Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘But life goes on and any other crummy cliché you care to mention. And I had Toby and the twins to worry about, so it had to. But one’s always … damaged. Never quite the same.’ He smiled gently. ‘But this is your tragedy, Rosie. Why are we talking about me?’

  ‘Because I feel guilty that I don’t feel like you did, I suppose. Like a wife should feel when her husband dies.’

  ‘Ex-husband to be.’

  I smiled wanly.

  ‘Look,’ he went on, ‘no one expects you to go into deep mourning, no one expects wailing and widow’s weeds, or for you to flee to the nearest nunnery singing “The Hills Are Alive”, but regardless of what you might think at the moment, take it from me, you’re in shock, and you’re gonna feel pretty wobbly about this for some time.’

  I nodded. This I could conceive of. Wobbly was pretty normal for me anyway. I took a sip of brandy. I’d never really liked it, but strangely enough I found its strong, unpleasant taste rather comforting. It was something to contend with. I looked at him gratefully.

  ‘People say you’re arrogant and fierce,’ I blurted out, ‘but you’re not at all. You’re a lovely, decent man.’

  He threw his head back and laughed. It was the first time I’d seen him so much as smile. ‘Decent I’ll accept, it sounds like I’ve never been had up for evading my TV licence, or pinching butts in lifts – which I haven’t, incidentally – but lovely … few people are lovely.’ He looked at me, still smiling slightly. ‘Are you going to be okay, Rosie?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I mean on your own? Or do you want me to stay?’

  ‘Oh! God, I’m so sorry.’ I glanced around for a clock. ‘It’s probably the middle of the night, is it?’

  ‘It’s around four fifteen. You should try and get some sleep if you can.’

  I nodded. ‘I will. I’ll try.’

  He got up to go and looked down at me. ‘Well, goodnight then. I’ll leave the brandy, you might want another.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smiled, and felt my eyes begin to water at his kindness.

  He patted my shoulder, briefly, awkwardly, and left.

  When he’d gone I stared into the dying flames, cradling my brandy. I stayed like that for some time, thinking, drinking a bit, until I realized it was beginning to get light outside. I gazed out at the dawn. It was that sharp, early, bright light that can be so unkind to insomniacs in the early hours, but which I welcomed now, wanting time to move on, wanting it to be another day. I looked at my watch. It was six fifteen. I’d sat here practically all night. I got up and stretched, took the brandy and glasses into the kitchen. There was no point going to bed now, Ivo would be up soon. Instead I had a hot bath, dressed in as many layers as I could and made a pot of tea. When Ivo woke up I gave him a quick breakfast, bundled him into his snowsuit and then, to his delight, went out into the snow. The sky was bright blue and under it, as far as the eye could see, all was white and soft, as if the clouds had sunk down to rest on the earth.

  Ivo gasped. He’d never seen snow before. ‘Mummy, look!’

  I laughed. ‘I know.’ It was too deep for him to walk in so I picked up a handful and handed it back to him in a ball. ‘Snow.’

  ‘Thnow!’ He watched, fascinated as he scrunched it in his gloved hand and it turned to water.

  ‘Gone!’ he said in surprise.

  I laughed. ‘Try it.’

  He licked his glove. ‘Cold!’ Another surprise. Two revelations in as many seconds.

  I took his hand and we set off, heading into the white light of the fields which stretched before us, rippling on and on, a hint of blue in their undulations. We followed what I knew to be a track round the fields, with Ivo pulling at snowy branches along the way, giggling as the snow fell on his hat. The silence and the whiteness enveloped us and I felt as if we were the only two people in the world that morning, and in a way, with Harry gone, in our own little world, we were. It wasn’t a sobering thought, though; on the contrary, it filled me with determination. And I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit it made things easier. I walked for miles, thinking, planning, remembering quite a bit too, but Ivo was on my shoulders by now and no lightweight. I knew we had to go home soon or I’d collapse in the snow. On the horizon I could still see Farlings, which I’d deliberately kept in view for fear of getting lost, so I made my way back across country towards it. Our circuitous route meant I approached it from the front this time, and as I trudged up the front drive, I noticed a Land Rover parked halfway up. On the other side of the post and rail fence, a man in a flat cap and a Barbour was putting a head collar on a grey mare and leading her over to the gate. She was dreadfully lame. He smiled as I approached.

