by Cathy Kelly
Amelia’s huge chocolate brown eyes were concerned. Rose kissed her on the forehead and straightened up.
‘Take care, Adele,’ she said, her lips barely brushing her sister-in-law’s dry cheek.
‘Rose, don’t go,’ said Adele. She was pleading. ‘Hugh didn’t mean it, I know. He would never have hurt you. You can’t do this to him.’
‘It’s not your decision, Adele,’ said Rose quietly. ‘You can’t save him this time.’
She hugged Nick. He was like family. She knew he’d be a tower of strength to Stella.
She looked around for Finn.
‘He’s gone for a walk,’ said Tara quickly.
Rose reached out and took her middle daughter’s hands in hers. ‘Say goodbye to him for me. And don’t be upset, Tara. I have to do this.’
‘I know,’ murmured Tara, although she didn’t. The whole world was changing in front of her eyes and there was nothing she could do about it. ‘I wish you’d let me come with you.’
‘Darling, I’ve got to do this on my own,’ replied her mother.
Stella put her arms about both Rose and Tara. ‘Phone us when you get to Freddie’s.’
‘Of course.’
Finally, Rose came to Holly who stood with tears in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rose. She hugged Holly tightly, then got into the car quickly as if she mightn’t be able to leave them if she thought about it at all.
They watched her drive off in silence. Amelia held onto her mother’s hand.
Adele could feel an ache in her throat, a strange feeling she couldn’t quite identify. She turned to walk in and Nick offered her his arm. They went in, leaving two generations of Miller women staring into the distance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The engine didn’t sound right even to Rose’s non-mechanical ears. She drove fast along the main road to Castletown and listened to the engine roar even when her foot hadn’t increased the pressure on the accelerator. Damn car. Hugh’s garage were good with it, she’d get him to drive it there…The knowledge that Hugh wouldn’t bring her car to the garage because she’d left him, hit her anew. She’d just left Hugh. After forty years. A vision of his shocked, bewildered face came to her and she had to slow down because her eyes misted over and her heart began to race in panic.
There was a farm gate set in from the road and Rose pulled in and switched off the engine. She forced herself to breathe deeply until the dreadful shuddering was gone and her heartbeat had slowed.
Hugh hadn’t watched her drive away from Kinvarra; only the girls, Amelia, Adele and Nick had waved from the house, all of them trying to behave as if this was an ordinary trip and she would be back in a few days, rested and happy.
Rose herself had gone along with the cheerful facade, and she’d felt just as if she was heading off for a relaxing holiday. Until now. In her entire ordered existence, she’d never behaved like this and, now that she’d actually done it, the shock was setting in.
A watery sun was low in the sky and the evening was growing cooler, but Rose wound down the window to let some air into the car. The harsh scent of wild elder hit her nostrils, along with the fresh, sharp tang of the wild onions that grew abundantly in the long grasses beside the gate. In the distance, she could hear cows calling plaintively to be milked and the clock tower in Castletown sounded the hour in seven muffled, echoing rings. Rose had been driving for an hour and three quarters and Castletown was just over the crest of the next hill. She’d told Freddie she’d be there before half six but there was no feeling for having to rush on. Rose’s normal impeccable timekeeping had vanished now that she was back home. She let herself breathe in the scents of her youth, knowing that Freddie was vague about time and wouldn’t raise an eyebrow no matter what time she arrived at. That was partly why she’d chosen to stay with Freddie. Her mother’s younger sister was exactly the sort of person to run to when you’d just left your husband after forty years of marriage. Unconventional and without a judgmental bone in her body, Freddie would not ask too many questions.
She had asked practically nothing when Rose had phoned earlier.
‘Course you can stay,’ she’d said cheerfully. ‘It’s lucky you caught me, in fact. We’ve got this charity bed-push starting in an hour and I must be there. Will you want dinner or is this problem making you too sad to eat?’
Despite everything, Rose had burst into laughter at this. It was classic Freddie.
Slightly cheered up at the thought of seeing her aunt, Rose started the car and set off to Castletown.
