Rosie

by Lesley Pearse

  Her knickers and his underpants seemed to vanish as if by magic. He gently stroked her vagina and gasped with pleasure as she caressed his penis. There was no rush for fulfilment or any sense that this bliss might suddenly end. It was just perfect eroticism which gradually built into an ever-spiralling ecstasy.

  With Gareth, the lack of comfort and the fear of being caught when he petted her had all too often prevented her from getting fully aroused, much less given her any real satisfaction. In the last year or so Gareth had only ever been interested in his own needs, and once they were met he became bored. It wasn’t so with Thomas. He ejaculated once and whispered apologies, but he carried on petting her and to her surprise and delight almost immediately grew hard again.

  It was a feast of pleasure. Every inch of her body responded to his touch, each kiss deeper and more sensual. Rosie kissed all of him too, his back, his stomach, his penis and his inner thighs, right down to his injury, glorying in the sensation that never again would he feel shame about it.

  But it was when he parted the lips of her vagina and used his tongue on her there that Rosie finally abandoned the last of her inhibitions. She screamed out her pleasure, writhed and bucked under his touch, desperate to reach the point she knew she was heading for. Then at last she felt a burning, melting sensation that seemed to come from deep within, and pulling Thomas towards her she demanded he enter her.

  Later as she lay in the rosy afterglow, she was surprised that it hadn’t hurt. But at the moment of entry nothing crossed her mind except the great need to have him inside her at all costs. It was wonderful, so thrilling, satisfying and tender. Nothing in her life had ever moved her so much. Tears of joy ran down her cheeks. She called out his name and clung to him like a limpet. She felt like a real woman at last.

  Rosie awoke the next morning to hear church bells ringing and, as she groggily opened her eyes, she found Thomas leaning on one elbow looking down at her.

  ‘So the sleeping princess has finally woken,’ he said. ‘I nipped out and asked them to ring the bells because I couldn’t manage to wake you.’

  ‘It must have been that champagne,’ she said. They had finished the bottle after the first bout of love-making, then started all over again.

  ‘And to think I assumed it was my love-making which exhausted you,’ he smiled. ‘I hope you aren’t going to tell me you don’t remember anything about last night?’

  Rosie laughed and snuggled closer to him. ‘I remember every last detail,’ she said. ‘I think even when I’m a little old lady I’ll remember it.’

  As the train chugged away from Victoria Station that evening, Rosie leaned out of the window and blew frantic farewell kisses to Thomas. But all too soon he was out of sight. She closed the window and sunk down on to the seat. She was glad she didn’t have to share the compartment in case someone tried to hold a conversation with her. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts and savour the last twenty-four hours.

  It had been the best day in her life. They’d eaten breakfast by the fire in Thomas’s living-room, then gone for a walk on Hampstead Heath. Everywhere looked so special, the trees in their autumn colouring, the children sailing boats on Whitestone Pond, nannies in uniform out wheeling their charges in big prams, other couples like them wandering hand in hand. Later they had gone into Jack Straw’s Castle and had a couple of drinks before going back to Flask Walk for more love-making.

  Thomas was very concerned that they hadn’t taken any precautions against her getting pregnant. Rosie didn’t care one bit if a baby had already got started last night, but she was touched that Thomas cared enough to insist they were more careful in future.

  They’d eaten sandwiches in bed, and between love-making they had talked and talked. For the first time he spoke dreamily about his hopes that the exhibition would be a success, and that one day he might only do clock-mending for pleasure.

  ‘I want the same as you,’ he whispered as they lay face to face on the pillows. ‘A little cottage with roses round the door. A garden with a stream running through it. I want babies of our own, but room for Donald to come and stay. Maybe one day Alan will come and look us up too.’

  ‘It sounds like heaven,’ she said, smiling at his serious face and tracing the fine lines around his eyes.

