Rosie (6 page)

‘Catching flies again?’ she asked.

He closed his mouth hastily. ‘You crack me up. You really do.’

‘What a lovely thing to say. I must remember that.’ As she went towards her room he heard her chuckle to herself, then murmur, ‘You crack me up, you really do!’

Between his concern for his grandmother, his need to complete more paintings, his thoughts of Debs and a new van, Alex kept drifting into his mind. He toyed with calling her. To see if she was all right? To ask her out for supper? No. There was too much to think about without that.

And so he found himself staring at the grey Austin A30 van in the second-hand car dealer’s yard in Newport. He liked old vans: they were characterful and practical: you could get a lot of paintings into the back. Difficult in a sports car. That was what Rosie wanted him to buy, of course. Something more racy. He shook his head, and felt a little embarrassed that it was he who was unadventurous while his grandmother was the fast lady.

‘’Sgoin’ for a song, mate. Only twelve ’undred quid.’

‘Twelve hundred?’

‘’Sa collector’s item, that is.’

‘What sort? A debt collector?’

‘Discerning.’

‘Well, maybe I’m not discerning enough.’

‘Suit yerself. It’ll go.’

‘But not to me.’

He cursed himself on the way home for being pathetic and indecisive. And for being walked over, first by Debs and then by Rosie. It was time he put his foot down. But how could he? He couldn’t simply turn her out. She might look a tough old bird, but he had seen her moved to tears in the last week, and he didn’t want to dash her spirits when she seemed to be on the mend.

He turned into the gravel path at the front of his cottage. ‘The Anchorage’, said the small slate sign. He couldn’t help thinking that, as far as Rosie was concerned, the name was appropriate.

He walked along the veranda at the front of the house, between the forest of bright green montbretia leaves, and glanced into the tiny boxroom next to the front door. It was the one place where he could tuck a computer, without it taking over the place. The desk lamp was turned on, and Rosie was hunched over the keyboard.

Nick let himself in through the front door and poked his head into the little room. ‘What are you doing?’

Rosie almost leaped out of the chair. ‘You made me jump!’

He glanced at the screen, and then at his grandmother. ‘When did you learn how to use a computer?’

‘At night-school when your granddad was ill. It took my mind off things.’

‘You didn’t say.’

‘Well, I don’t have to tell you everything I do.’

‘Of course not. Sorry.’

Then she said brightly, ‘I’ve found you a car.’

‘What?’

‘A new car. I’ve found one on the Internet.’

‘What? An Austin A30 van?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s an MG.’

Nick sighed. ‘But I don’t want an MG. You can’t get pictures into an MG.’

‘Yes, you can. You can have a special rack on the boot lid over the spare tyre. I’ve checked. And, anyway, your pictures are quite small. Most of them would fit in the footwell at the front.’

‘What about when it rains?’

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘It does have a hood, you know.’

There was nothing for it but to look over her shoulder at the advert on the screen.

‘You see?’ she said. ‘Perfect. Very sporty. Bit of fun. Take you out of yourself.’

‘I thought it was you we were taking out of yourself?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about me. Just a minute – I’ll print it off.’ And then, evidently fearful that she had overstepped the mark, ‘You don’t mind, do you, about me using the computer? I haven’t touched anything I shouldn’t.’

Nick shook his head. ‘No. Not at all. I’m just surprised.’

‘And pleased? A bit pleased?’

‘Yes. And pleased.’

The printer whirred and Rosie picked up the piece of paper and handed it to him. She stood up and indicated the finer points of the car. ‘It’s British racing green – you can’t tell that from the printout – with a red radiator grille. And the hood is black. It says it’s in its original condition and has had the same owner for the last thirty years.’ Her enthusiasm was infectious. ‘I’ve always loved those old MGs. Our doctor used to have one. He’d jump over the door without opening it. Smoked a pipe. We used to think he was very dashing . . . Well-mannered, too.’