A pretty seaside town with two miles of glorious beach and a reputation as a quiet spot for a holiday home, Castletown’s main street was quiet when Rose drove down it. Despite its old-fashioned air, the town had changed hugely since Rose herself had lived there forty years before. Then, it had been pretty but with an air of shabbiness. The Grand Hotel in the centre had sported a cracked facade that seemed to say the whole of Castletown had seen better times, while the shop fronts, though spotlessly clean, had been dull and old. Now, the hotel had been revamped with an enormous extension for weddings, and a sports complex out the back. Carriage lamps and pretty Virginia creeper completed the picture out the front. The small shops beside the hotel boasted old-fashioned signs that were far too shiny and perfect to be really old. The tiny grocery shop where Rose herself had worked for one summer had trebled in size and turned into a convenience store, with big signs in the window proclaiming that fresh bread and lottery tickets were available inside.
She kept driving, past the road down to the beach where she and Hugh had walked all those years ago when he’d come to meet her parents for the first time. Rose didn’t want to remember that. She clenched her jaw and took a right turn at a T-junction, heading up a winding hill that wound round behind the town. At the crest of the hill, she turned left down a tiny lane to a cottage surrounded by trees.
Freddie met her at the gate.
‘Welcome, Rose!’ she said cheerfully and loudly, so her voice could be heard above the barking of three wildly excited dogs. A white-muzzled Jack Russell, an equally white-muzzled black mongrel with sad eyes, and a fawncoloured sheltie collie who quivered with nerves, all clustered around Rose.
The two women embraced, then Freddie effortlessly picked up the hold-all Rose had thrown on the passenger seat.
‘The kettle is boiled if you want tea and the man from the drink shop has just delivered, so I’ve got blue gin too.’
She beamed at her niece and Rose, feeling utterly welcome and suddenly near to tears, beamed shakily back.
‘It’s lovely to be here,’ she said.
‘About time you came home for a visit,’ Freddie said.
Rose estimated she must be at least in her late seventies, perhaps early eighties. But whatever words you’d use to describe Freddie Maguire, old-age-pensioner wouldn’t be the first to mind. Lively and eccentric would be more accurate, Rose decided.
Freddie’s face was brown from the outdoors and covered with a patina of fine lines, like a beautiful but very old vase crisscrossed with many delicate cracks. Her hair was snow white, luxuriant and flowed back from a widow’s peak. Rose could recall black and white family photos of Freddie as a young, vibrant woman when the rippling, wild hair had been jet-black and she’d stood tall and slender, gazing firmly into the camera. Only the eyes remained the same: a wise and curious sea-green, they were the eyes of a young woman.
She was still slender but the slim waist had thickened with age. Her hands too were aged, with tendons standing out like ropes under the fine skin. But she didn’t stoop when she walked, and she still marched along at a sprightly pace, as Rose found when Freddie set off towards the cottage swinging Rose’s bag. The dogs followed her.
‘I must introduce you to the girls,’ Freddie said when they got to the front door. ‘This little imp of a terrier is Pig,’ she said. ‘This lady is Mildred.’ The black dog looked mournfully up at Rose. ‘And this little darling is Prinny, who was aband
oned and needs constant reassurance.’ The sheltie gazed up at her mistress with anxious, darting eyes as if to prove the point. ‘Come on in and welcome to Nettle Cottage. It’s called that because nettles remind me of myself: astringent but very good in hot water,’ added Freddie with a glint in her eyes.
Nettle Cottage was like the cottage Rose had grown up in. On the outside, anyhow. On the inside, the resemblance vanished. Rose’s family home had been very much in the traditional mould, with pale painted walls, a big range in one corner, and the sort of comfortable but unfussy furniture that was suitable for people who worked on a farm. Freddie’s cottage was done up like a Tudor dwelling, with black beams, open brickwork, brass hangings all over the place and an open fire in front of which the three dogs’ beanbags had pride of place. Books, photos and knickknacks lined the walls, along with prints of Klimt and Tamara de Lempicka paintings. In a glass cabinet were crammed lots of books.
Rose peered in to see everything from de Beauvoir to the entire works of Anaïs Nin.
‘I keep the racier ones in there,’ said Freddie airily.
