Rosie (24 page)

Flats were intriguing to Rosie. Until she went to Bristol to live, the idea of several homes on top of each other was totally alien to her. She thought she’d like to live in one of these places; through the glass doors she could see tantalizing glimpses of thick red carpets, glossy varnished doors and a lift beyond, and she supposed the flats themselves must be even more posh.

The shops too were quite different from those in Bristol: elegant dress shops, restaurants and milliners. She saw one selling nothing but flowers, and so many jewellers. She imagined the people who lived around here were all very, very rich.

Even the old bomb sites here and there, seemed less ugly than ones she’d seen in Bristol. Ivy and rosebay willowherb had scrambled up over the piles of rubble and seemed to transform them from eyesores into ancient ruins. Rosie suddenly got the feeling that in London anything was possible. She could get to be a nurse, a secretary, or even run that lovely flower shop, if she wanted it enough. Maybe she might end up living in one of these smart flats too.

The bus conductor directed her where to get off. He said the place was called Swiss Cottage and pointed out she could catch another bus or walk up a hill into Hampstead from there. Rosie was happy to walk; the tree-lined avenue was steep but the sun was warm on her shoulders and it was interesting looking at all the big houses. Some of them were very dilapidated, with overgrown gardens, and they seemed to be shared by many families. Others still maintained a kind of faded grandeur with peeling paint on the front doors but white-stoned steps, stone bird-baths and huge urns full of flowers. There were several bomb sites here too, which, judging by makeshift playhouses built out of old timbers and packing cases, were now used as playgrounds by the children. Although this avenue didn’t have the neatness or even the affluence of the well-kept suburban houses of Woodside Park, Rosie liked it. It was more like the London of her imagination, a street of character and just a little mysterious.

Her excitement grew as she came to Hampstead village. It was far lovelier than the image she had stamped into her mind from Thomas’s descriptions. Such quaint old shops, enchanting tiny courtyards, cobbled alleyways with dear little cottages, but yet so busy compared with any village she’d ever seen. The women here were so very sophisticated compared with their counterparts in Somerset. Not a head scarf covering curlers, or an apron in sight, but elegant hats, costumes and high-heeled shoes. She lingered in shop doorways listening to their posh voices, noting the way they had pencilled their eyebrows, their glossy lips and manicured nails. Even the mothers pushing prams with a couple of smaller children in tow were attractive and smartly dressed, and she wondered how they found time to make themselves look so nice.

It took her some time to find Flask Walk, as she kept being distracted by the many fascinating shops. Books, clothes, art materials and jewellery – she felt she could wander here for days and not see everything.

But finally she found Bryant’s. It was tucked away between a grocery shop and yet another book shop, its tiny bow window full of old clocks and watches. Peering into the gloomy interior she could see only an old man with snow-white hair. He was perched on a stool behind the counter, peering into a watch with a magnifying glass stuck right into his eye. She thought this must be Mr Bryant who Thomas worked for.

The old man took the glass from his eyes as she stepped into the shop. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, in a deep resonant voice which didn’t seem to match his frail appearance. ‘What can I do for you?’

For a moment Rosie hesitated, suddenly struck by the thought that Thomas just might not appreciate a surprise visit after all. But it was too late now to back away. The shop was musty smelling and very dusty. Scores of old clocks stood on shelves, some with a label attached showing the owner’s name, others marked ‘For Sale’. Under the glass of the counter were dozens of watches and a large velvet pad displaying pieces of jewellery.

‘I just popped in hoping I could see Mr Farley for a moment,’ she said. ‘Is he here?’

‘He certainly is. I’ll call him for you.’ The old man beamed at her and got up from his stool. ‘What name shall I give?’

‘Rosemary Smith,’ she said nervously, wondering if he’d guess who that was.

The old man disappeared out the back. It sounded as if he was going upstairs. He called out, but his voice was muffled so Rosie didn’t hear what he’d actually said.

The old man returned to his stool, and Rosie could hear Thomas coming down. His slow pace suggested the staircase was a narrow, tricky one. As he came through the doorway behind the counter and saw her, he looked stunned.

‘I was just passing,’ she said quickly, feeling very foolish. Thomas was wearing a long brown apron over his clothes and he needed a shave. He didn’t look like the smart gentleman she’d kept a picture of in her head. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted your work, I only wanted to say hullo.’

The old man was standing there watching them both with keen interest. ‘I’m working near by,’ she added lamely.

‘It’s good to see you, Rosemary,’ Thomas said, but his tone was very stilted. ‘What a surprise. I had no idea you were in London.’ He looked across at his employer. ‘Would you mind if I popped out for half an hour with Miss Smith?’

The old man smiled warmly at Rosie, but she sensed he was very curious. ‘Of course I don’t mind. I wish I had pretty young ladies calling on me.’

Thomas went back into the passage and came back a few seconds later with a jacket replacing his apron and carrying his walking stick. Then opening the door he ushered her out. Once in Flask Walk he took her arm with his spare hand and led her away from the shop as if he was in a hurry. ‘You shouldn’t have come like this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You’ve caught me on the hop.’

It wasn’t the warm welcome Rosie had expected. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I just wanted to surprise you.’

‘You did that all right,’ he said and without saying another word led her right to the back of a nearby café.

It was only once they were seated, well away from the other customers, that he leaned nearer to her and spoke in a low voice. ‘I am pleased to see you, Rosie. But you should have written and given me some warning. Mr Bryant must be wondering who you are now, and it’s hard to think up a plausible tale on the spur of the moment.’

His eyes hadn’t met hers as he spoke, and for the second time that day Rosie was reminded sharply of just who she was. ‘I didn’t think,’ she said, and to her dismay her eyes began to prickle with tears.

