Nathan took her hand. “It seems to me,” he said slowly, “there’s only one thing you must do.”
“What’s that?”
“Talk to Charlie.”
“I can’t, Nathan. How can I face him?”
“He’s waiting for you. He told me.”
She snatched her hand away. “Where is he?”
“At the shop. In the studio. He said he’d waited fourteen years for you and he could wait another hour. He begged me to bring you back.”
“No.” Blood seemed to drain from her face. “Oh, no. I can’t deal with this.”
She began to run across the beach to the rocks that heaved and pushed their way into the sea.
“Rosalie!” Nathan shouted. “Come back!”
The wind whipped his voice into a thin, useless cry.
He heard her call, “Leave me alone,” as she stumbled over the sand, bent towards the rocks to clamber on to them, and then began to climb.
For a moment he stood paralysed. Then he began to follow, skidding on the edges of the rock pools, raising his head to check she was still there.
For an instant he saw her, outlined against the darkening sky, the wind raking back her hair, her pale face staring out at the sea. Then she seemed to slip. She threw out her arms to balance herself, fell backwards and tumbled over the rocks.
“Rosalie!”
Nathan felt the air rip from his lungs.
He lunged forward across the sand, on to the rocks, to the point at which he’d seen her. He heard her voice shrieking for help.
He heard the cry of the gulls. “Find her and keep her safe.”
He looked down.
She was half in and half out of the sea, scrabbling at the teeth of the rocks, calling for him, trying to shake herself free of the waves that returned over and again to smack against her face.
“Hold on!” He sat down on the rocks and began to slither his way towards her. “I’m here! I’m coming! Just hold on!”
Then something sharp ripped at his hands, made him cry out with pain. His right ankle wrenched at his body. He fell sideways, felt himself hurtling downwards, saw the foam on the waves rising towards him.
He crashed through their icy surface into the sea.
I am in a pool, a vast swimming-pool, but it’s colder than anything I have ever felt before. So cold that my mouth feels solid as ice.
Can’t breathe. My ears are full of sound … the sound of flooding … and yet it’s also deathly quiet, as if everything is muffled. If I open my eyes, I can see rocks and pebbles and the bottom of the pool.
Except it’s not the pool, it’s the sea.
Of course, I have fallen into the sea.
I didn’t mean to do this. The surface of the rocks was like a skating rink, the moss was green and slimy. Watch for the greenest bits, they’re the worst. Treacherous.
Why am I wearing these clothes? They make everything so difficult. I can’t move properly. I can taste salt. Bitter, it’s so bitter. It’s in my lungs and I can’t cough it out.
Down, down …
No—
No, help. Help me. Someone must help …
But I’m on my own now, aren’t I? No Dad. No Tom.
It’s up to me. I must fight to come up.
Come on, fight …
Swim upwards, up to the surface, up where there’s more light, just a little more light, a rim of setting sun, red as blood on the water.
Go for the rim.
I can hear a voice. It’s muffled, as if it’s coming from another world.
It’s calling my name.
I must push with my legs.
Harder.
A little more …
He crashed up through the waves into the air and gasped it into his lungs.
“Nathan!”
He saw the dark shape of somebody beside him, felt its heaviness.
Rosalie. She was here beside him.
He felt her arms lock around his shoulders. “Hold on to me. Don’t let go. … Swim, Nathan, swim. … Don’t go down again. … You mustn’t go down.”
Nathan coughed the water from his lungs and gasped again. “I won’t.” He shook the hair from his eyes. “Are you OK?”
“Yes. I slipped. I didn’t mean to … I was almost back on land when I looked up and saw you falling.” He noticed how her mouth trembled, blue with cold. “I lost my grip again. … When I looked back at the sea, you’d vanished.”
Her arms tightened around him. “Come on. Let’s get out of this before we freeze to death.”
They began to swim, more strongly now, back towards the shore. They clambered clumsily on to the edge of land. Like two soaked sea creatures, they lay panting for breath, the waves lapping at their ankles.
