Her eyes prickled. ‘Thank you, Thomas,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘But I ought to go now.’ She saw by the clock above the door that it was already ten to five. ‘It’s a long walk back to Kingsdown and Mrs Bentley told me to be back by half-past.’
She got up, kissed him shyly on the cheek and was gone in a flash. Thomas limped to the refreshment room door, reaching it just in time to see her handing her platform ticket to the guard at the barrier. From a distance she looked what he was, a skinny child, yet all the time he’d been with her he’d had the sense he’d been in the company of an adult.
Sitting down again Thomas felt suddenly very tired. Travelling down from Paddington yesterday, a night in a cheap boarding house, and just a few hours with Alan – if it hadn’t been for Rosie, he might have thought the trip was a waste of time, money and energy.
The glowing picture he’d painted for Rosie of Alan’s happiness with Mr and Mrs Hughes was an accurate one. But he hadn’t been able to tell her that he viewed it as an awkward stranger, there under sufferance. Alan had barely looked at him, he’d been too busy with his tricycle and a wooden train.
Thomas was very aware that people didn’t know what to make of him. He had been described in the past few years as dour, sober, lugubrious, humourless, a loner, mysterious and standoffish. In fact he was really none of these things, except perhaps a loner, and he wasn’t that by choice, only circumstance. If he didn’t talk, laugh and go out of his way to make friends it was because he was constantly aware of all those he had lost.
He was just like any other eighteen-year-old recruit when he joined the Royal Fusiliers in 1940, a fun-loving lad looking for adventure, who until then had spent his spare time hanging around street corners with his mates, watching the girls or playing football. He was thrown in at the deep end in war the moment his basic training was over. His regiment was sent to Dunkirk to fight in a rear-guard action. He saw two good friends killed, just a few yards from him, but there was no chance to run to them, not even time to shed a tear on their behalf. He grew up fast in France.
To be sent to Singapore early in 1941, when so many other regiments were being sent to North Africa, appeared to be a cushy number. The Japanese weren’t there then and it was thought that if and when they did come, it would be from the south and the great naval guns were trained that way in readiness. For Thomas’s regiment it was a time of comparative ease; there was plenty of food, fun to be had with pretty girls in the many bars, swimming in the warm sea, and a whole new country and culture to be explored.
But the designers of the great guns were wrong and the Japanese surprised everyone by approaching from the north through Malaya. The guns were useless in Singapore’s defence and she fell in February of 1942. Thomas was one of thousands of men rounded up and herded into Changi gaol. Later he was moved on to Burma to build roads. The journey, part train, mostly forced route march with little food or water, claimed many lives. But the deaths on that endless march were nothing compared to the later daily death toll in the camp.
Thomas was asked on liberation why he thought he’d survived having fallen prey to dysentery, tropical ulcers and malaria. He had laughingly claimed it was cussedness, that he felt he was too young to die in some sweaty jungle when he knew so little. He’d admitted he’d spent most of his imprisonment planning his exploration of the rest of the world, imagining all the women he would love, all the delicious meals he would eat, all the sights he would see.
After they amputated his ulcerated leg, however, he found his mind could no longer construct those cheering images which had sustained him so well in the camp. It stayed stubbornly on those friends who had died. Dozens and dozens of them, their gaunt faces like some grim frieze along the walls of the ward. He even felt sorry he’d managed to survive and he began to avoid contact with people.
Solitude became a habit once he left the hospital and took up a place in an ex-servicemen’s hostel. Girls often made eyes at him, other men tried to get him to join them at the pub. But he didn’t want to make friends for fear they insisted on questioning him about his experiences during the war. He certainly could not even think of making love to a woman now he was crippled. So without really being aware of it, he built an invisible wall around himself that no one could breach.
But when he discovered Heather had gone to Somerset, part of the wall collapsed. Eight weeks ago he had set off joyfully to find her. For the first time in years he was aware of others, even interested enough to speak to them. Good pictures came back into his mind as the train chugged westwards, pictures of his childhood in Poplar, of school friends and indeed of his old ambitions to become a famous artist.
