Yes. You don’t happen to know if he ate anything like that, do you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘At my parents’ house. He collected them from the field.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Well, apparently there’s something called the Panther Cap which is deadly poisonous. They think he may have eaten that by mistake, thinking it was just a lousy field mushroom or something. I gather there’s no known antidote.’

  I stood up very quickly. I paced about the room, twisting my hands together, this way and that. I felt hot, sweaty. My mind was whirring frantically. The Panther Cap. Yes, I’d heard of it, uncommon but very deadly. Oh my God, the Panther Cap!

  ‘But I checked them,’ I whispered. ‘I really did! He asked me to, and I always do, just in case and – well, I thought they were fine! They seemed fine to me, honestly they did!’

  ‘Sure, of course. And how were you to know? Jeez, I wouldn’t have a clue either.’

  ‘But I do have a clue, I’m a cook, I’ve done a course, I’ve –’ Suddenly I stopped. I swung round. ‘I didn’t do it, Joss!’ I gasped.

  He stared. ‘Don’t be silly, no one’s suggesting you did.’

  ‘But they will!’ I insisted, aware of how awful and self-seeking I sounded but unable to stop myself. ‘They will, won’t they, because I checked them, told him to go ahead and eat them! I said, “Oh sure, Harry, those are fine, just a few jolly old mushrooms, there might be a bit of a heart stopper in there too, but you go right ahead and gobble them up, with any luck you’ll be stone cold dead in the morning!”’

  I sank down in a chair and hid my face in my hands. I wanted to cry, knew I should, but I couldn’t. That release wouldn’t come. I tried to remember exactly what had happened in that kitchen. I remembered him coming in with them, dropping them on the table, and me poking at them with a spatula, thinking, a few field, a couple of cep, one or two chanterelles and – what else? I racked my brains, desperately. What else had been in the pan? And did I turn them over? Did I check both sides? I couldn’t remember, because actually I hadn’t really been concentrating at the time, I’d been thinking of something else. Thinking how much I hated him and how convenient it would be if he could just shuffle off and die. Yes, that was it, I’d been so busy wishing he was dead I hadn’t actually noticed I was killing him.

  I was aware that Joss was still watching me. I brought my face up through my fingers and met his eyes.

  ‘Is the Panther Cap very distinctive?’ I breathed. ‘Is it green or yellowish or something? Should I have recognized it?’

  ‘Christ, Rosie, I haven’t the faintest idea, and how the hell should you know either? You’re not
a goddam mycologist, are you? For Chrissake, it was just an accident. He collected them and he ate them, that’s all there is to it. Period. Stop blaming yourself!’

  ‘But I do blame myself!’

  There was a pause. ‘Sure, of course you do,’ he nodded, and his voice seemed to come from far away. From a place locked in memory. ‘And that’s totally natural. When someone dies we instantly think, okay, this is my fault, it must be, because they’re dead and I’m not. I’m still here. You’re feeling guilty for being alive, not for killing someone.’

  I gave this due consideration but thought, no, no, you’re wrong actually. I’m not thinking that. That’s what happens if you love someone. I’m just thinking, oh bloody hell, was it my fault?

  I hung my head in shame. ‘This is awful,’ I muttered. ‘Harry’s dead, lying on some slab in a morgue somewhere and all I’m thinking about is how it affects me, whether I was to blame. I’m not even thinking about Harry, I can’t even conjure up any grief. Oh God!’ I burst into tears and it was a welcome relief. I couldn’t tell where the tears were coming from and who they were for, but I wept them anyway, with my head hidden in my hands, and thankfully, Joss didn’t comfort me. I wasn’t sure I wanted that, or even deserved it. As the tears flooded through my fingers, I gazed at his boots opposite, big black wellingtons that he hadn’t bothered to take off, with ice still clinging to the side of them in chunks. Some of it was melting now, dripping on to the carpet, disappearing. It must be colder than I thought out there, below freezing probably, minus six or seven. I must remember to check Ivo’s blankets and – oh! God, now I was thinking about the weather ! How appalling! Horrified, I tried to concentrate my mind. I sniffed hard and wiped my nose with the back of my hand.

  ‘Was he – was he in a lot of pain?’

  ‘I doubt it. Once they got him to hospital I’m sure he was made very comfortable.’

  I nodded, aware that he didn’t have a clue and was lying through his teeth, but I was grateful. Poor Harry. Ah, that was better, poor Harry. Suddenly I remembered he hadn’t felt well this morning. That must have been the start of it. And I hadn’t believed him. I’d bundled him heartlessly into a taxi, brushed him off like a dirty old fly. I cringed guiltily as I imagined him arriving at the club, stumbling in to meet Boffy, slightly puzzled no doubt as to why he was feeling so off colour but convinced it was nothing a steak and kidney pie and a decent bottle of claret couldn’t sort out. I saw him ploughing gamely through lunch, struggling with his food, not talking much, while Boffy, relishing the sound of his own uninterrupted voice for a change, would be loud and clear, not even noticing. But Harry would be pale and sweating now and perhaps the waiter would notice his pallor as he came to clear the plates. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ quietly. ‘Yes, yes, fine, thanks, peak condition.’ A brave smile, because it didn’t do to whine, especially here. Boffy might glance up now that he’d cleaned his plate and notice his friend, wipe his mouth with his napkin, frowning. ‘You all right, Harry? Look a bit sort of pasty.’ ‘Fine, fine. Couldn’t be better. Might just trouble the gents for a moment, though. Back in a jiffy.’ He’d stand up, stumble, clutch the table for support, and sway for a moment. There’d be a clatter of china as he knocked a plate off, and other diners would look up in time to see him lurch forwards on to the table, then roll off sideways, pulling the table cloth with him, his huge bulk crashing to the floor, china and silver following ear-splittingly in his wake.

