Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘The past couple of …’ I lapsed into silence, staggered. Suddenly a thought struck me. ‘Oh God, d’you think Miles ever found out?’

  ‘Funnily enough, I never asked. Never actually approached him in the pub, slapped him on the back and said, hey Miles, old buddy, you must be Philly’s husband! Did you know she was being slipped a length on a regular basis by that Feelburn guy?’

  ‘Oh yuk.’ I shuddered. Then I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘And I mean, for heaven’s sake, why?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why does anyone have an affair? For the excitement, the danger, the release it brings from their mean, mediocre little lives?’

  ‘Yes, but Philly’s life isn’t mean and mediocre! She’s got everything! A beautiful manor house, a loving husband, three gorgeous children, money to burn – and with Michael of all people. He’s so pleased with himself, so smug, and God, I thought she loathed the Feelburns!’

  ‘Just one of them. The one that was married to her lover.’

  I stared. Of course. Suddenly it all made sense. It would explain all her unprovoked attacks on Alice, her snide remarks about her alternativeness, her bean bags, her brown rice. She was jealous of her being with Michael.

  ‘And then he tried me,’ I said bitterly, remembering.

  ‘Perhaps he figured it ran in the family.’

  It was said lightly but I wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said quickly, seeing my face, ‘just a joke.’

  I let it pass, because suddenly I remembered something Michael had said that terrible night. Something about us all being the bloody same. Was he being a little more specific than I’d imagined? Had he just got the push from Philly? Had he finally been scorned? And had he moved on to me thinking he’d try something in the same vein? Was that why he’d been so aggressive? So determined to have his way, to wreak some sort of vengeance perhaps? I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t hear Joss whistle through his teeth. It was only when I heard him say ‘Jeez’ in a low whisper that I looked up. He was flipping through one of the books.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, bugger me backwards, as they say round these parts.’

  I craned my neck to see. ‘What is it?’

  He snapped the book shut. ‘Okay, well, this one is called The Mycologist’s Handbook.’ He held it up for me to see. ‘And this little beauty,’ he held up another, ‘is entitled – A Passion for Mushrooms. And d’you know who they both belong to?’

  ‘Who?’

  He flipped open to the title page. ‘One Philippa Jane Cavendish.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I stared at him. ‘What are you saying, Joss?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? Not one, but two – no, wait on – three well-thumbed tomes on the humble art of mycology. I mean, how many mushroom manuals d’you have in your collection?’

  ‘One or two actually,’ I said defensively.

  ‘Yes, but you’re a cook. Your sister was an anaesthetist and is now a housewife. I think it’s pretty peculiar if you must know.’

  We met each other’s eyes for a long moment. Finally I gave a slight smile. ‘By “pretty peculiar” I take it you mean you think she poisoned my husband,’ I said lightly.

  ‘Well, is it possible?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t bloody possible!’ I stormed. ‘My sister Philly? She wouldn’t hurt a fly! And I mean that quite literally! God, when we were little she used to provide a matchbox ambulance service for ants or spiders found stranded in our kitchen, taking them outside in case they were trampled underfoot! The whole reason for her going into medicine was because she felt she’d been “called”, for heaven’s sake, like some kind of latter-day Florence Nightingale. Of course it’s not possible, she’s a healer, Joss, not a killer!’

  ‘I didn’t mean characterwise,’ he said calmly, ‘I meant practicably. Could she feasibly have done it? Forget her sensibilities, Rosie. Where was she at the time of Harry’s last breakfast? Where was everyone, for Chrissake?’

  ‘Well, she was – with everyone else. In the drawing room. I think.’

  ‘Were you there too?’

  ‘No, I was in the hall. I remember going out there to get myself a drink while the mushrooms cooked and just sitting down on the stairs to drink it.’

  ‘So you don’t really know if anyone quietly left the drawing room, slipped into the kitchen and popped the killer fungi in the pan?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous! You’re talking about my family here, a normal, sane, middle-class family!’

  ‘And since when has sanity or class ever precluded murder?’

  ‘Oh, excuse me, but class would most certainly preclude my mother! What? Blood on her hands at the Conservative bring and buy? Or at the Cancer Research monthly meeting? God, she’d rather stick pins in her eyes, and sanity would certainly preclude my father – along with honesty, decency and downright integrity too, if you must know!’

