Missing Rose

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Yes! Fine, thanks,’ she said brightly. ‘Are there any biscuits?’

  ‘Well, I think she sounds like a complete cow,’ said Bethan, over lunch on Monday. ‘She must have known. How could she leave you all in the lurch like that – never a word, never even a note? I mean, there’s such a thing as being a bit of a drama queen, and then there’s being completely self-obsessed.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Anna felt compelled to support Rose. ‘There’s something fragile about her. Or perhaps I mean brittle. Something still lost.’

  Bethan thumped down her glass. ‘Yes, and that bloke of hers seems to have done nothing but indulge her. He should have made her get in touch with your parents. Why didn’t he?’

  ‘He did try. But, see, you’re using common sense and logic. There’s nothing common-sensical about Rose. Probably never was.’

  Anna found it hard to convey what she felt: that when she’d been with Rose, for less than a day, she’d been under Rose’s spell again, as she always had been. All her negative thoughts had seemed ungenerous, unsympathetic. She should have been happy; if she wasn’t, it was another failure.

  ‘Will you go down there again?’

  ‘Yes, and soon. Honestly, I’ll be skint by the end of the month, all this train travel and car hire.’

  ‘And …’ Bethan made prompting gestures. ‘You and Martin?’

  Anna shook her head. ‘There’s no me and Martin any more. But I’m not going to talk about that, Beth. I told you I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning it’s over, and that’s that.’

  ‘Anna, you’re mad. You know you are.’

  ‘I’m not mad. It’s best this way. I’m going to look on this as a new start, not an ending.’ Anna was trying to catch the waitress’s eye to order coffee. ‘Anyway! That’s enough about me. How are you? And how’s sprog-in-waiting?’

  On Friday, finishing work early, Anna made the long journey to Cornwall again. She was drawn to Rose by her feeling that there must be more, that another meeting must make up for the reticence of the last.

  As the train left Paddington, she checked her mobile and found a voicemail message from Martin. ‘Anna, you left your painting behind. You can’t have meant to, so I’ll bring it over to Rowan Lodge tomorrow. OK. Bye.’

  Shore! Anna felt a stab of loss. How could she have forgotten? She saw the figure blurred in haze; the impress of footprints along the tide’s edge. She wanted to look at it again, with her new insights. And she wanted the assurance that she’d been considered promising, once, and might be able to resurrect any talent she’d had, and build on it.

  Tomorrow would be one of Martin’s days with Liam; he’d be at Ruth’s to collect him, and again later, bringing him back. Not trusting herself to speak, she sent a text message back: Not at RL – on way to Cornwall. Easier to leave at Ruth’s? Thanks.

  She replayed the voice message twice more, wondering if she could keep it indefinitely, and whether there would be a time when she could no longer recall the unique blend of sounds and inflexions that made up Martin’s voice. A memory came to her of both of them looking at the Shore picture, soon after they’d met. He was standing behind her, a hand on her shoulder; she had propped the painting on a bookshelf to show him. ‘You’re good,’ he said, his mouth so close to her ear that she felt his breath like a caress; ‘really good. Why did you stop?’

  How much she had wanted his approval, then; how much it meant to her, even though he knew little about art. She hadn’t told him that the girl was meant to be Rose. Perhaps she should have.

  ‘It shouldn’t be shut away in a cupboard,’ he said. ‘Let’s hang it in our bedroom.’ But they never had. Maybe he’d only been flattering her.

  Michael met Anna at Penzance station and drove her to Trelissick Lodge. As it was so late, she wouldn’t see Rose until next morning. Michael was the one Anna felt she could confide in, rather than Rose. As they drove along dark lanes following the swathe of headlights, she asked about a possible visit for her parents, how it could best be arranged. Michael would have to be the one to persuade Rose.

  ‘Perhaps it had better be on neutral ground, the first meeting,’ he suggested. ‘Lunch at the Morwenna Hotel, perhaps? I could book them a room there. Then, if it goes well, we can invite them home. Will you and Martin come too? Would that make it easier? Or should it be your parents on their own?’

  ‘I might come,’ Anna said. ‘Actually – I’m not with Martin any more. We’ve split up. I’ve moved out.’