  ‘Morning!’

  ‘Morning. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

  He patted the mare’s neck. ‘Magical, but not so good for this poor old girl, I’m afraid. She’s too old to find snow exciting, unlike that little chap on your shoulders.’ He regarded me for a moment. He was tall with wavy auburn hair that curled out from under his cap to rest on his collar, and his eyes were the colour of moss. They crinkled up when he smiled at me. He slipped off his glove and stuck out his hand.

  ‘I’m Alex Munroe, the local vet around here. You must be the new tenant in the cottage.’

  ‘Gosh, news travels fast. Yes, I’m Rosie Meadows.’ I shook his hand and noticed his grin was rather lopsided and sexy. I imagined it could be fatal if deployed properly. I quickly looked down at the horse’s leg. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Oh, just a touch of arthritis, she gets it every year, especially when it’s as cold as this. She’ll be all right, but she needs to have her legs bandaged and go inside for a bit. I’m going to pop her into the stable opposite your cottage. Think you could keep an eye on her for me?’

  ‘Of course I will. I’m afraid I don’t know much about horses though.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be happy if you just lob her a carrot every now and then.’

  ‘I think I can manage that.’

  He brought her slowly through the gate and we set off together back to the cottage, the mare limping painfully beside him. I glanced up at him, intrigued. ‘Do you always pop round in the early hours, just on the off chance that some horse might be limping? It’s jolly early to start making your house calls, isn’t it?’

  He laughed. ‘No, I didn’t wake up in the small hours and think – golly, it’s snowing, I do hope old Sasha’s okay, better go and see. No, he called me. He always worries about this one, she was Kitty’s favourite.’

  He jerked his head up towards the house and to my surprise I noticed a light on in the workshop. Silhouetted in the window was the unmistakable profile of Joss, head bent, chisel in hand, tapping at what looked like a large boulder. So he was still awake too.

  ‘He rang me on my mobile to say he could see her limping and that she looked in pain, which she was, but you sometimes wish the guy would sleep a bit and then he wouldn’t notice these things. Actually, I was out on a night call anyway so it didn’t matter.’

  ‘Doesn’t he sleep then?’ I said, going back to Joss.

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose he must at some point but whenever I’m out at night and driving past he’s always out there, hammering away.’

  ‘At least he cares about the horses,’ I said loyally.

  ‘Maybe, though God knows why he hasn’t got rid of them, they never get any exercise. But I suppose because they were Kitty’s he feels sentimental about them, and of course Annabel likes them because they give the place the air of an upmarket stud farm or something. She likes them to come trotting arrogantly over to the fence when people drive up.’

  ‘You know them well, do you?’ I said lightly. ‘Joss and Annabel?’

  ‘A bit, but only on a professional basis. He’s pretty aloof and supercilious when he can bring himself to talk to you, but she’s charming. And drop-dead gorgeous of course, which always helps.’ He grinned at me sideways and I wondered how aware he was of h
is own rakish good looks. Can’t imagine it could have escaped him. ‘You’ve met her, I take it?’ he asked.

  ‘Annabel? No, I only arrived yesterday.’

  ‘Ah.’ He deposited Sasha in her stable, turning her round so that her head stuck over the door. He took her head collar off and watched as I stroked her nose. ‘She likes that.’

  ‘I can see.’

  ‘She likes her back tickled too.’

  ‘Don’t we all.’ I really wished I hadn’t said that. He grinned, and his eyes lit up as if he’d just had a little brush with possibility.

  ‘Well, quite,’ he said softly.

  Bugger. I concentrated hard on giving Sasha some intensive nose stroking, but could feel a blush unfurling and knew he was watching me with interest.

  ‘Bit early to be out tramping around the fields, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’s not even eight o’clock yet.’

  ‘I know, but Ivo woke up and it was such a beautiful morning I just thought, why not?’

  ‘Why not take the noisy brat out for a breath of fresh air and give the other half a bit of a lie-in. Jolly noble of you.’

