by Esther Freud
‘Hello!’ It was the tattooed friend of the painter. He laid a knuckled hand on her arm. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s New Year.’ Didn’t she have the right to be anywhere she chose?
‘So it is.’ But even as he smiled, his eyes were wary. ‘You’ve not got a drink?’
Rosaleen wasn’t sure she could manage a drink. ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic.’ She’d do her best, and she put her hands in her pockets and stretched the sides of her coat so the material didn’t fall too close.
He took his time at the bar. She could see him talking, teasing, at one point he got caught up in a scuffle, but it was warm in the pub, and she leant against the wood wall of the staircase and waited.
‘Rosie!’ It was Anastasia, her neck wound round with a fur stole. She cast her eyes down the length of Rosaleen’s body. ‘Oh darling’ – she kissed her savagely on the cheek – ‘now what the fuck are you going to do?’
Rosaleen was saved from answering by the arrival of her drink.
‘Nothing for me?’ Anastasia kissed him in turn, and he held out his pint of Guinness and watched her while she gulped the white froth.
The door swung open, and Rosaleen looked up.
‘Over here!’ Anastasia waved to her husband, who pushed his way towards them.
‘I’ve come from the hospital.’ He was breathless. ‘They let me see him. I said I was his brother. His bruzzer,’ and despite themselves they all smiled.
Whose brother? Rosaleen wanted to ask, but her voice lay swallowed.
‘They wouldn’t let me in.’ Anastasia took another slurp of Guinness. ‘I said I was his wife, but his wife was already in there. God! “I mean his wife’s sister,” I tried, but they weren’t having it – one more minute and they would have stretchered me out.’
Rosaleen pressed the cold glass against her face.
‘What is it, do they think?’ Another man had joined them.
‘Some kind of stroke.’
‘Or quite possibly exhaustion. There was a commission he was determined to finish.’
‘But he can speak?’ Anastasia raised a hand to her mouth.
Slowly the tall man shook his head.
There was a silence, and they all turned to look at Rosaleen.
‘What hospital is he in?’ Her voice was small.
‘Barts. You know it?’
She nodded, and they watched as she pushed her way through the crowd and out into the street.
THE WIND HAD RISEN, carrying with it the hints and drifts of celebration. Music through an open window, a car crammed with people cruising slow. Rosaleen reached a bus stop and studied the routes. There was one bus that would take her to St Paul’s, from where she could walk through side streets to the hospital. She waited, restless, quickly freezing, and after ten minutes she began to run. She kept in close against the buildings, cutting across the edge of Covent Garden, rising up at the broad cross of High Holborn, her eyes scanning the road ahead. A printworker from the Express had once been taken to Barts. He’d been sitting in the post room chatting to the girls when a wasp landed on his sandwich and, without noticing, he took a bite. He was halfway through a sentence when his mouth fell open, and a cascade of buzzing spluttered out. Sorry, he’d tried to say, but before the word was finished his throat was swelling closed. ‘Get an ambulance!’ Betty had shouted, and she’d manoeuvred him towards the lift.
Rosaleen thought about this now as she rushed on towards Chancery Lane. It was easier than thinking about Felix. An ambulance. Was that how he had arrived? And who was he with? And why? A taxi sailed by with its orange cube of light. What would it cost? The thought delayed her, and she stuck out her arm too late. Felix would have caught it, whistling, waving, but then if Felix was with her, she wouldn’t be out here in the dark, alone. She quickened her pace, her stomach hardening to a knot as wind whipped at her coat, flipping the hem in around her knees, so that she had to stop to wrench it free. A swarm of men poured out of a pub on the corner of Red Lion Street. ‘Happy New Year!’ they whooped when they saw her, and they caught her in the thicket of their arms and spun her round. Rosaleen felt a swell of fury. ‘Feck off,’ her cursing came out Irish. ‘I have to be somewhere! Let go!’ Affronted, they unlatched their hands and let her through, although their jeers followed her as she ran. ‘Nasty little bitch, what’s up with her then . . .’
‘Imbeciles,’ she shouted, but she didn’t look back.
