Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  Nick watched as Alex traced patterns on the table with a finger. ‘So you’re not a career painter?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, come on! You knew I wasn’t when you saw my canvases.’

  ‘They’re lovely!’

  ‘Don’t be patronizing.’ She leaned back in her chair and frowned.

  ‘No. They really are. God! They’re better than a lot of professional stuff I’ve seen.’

  ‘But you knew I wasn’t a professional painter.’

  ‘Only because of the way you acted.’

  She looked worried for a moment. ‘Do you think Henry knew?’

  ‘Probably, but he doesn’t care as long as things sell. He thinks you’re worth a punt.’

  Her face lightened again. ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. A start.’

  ‘What did you do before?’

  ‘I was an English teacher. Then Victoria came along and I didn’t want to be a part-time mum so I gave it up. But I can read a cracking bedtime story.’

  ‘Lucky girl.’

  Alex looked out to where her daughter was absorbed in her own world. ‘Oh, I hope so. I really want her to have a good life. That’s the most important thing, and I don’t feel I’ve done very well for her so far.’ She gazed at her daughter wistfully for a few moments, then asked, ‘What about you?’

  ‘Well, no kids. Two sisters, both abroad. And a granny.’

  ‘No mum and dad?’

  ‘Yes. But the granny’s the one who takes up most of my time.’

  Alex laughed. ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s a bit of a liability. Eighty-seven. Sharp as a razor but she has her moments.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Oh, she’s just taken it into her head that she hasn’t lived enough so she’s starting now, which is very nice in one way but a real pain in another.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  ‘Are you taking sides?’

  ‘I’m all for anyone who refuses to give up. Who refuses to “go gentle into that good night”.’

  ‘But there are limits.’

  ‘Why? What’s she done?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a long story. She’s staying with me at the moment.’

  ‘Here? On the island?’

  ‘Yes. You ought to meet her.’

  Alex hesitated. ‘She sounds a real character.’

  ‘Oh, she is. Why don’t you come for supper one evening?’ Then he worried that he had pushed himself too much. ‘But perhaps . . .’

  ‘No. I mean, yes. It would be lovely,’ she said.

  They sat quietly for a few minutes, looking at the sun glinting on the water.

  Then Nick got up. ‘I’d better get on. Painting to finish.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look . . .’ He pulled a stubby pencil and a scrap of paper out of his pocket. ‘This is where I am. I’ve promised my grandmother supper tonight, so if you two want to come you’ll be very welcome. It would be good for her, too. And Victoria. They might be a match for each other.’

  She took the note, glanced at the address and the map he had sketched. ‘Are you sure? We’re a bit of a handful.’

  ‘I’m positive.’ He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. She smelt of Johnson’s baby powder. ‘And thank you.’ He turned and walked away across the rocks.

  ‘My pleasure,’ she whispered, as she slipped the note into the pocket of her shorts.

  ‘What sort of company?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘Female company,’ said Nick.

  ‘Ooh!’

  ‘There’s no need to say it like that.’

  ‘I didn’t say it like anything.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right, then.’

  ‘Do I get a clue?’ Rosie asked.

  Nick sighed and looked up from chopping the salad. ‘An artist and her daughter.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘And you’re to be on your best behaviour.’

  ‘And not embarrass you?’

  ‘Oh, you won’t embarrass me. Just don’t get on your hobby-horse, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ she said, as he tipped the salad into a glass bowl. ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Well, you could lay the table. Do you know where everything is?’

  ‘I think I’ve worked it out.’ Her sarcasm, she could see, was lost on him.

  Rosie put knives, forks and spoons, napkins and place mats on the scrubbed pine table that stood in the tiny bay window. She liked his little cottage. It made her feel as though she was living in a dream. The outside walls were black-painted clapboard with yellow window frames, and inside, the wooden panelling was white. Everywhere there was light. Nick’s taste was minimalist without being cold: there were pieces of gnarled driftwood and shells on the doorstep, cream linen curtains at the windows, and white-painted furniture on which he had grouped feathers, shells, a bird’s egg, a fishing float.

  The two bedrooms were warmer: brightly coloured quilts covered the mattresses and dried flower wreaths hung over the brass bedsteads. Painted wooden fish hung from hooks on the walls, and the bathroom sported a tiny bath on ball and claw feet. It was the perfect seaside bachelor pad, and Rosie felt like a lucky interloper.

  She finished the table by placing a small bowl of wild flowers in the centre – dog-roses, campion, grasses and buttercups. ‘Where did you find those?’ he asked.

  ‘On the clifftop. I nearly got blown away picking them.’

  ‘They’re lovely. Thank you.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t done much since I came.’

  ‘Er . . .’ He pointed to the car outside.

  ‘Oh, that’s different.’

  ‘Yes. A lot different from a van.’

  Rosie smiled at him fondly. ‘Now tell me about this artist.’

  ‘Oh, don’t go getting ideas. I’ve only just come out of a relationship and I’m not ready to go headlong into another. Anyway, there are two of them to think about.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Responsibilities.’