Nathan crawled to his feet, reached out his hands to Rosalie. Together, inch by inch, they slithered their way over the rocks, back to the cove. Water slurped and gurgled in his boots. Blood dripped from his grazed hands and his ankle ached.
Their arms around each other, they walked along the beach to the entrance to the passageway.
“God, Nathan.” Rosalie stood looking at him. Her hair lay flat and wet, the colour of pale sand. Water poured from her clothes. “For a moment there I thought you’d drowned.”
“Thought I’d lost you too.”
“I’m here.”
“So am I.”
In the relief and the laughter, slowly, awkwardly, Nathan took the girl in his arms. As they kissed he thought, So this is what it’s like.
Minutes later, he heard a voice calling across the beach.
He opened his eyes.
The sky had darkened around them.
“It’s Charlie,” he said. “He’s found us.”
Fifteen
“You’re soaked to the skin, both of you!” Charlie scrambled across the beach towards them. “What’s happened? Are you OK?”
“We slipped on the rocks.” Nathan could still feel Rosalie’s lips on his. He felt so strange: elated, freezing and yet pulsing with warmth. “She saved me.”
“We saved each other,” Rosalie said quietly. Her teeth started to chatter with cold.
Charlie moved towards her. “Have you told Nathan? … About me?”
“Yes,” Rosalie said. “I still can’t take it in.”
“You can’t imagine how many times I’ve rehearsed telling you—”
“I’m scared, Charlie—”
“Don’t be. That’s the last thing I want.”
“So what do you want?”
“Right now? To take you home … take you both home … Get you warm and dry.”
“And then?”
“Hear me out. That’s all I ask. Give me a chance. Let me tell you what happened. Then you can decide what to do.” The last streak of light shone in his eyes. “If you never want to see me again, I’ll understand.”
Nathan felt Rosalie leave the shelter of his arm. She moved over to Charlie and took his hand.
“It’s a deal,” she said.
Charlie had pushed them into his car, driven fast through the deserted streets.
“Rosalie, put on some dry clothes at the flat and come straight round to the studio. Nathan, I’ll find you some jeans and a sweater. They’ll be a bit big, but a sight better than sitting in seaweed!”
Now, huddled in Charlie’s clothes, clutching a mug of steaming tea beside the fire in the studio, plasters on his grazed hands, his ankle swollen and sore, Nathan could smell salt on his skin. Every so often his body shivered with cold and fear as he remembered those moments in the sea, then trembled with excitement as he thought of that first kiss.
The studio was a wide, friendly room, its white walls hung with Charlie’s cartoons, its desk littered with papers and pens. Nathan gazed around it, reassured and comforted, watching Rosalie’s face as she sat beside Charlie, noticing for the first time how alike father and daughter looked.
“Tell me the whole story,” Rosalie said. “There’s so much I want to know.”
“When Jake Croft and I were young,” Charlie said, “we were best friends. Then it became something fiercer. We started to compete. Best marks in maths, most goals in football. We were all at school together. Moira was two years younger. She and I met properly at a school dance and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. We talked and danced all evening. Then I walked her home. … I’ve loved her ever since.
“Jake was jealous as hell. He asked Moira out just to compete with me. That’s how it started. Then he became obsessed with her. Wouldn’t leave her alone, followed her everywhere, took her out whenever she’d agree to go.
“Moira knew I wanted to marry her, but I had to get a decent training. As an artist I had nothing to offer her. No money, nothing. I had to make it on my own. So I went to an art college in London. For a year we survived more or less, by writing to each other. I came down here for long weekends, she came to see me in the Smoke.
“Until one morning I got a letter telling me she’d married Jake. He’d inherited the boat yard and the cottage. Everything he needed had fallen into his lap. Moira wanted to paint, it was all she’d ever wanted. She said she was fond of Jake, that she thought he’d look after her.
