Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘I’m not shutting her away. These are lovely places and they’ll look after her.’

  ‘Well, I’m looking after her at the moment so that’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘But how long can you carry on?’

  ‘I don’t know. But, quite honestly, I’d rather she was with her family than stuck in some home that smells of pee with chairs all round the walls.’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Exactly. And she’s having fun here. She’s even booked to go on a sailing course.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s OK. She says they’ve taught people older than her.’

  ‘Maybe, but I bet they had all their marbles.’

  ‘And you don’t think she has?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Do you?’

  He changed the subject, careful to ask the question offhandedly: ‘What do you know about her family?’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite ridiculous. She’s got it into her head that her mother was somehow caught up in the Russian revolution.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. She thinks she was smuggled out when she was a baby.’

  ‘Who were her parents?’

  ‘Russian peasants, probably.’

  ‘Does Dad know?’

  ‘Well, if he does he’s never bored me with the story. Look, I haven’t time to talk. I’ve a lecture in five minutes. Just let me know the moment she leaves so that I can arrange these meetings. OK?’

  Nick felt reluctant to commit himself – or Rosie – to such an arrangement. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Nick!’

  ‘I promise to look after her and see that she doesn’t get into any more trouble.’

  ‘Well, I’m relying on you.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Speak soon. Must dash. Oh, and don’t let her spend any money. Apparently her bank account is overdrawn.’

  11

  Danse de Feu

  So bright, this rose almost screams.

  Troubles are like buses: they come in convoys. Nick had quite a collection now. His grandmother’s presence, his grandmother’s state of mind, his grandmother’s apparent lack of funds, Alex’s opinion of him (which could not have been high) and the prospect of being a future tsar of Russia.

  To his credit, he was relatively rational about the last, and put it out of his mind. But, as troubles go, it was never going to be one that he would get his head round. The choice was simple: incredulity or insanity. Wisely, he opted for the former. But the matter kept drifting into his mind and gave rise to an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  All of the above would probably have resolved themselves sooner rather than later had not two more buses turned up. They were clad in charcoal grey suits and wore dark glasses. They stood on the doorstep of the Anchorage looking strangely out of place.

  ‘Mr Robertson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Derek Robertson?’

  ‘No. I’m Nick.’

  ‘Are you expecting us?’ asked the shorter of the two. They were both sturdy men with close-shaven heads and no necks. The sort of men you’d find wearing twirly earpieces and standing outside a nightclub called the Matrix. One even had the habit of pushing up his chin to free his non-existent neck from a collar two sizes too small.

  ‘No. Should I be?’

  The taller one looked down at the smaller one, then at Nick. ‘This is the Anchorage, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re not Derek Robertson?’

  ‘No. I’m his son.’

  The small one cut in impatiently: ‘The son of Derek Robertson?’

  ‘Yes. Look, this is getting silly . . .’

  ‘Only your father said we’d be expected.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re not.’

  ‘Your father hasn’t been in contact, then?’

  ‘Not for a week or two.’

  ‘So you haven’t got the package?’

  ‘What package?’

  The shorter hulk looked up at the taller hulk and frowned, then looked back at Nick. ‘Look, son, this is serious. We’ve come all the way across here because we were told that this was where it would be.’ He slipped his hand inside his jacket, after the style of Napoleon. ‘Don’t tell me we’re wasting our time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this some sort of joke?’

  ‘No,’ said the big hulk.

  Nick felt uneasy. ‘Well, I can call my father, if you like, but he keeps changing his mobile so I’m not sure he’ll still be on the same number.’

  ‘No,’ said the shorter man. ‘That’s the trouble.’

  Nick felt an overwhelming urge to push them down the garden path. But he thought better of it. It might have been something to do with their size, or that their suits had unidentifiable bulges in unexpected places.

  ‘Look, I’ll get in touch with him somehow and tell him you called. Have you got a number where he can reach you?’

  At this, the larger man took a step forward, almost crushing Nick against the door frame. ‘We don’t mess about, you know.’

  ‘Hey! Look! What the—’

  ‘Don’t piss us around,’ growled his accomplice. ‘We’ve come a long way.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have what you want so I don’t see what I can do.’

  Nick squeezed out from between the man and the door frame, then took a deep breath.

  ‘Hello, I’m back,’ said a voice. ‘Had a lovely walk right along the cliff path. Oh, hello – I’m Nick’s granny.’ The two men wheeled round in time to see Rosie hold out her hand. They didn’t take it. They just stared, while Rosie twittered on: ‘Shame it’s not brighter, isn’t it? I expect you needed your sunglasses when you set off, but it’s a bit threatening now.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘Quite cloudy.’

  The two men froze as though they had been anaesthetized. They were clearly used to younger bodies than the fragile frame that had addressed them.

  ‘Are you staying for lunch? I think we’ve some salad left over from last night. And a tin of tuna. I can certainly put the kettle on.’

  Nick made to stop her, but the shorter of the two men spoke first: ‘No, thanks, lady,’ he said, his tone bemused. ‘We’ve got to be going.’

