Drowning Rose (32 page)

I had grown used to him speaking as if Rose were only in the next room so I simply told him, ‘Of course. Anything.’

‘Don’t waste any more of your life on regrets.’

I opened my mouth to speak but he raised his hand to stop me. ‘To my mind waste should be counted as the eighth deadly sin.’ He leant forward and peered at me. ‘You think I’m exaggerating?’

I shrugged like a child. ‘No. Yes. Perhaps.’

He fell back against the chair. ‘You think you owe me something, Eliza? Then you owe me not to waste your life. War, inequality, discrimination, poverty, in the end those things are all about waste. As is failing to live the best life you can. No more, Eliza.’

I put out my hand and took his. Uncle Ian, like my mother, was not much for touching and usually his hand slunk off back to his side like an embarrassed schoolboy, but not this time. ‘I promise,’ I said. ‘At least, I promise to try.’ After a couple of minutes we let go of each other’s hands and I said, ‘But it’s an unusual situation; you give me a home and you tell me to have a lovely life and then you somehow make it sound like by accepting your gifts and following your advice I’m doing you a favour.’

‘You are. I’ve come to believe there’s a particular hell where all the unused gifts, the wasted opportunities, the ill-spent hours end up, and if you listen hard enough you will hear a terrible wailing and gnashing of teeth.’

I smiled weakly. ‘I think I’ve got it.’

It was his turn to take my hand. ‘And don’t look so worried. I’ll still be here when you come back.’

Now I did smile. ‘A bit of a pointless visit if you’re not.’

He gave a dry laugh. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Off you go.’

‘The car’s not here yet.’ I had no sooner said that than it arrived, beeping its horn as it came up the drive. I got to my feet and Uncle Ian lifted himself an inch off the chair before sinking back down again. I busied myself checking I had my tickets and my passport.

‘Eliza.’

I looked up at him. ‘Yes, Uncle Ian.’

‘Be happy.’

I nodded.

‘You can be a black hole, Eliza, or you can be a candle. Which is it going to be?’ I must have looked surprised because he laughed. ‘One of Ove’s little bons mots.’

‘Ah. Still, it makes a corny kind of sense.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ We kissed and I picked up my handbag. Chopin’s Nocturne Number 2 was playing on the old-fashioned CD player as I walked from the room. When I got to the door I turned round and we looked at each other. I thought, he knows it too; he knows this is the last time that we’ll see each other. I wanted to run back to him and hug him but I knew that if nothing else the shock of such a display of emotion would surely kill him.

‘Goodbye then.’ I gave a little wave.

He raised his hand. ‘Goodbye, Eliza.’

Thirty-five

I returned to find my house on the hill empty of Ruth. She had left a note.
I know you won’t approve but I’ve gone back home. I felt so lonely, that’s the honest truth. (Now you’re not to feel bad for having left me here. Your godfather has to come first.)

I went from room to room checking, just to make sure that she hadn’t changed her mind and was in fact hiding in some drawer somewhere. Then I phoned her. ‘Ruth, are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. Everything’s fine.’

‘Should you have gone back? He might do it again. Is he there with you now?’

‘Eliza?’

‘Yes, Ruth.’

‘I might have overreacted.’ She rushed out the sentence as if she half hoped I wouldn’t catch it.

‘You can’t overreact to something like that.’

There was a pause, then Ruth said, ‘You can if the whole thing was really an accident.’

It was my turn to pause. ‘Right,’ I said finally. ‘Well, as long as you’re all right.’

‘I am. And, Eliza.’

‘Yes, Ruth.’

‘Thank you.’