There was no one on the Holborn Viaduct, only the winged lions and the statues that they guarded – Science, Art, Agriculture, Commerce – all women, as if that was how it was. She stopped for breath in front of Agriculture, oak leaves and olive, a scythe curled in her hand. ‘Get the lunch on, woman!’ her father boomed between the lamp posts, and there was her mother, smoothing their life along. Soon she was on Fleet Street, her own street, the sparkling black building that housed the Daily Express. Rosaleen tilted her neck to where it was rumoured Lord Beaverbrook lived on the top floor, but there was no sign of him, nothing but the fluttering of a flag. At the junction of King Edward Street she rounded the corner. Towers and courtyards, windows in their faceless rows. But he can talk? Anastasia’s querulous voice caught in her chest, and Rosaleen put a hand to her own mouth. No words. She traced the outline of his lips, leant in against him, felt the nuzzle of his nose. Please God, she prayed, let me feel his hand in mine. The rain came down with a roar.
The woman at the reception was busy. Rosaleen stood dripping. ‘Yes?’ she said, eventually.
‘There’s someone here I need to see.’
‘A patient?’ She seemed unnecessarily surprised.
‘Lichtman. Mr. He’s . . . he was admitted . . .’
The woman’s eyes dropped to the ringless finger of Rosaleen’s left hand. ‘Visiting hours’ – she pointed to a sign – ‘are between two and four p.m.’ They both looked at a clock on the back wall which showed ten past nine.
‘The thing is I’ve only just now . . . ,’ Rosaleen protested. ‘I’ve been away. We were meant to be meeting . . .’ The woman’s eyebrows, plucked high above the bone, left her doubly surprised. ‘I have to see him. I need to . . .’ Tears stopped her voice.
‘Then you’ll have to come back tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow.’ She might as well have said next year, although of course it would be. A small hiccup of hilarity burst from her.
The receptionist bent to her papers and began to write, her pen scratching decisive strokes against a stack of forms. There was no other sound but the rushing of the rain.
A taxi was waiting in the street, its light holy as a shrine. Rosaleen stood at the window and asked if it could take her to Maida Vale. ‘Righto,’ the man said kindly, and she stepped into the shelter of his cab and closed her eyes.
THE FLAT WAS COLDER even than before. If only she’d thought to switch the boiler on she could have had a bath. She stripped off her damp clothes and pulled on a nightdress, a jumper, socks, and lay, shivery and fearful, a hot-water bottle in her arms. Soon she was running down a corridor, Sister Benedict fast on her heels, and when she heard the slam of the front door, for one terrified moment she imagined the nun had broken in.
‘Leave it.’ A high, sharp female voice, and in response a mumbling, too low to hear. Rosaleen sat up. It was morning, and the sky was full of grey. She slid out of bed and tiptoed to the wardrobe, but even as she pulled out clothes she feared being discovered, half naked, tugging a dress over her head. ‘Look at this place.’ There was a scornful gasp. What had been found? The broken saucer she’d been meaning to glue, or was it the kettle that hadn’t been descaled? Rosaleen peered into the cupboard. If she could hide in here she would. Instead she dragged her fingers through her hair, straightened her nightdress, and walked out as she was.
A boy turned to face her, pale eyes, Felix’s eyes. Behind him stood a woman in a smartly belted mac.
‘Who are you?’ the woman asked, although from the curl of her lip, she seemed to think she k
new.
Rosaleen felt ridiculously young. She folded her arms, protective, and looked at the boy as if she might align herself with him. ‘I’m . . .’ What was she asking? Her name?
‘I’m just leaving.’ That was it. She retreated to the bedroom and pushed clothes, shoes, the still-damp garments from the night before, into her unpacked case.
There was silence, and then the sound of paper being ripped and scrunched, a scattering of coal as it was thrown into the fire. ‘I’m doing it.’ A match was struck, and there was the boy’s voice. ‘Done.’
When she next opened the door, Rosaleen was already in her coat. She’d made the bed and closed the cupboard. She’d found one of Felix’s socks, fine and silk, and pushed it into her pocket. Excuse me. She was moving towards the bathroom when she caught sight of a letter propped against the lamp, the blunt pencil print of Felix’s writing, her name in his hand. She needed to fold it in with the others – every note and sketch he’d ever sent her was in the pocket of her case – but the woman – it chilled her to think of it – his wife – had seized it up. ‘A letter, strictly speaking, belongs to whoever sent it.’ She pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and snapped it open.
