The Son-in-Law (34 page)

Rosie’s eyes narrowed in thought. ‘There’s no right answer.’

He almost always felt calmer for talking things through with Rosie. As the weather warmed, she’d gradually emerged from the shapeless layers of knitwear. They had been replaced by cheesecloth blouses and summer frocks. Joseph heartily approved of the change. This evening she was wearing a flimsy button-up affair, with quite a plunging neckline. Looking at the effect, Joseph thought fleetingly of Nell Gwynn, then mentally slapped his own wrist.

‘Um, look.’ He rubbed his nose with his forefinger. ‘Please don’t take what I’m about to suggest the wrong way.’

She waited, eyebrows raised, ready to burst into laughter.

‘This cottage in Helmsley,’ said Joseph. ‘Or wherever. You’re welcome to come too, if you like. Help with the rent. It might be a squeeze, but I expect there’ll be a damn sight more room than there is in that sardine tin you call home.’

‘Just a cotton-picking
minute
.’ Rosie smile was wide and startled. ‘You’re asking me to move in with you?’

‘No strings,’ Joseph insisted, holding up his hands.

‘And what are the children supposed to make of this arrangement?’

‘We’d just be flatmates.’

She snorted cynically. ‘Nobody’s going to believe that, even though it would be absolutely true.’

‘So? Who cares?’

‘I love you, Joseph Scott,’ she declared artlessly, stretching out her hand to touch the back of his. ‘And I thank you for that gallant offer. But my answer is no.’

‘Oh.’ Joseph felt crestfallen. ‘Why? Is this because of . . . that man you were with?’

‘Yes. It’s because of him.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Who is he?’ Rosie regarded Joseph with clear, candid eyes. ‘Promise you won’t laugh.’

‘I promise.’

‘Seriously. Please don’t laugh.’

‘Scout’s honour.’

‘Okay, here goes.’ She screwed up her face, as though about to bungee jump. ‘I’m a nun.’

‘A
what
?’

‘You heard.’

Joseph gaped at her. ‘You’re not serious! You
are
serious? I . . . bloody hell.’

‘Indeed.’

Joseph held up his hands, baffled. ‘How am I supposed to react?’

‘That’s up to you. But if you start humming
How d’you
solve a problem like Maria?
I shall have no option but to sock you.’

He let the information sink in, recalling the things about her that had intrigued him over these past months: her air of self-containment, the pre-dawn candle in her kombi; the odd fact of such a woman staying here, in this isolation.

‘I began living with the community over six years ago,’ she said. ‘Though I still have to take my permanent vows.’

‘For Pete’s sake—what on earth made you do a thing like that?’

‘I was contracted to work on the vineyard at an abbey in Cornwall. The vines hadn’t been managed in years, they were in a real mess; but I gradually got them under control. My parents are Catholics—very nominally. I’ve always had a faith of sorts. It was pretty dormant, but I found myself spending longer and longer with the community, joining in with their life. They became my friends. One day, I realised I had a calling. It just hit me, really, that this was the right place for me.
This
was my family. I spent months thinking about it all. Then I joined as a postulant. Three years ago, I took my temporary vows.’

‘So much sacrifice,’ said Joseph. ‘Too much. I don’t understand why you’d choose to . . . I mean . . . well, you seem like a . . . you know—a normal woman.’

‘I
am
a normal woman.’ Rosie rubbed her face tiredly. ‘Oh dear. Et tu, Joseph? I knew this would be your reaction. It’s everyone’s reaction. People are incredibly judgemental, incredibly negative. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.’

‘I’m not being judgemental,’ protested Joseph. ‘I’m trying to get my head around it. I dunno. You’re intelligent, you’re independent. Why would you want to do something so bloody medieval?’

‘It isn’t remotely medieval. I expect you think a modern woman would want to marry and have a career and a family and a car and a mortgage and a super-duper divorce complete with wall-to-wall bitterness?’

‘No, but—’

‘Or maybe a modern, un-medieval, liberated woman would prefer to be like one of the girls in my father’s club—bung on a thong and sell herself. Lovely!’

‘There are other choices.’

‘I didn’t choose the life. It chose me.’

‘Jesus.’ Joseph stood up. ‘I’d better not use that word anymore though, had I?
Jesus.
You must have been shocked on a daily basis by my profanities.’

‘Where are you off to?’

‘For a walk.’