  ‘Oh! I’m sorry to hear that. Is it – quite definite?’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  Michael gave her a sidelong look, seemed about to ask another question, but didn’t.

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ Anna said. ‘And it’s not about Rose.’

  Two lies. To say any more would be at the risk of bursting into tears. She lifted her chin and turned away to look out of the side-window at nothing but blackness.

  ‘But I don’t see – How could Rose have anything to do with it?’ Michael asked, and then, when she didn’t answer, ‘Will you tell her?’

  ‘I’d rather you did. I don’t want to talk to her about it.’

  Getting ready for bed in the same room as last time, she took out her mobile. No new messages, and of course – now that she felt desperate to send something, just a few words – there was no signal. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she blinked them away angrily. She should have tried while she had the chance. Several times she had told Martin that he didn’t understand her; but how hard had she tried to understand him? Not enough. She should have asked, listened, given him the importance that she had freely granted to Rose.

  In the morning the wind was strong, carrying rain, the sky grey and unpromising.

  ‘I thought we might walk over to Penarthen.’ Rose was clearing away breakfast things when Anna arrived. ‘There are standing stones on the cliff, on the way there. I want to get some photos for a painting I’m going to do.’

  ‘You’ll need warm clothes,’ said Michael; ‘it’s cold in that wind. Anna, I’m taking the boys to football – see you at lunch time. We’ll come straight to the pub.’

  Meeting Finn for the first time, Anna saw his strong resemblance to Rose: the dark hair, the flawless skin. A tall, attractive boy, he was shy of Anna; more so than Euan, who seemed unsurprised by her return. Anna couldn’t imagine how Rose had explained the sudden appearance of a sister unheard of till now, but Euan had apparently accepted her as a new member of the family.

  Euan waved as Michael reversed the car out and pulled away up the hill.

  ‘Ready?’ Rose said to Anna, who nodded. Anna was prepared this time, with walking boots, and a thick sweater under her waterproof. Rose was dressed not entirely practically in a velvet coat, her hair piled into a saggy knitted hat in multicoloured stripes, a purple scarf flying out behind her as she strode up a bouldery path behind the boathouse. Even now, Anna felt drab in comparison, in her more functional clothes. Rose could still do that thing she’d always been so good at, throwing on a few garments and looking stylish and arty. Twenty years had fallen away and Anna still felt dull and ordinary, trailing in her sister’s wake.

  It was the first time they’d been alone together for any length of time. Anna felt very conscious of that. There was no need to talk at first; the ascent demanded single-file concentration, and was steep enough to leave little breath for words. When the path levelled and became a broad grassy track, Rose stopped to wait for Anna, and they stood looking down over the cluster of houses at the sweep of cliffs to the west, and the sea shining flat and grey beneath louring cloud. Walking on, Rose pointed out landmarks: a lightship, a favourite cove where seals sometimes rested on the rocks, and the dip between hills, some way along the coast, where the village of Penarthen was hidden from view. She talked about a series of paintings she was about to start, very specific to this part of the coast.

  ‘Standing stones, rocky outcrops, like that one ahead. The
re’s something about them, don’t you think?’

  Increasingly annoyed by Rose’s self-containment, her lack of interest in anything other than her immediate concerns, Anna said, ‘We need to find a way to get Mum and Dad down here to meet you, Rose. They want to, and soon.’

  Rose might not have heard. ‘You sometimes see choughs along here.’ She was gazing inland, towards a low summit topped by gorse bushes. ‘And, listen, there’s a stonechat – can you hear? That chinking sound, like pebbles rubbing together?’

  Anna looked, made out the small bright bird before it flew away, then said, ‘I found out more about Zanna. Rosanna.’

  Rose turned her back on the wind, grabbed at a loose end of scarf and wound it firmly round her face, hiding all but her eyes. ‘Come on. I want to show you the cliffs up here, where seabirds nest – kittiwakes and guillemots. They won’t be there now, but we can look down on the ledges they use.’

