‘She got rid of it?’
‘Actually, she miscarried.’
‘Keith’s child?’ she whispered.
He nodded. ‘I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean this to all come out. The point is that I can’t stand by and see my daughter suffer. Tom’s a good man. Is there anything I can do to help? Talk to him again, perhaps?’
She shook her head, still wondering whether to believe what her dad had just said. ‘He’ll never forgive me.’
‘Mummy! Trisha’s got a Spider-Man DVD.’ Gawain tugged at her hand impatiently. ‘Come and watch it. Please!’
‘In a minute, love.’ She turned back to Dad. ‘Actually, there is something you can do.’
He looked hopeful. ‘Yes?’
‘You can be here for the kids. They need a male figure in their lives, someone extra now they only see Tom on Saturdays.’
Her father’s eyes were wet again. ‘That’s the best present you could have given me.’
‘Talking of birthdays,’ she added, ‘you can come to Gawain’s party next month if you like.’ Then she dropped her voice. ‘Mum will be there. Better not bring Trisha if you don’t mind.’
She wouldn’t say anything to Mum, Emma decided. Otherwise there’d be a scene. She’d just let Dad arrive and then see what Mum said. Maybe then she’d be able to tell from their conversation exactly what had happened all those years ago. After all, she and Tom had agreed to have the party in their own home: it was up to them whom they invited. Not Mum.
‘Rather you than me,’ said Bernie, impressed when she confided in her. ‘Pregnancy seems to have done something to you. Or is it being on your own?’
Bernie was right. Both had made her bolder, braver. Yes, she was a single mum, and yes, she had done something stupid to cause that. But if Rosie Harrison, back on the island, had managed on her own with a young son for all those years, then so could she.
Meanwhile, Gawain was getting feverish with excitement. By the time his birthday actually arrived, he was almost hysterical, bouncing around with his ‘NOW I AM FIVE’ birthday badge.
Tom came to pick them up. He’d decorated the house beautifully, Emma had to say, with ‘Happy Birthday’ balloons and streamers. He’d also – without telling her – bought their son a Spider-Man pedal car. ‘It will have to stay here,’ Emma told Gawain. ‘There isn’t room at Mum’s.’
Tom looked awkward. ‘I was going to talk to you about that,’ he began but then the doorbell rang and the first of the guests arrived.
By the time Mum got there, they were well into Pass the Parcel, or Piss the Parcel as Bernie called it, because so many kids wet themselves with excitement. But Emma kept glancing at the clock.
Where was Dad? Maybe he’d decided not to come without Trisha. If so, it was his loss. Meanwhile, it was really odd having Tom next to her, helping out as though they were a normal couple. Some of the other parents who had stayed to help were clearly curious.
At last, the doorbell! ‘I’ll get it,’ Mum called out before Emma could move. Uh-oh …
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Actually, I was invited.’
Emma listened through the half-closed lounge door with trepidation.
‘After what you did to me with that woman?’
‘Come on, Shirley. You know there was more to it than that.’
There was a brief silence. ‘Not here,’ she heard her mother whisper. ‘And you’d best not be saying anything. I’ll only deny it any road.’
Emma bent down as a sudden pain shot through her. Then another, making her gasp out loud.
‘Are you all right?’ Dimly she was aware of Tom’s footsteps and his arm around her.
‘She’s started,’ gasped Bernie, pointing to a trickle of water.
‘I can’t have!’ Emma’s voice rang out above the Pass the Parcel music. She stared up at Tom pleadingly, willing him to do something. ‘It’s too early. Far too early!’
TRUE POST-HONEYMOON STORY
‘After the honeymoon, my (separated) parents reunited. They said that seeing us get married made them want to start again.’
Anonymous
Chapter Forty-One
ROSIE
March in Greece was often beautiful. If you were lucky – as they were this year – the temperature was mild and you could wear shorts and a tee-shirt. Small purple bougainvillea buds were already beginning to form on the tree climbing up the villa in preparation for summer.
Like many other house owners on the island, Rosie had paid one of the local builders to give the villa a fresh lick of white paint.
