‘I know where I’m going and I know who’s going with me . . .’
It was the girl next door. Rose had never actually seen her but she often heard her singing at this time of the evening, when Mum had come in from work and was clattering about in the kitchen. It was always the same song, simple and sweet, the melody curling up through the dusk.
‘I know who I love, but I don’t know who I’ll marry . . .’
As the voice faded away, Tommy pricked up his ears as he heard the knock at the front door. The guests had started to arrive.
Rose sighed and looked at her face in the mirror. Time to go down.
‘All right, Cabbage?’ Grandad kissed Rose on the forehead and ruffled Tommy’s fur. ‘And how’s my favourite dog?’
Tommy was wagging his tail so hard that his whole body wagged with it, and sneezing with excitement. He and Grandad had a special relationship. Not as special as the one between him and Rose, but still special.
‘How you feeling about tomorrow?’ Grandad said, looking at Rose over his glasses.
Rose nodded. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘OK. Fine. Looking forward to it.’
Grandad knew that wasn’t true and Rose knew that he knew it wasn’t true, but they both pretended it was.
‘And how’s that handsome pen pal of yours?’
‘What pen pal?’ Rose knew who Grandad was talking about, but she wasn’t going to admit it.
‘German boy. You know. What’s-his-name, Fred.’
‘He is not a pen pal, Grandad.’
‘You write to each other, don’t you?’
‘No. Well, yes. But not with pens. We message.’
‘Message.’ Grandad didn’t like it when people used words in new ways. ‘A message is a noun, Rose, not a verb.’
‘You know what I mean, Brian.’ When Rose was little she’d heard her grandma calling Grandad by his first name and had copied her. Now she always did it when she wanted to make a point. ‘Don’t pretend to be even older than you are.’
He laughed and Rose felt better. Tommy wagged his tail again, watching them both.
‘Anyway, Fred is definitely not a pen pal,’ she said. ‘You need pens to be pen pals.’
‘What is he, then?’ said Grandad.
‘I don’t know. A friend. Someone I know. Why does he have to be anything?’
Grandad shrugged, then sucked his teeth. They both looked across the room to where Mum had left her own mum and dad by the food and was now talking to Sal’s parents. They didn’t speak much English and Mum was gesturing wildly to try and make herself understood. Sal was watching her performance and laughing, refusing to help. Rose wondered how such a neat, timid-looking couple had produced this big, untidy man with the loud laugh and crumbs in his beard. Families were weird.
Everyone seemed to have made an effort to dress up for the party. Mum had bought a new top in dark-red silk and even Sal had swapped his usual checked shirt for what looked like a fresh new white one. Aunt Cosy looked lovely, Rose thought, in the embroidered Chinese jacket she always brought out for special occasions. It was black silk, covered in birds and flowers and dragons in red and gold and green.
Rose looked down at her black jeans and boots. Maybe she should have got changed. She knew Mum would have liked her to make more of an effort. There hadn’t been a lot of time though, after she and Aunt Cosy had got back from the common. Plus she didn’t have anything to wear, not really. And Leo had been hogging the bathroom, as usual . . .
Now Leo was over by the food, eating crisps and trying to squirm away from his Italian grandmother who had escaped from Mum and was pinching his cheek. My stepbrother, Rose thought. He’s going to be my stepbrother. It didn’t seem possible. She couldn’t imagine him as anything other than an annoying thirteen-year-old boy who left the toilet seat up and made jokes that no one else thought were funny.
This was what it was going to be like from now on. Mum and Sal making each other laugh, and Leo hogging the bathroom. And Rose on her own, hiding in her bedroom, not talking to anyone.
‘Rose?’ Grandad was staring into his drink as if he’d discovered something very interesting at the bottom of the glass. ‘There’s something I should tell you.’
‘What is it, Brian?’
Grandad harrumphed and shuffled his feet, then looked across the room as if he hoped someone would come and rescue him. Mum had put some music on and Aunt Cosy was waltzing with Sal’s father. ‘I’ve done something I probably shouldn’t have . . .’
