Missing Rose

by Linda Newbery

  In her parents’ spare bedroom – Rose’s room – Anna’s student portfolio was kept in the cupboard. She hadn’t looked at it since the time when Martin had shown an interest, but the other Rose picture, the watercolour she’d kept back from the exhibition because it was too private, was among the paintings and sketches stored there. It showed the garden, and the pear tree where the swing had been hung when she and Rose were children. Anna had painted Rose under the tree, reading: bare legs stretched out, feet with toenails newly painted a dark and somehow provocative purple. The bottle of nail polish was on the grass beside the lounger. Sunlight dappled Rose’s face and glossed her hair; her head and shoulders turned towards the onlooker with an expression that was partly smug self-containment, part annoyance at being interrupted.

  Anna had never shown that painting to anyone but her art teacher. Now, with it clear in her mind, she couldn’t tell whether it was painting or memory she was seeing. She had expected to feel relieved – a sense of closure, as people said – that once the house was sold she would never see the garden again, never stand in the silence of Rose’s room. Instead she felt only loss; the loss of her childhood, of herself as Rose’s sister.

  Briskly she carried the Shore painting back to the spare room and put it away. She wished she hadn’t been tempted to look; she should have known better than to poke a stick into that particular pond. Again she looked at the bedroom walls, now drying nicely; she was glad to have finished before Martin got back, to tidy away the sheets of newspaper, the brushes and tins. Martin hated clutter.

  At the sink, washing out her brushes, she realized how late it was: nearly eight o’clock. Looking out at the street below, the canopy above the jeweller’s and the lit windows of the Cantonese restaurant opposite, she heard someone calling, and a siren from the direction of Clerkenwell Road. Voices carried in the chilly air; people hurried along the pavements, faces half hidden in scarves and upturned collars. It had been a day of piercing cold, the kind of January day that felt marooned in midwinter, the hours of daylight a brief reprieve before darkness fell again.

  She was hungry now, her thoughts turning to food. It was Monday tomorrow and Martin was due to make an early start, driving to an appointment in Aylesbury. She took a ready meal out of the freezer – beef stroganoff, his favourite – and put it in the oven, then changed her clothes, brushed her hair and checked her mobile. He hadn’t left a voicemail or text message. When she called there was no answer, which presumably meant he was on his way, driving.

  Anna thought of calling Ruth, but instead phoned her parents. It was her mother who answered, sounding cheerful and a little distant.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine. Our buyers came round yesterday, Mr and Mrs Baverstock. Fortyish, I should think, or late thirties. Nice enough. They’ve got a young family. Boys.’

  ‘Oh.’ Anna couldn’t adjust to the speed of this; her mother’s decision to move, and now, barely two weeks after her parents had put in their own offer, a buyer for the Sevenoaks house. And how did you feel about meeting them? she wanted to ask. The thought of them taking over our house? But something in her mother’s tone discouraged her, a note of bright determination that might be too easy to flatten.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve been painting the bedroom,’ Anna said. ‘Now I’m waiting for Martin.’

  ‘Why, where is he?’

  ‘He’s been over at Ruth’s.’

  Usually her mother showed faint distaste when Ruth was mentioned; much as she approved of Martin, and his stabilizing influence on Anna, she preferred not to acknowledge his previous life, his marriage and his two sons. Anna expected her to change the subject, but instead there was a pause, then: ‘Ruth’s? Do I know who Ruth is?’

  Anna felt cold. This wasn’t the first lapse.

  ‘Mum, of course you do. Ruth. Martin’s ex-wife. He had to help her sort out some financial stuff – her mother’s accounts and suchlike.’

  ‘Ah, that one,’ her mother said, as if Martin had had several wives. ‘Her mother died.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Anna was thankful not to have to explain again.

  ‘Of course I remember. It’s just that there’s such a lot to think about, with the move.’

  ‘I know, Mum. It’s a huge upheaval. I’ll come over and help you sort through stuff whenever you like.’

  ‘Oh … not yet,’ said her mother, vague again. ‘There’s plenty of time to think about that sort of thing.’

