Rosie (17 page)

‘So what will you do?’

Not ‘what will
we
do’, he noticed. ‘Wait until he gets in touch. That’s all I can do, unless I keep ringing him, and there doesn’t seem much point in that. Anyway, he’s probably changed phones yet again.’

‘More than likely.’

‘So you don’t know what he’s up to, then?’

Anna grimaced.

‘Silly question.’

‘Yes.’ She drummed her fingers on her handbag. ‘Is she likely to be asleep for long?’

‘A few hours. She’s only just come out of theatre.’

‘I see.’ Anna glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve a meeting tonight and I really can’t miss it. If you think I should sit by her I will . . .’

‘No. You get back. I can keep an eye.’

‘Well, if you’re sure?’

‘I’m sure. You get off.’

Anna got up and smoothed down the front of her black poncho. She laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow, yes? Work out what to do.’

He nodded.

‘Don’t be angry with me, Nick. I’m only trying to do what’s best.’

‘I’m not angry. I just . . .’ But the words would not come. He turned to look out of the window as the light faded and the purple haze of dusk settled on the hospital car park.

The doctor had suggested he get some rest and come back the following morning, when Rosie might be more compos mentis. He tossed and turned, willing her to pull through. A phone call to the hospital at nine o’clock confirmed that she had had a comfortable night, and was now sleeping peacefully.

‘Peacefully’ sounded as if she’d given in, and that wasn’t Rosie. He admonished himself for the thought and confirmed that he would visit her at lunchtime when she would be sitting up, they said.

He went into Rosie’s bedroom. It was tidy and ordered, the photo of the Tsar, and a smaller one of Granddad, on the bedside table. One of her new boating shirts lay neatly folded on a chair by the chest of drawers. He could see her nightie peeping out from under her pillow. She had only been with him for about a week, and already it seemed like for ever. Her travelling alarm clock ticked loudly, but the house was strangely quiet without her. Life was quiet.

And then he remembered: it was Alex and Victoria’s last day on the island. He wanted to tell Alex what had happened, but more than that he wanted to see her. Just to be in the same place as her for a while. He found the scrap of paper on which she had written her address and telephone number. He didn’t have a mobile phone but she did, and he was glad of that. He punched in the number and waited for it to ring.

‘Welcome to Orange answerphone,’ came the reply.

‘Damn.’

Maybe she didn’t have a signal or her phone was switched off. He left a message: ‘Hi. It’s Nick. Just to say hello and . . . hope you’re OK. Sorry I’ve not been in touch. Just had a tricky time, really. Rosie’s taken a bit of a tumble. She’s OK but she’s in hospital. I’ll tell you all about it when we can speak. Er . . . that’s all, really. Anyway, take care, and I hope I’ll speak to you soon. ’Bye.’

He hung up, sat down and thought for a while. He wondered if she wanted to see him or had deliberately switched off her phone so that he couldn’t get in touch. Then rationality prevailed: they had parted happily, even if they had not arranged another meeting. She would be out of range, that was all.

He looked out of the window at the pale grey day. At least it was fine. The deck on which Rosie had slipped yesterday would be dry. If only the rain had waited she would have been safe. And what about her dinner date? Had the man discovered her true age? He smiled to himself and grabbed his windcheater. He would talk to Alex later but, right now, he must go to Rosie. He would buy some flowers to take to the hospital. Better still, he would pick some from the clifftop. She’d like that.

The girl on the Isle of Wight ferry looked nothing like Nick. She was short and well rounded, with close-cropped hair and a tanned complexion. The rucksack on her back gave away nothing about her travels, but her brown legs and well-worn boots showed that she had been outdoors for some time. Sophie Robertson was back from South America and saw no point in going to Richmond to spill the beans to her mother. She had headed straight from Heathrow to the ferry at Portsmouth and walked the couple of miles to the Anchorage, only to find that her brother was out. Not to worry, she would wait. She had food and water in her rucksack, and would make herself comfortable in a chair on the veranda until he returned.

She had been sitting there for an hour, reading Paul Theroux, when a woman with a small child walked up the drive. They seemed surprised to see her.

‘Hello?’

