Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  When she got to the door she paused. Turned. ‘Look,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I know this isn’t you talking, Rosie. I know you’re – upset. You’re frightened and confused and I don’t blame you, I can understand that, and I can forgive you too because, well, you’re not really in your right mind, are you?’ Her eyes met mine momentarily, then darted away as she turned for her small daughter. ‘Come on, Chloe.’ Taking her by the hand, she went, closing the door softly behind her.

  I sat there, shivering, staring after her. I felt a sudden surge of bile in my throat. The revulsion of what we’d just said to each other, which could now never be unsaid, made me feel physically sick. It would always be there. Those hostile, accusing words. I felt hot and then went very cold. I put my fingers to my eyelids. Tears. I swallowed hard. She’d forgive me, she’d said. She’d forgive me. For what? I shook my head, then thumped it hard with the palm of my hand in frustration. Oh, come on, think this through, Rosie, stop feeling sorry for yourself and just get some grey cells working up there! Oh God, why was it that I couldn’t think at all at the moment? I seemed to be drifting faster and faster through a horrific sequence of events as they carried me further and further on, until I’d surely just be swept over the rapids at the end.

  I flopped back in my chair. So why not bail out now? I thought suddenly. Why not just give in, hop off the roundabout, give a full confession to the police and satisfy everyone? Go directly to Jail, do not pass Go, do not collect £200. It would certainly satisfy my sister who clearly thought I’d done it, and my father who, God bless him, was intent on playing the sacrificial lamb, so sure was he that I’d done it, and my mother who, persuaded by those around her, must now surely think I’d done it. So why not just hold up my hands? Why not present myself at Cirencester police station saying, ‘Yep, it’s a fair cop, guv, I did hate the bastard and everyone knew I did and that’s why I finally did for him.’ Was that what everyone wanted? Was that what was required of me?

  I gazed out of the window. It would certainly put an end to all this ghastly suspicion and speculation within the family, stop us tearing at each other’s throats, and instead everyone could breathe a monumental sigh of relief and say, well, quite. And who can blame the poor girl? He was a perfect brute! I might even get off, I thought in surprise. There was always that possibility. Yes, I might get off scot-free on the grounds of diminished responsibility or – yes, I know, I could say I had PMT or something. It was amazing how many women were killing their husbands these days and running that defence. Just a twinge of a curse pain and, oops, good heavens, the next thing I knew the knife was in his chest, Your Honour, or, good gracious, did I really tamper with his brakes? No, Your Honour, no, I don’t remember doing it, must have crept out to the garage in the middle of the night when the cramps were pretty bad. Of course, I reasoned, it wasn’t so easy for a father-in-law to explain away something like that, or even a sister-in-law come to that, but for me, the wife, with a small son in tow and no previous form and heaps of provocation, well, it could be a breeze. Yes, okay I’d probably go to prison, but not for long, and not a ghastly Holloway sort of place, more of an open prison, more of a university campus type thing, with lots of libraries and tennis courts – a bit of a holiday camp really. And I could use the time wisely, take a geography degree, pitch and putt. Who knows, it could be the making of me.

  And meanwhile, of course, on the other side of the wire, after the initial shock horror of ‘Oh my God, how could she have done it!’ – yes, after all that, and seeing as I was a nice girl from a nice middle-class family, the Daily Mail would probably take up my story and do a feature on me. Out would come the years of psychological torment, the suffering at the hands of an alcoholic, brutish husband, and there’d be pictures of me as a sweet young thing at Pony Club camp, or in a swimming costume on a Cornish beach, and pictures of Ivo too, looking terribly forlorn and sad and holding a framed photograph of his mummy in prison, and then there’d be an absolute tidal wave of sympathy for me.