The guest bedroom was at the back of the house with a view of a big, wild flower-filled meadow. The flower theme was reflected inside. One wall was painted with a stunning mural of the meadow.
‘I had this darling little Spanish girl staying for a while and she painted that instead of paying rent,’ Freddie said, sitting on the bed to admire it. ‘There’s only one bathroom, I’m afraid, and the shower is a bit bonky so I just have baths. Haven’t got round to fixing it. I’ll get the drinks, right, and we can talk about what might be nice for dinner.’ With a quick smile, she was gone, her retinue of dogs with her. Rose looked around the small, cosy room. There was a high, old-fashioned bed with sheets and a white quilted bedcover instead of a duvet. Pine bookcases were filled with books, still more paintings covered three of the walls, and a gleaming Art Deco wardrobe stood in one corner. By the bed was a selection of fresh candles in a variety of containers. Usually a stickler for instant unpacking, she didn’t even consider going out to the car to get her suitcases. She didn’t want to be on her own for however long unpacking would take. She didn’t want the company of her own tangled thoughts. She threw her handbag on the bed and went out to the sitting room.
‘I’m having a gin and Dubonnet,’ said Freddie, without looking round from a bamboo table laid out with every drink imaginable. ‘I always say if it was good enough for the dear old Queen Mum, it’s good enough for me.’
‘One for me too,’ said Rose, who rarely drank anything other than a little wine and the occasional gin and tonic.
Freddie handed Rose a highball glass. ‘That’ll put hair on your chest, Rose,’ she said.
Rose took a sip and her eyes watered.
‘Too strong?’ said Freddie worriedly. ‘I forget sometimes. Not everyone likes a strong one.’
She spooned some ice into Rose’s glass, then sat down with her own. The dogs, who’d been watching her every move, finally settled comfortably onto their beanbags, noses happily on paws, content now that their restless mistress had finally stopped. Freddie tasted her drink, smiled, and then lit up a long dark cigarette.
‘I only have four or five a day now,’ she said. ‘I know it’s bad for me. So’s the booze but you can’t kill a bad thing.’ She twinkled irrepressibly at Rose.
‘Now, Rose, you can stay as long as you like and I don’t want to know what it’s all about. You can keep your counsel. I can’t imagine you’ve come back to Castletown for the first time in years without there being a damn good reason but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that busybodies are a right pain in the backside. Are you hungry? Do you fancy dinner?’ At the word ‘dinner’, all three dogs sat up instantly, tails wagging.
‘Not you, sweeties,’ crooned Freddie. ‘You’ll get fat if you have anything else today. They’re such gannets when it comes to food,’ she added to Rose. ‘There’s a lovely Indian restaurant ten miles away and they do takeaway…’
‘I’ve walked out on Hugh because he’d been unfaithful,’ blurted out Rose.
‘Well, I’m sure that was absolutely the right thing to do,’ Freddie said, not a hair out of place. ‘Men are like puppies. A bit of rolled up newspaper tapped on their nose soon housetrains them.’
The dogs, none of whom looked as though Freddie had even waved a bit of rolled up newspaper in their direction once, watched her adoringly. ‘Do you think you’ll go back to him or is it for good?’
Rose had a bigger sip of her drink. Freddie was disconcertingly direct. There was no palaver about ‘how awful, poor you but have you thought this out properly?’ Nor did she gasp at the notion of forty years of marriage coming to an end.
‘I don’t know,’ Rose said honestly.
Prinny leaned her long fawn-coloured nose against Rose’s legs and she leaned down to stroke the little dog. ‘It was a spur of the moment thing. Everybody else is horrified and wants us back together.’
‘Everybody else isn’t as old as I am,’ Freddie pointed out. ‘When you get to eighty, you’re entitled to think for yourself and be as mad as a bicycle.’
‘That’s not age,’ pointed out Rose. ‘You were like that years ago.’
‘I suppose I was,’ Freddie smiled. ‘I’ve never been one for monogamy. I’ve had lots of lovers. I never wanted to settle down with any one of them, well,’ she paused, her mind years and miles away. ‘I did once, but he was married.’
