Missing Rose Page 4

  She dropped her skirt so that it fell like a puddle on the floor, stepped out of it and posed again, giggling. ‘Perhaps I should wear them like this.’

  How slim and coltish her legs were, how slender her waist above the surprising fullness of her bottom in brief blue spotted knickers; how aware she was of herself, the way she turned, tilting her hip, pushing out her chest, flicking her hair. Rose had turned into something Anna could never imagine herself becoming. There was a gloss and preen about her, a sense that admiration was her due. Rose was like the girls Anna saw in magazines, sleek and groomed, leggy as racehorses, their beauty allowing them to attract and dismiss boys according to their whims. Anna imagined Jamie Spellman staring at Rose’s legs; she knew how his face would look, and how Rose would tease him, knowing he wanted her. She uses him, Anna thought; she’ll soon drop him for someone else.

  Rose pulled on her denim cut-off shorts, and went downstairs, wobbling slightly, supporting herself with a hand on the banister rail.

  ‘Good God! You’ll break your ankles in those heels,’ Dad said; and Mum, from her lounger, shading her eyes, ‘Very nice, dear, but wouldn’t they look better with a pretty skirt? Those shorts are so scruffy.’

  Soon after Rose left, Anna took the crocheted sandals, scuffed and a little grubby now, to her own room. She was only borrowing them, she told herself; Rose would want them, of course, when she came back. They fitted Anna now. She tried them on, criss-crossing the ties. She paraded in front of the mirror in bra and knickers, remembering how Rose had looked. If she narrowed her eyes, she could just about see herself as one of the magazine girls, but open them wide and she looked ludicrous, a girl teetering in heels too high for her, a girl in shoes borrowed from her big sister. Instead of Rose’s lovely slender curves, her own body was almost straight up and down, and podgy around the stomach; her legs were long and quite slim, but somehow didn’t belong with the rest of her.

  She unlaced the sandals and held one in both hands. The insoles were made of coiled fabric like thin rope, slightly rough to the touch. The pressure of Rose’s heels had worn it flat, with a faint dark rim of sweat and dirt. An indentation showed where the ball of her foot had pressed, and her big toe. Anna traced these shapes with her forefinger, as if Rose could be summoned like the genie of Aladdin’s lamp. She held the shoe to her nose and smelled sweat, the particular cheesy sweat of feet: the smell of hot summer days, of throwing off sandals to feel the coolness of grass.

  Anna sat quite still and listened. If she listened always and always, maybe she’d hear a whisper. Maybe Rose wasn’t really gone; just playing a joke.

  ‘Lunch!’ Ruth called from downstairs; Anna hadn’t realized she’d gone down. One end of the kitchen was a dining area, with a pine table and two chairs; Ruth had spread a cloth, and set out French bread, olives, cheeses and salad, and a carton of apple juice.

  ‘Oh, I forgot plates.’ Ruth went to a cupboard. ‘It feels so weird, everything in its place where it’s always been. And knowing that soon it’ll all be gone. I won’t start on the kitchen today. It sounds daft, but I keep thinking Mum’ll turn up and say, What are you doing with my things? Why are you giving all my clothes away?’

  Anna was silent, thinking of Rose’s drawings, Rose’s clothes, Rose’s books; the remnants she had clung to as if they had talismanic qualities. It was pointless, keeping them; the breath of life that had once clung to them had evaporated. They were only objects now.

  ‘Oh …’ Ruth looked at her in consternation. ‘I’m so sorry. Your sister – Martin told me. You must have been through all this, only much worse, because it has to be worse when a young person dies.’

  ‘Dies? Martin said that?’ Anna’s voice came out gruffly. ‘He told you Rose was dead?’

  ‘Not exactly – I think he assumed, or maybe I assumed—’

  ‘People do assume,’ said Anna. ‘But we don’t know. She was eighteen when she disappeared, and that was nearly twenty years ago. Twenty years ago this year.’

  ‘And you’ve got no idea what—’

  Anna shook her head. ‘We don’t know any more now than we did then. She went out one day and didn’t come back.’

  ‘Anna, that’s awful.’ Ruth’s blue eyes welled with tears. ‘Your poor parents. Poor you. If it were Liam or Patrick … I can’t bear to think about it. What a terrible thing to live with.’

