Rosie (15 page)

‘He ran off?’

‘Ran out of breath. Died of a heart-attack.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘No, no. Too long ago for that. My mum married again in her seventies. She’s still going strong. Seen off the second husband, though. Reckons that men today have no stamina. Tough, these old birds, aren’t they?’

‘You can say that again.’

Henry looked reflective. ‘Your granny’s an amazing old girl.’

‘Don’t let her hear you say that.’

‘Doesn’t she like being called an old girl, then?’

‘She wouldn’t like the “old” bit. I don’t think it’s a word she includes in her vocabulary.’

‘Well, I have to tell you, young Nick, that I reckon she’s a bit of a star, and if she was ten years younger I’d be making a play for her.’

‘Ten years?’ Nick looked at him with incredulity. ‘How old do you think she is, then?’

‘Getting on for seventy?’

‘Ha!’

‘Late sixties?’

Nick shook his head. ‘Wrong way.’

‘Older?’

‘Much. Eighty-seven.’

Henry sat down at his desk with a thump. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Nope. Born in 1917.’

‘Well, bugger me.’

Nick grinned. ‘I’ll take that as an expletive rather than an invitation.’

‘She’s amazing for her age.’

‘I know. Refuses to lie down. Mind you, I do wonder . . . if she had the opportunity . . .’ Then he looked serious. ‘Look, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell her I told you her age, will you? She’d skin me alive.’

Henry came out of his reverie. ‘Of course not. Well, I’m blowed. Eighty-seven! Old enough to be my mother.’ His face bore a look that quite clearly indicated his disappointment. The sort of disappointment that comes when dreams are overtaken by reality.

 
 
16

In my opinion, rather overrated.

V
ictoria was unsure of her mother’s mood, and when you’re trying to persuade a parent to buy you something, you need to be certain that your strategy is going to work. She had decided that she, too, was an artist, but rather than accepting the box of poster paints her mother was prepared to buy her, she had set her heart on a watercolour outfit in a varnished wooden box. She knew that now was not the moment to admit this, and declined what she considered the childish compromise. She settled instead for a guidebook to the Isle of Wight so that she could get to know it better. And, hopefully, find somewhere to live.

Alex, knowing that her daughter’s intransigence could be epic when she put her mind to it, bought the modestly priced guidebook without demur and resigned herself to the fact that something was clearly brewing.

‘Where are we?’ Victoria asked, as she pored over the map of the lozenge-shaped island.

Alex peered over her shoulder. ‘Here.’ She pointed to the bottom right-hand corner.

‘And where is Nick?’

‘Here.’ Alex indicated the northernmost tip.

‘How far away is that?’

‘Well, look at the scale. There you are – that line. Five miles is about as long as . . . your finger. How many fingers between here and there?’

Victoria stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, the better to concentrate, and measured the map with her finger. ‘Three.’

‘Which means we are how many miles away?’

‘I’m not stupid, you know.’

‘Well?’

‘Fifteen miles. Is that close?’

‘Fairly.’

‘What about you and Nick?’ she asked casually, as she folded up the map. ‘Are you close?’

Her mother decided attack was the best form of defence. ‘Don’t be so nosy.’

‘I’m not nosy, just curious.’

‘I think he’s a very nice man, that’s all. And I’ve only just met him.’

Victoria folded her arms. ‘Honestly, you’re like Elinor Dashwood.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. That story was written nearly two hundred years ago and this is the twenty-first century.’

Victoria gave her a quizzical look. ‘It’s funny how some things don’t change, isn’t it?’

The Red Duster was unusually busy, but Henry, having forewarned his friend the landlord of their arrival, had secured a table in the far corner of the bar, albeit with only one chair. He squeezed round it, lowered himself and the bottle of St Émilion into place, then motioned to Nick that he should grab the chair that had just been vacated by a boat-builder.

With a pint of hand-pulled in one fist and a piece of bentwood furniture in the other, Nick elbowed his way through a Gore-Tex clad group of yachties and eased himself opposite his patron.