I put the phone down and went out to the workshop to check on my patients. There were the ones about to be discharged: Annie’s jug, an early Staffordshire lion with a bubble-bath mane, and a Moorcroft vase that was my equivalent of Jacob Bauer’s ‘completely loathsome’ patient, hard to care about, yet accorded the best treatment available because that was what the job was all about, doing your best to put right what was broken because it was not your place to judge but to mend. Then came Recovery, objects bandaged with tape, bits held in place with staples, wounds covered but not fully healed: an eighteenth-century Meissen Harlequin figurine playing bagpipes, a large cockatoo with a splendid lemon-yellow comb, a Minton bust of the young Queen Victoria in a sickly shade of blue. Finally came Intensive Care, the pieces that had reached me in the most sorry state, some arriving in bits in a box, some cracked and flayed of whole fields of enamel, and all of them written off by other restorers and sent to me; the last chance saloon for the cracked and the broken.

Once I had finished my inspection and satisfied myself that nothing untoward had happened to my charges in my absence, I telephoned Gabriel and invited him to dinner.

The following day I hurried back from work, practically running from the Tube, so that I would have plenty of time to get everything ready for my dinner. I had told Beatrice, over a Willow Pattern jug not dissimilar to Annie’s, about inviting Gabriel home. I expect it was obvious from the way I looked and the way I sounded that it was more than just a dinner, because she had rushed over to me and given me a hug, saying, ‘Oh Eliza, I’m so pleased for you.’

I had looked over her shoulder at a set of tiles that I found particularly hideous, just to stop myself from crying. ‘I do love my work,’ I said.

‘That’s somewhat of a non sequitur,’ Beatrice had said, letting go of me. ‘But I’m pleased you feel that way.’

‘Oh I do,’ I’d told her as I smiled at my poor harried willow lovers.

Back home, as I showered and washed my hair, I thought how proud Uncle Ian would be of me for taking life and all its promise by the scruff and – well, doing whatever you did with a scruff.

I stood in front of my wardrobe, looking in at the rows of dresses. I had taken to wearing dresses in preference to any other clothes back at university. I had realised how convenient life became once you did not have to worry about finding a top. I’m sure that there were people for whom matching a top to a bottom did not constitute one of life’s major hurdles but for me the whole thing was a problem I could do without. Tops, were they T-shirts, blouses, sweaters or cardigans, seemed to assume a malevolent life of their own, appearing and disappearing at will, like the Cheshire Cat, never being in the place where I thought I’d left them. They even seemed capable of subtle colour changes so that what was, for example, a sensible navy, turned lilac or violet or heather or some other skittish floral shade that managed to clash with whatever else I tried to match it with. But with a dress you had no such worries.

In the end I plumped for a grey Liberty-print tea-dress. It had short sleeves, and as the evening was turning chilly I added a brown cashmere cardigan. It looked nicer than one might have thought, because there were little brown spots in amongst the grey and white flowers of the dress.

I had already prepared supper, a lamb casserole, and I had some meringues that the packet promised no one would believe were not home-made, waiting in a tin. I would mix those with cream and berries to make an Eton Mess.

I looked out of my bedroom window but of course he was not there yet. He wasn’t due for another quarter of an hour. Then I thought Gabriel might find it odd that I’d picked for my bedroom the small room at the top of the house with its peeling paint and wallpaper when there was a comfortable and freshly decorated one on the floor below. So, with my heartbeat speeding up like the steps of a lover, I grabbed the bedding and rushed down to the room where Ruth had slept. I remade that bed and then I hurried downstairs and out to the front garden to pick some early roses to place on the bedside table. As I searched for the blooms Jacob Bauer drove up in his big bad car and barely a minute later I saw Gabriel approach on his bicycle. He had a determined look on his face as well he might; there was a long steep hill to negotiate before you got to the square. I waved at him with my secateurs but he wasn’t looking in my direction but at Jacob Bauer, who had got out of his car, stretching and pulling a face as if his back hurt. He should follow Gabriel’s example, I thought, and cycle for a change. That would get rid of the beginnings of a belly as well as make him more popular in the neighbourhood.

