The Rose in Winter

by Sarah Harrison

  There was no chance of that tonight. Her nerves wouldn’t allow it. The long summer evening with its beautiful, buttery light was something she usually loved. The shadow of the Fort and its trees crept over the lawn like a gentle protective hand. The giant blooms of the rhododendrons appeared defined and sculptural as flowers in a Japanese painting. From her bedroom, she could see the bright and bold ochre headland, still in full sunshine, on the far side of the bay. The sea was a silvery blue and flat as a lake. The long curve of the promenade and the beachside path was inviting as a smile, she could make out walkers and dogs down there, and the row of painted beach huts twinkled like sweets. The white, cream and buttermilk Georgian houses, in their prime positions overlooking the bay, masked the modest terrace on Coastguard Road, but it pleased her to think of Edith over there, her wisdom and sense not so very far away.

  Tonight the light was a mixed blessing. Darkness would have meant she could close the curtains, shut out the threats and possibilities that lay around her. But in the broad daylight of midsummer, with Maureen at home, albeit in the furthest corner of the house, it would have seemed strange, even slightly mad.

  Molly would certainly have called such behaviour mad.

  It’s ridiculous! Barbara thought. The wonderful, wounded, sharp-tongued Molly was gone, unbelievably, for ever. Of all the people she had known, Molly was the last one she could have imagined suffering such a fate, enduring so much without complaint. What would she have thought of Heart’s Ease? The very name would have made her throw her head back and laugh her rasping bark of a laugh.

  Barbara could almost hear her saying, ‘Whose idea was that?’

  She wished she had even a single photograph of Molly. Perhaps somewhere, you never knew … She moved the copper jug of flowers from the chest in the hall and opened it, laying the lid back against the sill of the loggia window. In the chest were sheaves of photos: albums; envelopes; handsomely card-mounted studio portraits; sheets of polyphotos; paper wallets of snaps received back from the developers and scarcely looked at again. As well as Stanley’s meticulously filed family archive going back to Victorian times, many of them were photographs she had brought with her on her marriage. Another instalment had found a home here following her parents’ deaths, which had been within eighteen months of each other. Only six years ago, her father had suffered a fatal heart attack on holiday in the South of France and her mother had quite simply not been able to live without him. Like a flower deprived of sun, she hung her head, wilted and died. That was when Barbara had known she was truly alone. Orphaned, widowed, childless, not friendless – she was surrounded by kind, acquaintances – but with no intimates apart from Edith.

  The death of Molly, whom she hadn’t seen for years – in another age and time, another world it seemed now – was a cruel shock. There had been a certain short-lived, but intense, intimacy between them. She was sure she was the only person to have heard the story Molly had told her that spring afternoon in the park, a story which later reminded her of something her father had said.

  In war, good people sometimes fail and bad people can do great things. There’s no justice.

  She’d asked him, ‘Does that make the bad people good?’ And he’d answered plainly and seriously that, until he’d been in France, he’d reckoned he was a sound judge of character. His experience there had made him more cautious, slower to jump to conclusions. You may know a good man, but you don’t know how good he’ll be under pressure.

  She did find one photo of Molly. Someone had taken it at the Gorringes’ house party and Marjory had made some extra prints. It showed them all out on the drive by the front door, awaiting the off for the fox and hounds. Molly was easy to spot because she stood a little apart, hands in pockets, her head turned away from the rest of the group. The brim of her hat prevented Barbara seeing her expression, but she could imagine it – bored and amused in equal measure, already planning her short cut. Barbara couldn’t find herself in the picture at all – though she must have been there – unlike Molly, she was one of the herd lost in the group. Johnny, of course, had already left, to lay his long and circuitous trail to the greenhouse.

  She put the photo to one side and continued looking for a while, but she was sure there would be no more – even this one photo was a surprise. She loaded the others back into the chest, replaced the jug of flowers and carried the photo to the drawing room. She plumped down on the sofa with it in her hand.

  All those other people … the laughing girls, the boisterous young men, the ones who had wanted to dance with her over and over again. She had lost touch with them all. Most of them would be married now and nearly all would, unlike her, be parents. She had received invitations to a couple of weddings and there were always a dozen or so Christmas cards. They’d be living in substantial houses in Dorking, Tunbridge Wells, Winchester, Marlborough, Kensington; they’d discuss their offspring at dinner parties. Perhaps her name came up sometimes … if so, how was she characterised? Barbara had no vanity, false or otherwise, but she could picture the sort of thing they would say.

  Do you remember Barbara Delahay? She was a lovely girl. Bit sweet on her myself as a matter of fact (It was Gerry Gorringe’s voice she was imagining) went off and worked on some funny, little magazine for a while and then got married … Who? What, that forbidding military chap old enough to be her father …? Extraordinary. I never got an invitation, did you? Did anyone? He had a place down in Devon and the two of them sort of disappeared, almost as if she was running away, frightened of something. She was – I’m sure you won’t mind me saying this, darling – just about the prettiest deb of that year. Very pretty mother, that’s always a good sign. And a jolly nifty dancer, too, remember that, ha ha ha …! We get a Christmas card, there don’t seem to have been any children and then his name dropped off too. Wonder what she’s doing with herself down there? Sent her an invitation to Camilla’s wedding but she declined. You sort of give up after a while, don’t you …?