If only she could do the same to her own life. Gloss over those feelings for Winston which just wouldn’t go away.
Even so, she told herself, sweeping the rooms as part of her general spring clean, it was so good to be back in Siphalonia! It wasn’t just the sea; it was the people too. She’d lost count of the hugs and the ‘Welcome backs’ that she and Jack had been showered with on their return.
‘I thought, maybe, you would remain in England,’ sniffed Cara who, despite Rosie’s instructions to take a rest, had insisted on donning a brown headscarf and wielding a broom alongside her.
Rosie swallowed hard as she pulled out one of the beds to reach the dust that had got to the far corners. They’d been through this so many times since she’d come back in January, but it seemed that, like Greco, Cara was still in need of reassurance. ‘I’ve told you,’ she declared, shaking her duster out of the window, ‘this is my real home.’
Judging from the contented nod, Cara finally seemed to believe her. Just as well she couldn’t read the doubts in Rosie’s head. However hard she tried to dismiss Winston’s face from her mind – how dare he presume to turn their lives upside down with his suggestion of America and boarding school! – it kept coming back again. His persistent texts and emails didn’t help. Apparently the Americans were so keen to have him that they’d extended their deadline.
‘It is my home too,’ said Cara quietly. ‘My nephew’s wife, she does not want me there any more.’
Rosie stopped herself just in time from admitting that Greco had told her this already. Cara was fiercely proud. It must have taken a lot for her to confess that.
‘I want you,’ she said simply, kneeling down and putting her head in the old woman’s lap. They sat for a minute in silence as Cara gently coiled her hair round a finger, rather like a small child. When she had turned up here destitute, all those years ago, the old woman had acted as the mother that Rosie could barely remember. Now it was her turn to look after Cara.
‘My daughter, she would have been like you. If that man had not taken her.’
Rosie stiffened. Cara’s daughter was a subject that had always been taboo. No one spoke about her, which was unusual in a place where local gossip was the backbone of day-to-day living. All she knew was that Elena had been lost at sea in a boating accident.
‘He took Greco’s boat one night,’ continued the old woman, almost in a sing-song voice. ‘Without permission. He took advantage of my daughter and then she drowned.’
‘Who?’ Rosie asked intently.
This was the first time that Cara had gone into detail over Elena’s death. On previous occasions, she’d darkly alluded to Greco as being responsible in some way. But Rosie knew that couldn’t be true. Greco was a good man. At least, he was now …
Cara gazed out of the window towards the sea, where a yacht with a white sail bobbed in the distance. ‘Greco did not know his boat had been taken – he was away at the time. We had to keep it all secret. That is why she had to live on the mainland.’
Poor woman. She really was losing her marbles. ‘But you said she drowned,’ corrected Rosie softly.
Cara’s fingers were twisting her hair more fiercely now. ‘Drowned in grief. Lost! Yannis took advantage of her and then refused to recognise the child.’
‘Yannis?’
Cara nodded. ‘A son needs a father, even a part-time one. It is why I told you to
tell Jack and his father the truth. Naturally, I offered to bring up my grandson, but Elena, she had pride. She moved to Athens, away from the whispers. It is why I visit so often.’
Rosie could hear the smile in her voice. ‘My grandson is married now. I call him my nephew to avoid scandal but he knows the truth. He loves me. Yet it is his wife who does not want me any more.’
‘And Elena?’ She had to ask.
The hands fell away from her hair. ‘My daughter died from a broken heart although the doctors said different.’ There was a little sigh. ‘I thought that God had sent you here, with Elena’s soul inside you.’
How tragic! Yet this was the way that life went, Rosie realised, as she wrapped her arms around the older woman, rocking her back and forth in comfort. People loved each other but all too often lost each other too. If they were lucky, they found someone else to ease the pain. A new love. Or maybe an old one.
So that explained why Cara and Yannis refused to speak to each other. What a horrible man. And he’d been over-familiar with Emma Walker on the boat trip back in the summer. She’d had a word with him about that afterwards, warning him that familiarity with the guests was out of bounds.