Yet just a few days later on his return to London, his mind could barely stand the conflicting emotions he felt. Rage at his own suspicion that Cole Parker might have killed his sister. Tenderness for the small motherless boy he had only glimpsed briefly. Anxiety that Alan was being ill treated, and impotence too that he could do nothing about anything himself. But yet as demented and angry as he felt, it was good to feel something again. He’d lived in a vacuum for so many years, he had feared he was incapable of feeling much ever again. Then he got word from the Bridgwater police that they had taken Alan into care, and all at once he felt a strong sense of real purpose.
A man needed something more in his life than just his work. Alan needed a home. Thomas found himself thinking about where he could put a bed for the boy in his tiny flat, considering how he would plan his day with a child to look after.
When the police found the two women’s bodies, it hadn’t come as a real surprise, as he’d been convinced almost from the start that Parker had killed them. But the news of Rosie being in hospital following a severe beating from her older brother had floored him. It was almost as bad as the grief he felt for Heather. He felt deeply responsible because it was all connected to his visit to the police. He couldn’t forget either that it was Rosie who had had the courage and initiative to get Alan to safety, without any thought for her own, while he was still thinking about what to do next.
A voice of reason had begun to speak in the last couple of weeks, since he’d learned that Alan was safe and well cared for. He’d realized that a mere blood tie didn’t mean he was qualified to become father and mother overnight.
He had been puzzled that the boy had shown no interest in the fact that Thomas was meeting Rosie on his way home. He didn’t ask one question about her, or even send a message. In private Mrs Hughes admitted that he had stopped talking about her just a few days after his arrival, and that perhaps he had chosen to block out all memories of May Cottage, good and bad.
Small children were remarkably resilient, Thomas couldn’t help thinking.
It seemed ironic that while he and Rosie needed someone in their lives, the child who was the tenuous bond between them didn’t appear to need either of them. But then life was full of irony, and few people got what they deserved, or needed.
‘Rosie, we don’t put our knife in the jam pot,’ Mrs Bentley said sharply. ‘You must use the spoon! Put a little on the side of your plate, then spread it on your bread.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Rosie replied. She privately thought her way of doing it was a lot less messy and saved washing up another spoon.
She wished she’d described Mrs Bentley to Thomas. She thought he might have found it funny how everything about her was kept firmly in place. Smiles were strictly controlled, for church and visitors, and her conversation was stilted. Even her elbows seemed to be attached to her sides. The only time Rosie had seen them move from that position was when she gave her a lesson in hanging out washing her way.
Rosie knew she must be about fifty because she had once mentioned watching a parade of men going off to the First World War when she was Rosie’s age. Her face was still unlined, but she wheezed and held her sides walking up the stairs. She couldn’t imagine Mrs Bentley as a young girl. But she liked to imagine how she might be after she’d drunk a couple of pints of cider. Tha
t might loosen her up!
Mr Bentley was as silent today as he always was. In fact when she thought about it, the most he’d ever said to her was on her first day here. He had cleared his throat and mumbled something about ‘her unfortunate circumstances’, then said if she needed anything she was to ask, and to remember to say her prayers each night. Another time he had nervously asked, out of his wife’s hearing, if she wished to visit her father and brother in prison, because if so he would arrange it. He looked very relieved when she said she didn’t.
Rosie remembered his smile today though; it had given her the idea that outside his home Mr Bentley might be quite different.
‘Rosie! Sit up straight at the table.’ Mrs Bentley gave her a poke in the spine through the back of the chair. ‘And cut that slice of bread in half before you attempt to eat it!’
Rosie sighed inwardly. She was so hungry she could eat the entire plate of thinly cut bread and butter. By the time she’d played around dolloping the jam on the plate, then spreading it on the bread and cutting it, it was hardly worth the effort, one mouthful and it was gone.