  ‘That dream kept me going when I was in the camp,’ he said. ‘I used to visualize every piece of furniture, every inch of the garden. But the girl in my dream never had a face. I tried to give her one, I thought of every film star, of girls I knew back home and ones I’d met in Singapore. But the faces never stayed, no matter how hard I concentrated.’

  ‘Does my face stay?’

  ‘That’s when I knew I’d fallen in love,’ he said with a sweet smile. ‘I found myself lapsing into the dream again around the time you first went to work for Norah and Frank. Suddenly it was you there with me in that cottage. Each time I came down to Mayfield and you spoke about Gareth, your gardening and that little cottage you wanted, I felt so sad. You seemed to share my dream, but you had the wrong man beside you.’

  ‘Did you always know he was wrong for me?’

  ‘No, not really. I wasn’t struck on him, but at first I thought he was good for you. You gained confidence and extra sparkle. I was happy for you, I really hoped it would work. But as time went on I could see the flaws. You see, he wanted a very ordinary girl, someone he could mould into what he wanted.’

  ‘And I’m not ordinary?’ Rosie’s eyes widened.

  ‘No, you aren’t. You’re just like those moors you come from, wild, fascinating, full of mystery and unexplored places. So beautiful and serene mostly, yet with a darker side too, and that’s why I find you so intriguing.’

  Rosie closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the train. She thought of the Somerset Levels in high summer: waving grasses up to her waist, swans gliding along the rivers, and a grey heron standing on a bank waiting to catch its dinner. She could feel the hot sun on her arms, the cool mud under her bare feet as she paddled, and the scent of meadowsweet all around her.

  She remembered her father teaching her to swim on such a day. Seth and Norman were already in the river splashing each other, both as brown as berries, water glistening on their dark skins and slicked-back hair. Her mother was sitting on the grass bank, laughing as Cole held her under the tummy and instructed her how to make her legs move like a frog. He took his hand away later, and it was some time before she realized it had gone and she was swimming alone.

  All at once Rosie saw the significance of that memory. Cole had insisted that she learned to swim so young because he feared for her safety with so much water around their cottage. For years she’d thought of him as a bad father, latterly because of the crimes she believed he’d committed, and before that because he wasn’t quite like her school-friends’ fathers. But now, looking back, she saw that in many ways he was one of the best. He’d taught her how to be brave, self-reliant and appreciative of the beauty of nature.

  Why did he allow Seth to go unpunished? She thought she even had the answer to that now. He loved his firstborn, he saw himself mirrored in him, and perhaps at the bitter end, when he’d discovered what Seth had done, he took the blame for his warped character entirely on to his own shoulders. Maybe he hoped his son would be man enough to confess at the last minute, or that the shock of knowing his father had been hanged for his own crimes would bring him to heel.

  ‘Rest in peace, Dad,’ she murmured to herself. ‘You taught me to swim and a great deal more. I can get by all on my own now, thanks to you.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Rosie looked reflectively around her as she made her way up the wide, thickly carpeted staircase. It was the same Piccadilly apartment building from where she’d watched the Coronation procession two and a half years earlier. Back then the opulent flocked wallpaper, red carpet, crystal lights and mahogany banisters had been her idea of an entrance to a palace. She could clearly remember a sudden attack of panic when she first saw it, instantly
aware that her apple-green suit looked as cheap as it was, and that before the day was out the Cooks would regret inviting someone so common.

  She could laugh about those feelings of inadequacy now, for she had no anxiety today about her appearance, nor her ability to hold her own in company, but she had a remarkably similar sensation of butterflies in her stomach, as if something momentous was about to happen. Perhaps that was just because the last visit here had been an important milestone in her life.

  ‘It feels really peculiar being back here again,’ she said, turning her head to Norah who was right behind her. Frank and Donald had gone ahead with their luggage.

  ‘It does to me too,’ Norah said with a nervous laugh, remembering the heart-stopping terror of that day. ‘I just hope Donald doesn’t run off again. But then he’s not likely to, is he?’