  It was probably something along those lines. She could hear them because she could have written them herself. What she had at Heart’s Ease, both before Stanley’s death and since, was pleasant, tranquil and safe. It was her sanctuary, of a sort, in her self-imposed exile. She hadn’t wanted to be found and no one, whatever their memories and opinions, had tried to find her.

  No one except Johnny.

  She and Stanley had had a small, unshowy wedding at St Catherine’s. Her parents had willingly waived any rights to something grander in London because, both bride and groom so clearly wanted simplicity and privacy, and Stanley was a regular worshipper here (a status the Delahays couldn’t claim anywhere). A brother officer of Stanley’s – a man she’d never met before – was the best man and she invited Lucia, less as a bridesmaid than a confidante on the day. In the event, Lucia was plainly embarrassed by the proceedings so confidences had not been exchanged. She behaved with a nervously smiling propriety, as if recognising her friend had gone mad and not wishing to catch anything. Flirtation between her and the best man, a Major Forbes, was out of the question. The wedding was at one, followed by lunch at the Deer Leap, and then Lucia insisted on being put on the four fifteen back to London.

  What might she have said afterwards to other people?

  It was all so peculiar, so sort of hole-in-the-corner. Rather sad to see dear Bar having this funny little wedding … I felt that I hardly knew her. Her parents are sweet but I thought they were awfully subdued … well who wouldn’t be, with your only daughter marrying such an old man in such a dreary way? I know it’s rude to leave before the newlyweds, but I couldn’t wait to get away …

  Stanley had booked a week’s honeymoon at a hotel on Lake Maggiore. The hotel was opulent but staid; her presence alone lowered the average age by some twenty years. They had a grand room overlooking the esplanade and the lake shore, but she could not imagine that anyone supposed them to be a honeymoon couple.

  That side of things at least turned out to be perfectly f
ine. Nerves, inexperience and having nothing to compare it with didn’t matter in the end. Stanley was concerned only with her comfort. No one could have been more gentle and considerate. At the brief moment when he lost himself, she was astonished to see tears on his cheeks. Not for the last time, did he declare himself ‘the luckiest man in the world’. She did not lose herself, but believed that to be perfectly natural in the early stages and was not to know that she would never do so.

  They took boat trips on the lake, a drive into the mountains. They sat companionably on their balcony, reading books or simply drinking in the view. In the evening before dinner, they joined the stately passeggiata on the promenade. Afterwards, they joined other guests on the terrace, to listen to the hotel’s string quartet playing their repertoire of light classical music and tunes from the operettas. This post-dinner hour was when they sometimes fell into conversation with other English guests, but Stanley was careful not to show any favouritism. They didn’t want to ‘get stuck’ with anyone, but he didn’t need to worry. The other people were like them – well-bred, pleasant and discreet, equally disinclined to get too involved. Though, once or twice, following introductions over coffee, she detected a petal-drop of surprise on one or other of the faces, reminding her that she and Stanley together were something of an oddity.

  Obviously devoted, but I must say we did wonder what on earth …?

  On one occasion, at a different time and in another location, this reaction became overt. It was on the fourth day, during their evening walk. They had been out for half an hour and were now strolling back towards the hotel, Barbara’s hand tucked into Stanley’s arm. The lake was to their left, the sun just beginning to dip below the mountains beyond and the last pleasure boat of the day trailed its soft chevron of wake across the water. As usual, there were a great many people taking part in the passeggiata: courting couples; families with children; elegant women with pampered dogs; old people in shady hats; handsome Lotharios in perfect tailoring and a few exuberant youngsters. A group of young men were perched on the rail between the path and the water, smoking and admiring the girls. Barbara felt the gaze of the nearest one as they approached. As they drew level, he tossed his cigarette into the lake, jumped down from the rail and began walking backwards in front of them. He was talking quickly, gesturing towards her, his expression exaggeratedly amorous and teasing. Under her hand, Stanley’s arm stiffened.

  ‘Take no notice.’

  That was impossible. The young man was directly in front of them and, though she knew very little Italian, the gist of what he was saying was all too clear. Other people smiled at the little entertainment, their smiles said boys will be boys … If Stanley had himself been Italian, perhaps he could have taken some pride in being with a young woman who was attracting so much attention, or at least pretend to be amused. Yet she could sense his rising irritation and discomfort. He quickened his stride, but she was still holding his arm and she stumbled. She was never going to fall – Stanley saw to that – but the boy darted forward and caught her outstretched hand briefly, raising and returning it to her, as if it were something precious that she had dropped.

  ‘Go away – now! Go! Va’via!’ Stanley barked, making shooing gestures, his face dark with anger. Unperturbed, the boy stepped away, hands raised in apology. He didn’t look at Stanley but kept his eyes on Barbara and spoke sotto voce.