The dining-room was as depressing as Mrs Bentley. Even on the warmest days it was cold and inhospitable. The chairs seemed designed to make sure no one lingered on them. Horsehair prickled her legs, and the knobbly bits on the carved backs dug into her spine. The room overlooked the street, and the wallpaper was a sombre brown, made even more dismal by many pictures with dreary scenes from the Bible. ‘Salome’, with John the Baptist’s severed head on a silver salver, seemed a very odd choice of picture for a dining-room. It made her shudder.
Mrs Bentley cut the fruit cake and looked at Rosie as if she’d finally decided it was time for conversation. ‘Now, my dear,’ she said starchily. ‘How did your meeting go with Mr Farley?’
Mr Bentley looked at Rosie too with the politely interested expression he always put on when a conversation was being held in his presence. Rosie wondered if he listened, or was his mind a million miles away?
‘It was nice to see him again,’ Rosie said. ‘He looked tired, it had been a long journey for him. Did I tell you he’s got an artificial leg? They sawed off his own one when he was a prisoner of war.’
‘Limb is a much politer way of referring to a leg, my dear,’ Mrs Bentley corrected her. ‘And we don’t mention such things as amputation at mealtimes.’
Rosie couldn’t see what was offensive about the word ‘leg’. Or indeed why she shouldn’t mention it being sawn off, when there was John the Baptist’s severed head right above them. But now she had Mrs Bentley’s attention she was happy to launch into an enthusiastic account of how happy and settled Alan was, including the details of the tricycle and train set.
‘Well, that is good news. Isn’t it, Herbert?’ Mrs Bentley said to her husband as Rosie came to a halt.
‘Very good, my dear,’ he replied, helping himself to a slice of fruit cake.
‘Well, now we know your little brother is happy and safe, we must think about your future,’ Mrs Bentley said, fixing Rosie with her cold watery-blue eyes. ‘We’re very happy to have you here of course, for the time being, but it isn’t exactly ideal for any of us.’
The truth of the matter was that Edith Bentley found Rosie disconcerting. She worked hard enough, faster and better than a woman twice her age. But it was her bold manner which upset Edith. She had fully expected a child in her position to be so ashamed of what her father had done that she couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Instead she asked questions, stared at people openly and quite often looked as if she expected to be liked.
On top of that she wasn’t even grateful. And Edith suspected the girl was laughing at her silently.
‘I thought I’d drop Miss Pemberton a line tomorrow and suggest she finds another place for you.’
Rosie looked at Mrs Bentley, wondering what she’d done wrong. Her eyes began to well up. It wasn’t that she wanted to stay here, just the injustice of it. She tried to bite back the tears, but they came anyway, first one slipped out, then another and suddenly she was sobbing.
Edith Bentley had prepared herself for some cheek, so she was astounded to see tears instead. ‘Come now, my dear,’ she said, unsure of what to do or say. ‘You knew this home was only a temporary measure.’
‘But I thought I was to stay here until after the trial,’ Rosie sobbed. ‘I thought you were satisfied with me too.’
‘Now, Edith, let’s not be hasty,’ Mr Bentley said.
Rosie was so surprised to hear Mr Bentley speak, her mouth fell open and she swung round to look at him. He looked more animated than usual, a pink tinge to his parchment-like complexion and his eyes glittered.
‘Rosie is a great help to us,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I see absolutely no reason to send her away now just as she’s beginning to settle in.’
After Mr Bentley spoke, Rosie was sent out of the dining-room, so she didn’t hear what passed between the couple. But some time later Mrs Bentley came down to the kitchen with the tray of tea things, and for once she didn’t have much to say for herself.
‘We’ve decided you shall stay here, for the time being at least,’ she said quickly, as if anxious to say her piece and be gone. She had a pinched mouth as if she didn’t actually approve of this decision. ‘So you’d better pull your socks up if you don’t want me to regret it.’
Rosie didn’t know why she hugged Mrs Bentley. She wasn’t in the habit of hugging people, and the woman hadn’t really said anything nice enough to warrant it. But it seemed to be the right thing to do. Mrs Bentley didn’t exactly respond; Rosie might just as well have hugged a post box, they were both equally rigid. But she did get her head patted, and that was an improvement on yet another lecture.
