Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Of course it will,’ affirmed Alex.

  I smiled. ‘Sorry,’ I said, scooping Ivo up from his high chair, ‘but I really will have far too much to do. I’m cooking a Christmas special for the pub that night and I don’t want to be caught with my trousers down just when this job’s going so well.’

  Alex raised his eyebrows. ‘No trousers down. Just a quiet drink.’

  ‘Idiot,’ I said, reddening. ‘But thanks for asking me anyway,’ I added truthfully, finally meeting his eye.

  I turned and headed for the back stairs, leaving two disappointed faces behind me.

  ‘She’ll come round, luv,’ I heard Vera whisper hoarsely, ‘just give ’er a bit of time.’

  I smiled at this and went on upstairs, leaving them to their machinations, but actually, my mind wasn’t really on Alex or Vera at that moment. What really intrigued me, and what I was going to try and find, was Kitty’s room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  With Ivo in my arms, I went up the stairs two at a time. Up and up until it seemed to me I couldn’t go any further. The room had a trap door, Martha had said. I walked back and forth along the top landing, staring at the ceiling, puzzled. I was just about to dash along to the girls’ room and ask Martha for further and better particulars, when I suddenly spotted a small half-door, high up in the wall, which I’d always assumed was a cupboard or something. I reached up and pulled at the handle but it stuck fast. Damn, it was locked. I gave it one final irritated wrench when suddenly it swung back. A step ladder shot down in front of me, missing my head by inches.

  ‘Christ!’ I leapt backwards.

  ‘Thteps!’ shrieked Ivo excitedly, wriggling to get down and indulge his passion for mountaineering.

  ‘Steps,’ I agreed, ‘and jolly steep ones at that.’

  I peered blindly up into the darkness, felt around for a light switch, miraculously found one, and then, wondering how on earth Kitty had managed this assault course on a daily basis with a toddler in tow, somehow half carried, half piggy-backed Ivo up. We wobbled precariously to the top step where I lunged forward and dumped him thankfully on the floor in front of me.

  ‘There – whoops!’ We fell together, laughing in a heap. I sat up, brushing the hair out of my eyes, but as I looked around, my laughter faded.

  ‘Oh,’ I groaned with delight.

  It was a long, airy attic room with a huge, white, cavernous ceiling full of beams and rafters also painted a gleaming white, stretching away to an enormous round window which dominated the end wall and through which the light flooded. It was Swedish, American boathouse or even New England church-like in style, and full of glorious pale colours. Glazed lemon walls reached up to the white rafters, pale green drapes hung casually but artfully round wooden poles at the windows, dark pink sofas and creamy calico cushions contrasted with faded, antique chairs and all on a pale, stripped wooden floor. After the darkness and clutter of the rooms downstairs it was like stumbling into an Atlantis, a jewel of a room, oozing style both old and new, an oasis of calm, light and tranquillity but all sadly neglected now and covered in dust and cobwebs. I got up and moved hypnotically around, touching things, stroking chair backs.

  At one end of the room, under the round window and behind one of the huge squashy rose sofas, was a long, fruit-wood table. It was covered in a chaotically organized sort of way with all manner of papers, bills, fabric samples, swatches of wallpaper, stencils, paint pots, books and prints. In one pile was a large sheaf of drawings. I picked up the top one and saw at once that it was a plan for the drawing room. Windows, curtains, fireplace and furniture had all been carefully sketched in, swatches of wallpaper and fabric were pinned in the corner and it was covered with notes and diagrams in an artistic, italic hand. I studied it for a minute then put it back carefully. Beneath the table were vast square baskets, one stacked high with magazines – Interiors, House and Gardens – another with china, piles of old blue and white Asiatic Pheasant plates, all destined for a dresser no doubt. Further along was another basket with more fabric, sticking up in rolls this time, and then another, a jumble of antique lace, appliquéd muslins, embroidered silks and bits of hand-blocked wallpaper. I crouched down and let a creamy, soft damask slip through my fingers. At the far end of the table was a sewing machine, still, as Martha had said, with a length of fabric under its needle, and next to it a pile of neatly stacked curtains made up in the same, old gold material. On top of that pile was pinned a note which said, ‘Dining room. To be hemmed.’