  ‘So that’s your folks out of the frame then.’

  ‘They were never in it,’ I seethed.

  ‘And Miles?’

  ‘Oh God, Miles doesn’t have strong feelings about anything or anyone. Ask him about Myra Hindley and he’ll probably say she’s a basically nice person. He’s far too placid to do anything remotely aggressive. It’s as much as he can do to open Country Life and slip a malt whisky down his throat. It certainly wouldn’t occur to him to kill anyone.’

  ‘Which leaves Philly.’

  ‘Well, only by a process of elimination!’ I spluttered.

  ‘Who hated Harry.’

  ‘Well, yes, but –’

  ‘Loathed him in fact.’

  I paused. ‘Okay.’

  ‘And who, despite her fey, winsome ways, is in actual fact an extremely forthright, trouser-wearing girl. Who takes the lead at all times – certainly in the sisterly field. Who’s always protected you, could never imagine why you married Harry, loves you with a passion, loathes him with a vengeance, hates to see you being trampled underfoot like those poor little ants and desperately wants to rescue you but sees you slipping more and more into his clutches. Naturally she’s delighted when she hears you’re going to divorce him, she’s jubilant that you’re finally going to get shot of the bastard. But then Harry plays his trump card. A few days later, in front of the entire family, in his usual, bullying, inimitable style, he declares that he’ll never let you go and that if you dare to take him on he’ll perjure himself in court, proclaim you an unfit – nay, abusive mother – and take Ivo away from you for ever. To her horror, Philly sees you begin to cave in. She sees you capitulate before her very eyes in a way that she would never dream of doing, so that to her utter frustration it seems that her little sister will never be free of this boorish, pugnacious, alcoholic bully unless … And it would be so easy, wouldn’t it? Because as a matter of fact she knows where they grow. And she knows what they look like. She’s read all the books, you see. All she has to do is slip down to the bottom of the garden early one morning, harvest her booty, bide her time and then a little while later, when the fry-up begins, slip quietly into the kitchen and pop something she’d prepared earlier into the pan.’

  I gazed at him in horror. ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘No, she wouldn’t!’

  ‘Wouldn’t she? Why? Because she hasn’t got the balls?’

  ‘No, it’s not that –’

  ‘Or the brains?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or the determination? The guts? The tenacity? All those qualities, Rosie, that you so envied her as you were growing up? All those qualities that drove her to the top of the medical field, the social field, and any other field you care to mention, those qualities which you lacked and which, frankly, make her capable and you not?’

  I paused and met his eye squarely. ‘She wouldn’t have the duplicity,’ I said firmly. ‘Yes, she’s got all those other things, she’s got them in spadefuls, but Philly’s as honest as the day. She’s simply not capable of deception in any shape
or form.’

  ‘Even in the form of Michael Feelburn?’

  I stared.

  ‘You wouldn’t have believed it, would you, Rosie? Your beloved Philly, mother of those gorgeous children, chatelaine of one of the most beautiful houses in the Cotswolds, Lady Many-Acres, pillar of the community, school governor, tireless charity worker, your childhood idol, your big, beautiful indomitable sister – to cheat on her husband? To have an affair? And not, mind you, a falling-in-love affair, a head-over-heels, can’t-help-themselves-poor-bastards affair, but a sneaky, sordid, organized little Wednesday night sex romp with, of all people, that smooth-talking trouser-snaked Lothario Michael Feelburn? Is that in her character?’

  There was a silence. I held his eye grimly, determined not to waver – but then suddenly jumped like a rabbit when the phone rang. I snatched it up.

  ‘H-hello?’ I whispered into the receiver.

  ‘If ’e’s down there with you, you can tell him from me ’e’d better get back ’ere sharpish. I can’t be doing wiv any more of this upstairs downstairs malarkey from her ladyship. I’ll ’ave ’er up for ’arassment if she’s not careful!’

  I passed the phone to Joss. ‘It’s Vera.’