Nick read out: ‘“MG TC, 1949. Mechanically this car is superb. The engine, when being driven, has an excellent oil pressure and is entirely sound.” Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they?’

‘Read on,’ said Rosie.

‘“When on ‘tick-over’ the engine can hardly be heard. The gearbox, and all other parts related to the chassis, like brakes, steering, et cetera, are also in excellent working order. No visible signs of rust.” Probably been resprayed.’

‘And it has the original logbook, showing owners back to 1963, and all the bills and receipts for the last thirty years. It was bought in 1969 for a hundred and fifteen pounds.’

‘How much is it now?’ asked Nick, his eye drifting down to the foot of the page. ‘Bloody hell! Eleven thousand two hundred and fifty quid! Not a chance! I’ve just turned down a van for twelve hundred. This is almost ten times that.’

‘Yes, but look what you’re getting. It’s a very pretty car!’

‘But I haven’t got that sort of money.’

Rosie’s eyes lit up. ‘I have!’

‘What?’

‘
I
could buy it.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘I’m not being silly. I could buy it as an investment. I’ve got plenty saved up and nothing else to do with it. The banks aren’t paying much interest. Much more fun to have a sports car. That way, you can drive it and I can come out for a spin occasionally. Can’t I?’

‘Well, yes. But no! I mean, this isn’t right.’

‘If you’re worrying about your sisters and their inheritance, don’t. I’ve sorted all that out.’

‘But I want a van!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Can you hear yourself? “I want a van”! What a feeble thing to say when you could be spinning around in that.’

Nick looked back at the printout. It was indeed a lovely car. ‘I don’t know . . .’

‘Do it for me?’

He folded his arms. ‘And if I don’t?’

‘I shall be unhappy.’

‘Where is this flash car?’

Rosie pointed out of the window. ‘In Portsmouth. We could be there in an hour.’

 
 
6

Should not be allowed to vanish into oblivion.

I
t was love at first sight. Oh, how could a man get so excited about a heap of metal? The rolling wave of the mudguard. The neatly spoked wheels. The crimson-reeded radiator grille. The gleaming chrome. Nick ran his hand over one of the bulbous, glistening headlights and Rosie knew he was enslaved.

They hardly needed to take her out for a test drive. Nick knew how she would feel. Strong, but nimble. Spirited, but of a certain age. Obliging, as long as she was handled sensitively. The car had a lot in common with his grandmother.

He felt embarrassed when she wrote out the cheque, and tried not to look like a little boy who had just been indulged by his granny. Which, of course, he had, although he tried to tell himself that
he
was indulging her.

The salesman waved as they drove away, like an excitable couple of newlyweds. From her position deep in the bucketlike passenger seat, Rosie glanced at Nick as they sped towards the ferry. He was beaming from ear to ear. She had not seen him so happy for a long while. It made her smile, too.

And then she remembered how it had felt to be taken for a spin in a fast car by a good-looking young man. She had been twenty-two. Her hair streaming out behind her, she was laughing and looking sideways at the handsome doctor, who brushed her knee lightly with his hand. For a month they were barely apart. Then he was called up, and she never saw him again. Six years later they engraved his name on the war memorial.

‘Can we stop for a minute?’ she asked.

Nick had been lost in his thoughts. ‘Sorry?’

‘I just wondered if we could pull up for a minute. My eyes are watering.’

He drew in to the side of the road. ‘Yes, of course. Are you all right?’ He watched her reach into her pocket for a tissue. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes. Just remembering.’

‘Happily?’

‘Very.’

He leaned towards her, and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you.’ He tapped the steering-wheel. ‘She’s lovely.’

‘Oh, she’s a she, is she?’

‘Of course.’

She pushed the tissue back into her pocket, pulled out a brightly patterned headscarf and tied it firmly under her chin. ‘Come on, then, or we’ll miss the boat.’

He started the engine again and the car growled softly out of the lay-by, then down the slip-road to the Isle of Wight ferry. For some inexplicable reason, Nick felt as though he was driving there for the first time.