  I moved along, round and down the other side of the table, looking at the piles of receipts and order forms, all neatly paper-clipped together, and across to a beautiful little Georgian writing bureau. It was open, with its mahogany flap down revealing the small drawers at the back, and in front of it was a balloon-backed chair with a yellow buttoned seat. I sat down. The desk was crowded, but still neat and orderly. In one corner was a pile of correspondence, in another bills, then writing paper, two notepads, envelopes and some letters in a bundle, tied up with a blue ribbon. From Joss? I wondered. I touched them briefly, then ran my hand over a smooth, sandstone paperweight in the shape of a heart. Had that been a present from him? An old black Bakelite phone sat on the corner of the desk and I picked it up, wondering if it was purely aesthetic, but no, it worked. As I replaced the receiver I wondered how often she’d sat here, talking away happily to family, friends, relatives; chatting, laughing. It brought a lump to my throat. No wonder Joss couldn’t bear to do anything to this room, this happy, painful, labour-intensive workroom that was almost overpowering in its nostalgia. A beautiful, living collage of the former occupant.

  My eye roved across the piles of papers on the bureau and snagged on a watered silk file. I picked it up and opened it. Inside were recipes. Hundreds of them, cut out of magazines, torn from newspapers or scribbled down in her own arty hand. A lot of them I knew, many were classics – Elizabeth David, Arabella Boxer – but some were more obscure. Next to them she’d scribbled her own amendments – ‘cut out sugar’, ‘add some dill’ – and there was nothing particularly unusual about any of it, except, except … I swallowed. It all looked so familiar. I snapped the file shut and put it down.

  Right in front of me was her diary, open. I’d known it was there but up to now I’d been avoiding it. I scanned the entries. Under Monday was a list: ‘Cook for freezer. Finish trimming crib. Buy present for babies from Toby.’ Under Tuesday was, ‘Lunch with Molly. Ring midwife.’ Then the pages went blank. I flicked through and came across a big red star next to a Friday and underneath she’d drawn a pair of babies’ faces with a question mark and an exclamation mark. I bit my lip. That must have been her due date.

  I got up from the desk feeling very strange. Sad, naturally, but very shaken too. Unsettled. I gazed about the room again, taking in the arty clutter, the heaps of material, the tidy piles, the order she was attempting to give to domestic chaos. You see I knew this girl. I recognized her so well.

  Then my eye travelled to the other end of the room, the end I’d been avoiding up to now. I’d seen the playpen when I’d walked in, but it had made me ache to look at it. But Ivo had seen it now, and he was tugging my hand, dragging me over, and when I wouldn’t come, he toddled off on his own. I followed reluctantly. As I gazed inside, my eyes filled up. Over time it had clearly become a toy box and the bright, plastic mat was littered with cars, old teddies, soldiers, wooden trains, squashy balls, and above it, swinging from the high rafters, handmade mobiles slowly turning. Ivo rattled the bars eagerly.

  ‘In!’

  ‘No, Ivo.’

  ‘In. IN!’ he insisted. I ignored him as he gazed wistfully through the bars at toys left exactly as they’d fallen years ago. He hoisted his leg up, attempting to clamber over. I pulled him off the bars and made to carry him away but he squawked angrily and tried to nosedive back into it, out of my arms.

  ‘MuMMY!!’

  ‘NO, Ivo.’

  Struggling with him, I made for the stairs, but
suddenly he kicked out at me, catching my knee.

  ‘Ow! You little –’ I loosened my grip and in that instant he wriggled free.

  ‘Ivo!’

  He was off, dashing back to the playpen, but as he ran, his eyes lit upon something else, something far more exciting to his left. It was a tiny child’s desk, with crayons, papers, colouring books and little pots of paint, all neatly arranged and ready for action. Ivo’s joy was complete. He darted to it, dragged out the chair, sat down, and before I could stop him he had reached for the crayons and was scribbling furiously on the pristine white paper, tearing it in his determination.

  ‘Ivo, don’t!’ I swooped and tried to pick him up, but he clung to the chair with both fists, determined that this new toy would not evade him even if the playpen had.

  ‘Dwar!’ he shrieked. ‘DWAR!’

  ‘No, no drawing, it’s not ours. Come on, we’re going now, I’ll find you something downstairs.’