  Perplexed, Anna gazed after her as she walked off purposefully. OK, so now wasn’t the time; but when would be? Later? Never? She followed, returning the cheerful greeting of a couple her parents’ age who were walking away from what Anna could now see was an overhang, a cliff dropping precipitously away. A notice warned of danger, of coastal erosion. Rose was ahead, walking far nearer to the edge than she’d allowed Euan to go on their previous walk. It was a promontory a little higher than the track, which dipped behind; rock, dry sandy earth, scattered stones.

  ‘See?’ Rose turned to Anna, loose strands of hair whipping free from her hat. ‘Down there, that’s where they nest. I come in summer to watch them.’ She was crouching, taking her camera out of her pocket, aiming down at flat rocks a dizzying distance below, where the waves creamed foam.

  Anna felt the clutch of fear in her stomach. She wouldn’t have said she was afraid of heights, but here, high in the wind, her body knew otherwise.

  ‘Rose, be careful!’

  Rose laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I’m used to it.’

  Far below, the tide washed over granite slabs and sucked back, timeless, mesmerizing. Anna inched as close as the clenching knot of fear would allow. She saw herself, it seemed, from a long way off, a figure reduced to tininess against sky and sea and rock.

  ‘Michael would have a fit if he saw me.’ Rose’s words were half snatched away. ‘But on my own, I love it. I’m not scared. You are, aren’t you? You’re not used to it.’ Rose was angling her camera, clicking. ‘It’s so hard to get a sense of perspective in a photo. Maybe I can do it in a painting.’

  Anna dragged her gaze away from the surge and pull of the tide. She stepped back a few paces, making herself breathe more calmly, and think rational thoughts.

  Her own camera was in her holdall at Trelissick Lodge. She’d forgotten to bring it today, but had intended to take photographs of Rose, of Michael and the boys, to show her parents – to prove Rose existed, and show them their grandsons. Rose made no suggestion of photographing Anna. Anna disliked having her picture taken but felt a twinge of hurt amusement, all the same.

  ‘Michael told me you’ve split up with Martin,’ Rose said casually, still looking through the viewfinder.

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re better off on your own,’ Rose said. ‘Maybe you didn’t care about him much. I thought that, last time.’

  Anna was goaded by the careless way she said it, her assumption of knowing.

  ‘And maybe I did,’ she retorted. ‘Maybe I loved him. Maybe I still do. You’re not the only one who matters, Rose. What do you know about caring for anyone?’

  Rose lowered the camera; her eyes met Anna’s, wide and amazed. ‘Of course I do! I’m a mother, I’ve got the boys, and Michael – how can you say such a hurtful thing?’

  ‘After what you did?’ Indignation made it hard to get the words out. ‘Why, Rose – why did you do it? Why did you never get in touch? Still, now, you’re so – so—’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So unfeeling.’

  ‘I’m not unfeeling!’ Rose shouted. ‘How can you think that? You don’t know. You don’t know anything.’

  ‘How can I know? I can only guess, and I’ve spent twenty years doing that. What I can’t fathom is why you never got in touch, not once. You’ve ruined their lives – does that never occur to you? Mine, too—’

  Slowly Rose stood, cradling her camera. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Anna. You can’t blame me for everything.’

  ‘But I do,’ Anna said quietly.

  ‘Yes, well.’ Rose gave her a pitying glance. ‘That’s your mistake. I can’t help that.’ She turned away, looking down again over the giddying drop. ‘Isn’t it amazing how the eggs don’t roll off those tiny ledges? The chicks stay there till they’re ready to fly.’

  ‘Rose, for God’s sake!’ Anna’s voice trembled; Rose swung round, and the urge gripped Anna to push her, to give one shove that would send her over the edge to crash on the rocks below. In that second she saw fear in Rose’s face, and recognition; saw in slow-motion the flailing figure suspended in space, then spread-eagled on the granite before the waves washed over and sucked back, taking Rose with them. She saw the moment that would change her life for ever; saw herself running back, distraught, making up a story about an accident, a slip, and then lying, lying, lying to everyone, lying to herself. She would be trapped for ever in this frozen instant when she could have chosen otherwise.

  Rose would still have won. Always, Rose won.

  ‘I wouldn’t really blame you.’ Rose stood firm, smiling hesitantly. ‘I knew you wouldn’t, though.’