  Yes, and then Mummy could appear at press conferences, weeping copiously, supported by Daddy looking grey and drawn, and then Philly would start campaigning tirelessly for my release. She’d storm Parliament, go on the ten o’clock news, get up petitions, become a sort of Jill Morrell figure. She’d like that, it would give her a sense of purpose. Make her feel ‘alive’ or whatever it was she wanted to feel. Vital, that was it. And then when I was released – which, believe me, wouldn’t take long with Philly at the helm – we could all stand together on the steps of the Royal Courts of Justice as the triumphant Cavendish family, arms raised in a victory salute. ‘Freedom for the Gloucestershire Housewife!’ the tabloids would proclaim, and there’d be photos of me punching the air and grinning wildly, and then we could all go home and have a nice cup of tea and it would all blow over and within, ooh, a couple of weeks probably, Mummy would be out foraging around for a new husband for me.

  Off she’d go, nose to the ground, like a ferret after a rabbit, a bargain hunter at a car boot sale, round and round the Gloucestershire circuit, a word here, a dinner party thrown casually there, a divorced accountant here – right next to me, in fact, right beside me at the dinner table. He’d be grey-suited, brown-shoed, a bit bald, a bit paunchy but terribly respectable, and my heart would sink, but then again, crikey, beggars can’t be choosers and after all I did have ‘form’. So I’d smile and I’d grit my teeth and later on I’d think of England, and then before you could blink I’d be hustled down that aisle again with Mummy and Philly in peach and lilac respectively, beaming at each other with relief over the orange blossom. Then in nine months’ time I’d doubtless be in an interesting condition again, and that, as they say, would be that. Happy ever after for all concerned, except – except … I stared down at the stripped pine table … that it wasn’t going to be like that. Because I didn’t do it. I didn’t … bloody … do it. My hand closed round my car keys on the table, and as they did, my resolve hardened like Superglue. No, I didn’t do it, and since that was the only, single, solitary thing I was sure about at the moment, I wasn’t going to swing for it. Sorry, everyone, but no. You can find some other scapegoat.

  I stood up, knocking my chair over backwards in my determination. Without bothering to pick it up, I scooped up Ivo, marched out of Philly’s terribly tasteful kitchen, banged her terribly tasteful Gothic door behind me, and scattering a few startled bantams in my wake marched smartly out to my filthy old Volvo.

  I beetled back down those narrow lanes thinking dire and bitter thoughts. Of course, I reasoned grimly, it was only natural, given my permanent status of doormat in this family, that I should be expected to lie down completely one day and let everyone trample all over me. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it occurred to me that prison, with a roof over my head and three meals a day, was beginning to look a bit aspirational. Surely a Siberian labour camp was more the ticket for me? A nice spot of starvation in a freezing cold wasteland, like that Solzhenitsyn book about poor old Ivan Denisovich who was so cold at night he had to trap his farts under his blanket to keep warm. Shouldn’t that be my fate? Wasn’t that more my natural milieu? I ground my teeth manically. Was it heck as like, as my father would say, they could all go to hell! Steam pouring from all orifices now, I screeched to a halt in front of the cottage and marched up to the door. On it was pinned a note. I snatched it off and read it.

  ‘I said don’t do anything, don’t talk to anyone, and don’t go anywhere. Why can’t you bloody well listen? Ring me the moment you get back. Joss.’

  Oh, did you say that? I seethed. Yes, well, I’m sorry, but while you were chatting to your dear wife across the Channel about some poxy book deal, excuse me if I did just toddle off to try to clear my name, only I’ve got this little matter of a murder charge hanging over my head! I screwed the note up, barged through the front door and flung the ball of paper at the opposite wall screeching ‘ARRGGGHHHH!’ as I did so. Ivo was most impressed.

  ‘Mumm
y cross,’ he said in awe.

  ‘Yes, well, it’s either that or I go to pieces entirely, darling, so best to keep up the aggression, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed solemnly. ‘More biscuits?’

  ‘Oh my gosh, will you ever give up! No, Ivo, I’ll make you a nice cheese sandwich instead, we’ll try a spot of nutrition for a change, otherwise you’ll end up with rickets and then they really will take you away from me. They’ll have you listed as a malnourished child and the Social Services will come down on me like a ton of bricks.’