  ‘DWAR! DWAR!’

  ‘Yes, but downstairs, I’ll find you some crayons and –’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ a shrill voice rang out behind us.

  I swung round and to my horror saw Toby standing at the top of the steps. His face was clenched, very pale.

  ‘Toby!’ I gasped. ‘I’m so sorry, Martha said – well, we came up to, well, just to have a look, and then – Ivo saw the toys!’

  He stared at me and I realized he was trembling.

  ‘This is my mother’s room.’

  ‘I know, I know it is, darling, and it was dreadful of us to come up without asking you first, I feel so ashamed, but I just felt I wanted to know her a little more, Toby, to understand her. And now I’ve seen the room I do, but I should have asked first, I’m so sorry.’ I tugged desperately at Ivo who was clinging to the chair for grim death.

  ‘He’s using my crayons. That was my desk when I was little.’

  ‘I know, I know – oh, come ON, Ivo!’ I struggled to pick him up but the chair came too as the wretched child clung on. His feet lashed out in fury and he kicked the desk over. It fell with a mighty crash, spilling all the paints, the crayons and papers on to the floor.

  There was a horrified silence. Then Toby flew at us.

  ‘You stupid boy!’ he screamed, pummelling at us with his fists. ‘You stupid, interfering woman with your stupid little boy!’

  ‘Toby, stop!’ I turned to protect Ivo, then put him down and swung back, holding Toby’s arms as he lashed out at the air, his face contorted with fury. He struggled with me for a moment, then to my relief went limp. He burst into tears. I held him tight, holding him against me, letting his sobs flow into my body, cradling his head.

  ‘Oh, Toby, I’m so sorry,’ I cried, distressed.

  He sobbed loudly into my chest, great shoulder-shaking sobs that racked his little body.

  ‘Toby, don’t, we’ll put it all back, I promise we will!’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he gasped, ‘it’s not really Ivo, he can stay, it’s just – it’s everything!’

  I held on to him as he cried and cried. Gradually his sobs subsided, and as they did, I sneaked out one hand and surreptitiously managed to set the desk upright, feeling around behind me for the chair and setting that straight too. Ivo, intrigued by a bigger boy’s tears, toddled over and put his arm round him, patting him solemnly.

  ‘Poor Toby.’

  Toby raised his head and gave a watery grin. ‘Thanks, Ivo.’

  ‘All right now?’ I peered anxiously into his face.

  He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and nodded. ‘Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to – hit you or anything. It’s just this room. Being here. Sometimes it makes me happy, but sometimes I’m sad.’ He shrugged. ‘Dunno why really.’ He looked around.

  ‘It’s because it’s where you were with your mother. It’s bound to be full of happy memories but sad ones too because – Ivo, will you leave that ALONE!’ I lunged after the little beast who was making for the desk again.

  ‘Because she died,’ Toby finished. ‘I know. Leave him, I don’t mind, really, and I don’t think Mummy would have minded either.’

  I cringed as together we watched Ivo thrust a brush into each of the paint pots, mix up all the colours and then splosh it joyously over the paper, getting most of it on the desk. Toby seemed to be positively enjoying watching him now.

  ‘That must have been like me,’ he said with a bemused smile. ‘Same age, painting like Ivo. Look, those are mine on the wall.’

  I looked up, and pinned to the rafters was a collection of child art, mostly scribbles and, as he’d said, not dissimilar to the ones Ivo was doing now.

  ‘Do you remember anything?’ I asked softly, kneeling down and drawing him cautiously on to my knee. To my surprise he didn’t resist.

  He sniffed. ‘Only little bits. Like her hair when she kissed me goodnight. I remember it used to tickle my face. And I remember – sort of, smells. A soft jumper. And some bracelets jingling.’ He shrugged. ‘I wish I remembered more, but I don’t.’ His face buckled and a huge tear plopped down his nose. He struggled heroically with his face. ‘I think that’s what makes me sad sometimes.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ I said, kissing the top of his head. ‘It’s bound to, but doesn’t Daddy help you remember? Don’t you talk to him about it?’

  He glanced up at me in astonishment. ‘Oh no, that would make him too upset. He doesn’t want to remember, he wants to forget. And anyway,’ he said bitterly, ‘he’s got her now. What does he want to remember Mummy for?’