“I was beside myself with grief, anger, humiliation. She’d given me no warning, not a word. I swore I’d never see her again, that I’d go abroad. France, Spain, anywhere. But when it came to the crunch, I didn’t. I got a job in London while I was still at college, drawing cartoons for a local newspaper. I made contacts, useful ones. Somebody offered me a job as a cartoonist on a new magazine. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I took it. I needed the money, to be kept occupied.
“I took other girls out in London. I had other lovers. But every morning, all I could hear was Moira’s voice, all I could see was her face – in the mirror, in the sky. I couldn’t forget her.”
“So you came home?”
“My father died. I travelled back here for the funeral. I tried to keep away from Moira but I couldn’t help myself. I called on her at the cottage.” He smiled at Rosalie. “She almost fainted at the sight of me. We walked down the garden, on to the plateau. It was the most marvellous morning, the first spring day of the year. The sea was so calm and quiet, the beach seemed to be waiting for us. It was as if those London years apart had never happened.
“Moira told me things with Jake were tough. He was working all hours at the boat yard, expanding the business, going to France to chase new contacts. She was often alone, more often than she could bear. And there was something else, although she never actually said.”
“What was it, Charlie?”
“She was always afraid of Jake. Frightened of what he might do to her if she told him the truth. … She still loved me. She made that absolutely clear. She regretted marrying Jake, but she was going to stay loyal to him through thick and thin.
“I knew I’d have to come back to live in St Ives, whether Moira left Jake or not. I had to be near her, see her whenever I could. We said it all that morning on the plateau. When Henry gave me the job as a cartoonist on the St Ives Recorder I was overjoyed. I rented a cottage at Carnstabba, behind Tregenna, saved every penny I could to buy this place. Moira and I spoke to each other on the phone every day, met whenever we could. It was much more than an affair. In our hearts, we were married: constant companions, kindred spirits, best friends.
“Ten years went by. Moira wanted a baby, but she’d given up all hope of having one. When she finally told me she was pregnant, we both knew you were our child.”
Rosalie said slowly, “I’ve got to ask you this, Charlie. When Mum died that morning in June, she was on the plateau. … But she didn’t have her sketchbook or anything with her. I always thought she must have been going to meet someone.” Her face was pale. “Was it you?”
Charlie leaned forward in his chair and took her hands. “Yes.”
Rosalie’s eyes were bright with tears. “What happened?”
“Moira and Jake had had a row the night before. A friend of Jake’s in the pub had told Jake he’d seen me and Moira together. Jake was sick with jealousy. He started shouting at Moira, told her she must never see me again. The next morning he left for France on one of his wild-goose chases to find new work.
“Moira rang me. She began to cry. She said she was scared Jake would get violent and that we had to stop seeing each other. I wouldn’t hear of it. I wanted her to leave Jake, make a clean breast of everything, tell him you were my daughter. Moira said no, it would destroy him, she had to see me, maybe for the last time.
“I shut the shop and waited for her here. She never arrived and I went crazy. I ran down to the beach, but by the time I got there, the ambulance crew had taken her away.”
Charlie buried his face in his hands.
“When I was waiting for you this afternoon, I thought – God, don’t let this happen to me again. I can’t lose Rosalie as well.” He raised his head. “You’ll never know how much I loved her. … How much she loved me.”
“I do know.” Rosalie knelt beside him. “Nathan and I were clearing the attic. We found lots of sketches Mum did of you … and a beautiful oil painting.”
“I remember … What happened to them?”
“Dad … Jake destroyed them. I wanted to give you the painting. But the moment he saw it he went mad.” She bent her head. “It’s so hard now. Moving out of the attic, having so little left of her work. That’s the hardest thing of all. … There’s so little of her left.”
Charlie reached out to touch her hair. “There’s more than you think.”
“What do you mean?” She was startled. “How can there be?”
He stood up, held out his hand. “Come and see. I can show you now. Both of you.”
