Authors: Alan Titchmarsh
Rosie
Praise for Alan Titchmarsh
‘Splendid . . . I laughed out loud’
Rosamunde Pilcher
‘Absolutely charming . . . made me understand a lot more about men’
Jilly Cooper
‘A steamy novel of love among the gro-bags’
Observer
‘A fine debut . . . great fun, but also sensitive and sensible with a tuneful storyline. Titchmarsh fans will lap up
Mr MacGregor
’
Independent
‘I admit it, I like
Mr MacGregor
. It’s as satisfying as a freshly-mown lawn’
Daily Mirror
‘Humorous, light-hearted and unpretentious. Titchmarsh’s book is strengthened by authenticity. Ideal for romantic gardeners’
Mail on Sunday
Also by Alan Titchmarsh
ONLY DAD
ANIMAL INSTINCTS
THE LAST LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER
MR MacGREGOR
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2004
First published by Pocket Books, 2005
An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Alan Titchmarsh, 2004
The chapter titles and the descriptions of the roses are all taken from
Classic Roses
and
Twentieth Century Roses
by Peter Beales, published by Collins Harvill.
Poem on page 300 by Mary Frye.
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster Inc.
The right of Alan Titchmarsh to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia
Sydney
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-7434-3010-4
eBook ISBN 978-1-4711-1501-1
Typeset by SX Composing DTP, Rayleigh, Essex.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire
For Luigi,
grazie
My heartfelt thanks go to Suzanne Baboneau for her tremendous support and understanding during the writing of
Rosie
. Without her forbearance the book would simply not have appeared. Thanks also to Luigi Bonomi, a star among literary agents, for his unfailing help and encouragement, to Hazel Orme for fastidious copy editing which astounds me and makes me smile in equal measure, to Rochelle Venables for organizing things, to Caroline Mitchell for organizing me, and to Clare Ledingham who, as with all my novels, has guided, encouraged and warned. Without their help telling stories would not be nearly so rewarding. Dr. Neil Ashwood patiently advised me on medical matters whenever I rang his number – often at very inconvenient times. His phone-side manner is admirable.
My family, as ever, have waited patiently for me to emerge from my eyrie in the barn and fed me, watered me and cosseted me whenever I needed the attention. They richly deserve my love and gratitude, and I only hope they approve of the results.
Some of the characters and some of the places in this book are real, others are fictional.
The Isle of Wight obviously exists, and so do all the places within it that are
mentioned, except for Nick’s cottage, which somehow nobody has yet
found, and Sleepyhead Bay, which is based on a tiny cluster of
cottages in a secluded haven that keen visitors to the Isle of
Wight will know. I felt obliged to change its name to
protect it from being overrun. All the characters
who play an active role are fictional, but real
people and real events are
mentioned and it is up to
the reader to decide
where reality ends
and imagination
begins.
I
n a characteristic unique to the species, the ageing queen, having seen her progeny into adulthood, performs an energetic sequence of movements in the final hours before her death. These movements, which may become increasingly frenetic and complex, appear to satisfy some inbuilt urge or desire, but are, as yet, not fully understood. They are most usually referred to as ‘the queen’s last dance’.
Emerich Hummel,
The Russian Honey Bee
, 1918
1
Tour de Malakoff
Vivid magenta flowers flushed deep purple and fading to lilac grey.
‘I
t’s your grandmother.’
‘Yes?’
‘She’s been arrested.’
This is not a conversation that many people expect to have. We know that grannies are not what they were, but even allowing for the fact that many are proficient on the Internet, lunatic behind the wheel and capable of doing full justice to the drinks cabinet, the discovery that our own had been detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure would, if we are honest, come as a bit of a shock. A shock likely to provoke either disbelief or outrage.
As the policeman at the other end of the line delivered the grave news, in the particularly self-righteous manner that only someone wearing a uniform can, Nick Robertson found himself in the former camp. ‘She’s been what?’
‘Arrested, sir. Well, detained, actually.’
‘But what for?’
‘Disturbing the peace.’
‘Where?’
‘In London, sir. She’s at Bow Street police station. If you could come and collect her? We don’t want to release her on her own and . . . well, I’d rather not say any more over the phone, if you don’t mind. We’ll fill you in when you get here.’
‘But why me?’
‘Yours was the name and number she gave us, sir.’
There were many things Nick wanted to say, the first being ‘But I live on the Isle of Wight.’ Instead he settled for ‘Right. It will take me a couple of hours to get there.’
‘No problem, sir. We’ll keep her comfortable.’
‘She’s all right, isn’t she? I mean, she’s not hurt?’
‘Oh, no, sir. She’s absolutely fine. Keeping my officers well entertained.’
‘She would. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ And that was it. No more information.
What had she done? And why hadn’t she called his mother? She was nearer. But the answer to that was obvious: his mother would have given her mother-in-law what-for. Or his father – her son? No again. Nick’s dad would be at the races – or at some surreptitious meeting for his next money-making wheeze. Not much chance of finding him at the end of a telephone: his mobile number changed almost weekly.
Which was why, on a bright May morning, when birds were carolling from the tops of tall chestnut trees, and when he should have been enjoying the maudlin pleasure of staring out of the window and moping about the end of a three-year relationship with a girl now sitting on a British Airways flight to New York, he found himself rattling into Waterloo Station on the eleven fifteen from Southampton. Briefly he pictured his grandmother sitting in a cell, huddled in a corner, cowed and tearful but, if he was honest with himself, he knew that was unlikely.
He wasn’t wrong: he found her at the front desk of the police station, regaling a wide-eyed trio of uniformed officers with the reasons behind her forecast for a Chelsea victory over Manchester United the following day. She looked round as he came in and smiled at him. ‘Hello, love! Come to take me home?’
He nodded.
The desk sergeant broke away from the group, looking sheepish, negotiated the narrow opening to one side of the counter with some difficulty and beckoned Nick towards the room opposite. ‘Would you mind, sir?’ As the door closed behind them he heaved a sigh. ‘Quite a character, your granny.’
‘Yes.’
‘I should think she takes a bit of looking after.’ The lumbering policeman, whose unnaturally long arms gave him an ape-like appearance, was doing his best not to smirk.
‘Well, most of the time she’s fine.’
‘Lives on her own, I gather.’
‘Yes. She’s not helpless,’ Nick said defensively.
‘Oh, I can see that. But it might be worth keeping an eye on her.’
‘I do, when I can, but I live—’
‘I know, sir. It must be difficult—’
Nick interrupted. ‘What’s she done? Nothing serious, surely?’
‘Well, not serious. Just silly. We’re letting her off with a caution. There’ll be no charges. I think the embassy was surprised more than anything. It’s normally students who chain themselves to their railings. And dissidents. Not that we get many of them nowadays.’ Then: ‘We don’t get many grannies either.’
‘No. I suppose not,’ Nick said, thoughtfully. Disbelief had been augmented by irritation. There were so many things he could have asked, but in the event he only managed, ‘I mean . . . why did she do it?’
‘Some sort of protest. Mind you, her equipment wasn’t up to much. One of those bicycle safety chains. The sort with a combination lock. We just snipped it off.’