They had barely begun to converse when a voice cut through the crowd. ‘Sorry! Thank you so much. Yes – thank you. Excuse me!’ And there she was, standing before them, with a gin and tonic.

Rosie smiled at Henry, who attempted unsuccessfully to stand up. He bowed over the claret and indicated the chair that Nick was putting down. ‘Dear lady!’ he exclaimed, with a half-excited, half-wistful expression on his face. ‘What are you doing here? Afternoon off?’

‘Oh, no. Just a lunch-break. Too lumpy out on the water. Bit of a swell. We might capsize. They’ve brought us to see some special boats that they make here.’

Having given away his seat, Nick had been swept aside by a tide of mariners fresh from a morning’s sail and desperate for a pint.

‘Everything OK, then?’ he asked, temporarily becalmed in the centre of the room.

‘Fine, dear. Henry will take care of me, won’t you, Henry?’

‘Of course. My pleasure.’ Henry laid a large hand over hers. ‘So, what’s it to be? Lamb hot-pot or red snapper?’

‘Oh, the snapper, I think. Sounds so much more sparky, doesn’t it?’

‘A bit like you,’ offered Henry, with a roguish tilt of his head.

Nick raised his eyes heavenward and drained his glass.

Nick sat at his mitre block, finishing off a couple of frames for a pair of watercolours he had completed, and listened to Rosie drying the dishes and humming.

She seemed calmer now, almost like the old Rosie. Then she put her head through the doorway of the tiny room and asked, ‘Coffee?’

He turned to answer her, and saw that, although she was smiling, her eyes were filled with tears. ‘Hey!’ He got up, and enfolded her in his arms. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Oh, nothing. It’s just that . . . Oh, I’m so silly . . .’ She pulled a tissue from the pocket of the pink sailing trousers she had taken to wearing in the evenings.

Nick released her and stood back to look at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s just that I don’t remember being so happy in a long time.’

‘That’s not silly, that’s lovely.’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘What do you mean you suppose? Of course it is.’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘Is it to do with Henry?’

‘Oh, no, not really. Well, maybe a bit. He’s very attentive.’

Nick grinned. ‘Yes.’

‘Only he believes I’m younger than I really am.’

‘You think so?’ Warning bells rang.

‘Oh, I know so.’

Nick tried to sound casual. ‘How can you be sure?’

Rosie looked away. ‘Because I told him I was sixty-nine.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, I know it was silly of me but . . . he was so nice, and I didn’t want him to think I was some senile old woman.’

‘But sixty-nine!’

‘That would make me only eleven years older than him, and it’s not too much of an age gap, is it?’

‘Well, no, but . . .’

She seemed anxious now, and met his gaze. ‘You won’t tell him the truth, will you?’

Nick was cornered. ‘Is it important?’

‘It is to me.’

‘And you think Henry’s interested?’

‘I know he is. He’s asked me out on Friday night.’

‘Oh?’

‘But I can’t go. It’s the final evening at the sailing academy. We’re all going out for a drink.’

‘I see.’ Nick was trying to keep a straight face. ‘Couldn’t you go out for a meal afterwards?’

‘Well, yes, I am. But not with Henry.’

Just for a moment, Nick felt like the father of a teenage daughter who was enquiring after her movements. ‘Who with, then?’

‘There’s another man at the sailing academy. He’s single, too. In his sixties.’

‘And have you told him how old you are?’

‘I said I was sixty-six,’ Rosie said sheepishly.

At ten o’clock Nick tapped on her bedroom door. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Of course.’

He opened the door and peeped in. She was tucked up under her duvet, with just her head visible; her hair was encased in a swathe of pink net. ‘You’re not to laugh at me but it keeps my hair tidy – I haven’t been to the hairdresser’s in a week.’

‘And you can’t let your men down,’ teased Nick.

‘Of course not.’ She pushed herself up a little, and Nick spotted the lace on her nightie. She was elegant even in bed. ‘I’m sorry about tonight,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘For being all those things that I try not to be.’

‘Such as?’