  ‘Of course he isn’t,’ Rosie said with a smile. She found it touching that Norah still relied on her for reassurance about her son. ‘And even if he did get separated from us by accident, he’s perfectly capable of asking for directions back here. You don’t need to worry about him.’

  They were in London for Thomas’s exhibition, which was due to open the next day at a Hampstead gallery. Rosie had only expected to be at the Saturday opening-night party, but two weeks ago on her birthday Mrs Cook said she and her husband had another surprise for her. This was it: a whole week’s holiday in London. The Cooks were only staying for the weekend, intending to drive home on Sunday afternoon with Donald. After that she and Thomas would have the apartment entirely to themselves.

  As they walked through the front door and into the large sitting-room which for so long had been the yardstick by which Rosie measured grandeur, her initial reaction was that it wasn’t quite as huge or grand as she remembered. Donald was already sprawled on one of the big settees, Mr Cook looking out of the window at the busy street below. It was of course just the same – the thick carpets as sumptuous, the ornaments and paintings as exquisite. She could still see her face mirrored in the rosewood table, and the curtains she’d once considered big enough to cover every single window in May Cottage with enough left to make a ball gown were every bit as fabulous as she’d thought then. The difference was only within her. She’d become accustomed to luxury.

  By five o’clock it was dark outside. The traffic along Piccadilly was growing heavier and noisier, while office workers and shoppers were flocking into Green Park tube station to go home. Rosie lingered at the sitting-room windows before she drew the curtains. Frank had taken Donald along the road to Fortnum and Mason to buy some extra treats for the weekend. Norah was out in the kitchen unpacking a box of groceries she’d brought from home, and Rosie was glad of a few moments alone.

  She thought London was so glamorous and exciting by night. Car headlights and neon signs flashing, brilliantly lit shop windows, so much noise and bustle. The Ritz across the street to her left gave her a glimpse of the rarefied world of the rich. She could almost hear the chink of champagne glasses as liveried flunkies hailed taxis for guests and held open doors for elegant women in fur coats. She looked up at the windows above, wondering what the bedrooms were like and which famous people might be staying there tonight. Golden light from the restaurant on the side of the hotel streamed out into the darkness of the park, and through the windows she could see a waiter shaking out a starched tablecloth, another holding up glasses to the light to check for smears. Rosie wondered how much it cost to have dinner there, and silently vowed to herself that whatever it cost, one day she and Thomas would eat there.

  She smiled at her audacity as she drew the curtains. Three years ago she would have been awed by just an ordinary self-service cafeteria – she’d thought places like the Ritz were only for the upper classes. But now she knew the entrance requirement for such places was really only confidence: with the right clothes, and enough money, you could do anything, go anywhere.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ Rosie asked Norah as she went into the kitchen at the back of the apartment. It was much quieter here, the traffic a mere drone in the distance.

  ‘You could peel the potatoes,’ Norah suggested. She was holding a beef casserole she’d brought from home. ‘I’ll put this in the oven, then I’ll make some custard.’

  Rosie found the potato peeler in the table drawer and went over to the sink. She liked this kitchen. Aside from a modern gas cooker and a refrigerator, it had remained virtually unchanged since the apartments were built a century before. Large glass-fronted cabinets full of beautiful china lined the walls, there was a big, scrubbed table in the centre, and standing at the sink she could see right down into brightly lit offices and other apartments.

  It was almost like seeing into half a dozen theatres, with a different show in each. She could see girls sitting at desks typing in one, in another a businessman was leaning back in his chair, with his feet up and his hands behind his head. She thought he was dictating a letter to his secretary, though she couldn’t see anyone else. In an apartment to her right, a slim and elegant woman in a red dress was placing a huge vase of flowers on a baby grand piano; she stopped to tweak them into place, then stood back to admire then. Rosie had a suspicion it was probably the nearest thing to work she’d done all day.

  ‘I wonder what it would be like to go back and live somewhere like May Cottage,’ she said thoughtfully, glancing round at Norah, who was bent over by the cooker arranging the oven shelves. ‘I never thought it was awful when I lived there, but after living in your house and seeing places like this, how on earth would I cope without all the comfort and modern appliances?’