  ‘They don’t talk about her,’ Anna said; Ruth’s compassion made her feel inadequate. ‘Don’t even mention her name. It’s like we’ve agreed not to. Martin and I never talk about her either – I’m surprised he told you.’

  ‘Well, I asked if you had any brothers or sisters. What was her name?’

  ‘See, you’re talking about her in the past tense. Rose, her name’s Rose. Is, not was. We were Rose and Anna – Rosanna, we called ourselves, like we were one person …’

  Herself and Rose together, facing the mirror. ‘Look! We’re Rosanna now. Two people in one. One person made of two.’ Rose stood behind, chin resting on top of Anna’s head, draping her long hair on either side of Anna’s face so that it looked as if it belonged to both of them. Mum had once told them to stop it, as if it was naughty, but when they were alone they couldn’t resist. Rosanna seemed to have a presence of her own, half Rose, half Anna, but somehow more than that.

  Anna pushed the thought away. ‘Now there’s just me. She’d be thirty-eight now—’

  ‘Same as me,’ said Ruth.

  ‘So, if she’s alive, more than half her life has been spent somewhere else.’

  ‘But – do you really think she could have made another life and not have been in touch?’

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know what I think. I’ve thought everything there is to think, and all of it leads to the same dead end.’

  Ruth put a hand on Anna’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’

  Anna shifted away, clasping her hands together under the table. ‘Thanks. But that’s why I don’t talk about it, I suppose. Either people tiptoe around the subject, or we go over and over the same questions. There’s nothing new, nothing we haven’t thought of a hundred times over. I had a sister and now I haven’t. I’m used to it.’ Her eyes drifted hungrily towards the food. ‘Let’s eat now. I’m starving.’ She tore a piece off the French loaf and cut a generous piece of Camembert.

  Dusk came early, the moon rising in a clear indigo sky. There were no streetlights here. Frost sparkled on the road, and an owl hooted, quite close, as Anna and Ruth went outside. It felt like the middle of the night, although it wasn’t yet six. Anna imagined how long and cold the hours of darkness would be, out here; you’d want to close the curtains and huddle indoors. She wrapped her scarf more closely into her neck, and pulled down the cuffs of her sweater. But it was wonderful to be out in the dark; elemental. In London, everything was muffled by traffic noise, obscured by tall buildings and twenty-four-hour lighting. Here you’d be acutely aware of every variation in light, weather and season.

  If it hadn’t been for the need to get back to Woodford before Martin arrived with Liam, she might have said, ‘Let’s go for a walk – look at the stars!’ And she had the feeling that Ruth might agree, with enthusiasm.

  Ruth was locking up. The house, with everything turned off, looked bleak and deserted. Hadn’t Ruth’s mother felt isolated, living here on her own? You’d feel more vulnerable inside than out. Outside, you were like some feral creature, all senses awake and alert. Indoors, you couldn’t tell who might be prowling out there, watching. Anna shivered.

  ‘Well!’ Ruth said brightly, getting into the driver’s seat. ‘We’ve made a good start.’

  ‘But there’s loads still to do.’ Anna fastened her seat belt. ‘I can come again – tomorrow, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, Anna! That’s lovely of you, but I go to Holtby Hall on Sundays. If you really mean it, how about next Saturday?’

  ‘Of course I mean it. Maybe Martin’ll come too, but if not I’ll come anyway.’

  Ev
en as she said this, Anna hoped he wouldn’t. Martin would bring briskness and practicality to the task, but it wouldn’t be the same. Anna had enjoyed today, although she couldn’t have said why.

  Holtby Hall was a garden restoration project Ruth had taken on, working there three days a week and now Sundays as well, to supervise weekend volunteers. Anna remembered now that Martin had told her this, speculating that Ruth had met someone there.

  ‘Do you mind if she has?’ Anna had asked him, and he’d looked at her as if the idea were preposterous.

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  ‘You might find it interesting,’ Ruth was saying, as the main beam threw a swathe of light between the high hedgerows ahead. ‘Holtby Hall, I mean. Come over one Sunday, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks. I might do that.’ Anna almost added, ‘Do you mean Martin as well?’ but thought better of it, deciding Ruth didn’t. Martin was quickly bored by what he termed stately homes and gardens; and besides, Anna didn’t want him to get in the way of an overture of friendship from Ruth.

