Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘God, what a mess!’ said Henry, and the girl burst into tears.

  ‘Thank you, Henry. We can see that.’

  Nick eyed his van and realized that their long association was at an end. Then he looked at the Fiat. Not much hope there, either. In the back of the car, he spotted a tangled mixture of blankets and canvas, and grasped that the girl must be the artist Henry had been so keen for him to meet.

  ‘Come inside,’ he said to her. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’

  By the time they had walked through the door of the pub and sat down at the table, a large Scotch had appeared courtesy of the barman. But the girl shook her head. ‘Just water, please. Tap.’ She reached into her pocket for a tissue, pushed back her hair from her eyes and tried to smile. ‘What a way to start.’

  ‘Do you feel OK?’ asked Henry. ‘No bones broken?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Just a bit stiff.’ She wiped her eyes with the tissue and thanked the barman for the water.

  Henry took a gulp of his wine. ‘I think I’m going to need this.’

  ‘I don’t know what state my paintings will be in.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Nick, ‘we’ll sort them out later.’

  ‘What about the cars?’ asked the barman. ‘Shall I call the Old Bill?’

  ‘Not unless you want to?’ Nick directed his question at the girl.

  ‘But whose is the van?’ she asked.

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘You’ll want to claim on your insurance.’

  Nick shook his head. ‘I wish. The garage told me this morning that she was on borrowed time. I think she’s just passed away. Not worth losing my no claims. But what about yours?’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘Shall we just call the breakdown truck to clear them away, then?’

  ‘Are we allowed to?’

  ‘Don’t see why not. If we’re quick.’

  Within an hour the only trace of the collision was a scattering of dried mud and a bucketful of broken glass on the road. Passers-by had been hurried along, and the police – who were probably busy on the congested Newport Road – had failed to put in an appearance.

  Henry never did get his lunch. Instead, he helped salvage the paintings from the Fiat, and carried them into the gallery.

  It was a good half-hour before Nick discovered the identity of the girl who had written off his dear old van. Her name was Alexandra Pollen.

  5

  Alchymist

  Black spot can be troublesome.

  She turned out to be nothing like as frail as he had thought. But, then, you can’t make judgements about anyone’s character on the basis of having pulled them out of a crumpled car.

  Over tea in the back room she explained that she’d discovered Henry’s gallery the previous year on a day trip to the island. She had thought he might like some stuff that wasn’t run-of-the-mill, and that her oils might be just that. She’d been confident enough to win Henry over on the phone, but he had warned her that anything too esoteric was unlikely to sell.

  Nick admired her nerve, if not her paintings. They were vivid and simplistic, not at all his style, but they did have a raw energy.

  ‘Can you sell them, do you think?’ she asked Henry.

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out.’ He looked across at Nick. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I told you, I never comment in public on another artist’s work.’

  ‘But as you’re here . . .’

  Nick did his best not to glare at Henry for putting him in such a position. ‘I think they’re . . . exhilarating.’

  Alex wasn’t fooled. ‘Diplomatic,’ she said wryly.

  Nick shrugged.

  ‘Well, I can’t expect everyone to like them. But I’ll be happy enough if you’ll give them a go, Henry.’

  The remaining conversation was polite. Then it was time for Alex to leave, and the question arose as to how that might be achieved.

  ‘Well, I’d run you to the ferry, dear, except that I don’t drive,’ said Henry. ‘Not since the, er . . .’ He nodded at a bottle of claret on the desk. ‘What about you?’ he asked Nick.

  ‘I’d better hire a car . . . until I can do better.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Alex said.

  ‘There’s no need. You probably just moved things on a bit.’

  The greater truth of his statement quite escaped him.

  A call to a friendly local garage resulted in a car being delivered to the gallery within the hour, and Nick dropped Alex at the Wight-Link ferry terminal at Fishbourne. ‘Where’s home?’ he asked.

  ‘Portsmouth.’

  ‘Handy.’

  ‘Very. That’s why I wasn’t too worried about getting home. I can walk from the ferry at the other side.’

  She got out of the car, then leaned in through the driver’s window and smiled. ‘Thank you for being so good about the car. I really don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Just in case you change your mind.’ She handed him a piece of paper on which, in italic script, she had written her name, address and telephone number. ‘I expect we’ll meet again soon. I like coming over to the island.’

  He motored home, deep in thought, considering an Austin A30 – and Alexandra Pollen. He was not considering Rosie. Until he saw her standing in the doorway of his house.

  ‘What the . . .’ He leaped out of the car and strode up to her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Getting away.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Your mother.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She came round this morning. Did you tell her?’

  ‘I didn’t tell her anything. It was in the local paper.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Well, it’s not surprising, is it?’

  ‘Wants to put me in a home. Told me, there and then. Even had some brochures with her. I mean, I ask you!’

  Nick looked at her, laden with a small suitcase and two carrier-bags. ‘How have you managed?’

  ‘I got a taxi – both ends.’

  Nick unloaded her. ‘Come on. Let’s get you inside.’

  Rosie glanced down the path to the road. ‘Where’s the van?’