Sophie got up and leaned over the rail. ‘Hi!’

‘Is Nick in?’

Sophie glanced at the house. ‘If he was I wouldn’t be sitting on the veranda.’

‘Of course. I just wanted to tell him we’re leaving the island today.’

‘Oh. Righto. I’ll pass on a message, if you like.’

‘If you could just say that Alex and Victoria called.’

‘Fine. I’ll do that.’ Sophie never wasted words. It was something she’d inherited from her mother. She sat down in the chair once more and opened her book.

‘I tried to ring him on my mobile, but it’s bust,’ Alex went on.

‘Oh dear,’ Sophie said, clearly not listening.

‘Yes. Right. Well, we’ll be going, then.’

‘OK.’

‘Thanks. Goodbye then.’

‘Goodbye. Alex and Victoria. I’ll tell him you came.’

As they walked down the drive she heard the child ask, ‘Who was that?’ and the mother reply, ‘I don’t know.
I don’t know
.’

Sophie had had months of keeping herself to herself, and wondered if, perhaps, she had sounded a little standoffish. She hoped not.

Alex had seen the rucksack, with the airline luggage label and concluded that Debs had returned.

Rosie was indeed sitting up in bed when he arrived. His relief was unbounded as he bent to kiss her. ‘Hello!’

She smiled, with what seemed like an effort, and whispered, ‘Hello.’

He sat down on the chair by her bed and lifted the flowers for her to see: red campion and buttercups, stitchwort and cow parsley. He saw her eyes glint, and her mouth force itself into a smile. ‘Lovely,’ she mouthed.

‘I’ll find some water for them in a minute. How are you feeling?’

‘Sore,’ she said.

‘I’m not surprised. You had a bit of a tumble.’

Rosie nodded and closed her eyes.

‘Are you sleepy?’

She nodded again.

‘What am I going to do with you?’ he asked gently.

‘Don’t know.’ The voice was resigned, lacked energy, but that was hardly surprising. She lifted a hand and beckoned him closer. He leaned towards her. ‘They want to get me on my feet. They like to keep you mobile, I know, but . . . there’s no . . . life in me.’

He held her hand and rubbed his thumb on the back. ‘Oh, don’t you worry, there will be. You’re just a bit woozy from the anaesthetic.’

Rosie nodded slowly. ‘Woozy.’

‘Yes.’

A nurse walked purposefully towards the bed and spoke in a loud voice: ‘Hello, Mrs Robertson. We’re a bit out of it at the moment, aren’t we? A bit dozy?’

‘Mmm.’ Rosie sounded distant.

The nurse tucked in a wayward length of sheet. ‘We’ll soon have you back on your feet, though. Would you like a drink? Cup of tea?’

Rosie shook her head and murmured ‘No thank you.’

Nick was alarmed. He had prepared himself for her to be angry, frustrated and difficult, but not compliant or world-weary.

‘Doctor will be on his rounds soon. Then we’ll have a good look at you – sort you out.’

‘Mmm.’

She seemed to be drifting off to sleep again – yet she must have slept all night.

The nurse read the concern on his face: ‘Still a bit under the weather, but she should pull round over the next day or so, get her bearings. We’re just a bit confused, aren’t we, Mrs Robertson?’

Nick wanted to explain that, although his grandmother was of a certain age, she was neither ga-ga nor deaf, and that she was a ‘you’ not a ‘we’. But he thought better of it.

‘Shall I put those in water for you?’

‘Please.’

The nurse took the flowers. ‘You could probably leave it until this evening if you want, Mr Robertson. She should be with us a bit more by then.’

‘I’ll just sit with her for a while if that’s all right.’

‘Sure. No problem.’

He stayed by the bed for half an hour, while Rosie slept. Then he kissed her forehead and reluctantly headed for home.

 
 
19

Useful, underrated and little seen . . .

T
he sailing to Portsmouth was uncharacteristically quiet. Victoria had her nose buried in the guidebook, and Alex gazed out of the window of the ferry at the grey-green sea, occasionally thumping the buttons on her mobile phone in a vain attempt to prod it into life.