  Martin was late back with Liam, apologizing, blaming the traffic in the East End. By that time Ruth had cooked an omelette for herself and Anna, and they’d shared a bottle of wine. It was Anna’s first introduction to Ruth’s home, and she was intrigued, a little wary. She couldn’t help thinking of it as Ruth and Martin’s house, the one they’d lived in since Liam was born; she noticed Martin’s ease as he made tea for himself and Liam, knowing where to find an unopened packet of biscuits. He could move back in, Anna thought, pick up his old life, and no one would see the join. He could be a proper dad to his boys. She had seen only the kitchen and hallway and the downstairs loo, but wondered, Is this Ruth’s taste? Or Martin’s? Or both of them together, Ruthand-Martin? The kitchen they were sitting in had cream Shaker-style units, with pale green tiles; the Krups coffee machine was the same as the one Martin had recently bought for the flat.

  Anna’s tentative new rapport with Ruth couldn’t flourish in Martin’s presence. Thankful for Liam, Anna gave him her full attention, encouraging him to tell her about the match, the two goals, one in extra time, and the substitution of his favourite player. Patrick had gone to Edinburgh with his girlfriend, Ruth said; she’d been expecting him back, but now he was staying on indefinitely. Anna saw Martin’s disappointment when Ruth told him this. The relationship between father and son had become difficult lately, though Martin was never forthcoming when Anna tried to draw him out.

  It was gone ten by the time they got back to the flat. Anna drew the bedroom curtains, yawning. She thought Martin would want to watch TV – a film or Sky News – but instead he said, ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  ‘Mmm. I’m so tired.’

  But Martin wasn’t tired. He was in bed first, his eyes following Anna as she twisted her hair into a grip and stripped off her clothes, throwing her jeans and T-shirt into the washing basket. She lingered in the shower, soothing away dust and aches, thinking about various remarks Ruth had made. Was Ruth really as guileless as she seemed – as open, as willing to be friendly? Had there been a barbed edge to some of the things she said?

  Anna’s skin was warm and fragrant as she towelled herself dry. She slipped on her bath robe and went back into the bedroom. Her nightdress was under the pillow, but as she reached for it Martin caught her wrist and pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms.

  ‘You’re doing it on purpose,’ he murmured. ‘Taking ages.’

  ‘I wasn’t!’

  His mouth was on hers, and her tiredness forgotten as he slid the robe away from her shoulders. Moments ago she had wanted nothing more than to curl herself into warmth and sleep, but now – the deliciousness of his hands roving over her, sweeping, lingering, over and down and between her legs, pushing them apart, and his body so firm and compact as she held him close. He had pulled the duvet over them, but now it was too hot and constricting; he knelt upright and flung it off, exposing them both to each other’s gaze. The cool air tingled against her skin. She reached for him, pulled him down to her. His lips and his tongue, so expert, so knowing, roused her to a pitch of greedy desire she could hardly contain. He knew exactly when to shift himself, waiting, waiting for tantalizing moments, then pushing into her with slow, deep thrusts, kissing her neck, her hair, while his breath rose and quickened, hot on her skin.

  Oh Martin, Martin …

  She knew he was claiming her back.

  4

  What’s the point of this? She dabs powder, applies lipstick, grimaces at herself to check for smears on her teeth. The face in the mirror looks tired; blue-grey eyes, with a little red veining, gaze back at her. But when she looks more closely, the eyes are quite empty. She can look right into them and there’s nothing.

  Sometimes, catching unexpected sight of herself, she sees her mother’s face; even, more alarmingly, her grandmother’s. Where has the smooth-faced young girl disappeared to, in this fast-forward rush through the generations? Can it really be hers, this face? How odd that people think it’s her they’re seeing. It can nod and smile and do all the things faces are meant to do, and that’s enough to fool people. It’s become an irrelevance. Other people seem closely associated with their faces, but hers is an encumbrance, something she has no choice but to wear, patching it up and trying to make the best of it whenever she’s going to meet people. Like plumping up cushions or dead-heading the roses.