‘It is none of your business,’ he had declared with a toss of his head.
Still, she told herself, it was essential to think like a businesswoman if she was to survive. According to the accountant, the Villa Rosa was in danger of closing down if she couldn’t think of a way to bring in more money. She had to do something. It went without saying that she couldn’t trouble Cara with any of this.
‘Mum?’
There was a thud of feet coming from the back door. (Why did teenagers stamp instead of walk?) Rosie only hoped Jack hadn’t skived off again. She might be glad to be back here in Siphalonia but her son hadn’t settled. The term in that English school had made him increasingly critical of his teachers on their small island. He’d also taken to hanging out with his friends much later than she would have liked. It had led to some rather loud rows.
‘Back already?’ asked Cara sharply.
Jack shrugged, flinging his bag on the floor. ‘Our teacher let us off early.’ He threw a challenging look at his mother. ‘Told us to finish the lesson on our own.’
‘So why didn’t you?’ demanded Rosie, picking up his bag, which was in her way.
‘I did.’ Her son glared at her. ‘I was quick and that’s why I’m back. You don’t trust me, do you?’
He grabbed his bag out of her arms, but not before she’d noticed something poking out of the top. A packet of cigarettes.
‘It is natural for a boy to smoke at his age,’ soothed Greco, massaging her back as they lay in bed, later that day.
Maybe in Greece, thought Rosie. But she didn’t like it. Jack was, as usual, out with his friends, and although she couldn’t help worrying about what he was doing, it did give her and Greco some time to themselves.
That was another thing. Ever since they’d got back, Jack had talked constantly about Winston. Anyone could see that Greco didn’t like it at all.
‘It is also natural for a boy to argue with his mother,’ continued Greco, his hands moving downwards. Rosie felt herself melt. Her mind went back to that horrible scene in the airport with Winston when he’d suggested America and boarding school. Such a contrast to the other end, when Greco had been there to meet her; picking her up and twirling her around. ‘I have missed you, my omorfi.’
Beautiful woman? Rosie had felt a warm glow running through her, but at the same time, she still couldn’t stop thinking about Winston.
‘Jack misses his father too, I think,’ added Greco now.
The melting feeling evaporated, replaced by defensiveness. ‘He’s bound to, isn’t he?’
Greco was sitting up. The moment had gone. ‘And you, Rosie. You miss Winston too?’
She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. ‘I’ve told you before. I have to stay in touch. He’s the father of my son.’
‘Pah!’ Greco got out of bed and put on his boxers. ‘Your Jack managed quite well without him all these years.’
‘Yes.’ Angrily, she flung on her jeans. ‘But now he knows he exists, it’s different.’
Greco caught her hand. ‘And is that why you are always talking and emailing?’
He glanced at her laptop as he spoke. There, for all to see, was the tab that showed she’d been Skyping Winston just before Greco had turned up unexpectedly an hour earlier.
‘We have things to discuss,’ she said lamely. ‘You just have to trust me.’
Greco shook his head. ‘I would like to, Rosie. But when I was in England, I saw a different woman. And I do not know which one you are.’
This wasn’t fair. ‘I’m me,’ said Rosie desperately. ‘Or at least I’m trying to be.’
Greco gave her a disappointed look. ‘Goodbye, Rosie. I will see you around.’
The door slammed. Rosie sank down onto the edge of the bed with its crumpled sheets. What had she done? And, more importantly, what should she do next?
The phone call from school came a few days later. Jack had been missing lessons. ‘I’m not learning anything,’ her son retorted. ‘It’s not like Corrywood.’
Rosie tried to contain her exasperation. ‘It’s bound to be different. You’re just taking time to adapt back to normal life.’
Jack glared at her. ‘Dad said you’d say that. He also said that education is really cool in Britain.’
So that was Winston’s game! He was trying to take her son away, tempting him with stories of jolly boarding-school life back in the UK.