  ‘Look, this is just a meal!’

  ‘Well, I only asked you about her so that I didn’t put my foot in it.’

  He told her about the crash outside the pub, about Alex’s paintings, and about meeting her at Sleepyhead Bay. He told her about Victoria and about the child’s father. About how Alex had turned from being an English teacher to being a painter and about how she was hoping to change her life.

  By the end Rosie couldn’t suppress a grin.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘Because you’re so happy. Happy to talk about her. And there’s another reason, too.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She has the most wonderful name.’

  ‘Pollen?’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s lovely, but I was thinking more about her first name.’

  ‘Alexandra?’

  ‘Yes. Very Russian.’

  Nick frowned in admonishment. ‘So how come you were called Rosie?’ he asked.

  ‘To put people off the scent when I was smuggled out of Russia. It’s not my real name.’

  ‘What is your real name?’

  ‘Alice Marie Xenia.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a mouthful.’

  ‘All family names.’

  He flopped into a chair. ‘When are you going to sit down and tell me everything?’

  ‘Whenever you want. It’s time somebody knew.’

  ‘Well, not tonight. Let’s keep to lighter topics.’

  ‘Like the weather?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’ll be interesting.’

  ‘Rosie, there is one thing, before we get off the subject.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you’re so pleased that Alex has a Russian name, why on earth did you christen Dad Derek?’

  ‘Your grandfather put his foot down. I wanted to call him Alexander, but your granddad said it sounded too snooty. He was a lovely man, your granddad, and I didn’t want to u
pset him.’

  ‘But why Derek?’

  ‘Because it was the name of a very good friend of mine. Someone who was killed in the war. A doctor.’

  ‘And me? Was Nicholas your idea?’

  ‘As luck would have it, that was your mother. All I had to do was sit quietly and smile to myself. Mind you, I was a bit worried. There was a point when she thought she might call you Torquil. Tricky for all of us, that was.’

  Nick winced. ‘It would have been even trickier for me.’

  ‘She saw sense in the end. But your father had the last laugh.’

  ‘With my middle name?’

  ‘Yes. I thought your mother must have been a bit dim not to understand, but your dad managed to pull the wool over her eyes – until after the christening at least.’

  ‘Well, thankfully I don’t have to use it, and by the time I got to school most people didn’t understand anyway.’

  ‘I did think he was taking his love of the horses a bit too far. Naming you after a Grand National winner.’

  ‘It could’ve been worse.’

  ‘Worse than Nicholas Silver?’

  ‘Yes. If I’d been born a few years later I could have been called Red Rum.’

  Rosie laughed. ‘Sometimes you really crack me up,’ she said.

  8

  Royal Blush

  Soft blush pink.

  ‘I don’t know whether to feel guilty or relieved.’ Alex was looking at the MG parked outside the house.

  ‘Oh, think of yourself as a catalyst,’ said Nick, a twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘You do say the nicest things to a girl.’

  ‘It’s a way I have.’

  ‘Are they all right in there, do you think?’ Alex looked towards the house, where Rosie was showing Victoria Nick’s treasures, like the ship in the bottle and the stuffed gannet.

  ‘Oh, yes. She’s had lots of practice.’

  Having over-indulged the child during supper – with three helpings of ice-cream – Rosie had slipped into great-grandmother mode while Nick and Alex drank coffee on the veranda.

  ‘She’ll be reading her a bedtime story next.’

  ‘Talking of which . . .’ Alex looked at her watch.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ said Nick. ‘It’s a lovely evening.’

  He gazed at her sitting in the cane chair, feet curled under her. Her dark hair was still pinned up, but she had changed into a pale pink shirt and jeans. He could see the candlelight reflected in her dark eyes as she gazed out across the water.

  ‘It’s the most perfect spot,’ she said. ‘You’re very lucky.’

  ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘So did . . . I can’t remember the girl’s name.’

  ‘Debs.’

  ‘Did she live here with you?’

  ‘Some of the time – when she wasn’t abroad.’

  ‘She travelled a lot?’

  ‘A fair bit, yes. That’s why it fizzled out, really.’

  ‘For you or for her?’

  ‘Both of us, I think. It came as a bit of a shock to admit it to myself. I felt miserable about it, but I knew I was feeling sorry for myself rather than missing her.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Absence made her heart grow fonder . . . of somebody else.’

  ‘Over the water?’

  ‘Yes. In a manner of speaking – Southampton.’

  ‘How was it? The ending, I mean.’

  ‘Strangely civilized. Scary, really.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be scared of civility. It’s better than the other option.’

  ‘I guess. But it’s not very passionate, is it?’

  Alex grinned at him mischievously. ‘And are you a passionate man?’

  He was about to reply when he became aware of another voice: it was Rosie’s and she was getting into her stride. ‘And then the princess met the most wonderful man.’

  ‘How was he wonderful? Was he good-looking?’ Victoria asked.

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘But was he fit?’

  ‘Well, I suppose he was quite healthy.’

  ‘No. I mean . . . was he fanciable?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Definitely.’