  ‘Vera, hi … Oh God. Oh Jesus, all right. Okay, Vera, yes, I get the message. Yes I will, take it easy … yes, I’m on my way.’ He put the phone down wearily. Then he rubbed his face with both hands and sighed. ‘It seems Annabel’s been calling every five minutes to speak to me. There’s some lousy book deal her agent’s let her down on and she wants me to throw some kind of weight behind her and sort it out.’ He looked across at me. ‘I’ll have to go up and call her, Rosie. She’s driving Vera crazy with her “just get hold of my husband for me or you’re fired” routine.’

  ‘Charming,’ I muttered.

  He didn’t reply. I bit my lip. Was that bitchy? Yes, okay, probably, but actually I didn’t care, because suddenly what I wanted, I realized with a huge surge of jealousy, was for him to sort me out. To drop everything and give me the benefit of his undivided attention, to calm me down, not her.

  He stood up to go. I watched his tall, broad back and sat there on my upturned box, marooned in my misery. As he went to the door, he turned. His gaze settled on me again.

  ‘Now listen to me, Rosie. You do nothing, okay? You stay here and you see no one and you speak to no one about this. Just quietly sort this place out and go about your business, but don’t actually do anything until I get back, because although I may be otherwise engaged for some time I will be back, and I’m going to darn well get to the bottom of this one. Okay?’

  He must have taken my dumbstruck gaze for agreement, because with those explicit instructions he went, leaving me to wonder, as I sat in the middle of my chaotic sitting room, if it was simply his six foot two of all-American maleness that made me go weak at the knees, or the fact that I was a rather pathetic female with a secret passion for dominant men. ‘I’m going to darn well get to the bottom of this one, okay?’ Lovely. I allowed myself a brief swoon over that. God, I’d like to have it on tape to listen to in my darkest moments, or even my brightest ones, come to that. Eat your heart out, Annabel, I thought smugly, he’s going to sort me out too, see? I sniffed. I just happen to be second, that’s all.

  I sat there dreamily, gazing into space and hugging my knees, lost in a glorious reverie that somehow, amazingly, everything was going to be absolutely fine now, simply because he’d said it was going to be. Because he was determined to get to the bottom of it. Suddenly, though, I snapped to. I dropped my knees with a jolt. Oh God, and why was it going to be fine? Why did I have to do nothing, say nothing, sit tight? Because – because he meant to implicate my sister, that’s why! I went hot. Philly! Great Scott, he must be mad. Did he really think I was going to sit around filing my nails when I knew the way his mind was going? When I knew what he intended to do?

  Quickly I scooped up Ivo who was happily chewing final demands on the floor and made for the door. I poked my head out cautiously. Joss’s footsteps were just crunching up to the top of the gravel drive, and then I heard the back door slam. He was in. Seizing our coats, I crept out to the car. Fumbling with the straps, I tried to immobilize Ivo in his seat, who, sensing I was in a hurry, instantly began to wriggle and be difficult.

  ‘Biscuits,’ I breathed, ‘chocolate ones, at Aunt Philly’s house!’

  ‘Thmarties!’ he demanded.

  ‘Ooh, yes, lots of Smarties, darling, and lollies too!’

  He caved in dramatically and I snapped him in, got in myself, and then wishing to God I didn’t have to pass Joss’s house every time I wanted to go out, drove guiltily up the drive with my head well down. As I did, I had a sudden vision of Philly doing exactly the same thing as she went past with Michael so I threw my head up defiantly and sped out of the gates. So what if he saw me, I was my own woman, wasn’t I? I could do what I liked. I hurtled down the narrow country lanes much too fast, as if somehow, the faster I drove, the less time I’d have to think about it all. My head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t true, of course his assumptions were ridiculous, he didn’t know Philly, for heaven’s sake. He didn’t have any idea just how wide of the mark he was, but somehow – somehow I just wanted to see her. If only to remind myself of how outrageous his supposition was.

  Five minutes later I turned down into her valley, swept through her stone gateposts and into her gravel courtyard. I came to a halt, turned off the engine and sat for a moment, just taking in the sheer, heart-stopping beauty of the place. The majestic old house loomed benignly over me, crawling with ancient gnarled creepers which snaked around generous, floor-to-ceiling sash windows, like lots of wide open friendly eyes with shaggy eyebrows. Snowdrops and crocuses were just sprouting from the tubs by the front door and around them a little squad of bantams pecked busily in the shrubbery. I felt better already. I took in the calm, tranquil scene a moment longer, then got out and went round to lift Ivo from his car seat. He squeaked with excitement when he saw where he was.