They followed him out of the room, up a narrow flight of stairs. Three doors led off from the landing.
“That’s my kitchen,” said Charlie, “that’s my bathroom, that’s my bedroom. Boring and ordinary.” He gestured to the second flight of stairs. “But up there, in the attic, that’s different. Up there, I have a surprise for you.”
Charlie switched on the lights, which fanned against three walls. From the fourth, a long, bare window revealed stretches of inky blue sky, lit with stars, the waterfront, lights from the boats bobbing in the sea.
The smell of paint and polish hung in the air. On the floor, Nathan felt soft pale carpet brush beneath his bare feet. In a corner, a low couch boasted immaculate cushions.
And above the wall lights, below them and beside them hung paintings of every shape and size – oils and watercolours – charcoal and pencil sketches, photographs, reviews, each meticulously framed and labelled.
Nathan knew without being told what he was looking at.
Rosalie stood in the centre of the room as if she were frozen, her hands on her mouth.
Charlie flung an arm around her shoulders. “All your mother’s work,” he said. “I bought everything I could, whenever I could, supported her through thick and thin, looked at her paintings and sketches, watched her while she worked, commented, helped her in every which way. She was a great artist, Rosalie. And you’re going to follow in her footsteps.”
Rosalie began to sob. She turned towards Charlie.
“Don’t cry, little one. We’ll always be able to remember her with these.”
Rosalie raised her head, stared across the room. “Those are the landscapes we asked you to sell for us when Jake went to prison.” She moved towards them, ran her fingers over the thick, brilliantly coloured oils.
“Yes,” Charlie said proudly. “Aren’t they wonderful?” He pointed to another wall. “And what do you think of that?”
“My Figures on a Beach. You’ve got that too.”
Nathan moved closer to look at it. Moira and Charlie, pushing together across a stormy beach.
“It was as if you’d given me a key,” Charlie said. “To unlock everything. Your own marvellous new work.”
Rosalie moved to the window. She looked out over the waterfront
, at the sky spattered with stars. “Thank you, Charlie.”
“What for?”
“For this … all this. For loving Mum as you did. For having me.”
“Good God, child. What are you thanking me for?” He stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “You and Moira. You’re what my entire life has been about.”
“Come to think of it,” Rosalie turned. Her eyes had captured the light of the stars and now burned with their intensity. “Maybe it’s Nathan I should thank for bringing us together.”
He stood at the top of the cul-de-sac.
Boxing Day. An hour to go before he and Mum left for London, their bags packed; Mum talking to Grandpa at Tregenna about lawyers and surveyors and all the details of buying property; about finding a new school they could inspect at half-term.
Rosalie had rung him from the flat, asked whether he had time to meet her at the cottage. She said she had something important to ask him, and something to give him, but refused to tell him any more.
He walked towards the cottage. The sore ankle made it hard to run, but his hands were healing fast.
This is going to be my home. I can still hardly believe it. I was in such a state yesterday, trying to find Rosalie. I hardly noticed the place, only that I’d have dug my way through a mountain to find her.
He tapped on the kitchen door, creaked it open and grinned.
Rosalie, washing dishing in the sink, looked up. “I meant to thank you for yesterday. So rude of me, rushing off like that, after such a lunch. Your mum and grandpa must have thought I was crazy.”
“That you’d found your real dad? Not bad for a Christmas afternoon!”
Tiggy purred up at him, twisted around his legs. “Hello, brilliant cat.”
Rosalie dried her hands. “That’s what I wanted to give you. Tiggy’s yours if you’d like her.”
Nathan gasped. “I’d love her … Do you mean—”
“Could we leave her here? Martha can feed her until you move in, I’ll be calling in to keep her company. If I take her to the fish-and-chip-shop flat, she’ll never stay. She’ll go running back to her patch: this cottage, this garden. Specially the garden. It belongs to her … Doesn’t it, Tig? This is your special home, like it used to be mine.”
Girl in the Attic Page 13