Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘Do it for me?’

  He folded his arms. ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘I shall be unhappy.’

  ‘Where is this flash car?’

  Rosie pointed out of the window. ‘In Portsmouth. We could be there in an hour.’

  6

  The Doctor

  Should not be allowed to vanish into oblivion.

  It was love at first sight. Oh, how could a man get so excited about a heap of metal? The rolling wave of the mudguard. The neatly spoked wheels. The crimson-reeded radiator grille. The gleaming chrome. Nick ran his hand over one of the bulbous, glistening headlights and Rosie knew he was enslaved.

  They hardly needed to take her out for a test drive. Nick knew how she would feel. Strong, but nimble. Spirited, but of a certain age. Obliging, as long as she was handled sensitively. The car had a lot in common with his grandmother.

  He felt embarrassed when she wrote out the cheque, and tried not to look like a little boy who had just been indulged by his granny. Which, of course, he had, although he tried to tell himself that he was indulging her.

  The salesman waved as they drove away, like an excitable couple of newlyweds. From her position deep in the bucketlike passenger seat, Rosie glanced at Nick as they sped towards the ferry. He was beaming from ear to ear. She had not seen him so happy for a long while. It made her smile, too.

  And then she remembered how it had felt to be taken for a spin in a fast car by a good-looking young man. She had been twenty-two. Her hair streaming out behind her, she was laughing and looking sideways at the handsome doctor, who brushed her knee lightly with his hand. For a month they were barely apart. Then he was called up, and she never saw him again. Six years later they engraved his name on the war memorial.

  ‘Can we stop for a minute?’ she asked.

  Nick had been lost in his thoughts. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I just wondered if we could pull up for a minute. My eyes are watering.’

  He drew in to the side of the road. ‘Yes, of course. Are you all right?’ He watched her reach into her pocket for a tissue. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Just remembering.’

  ‘Happily?’

  ‘Very.’

  He leaned towards her, and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you.’ He tapped the steering-wheel. ‘She’s lovely.’

  ‘Oh, she’s a she, is she?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She pushed the tissue back into her pocket, pulled out a brightly patterned headscarf and tied it firmly under her chin. ‘Come on, then, or we’ll miss the boat.’

  He started the engine again and the car growled softly out of the lay-by, then down the slip-road to the Isle of Wight ferry. For some inexplicable reason, Nick felt as though he was driving there for the first time.

  At six thirty the following morning he found himself leaning out of his bedroom window gazing dreamily at the car parked below. How long would Rosie want to stay? He enjoyed her company – which was just as well: she’d shown no sign of wanting to go home.

  He looked up at the sky, which was flushed with the amber glow of a clear morning. The sea was glassy calm, and there was no sound, except the distant kleep-kleep of half a dozen oystercatchers on the shore. He’d take himself off to Tennyson Down. No, it might be too breezy up there. He’d go to Sleepyhead Bay, find himself a quiet corner by some rocks, then paint the cottages and the little café. He hadn’t felt like taking out his brushes for the better part of a week. Today he was anxious to get started.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked later, as he loaded his bag into the passenger side of the car.

  She was standing by the front door. ‘Of course I’ll be all right. Perfectly capable, you know . . . now that I’ve got my stick.’ It was only a mock admonishment, acknowledging their little joke – that everybody thought she needed taking care of, even him, but he was the only one who didn’t fuss, who let her live her life.

  ‘What will you do?’ he asked.

  ‘Pace myself.’ She grinned. ‘That’s the secret. Go for a little walk. Catch a bus somewhere. Not sure.’

  ‘Well, take care. Don’t go too far.’

  ‘That’s what I used to say to you.’

  ‘Well, you know how it feels, then. I’ll be back late afternoon. We can have supper together if you want.’

  ‘That’d be nice. I just fancy a bit of fish.’ She waved, and went indoors as he steered the car down the track towards the village and out across the island.

  With his board on his lap, he was sketching the scene before him – the towering cliff, the neat row of cottages tucked in beneath it, the apron of rocks, girdled by shallow pools, and the children dipping for shrimps and crabs with their bamboo-poled nets. A couple of small yachts played nip-and-tuck half a mile out, and the lobster fisherman was carrying his catch up the steps to the little café. Nick had picked a good day.

  He did not like being watched while he painted, but out here, especially during the school holidays, it was an occupational hazard. He had just finished the sky when he became aware of a child at his side. ‘That’s nice,’ she said. Her dark hair was tied into plaits, and she was leaning on her shrimping net to examine his work.

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘It’s better than my mum can do.’

  ‘Does she paint?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Yes. She tries to sell them.’ The child shrugged, dismissive.

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘I bet you sell more than she does.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘I do. She hasn’t sold one yet.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ He laughed.

  ‘Would you like to come and see her painting?’

  ‘Well, I’m a bit busy at the moment.’ He frowned, hoping she’d leave him in peace.

  ‘She’s only over there. And she’d probably appreciate some advice.’

  He gave in, amused by the child’s conversation, which was older than her years. She was nine or ten, and was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of baggy yellow shorts. Her feet were bare, and her toes, with chipped red varnish, were bent into the rocks for support. Her skin was honey-coloured from the early summer sun, and her turned-up nose was dusted with freckles. She had the darkest eyes he had ever seen.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Nick.’