  ‘Philly’s!’

  ‘Yes, my darling, did you think I’d lied to you as usual?’

  ‘Yes!’

  I grinned and kissed him hard on the forehead. ‘You want to watch it, Ivo, you’re getting to know your mother far too well.’

  I carried him round to the back door and shouldered it open. A black cat shot out like a rocket.

  ‘Hell-o!’ I called. ‘Anyone at home?’

  ‘– and you can stop that bloody grizzling too!’

  I paused on the doormat. ‘Philly?’

  Her flushed face shot round the playroom door into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh! Rosie, sorry, I didn’t even hear you. This ruddy child hasn’t stopped caterwauling all morning, I can’t even hear myself think!’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ I said, shutting the back door with my bottom and picking up a sobbing Chloe as she ran to me. I put Ivo down and hoisted her on to my hip. ‘Ivo gets like that sometimes, it’s as if nothing you can do is right for them.’

  ‘Nothing I ever bloody do around here is right,’ she declared savagely. She banged the kettle down hard on the Aga hob. ‘Instant all right?’

  ‘Er, yes, fine. I prefer it.’

  ‘Just as well.’ Philly reached up for the coffee jar, her face hot and flushed, her eyes angry. She brushed a strand of hair from her face in irritation.

  ‘Why isn’t she at school?’ I asked, settling down at the kitchen table and cuddling my snivelling niece on my knee.

  ‘She says she’s got an earache, but it’s amazing how it disappears the moment Teletubbies starts.’

  ‘Ah well,’ I said soothingly, ‘these things flare up and down all the time with children, it’s just like temperatures.’

  ‘Evidently. It’s just mine that seems to keep on rising.’ She banged the lid on the coffee jar. Then she sighed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Rosie, ignore me. I’m in a filthy mood this morning. Everything seems to have got on top of me at the moment, that’s all. The blo
ody decorators are still here – well, let’s face it, they’ve taken up residence, I’m going to file for adoption soon – and they’ve cocked up the wallpaper in Bertie’s room yet again. I mean, how easy is it to put up a Thomas the Tank Engine border upside down? Twice! And the builder’s just cheerily informed me that there’s yet more damp in the breakfast room – although I wouldn’t put it past that crook to have thrown a bucket of water at the wall – which means another army of tea-swilling, foul-mouthed, cigarette-puffing builders in my home for months on end and – oh, for heaven’s sake, Chloe, leave Ivo alone! He doesn’t want to be your blinking little polar bear!’

  I disentangled my wailing son tactfully from Chloe’s affectionate grasp and hoisted him up on to my knee. ‘Well, that’s life in a big house really, isn’t it?’ I remarked.

  ‘Yes, I know it’s life, that’s exactly the problem. It’s the whole mind-numbing process of getting through one tedious, itch-making day only for another one to sodding well dawn on the back of it.’

  I smiled. ‘So you’re stressed.’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  Ivo wriggled off my knee. I gazed up at my sister. ‘Is that why you had an affair with Michael?’

  She paused as she poured the kettle. Set it down and turned.

  ‘Ah. So that’s why you’re here. I wondered.’ She regarded me for a moment, then turned back and resumed her pouring. ‘Oh well, I suppose it was inevitable you’d find out sooner or later. Which charming little bird whispered in your shell-like then?’

  ‘No one. The police came to search the cottage. They brought everything down from the attic, including your things. Your clothes and everything.’

  She swung round. ‘They searched your cottage?’ she gasped. ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘Who knows?’ I watched her closely. ‘Looking for something, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie, I’m so sorry, how ghastly for you. Is it a mess?’

  ‘It’s not too bad. I was more shaken by how intimidating I found the whole thing, it’s a bit like being strip-searched, I imagine. There’s a female superintendent in charge who’s distinctly charmless and intent on having my guts for garters. Anyway, after they’d gone I realized some of the junk in the boxes belonged to you. Joss was there, he told me the rest.’