  When another hour had passed and Martin still hadn’t returned, Anna gave in and phoned Ruth. Was it breaking a taboo? But if a rule did exist, it wasn’t of her own making.

  Ruth answered at once. Yes, she told Anna, Martin had just left. He hadn’t expected to stay so late, but there’d been a lot to sort out.

  ‘I could come too, another time,’ Anna offered, wanting the conversation to be more than transactional. ‘You know, if there’s anything …’

  ‘Thanks, Anna. Actually, that might be good, in a week or two.’

  ‘Whenever you want. Are you OK?’

  Silly question.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruth, though she sounded doubtful. Even, perhaps, a bit sniffly.

  ‘I’ll call next week, shall I?’ Anna told her, already planning to do it when Martin wasn’t around.

  The drive from Woodford would take about half an hour, depending on traffic. Anna set the table and put out salad, then made up the bed in the spare room.

  When he came in, Martin gave no sign of noticing the cooking smells or the laid table. Anna went to him for a kiss, and he gave her a peck on the cheek, perfunctory, almost irritable.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, more sharply than she meant.

  ‘Nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Come and see what I’ve been doing!’ Taking him by the arm, she pulled him towards the bedroom door. ‘What do you think?’ She stood triumphant, looking at the immaculate walls, and the bed still covered with old curtains; childlike, she waited to be praised and petted.

  He glanced around. ‘You didn’t say you were doing this today. I thought we’d agreed on the blue?’

  ‘This is the one,’ Anna told him. ‘You called it blue, but it’s the one we chose. Bluey-green. Greeny-blue.’ Last weekend she had bought sample tubes and had patched each colour on the wall near the window, writing the names in faint pencil.

  ‘No, that one was blue. This is green. Definitely green.’

  ‘I know it’s green! Jackman’s Green. It was you who said— Oh, never mind.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Martin conceded. ‘I’m not saying I don’t like it. And you’ve done a good job. We can’t sleep in here tonight, though. It’ll take a day or two for the paint smell to go away.’

  ‘I know. The bed’s ready in the spare room, and I’ve moved our things. Let’s go and eat.’

  Martin moved away. ‘Actually I don’t need anything. Ruth made us a meal.’

  ‘Oh, great.’ She followed him back to the kitchen, all expectation of pleasure draining out of the evening. ‘Why didn’t you let me know? And why are you so cross? Didn’t you have a good time with Liam?’

  ‘I’m not,’ Martin said, looking directly at her for the first time. ‘Liam was fine. It’s all a bit wearing, that’s all.’

  ‘What is?’

  He puffed out his breath. ‘So much to sort out. I thought Ruth would have done more by now.’

  ‘But you’re helping her, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, with the financial stuff. But she hasn’t even started on the house, and it’s becoming a bit of an albatross. It’s about time she … you know, moved on. Started to get over it.’

  ‘Well, it’s tough, losing a parent,’ Anna said, leaning against the sink. ‘Both parents, now. You wouldn’t know, would you?’ It sounded like an accusation. She didn’t know, either, but she did know absence: the bewilderment of it, the gulf it left.

  Martin didn’t respond. He went to the fridge for a beer, an eloque
nt silence in the turn of his shoulders.

  ‘But … you think she’s taking advantage?’ Anna said. ‘Using this to keep hold of you?’

  ‘No.’ Martin gave a quick, impatient shake of his head. ‘That’s not what I mean.’

  But maybe I’m right, Anna thought, knowing that Ruth’s devotion to Martin had somehow survived the break-up of their marriage. Her friend Bethan said that Ruth would soon meet someone new, and then Anna could stop worrying. But Anna wasn’t worried, only curious, seeing Ruth’s continuing love as a measure of Martin’s worth.

  She rather liked the way Martin helped Ruth, not making a big deal about it – with her tax self-assessment forms, and part-exchanging her car. An only child, Ruth was now parentless, her father having died some years ago. Her mother, chronically ill, had been in and out of hospital for several months until being admitted to a hospice. Then, early in December, Ruth phoned with the news that her mother had died.

