Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  She had been poring over the guidebook, Alex had said. Deciding where she would like to live. But he had tried Sleepyhead Bay, and Godshill, all the places she had mentioned to Alex.

  His reverie was broken by the shrill ring of the mobile phone in his pocket.

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘Soph?’

  ‘I think I’ve seen her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know this sounds stupid but I was making some tea about five minutes ago and I glanced up at the window and I’m sure I saw a face.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Honestly. I know I did.’

  ‘Did you go and look?’

  ‘I ran out as fast as I could but I couldn’t find her. I’m sure I didn’t imagine it, though.’

  ‘And you think it was Victoria?’

  ‘Well, I only met her once and I wasn’t taking that much notice, but I’m as sure as I can be that it was. Do you want to phone Alex?’

  ‘Not until we’re certain. Damn! Where did she run off to?’

  ‘Beats me. I’ll go now and keep looking. If I have any more news I’ll ring you, OK?’

  He slipped the phone back into his pocket and leaned against the car, gazing up at the moon in the hope that it would offer inspiration. But the moon wasn’t playing. It slid tantalizingly behind a cloud and the night was dark as ink.

  26

  Golden Moss

  . . . it detests wet weather and can be rather shy.

  Rain began to fall, gently at first, then heavily, slanting across the sky in the light of the street lamp. Nick had pulled over at the side of the road in Seaview, to take a rest from driving. Seaview. Alex had said Victoria thought it was posh. It was certainly the island’s smartest resort, the houses neatly painted, the gardens smart and well tended. This was where cabinet ministers and actors had their weekend cottages. Henry fitted in rather well at Seaview, which provided him with a good number of well-heeled clients, who were interested, as Nick now realized, in muscle manipulation as well as art.

  His mind did not stay on Henry for long. He had come here only because he wanted to explore every town and village that Victoria had mentioned. Stupid, really – he could give them no more than a cursory search, driving up and down the main streets, looking to right and left. And what chance was there of seeing her? Would she really be walking down the high street looking in shop windows? But what else could he do? When someone was missing and you wanted to find them, you had to start somewhere, however futile the attempt might seem.

  He watched the rain running in rivulets along the pavement and into the gutter.

  The phone in his pocket rang. It was Alex, sounding desolate and drained.

  ‘The police say they can’t do anything until morning now. Have you found anything?’

  He was unable to keep from her the glimmer of hope. It seemed unkind. ‘Sophie thinks she saw a face at the window, and that it was Victoria’s.’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘Now, stay calm. I’m looking absolutely everywhere. I’ve been to all the places you mentioned, and there was no sign of her at the moment. But the weather’s foul. I reckon if she’s here she’s probably sheltering from the rain and there’s no way we’re going to find her until morning.’

  ‘No,’ she said flatly. Trying to hold on to her emotions.

  ‘Do you want me to come over there?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Stay on the island. If she’s there it’s pointless you being over here.’

  ‘I’m doing my best,’ Nick said. ‘I’m going everywhere I think she may go. Why don’t you try to get some sleep? The police will let us know if they come up with anything – if there are any sightings, I mean.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She let out a sob.

  How he wished he could be with her. ‘Well, try. At least go to bed,’ he said gently.

  ‘Will you keep looking?’ she asked. ‘But don’t drive. You must be too tired to drive now. It’s not safe.’

  ‘I’ll take the car home and look round the coast there.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘And you.’

  The phone clicked off. He could only imagine what she was going through, the scenarios playing in her mind. It was every parent’s lot to fear the worst. He knew that without having been one.

  He drove back to the Anchorage, and found Sophie asleep in an armchair. She started up when he walked in, eyes wide, then asked, ‘Any news?’

  Nick flopped on to the sofa. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m beginning to wonder if it was your imagination. Maybe it was just rain on the window.’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘No, it wasn’t. Unless rain wears a woolly hat.’ She held up a lavender blue knitted hat. ‘Found it in the rosebush outside the window. It was hanging from one of the thorns.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’ he asked angrily.

  ‘I did. You had no signal.’

  ‘Bloody mobile phones!’

  ‘You’d have been in a bit of a state without one today, though, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m going to phone Alex. I don’t think she’ll be asleep.’ He walked over to the phone and dialled the number.

  She answered almost immediately. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Alex, it’s me. Does Victoria have a blue woolly hat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she have it on today?’

  ‘She wears it to school, even when it’s sunny. In case it rains.’

  ‘Thank heavens! We’ve found it outside the house. On a rosebush. She must be over here.’

  ‘Oh, God! I’ll come over.’

  ‘You won’t be able to. The ferries have stopped now. And if she rings home, you should be there. I’ll keep looking here, and I’ll tell the police.’

  Within the hour the police had turned up at the Anchorage, and searched the house and garden. They sat down with Nick and Sophie and questioned them in detail about their knowledge of and relationship with Victoria. Their manner was cold at first, unfriendly even, but as the interview proceeded it became clear that they had accepted what they were told.

