Rosie (5 page)

‘Artist. Wants me to take her stuff. I’m interested to know what you think.’

‘What – here? In the pub?’

‘No. Thought you’d like to meet her first and then we’ll go back and look at her paintings.’

‘No fear.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m happy to meet her, Henry, but I’m not going to sit in judgement on her stuff – certainly not in front of her. One artist criticizing another?’

‘That’s all you lot ever do, isn’t it?’

‘In private, maybe, but not to each other’s faces.’

‘Suit yourself.’

The uneasy silence that might have followed was preempted by an almighty clatter outside the pub. All conversation stopped, and there was a general movement towards the door. Nick and Henry were first on to the pavement, followed by the barman and a couple of local builders.

‘Bloody ’ell.’ One of the builders had summed up the scene neatly, if not with clinical accuracy. In front of them, where earlier Nick’s Morris Minor van had sat by the pavement, was a hybrid vehicle, half Morris, half Fiat, with no visible distinction between the two.

A dark-haired girl was sitting at the wheel of the Fiat, her head in her hands. Nick tried to open the car door but it refused to budge. He ran round to the other side and tugged at the passenger door, which yielded. ‘Are you all right?’

The girl lowered her hands.

‘It’s OK. Don’t worry. Come on, let me help you get out.’

She gazed at him apologetically. ‘It was my brakes.’ Then she began to shake.

‘Best get her out,’ offered Henry.

‘Yes, come on. Can you slide across?’

She swivelled her denim-covered legs across the passenger seat and got out on to the pavement. She was slight, about thirty. Her long dark hair had been pinned back, but was now falling over her face – fine-boned and olive-skinned, but pale with shock. He put his arm round her to steady her. The baggy pink and white sailing shirt she wore made her appear waif-like, as though a sea breeze might blow her away.

‘I tried to stop, but nothing happened,’ she said.

Nick glanced at the fused vehicles. ‘No.’

‘God, what a mess!’ said Henry, and the girl burst into tears.

‘Thank you, Henry. We can see that.’

Nick eyed his van and realized that their long association was at an end. Then he looked at the Fiat. Not much hope there, either. In the back of the car, he spotted a tangled mixture of blankets and canvas, and grasped that the girl must be the artist Henry had been so keen for him to meet.

‘Come inside,’ he said to her. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’

By the time they had walked through the door of the pub and sat down at the table, a large Scotch had appeared courtesy of the barman. But the girl shook her head. ‘Just water, please. Tap.’ She reached into her pocket for a tissue, pushed back her hair from her eyes and tried to smile. ‘What a way to start.’

‘Do you feel OK?’ asked Henry. ‘No bones broken?’

‘I don’t think so. Just a bit stiff.’ She wiped her eyes with the tissue and thanked the barman for the water.

Henry took a gulp of his wine. ‘I think I’m going to need this.’

‘I don’t know what state my paintings will be in.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Nick, ‘we’ll sort them out later.’

‘What about the cars?’ asked the barman. ‘Shall I call the Old Bill?’

‘Not unless you want to?’ Nick directed his question at the girl.

‘But whose is the van?’ she asked.

‘Mine.’

‘You’ll want to claim on your insurance.’

Nick shook his head. ‘I wish. The garage told me this morning that she was on borrowed time. I think she’s just passed away. Not worth losing my no claims. But what about yours?’

‘Same.’

‘Shall we just call the breakdown truck to clear them away, then?’

‘Are we allowed to?’

‘Don’t see why not. If we’re quick.’

Within an hour the only trace of the collision was a scattering of dried mud and a bucketful of broken glass on the road. Passers-by had been hurried along, and the police – who were probably busy on the congested Newport Road – had failed to put in an appearance.

Henry never did get his lunch. Instead, he helped salvage the paintings from the Fiat, and carried them into the gallery.

It was a good half-hour before Nick discovered the identity of the girl who had written off his dear old van. Her name was Alexandra Pollen.