  Anna couldn’t have faulted Martin’s conduct. He cancelled his meetings for the next two days, and went straight over. He knew how to register the death, and who else had to be informed; over the next fortnight he helped Ruth with the funeral arrangements, went through her mother’s savings and accounts, dealt with the solicitor. If Anna had any possible cause for complaint, it would have been on her own behalf. She felt excluded. Martin refused all her offers to go with him or to take Liam out for the day. He didn’t want Anna involved, not even to go to the funeral. ‘What’s the point? You didn’t know Bridget. Ruth wouldn’t want you there.’ He always sounded certain of what Ruth would and wouldn’t want. To Anna’s frequent questions he gave only the blandest of answers: ‘She’s OK … She’s coping … She’s taking it one day at a time,’ – as if life could proceed in any other fashion. A kind of morbid curiosity pulled Anna towards Ruth, like a driver reducing speed to stare at a crash on the opposite carriageway. Ruth had become glamorized by her closeness to a death.

  But Martin’s sympathy, it seemed, was time-limited, now approaching its expiry date.

  ‘She’s upsetting Liam,’ he said now. ‘It’s not as if Bridget’s death wasn’t expected – it’s been on the cards for nearly a year.’

  ‘Still! It’s a shock. Expecting it can’t take that away. When it comes to it, we don’t know what death means.’

  Martin rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand. ‘All I’m saying is she needs to pull herself together, for Liam’s sake.’

  ‘That’s not something she can decide,’ Anna said. ‘It’s not surprising Liam’s upset, either. He’s lost his gran. And Ruth’s on her own now, isn’t she? You could be more sympathetic.’

  ‘Well, thanks for that, Anna.’

  What a range of nuances he could place on the mere pronouncing of her name! It could sound aloof and disapproving, as now; at other times, when his breath was warm on her neck, his hands roving, it was a caress, a declaration of love, or at least of lust. When he looked like this, wearing the shut-off expression Anna was beginning to know, it was hard to believe they could ever be intimate.

  ‘I’m only trying to have a conversation.’

  ‘Trying to put me in the wrong, more like. Let’s face it – whether I go to Ruth’s, or don’t go, you’ll take offence.’ He moved to the sink to rinse the tumbler under the tap; in his way, she made no effort to move aside. ‘At first you complained about me spending too much time with her. Now I’m being callous. Why not accept that it’s nothing to do with you, and let me get on with it?’

  ‘Of course it’s to do with me! And I didn’t complain, not once—’

  ‘Not in so many words. You didn’t need to,’ Martin said, in an I know I’m right tone that made her want to hit him. ‘Weren’t you going to eat? I’ve got papers to sort out for tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine! Don’t let me hold you up,’ Anna flung at him as he left the room. She stood undecided for a few moments before taking the over-browned stroganoff out of the oven. She no longer felt hungry, but obstinacy made her serve a portion for herself and sit at the table to eat. A hard lump in her throat made swallowing difficult. She could have wept if she’d wanted to: whether from sympathy for Ruth, self-pitying frustration with Martin or sheer petulance, she couldn’t tell.

  2

  Anna walked along High Holborn, wrapped up against the cold in winter coat, scarf and beret, the heels of her boots tapping authoritatively with each stride. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in a full-length window, she took a moment to recognize herself – a tall woman dressed in black, with a frowning expression. She looked in dismay at this forbidding double – was that who she was? This other person had taken her over. She couldn’t see her own self looking out from inside.

  She was meeting Bethan for lunch. Until Christmas, the Italian restaurant had set out tables and chairs under its awning on milder days, and patio heaters wastefully radiating warmth, but today there could be no question of anyone sitting outside. Bethan waved from their favourite table, in an alcove near the bar. She was dressed more casually than Anna, in a printed tunic over a long-sleeved T-shirt. Anna brightened, seeing her.

  ‘It’s all right, you’re not late. I got here early to read something through.’ Bethan had a pile of papers on the table in front of her; she gathered them into a folder, which she stashed in her saggy fabric bag.

  ‘I thought you did everything electronically these days?’ Anna said.

  ‘We do, but this author doesn’t. He isn’t even online, can you imagine? We have to phone him, or send a letter. But he writes like a dream.’

  ‘Anyway, how are you?’ Anna settled herself next to Bethan on the cushioned bench. ‘You look great. Positively blooming.’