  When they finally departed, dawn was breaking, and a pale, watery sky replaced the inky black and pouring rain of the night before.

  ‘You look terrible,’ said Sophie.

  ‘You don’t look so good yourself.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. I haven’t slept for three days.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Had a bit of a rave the night before last. Doing the pubs with a couple of old mates. Didn’t get to bed.’

  ‘You are making up for lost time, aren’t you?’

  Sophie pushed herself out of the chair. ‘Better have a shower. No. Come to think of it, you look worse than I do. You have one.’

  ‘No. I can’t. I need to start looking again.’

  With the bossiness reserved for sisters, she ushered him to the bathroom, then cooked him breakfast.

  ‘How do you feel now?’ she asked, as he slumped down at the table.

  ‘Better than I should,’ he replied, rubbing his face.

  ‘Nervous energy.’

  ‘Probably.’

  Sophie nibbled reluctantly on a slice of dry toast while she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘Where will you go first?’ she asked.

  ‘St Catherine’s Point.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘It’s the most southerly part of the island, and I know she liked the south coast better than the north.’ The moment he had said it he was aware that he had spoken in the past tense. ‘Likes. She likes the south coast better than the north.’

  Sophie put her hand on his. ‘She’ll be fine. You’ll see. You’ll find her today. She’ll be cold, fed up and hungry by now. When you’re cold and hungry two things become irresistible.’

  Nick looked at her questioningly. ‘Warmth and food?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I wish I shared your confidence.’

  ‘You’re too close to it, that’s all.’ Sophie came to the table and sat down
opposite him. ‘What’s Victoria like? Do you get on?’

  ‘I think so, but it must be a bit hard, seeing your dad and mum break up, then having your mum find a new friend so soon.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘But it just sort of happened. I don’t think either of us was looking to start a relationship. It just . . . well . . . crept up on us.’

  ‘Love on the rebound?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. I could have walked away, had nothing to do with her, but she’s fun, good company . . . No. It’s more than that . . .’

  ‘Hey! There’s no need to defend yourself. I’m not sitting in judgement . . . you know what I think?’

  Nick shook his head.

  ‘I think you’re in love. You’re a changed man – you’re cheerful, fun to be with. Not like you were with Debs.’

  Nick raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Sorry, but it’s true. She did put a bit of a damper on you, you know.’

  He nodded. Seeing it clearly for the first time.

  ‘Well, I hate to say it, because it really goes against the grain, but if that’s what love is, it gets my vote.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He smiled ruefully.

  ‘Are you sure you can take on a ready-made family, though?’

  ‘I think that depends on whether or not she’s prepared to take on me . . . It was Victoria who introduced me to her mum. On the beach at Sleepyhead Bay, she saw me painting and asked me to give her mum some advice.’

  ‘She was quite bold, then?’

  ‘Yes. It’s since then that she’s got quieter. More thoughtful. Not that I saw a lot of her. She came round one evening with Alex. She was talking to Rosie. They seemed to be getting on really well, then Rosie started talking about the Russian royal family thing.’

  ‘What?’

  Nick realized he’d put his foot in it. ‘I forgot to tell you – well, I didn’t actually. I was waiting for the right moment.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘This isn’t the right moment either, but, in a nutshell, you know Rosie was born in Russia?’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘And she never knew who her real parents were?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Well, she’s got this bee in her bonnet that she’s related to the Tsar.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Nick got up from the table. ‘I haven’t really got the time to tell you now – I need to get out and start looking again – but the long and the short of it is that Rosie thinks her mother was Grand Duchess Tatiana who was assassinated with the rest of the Russian royal family in 1918, but she doesn’t know who her father was. In spite of making enquiries at the local library and searching the Internet I’m no nearer to finding out. Alex has promised she’ll do some research, too.’

  Sophie cleared her throat. ‘This is all a dream. I’m hallucinating.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ Nick was pulling on his coat and making for the door. ‘You’re just part of a family with some colourful history.’ He opened the door. ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘Good luck,’ she said, as he closed the door behind him. ‘I hope you find her. I’m sure you will.’ Then she slumped back in the chair and tried to work out whether she was really conscious, or slipping into a state of sleep-deprived delirium.

  27

  Prospero

  Needs extra special care to thrive.

  He shuddered when he looked down over the rocks at St Catherine’s Point. Normally he would have found it a majestic sight, irresistible to paint – trying to catch the light on the spume as it was flung high into the air. Today it only reminded him of what might have happened to Victoria. If she had lost her footing and slipped, who would ever find her?

  He shook his head, to clear it of unwanted thoughts, and climbed wearily into the MG for the umpteenth time over the last twenty-four hours. He drove through the tiny village of Niton, then through Rookley and Blackwater where the villagers were emerging and going about their business.

  He drove to Carisbrooke. Maybe the castle ruins had captured her imagination. Victoria loved Jane Austen, Alex had said, and Jane Austen had loved the Isle of Wight. Maybe there was some connection, but he was a pale shadow of Sherlock Holmes, and life was seldom as complicated as Conan Doyle made out.