Although the first three weeks in Kingsdown Parade had seemed endless, the rest of the summer flew by. There were even times on sunny days when Rosie was content to be there. Mrs Bentley was heavily involved in organizing a fête to be held at St Matthew’s at the end of August, so she was out a good deal of the time. Without anyone breathing down her neck, Rosie flew through the daily chores and most days she found enough time before lunch to do an hour or so of weeding out in the garden, and still more in the afternoon.
She knew she would never grow to like Mrs Bentley, but she adored her garden. As the house was built on a hill and the garden sloped steeply towards the town, it could easily have ended up a wasteland like others further along the road. But someone at some time had planned and laid out the series of terraces with great care. Rockery plants tumbled over the retaining walls, the strips of lawn between terraces were lush and soft. High stone walls around the entire garden gave it shelter and privacy, and there were many lovely trees. To Rosie though, one of its main attractions was that you couldn’t see it all from the house: there were rose-covered arches, dozens of different flowering shrubs, and perennial flowers which could only be seen when wandering right down to the bottom. But the Bentleys didn’t appear to care much for it. Mr Bentley mowed the lawns religiously, but weeds had hidden many of the smaller plants.
Rosie had always had an instinctive knowledge about plants and her first attempts to tidy this garden up were tentative. A clump of weeds pulled up here, a little thinning out of plants which needed more room. But as she saw the improvement, and the Bentleys didn’t appear to notice, so she became bolder. In the evenings she often buried herself in one of the many gardening books she found in the house, learning about flowers she hadn’t come across until now. She began to think of the garden as hers, and took it upon herself to do more.
Working in the garden, she could forget her father and Seth were only a few miles away in Bristol prison. She found that the small voice which kept suggesting she must admit all she knew about Seth to someone didn’t speak to her out here. Even thoughts of Alan were just tender memories rather than anxious ones. She liked to feel the soil in her fingers, to see things flourish under her care. The warm sun on her back, the smell of roses, pinks and freshly cut grass, and the b
eauty of the trees and flowers, erased some of the more ugly images in her mind.
Her feeling of contentment was helped by Thomas writing to her every week. She felt less isolated, more optimistic knowing he cared enough to sit down every Sunday afternoon to write to her. He described Hampstead, the part of London where he lived, so well, she could almost see the quaint little shops, the steep High Street which went up to the heath and the cottages with pretty gardens. He sometimes described the people who came into the clock repairers, picking on the snootiest ones as if he knew she’d laugh about them.
She thought he must be lonely, and wondered if it was because of his missing leg that he hadn’t got married. He had been to see Alan again, and although he said Alan had been away for a week’s holiday in Cornwall with his foster parents and their children, and that he’d seen the boy’s new school uniform, Rosie had a feeling Thomas hadn’t made much headway with him.
Rosie wrote back each week too. She told him about the garden, and books she’d read, and new things she’d learned to cook. Often she felt like complaining about Mrs Bentley’s harshness, sometimes she wanted to ridicule the woman, but she stopped herself. Thomas wouldn’t want to hear such things. Besides, Mrs Bentley wasn’t all bad, she was growing quite kindly at times, allowing her to make cakes all on her own and helping her make a dress for herself in the evenings on her treadle machine. As for Mr Bentley, Rosie had no complaints there; in his quiet way he seemed to like her. He often brought her home the Reader’s Digest or National Geographic because he saw that her reading tastes stretched beyond women’s magazines. He even fixed her up a bedside lamp in her room so she could read in bed. The days just drifted by pleasantly; even the newspapers had run out of anything further to say about her father.
If it wasn’t for Miss Pemberton’s fortnightly visits, Rosie might almost have been able to believe she was in Kings-down to stay. But the social worker brought reality with her on her visits, reminding Rosie that she was no longer a child and soon she would have to fend for herself in the outside world.
Rosie Page 12