  Norah stood up and smiled. She wondered what had prompted Rosie to think of such a thing.

  ‘I suppose that would depend on the circumstances,’ she replied. ‘I doubt you’d mind roughing it a bit with Thomas. Or indeed with us, if it was just a short holiday.’

  ‘I didn’t mean like that,’ Rosie said. ‘I was imagining being uprooted, shoved back there permanently, alone, without any money to make it nice.’

  ‘Well, that is a grim scenario, and an unlikely one,’ the older woman laughed. ‘But I have to admit that after I married Frank and moved to The Grange I hated having to spend more than an hour or two with my parents in their cottage. It was so tiny, so uncomfortable; the beds were hard and lumpy and so very cold. I tried to explain how I felt to my mother once, but she accused me of becoming a snob.’

  ‘Am I becoming a snob too?’ Rosie asked anxiously.

  ‘Of course you aren’t,’ Norah scoffed. ‘Being a snob is looking down on people who aren’t as fortunate as yourself. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with raising your standards. My mother could have improved her home, she had enough money, but she was too mean. She’d put a coat on rather than add some more coal to the fire, and moaned about the broken springs in her bed but wouldn’t buy a new one.

  ‘She always harped on about me “getting things too easily”. She didn’t see how hard Frank worked for what we had, or that I was looking after his ageing parents at the same time as bringing up Michael and Susan. She made me feel very guilty about everything when she visited me, so much so that I reached the point when I didn’t want her to come at all. I hope to goodness I’m never that crabby with my children.’

  Rosie giggled. There was absolutely nothing crabby about Norah Cook. She rejoiced at her children doing so well for themselves and doted on her grandchildren.

  ‘Perhaps when I’ve got children I’d better not tell them about May Cottage,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want them feeling guilty about what they’ve got.’

  Norah thought she was edging closer to what was really on Rosie’s mind. ‘I think you should tell them, but just keep it humorous. I know my children love to hear about their grandparents’ oddities. Or is that what you’re really worried about? That by telling them about May Cottage you might have to reveal the family history too?’

  Rosie thought for a bit before replying. ‘I suppose so,’ she frowned. ‘The one does te
nd to lead to the other. I mean, if I began to talk about Seth and Norman skinning eels, or the scrap yard round the cottage, they’d be bound to ask what happened to them, wouldn’t they?’

  Norah sighed. ‘For someone so young you can be remarkably astute, Rosie! In your shoes I’d probably invent a few white lies, at least until they were grown-up and able to understand. But let’s put things into perspective. You aren’t married yet, there are no children either, and by the time some are born and old enough for such revelations, you and Thomas might have had so many adventures together that your children will never hark back further than that.’

  ‘That’s a better thing to think about.’ Rosie’s face brightened. She didn’t really know why she’d got involved in talking about such things. ‘Besides, after tomorrow Thomas might be the toast of the art world.’

  ‘Indeed he might,’ Norah smiled. ‘Now, are you going to tell me the state of play with him? I don’t want to put my foot in it when we see him tomorrow.’

  Rosie smirked, a little embarrassed. She was always surprised by how direct Norah could be. On the Sunday night after Rosie had returned from spending the weekend with Thomas, she had fully expected some sort of lecture. To her surprise Norah asked her bluntly if they had made love, and had they ‘been careful’, as she put it. She wasn’t disapproving. It was quite clear from what she said that she knew all about the joys of passion-filled nights. She was happy for them both, but she just didn’t want to see them saddled with a baby before they’d had time to enjoy being alone together.

  Since then Thomas had been using all his spare time painting and he’d only been to Mayfield once. Norah had been very sympathetic about the lack of opportunity for them to spend any time together, and she had turned a blind eye to Rosie creeping into his bed late at night. The fact that she and her husband had arranged for them to have this apartment showed they wanted to smooth the lovers’ path. As such, Rosie felt compelled to confide in the older woman.