  ‘In a scrapyard somewhere near Bembridge.’

  ‘Oh dear. Has it finally given up? Never mind – perhaps you can get a sports car now instead.’

  ‘Will you stop changing the subject?’ He fumbled in his pocket for the key, and ushered her in.

  Over tea and biscuits the story tumbled out. ‘She didn’t even ask if I was all right.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she needed to.’

  ‘Didn’t care, more like.’

  ‘Oh, now, stop feeling sorry for yourself.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m just cross.’

  ‘Well, you know what Mum’s like.’

  ‘Huh. Only ever worries about herself and about what her friends will think.’

  ‘That’s not quite true.’

  ‘Doesn’t worry about me.’

  ‘And neither is that.’

  Rosie looked at him pleadingly. ‘But to put me away!’

  ‘She doesn’t want to put you away, she wants to make sure you’re taken care of. That’s all.’

  ‘Dreadful expression! Taken care of! Makes me sound senile. Just so that I don’t get in her way.’

  Nick realized this particular conversation was going nowhere. ‘Why have you come here?’

  ‘Because you’re the only person I can trust.’

  He smiled. ‘You sound like a secret agent.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She paused. ‘That would be fun.’

  He shot her a look.

  ‘I thought it might be a bit of a break,’ she went on. ‘Do me good. A spot of sea air. There isn’t much of that in Richmond.’

  ‘Have you booked somewhere?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where will you stay, then?’

  Rosie looked about her.

  ‘Oh, Rosie! There
’s no space.’

  ‘There’s the little bedroom.’

  ‘But it’s full of painting stuff, and it’s tiny.’

  ‘You’ll hardly know I’m here – and it won’t be for long, just till I get myself organized.’

  Nick could think of a million reasons why it wouldn’t work, and why he really ought to put Rosie into the car right now and drive round the island until they found a reasonably priced hotel that would take her for a week or two.

  ‘I can cook for you while you’re painting. I won’t get in the way.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want you here, it’s just that, well . . . it’s not really big enough for two.’

  ‘But you lived here with Debs.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘You mean you loved her . . .’

  ‘Yes. No. I mean . . . it’s not the same.’ But when he looked into her eyes he knew he had lost: she wasn’t going anywhere. And he was, as she had known he would be, a soft touch.

  He sighed. ‘I’d better clear out the little bedroom.’ He bent down and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart. You’re a life-saver. And it’s just till I get sorted. Then I’ll be out of your hair.’ She squeezed his hand and walked over to the window. ‘What a wonderful view.’ Then she turned round to face him. ‘What a lark, eh?’

  Many things might have happened over the next few days: she might have irritated the pants off him; she might have been demanding in her requests for food, drink and entertainment; she might have fussed over him and driven him mad. In the event, she did none of these.

  Over the first day she observed him at work and noted his modus operandi. By day three he worried that he was not looking after her enough. She had breakfast just after he did, then washed up and put away the china. Then she pulled on a pair of soft boots and a windcheater and went out. He didn’t see her again until early evening when she joined him for supper. The conversation was pleasant, and she was not inquisitive, as though she were on her best behaviour. She went to bed early.

  He was concerned about her walking along the cliff unaided, so he bought her a stick. She was indignant, until he explained that all proper walkers carried one like this, a modified ski pole. Then to his relief, she grudgingly accepted it.

  By day four he was nervous of her amenability, and over supper he pushed her a bit. ‘Are you managing?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Are you?’

  ‘Yes. Surprisingly.’

  She unwrapped a Nuttall’s Mintoe and popped it into her mouth. ‘You see, I told you I wouldn’t be much trouble. And I’m not, am I?’

  ‘Not so far, no.’

  ‘Hmph!’

  He avoided asking when she thought she would go back. It was only three days, after all. ‘Have you got enough clothes and things?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I think so. I thought I might have a bit of an expedition, though. Get myself some new bits for the summer. There’s some nice sailing stuff in Cowes.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going sailing.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve booked the course.’

  He nearly choked on his coffee. ‘What?’

  She rolled the peppermint around in her mouth. ‘At the sailing academy.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘It’s for five days.’

  ‘But you—’

  ‘They’ve had older people than me doing it. The man said so.’ She noted his look of wide-eyed astonishment but carried on, savouring the moment. ‘I’ve always fancied getting out on the water, but your Granddad never liked it, so we never did.’

  ‘No.’ He was staring at her, astonished.

  ‘Only little dinghies. Toppers, I think they’re called. Quite fast, though.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Should be all right as long as I can remember to keep my head down.’

  His jaw dropped.

  ‘Catching flies again?’ she asked.

  He closed his mouth hastily. ‘You crack me up. You really do.’

  ‘What a lovely thing to say. I must remember that.’ As she went towards her room he heard her chuckle to herself, then murmur, ‘You crack me up, you really do!’

  Between his concern for his grandmother, his need to complete more paintings, his thoughts of Debs and a new van, Alex kept drifting into his mind. He toyed with calling her. To see if she was all right? To ask her out for supper? No. There was too much to think about without that.