Only if the person’s dead, Rosaleen couldn’t bring herself to say.
My Rosalein, my love. She knew the words. Now that your secret’s out I am fearful. Why go home, when they might never let you leave? The child will be passed off as your mother’s, isn’t that how it works? Don’t go. What I’ll do without you I don’t know—
The woman’s eyes flicked over Rosaleen’s stomach, and for one long second they appraised each other’s hurt. Then she slid the letter back into its envelope and, unclicking the hard clasp of her handbag, dropped it in. ‘Got everything?’ Her lip was quivering. Rosaleen stepped on to the landing and, overwhelmed with fear, she asked, ‘Will he . . . do you . . . ?’ But the woman, whose face was ashen, shut the door.
Rosaleen walked towards the canal. The houseboats and the flowers at Little Venice always cheered her, and if nothing else, she could throw herself in. She laughed, but she was shivering deep inside. She sat on a bench and stared ahead. She could go back to the hospital, plead her case, tell them she was Felix’s niece. All she wanted was to sit by his side, listen for what he had to tell her, whether he had words or not. But what if that woman, could it be his wife, was there? A cold wind whipped across the water. She couldn’t stay here, not till visiting hour, and on New Year’s Day visits might not be allowed. She stood up and, heaving her case with her, set off for the main road. The station, as she’d feared, was closed. There was no one on the streets as she walked towards Marble Arch, no one at the entrance to Hyde Park except two men who appeared from between the scattering of trees and stared. ‘All right?’ One of them smiled, and she asked if they knew of any buses running.
Together they examined the row of stops. ‘Where you heading?’
‘Ilford.’ Where else could she go?
‘Long way,’ the older of the men said, and they all three looked along the deserted highway of Park Lane.
‘I’d take you myself’ – the younger man smiled; he had a sweet, wide-open face – ‘if I had some means of transport.’ And, wishing her good luck, they walked away.
Rosaleen stood at the bus stop alone, and when after half an hour a car approached, she stuck out her thumb. There was a man driving, his wife beside him, two children in the back. He grimaced as if to say, I would but . . . , and taking courage, she tried again. A car pulled over. It was a large car, two shades of gold, the paintwork swooping over the hubcaps like a gown. Bloody hell, it was a Rolls-Royce, and Rosaleen ran towards it. The driver was in uniform, a peaked cap, black braid along the rim. ‘You’re not by any chance going in the direction of Ilford?’ The man, only hesitating for a moment, said she’d better get in. Rosaleen tugged at the door. ‘In the back,’ he tutted, and he climbed out and, taking her case, stored it in the boot.
‘So where are you on your way to?’ she asked as they sped along Oxford Street and up towards Finchley Road. ‘Northeast,’ he told her, ‘the Midlands. I have to collect a poodle, would you believe it, but I can make a detour for a pretty girl like you.’ He looked round then; he had a weaselly moustache. Rosaleen gave him what she hoped was an unencouraging smile. ‘Thank you.’ She leant back against the leather and glanced at herself in the slithers of mahogany-framed mirror.
The entire household came out when the car pulled up. Mavis, the cousins John and Francis, her Uncle Bob who, even though they’d not exchanged a word, had continued to fold a coin into her palm. There was her Nana Isabelle, her hair in a chignon, her neck draped in jet as if she’d been expecting such a visit. No one spoke as the chauffeur walked round to retrieve Rosaleen’s case. ‘Thank you so much.’ She wondered if she shouldn’t give him a tip, but she’d need every penny she had saved, and anyway, hadn’t she listened to the story of his disabled wife, who knew nothing of the lady friend who was nagging at him day and night to move with her to Margate? ‘Good luck,’ he said, and she waited for him to roll the car away before she turned to face her aunt.
‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’ Mavis adopted an unusually grand tone, as if she must live up to the style of Rosaleen’s arrival.
Rosaleen wrapped her coat around her. ‘The ceiling fell in.’ (It had happened to a girl from work, and she was grateful now to borrow it.) ‘The people upstairs, they left the bath running. I hope you don’t mind. If it’s not convenient there are other places . . .’ But Uncle Bob had hold of the case, and he was taking it inside.