At six thirty the following morning he found himself leaning out of his bedroom window gazing dreamily at the car parked below. How long would Rosie want to stay? He enjoyed her company – which was just as well: she’d shown no sign of wanting to go home.

He looked up at the sky, which was flushed with the amber glow of a clear morning. The sea was glassy calm, and there was no sound, except the distant kleep-kleep of half a dozen oystercatchers on the shore. He’d take himself off to Tennyson Down. No, it might be too breezy up there. He’d go to Sleepyhead Bay, find himself a quiet corner by some rocks, then paint the cottages and the little café. He hadn’t felt like taking out his brushes for the better part of a week. Today he was anxious to get started.

‘Will you be all right?’ he asked later, as he loaded his bag into the passenger side of the car.

She was standing by the front door. ‘Of course I’ll be all right. Perfectly capable, you know . . . now that I’ve got my stick.’ It was only a mock admonishment, acknowledging their little joke – that everybody thought she needed taking care of, even him, but he was the only one who didn’t fuss, who let her live her life.

‘What will you do?’ he asked.

‘Pace myself.’ She grinned. ‘That’s the secret. Go for a little walk. Catch a bus somewhere. Not sure.’

‘Well, take care. Don’t go too far.’

‘That’s what I used to say to you.’

‘Well, you know how it feels, then. I’ll be back late afternoon. We can have supper together if you want.’

‘That’d be nice. I just fancy a bit of fish.’ She waved, and went indoors as he steered the car down the track towards the village and out across the island.

With his board on his lap, he was sketching the scene before him – the towering cliff, the neat row of cottages tucked in beneath it, the apron of rocks, girdled by shallow pools, and the children dipping for shrimps and crabs with their bamboo-poled nets. A couple of small yachts played nip-and-tuck half a mile out, and the lobster fisherman was carrying his catch up the steps to the little café. Nick had picked a good day.

He did not like being watched while he painted, but out here, especially during the school holidays, it was an occupational hazard. He had just finished the sky when he became aware of a child at his side. ‘That’s nice,’ she said. Her dark hair was tied into plaits, and she was leaning on her shrimping net to examine his work.

‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘It’s better than my mum can do.’

‘Does she paint?’ he asked politely.

‘Yes. She tries to sell them.’ The child shrugged, dismissive.

‘So do I.’

‘I bet you sell more than she does.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘I do. She hasn’t sold one yet.’

‘Oh. I see.’ He laughed.

‘Would you like to come and see her painting?’

‘Well, I’m a bit busy at the moment.’ He frowned, hoping she’d leave him in peace.

‘She’s only over there. And she’d probably appreciate some advice.’

He gave in, amused by the child’s conversation, which was older than her years. She was nine or ten, and was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of baggy yellow shorts. Her feet were bare, and her toes, with chipped red varnish, were bent into the rocks for support. Her skin was honey-coloured from the early summer sun, and her turned-up nose was dusted with freckles. She had the darkest eyes he had ever seen.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Nick.’

‘Nick what?’

‘Nick Robertson. What’s yours?’

‘Victoria.’

‘Victoria what?’

‘I’m not going to tell you. My mum says I shouldn’t – in case you’re not very nice.’

Nick grinned. ‘Quite right, too.’

The child pointed her shrimping net to the other end of the cove. ‘She’s over there. Will you come and look? Please?’

He could see that he would not get any peace until he did as she asked, so he put down his board, anchored it with a rock, and followed her as she picked her way nimbly through the sharp stones, using the shrimping net to keep her balance. Occasionally she would raise one leg in the air, looking as though she were about to topple into one of the small pools, then she would recover her balance and tiptoe quickly ahead.

Around a particularly large and craggy outcrop they came upon a woman seated on a smooth, round boulder, with a stubby easel jammed among the smaller rocks in front of her. She was dressed like the child – in T-shirt and shorts – with her dark hair pinned up at the back of her head.