Rose stiffened and Freddie noticed.
‘Rose, my dear, I didn’t rush off and drag him from the bosom of his family. I know you’re feeling a bit sensitive about extramarital affairs but it’s not like that. He was unhappily married but it wasn’t like now, people didn’t leave. That was fifty years ago and we decided it was easier to part. Some people aren’t good at monogamy, and others think a bit of spice makes life more fun.’
‘I don’t,’ said Rose sadly.
‘And Hugh did.’
Rose nodded.
‘When you and Hugh got married, I wondered how it would go.’ Freddie drained her glass and got up to make another drink. ‘Your mother and father were so happy together, I wondered how any mortal man could possibly match up. And,’ Freddie paused, ‘he was from a different world from us. Your mother was always half thrilled you’d got out of Castletown and half scared that you’d set your sights too high with the Millers.’
For a second, Rose bridled at the notion that she wasn’t good enough for the Miller family. Then she sank further back into the chair. Freddie was right. The world might have moved on from class divisions but forty years ago, those divisions might have been marked in stone. A poor farmer’s daughter and the college-going son of a prosperous solicitor were miles apart.
‘How are the girls?’ asked Freddie, changing the subject easily.
They feasted on Indian food and the dogs were outraged when Freddie refused to let them have any titbits.
‘Too rich and spicy for you,’ she insisted as they sat, shiny-eyed with anticipation, around the table.
Edith Piaf played softly in the background. Freddie didn’t have a television. She read the news in the papers, she said, and she hated looking at wars on the news.
By ten, Rose was wilting. The combination of the intense stress of the day, and two of Freddie’s gin and Dubonnets had worn her out.
‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ she said, getting to her feet.
‘Good idea,’ said Freddie. ‘We’ve a busy day tomorrow. Tomorrow’s my day for meals on wheels for the elderly,’ she added without a hint of irony.
Why would she, thought Rose. Until Freddie became elderly, why not?
‘You’ll be a great help,’ Freddie continued. ‘The clutch in the van is slipping and it’s great to have help. You’re supposed to do the meals in pairs but I’m always on my own. We’ll have great fun.’
Rose, who had envisioned the following day as more a meander through old memories, nodded.
‘Nig
ht, Freddie.’
She prepared for bed in the small, deep blue bathroom and used some of Freddie’s carrot moisturiser because she’d mysteriously forgotten her own. An old glass-fronted cabinet hung on the bathroom wall and inside were all sorts of interesting mementoes, including some pretty silver cigarette cases, a tiny enamelled medal and a very old, empty bottle of Chanel No 5. Rose wondered who had given it to Freddie and why it was so precious that it had been kept when the scent had long since vanished. Had it been a gift from the married lover fifty years before?
In her bedroom, she changed into a nightie and slipped between the cool cotton sheets. The bed was as hard as the hob of hell and Rose felt like the Princess and the Pea as she tried to get comfortable. But suddenly sleep came and despite the hard boards beneath the mattress, she slept deeply and dreamlessly.
‘Tea,’ announced Freddie, arriving in the room the next morning with her retinue of dogs making a tap-dancing racket as their claws clicked on the tiled floor.
Rose sat up in bed, unsure of where she was until Freddie opened the curtains and sunlight streamed into the room, illuminating the floral mural on the wall opposite the bed.
‘Did you sleep?’
‘Really well, actually.’ Rose took the mug of tea and sat back against the pillows, revelling in the luxury of being brought tea in bed. Freddie’s tea was the colour of peanut butter or ‘strong enough for a duck to trot across,’ as she said herself. But today, it was revivingly sweet and familiar. Rose remembered her mother loving strong tea too, real tea, not tea bags.
‘What time is it?’ she asked.
‘Half six. Tater than I usually get up. On Sundays, I bring the girls for a bit of a jaunt round the Sally Woods, then go for breakfast in O’Malley’s and then on to help with the meals on wheels dinner.’
Rose, who was many years younger, wondered how her aunt managed this punishing schedule. Her idea of a relaxing Sunday involved breakfast, Mass in the cathedral, and home to peruse the newspapers at her leisure.