‘You might have called to let us know.’ Mavis pursed her mouth. ‘I’d have put some extra spuds on. Never mind.’
Rosaleen was back in with her nana. Had it only been six months? She pressed a hand against her belly, the swell of it conveniently subsided. Hunger, she supposed, and shock. She sat at her nana’s dressing table and brushed her hair. It was already curling on her shoulders. Felix would be pleased, and she remembered – Felix!
Mavis had a joint of beef, slow-cooking. The smell of it drifted up and clawed at her insides, but even so, once John banged on her door to tell her the dinner was served, she felt so feeble she made her way along the garden path to the privy to see if it would help if she threw up. Nothing came. Just a rolling swell as if she was at sea, and so she came back in and took her seat between the cousins. Yes, she told them, she was only yesterday back from Cork. Everyone was well, and the farm, it was a hard winter of it with the weather. Maybe not so bad as last year, there’d been snow at Easter, and she told them how Mummy had put orphaned lambs in a box in the warming oven of the Aga, and once they were strong enough to go into the yard Daddy had made a pen for them with hay bales and a good strong light, and she, Angela and Kitty had fed them warm milk from a bottle.
‘You girls, you’re a credit to your da,’ Mavis said, ‘he’s ever so proud of you.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘And how are you getting on at the Express?’
‘I’m getting on all right.’ Rosaleen looked at the boys in case they had anything to add. ‘I’ll be starting back tomorrow, and soon as I can, I’ll find somewhere to stay.’ She bit on the hot fluff of a potato and scorched her tongue.
‘You’re looking peaky.’ Mavis leant in closer. ‘Burning the candle at both ends? Put your feet up while you’re here, why don’t you?’
Rosaleen glanced over at the clock. ‘There’s something . . . I’ll need to be going back into the city in an hour.’
‘You’ll be doing no such thing.’ Mavis was stern. ‘It’s a day of rest. A Sunday, in case you’ve forgotten.’
‘No trains.’ Bob made a rare, gruff contribution.
‘But surely there’s a bus . . .’
Mavis came in, sharp. ‘It’s New Year’s Day. The whole country is resting. I’m not sure what’s so special about you.’
The afternoon was long. Rosaleen sat with the family in the front room. There was a fire that smoked, and Bob smoking beside
it, while Mavis clicked her knitting, a fine white bonnet for a baby due across the road. John and Francis shared a car magazine, reading it together so intently it was as if there might be an exam. The clock ticked over the mantelpiece. Visiting hours had begun, and there was nothing she could do, no way of getting back to Barts, no Rolls-Royce would be travelling out of Ilford, and although she told herself she’d go tomorrow, would slip away from the post room at lunch and beg to be allowed to see him, the effort of waiting felt like a day’s work. Felix – she held his name inside her like a flame – and she stared past her nana sitting at the folding table in the window, gazing out through the net curtains at nothing going by. Rosaleen looked down at her nana’s hands, at the gold band loose on her ring finger, and she thought how her father had never missed a chance to warn her that if she continued wild and defiant, she’d turn out like his mother. The mouth on her, that’s what he said, and Rosaleen did her best to gather the whispered pieces of her grandmother’s life. Her family disowning her when she eloped, the girl she’d been, jumping from a window into her lover’s arms.
Rosaleen woke in the early hours and lay in the lumpy dip of the mattress, her back against her nana’s padded spine. She could hear her soft breathing, feel the tickle of her hair. It was cold and she drew her knees up, jammed her hands under each arm, and counted the hours until she could get up. Dear God, she started, out of habit, and she remembered her nana as she’d prepared for bed, slowly, painfully sinking to her knees. She had a fine pink rosary, each bead linked with silver, and Rosaleen had listened as she counted them out. Dear God . . . her voice ran soft below the surface . . . keep him safe . . . please . . . in your goodness . . . free from harm . . . She had considered slipping to the ground herself, but the cold bruise of the convent floor, the gall in her heart for the one unanswered prayer – take me away from here – froze her where she was. Dear God, she tried instead from beneath the covers, what should I do? But for all that she listened, no answer came.