  He turned to Nick and partially recovered himself. ‘We’ll come back. You’ll have it by then. We hope.’ He gestured his companion towards the path, then nodded at Rosie. ‘Take care, lady.’

  Nick and Rosie watched as the pair lumbered down the path and out of the gate. They heard a car start and drive away. Then Rosie asked, ‘Did I do all right?’

  ‘What?’ asked Nick, dazed.

  ‘I’m quite good at playing the harmless old lady. Did it help?’

  ‘I’ll say.’

  ‘What was it about? Who were they? Are you in some sort of trouble?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ And then, trying to sound casual, he said, ‘When did you last hear from Dad?’

  ‘About a fortnight ago. You don’t think they’re anything to do with him, do you?’

  ‘No, no. I just wondered if he was still on his last number or whether it had changed again.’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ So he tried. The number was unobtainable.

  The lighthouse at St Catherine’s Point winked out over the sea as Alex and Victoria ate their picnic lunch on the clifftop, huddled in windcheaters.

  Victoria was nibbling an apple. She broke the silence: ‘Are you cross with me?’

  ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘Because of last night. You know. With Nick.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you fancy him?’

  Alex looked at her admonishingly. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  The child shrugged. ‘Just wondered.’

  They sat in silence for a while longer.

  ‘What if I do?’ asked Alex evenly.

&nb
sp; Victoria examined her apple core. ‘Don’t you think he’s a bit quiet?’

  ‘Not at all. He’s just . . . well . . . thoughtful.’ Alex took a bite of her sandwich.

  ‘I think he’s quite nice.’ Victoria put her apple core into an empty crisp packet. ‘Will you see him again?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Don’t you want to?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m just not sure . . .’

  ‘If he wants to?’

  Alex nodded.

  Victoria stood up. ‘You can go without me, you know. I don’t want to cramp your style.’

  ‘What?’ Her mother looked at her hard.

  ‘I don’t mind if you want to be on your own.’

  Alex patted the ground next to her. ‘Come and sit down.’

  Victoria flopped on to the plaid car rug beside her mother, leaned against her and gazed out over the sea. Alex stroked her hair. ‘You’ve never cramped my style – understand? Never. And I don’t want you thinking you have to keep out of the way. It’s you and me in this, OK?’

  Victoria raised her face to her mother’s and nodded. A few moments later she said, ‘I liked Rosie.’

  ‘Yes. Me too.’

  ‘She’s fun. And not old. Well, I mean she is old, but she doesn’t seem old, does she?’

  ‘No. But some people are like that. They don’t fit other people’s preconceptions.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Preconceptions? Oh, like prejudices.’

  ‘Like Mr Darcy had?’

  ‘Sort of. People don’t always fit into boxes. It doesn’t do to make hasty judgements. Sometimes they surprise you.’

  ‘I don’t like surprises.’

  ‘Oh, the right sort of surprises are nice.’

  ‘Do you think Nick might be surprising?’

  ‘Too early to say, I suppose. Maybe.’

  ‘So you will see him again?’

  Now Alex stood up, and brushed the crumbs off her jeans. ‘For someone who thinks he’s a bit quiet you seem very anxious that I should.’

  ‘Maybe I have a pre-, a pre-thingy.’

  ‘Preconception.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll see. Anyway, we’ve only a few days left here so there may not be time.’

  ‘Do we really have to go back? Couldn’t we just stay here?’ Concern was etched on Victoria’s face.

  Alex folded up the rug. ‘We’re only just across the water. We’re not far away.’

  ‘I know, but it’s different here. Quiet.’

  ‘So, quiet can be good, then?’

  Victoria nodded.

  ‘Not boring?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got school next week.’

  The child pushed her hands deep into her pockets. ‘They have schools here, too.’

  Alex put out her arm and turned Victoria to face her. ‘Don’t you think we’re being a bit premature?’

  Victoria shrugged.

  ‘And you do know what that means, don’t you?’

  ‘Too soon.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s just take our time, shall we?’ She handed Victoria the carrier-bag that contained the remains of the picnic and began to walk across the grass to the car.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What does playing hard to get mean?’

  Henry Kinross had had a good day. He had feared the worst when he opened the gallery that morning. The weather was pleasant, which was not what he needed, but then the clouds had come over and the wind strengthened. It turned into the sort of day when people were happy to shelter in an art gallery. Much better.

  He had sold seven paintings: four of Nick’s, one of the gloomy canvases that he and Nick had disliked (purchased by a taciturn couple from Chalfont St Giles), and two of Alex’s brightest creations had been snapped up by a young couple from Fulham. He felt vindicated for having given her a chance. He had a new protégé. An attractive one at that. Perhaps he should ask Alexandra Pollen out to lunch. Butter her up a bit. Or maybe he was being a shade optimistic. And Nick seemed to have taken a shine to her. It wouldn’t do to fall out over a woman. After the last time . . . well, maybe it was safer to stick to the St Émilion. You knew where you were with a bottle of claret.

  When it came to the opposite sex, what he needed was a mature woman, someone with a bit of conversation. Companionship was just as important as sex, for God’s sake. The sad thing was that both were in short supply.