  Anna closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She hadn’t done it. It was like waking from a harrowing dream.

  ‘I’m not letting you do any more damage, Rose,’ she said. ‘You’ve done enough.’

  Turning away, she headed back towards the path. Her eyes took in the magnificence of the coast, the immensity of sky and sea, the gusting wind. She had walked away; she was free. Exhilaration filled her, and a sense of herself, of being more fully herself than she had ever felt; full of vigour. She skittered over boulders to the grass track and broke into a run, jogging at first, then fast and faster, the short turf rolling under her, her feet dodging rocks and ruts, the eyes blurred by the wind. Free, free, said the rhythm of her running, the pumping of her heart; every stride took her farther from Rose.

  She ran until the gradient and the heaving of her lungs slowed her pace. She was hot now, sweating inside her waterproof; she had too many clothes on for proper running.

  People were coming down from the brow ahead, a group of walkers, led by a man being tugged along by a Border collie. The man called out to Anna:

  ‘Is she all right? She’s a bit close to the edge.’

  Anna looked back in the direction of his gaze to where Rose was sitting cross-legged by the cliff-edge, looking out to sea. Perhaps he thought there was an emergency, an injury or something, and that Anna was running for help.

  ‘Yes, thanks. She’s always all right,’ Anna said, flippant but serious.

  She didn’t look back again. She knew what she needed to do. Walking fast, she carried on to the crest of the hill. When Penarthen came into view, a tiny village clustered around a harbour, she hurried down the rocky path and towards the small pub next to the quay. It was already open; another pair of walkers sat defiantly on a bench outside, wrapped up in Gore-tex and scarves. The interior was dark, hung with netting and glass floats; a smoky fire threw out warmth; a woman stood behind the bar, polishing glasses. Anna had the urge for a large drink, whisky perhaps, but there was something more urgent.

  ‘Is there a payphone?’

  The woman nodded towards a vestibule between the two bars. Anna took out her wallet, found change; her hands trembled as she keyed in the number and waited for the ringing tone.

  Please, Martin. Please answer.

  Longing for his voice, she was thrown into confusion when a different one answered. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Oh – who’s that?’ Anna said, star
tled. ‘Patrick?’

  ‘Yeah. Anna, right?’

  ‘Yes – is Martin there?’

  Of course he wouldn’t be, she remembered; it was his day with Liam. Why hadn’t she stopped to think?

  ‘No, he’s away a couple of nights. Gone to Devon.’

  ‘Devon?’

  ‘Devon, Cornwall, wherever. It was all a bit sudden. He picked up Liam last night and they headed off.’

  ‘So where are they now?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Patrick didn’t sound much interested; Anna had the impression his attention was elsewhere. ‘You’ll have to try his mobile.’

  ‘Right. Are you staying?’

  ‘Yeah, a few days, seeing friends. Catch you later.’

  Anna rang off and stood by a rack of leaflets for various tourist attractions. She was warmed through with relief – was Martin on his way? – then fearful of assuming too much. She could see no other reason for him to set off for the West Country at short notice, and surely, surely that must mean that he hadn’t given her up, in spite of all she’d said and done, and failed to do.

  He was coming to find her.

  But … maybe it wasn’t that at all. He could be taking Liam on a surprise outing. Patrick had sounded vague, but now she remembered Ruth saying it was half-term next week. Disappointment numbed her; she closed her eyes, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. Why should Martin want to give her another chance? Could he really be so loyal, so forgiving, after all she’d said and done? Self-disgust rose in her like nausea.

  And – even if he was on his way, which seemed less and less likely the more she thought about it – how would he find her? He didn’t know where Rose lived, didn’t even know the name of the village. She stood in indecision; went out to the car park, then came back inside, counting more coins; she found Martin’s number on her mobile and keyed it in to the payphone.

  Voicemail.

  ‘Oh, Martin—’ she began, then thought better of it and rang off.

  Outside, she looked up towards the cliff where she’d left Rose, and saw that Rose was walking down the path; she’d reach the pub in a few minutes. Anna looked at her in exasperation, then in the other direction at a single-track lane that curved down the hillside. What to do? Should she go on down to the cottage? Wait here for Michael?