Gabriel jumped off his bike and called out something and Jacob Bauer turned round, and seeing who it was he raised his hand in a wave and came over. The two men were standing not twenty feet from my garden. I wondered if I should join them but I decided not to. I enjoyed watching Gabriel. I used to do it all the time, not spy on him or stalk him, just sit happily at a restaurant table or wait in some foyer at the theatre or the ballet, watching him stride though the throng, so tall, so handsome, so mine. Of course he was mine no longer. But who knew but that after tonight he might be mine once more. Jacob Bauer had to feel a bit short and plain and heavy-featured when standing next to Gabriel. Though if he did, it didn’t seem to concern him. He had a nice smile, though, I noticed. He was smiling now as he was telling Gabriel about something, describing with his hands, even doing a little walk about with a put-on limp. It was work talk, obviously, and I grew impatient, wishing my neighbour would stop monopolising my guest. But Gabriel listened and nodded and smiled back and shook his head and interjected and I thought that at this rate the evening would be halfway over before he had even stepped over my threshold. It used to drive me mad, the way Gabriel would be endlessly polite and attentive to someone he barely knew at the expense of someone close to him, someone like me, for example, who was waiting for him.

Next Gabriel pointed over his shoulder to my house and they both turned round. I ducked and walked, knees bent, head down, to the door, and slipped back inside. I went and sat down at the kitchen table. I started counting to a hundred, thinking that by the time I had got there Gabriel would have torn himself away. But there was no ringing of the doorbell so I thought I’d write my email to Uncle Ian. I had spoken on the phone to Katarina earlier in the day. She had told me he was reasonably well, though tired and spending the day in bed. So I wrote and said I hoped he would be up and about soon and that everything was fine with ‘our’ house. I finished by telling him that following our last conversation I had invited Gabriel for dinner as getting back with an ex-husband had to count as first-rate recycling, the very opposite of waste.

Once I’d clicked on ‘send’ I shut down the laptop and went back to the window. It was getting dark but the two men were still chatting. I was about to go the bathroom – not because I needed to but because usually when you waited for the phone to ring or for someone to arrive, you only needed to get into the shower or sit down on the loo and there it was, the ringing phone or the knock on the door – but then I saw Annie running down the path in the twilight. Her father turned round and waved at her, a wide grin on his face, and then he gave Gabriel a pat on the shoulder before hurrying off. I smiled to myself as he picked his daughter up as if she weighed nothing at all and carried her back up the path to their house.

I had seen the back of Jacob Bauer but I half expected Archie to appear and possibly have some sort of seizure just so that Gabriel would be further delayed. But nothing like that happened and at last the doorbell went.

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ He pulled off his helmet and tossed it on a chair. ‘I got chatting to Jacob Bauer. It’s funny how these things happen. I mean, before you told me he was your neighbour I had hardly exchanged two words with the guy but now we seem to bump into each other all the time.’

He leant down and kissed me on the cheek. ‘I hope I’m all right like this.’ He looked down at his jeans. I assured him that he was.

‘I said to Jacob that I can’t believe you two haven’t met properly yet. In fact I suggested he come over and have a drink with us now but he said he had to help his daughter with her homework. I told him to pop over later if he felt like a nightcap.’

I was on my way into the kitchen and I said, over my shoulder, ‘Well, I hope he doesn’t.’

‘Do you have to be so antisocial?’ Gabriel said. ‘You never want to see anyone.’

I swallowed and blinked away the hurt. ‘White wine all right?’ I asked. ‘Or would you prefer a vodka and tonic?’

He told me wine was fine.

I grabbed the bottle from the fridge and led the way upstairs to the sitting room.

‘No, he’s a nice chap.’ Gabriel sat down on the sofa and accepted the glass I handed him.

‘He’s not terribly popular with his neighbours,’ I said. ‘He drives that great big car and refuses to attend the Residents’ Association meetings, plus I know for a fact that he doesn’t recycle.’

‘Neither do you.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘You put batteries in with the normal rubbish.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You take them to the recycling point, do you?’

‘Almost certainly,’ I said. ‘His daughter’s nice, though. A bit pushy but with a father like that . . .’

‘Jacob Bauer isn’t especially pushy. Why do you have to be so judgemental? You don’t even know the man.’