  ‘And did she fancy him?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. She certainly wanted to get to know him a bit better.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose she did . . . You see, the princess lived in a country that was very large, and a lot of the working people didn’t have much money. This meant that they didn’t like the princess’s family because they had too many lovely things, like Fabergé eggs and suchlike.’

  ‘What’s a Fabergé egg?’

  Suddenly Nick grasped the drift of their conversation, and sprang up. ‘Rosie!’

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Before she could reply, Victoria said, ‘A princess and a . . . What was he?’

  ‘A pauper. Well, not exactly a pauper, dear, but certainly a commoner.’

  Nick endeavoured to steer her away from what to him were uncharted waters and a possible source of embarrassment. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit late for stories?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alex put in. ‘We really must be going.’

  ‘No – I didn’t mean—’ He looked pleadingly at his grandmother.

  She beamed at him innocently. ‘It’s only a quarter to ten – and they are on holiday.’

  Alex stood up and slipped on her shoes. ‘No. You’re quite right. It’s way past Victoria’s bedtime. It’s been wonderful, but we really must be going.’

  Nick tried to retrieve the situation. ‘Don’t go. It was just that . . .’

  ‘It’s all right. We’ve had a lovely time. Perhaps we’ll see you again before the end of our holiday. Say goodnight, Victoria, and thank Rosie for a nice evening.’

  ‘Oh, do we have to? I want to hear the end of the story.’

  Alex shot her a look.

  ‘OK.’ Victoria sounded resigned. ‘Goodnight, Rosie, and thanks for having me.’ She stretched up to give Rosie a peck on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Nick.’

  ‘Goodnight, Victoria. Thank you for coming.’ He was embarrassed now. He turned to Alex, but she was collecting Victoria’s jacket from the back of her chair and did not meet his eye.

  As they walked down the veranda steps together he tried to make amends. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, never mind.’

  ‘No. I mean about . . . just then . . .’

  ‘It’s fine, really. Thank you for a lovely meal.’ She squeezed his arm, then walked round the battered old Ford, let Victoria into the back seat and belted her in. ‘Have a good rest of the week,’ she said, and before he could say any more, the little car slid down the stony track and away into the night.

  Nick watched the scarlet tail-lights disappear. How had he managed that? How could a perfectly pleasant evening have soured so quickly? It was only minutes since he and Alex had been sitting on the veranda, enjoying the moment, sizing each other up, and now she had left without . . . well, without anything.

  He stormed inside. ‘You promised!’

  ‘Promised what, sweetheart?’

  ‘Not to go on about your past.’

  ‘But I didn’t. I was only telling her about the princess and the pauper.’

  ‘Oh, yes? A princess who had Fabergé eggs and lived in a large country where the poor people didn’t like the princess’s family.’

  ‘Well, I was only embellishing it a bit with things I knew.’

  ‘And look what’s happened! They must think I’m rude and—’

  ‘Inconsiderate?’

  ‘Don’t push it, Rosie!’ His voice was raised.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t treat me like a child.’

  ‘Then don’t behave like one. You’ve ruined a perfectly good evening.’

  ‘I didn’t ruin it. You did. I was just . . .’

  ‘I know what you were doing.’

  Rosie sat down and looked aw
ay, blinking back tears.

  Nick thumped a chair-back. ‘Oh, please! This isn’t fair! Come on!’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re so cross with me.’

  ‘Because I worry about you.’

  ‘But if you worried about me you’d care, and if you cared you’d listen, instead of doing what everybody else in the family does and treating me as though I’m stupid.’

  ‘But most of the time you’re not. It’s just that every now and then you get this bee in your bonnet, and then you’re like a different person.’ He was kneeling beside her now. ‘You don’t seem like you when you do this – you’re almost a bit . . . well . . . doo-lally.’

  ‘I’m not!’ she wailed.

  ‘No, no . . . I didn’t mean you’re doo-lally, just . . . different.’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘I might as well give up. Nobody really knows. Or cares.’

  ‘That’s not true. Look.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Let me get you a drink. What do you want? Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Scotch.’

  ‘Scotch it is. And then you can tell me, if you want to.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Depends if you want to hear.’

  ‘Of course I do.’ He poured her a large Scotch, and one for himself, then went over to where she sat and handed her the glass. ‘Are you sure you’ve never told anyone before?’ he asked.

  She picked up on the note of disbelief in his voice. ‘I told you, your father would have laughed and your mother would have had me committed.’

  ‘Well, I’m all ears.’ He sat at her feet, and tried to look sympathetic, still wondering what Alex was thinking now as she drove to her hotel. The first few words washed over him, but then he was listening as Rosie told her story.

  9

  Royal Highness

  At its best in fine weather.

  ‘I didn’t know anything about it until I was twenty. Until then I just thought my parents had given me away when I was a baby. They were poor and couldn’t afford to keep me. They had five children already – one more mouth to feed would have finished them off. I was brought up by a couple in Cheltenham. They told me I was properly adopted when I was about seven, but they just said that my real parents hadn’t wanted anything to do with me once I had been handed over.’