  Bethan always did have a look of robust health: slightly plump, rosy-cheeked in what she disparagingly called her milkmaid look. ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she said, smug and self-conscious. ‘I’ve got over the sickness now, and I can’t tell you how good that feels.’

  ‘So you’re doing all the right things? Laying off alcohol and coffee, going to pregnancy yoga?’

  ‘Course!’

  Briskly the waiter took their order, geared to quick service for people on lunch breaks.

  ‘It’s a girl,’ Bethan said, spreading the fingers of one hand over her stomach. ‘I just know it’s a girl. Not that I mind, either way. But Cliff wants a girl. Actually, Anna, I want to ask you something. A huge favour.’

  ‘Oh, what?’

  ‘I – that is, we – we’d really like you to be godparent. Would you?’

  ‘Godparent? Me?’ Anna absorbed this. ‘Well, thanks, Beth. I’d love that. Only – what do you mean by the God bit? I don’t think I could make promises in a church without feeling like a hypocrite. Will it be a church christening?’

  ‘I did look at some websites, and you can have a naming ceremony, anywhere you like, and do it your own way. I know, I know. It’s all a bit early to start planning, and Cliff says I shouldn’t tempt fate, in case something goes wrong.’ Bethan held up both hands to show crossed fingers. ‘Anyway. By godparent, I mean as in supporter. Special auntie. Pagan parent, if you’d rather.’

  ‘In that case … but do you really think I’m, you know, reliable enough?’

  ‘You are now.’ Bethan gave her a teasing look. ‘I might not have thought so once.’

  ‘Then – thank you. I’d love to. I was hoping to be honorary auntie, anyway.’

  ‘Brilliant! Thanks so much!’ Bethan gave her a hug, then took out her mobile to text Cliff the news. The waiter brought their pasta dishes and salad; putting her phone away, Bethan asked, ‘How about you? How’s work? How’s Martin?’ She began to eat hungrily.

  Anna shrugged. ‘Everything’s fine, thanks.’

  ‘What about you two? Do you think you’ll, you know, have children?’

  ‘You sound like my mum,’ said Anna, unfairly, as her mother had never given such a hint.

  ‘Still! You’re thirty-three. Biological clock ticking.’

  It always jolte
d Anna to remember that she had reached such an age; surely she ought to feel adult by now, responsible, in control of her life.

  ‘Martin’s already got the boys,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but you?’

  ‘Haven’t really thought.’

  Bethan made a puh face. ‘You expect me to believe that? You’ve never so much as thought about having a baby?’

  ‘I don’t want to be pushed into anything, that’s all.’

  ‘Who’s pushing?’

  ‘No one. Just – you know – people’s expectations.’ Anna filled Bethan’s glass with mineral water. ‘Yours, now,’ she added lightly. ‘Like it’s the obvious next thing to do.’

  Bethan shrugged. ‘Only asking. What about the job? How’s that working out?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Keeps me off the streets.’

  ‘You don’t sound keen. You’re not chucking it in, are you?’

  ‘It’s only a trial period. I’m not sure I want to stay there for ever. I quite like the work. I like houses, property. I like matching people to homes, or dreaming about what I’d do if I had the money. It’s just – just I don’t like feeling tied down.’

  ‘But why think of it like that?’ said Bethan. ‘You’ve got a lovely man, a nice flat, and now you can have a good job as well. All this flitting from one thing to another – wouldn’t it be more rewarding to stick at something?’

  ‘Beth! You’re definitely turning into my mum.’

  Bethan sagged into her seat in an attitude of surrender. ‘It’s only common sense. What’s the problem? No one’s asking you to sign up for life, are they? You haven’t found a vocation, that’s your problem.’

  ‘But how many people do?’ Anna said. ‘What’s yours – massaging the egos of pushy authors?’

  Bethan giggled. ‘I won’t mind taking a break, that’s for sure. Anyway. How was your weekend?’

  Anna told her about the decorating, Martin’s visit to Ruth, his late return.

  ‘Hmm.’ Bethan lowered her eyebrows. ‘You’re not thinking they’re—?’

  ‘No! Definitely not.’