  ‘Nick what?’

  ‘Nick Robertson. What’s yours?’

  ‘Victoria.’

  ‘Victoria what?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you. My mum says I shouldn’t – in case you’re not very nice.’

  Nick grinned. ‘Quite right, too.’

  The child pointed her shrimping net to the other end of the cove. ‘She’s over there. Will you come and look? Please?’

  He could see that he would not get any peace until he did as she asked, so he put down his board, anchored it with a rock, and followed her as she picked her way nimbly through the sharp stones, using the shrimping net to keep her balance. Occasionally she would raise one leg in the air, looking as though she were about to topple into one of the small pools, then she would recover her balance and tiptoe quickly ahead.

  Around a particularly large and craggy outcrop they came upon a woman seated on a smooth, round boulder, with a stubby easel jammed among the smaller rocks in front of her. She was dressed like the child – in T-shirt and shorts – with her dark hair pinned up at the back of her head.

  ‘I’ve brought someone to look at it, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, poppet, why do you think . . .?’

  The woman looked up. It was Alexandra Pollen.

  Nick laughed.

  Alex scrambled to her feet. ‘Hello! Fancy meeting you here.’

  The child looked from one to the other. ‘Do you two know each other?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Alex said, and coloured. ‘This is the man whose car I crashed into.’

  ‘Oh!’ Victoria turned to Nick. ‘I expect you’re pretty cross with us, then.�
�

  ‘No. Well a bit. But not much.’

  ‘We’ve got another one.’ She prodded the net into the pool at her feet. ‘It’s not very good. Worse than the last one, actually. But it was all we could afford.’

  Alex brushed down her shorts and shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Sorry about this. She’s a bit annoyed with me for pranging the car.’

  ‘Not your fault when your brakes fail,’ said Nick.

  ‘It hadn’t got an MOT,’ Victoria chipped in.

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  Alex lowered her eyes. ‘Sorry. I should have said . . . only I was due to take it in to the garage the following day. I hadn’t noticed . . .’

  ‘Daddy came round and she got in a bit of a state. She always does.’

  Nick felt uncomfortable. ‘I’d better get back to my painting.’

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’ Alex pointed towards the café.

  ‘I really should get back. The light . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes. The light,’ she teased.

  He saw the look in her eyes and gave in. ‘Just a quick one.’

  Alex turned to her daughter: ‘Shall I bring you back an ice-cream?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ She was concentrating on the rock pool, and bent down to pick something out of her net. ‘I’d rather have a drink. Diet Coke, please.’

  ‘OK.’ Alex shot Nick one of those apologetic looks used by parents who are embarrassed by their children, and by children who are embarrassed by their parents, and began to walk towards the café.

  ‘She’s quite a character,’ he remarked.

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Ten, going on twenty-nine,’ she said, with a smile, as they crossed the warm sand.

  ‘I had no idea you had children.’

  ‘Yes. But it’s just Victoria and me. I’m a single mum.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Most of the time anyway. He keeps coming back – or trying to. We’re over here for a few days to get a break. A breath of air.’

  Nick said nothing, unsure how to respond.

  Alex covered the awkward moment. ‘Oh dear! This is all getting rather intense, isn’t it? Too much information.’

  ‘No – please, go on. I wasn’t . . . I mean . . . well . . . Would you like that coffee?’

  She laughed and broke the tension. ‘Yes. And I’d kill for a biscuit.’

  He ordered two coffees and some tartan-wrapped shortbread biscuits, then sat down opposite her at a little table on a sun-bleached deck among some old fishing-nets. ‘Shall we start again?’ he asked.

  ‘Third time lucky? Sorry. You must think I’m a complete wacko.’

  He tilted his head from side to side. ‘Only a bit of a wacko.’

  ‘And Victoria?’

  ‘Oh, she’s far more sensible.’

  ‘Enough sense there for both of us. Good thing, too, I suppose.’

  ‘Have you had a difficult time at home?’

  ‘Yes. It’s better than it was, but it’s still a bit iffy. I hope he got the message this time.’

  ‘How long have you been together?’

  ‘Eleven years, off and on. Classic, really. We married too young and stayed together because of the child. He’s not a bad guy, but we’re just not suited, and the rows seem to get worse.’

  ‘What now, then?’

  Alex shrugged. ‘Who knows? Next week he’s going abroad on business for a few months. I thought if we came here we’d be out of the way until he’s gone.’

  ‘Won’t he come and find you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. It was all pretty final this time. I wanted to be out of the way. Have a change of scene, and I like it over here.’

  He looked out towards the sea. ‘Nobody knows about it, really.’

  ‘About the island?’

  ‘England’s best-kept secret.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be for old folk, isn’t it? White-haired ladies and men with fawn anoraks.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Public opinion.’

  ‘Well, we all know about public opinion. I love it here. But, then, I’m not your typical thirty-something.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ Alex grinned.

  ‘Thank you!’ He sipped his coffee.