  And so he found himself staring at the grey Austin A30 van in the second-hand car dealer’s yard in Newport. He liked old vans: they were characterful and practical: you could get a lot of paintings into the back. Difficult in a sports car. That was what Rosie wanted him to buy, of course. Something more racy. He shook his head, and felt a little embarrassed that it was he who was unadventurous while his grandmother was the fast lady.

  ‘’Sgoin’ for a song, mate. Only twelve ’undred quid.’

  ‘Twelve hundred?’

  ‘’Sa collector’s item, that is.’

  ‘What sort? A debt collector?’

  ‘Discerning.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’m not discerning enough.’

  ‘Suit yerself. It’ll go.’

  ‘But not to me.’

  He cursed himself on the way home for being pathetic and indecisive. And for being walked over, first by Debs and then by Rosie. It was time he put his foot down. But how could he? He couldn’t simply turn her out. She might look a tough old bird, but he had seen her moved to tears in the last week, and he didn’t want to dash her spirits when she seemed to be on the mend.

  He turned into the gravel path at the front of his cottage. ‘The Anchorage’, said the small slate sign. He couldn’t help thinking that, as far as Rosie was concerned, the name was appropriate.

  He walked along the veranda at the front of the house, between the forest of bright green montbretia leaves, and glanced into the tiny boxroom next to the front door. It was the one place where he could tuck a computer, without it taking over the place. The desk lamp was turned on, and Rosie was hunched over the keyboard.

  Nick let himself in through the front door and poked his head into the little room. ‘What are you doing?’

  Rosie almost leaped out of the chair. ‘You made me jump!’

  He glanced at the screen, and then at his grandmother. ‘When did you learn how to use a computer?’

  ‘At night-school when your granddad was ill. It took my mind off things.’

  ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have to tell you everything I do.’

  ‘Of course not. Sorry.’

  Then she said brightly, ‘I’ve found you a car.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A new car. I’ve found one on the Internet.’

  ‘What? An Austin A30 van?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s an MG.’

  Nick sighed. ‘But I don’t want an MG. You can’t get pictures into an MG.’

  ‘Yes, you can. You can have a special rack on the boot lid over the spare tyre. I’ve checked. And, anyway, your pictures are quite small. Most of them would fit in the footwell at the front.’

  ‘What about when it rains?’

  She looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘It does have a hood, you know.’

  There was nothing for it but to look over her shoulder at the advert on the screen.

  ‘You see?’ she said. ‘Perfect. Very sporty. Bit of fun. Take you out of yourself.’

  ‘I thought it was you we were taking out of yourself?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me. Just a minute – I’ll print it off.’ And then, evidently fearful that she had overstepped the mark, ‘You don’t mind, do you, about me using the computer? I haven’t touched anything I shouldn’t.’

  Nick shook his head. ‘No. Not at all. I’m just surprised.’

  ‘And pleased? A bit pleased?’

  ‘Yes. And pleased.’

  The printer whirred and Rosie picked up the piece of paper
and handed it to him. She stood up and indicated the finer points of the car. ‘It’s British racing green – you can’t tell that from the printout – with a red radiator grille. And the hood is black. It says it’s in its original condition and has had the same owner for the last thirty years.’ Her enthusiasm was infectious. ‘I’ve always loved those old MGs. Our doctor used to have one. He’d jump over the door without opening it. Smoked a pipe. We used to think he was very dashing . . . Well-mannered, too.’

  Nick read out: ‘“MG TC, 1949. Mechanically this car is superb. The engine, when being driven, has an excellent oil pressure and is entirely sound.” Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Read on,’ said Rosie.

  ‘“When on ‘tick-over’ the engine can hardly be heard. The gearbox, and all other parts related to the chassis, like brakes, steering, et cetera, are also in excellent working order. No visible signs of rust.” Probably been resprayed.’

  ‘And it has the original logbook, showing owners back to 1963, and all the bills and receipts for the last thirty years. It was bought in 1969 for a hundred and fifteen pounds.’

  ‘How much is it now?’ asked Nick, his eye drifting down to the foot of the page. ‘Bloody hell! Eleven thousand two hundred and fifty quid! Not a chance! I’ve just turned down a van for twelve hundred. This is almost ten times that.’

  ‘Yes, but look what you’re getting. It’s a very pretty car!’

  ‘But I haven’t got that sort of money.’

  Rosie’s eyes lit up. ‘I have!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I could buy it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’m not being silly. I could buy it as an investment. I’ve got plenty saved up and nothing else to do with it. The banks aren’t paying much interest. Much more fun to have a sports car. That way, you can drive it and I can come out for a spin occasionally. Can’t I?’

  ‘Well, yes. But no! I mean, this isn’t right.’

  ‘If you’re worrying about your sisters and their inheritance, don’t. I’ve sorted all that out.’

  ‘But I want a van!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Can you hear yourself? “I want a van”! What a feeble thing to say when you could be spinning around in that.’

  Nick looked back at the printout. It was indeed a lovely car. ‘I don’t know . . .’