  Leaving the car outside the towering walls, he circumnavigated the castle. It was so large, so impregnable; the vast hill on which it stood must have been capable of withstanding the most determined army.

  As he looked up at the solid stonework, it struck him how small Victoria was, compared with all this. They were on a tiny island, yet they were still dwarfed by everything around them. How could he find her among all this? And yet he felt that there was no threat in the air. The castle was protective, benign. Its bloody history was behind it now, the imprisoned King Charles long gone, and it sat, like some battle-scarred leviathan, on its hill, ready to offer shelter to all who needed it. He chided himself for his sentimentality. But he wanted to believe that this island, his island – and its people – would protect the waif who was wandering through its valleys and along its lanes.

  Perhaps he had simply become an incurable romantic – but he wanted to believe that the islanders were good people, that the world was not filled with perverts and cranks but in the main with ordinary, decent folk who, on seeing a lost ten-year-old, would take her in, find out where she was from and get her safely home to her mother.

  Then he remembered what Rosie had said when he had taken her to tea at Brown’s. It seemed like years ago now, but it was barely a couple of weeks. ‘People think what the newspapers and television tell them to think.’

  Of course there were more good people in the world than bad. It was just that you never heard about them.

  Rosie. He had put her out of his mind – there had barely been room for her during the events of the night. She had got on so well with Victoria and would be desperate when she heard the news. Unless . . . He slipped back into the car and drove to the hospital.

  He walked down the long corridor, then turned the corner that led into Rosie’s ward. She lay in her bed, sipping her morning tea. ‘Hello, love!’ she said. ‘Guess who’s come to visit me?’

  At first he could see nobody. Maybe she was imagining things. But then, as he approached the bed, he saw, at Rosie’s shoulder, a small figure sitting on a chair. She looked bedraggled and tired, and her face bore a worried frown. ‘Have you been looking for me?’ she asked.

  The phone calls were the first thing. Alex burst into tears at the news, said, ‘Thank you, thank you . . . oh, thank you,’ then hung up to rush for the ferry. He called the police, and then Sophie, who agreed to meet Alex at the ferry terminal. Then he sat down in the hospital waiting room and talked to Victoria, trying to understand.

  ‘I just wanted to see if Rosie was all right,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you knew she was?’

  ‘I wanted to see for myself. I wanted to talk to her.’ She looked up at him now, suddenly shy. ‘And I wanted to see you.’

  Nick felt stunned. ‘Why?’

  ‘To try to understand what was going on.’

  Nick put his arm round her. ‘Is it very confusing?’

  Victoria looked at the floor and nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things hard for you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s just that . . . well . . . things happen sometimes and you don’t have much control over them,’ he said.

  She looked up. ‘Like you and Mum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I just wanted to know if you love her as much as she loves you?’

  Her candour took his breath away. ‘Do you think she loves me?’

  Victoria nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I just think she’s a bit scared.’

  Nick cleared his throat. ‘I think we’re all a bit scared. What do you think?’

  She managed a weak smile. ‘That you’re very nice.’

  Nick gave her a hug. ‘And I thin
k you’re nice, too. But why on earth did you run away?’ He frowned.

  ‘Because of Dad. When I was going home from school I saw him going into the house. I didn’t want to go back there, so I walked into town and got on to the ferry to come here. I didn’t mean to stay away. I didn’t want to make Mum worry. I was going to go back when I’d seen Rosie and you. But you weren’t there and it took longer than I thought. When I got there I looked through the window and that lady was there, the one we saw when you were out.’

  ‘My sister?’

  ‘I think so. She saw me, so I went and hid, in case she stopped me finding Rosie.’

  ‘Where did you hide?’

  ‘Under the veranda, by the little boat. When she’d gone, and I knew you weren’t there, I walked into Newport.’

  ‘Following the signs?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked concerned. ‘Was Mum cross?’

  ‘She was very worried.’

  ‘What about Dad?’ She looked frightened now. ‘Is he coming?’

  ‘No. He’s gone. We thought you might have gone with him.’

  She shook her head violently.

  Nick wondered whether he should ask the question, but found it impossible not to. ‘You don’t seem to get on with your dad.’

  Victoria shook her head again.

  Nick sat and waited. He didn’t like to probe.

  Eventually she said, ‘He’s all right with me, but he’s not nice to Mum. He doesn’t make her happy.’

  ‘I see.’

  Then she looked up at him. ‘Not like you do. You make her happy.’ She had a quizzical look on her face. ‘Are you a good man?’

  Nick was taken aback. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Are you a good man?’

  ‘Well . . . I try to be.’

  ‘Because I think she deserves a good man.’

  The power of speech temporarily deserted him – such old-fashioned, adult conversation from a ten-year-old!

  ‘So do I,’ he stammered eventually.

  ‘I hope you’re not wasting her time.’

  There was no possible answer to this, so Nick said, ‘We’d better get you cleaned up. Do you want to come back to the Anchorage and wait for your mum?’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’