 
 
5

Black spot can be troublesome.

S
he turned out to be nothing like as frail as he had thought. But, then, you can’t make judgements about anyone’s character on the basis of having pulled them out of a crumpled car.

Over tea in the back room she explained that she’d discovered Henry’s gallery the previous year on a day trip to the island. She had thought he might like some stuff that wasn’t run-of-the-mill, and that her oils might be just that. She’d been confident enough to win Henry over on the phone, but he had warned her that anything too esoteric was unlikely to sell.

Nick admired her nerve, if not her paintings. They were vivid and simplistic, not at all his style, but they did have a raw energy.

‘Can you sell them, do you think?’ she asked Henry.

‘Well, there’s only one way to find out.’ He looked across at Nick. ‘What do you think?’

‘I told you, I never comment in public on another artist’s work.’

‘But as you’re here . . .’

Nick did his best not to glare at Henry for putting him in such a position. ‘I think they’re . . . exhilarating.’

Alex wasn’t fooled. ‘Diplomatic,’ she said wryly.

Nick shrugged.

‘Well, I can’t expect everyone to like them. But I’ll be happy enough if you’ll give them a go, Henry.’

The remaining conversation was polite. Then it was time for Alex to leave, and the question arose as to how that might be achieved.

‘Well, I’d run you to the ferry, dear, except that I don’t drive,’ said Henry. ‘Not since the, er . . .’ He nodded at a bottle of claret on the desk. ‘What about you?’ he asked Nick.

‘I’d better hire a car . . . until I can do better.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Alex said.

‘There’s no need. You probably just moved things on a bit.’

The greater truth of his statement quite escaped him.

A call to a friendly local garage resulted in a car being delivered to the gallery within the hour, and Nick dropped Alex at the Wight-Link ferry terminal at Fishbourne. ‘Where’s home?’ he asked.

‘Portsmouth.’

‘Handy.’

‘Very. That’s why I wasn’t too worried about getting home. I can walk from the ferry at the other side.’

She got out of the car, then leaned in through the driver’s window and smiled. ‘Thank you for being so good about the car. I really don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Just in case you change your mind.’ She handed him a piece of paper on which, in italic script, she had written her name, address and telephone number. ‘I expect we’ll meet again soon. I like coming over to the island.’

He motored home, deep in thought, considering an Austin A30 – and Alexandra Pollen. He was not considering Rosie. Until he saw her standing in the doorway of his house.

‘What the . . .’ He leaped out of the car and strode up to her. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Getting away.’

‘From what?’

‘Your mother.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She came round this morning. Did you tell her?’

‘I didn’t tell her anything. It was in the local paper.’

‘Damn.’

‘Well, it’s not surprising, is it?’

‘Wants to put me in a home. Told me, there and then. Even had some brochures with her. I mean, I ask you!’

Nick looked at her, laden with a small suitcase and two carrier-bags. ‘How have you managed?’

‘I got a taxi – both ends.’

Nick unloaded her. ‘Come on. Let’s get you inside.’

Rosie glanced down the path to the road. ‘Where’s the van?’

‘In a scrapyard somewhere near Bembridge.’

‘Oh dear. Has it finally given up? Never mind – perhaps you can get a sports car now instead.’

‘Will you stop changing the subject?’ He fumbled in his pocket for the key, and ushered her in.

Over tea and biscuits the story tumbled out. ‘She didn’t even ask if I was all right.’

‘I don’t suppose she needed to.’

‘Didn’t care, more like.’

‘Oh, now, stop feeling sorry for yourself.’

‘I’m not. I’m just cross.’

‘Well, you know what Mum’s like.’

‘Huh. Only ever worries about herself and about what her friends will think.’

‘That’s not quite true.’

‘Doesn’t worry about me.’

‘And neither is that.’

Rosie looked at him pleadingly. ‘But to put me away!’