  ‘Well, just because he’s got Annabel, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t still miss your mummy, and sometimes, by going back it’s easier to go forwards again. If you both shut it out because it’s too painful it won’t go away, it’ll still be there.’

  I wondered why Joss didn’t talk to Toby. Who was he afraid of upsetting? And how could either of them be reconciled to the pain if they were both locked in their hurt without comforting each other?

  ‘It won’t ever go away,’ said Toby fiercely, ‘however much we talk about it. That’s stupid. It’ll always be there. I’ll always not have a mother and everyone else will and that’s all there is to it!’ He jumped off my lap and ran to the stairs. He turned and scrambled down the ladder, his face hidden as he disappeared down through the hole. There was a thump as he jumped the last few steps on to the landing.

  I sat and listened as his feet ran away down the passage. I sighed. It was ever thus with Toby. Two steps forward, one step back. With another heavy sigh I picked myself wearily up off the floorboards and brushed down my jeans.

  Ivo was still intent on his painting and, not wanting to risk another tantrum, I crossed to Kitty’s desk to check I’d left it as I’d found it. I smoothed down the page of the open diary and as I did, saw Joss watching me. From a tiny framed photograph in the corner of the desk. I hadn’t noticed it before. I picked it up. He was walking up a grassy hill towards the camera, only it didn’t look like Joss. He looked about ten years younger, tanned, windswept, incredibly good-looking, and the clothes were all wrong too. I’d only ever seen him wear rather cool baggy black ensembles, which went with his dark, brooding moods somehow, but here he was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans with, good heavens, a backpack on. When I looked closer I realized it had a tiny baby inside it. Toby. That in itself was surprising enough as he didn’t seem like the type to go hiking up hills with his offspring on his back, more of a pat them on the head in the nursery type, but it wasn’t just that. It was his face. He was laughing, and his eyes – they were so merry. Dancing almost. I found myself staring for ages. When I finally replaced the photograph in the corner, the ancient frame fell apart in my hands and the whole thing came to bits. Damn. I tried to fix it and as I did, I realized there were more photos in the back. I slid them out guiltily, feeling that my fingers were well and truly in the till now, but quite unable to retract them. There was nothing unusual about the pictures, just a few family snaps obviously taken on the same day o
n the hill, again with Joss looking young and carefree, again with Toby on his back, but this time some of Kitty too. I stared at the bright, confident face that smiled out at me and realized I’d never seen a picture of her before. There were none around the house. Was that at Joss’s or Annabel’s instigation? I wondered. She had short sandy blond hair with a long fringe that hung in her eyes, a few freckles, bright blue eyes and a huge smile with a slight gap in her teeth. Very pretty, but not in a groomed, manicured sort of way, just in an utterly natural and impossible to achieve without the basic bone structure sort of way. I replaced the photos with Joss’s at the front. Slowly I got up from the desk. I went over to Ivo and crouched down beside him as he painted.

  ‘Come on, darling, we’re going now.’

  For once he sensed I meant it and didn’t prevaricate. He put down his brush, took my hand and together, precariously, we manoeuvred the step ladder downstairs. As we went back down the main staircase, I chewed my thumbnail thoughtfully. He’d changed of course, that much was clear; in fact I’d hardly recognized him, but people didn’t change that much, did they? That carefree young man must surely still be in there somewhere, underneath that grim exterior? And could he not still come back, given the right set of circumstances? Given the right … well.

  I wandered through the hall, along the dark, oak-panelled corridor back to the kitchen, but stopped short outside the open drawing-room door. What plans she’d had for this dark, gloomy room, and how wonderful those curtains would have looked at those tall windows. Imagine how it would be without that revolting swirly red wallpaper too. Could still be. My heart was beating ridiculously fast. Ivo was racing excitedly about the room now, this being an unexpected privilege since I’d usually shoo him back into the kitchen or the playroom, but in his exuberance, he knocked against a pile of books on the coffee table and sent them flying. As he ran off and I bent to pick them up, one of them fell open. It was a collection of Yeats’s poetry and inside, on the fly leaf, was written: ‘For the one that so nearly got away. For the one that brought me back. My darling Annabel, with all my love and gratitude, Joss.’