  The sound of the bell broke in on his musings. He looked up to see Nick standing in the doorway with a bright-eyed lady on his arm. ‘Henry, can I introduce you to Rosie?’

  ‘Dear boy! Of course!’

  12

  Breath of Life

  Rich, but not dazzlingly so.

  She was rather older than Henry would have liked – she must be nearly seventy, he thought – but she had a certain sparkle – and some indefinable quality that he found particularly engaging.

  Over a bottle of claret in the Red Duster, Rosie and Henry became better acquainted. After a few minutes, he realized that, had she been a few years younger – well, a good few – she would have been the woman of his dreams. She was startlingly knowledgeable about art, easy to talk to and surprisingly coquettish for someone of her advanced years. He could still not work out how old she was, but that made her all the more interesting.

  Nick was listening to the two of them, and marvelled at his grandmother’s ability to adapt her personality to suit present company. She could find common ground with anybody, whoever they were, raise her game, or lower it, to suit the occasion.

  Her eyes shone like pale sapphires when she was being made a fuss of. She didn’t simper, she flirted, which, in a woman of eighty-seven, came as a bit of a surprise – to Nick, and, apparently, to Henry too.

  Nick watched as she put away a couple of glasses of claret and a plate of steak and Guinness pie. She glanced at him occasionally, but Henry had her full attention, and she his.

  Nick felt a little left out, then saw the funny side. But not for long. His problems surfaced and spun in his head. Should he broach the subject of Rosie’s financial status? Was it any of his business? Well, as far as the car was concerned it was. And what was he to do about the Russian thing? What could he do? And there was the matter of the two men who had turned up with menaces. And what about Alex? He would call her and invite her out.

  Alex’s suspicion that Nick was a loner had been understandable but was not well founded. He needed space – as all creative souls do – to paint and think, but that didn’t stop him believing that, one day, he would find the perfect person with whom he could spend the rest of his life. Mind you, there were times when he thought it improbable. His relationship with Debs had proved that: he’d thought she was the one. But he had also admitted to himself that while he had loved her he didn’t believe in being ‘in love’. Not a good start for someone seeking a lifelong soul-mate.

  Here he was, living on the Isle of Wight, with a handful of dalliances and one major relationship behind him. He was nearly thirty-nine, reasonably tall, still predominantly dark and moderately good-looking in a lop-sided way, with just about enough to live on and the hope that things might get better. In short, he had enough of the dreamer in him to be assured of a bright future, once he realized he was just as capable as the next man of falling in love.

  By eight o’clock Rosie was living up to her name: her cheeks were brightly flushed. She was noticeably giggly, too, and a little wobbly on her pins. Nick saw the warning signs and decided to take her home.

  ‘Oh! Do we have to go? I’m having such a lovely time.’ She didn’t slur her words, but there was a slight over-enunciation.

  Nick looked at Henry, whose countenance almost matched the liquid in his glass.

  ‘Stay for another bottle, Rosie,’ he said. ‘Don’t let this dauber take you home yet.’

  Nick raised an eyebrow at his grandmother, and for once she took the hint: ‘No. He’s right.
We’d better be going. Things to see, people to do, you know. Ha-ha.’ She pushed herself up, steadied herself on the table, then walked gingerly to where Nick waited with her coat.

  Henry stood up. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure. Perhaps we can do it again some time.’

  Rosie beamed. ‘Oh, I do hope so. Thank you for your company.’

  Henry ambled over to her, bent down and kissed her cheek. ‘Take great care, precious lady.’

  She beamed. ‘Oh, to hell with that! Life’s for living, and I’m going sailing tomorrow.’ She took Nick’s arm and walked out of the Red Duster, swaying gently from side to side in a decidedly regal sashay.

  The silver Mercedes with the brand new numberplate completely blocked the track to the Anchorage.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Language, Nicholas!’ his grandmother admonished him.

  ‘Well, look at that! Blooming holidaymakers! Think they can park anywhere.’ He manoeuvred the MG on to the verge beside the track. ‘Can you walk from here?’

  ‘Of course. ’Snot far, is it?’

  Her speech was sibilant now. He suppressed a grin. ‘Only fifty yards or so. You can take my arm.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.’

  He walked her up the final curve of the track, and his heart missed a beat as the veranda came into view. Someone he had not seen in months was sitting on the step: his father.

  ‘Hello, Nick! How ya doin’?’

  ‘Dad! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Come to see you and Mum. Hello, old girl.’

  Rosie screwed up her eyes. ‘Derek! Who told you I was here?’ And then, with a note of anger in her voice, ‘You’ve not come to take me away, have you?’

  Derek Robertson got up. ‘What would I want to do that for?’

  ‘Because of Anna. She wants me in a home.’

  Nick’s father shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me, old love. I’m happy as long as you are.’

  They stared at each other for a few minutes, until Derek asked, ‘Can we go inside, then? It’s a bit nippy out here.’

  Nick handed his grandmother over to her son, unlocked the front door and let them in. He put on lights, motioned Rosie and Derek to take a seat and asked his father what he would like to drink.