Victoria glanced up furtively from time to time, then returned to her research. Occasionally she wrote something down in a small exercise book, holding the pencil firmly, her head on one side and her tongue pushed between her teeth, the better to form the words.

Eventually the Wight-Link ferry lowered its ramp on to the Portsmouth soil, and they drove off.

It was then that Victoria broke the silence. ‘Who do you think it was?’

‘I told you, I don’t know,’ Alex said curtly.

‘It might have been his girlfriend,’ Victoria persisted.

‘He hasn’t got a girlfriend,’ Alex said firmly.

Victoria gave her mother an old-fashioned look.

‘And there’s no need to look at me like that. That’s what he told me.’

Victoria paused for a moment and then said ‘Maybe she was his old girlfriend come back.’

Alex had been doing her best to put that thought out of her mind. ‘Look, can we just stop speculating and wait and see? We don’t know who it was, and no amount of guessing is going to help us.’

‘Are you cross?’

‘No, I am not cross, I’m just a bit tired of being asked questions.’

‘All right, all right. I’m sorry.’ The child folded her arms, pursed her lips and stared out of the window at nothing in particular.

Alex felt mean. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . well, it’s all very confusing, that’s all.’

No reply.

She tried to placate her daughter: ‘What have you been doing?’

Still no reply.

‘In your book.’

‘Writing.’ Victoria’s lips remained pursed.

‘Writing what?’ Alex persisted.

‘Now who’s asking questions.’

Alex sighed. ‘I’m only interested.’

‘No, you’re not. You’re just trying to make conversation.’

Alex laughed.

‘What? What’s the matter?’

‘Listen to us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We sound like an old married couple.’

‘Yeugh!’

‘Exactly. So, you tell me what you were writing and I won’t snap your head off if you mention Nick.’

‘We-ell,’ she hesitated. ‘I was writing down good places to live.’

‘Ah, I see. And what conclusions did you come to?’

‘Shanklin and Sandown are too busy, Newport is too far from the sea, and Cowes is too full of boaty people.’

‘So you didn’t find anywhere nice?’

‘I like Sleepyhead Bay.’

‘But there are only about ten houses, and I don’t think you’d want to live there in winter. It must be very windy and desolate.’

‘I thought of that.’

‘And?’

‘I thought Godshill was pretty, and it’s not too far away.’

‘Mmm. A bit chocolate-boxy for me.’ Alex wondered why she had instigated this conversation. If her suspicions about Nick’s visitor were accurate, the Isle of Wight was the last place she wanted to be.

Victoria continued with her itinerary: ‘Seaview’s nice, but probably a bit too posh.’

Alex melted a little. ‘Don’t you do posh, then? It’s very select. And Henry’s gallery is there.’

Victoria turned to her. ‘Are you really interested or are you just patronizing me?’

Her mother studied her. ‘Sometimes I wish I’d not taken so much trouble to improve your vocabulary.’

‘You didn’t tell me you were coming home!’ Nick flung his arms round his little sister and lifted her off the ground.

‘Didn’t know I was until a couple of days ago.’

Nick took a pace back and eyed her up and down. ‘God, you look well!’

‘All that walking.’

‘So where did you get to, and why have you come back?’

‘Well, if you let me in I’ll tell you.’

Nick sat and listened as Sophie talked of her six months in Costa Rica, of tropical rainforests and coffee plantations, of working among native Central Americans and of transiting the Panama Canal on a banana boat.

‘You haven’t said why you came home.’

‘Dunno. Just felt I needed to for a bit.’

Nick grinned. ‘I’m glad you did. Will you go back?’

‘Not there. Chile, though, and Peru. Give myself a couple of weeks to get my breath back and then I’m off.’

‘What will you do for money?’

‘I’ve got some saved. I worked quite a lot of the time. Didn’t earn much, but I don’t need much.’

‘Well, you might have a bit more than you think.’

‘What do you mean?’

Nick filled in his sister on the events of the past few weeks – of Rosie’s relocation to the Isle of Wight, her sailing course and the accident, and the diamond legacy that was also Sophie’s. He did not mention the Russian royal family. It seemed unnecessary, especially now that he had discovered there was no immediate danger of the Robertsons being called upon to take the throne.