  ‘Er, no. There isn’t another half, actually.’

  ‘Ah. I’m sorry. Divorced?’

  ‘No.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Widowed.’

  ‘Gosh, I am sorry.’ He looked it too. ‘I really am.’ He frowned and squeezed Ivo’s leg which was hanging over my shoulder. ‘Golly. Poor little chap.’

  There was a silence. I could tell he was moved.

  ‘Was it … recent?’

  I cleared my throat. Hell. ‘Um, yes. Quite recent,’ I said, hoping to goodness he wouldn’t pin me down.

  ‘So, did he know him?’ He nodded up at Ivo.

  ‘His father? Yes. Yes, he did.’

  ‘Ah. Well, that’s something. A few memories.’

  ‘Well, quite.’ I swallowed hard.

  Luckily, at that moment we both heard a car. We swung round. Its tyres were muffled by the snow, but it was revving noisily and slowly weaving its way precariously round Farlings and down the back drive towards us. We watched as little by little it slid along, another Land Rover, presumably the only vehicle able to move an inch in these conditions. As it got closer, I recognized Miles at the wheel, with Philly beside him, and sliding around in the back of what was primarily an agricultural vehicle used for humping bales of hay or sheep were my parents. My heart sank. Oh God, it had started. The grieving merry-go-round had begun. It was time for lots of noisy mourning, funeral planning and breast beating, with my mother firmly at the helm.

  As the car came to a slippery halt beside us, Mum literally fell out of the back in her old mink coat, matching hat and black patent high-heeled shoes. She steadied herself against going head first in the snow, then came tottering perilously through the deep drifts towards me, her face crumpled with grief, arms outstretched, hanky in one hand, handbag in the other. I quickly went to meet her and she fell on my neck, sobbing copiously.

  ‘Oh, my poor darling! My poor darling! And Ivo, my poor fatherless boy. What will become of you both? What will you do? Oh, my poor, poor girl – a widow!’

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Alex’s eyes widen in astonishment.

  ‘Er, yes, come on, Mum, let’s go inside.’

  ‘A widow! And he looked so well on Sunday. Who would have thought that the very next day – ooohh! And now you’ve got to bury him!’ She stuffed her hanky in her mouth and I half led, half carried her, distraught, into the cottage, with the rest of my family following sheepishly behind. This particular contingent had their heads bowed and their eyes cast well down. Hands were thrust deep into pockets and there was much concentrated stamping of snow from feet as they negotiated the doorstep. One by one they caught my eye as they came in, but there wasn’t a tear amongst them. As I went to close the cottage door behind us all, I caught a last glimpse of Alex’s shocked face, watching us. I cringed deeply and shut the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Inside the cottage my mother tottered to the nearest armchair and collapsed in a heap.

  ‘Ooooh, Harry!’ she moaned.

  The rest of my family stood around her in an uncertain huddle. Dad squeezed my shoulder.

  ‘All right, love?’ he asked gruffly.

  ‘Yes, fine, Dad.’

  ‘Jolly bad luck,’ commented Miles ruefully. ‘Occupational hazard though, I’m afraid. Goes with the territory. All part of country life really.’

  By that I supposed he meant death by fungi. Well, that was one way of looking at it, I supposed, a bit like death by combine harvester, just one of those rural things.

  Philly gave him an incredulous glare and hugged me showily, murmuring, ‘Rosie, darling, how simply dreadful,’ but she let go rather too quickly, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to prolong the sympathy.

  We stood about awkwardly for a moment, then there was a collective shuffle for some chairs and we sat down, still huddled in our coats from the cold and consequently looking rather temporary. Ivo sat on the floor and solemnly untied my father’s shoe laces, oblivious of the atmosphere. Mummy sobbed on.

  ‘Dreadful business,’ muttered Daddy at length.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I agreed.

  ‘Spoken to Bertram?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Plenty of time. Poor fellow. Boffy?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Ghastly for him too.’