  I flopped on to the sofa and stared into space. I didn’t want to ring Joss. Not just yet, not after the conversation I’d just had with Philly. I didn’t want to add more grist to his mill. Didn’t want to admit to him that even I was suspicious of her now. I bit my thumbnail and gazed miserably round the room. It was still, of course, in the same chaotic state my friends in blue had left it, and at some point I supposed I ought to get round to clearing it up. It was just that I didn’t really feel like doing anything right now. All I actually felt like doing was lying in a cool, white bed in a Swiss clinic in the mountains somewhere, sipping beef tea. I sighed. On the doormat across the room the morning’s post lay abandoned and unopened. In fact yesterday’s was probably still there too, I was sure I hadn’t got round to opening that either. I got wearily to my feet and picked it up before it got lost in the general confusion. I stood on the mat, flipping through it. There was nothing much there. A couple of clothes catalogues, an envelope informing me I might have won a super-duper star prize if I could just be bothered to open the envelope. I couldn’t. Then there were one or two bills and then a more interesting-looking pale blue Basildon Bond affair. It was addressed to me in a neat, round hand. I opened it and smoothed out the paper.

  ‘If you want to know more about Tim McWerther, meet me at your house in Meryton Road at 2.00 p.m. on Tuesday.’

  It wasn’t signed. I stared, and then read it again. For a moment I couldn’t think who the dickens Tim McWerther was, then suddenly I could. I dropped the note on the mat like a hot coal and jumped back in alarm. God Almighty, an anonymous note! Whatever next? This was like wandering into a Robert De Niro film – any minute now I’d open the door and find a dead dog on my doorstep, or a horse’s head in my bed! I gazed at the sheet of paper lying there on the mat. Oh no, I didn’t like the sound of this at all. What, meet some stranger in an empty house and end up with a silk scarf round my neck or something? No thank you.

  After a bit, though, curiosity got the better of me and I inched forward, peering down. Who was it from? I wondered. Whoever it was was clearly highly suspect, because why on earth hadn’t they signed it? Very gingerly I reached down and picked it up again. I turned it over. There was something written on the other side. ‘Come alone.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I dropped it again smartly and nearly leapt up on the sofa. God, you must be joking!

  I gazed at it in horror, then paced around the room a bit, my heart hammering. Right, this is simple, I thought. You know what to do now, don’t you, Rosie? You know what any sane, sensible, intelligent person would do? Exactly. You ring the police. You tell them about this strange missive, you give them all the information, all the details, and you get them on your side for a change. Let them see that you’re trying to help. After all, they’ve got Tim McWerther in custody, haven’t they? That’s what the superintendent had hinted anyway, so they must be itching to find out more about him. Well, tip them off, do them a favour, and then let them go and meet the mystery guest. Yes. Absolutely. Without wasting another moment, I picked up the phone and rang Superintendent Hennessey in Oxfordshire. She wasn’t there, she was in London apparently, but the desk sergeant, on hearing who I was, instantly gave me her mobile number. VIP treatment, you see, I thought darkly. I rang it and she answered immediately.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Meadows, I’ve been looking forward to having a little chat with you.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ My heart began to thump again.

  ‘Yes, I’m in London at the moment, just left your house.’

  ‘Ah. Oh yes, of course.’ I’d forgotten she’d gone off to search that. ‘And?’ I said warily. ‘Found anything interesting?’

  ‘Yes, very. May I share it with you?’

  ‘Do I have any choice?’

  ‘Not really, no. We found a note in your bedroom. Under your pillow, actually. It reads as follows.’ She cleared her throat. ‘“I won’t go quietly, my love. Don’t imagine I will. We’re in too deep for that. Come back to me. Love and bunny hops, Tim.”’

  There was a pause. I boggled into the receiver.

  ‘Any views on that?’ came her voice.

  ‘Could you repeat that please?’ I whispered.

  ‘Certainly.’ She did, but this time with a little more feeling. Then she added, ‘We’ve checked the handwriting, by the way. It’s genuine.’

  Silence.

  ‘Mrs Meadows?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you anything to say?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Nothing at all, eh?’