  ‘So what are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Almost thirty-nine.’ He grinned.

  ‘And never been kissed?’ she asked with a wry smile.

  Nick frowned. ‘Another disaster area, I suppose. Not much to tell. Just come out of a long relationship – well, not as long as yours, but three years. Debs went off to the States last week to see a bit of action. Too quiet for her here, I think.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too. Bit of a bugger, really.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  ‘Human resources.’

  Alex stirred her coffee. ‘Are you in mourning?’

  ‘Not really. A bit fed up. And hurt, I suppose. That life wasn’t exciting enough for her. But then there doesn’t seem to be much excitement around at the moment.’

  ‘I see.’

  He realized what he’d said. ‘Apart from this, of course,’ he added.

  ‘How very polite.’

  ‘No. Honestly.’

  ‘Are you committed to staying here?’ she asked.

  ‘For now, yes. I love painting on the island – and I love it in winter when there’s nobody about.’

  ‘I think you’re just a loner, really,’ she told him.

  ‘Maybe. Not always though. How about you?’

  ‘Just the reverse. I hate being on my own. Not that I am.’ She looked round to check that Victoria was still in view. ‘She’s been my life-saver.’

  ‘That’s funny.’ He smiled, as if to himself.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You don’t look like a mum.’

  ‘What does a mum look like?’

  ‘Well, not like you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She sounded irritated.

  ‘I meant it as a compliment,’ he assured her, and she relaxed.

  ‘I’m sure your mum would appreciate that,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t remind me.’ He pushed a shortbread biscuit across the table. ‘Another?’

  ‘No. I’ll wait until lunchtime. Are you staying?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a painting to finish . . .’ He hesitated.

  ‘Why don’t you have some lunch with us? You can meet Victoria properly, and you can give me some advice on my painting.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream—’

  ‘Well, I’ll settle for a bit of company, then . . . if you don’t mind?’

  7

  Vick’s Caprice

  Unusual . . . taking an upright stance.

  He watched them as they pored over the menu, Victoria leaning over Alex’s shoulder. They were like sisters, each advising the other on the best choice in front of them.

  ‘You should have that,’ said Victoria, pointing to ‘freshly fried fish and salad’.

  ‘What about you?’ asked her mother.

  ‘That.’ Victoria darted a finger at ‘Pint of prawns with brown bread and butter’, then slipped the straw of her Diet Coke into her mouth and sucked.

  ‘Can you peel them?’ asked Nick.

  Victoria nodded, without looking up.

  ‘She’s been able to peel prawns since she was little. We had a holiday in Spain, and she learned when she was three. She loves seafood.’

  ‘Expensive tastes,’ said Nick.

  ‘Yes. She gets it from her father. I’m very low maintenance.’

  ‘Must be the artistic temperament.’

  ‘It doesn’t work for Elton John.’

  ‘No. I suppose we should be grateful it works for us.’

  Victoria sat back in her chair. ‘How long are we going to stay here?’

  ‘Until I’ve finished my painting, sweetheart. Probably about four o’clock.’

  ‘I meant how long are we going to stay
on the island?’

  ‘Just for the week,’ Alex told her. ‘Then we’ll go home.’

  ‘We can’t see it from here, can we?’

  ‘Not from this side of the island, but we can from the north side.’

  ‘I prefer this side.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Because there’s more sea.’

  ‘Do you like the sea?’ asked Nick.

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just that it takes longer to get home from here.’

  ‘Well, we can come back lots if you like,’ her mother told her.

  ‘Yes, please,’ and with that Victoria returned to her drink.

  Victoria finished her prawns, leaving a neat pile of shells on her plate, while Nick and Alex were still eating. She excused herself from the table and went back to her rock pool. They watched her concentrate on fishing.

  ‘How’s she coped with it all?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Not bad, on the whole – but how can I tell? She tries to be grown-up about it, but it obviously hurts.’

  ‘Does she get on with her dad?’

  ‘So-so. He spoils her rotten and he’s not badmouthed me. At least I don’t think he has. She’s never said anything that makes me think so.’

  ‘Will he still be able to see her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But if this new job takes off he’ll be away quite a lot, so I shouldn’t have to grit my teeth too much.’

  ‘You really get on well with her.’

  ‘Most of the time, yes. There is the occasional tantrum.’

  ‘Well that’s growing up, isn’t it?’ He smiled ruefully.

  ‘That’s what I tell myself. And I’m the only one she can let off steam with.’

  ‘Grandparents?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Yes. It would help. Give her a greater variety of company. I think she must get pretty pissed off with me sometimes. Moody. You know.’

  ‘You’re a bit hard on yourself.’

  ‘I deserve to be. I don’t like cocking up, and I’ve made a real mess of things so far.’

  Nick pointed to Victoria. ‘Not with her.’

  ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘Bless her. I’m just determined that things will get better, you know? That’s what keeps me going.’

  ‘Is that why you’re painting?’

  ‘Partly. It’s a bit selfish, too. Hopefully it’ll raise some money to help with Victoria’s schooling, but it also makes me feel good. I can escape when I’m painting. Go somewhere else. Be someone else. Not like before.’