  After a shocked silence, Boffy would spring up in alarm and a swarm of waiters would gather, bending down, one, grim-faced, catching another’s eye at the door, who’d pick up the phone. Outside, on a cold, winter afternoon, sirens would blare and an ambulance would pull up in St James’s. A small, ghoulish crowd would gather, and after a while a huge, white-faced man, unconscious now, would be stretchered out, a red blanket over him, people jostling to see. Some old buffer no doubt, they’d mutter, who’d finally had one port too many. I saw Harry being rushed into the hospital, hurried down a corridor on a trolley to a room full of equipment, tubes going in fast and furiously, wires coming out, blood pumping, nurses shouting, and then I saw that rather good-looking blond doctor from Casualty, or is it E.R., shouting ‘Stand back!’ as he clamped some huge earphones on to Harry’s chest. His inert body would jump up and jerk around but clearly not enough, because the nurses would all look grim and the doctor would say, ‘Right, are we all agreed it’s pointless?’ Sombre nods all round. ‘Okay. Time of death …’

  I bit my lip. In all probability food poisoning didn’t result in a cardiac arrest, but my experience of casualty was limited and in my fuddled state my imagination was as parochial and mediocre as ever. Yes, forever afterwards I could say that at one of the most momentous, and some would say tragic, moments in my life, my thoughts inexorably turned to TV medical drama.

  ‘Was anyone with him, when he died?’

  ‘The guy he had lunch with, I believe. And his wife.’

  For a moment I thought he meant Harry’s wife, but that was me. ‘Charlotte?’

  ‘If that’s her name.’

  I nodded. Boffy and Charlotte. Well, that was something.

  There was a silence. Joss broke it.

  ‘Have you anything to drink around here?’

  I started. ‘Oh, no, sorry, I’m not very organized yet. Um, would you like a coffee or …’ I got up politely.

  ‘Don’t be silly, I meant for you. I’ll fetch some brandy.’

  ‘No, no, really, I don’t need it, I –’ But he was gone, the door closing softly behind him. I sat down again and stared into the fire, at the logs smouldering in the grate. So. Harry was dead. I’d wanted a divorce and he’d gone one step further. Some might say he’d accommodated me. Obliged me.

  A moment later Joss came back with a blast of cold air and a bottle of brandy. He kicked the door shut behind him with his boot, shaking the snow off his hair. Then he sat down and poured out the amber liquid, balancing two glasses in one hand.

  ‘Here,’ he passed one to me.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither, as a rule.’

  Clearly rules were to be broken tonight because he took out a Marlboro packet, tapped the bottom and pulled one out with his mouth, lighting it and inhaling right down to his boots. He blew the smoke up to the ceiling in a thin stream. His face was pale, troubled. Our eyes met.

  ‘I lost my wife,’ he said suddenly, by way of explanation almost.

  Of course. Yes, of course, just after the twins were born. But – oh God, this wasn’t anything like that, I wasn’t …

  I struggled to explain. ‘Joss, I don’t want you to be under any illusions. I’m shocked of course but, well, I was leaving him anyway, you knew that, didn’t you? I didn’t – we didn’t love each other any more …’ I tailed off miserably. It sounded so tacky. My husband was dead and I was trying to explain why I wasn’t in a heap on the floor, but I had to tell him. I straightened up and looked him in the eye. ‘I want you to know that I fantasized about my husband dying. Regularly,’ I added firmly.

  He smiled.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘Sorry. You just sound like something out of Alcoholics Anonymous. My name is Rosie Meadows and I’m a dead husband fantasist.’

  ‘Does it sound terrible?’

  ‘No, it sounds like the truth.’

  ‘And I feel –’ oh God, I couldn’t stop now, the valve had been loosened and I was metaphorically on my feet, wanting to share with my hug-me-hug-you group, ‘– well, I feel fine, actually. I mean, I feel strange, unhinged, and sad too, but sad because it’s so weird to think that he’s not asleep in London right now, in our bed, about to get up in the morning, potter blearily down to the kitchen, and it’s strange to think that I’ll never ever see him again, or hear his voice or his footsteps, hear him call my name. But I don’t feel that awful raw haemorrhaging pain that I’m sure – well, I’m sure you must have felt.’
I looked at him and instantly wished I hadn’t said it. He flinched, as if I’d added to his pain by reminding him. His eyes darkened in his pale face. He rested his head back on the chair, cradling his brandy.

  ‘Yeah, well, no one’s saying you have to,’ he said softly. ‘There’s no formula for grief. And anyway, I’m pleased to hear it. I wouldn’t wish that shit on anybody.’ He drained his glass quickly.

  ‘You must have loved her very much.’ Silly question, but I wanted to know. Suddenly I wanted to hear about true, pure, unsullied grief.

  There was a pause. When he spoke his voice was low and measured. ‘When Kitty died, I felt as if my own life blood had coursed out of me. Drained away. I felt limp. Helpless. I felt – not that part of me had gone with her, as some people say, because that would have been comforting somehow, but that whatever it was that gave me my life, my energy, my vitality had been sucked away into some deep, fathomless void. My soul, I guess.’ He stared down at his empty glass. ‘Not convinced I’ve ever got it back.’ His face, for a moment, was unguarded, vulnerable and so sad. It was as if for a second a window had flown open and I’d got a glimpse of something beyond the dark façade. It slammed shut as he looked up abruptly.