‘Why are you so offended?’

‘I’m not in the least offended! I’m just surprised.’

She smiled. ‘Well, being surprised appears to have offended you.’

Moodily, Joseph shoved his feet into his boots. ‘It’s just . . . all these months, you’ve been somebody totally different to the person I thought you were. Your beliefs, your outlook, your future—everything. I feel cheated.’

‘I am still the same person, Joseph. As are you, despite your past.’

‘That’s a fair point,’ admitted Joseph, pulling himself together. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll just have to imagine a wimple from now on. You’re awfully fond of red wine, aren’t you, for a woman who’s taking the veil?’

‘It’s not forbidden. Lots of abbeys have vineyards.’

Joseph jerked his head towards the fields. ‘Coming?’

Several families were still packing up after their weekends, and Joseph was flagged down by a couple who wanted to extend their stay. Rosie waited patiently while he talked to them; then she helped him push a caravan out of the mud. It was almost dark when they climbed the gate into a small, sloping field with frothing white hedgerows. A posse of lambs galloped past. Their mothers bleated, but without anxiety.

‘So why are you here?’ asked Joseph, as he and Rosie crossed the field. ‘Wobbling faith?’

‘Not wobbling. My problem is that I’m not sure what to do with it. I was coming to the point of no return and I found I wasn’t absolutely sure. So I ran away. Well, I didn’t actually run. I had permission. I keep in touch by email.
He
certainly knows where I am.’

‘He? Ah, the celestial bridegroom.’

‘Don’t be crass.’

‘Well, if I were you I’d make a break for it while you still can.’

As if by mutual agreement, they crossed a stile into the next field, and then followed the line of a dry stone wall. Rosie’s face seemed translucent in the half-light.

‘My dad says joining the community
was
making a break for it
. Spineless
, he calls it. Running from the real world. Reckons I’m just afraid to get my hands dirty.’

‘I s’pose he’s not afraid to do that, given his line of business.’

‘So true. What really gets up my parents’ nose is the vow of poverty. They think it’s immoral. They’re kind-hearted people, but they measure success by the flashiest car and the biggest house. Life is all to do with amassing as many status symbols as possible, and the person with the most toys at the end wins.’

‘Like Monopoly.’

‘Exactly like Monopoly. To die without owning anything—really, nothing at all—is to come last in the great game of life. And I will die with nothing. I can’t own anything to speak of. That’s why I’m dressed courtesy of the Oxfam shop. Tom and Ivan lent me some money for the kombi.’

‘So is that why you’ve got cold feet? Your family?’

‘Once I take the permanent vows, that’ll be it. I will have promised to stay in that same community forever. I found I was struggling with the permanence. And the obedience.’

‘Yeah,’ said Joseph, allowing himself a small chortle. ‘I don’t see you as the obedient type. How about chastity?’

‘Ha! Everyone wants to know about that, but most people aren’t cheeky enough to ask. Not as big a deal as you’d think. I was thirty-something by the time I became a postulant, and I’d spent many debauched years living like a true bachelorette.’ Rosie giggled unrepentantly. ‘Probably indulged in enough wickedness to last me the rest of my life. I got close to a lot of men, but never one I wanted to hold on to. Two were keen to marry me, for some bizarre reason, but it would have been a disaster. I had no direction, no plan. Feeling that call was the first time I’d seen a point to my life.’

Joseph stopped. A memory niggled at him; something she’d said during the heavy snow, as they looked out of Abigail’s kitchen window.

‘What?’ she asked, turning to peer at him through the gathering dark.

‘You once told me you’d seen a vision.’

‘Yes. Well, that’s a long story . . . Hey, if we turn up here and through the gate at the top, we’ll come out on the lane. Might be a good plan, unless we want to fall down a rabbit hole in the dark.’

Joseph found he didn’t want to go back to the caravan. He wanted to be here with Rosie, in the fragrant twilight. Spotting a fallen log, he sat down on it. ‘We’ve no telly,’ he said. ‘No mates. No nothing. Might as well sit here and hear a long story.’

‘If you snigger, I shall put a rat in your bed,’ warned Rosie, settling beside him.

He elbowed her. ‘Get
on
with it!’