  She caught ‘Perché …?’ Why? But couldn’t make out the rest, something about a fire or hell, inferno …? She clung to Stanley as they passed the boy – he made a satirical little bow – and she could hear the ripple of laughter as he rejoined his friends.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Stanley. ‘That is not the sort of thing I’d want you to be exposed to.’

  ‘He didn’t mean any harm.’

  ‘Maybe not, but he was rude. He spoiled our walk. I’d be sad to think Streza was becoming that sort of place.’

  ‘Honestly, it doesn’t matter at all.’ She squeezed his arm and he patted her hand briefly. He was far more upset than her, she could tell.

  When they’d changed for dinner, Stanley went down ahead of her to the bar. He said he wanted to talk to the concierge about a trip they were making to the castello, but she knew that it was so he could have a whisky before she arrived.

  ‘I’ll see you in the dining room in – twenty minutes?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  He kissed her on the forehead and said again, ‘I’m sorry, my darling.’

  She knew his contrition now was for his own behaviour, not the boy’s.

  ‘Don’t be. It doesn’t matter.’

  Before going downstairs, she tore a page from the back of her pocket diary and wrote a few words on it, in capital letters.

  In the foyer she saw a waiter, one who often served them, picking up glasses from a table and putting them on a tray.

  ‘Excuse me …’

  ‘Senora!’ He put down the tray. ‘Bona sera.’

  ‘Bona sera.’

  They both knew that would be the end of the exchange in Italian; all the waiters spoke good English. She proffered the piece of paper.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but would you … do you know what this means?’

  He took the paper and gazed at it with brows drawn together and one hand on his chin, in a charming parody of puzzlement.

  ‘Rosa in inferno … Are you sure senora?’

  ‘No, it’s just what I thought I heard.’

  ‘Where did you hear these words?’

  ‘Oh, just now, when my husband and I were out on our walk. I overheard someone talking and this phrase stuck in my mind, because it’s so odd.’

  ‘Do you know what I think, senora?’ He narrowed his eyes, nodding sagely.

  ‘Please tell me.’

  ‘I think this person says rosa in inverno.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘No, no,’ he shook his head with a smile. ‘Not inferno. Not hell. Inverno – it means winter.’ He handed back the piece of paper. ‘“Rose in winter.”’

  ‘Ah …’ She looked down at the words.

  ‘Is all right? It make sense?’

  ‘Thank you, yes. Grazie.’

  ‘Senora …’

  As she walked across the foyer and into the dining room, she folded the paper until it was very small and tucked it into her evening bag. Outside, the lake was turning silver grey and the mountains violet. The restaurant was busy and dinner was in full swing. Stanley was at their table by the bay French window, he stood up the moment he saw her. A different waiter glided between the tables at speed to draw back her chair and unfurl her napkin.

  When the white wine had been poured, Stanley leaned slightly forward, his mortification soothed and composure restored by a large whisky.

  ‘I am the luckiest man in this room. Now, what shall we have …?’

  So, in its quiet way, the honeymoon was a success. Those few days and nights proved to her, if proof were needed, that she had nothing to worry about and nothing to fear, ever again. She would always be cherished and protected.

  Nineteen

  1953

  With the notable exception of Coronation Day, the weather through June and July was good. Whitsun – before the deluge – had seen a heatwave that had left everyone gasping. Since then, the sky had been mostly blue and such clouds as appeared were mostly white. The Devon coast was treated to a cavalcade of soft summer days with calm seas, hazy dawns and long, gentle dusks.

  Johnny was at Heart’s Ease nearly every day. Gradually, Barbara became used to seeing him go about his business in the garden. He arrived early and left late and worked hard, doing all the dull jobs that Dexter wished to be relieved of. He seemed content simply to be there and rarely came near the house. Very, very slowly she came to accept his presence as he apparently intended it – as a kind of gift, freely and unconditionally given. When he left in the evening, he made a point of seeking her out – the only time he did so – to say goodnight and would then leave
by the back gate, latching it carefully behind him and disappearing down the track that led through the wood. She didn’t know where he was living or what he did at weekends. She didn’t ask. His whereabouts was a mystery that she didn’t wish to change. Even when, knowing him as she did, she suspected that the effect was intentional, she was still susceptible to this elusiveness of his.

  Over the course of those sunlit weeks, she stopped being afraid. Johnny had cast himself in the role of her squire, whose part it was to serve her, not to do her harm. Still, she had the sense that they were moving through a period of a time that was finite. Like a story complete in itself, it would inevitably come to an end and she couldn’t predict what the ending might be. The peace of Heart’s Ease was only undisturbed for now.

  One Friday in early July she received a phone call from Audrey Bryant.

  ‘Barbara, my dear, have you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, I do so hate to be the bringer of bad news.’

  ‘Audrey, please tell me.’

  ‘There’s no nice way I can soften what I know will be an awful blow.’ Barbara knew at once what was coming.

  ‘Edith.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, just this morning. Quietly at home, as they say.’

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘Paul. She’s on his beat for the parish news and he often drops in for a quick chat. When she didn’t answer the door, he took a little prowl around and then let himself in. She’d told us about the key under the loose tile.’

  Barbara remembered the two unanswered calls. ‘Had she been ill?’