  This woman had a fine line in sarcasm which consisted of repetition followed by question mark. Simple but surprisingly effective. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Nothing at all, except to say that it’s quite clearly been planted there. Like I told you before, I know Mr McWerther very vaguely. I’ve met him once or twice. He’s certainly never been my lover. For some reason he’s trying to imply that he was.’

  ‘I’d like to agree with you, Mrs Meadows, but my problem is that we’ve had him firmly under lock and key these past few weeks. It would be nigh on impossible for him to get that note into your house.’

  ‘Someone else then.’

  ‘Ah, I see, someone else. Now why on earth d’you think anyone would want to do that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know, eh?’

  There she went again, with the withering irony. It was beginning to get on my nerves.

  ‘Well, I suggest you come up with some ideas pretty soon because frankly it’s not looking good, is it? You deny all knowledge, carnal or otherwise, of this boy and then lo and behold we go and find notes of an intimate nature in your bedroom. What am I to think?’

  ‘Well, quite, and I have to agree that if I were you I’d find it hard to resist coming to some dodgy conclusions. It’s more than a little circumstantial, isn’t it, so why not charge me? Why not arrest me? Why all this shilly-shallying around? Why don’t you have the courage of your convictions, Superintendent Hennessey, or is the truth that actually you’re far from convinced yourself?’

  There was a long pause. I quietly marvelled at myself during it. Interesting technique, Rosie. Calling the bluff of the officer in charge of your very own murder inquiry, very bullish, very bullish indeed. If a little foolhardy perhaps.

  I was somewhat relieved to hear her finally murmur, ‘All in good time, Mrs Meadows. All in good time. Now, you rang.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You rang me.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ I paused. ‘It was … nothing actually. I just wondered how you were … getting along,’ I finished lamely.

  She snorted derisively. ‘Oh, we’re getting along just fine. I’ll be seeing you soon, Mrs Meadows.’ There was a click, and our conversation, for the moment anyway, appeared to be at an end.

  Slowly I replaced the receiver. Then I stared down at the note on my lap. Why hadn’t I told her about it? Was it simply for fear that she might turn up at the house, sirens blazing, car doors slamming, in which case our mystery guest would do a runner and she’d write the whole thing off as an elaborate hoax on my part and accuse me of penning the letter myself? Or was it more? I wondered thoughtfully, getting up and walking to the window. It occurred to me that if someone was planting fictitious notes in my bedroom, might they not also be sending me anonymous letters? And hoping I’d tell the police about it? Mig
ht it not be one and the same person, and might they not be hoping that I would indeed bring the police along, and thereby lure me into an even bigger trap? Stitch me up quite comprehensively? Yes, I thought, heart hammering, that was it. Whoever it was would be assuming I wouldn’t have the guts to come alone and would reach for the phone, as I’d just done. Drag along old Steel Knickers. I snatched up the note. Two o’clock, it said, on Tuesday. That was today. I looked at the postmark on the envelope. Two days ago. Someone must have put some blind faith in the vagaries of the postal system and hoped it would arrive, but arrive it had and right now – I glanced at my watch – it was ten to twelve. If I hurried, I could just about make it. I wavered for a split second, then, bugger it! I’d had enough of this. If I ended up with a knife in my back for my pains then so be it, but I was damn well going to London and I was going to find out once and for all what was going on.

  I raced around the cottage grabbing coat, money, keys, handbag and at the last minute dashed upstairs and found – a hatpin. One of the things my mother had always impressed upon Philly and me was the importance of carrying a hatpin when travelling on public transport or anywhere where undesirables – anyone in a slightly grubby mac, in my mother’s book – might loiter. It was apparently absolutely essential. Quite where one was supposed to stick it, should the occasion arise, I’ve no idea, but I was in no doubt that today was definitely a hatpin day.

  I ran downstairs again, picked up Ivo and put the poor bewildered child back in the car. Then I drove very, very cautiously up the back drive and stopped just short of Farlings. I crept up to the kitchen with my son in my arms and tapped on the window, at the same time glancing nervously up to the bedrooms. I couldn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t glaring out of a turret somewhere.

  I tapped again. ‘Martha!’ I hissed. ‘Thank God you’re back.’