  Silence again. No one seemed to know what to say. Occasionally Philly would pass Mummy a tissue, or I’d reach out and pat her hand. I felt humbled by her grief actually, ashamed I couldn’t even begin to match it and unable to pretend. A deep silence descended and apart from Mummy’s choked sobs, we all fell to contemplating the carpet. My eyes began to glaze over but I couldn’t look up. I was terrified I might catch someone’s eye and not have a suitably sorrowful expression on my face. I gazed intently at the frayed end of a rug, and the awful thing was that the more the silence prevailed, the more I could feel myself getting faintly giggly. I breathed deeply, clenching my teeth. There seemed to be a terrible tenseness in the air. Mummy sniffed hard.

  ‘Such a good, kind man,’ she muttered.

  I stared at my shoes, marvelling at this flagrant untruth.

  ‘So young,’ she moaned, ‘and so brave!’

  I gulped. Blimey. You’d think he was a Chaucerian knight or something.

  ‘Cut down in his prime!’

  I bit the inside of my cheek. I daren’t look at Philly, fought with my face muscles and then just when I thought I was out of the woods –

  ‘Just like Our Lord,’ Mummy breathed.

  That did it. Head bowed, I scuttled from the room and fled to the kitchen. I flung open a cupboard, desperate to hide my shameful mirth in its depths. Just like Our Lord! I boggled hysterically at a jar of pickled onions. Crikey, same sex perhaps, but there the similarity ended surely.

  Someone came hurrying in behind me. I turned guiltily to see Philly, puce with suffused giggles.

  ‘Rosie, I’m so sorry,’ she snorted, ‘can’t help it!’

  ‘Neither can I – oh Philly, this is dreadful!’

  ‘Shhh!’ she gasped, clutching me, tears rolling down her cheeks. We stood for a moment, hanging on to each other, convulsed.

  ‘Philly, this is appalling!’

  ‘It’s nerves,’ she whispered sternly. ‘This sort of thing happens after shock.’

  ‘Sure?’ I wiped my eyes. ‘I’m not a callous heartless bitch?’

  ‘No, no, quite normal. Reflexes. It’s like cutting off a chicken’s head.’

  I struggled with my face, not convinced this analogy helped at all.

  ‘Right,’ she breathed at last. ‘I said I was getting some drinks. I see you’ve got some brandy, so you bring that and I’ll take out the glasses.’

  We composed ourselves and shuffled out, pouring out Joss’s brandy, faces hidden. Dad downed his in one. He contemplated the bottom of his glass for a moment, then put it aside decisively.
He stood up.

  ‘Right. Well, seeing as you’re all right, Rosie, I think we’ll be off.’

  ‘Oh! Oh, well, yes, I am. I’m fine.’ I got up quickly.

  ‘Excellent,’ he rubbed his hands together as if we’d just compared diaries and settled on dates for a jolly boating holiday or something. ‘Well, I think that’s the best plan then. Only I’d like to get Mum back, get her into bed with a few aspirin.’ He glanced over at his distraught wife. ‘Oh, and by the way, love, the police have been over to us already, just a few routine questions. Been to Philly and Miles too but couldn’t get here because of the snow. They said they’d pop in here this afternoon or tomorrow, depending on the weather, is that okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  He tied up his shoe laces and turned to Philly and Miles. ‘All right, my party?’

  With undisguised relief the others got to their feet and gently heaved Mummy up between them. I gave them a hand.

  ‘We’re going? So soon?’ she murmured, as if coming round from a private, tragic dream.

  ‘I think Rosie wants to be on her own,’ said Philly.

  ‘Of course she does,’ sniffed Mummy, ‘alone with her grief. My dear, dear child.’ She reached out and squeezed my wrist. Her face buckled again. ‘Sure you don’t want to come back with us?’

  I hugged her. ‘No, Mummy, honestly. I’ll be fine, really.’

  She nodded bravely, clamping her hanky to her mouth.

  Philly hung back as the others went out to the car. ‘Shall I come back?’ she whispered. ‘When we’ve taken Mum home?’

  ‘No, no, I’ll be all right. I’ll ring you later, we’ll have a chat then.’

  ‘Okay. Oh, and listen, Mum wants to organize the funeral, do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all, go ahead.’

  ‘We thought it would give her something to do. Take her mind off everything.’