‘What d’you mean?’
Grandad took a deep breath, then looked her in the eye. ‘Your young man—’ He stopped. ‘Sorry. Fred, I mean. I know he’s not your young man . . .’
‘What about him?’ Rose felt a sudden panic rising in her chest. ‘Grandad? What have you done?’
‘I invited him to the wedding tomorrow.’ The words came out in a rush.
Rose couldn’t speak. The room seemed to swoop and rock around her. She could still hear the voices and the music but they seemed to be coming from a long way away. He can’t . . . I can’t . . . it’s too . . .
She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what she was feeling. She just knew she didn’t want Fred to come to the wedding.
‘I realise now I shouldn’t have.’ She became aware of Grandad’s voice again. ‘Not without asking you first. Your mum said—’
‘So why did you?’
Rose hadn’t realised how loudly she’d spoken until she noticed that the people near them had stopped talking and were looking at her from the corners of their eyes. But she was too upset to care. A hot wave of misery rose up from her chest, making her cheeks burn and her eyes sting and the words tumble out of her mouth.
‘How could you, Grandad?’ She was nearly shouting now. ‘It’s none of your – none of your—’
‘I know, I know.’ Grandad rubbed his face. ‘I’m sorry. I just thought—’
‘What? What did you think? That it would be a lovely surprise for me?’
‘I suppose so. It was stupid. I see that now. I’m really sorry, Cabbage—’
‘No!’ Rose felt her eyes brimming with angry tears. ‘It’s too late! Why does everyone keep trying to do things for me? Why do they think they know what I want? This is hard enough for me anyway, all this – this . . .’ She gestured at the room. The music was still playing but Aunt Cosy and Sal’s dad had stopped dancing and Mum’s parents were exchanging worried looks. Everyone was trying to pretend nothing was happening, trying to pretend they weren’t listening. Rose knew they were, but she was too upset to stop. ‘And now you’ve made it a million times worse!’
‘Rose—’ Mum had come over. Her hand was on Grandad’s arm.
‘No!’ Rose was crying now. ‘You can’t make it better! It’s too late! It’s too late for anything!’
‘Rose, sweetheart,’ said Mum. ‘Wait—’
But she had gone.
Rose stumbled through the hall, where the cuckoo clock was clearing its throat in preparation to strike, and went into the kitchen, with Tommy following on behind. The sink was already filling up with dirty plates and empty bottles and the back door was open, letting the blue-black night spread like ink into the bright muddle of the house. She couldn’t bear being indoors any more, not with everyone looking at her, all concerned and interested, so she stepped out into the cool scented dampness of the garden and made her way along the slippery path to the Anderson shelter.
It was totally dark inside, but she wasn’t scared. Nothing really bad could happen when Tommy was around. She felt for the old hurricane lamp they kept on the ledge inside the door. It cast a pale cold light over the friendly clutter of flowerpots, empty paint tins and old garden tools that filled the shelter. Rose sat down on the bench that ran along one side and got out her phone.
My grandad just told me he invited you tomorrow don’t expect you were planning to come anyway but please don’t he shouldn’t have invited you sorry for misunderstanding bye
No n
ames, no kisses, no stupid emoticons.
She read it though twice and then she pressed send. A tear splodged on the screen. Surely Fred wouldn’t come now?
‘Rose?’
The door of the shed was ajar and a small figure was visible in the darkness outside. Rose quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘May I come in?’
It was Aunt Cosy. The door made its horrible scraping noise on the path as she pulled it open and made her careful way down the steps. Tommy stood up politely and wagged his tail as she came over and sat down on the bench next to Rose. Neither of them said anything for a minute. Then:
‘You all right, Strange Girl?’ Aunt Cosy had called her that sometimes ever since she was little. Rose never knew why, but she liked it. It made her feel special, as if she and the old lady shared some mysterious secret.
‘Am I all right about what?’ Rose knew she sounded a bit rude but she couldn’t help it.
‘Your mum getting married.’