‘A stupid old woman. Mutton done up as lamb.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ He sat on the edge of her bed. ‘And, anyway, they don’t sell mutton any more.’

‘No. Maybe that’s why the market for lamb has increased.’ She winked at him.

Nick shook his head. ‘You know, I still don’t understand you. You’re supposed to be out of touch and helpless, and here you are on a sailing course with people half your age . . .’

‘Be careful!’ she admonished him.

‘. . . but you hold your own in conversation with anyone and line up dinner dates like there’s no tomorrow.’

‘Well, there might not be.’ Rosie laughed. ‘You are funny.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You. You’re thirty-nine and far more staid than I am.’

‘I’m not staid, just cautious.’

‘There’s a difference?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, if I were you I’d start to live a bit.’

Nick sighed. ‘Am I in for an advice session, then?’

‘No. Well . . . maybe just a bit of
friendly
advice.’ She looked right at him. ‘Get on with it. Don’t hang about.’

‘Get on with what?’

‘Your relationship with Alex.’

‘There
is
no relationship.’

‘Exactly. But there could be.’

He frowned. ‘And what’s that to do with you?’

Rosie shrugged. ‘Absolutely nothing. But you should be having a bit of fun. She’s a lovely girl and she should be having fun, too.’

‘What about Victoria?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about her. She’s got her head screwed on. She’s older than all of us.’

‘You think?’

‘Oh, yes. Funny, isn’t it? Victoria’s ten, but more like forty. You’re thirty-nine and more like seventy, and I’m eighty-seven going on thirty! Nobody’s the age they seem, are they?’

‘You know, there are days when I think you’ll live for ever,’ Nick said.

‘Oh, heaven forbid!’

‘But where do you get your energy?’

Rosie nodded at the glass beside her bed. ‘Out of a bottle.’ Then she became serious. ‘Oh, there are days when I have to work hard to get up. Days when I wonder if it’s all worth it. But I tell myself it’s only natural at my age. Trouble is, you can’t let that happen too often. You have to fight it. Don’t let it win. Some days my legs don’t want to move at all. But I battle on – and it doesn’t half hurt. I just grit my teeth and get on with it. Other days I have a good cry, and feel completely done in. Then the sun shines and I feel better, and I’m damned if I’ll stay cooped up inside.’

‘You’re a star.’

‘Oh, no. I’m quite scared, if I’m honest.’

‘Scared of what?’ Nick looked baffled.

‘Losing it. I feel a bit funny some days. A bit . . . sort of . . . disconnected. Something happens inside. A voice. It’s me, and yet it isn’t me, if you see what I mean.’

‘Is that what happened at the Russian embassy?’ he asked gently.

Rosie nodded. ‘I was a bit embarrassing, wasn’t I?’

‘Just a bit.’

She stared into the middle distance. ‘I think it’s just that I want a bit more time to . . . understand more. I’d like to be . . . and you mustn’t tell me off . . . more at peace with myself before I go.’

Nick raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to get religion or anything. Well, no more than I have. I’m content to go to church once a month but I can’t be doing with all that happy-clappy stuff – and shaking hands. I always keep this by my bed.’ She picked up a small black book. ‘The Book of Common Prayer. Lovely language.’ She looked up at him and asked evenly, ‘Do you say your prayers?’

Nick nodded. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Good. I say mine every night. Here I am, an old lady – I can refer to myself like that but you can’t – saying every night, “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child; pity my simplicity; give me grace to come to thee – but not yet.” I always put that bit in. Hope it makes Him smile.’

He watched as she lay back on the pillow. Calm now. Peaceful.

‘He knows, doesn’t he?’ she said.

‘Mmm?’

‘Where I came from.’

Nick nodded.

Rosie squeezed his hand. ‘Try to find out for me.’

He sighed. ‘If you want me to.’

Rosie smiled contentedly. Her eyes were closing. The day’s exertions and the sea air were having their effect. ‘And I always ask God to bless you all. Derek and Anna, Alice, Sophie and Nick. And Sandy. Do you remember her?’