‘Okay . . . here goes. I was ten years old, so Tom must have been about eight. We were on a beach in Devon, messing about in the waves, which wasn’t a good idea because there was a big sea. It all went horribly wrong. Tom got rolled by a series of massive waves, held under, had the breath knocked out of him, and suddenly he was way out beyond his depth.
Way
out. Mum was running into the surf, screaming. She’s a terrible swimmer. She got nowhere.’

‘How ghastly,’ said Joseph.

‘I remember all these holidaymakers on the beach, watching in horror as my brother was literally drowning in front of us. I was screeching
Tom! Tom!
as though shouting might save him. People were trying to get to him but the waves kept throwing them back in. The sea is such an implacable enemy. Tom kept going under, coming up, going under . . . and one time he didn’t come back up. I was hysterical.’ Rosie blinked hard, as though clearing salty water from her vision. ‘Then I saw someone far out there in the water. Not one of the guys from the beach, they were still battling to get through the surf.
Someone else.
It was a man, a young man, and he was obviously an amazing swimmer. I thought perhaps he was a surfer because they do go way, way out. He’d got hold of Tom, who seemed to be exhausted. He was holding him up so that his head was above the water. I remember it all quite distinctly, because that was my brother he held in his arms. He seemed utterly serene, this man. He looked right at me, and he smiled. And I stopped feeling frightened.’

A copper-green blush on the horizon was all that remained of the day. Joseph watched the colours drain away. He imagined the young man, the amazing swimmer, holding a drowning child.

‘Someone got hold of a surfboard and used it to push through the waves. They managed to get Tom onto it and back to the beach, where he threw up a gallon of water. I looked around for my surfer, and he wasn’t there. I asked everyone in the crowd, but they just looked blank. And later I asked Tom, “Who was the guy beside you in the water?” And he said—’

Joseph finished the sentence for her. ‘And he said, “What guy?”’

‘Yes,’ said Rosie quietly. ‘Those were his exact words.’

‘Did you tell anyone about this man?’

‘I tried. Dad thought if he existed at all, he was a surfer who hadn’t wanted to be a hero so slipped away. Mum said I must have imagined him because nobody else had noticed him. But I knew what I’d seen, and I knew how I felt when he smiled at me. I believe I looked into the face of an angel that day—and you can take that look off your face.’

‘What look?’

‘Like I belong on the funny farm.’

‘You can’t even see my face,’ Joseph objected. ‘It’s too dark.’

‘I don’t need to see it. I can sense that pitying look.’

Joseph took the look off his face. ‘So is that the real reason you wanted to be a nun?’

‘Possibly. Partly. Though for many years I forgot my poor angel. I was a good-time girl, Joseph. My life’s been far less worthy than yours. I travelled, I partied, I worked, but I was never content. What finally gave me some kind of peace was when I discovered how to shut up; when I gave myself time to sit with God and listen. I felt as though I’d met my young man again.’

Joseph was stumped. What the hell was the correct response to all this? Obviously the mysterious rescuer was a shy surfer who saw what was happening and acted fast; a young hero who went unnoticed in the waves and chaos. It seemed a perfectly reasonable explanation. However, he had more sense than to say so.

‘Blimey,’ he murmured faintly.

‘I can tell you’ve got more to say than
blimey
.’

‘Um . . . well. All right. Why
your
brother? Kids drown every year. Millions starve to death. Too many get tortured or turned into child soldiers or run over by cars. Nobody saves them. Why would an eight-year-old called Tom Sutton get the Rolls-Royce Guardian Angel treatment?’

‘I’ve no idea. I love Tom dearly, but there’s nothing saintly about him. Look—let’s assume for a moment that this was in fact a surfer. Let’s assume he was a fantastic swimmer who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘How come nobody else saw him? Nobody! Not even Tom.’

‘Who’d probably lost consciousness.’

‘
Nobody
saw him. All those people, and not one of them saw him except me.’

‘Okay, I believe you,’ said Joseph, wishing he actually did.

‘You don’t.’ She sounded unruffled. ‘Still, at least you didn’t laugh.’

The moon was rising as they climbed over the gate and made their way home along the lane. ‘You don’t have to go back to Cornwall yet, do you?’ asked Joseph.

‘I can take my time. They’ve been very understanding.’

‘Will I see you again, if you decide to go back?’

‘No.’

‘Not at all?’

‘We’re allowed family visitors, but you aren’t family. And . . . well, I don’t think it would be such a good idea.’ She leaped a puddle, her skirt swirling. ‘I’d be tempted.’