Rose stared down at her fingernails. Tommy had started rootling about among some flowerpots. She hoped he wasn’t going to wee on them.
Aunt Cosy tapped the back of Rose’s hand three times with her forefinger. Her hand sparkled with rings. ‘He’s a nice man, you know, Rose.’
‘I know.’ Rose couldn’t stop herself sounding impatient.
‘And he loves your mum very much.’
‘Aunt Cosy – you don’t have to tell me—’
‘Ah, but I do. Rose. Look at me.’ The old lady’s eyes were a dark shiny brown, almost black, like buttons. When Rose was little she used to call them Aunt Cosy’s mouse eyes. ‘She loves him too, Rose.’
‘I know that!’ Rose knew she was being unreasonable, selfish even, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t need people to keep reminding her how much her mum loved this man who wasn’t her dad. ‘I can’t help how I feel, though.’
‘No,’ her aunt said. ‘You can’t. But you can talk about it. You can tell me. I know that won’t make it go away but it might help a little bit.’
‘OK!’ Rose felt her cheeks getting hot as the words bubbled up. ‘I hate it, if you want to know. I really really hate it. I don’t want to share my mum with someone who’s not my dad. I don’t want them living here.’ She turned and looked her aunt full in the face. ‘Do you want them living here, Aunt Cosy?’
‘It’s a big house. I like company. Why not?’
‘Yes, but . . .’ Rose felt the anger drain away and tears prick in her eyes. ‘I don’t much like Sal, Aunt Cosy. He tries too hard to be nice. And he smells weird.’ Sal didn’t really smell weird, Rose knew that. He probably smelt quite nice to most people – of woolly jumpers and coffee and the stuff he put on his beard. He just didn’t smell like Dad.
‘Does he?’ Aunt Cosy seemed genuinely interested. ‘I’ve never noticed. I’ll have to give him a good old sniff when we go in.’ She gave a little snort of laughter and tapped Rose’s hand again. ‘I do understand, you know,’ she said. ‘I lost someone special when I was about your age.’
‘In the war?’
Aunt Cosy nodded. She stared at nothing for a moment, then turned back to Rose. ‘So that is why, sweetheart, your mum is right to grab this new love with both hands and hang on to it for dear life.’
‘But . . .’ The shed swam in front of Rose’s eyes. ‘I’m scared, Aunt Cosy.’ The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.
‘Of what, dear heart?’
She was scared there’d be no place for her in the shiny new life her mum was making with her new husband. She was scared that if she got closer to Fred, she’d start needing him and then he’d disappear, just like everyone else. But she couldn’t say that. So she didn’t say anything.
‘Is it this boy your grandad’s been telling me about? The one from Germany who seems to like you so much?’
‘No!’ The word came out too quickly and Rose saw Aunt Cosy hide a tiny smile.
‘Have a feel under the bench, would you, sweet? There’s something I want to show you.’
Rose crouched down and felt about in the gritty dampness. She hoped there were no slugs. Or earwigs. She hated them the most with their pincers and their horrible shiny scuttle.
‘I can’t feel – oh.’
There was something.
Rose needed both hands to pull the old tin box from under the bench. It was rusty and covered with dirt and crumbs of concrete which she brushed off with one hand, revealing a design of flowers and birds on a faded blue background. There were no earwigs.
‘What is it?’ Rose put it on the bench between them.
‘Memories.’ Her aunt traced the outline of a faded pink rose on the lid with one finger. ‘You might have noticed, Rose dear, that I’ve recently become a rather old woman. So old I can’t remember how old I am.’
‘You’re ninety-three next birthday.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Rose wondered if she should have lied.
‘Ninety-three? Goodness! That’s even older than I thought. Are you sure?’
Rose nodded.
‘Ah well, if you say so, it must be true.’ She shook her head. ‘Whoever would have thought it? Ninety-three! When I was your age, none of us thought we’d make it into our twenties.’
‘Because of the war?’
She nodded. ‘You couldn’t take anything for granted, it would have felt like bad luck. Not that we thought about it all the time. It was just there, at the back of our minds, like a sort of hum: will I make it, will I make it, will I make it through another night?’