‘Of course I’m not,’ protested Winston when she tackled him furiously on Skype. ‘In fact, I told him that he ought to stick it out on the island until he was able to apply to university. I was going to talk to you about that. Have you thought about a British uni?’
‘If he’s going to keep skipping classes, he won’t be going anywhere,’ she pointed out.
Winston, who appeared to be in gym kit, judging from his bare arms – such muscles! – nodded. ‘Point taken. Would you like me to talk to him?’
Why not? It wasn’t as though she was getting through to their son any more. To her surprise, Rosie felt a certain comfort in knowing that she didn’t have to shoulder all this on her own.
‘I’ve got to go now to take a class. But I still need to talk to you about tying up the final loose ends for our project. You haven’t told anyone yet, have you?’
She shook her head, remembering how cross Greco had been when he’d seen her open laptop. ‘No.’
‘Thanks. Down, Barney. I said down!’
Despite her earlier anger, Rosie couldn’t help smiling as a large brown springer spaniel with adorable floppy ears clambered up onto Winston’s lap. He virtually filled the screen. ‘How’s he getting on?’
‘Great. He’s brilliant company too. Jack’s really excited about seeing him.’
That was another thing. She’d promised Jack, when he’d been so upset at leaving Winston, that he could visit at Easter. It had seemed the right thing to do, although the prospect of losing her son every holiday for the next few years gave her an empty feeling.
‘Why don’t you come too?’ suggested Winston suddenly.
His offer took her by surprise. ‘I’m not sure. But thanks anyway.’
‘Chat at the weekend then?’
‘Sure.’
As she signed off, there was the creak of a floorboard outside her room followed by light footsteps going downstairs into the kitchen. ‘Cara?’
The old woman must have got into her favourite chair by the stove rather quickly.
‘You were listening, weren’t you?’ said Rosie indignantly.
Cara shrugged. ‘It is all very well finding the boy’s father, but he is not right for you. I know it.’
‘Actually, it’s not what you think …’.
Cara waved her away. ‘Please. No excuses. I know you.’ Those dark beady eyes bored into her. ‘Tell me everything.’<
br />
So Rosie did. She told Cara about Winston’s suggestion that they move to California. About Jack going to boarding school. And she even confessed about the kiss.
Cara’s wrinkled face was inscrutable. ‘You love him?’
Rosie took a deep breath. ‘I find it hard to separate my feelings now from the ones I had when I was seventeen.’
The old lady’s beady eyes were still fixed on her. ‘If you really loved this Winston, you would give up the world for him.’ She reached out and took Rosie’s hands in her gnarled ones. ‘Tell me. If Greco asked you to sail across the world with him, would you go?’
‘Yes.’ The word shot out of her mouth. ‘Provided that Jack came too.’
There was a gleam of triumph in Cara’s eyes. ‘And why would you give everything up for Greco?’
‘Because the real me – the one that isn’t seventeen – can’t imagine life without him.’ Again, the words came out of her mouth without Rosie even needing to think about it. ‘He makes me laugh and he makes me feel good about myself. But now he’s still ignoring me and it’s horrible.’
Rosie looked down from the terrace at the sparkling sea below. ‘Besides, I know that he wouldn’t want to sail away. Not ever. He loves Siphalonia as much as I do.’
Cara nodded, clearly satisfied. ‘Then that is your answer, is it not? You love the place as well as the man. Two is better than one, I think. But perhaps you should ask your son what he thinks. He is home early again.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘On that computer again. It will fry his brain.’
Her old friend had a point: both about Greco and about her son.
‘Why bother knocking if you’re going to come in anyway, Mum?’ Jack demanded angrily, looking up from his desk.
Because she was his mother, that’s why.
‘Are you working?’ She shot a meaningful look at the screen.
‘No. I’m looking at porn.’
Very funny. ‘Can I see?’
Jack scowled. What, she wondered, had happened to that fresh-faced, smiley son from last summer? ‘It’s private.’
Just like her letters that Dad had hidden from her many years ago. ‘Fair enough. There’s just one thing I need to ask you, though.’
After the Honeymoon Page 40