‘She doesn’t want to put you away, she wants to make sure you’re taken care of. That’s all.’

‘Dreadful expression! Taken care of! Makes me sound senile. Just so that I don’t get in her way.’

Nick realized this particular conversation was going nowhere. ‘Why have you come here?’

‘Because you’re the only person I can trust.’

He smiled. ‘You sound like a secret agent.’

‘Mmm.’ She paused. ‘That would be fun.’

He shot her a look.

‘I thought it might be a bit of a break,’ she went on. ‘Do me good. A spot of sea air. There isn’t much of that in Richmond.’

‘Have you booked somewhere?’

‘No.’

‘Where will you stay, then?’

Rosie looked about her.

‘Oh, Rosie! There’s no space.’

‘There’s the little bedroom.’

‘But it’s full of painting stuff, and it’s tiny.’

‘You’ll hardly know I’m here – and it won’t be for long, just till I get myself organized.’

Nick could think of a million reasons why it wouldn’t work, and why he really ought to put Rosie into the car right now and drive round the island until they found a reasonably priced hotel that would take her for a week or two.

‘I can cook for you while you’re painting. I won’t get in the way.’

‘It’s not that I don’t want you here, it’s just that, well . . . it’s not really big enough for two.’

‘But you lived here with Debs.’

‘That was different.’

‘You mean you loved her . . .’

‘Yes. No. I mean . . . it’s not the same.’ But when he looked into her eyes he knew he had lost: she wasn’t going anywhere. And he was, as she had known he would be, a soft touch.

He sighed. ‘I’d better clear out the little bedroom.’ He bent down and kissed her cheek.

‘Thank you, sweetheart. You’re a life-saver. And it’s just till I get sorted. Then I’ll be out of your hair.’ She squeezed his hand and walked over to the window. ‘What a wonderful view.’ Then she turned round to face him. ‘What a lark, eh?’

Many things might have happened over the next few days: she might have irritated the pants off him; she might have been demanding in her requests for food, drink and entertainment; she might have fussed over him and driven him mad. In the event, she did none of these.

Over the first day she observed him at work and noted his
modus operandi
. By day three he worried that he was not looking after her enough. She had breakfast just after he did, then washed up and put away the china. Then she pulled on a pair of soft boots and a windcheater and went out. He didn’t see her again until early evening when she joined him for supper. The conversation was pleasant, and she was not inquisitive, as though she were on her best behaviour. She went to bed early.

He was concerned about her walking along the cliff unaided, so he bought her a stick. She was indignant, until he explained that all proper walkers carried one like this, a modified ski pole. Then to his relief, she grudgingly accepted it.

By day four he was nervous of her amenability, and over supper he pushed her a bit. ‘Are you managing?’

‘Yes, thanks. Are you?’

‘Yes. Surprisingly.’

She unwrapped a Nuttall’s Mintoe and popped it into her mouth. ‘You see, I told you I wouldn’t be much trouble. And I’m not, am I?’

‘Not so far, no.’

‘Hmph!’

He avoided asking when she thought she would go back. It was only three days, after all. ‘Have you got enough clothes and things?’

‘Oh, yes. I think so. I thought I might have a bit of an expedition, though. Get myself some new bits for the summer. There’s some nice sailing stuff in Cowes.’

He grinned at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going sailing.’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve booked the course.’

He nearly choked on his coffee. ‘What?’

She rolled the peppermint around in her mouth. ‘At the sailing academy.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘It’s for five days.’

‘But you—’

‘They’ve had older people than me doing it. The man said so.’ She noted his look of wide-eyed astonishment but carried on, savouring the moment. ‘I’ve always fancied getting out on the water, but your Granddad never liked it, so we never did.’

‘No.’ He was staring at her, astonished.

‘Only little dinghies. Toppers, I think they’re called. Quite fast, though.’

‘Yes.’

‘Should be all right as long as I can remember to keep my head down.’

His jaw dropped.