‘Was it like that all through the war?’
‘In the Blitz it was, when we were being bombed every night. People didn’t just say “goodnight” at the end of the day. They said “goodnight, good luck”. It became quite normal, you see, to think you might not be around in the morning.’ She sat for a minute, lost in the memory.
What must it have been like, thought Rose, to know that every night might be your last?
‘But it was exciting, in a way.’ Aunt Cosy seemed to guess what Rose was thinking. ‘Made you want to make the most of every moment you had. Try and keep hold of every single one of them, hang it in your memory like a charm on a bracelet.’ She patted Rose’s hand again. ‘But now my moments are starting to trickle away. Which is why I want to share them with you.’
Rose was surprised to feel her eyes prickle with more tears. She blinked them away quickly.
‘Look.’ Her aunt had opened the box and was holding a photograph, black and white, mounted on stiff card. It was of a young woman, a girl of about Rose’s age but dressed as if she was much older. She was wearing dark lipstick and a pale lady-like blouse with a bow at the neck. Her hair was dark, neatly curled and perfect-looking as if she’d just come from the hairdresser. But her dark eyes sparkled with mischief as they looked out of the photograph and her mouth seemed to be twitching at the corners as if she was trying not to laugh.
She looks a bit like me, Rose thought. Of course, she’d never do her hair like that or wear that dark-red lipstick but apart from that . . . And then she realised. ‘It’s you! Isn’t it, Aunt Cosy? It’s you, when you were young!’
Her aunt shook her head at the girl in the picture as if she was a naughty child. ‘Look at her,’ she said. ‘All done-up to the nines. The hair! My mother lent me that blouse,’ she added. ‘It was a particularly nasty shade of mint green.’
Rose looked at her aunt and saw the young girl in the photo looking back at her from behind her eyes. It was as if the old lady’s soft, lined face was just a mask with eyeholes that the young girl was looking through. Aunt Cosy sighed and turned back to the box.
‘Let’s see. What else have we got in our box of tricks?’
Rose felt around and brought out a lipstick in a tarnished gold case. When she opened it, it smelled of dust and wax.
‘Is this the lipstick you’re wearing in the photo?’
‘I should think so. It would’ve been the on
ly one I had. It was so hard to get hold of in the war, we treasured every scrap. And this . . .’
Her aunt was holding a gold signet ring between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.
‘Is it yours?’ said Rose. ‘It looks like a man’s.’ There was a little smile dancing round Aunt Cosy’s lips that made Rose smile too. ‘Aunt Cosy? Did someone give it to you?’
‘One that got away, sweetheart. One that got away.’
The old lady looked in the box and brought out a newspaper cutting, fragile and yellow with age. There was a small, dark photograph of a young man in uniform, smiling at the camera, and a headline: COMMONWEALTH AIRMAN MISSING IN ACTION. The young man was black, very handsome and very young-looking, not much older than the boys Rose went to school with.
Her aunt seemed to know what she was thinking. ‘He was nineteen,’ she said and touched the boy’s face with one crooked forefinger. ‘His name was Johnny.’
‘And – he never came back?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He never came back.’ Then she began to sing:
‘I know where I’m going and I know who’s going with me
I know who I love, but I don’t know who I’ll marry
Some say he’s bad, but I say he’s bonny
The fairest of them all, my handsome, winsome Johnny.’
‘What is that song?’ Rose said, when the last notes had faded away. ‘It’s lovely. I hear her singing it nearly every night, the girl next door.’
Aunt Cosy shook her head. ‘No, sweetheart, there’s no girl next door. Just the couple with the cat on the one side, city boy on the other.’
‘Then . . . who is it I hear singing?’
Aunt Cosy gave her one of her bright smiles. ‘It’s me, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Shall we go in?’
Grandad was washing up when Rose and Aunt Cosy came in from the garden.
‘Well, look who it is!’ he said. ‘The wanderers return!’
Rose in the Blitz Page 2