  She’d rather stay in. She isn’t hungry and she doesn’t want to spend the evening in pointless chit-chat, but Don has said they’ll go and it’s too late to back out. There’s no escape from what she can only see as an ordeal. He’s like that. If he says he’ll do something, he does it.

  ‘Ready, then?’ Don is jingling his keys, just short of impatient. She puts on her coat and a silk scarf, picks up her gloves and follows him downstairs.

  Malcolm. That’s who they’re going to visit. A golfing acquaintance of Don’s, and his wife, Kathy; she’s met them both briefly, but can hardly picture their faces. Why not keep it like that? Why make the effort to get to know each other better, as Kathy put it when she invited them? Other people’s lives. Other people’s children and grandchildren and holiday plans. She wants to float away, look down on it all from an aloof height.

  ‘But we won’t be living here much longer,’ she objected, when Don told her about the arrangement. ‘What’s the point of making new friends?’

  ‘For Pete’s sake! Cranbrook isn’t a million miles away. We won’t be cutting ourselves off from everyone we know. That’s the point.’

  Perhaps they should move a million miles away. Perhaps that’s what she wants. Cranbrook is no more than a feeble gesture of change, barely forty minutes in the car.

  Don has remembered to pick up the wine and chocolates she bought yesterday. All she has to do is belt herself in and be transported.

  ‘You’ll like Kathy,’ he tells her, wiping the inside of the windscreen.

  ‘Will I?’ She always bridles when people tell her that. Are her affections so logical, so easily predicted?

  There’s a pause, then Don says, as he pulls out of the drive, ‘I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. You don’t seem very happy. I thought you’d be pleased everything’s going so smoothly.’

  She takes a deep breath and sighs it out, wondering if she can pick something from the confusion that will make sense. ‘It’s – oh, something at work. Not important enough to bother you with.’

  ‘No, go on.’

  ‘Well – I wish they wouldn’t try to change things. Afternoons. I can’t do afternoons. I told them.’

  ‘Have they asked you to?’

  ‘Yes, two a week, but I said I couldn’t.’

  Don looks at her. ‘Is that all? It’s sorted, then. Why worry about that? You’ll be leaving, anyway, when we move.’

  She wonders why she started this; she has no intention of elaborating. And yes, he’s right. Just a few weeks more. It’s part of her routine now to get well away from the health centre by one-thirty; s
he can’t risk being even five minutes late. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays have become dangerous now, evenly spaced, waiting to trap her. The others in reception have no idea, seeing no difference between those days and the others. But she doesn’t have to keep putting herself through this – it’s the one thought that keeps her going. She could resign now if she liked: say she’s got too much to do, getting ready for the move. Don wouldn’t mind. It’s only a kind of obstinacy that makes her reluctant to give in. With so much about to change, she wants at least to hang onto the shape of her days.

  She keeps noticing, lately, how carefully he treats her, with a mixture of concern and exasperation, as if she’s a frail-tempered convalescent who must be humoured. It’s making her feel frail, her nerves about to snap, as if she’s entitled to outbursts of temper or irritability. She has to remind herself that there’s nothing physically wrong with her, nothing at all. It’s only a house move they’re facing, not life-threatening illness.

  Soon the tyres are crunching on gravel and they’re outside an ivy-clad house with a pillared entrance porch. The woman, Kathy, comes to the door, wearing some sort of Eastern-inspired, bead-encrusted garment, her hair held back by jewelled clips. In the gush of How lovely to see you and You found us, then, she registers her own dullness and drabness, her safe clothes. Fortunately Malcolm is far scruffier than his wife, dressed as if for gardening in saggy trousers and a zipped top.

  Everyone seems to kiss nowadays, the double air-kiss that once looked flamboyantly Gallic, even people who are barely acquainted. Reluctantly she submits. Kathy, one hand still on her shoulder, says, ‘Come through and sit down, Sandra. Such a cold night! Malcolm’s lit the wood-burner.’

  ‘Cassandra. My name’s Cassandra.’

  Why’s she saying that? Sometimes it’s as if a different person speaks for her; the words are out so quickly that she hears them before they’ve formed in her mind.

  ‘Oh! I’m so sorry. I thought Don said Sandra.’ Kathy recovers quickly. ‘Well, Cassandra is lovely – I don’t blame you for preferring it. Do you predict the future?’