‘For goodness’ sake don’t cry,’ he said quickly and patted her hand. ‘It’s just that word’s got around I’m a key witness in the trial next week. It’s made everyone interested in me.’

Along with feeling awkward, Rosie now felt surprised and very stupid. In all the time they had been corresponding, Thomas had never mentioned the trial, or being a witness. She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her that he would be, it seemed perfectly obvious now. But maybe she wasn’t as smart as she’d always supposed.

‘They couldn’t guess I’m Cole Parker’s daughter, could they?’ she whispered.

As the waitress picked that moment to come to their table, Thomas couldn’t answer. Rosie watched him closely as he ordered tea and two ham sandwiches. He had a natural, easy way with him, smiling at the woman as he spoke as if she was very important to him. She realized it was this gentlemanly quality along with his thin face and blond hair which had made him so much like Ashley Wilkes in
Gone with the Wind.
She thought women must find him very attractive.

‘I doubt they’d guess who you were just by looking at you,’ Thomas said once the waitress had left with his order. ‘But I’ve had several reporters sniffing around me already. I’ve been astounded by how much they know about me, Heather and your family. Maybe I’m getting paranoid, but I do feel as if I’m under a microscope. Now just imagine if one of them should amble by today and see me with a pretty young thing like you – aren’t they bound to wonder who you are?’

Rosie looked at him bleakly. Thomas blushed and dropped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, love. I must sound ridiculous to you. But just imagine if someone did make the connection? It could make me unbelievable as a witness, not to mention blowing the cover Miss Pemberton has arranged for you.’

Rosie hadn’t considered that. ‘I’m so sorry. I’d better go,’ she said, getting up from her chair. She was afraid she just might cry and that way she would certainly draw more attention to herself.

‘No,’ he said, catching hold of her arm. ‘No, you can’t go now.’

Thomas was so overwrought he couldn’t think straight. In the last couple of weeks as he’d prepared himself for the trial he hadn’t eaten or slept. Childhood memories of Heather plagued him. The camp in Burma and all the atrocities he’d witnessed kept coming back, however much he tried to banish them from his mind. He had believed he’d worked all the rage out of his system about that a long time ago, but now he found he’d just suppressed it.

In calmer moments he realized he was using Cole and Seth Parker as whipping boys for every single thing that haunted him and to a certain extent some of that hatred had begun to wash over on to Rosie too.

But now that she was sitting here in front of him, her blue eyes brimming with unshed tears, he was brought up sharply. She was just a child, one who’d been stripped of everything – her home, family and her innocence. It was him who’d held out the hand of friendship to her in the first place, and maybe with hindsight that was foolhardy, but it wouldn’t be right to turn his back on her now.

‘It will look even odder if you go rushing off now,’ he said hastily. ‘Besides, I want to know about what you’re doing here in London. Stay and tell me.’

Rosie told him about her job.

Thomas immediately pictured a ward he’d been in for a time. It was full of men who’d lost their minds during the war, and it was another ugly picture he had no wish to recall.

‘It’s not so bad,’ she said when she saw the horror in his eyes. ‘It’s just another kind of nursing.’

Thomas had been in regular contact with Miss Pemberton regarding Alan and from her letters he’d formed an opinion that the woman was very wise and caring. But now, on hearing where she’d sent Rosie, he wondered if he was mistaken about this social worker. Hadn’t Rosie been through enough already without subjecting her to more horror?

He thought for a moment before making any comment. ‘Yes, I suppose it
is
just nursing,’ he said guardedly. ‘I’m probably prejudiced about mental asylums like most people. But are you happy there?’

‘Yes, really happy,’ she said, unconvincingly. ‘I like being in London. The other girls are nice. I’ve got a lovely room. Some of the patients are kind of sweet.’

Thomas looked into her eyes and saw the truth clouding them. She loathed it, but she believed she had no right to anything better. Any antagonism he’d built up in the last couple of weeks for her being part of that appalling family vanished in sympathy for her. ‘Oh Rosie,’ he said, shaking his head sadly. ‘You don’t have to pretend to me. It’s awful, isn’t it?’

Rosie gulped hard.

Until today she had thought of Thomas Farley as almost god-like. Courageous, intuitive, compassionate, all-seeing and so very strong, and she’d wanted to cling to him for security. But all at once she realized the strain of the forthcoming trial had sapped his strength. His skin was grey, his eyes had dark circles beneath them and she guessed he was living on his nerves. He chose to befriend her because he was a generous-hearted man, but yet she could only serve as a constant, bitter reminder of the men who killed his sister. She had to back away from him, it wasn’t right to allow him to worry and concern himself with her at such a difficult time in his life.

‘It isn’t awful at all,’ she said, forcing herself to laugh gaily. ‘Strange, a bit disgusting sometimes, but it’s a great deal better than putting up with Mrs Bentley’s constant criticism. I like working with other girls, we have lots of laughs and I’ll soon get used to the weirdness of it all. In fact the main reason I called around today, besides telling you I’d come to London, was to suggest we give up writing to each other.’

Thomas raised one eyebrow inquiringly. ‘Why?’

‘Well, I don’t get much spare time for a start,’ Rosie said. ‘But apart from that the other girls reckon Matron steams open their letters, and we wouldn’t want that, would we? We could always pass any messages on to each other through Miss Pemberton if we need to.’ She paused breathlessly, hoping she’d managed to create the right light tone. ‘Now, have you had any news from Alan?’

If it hadn’t been for the waitress coming back with a tray, Thomas might have pursued the subject further to make sure Rosie meant what she said. But a moment or two’s respite gave him enough time to see it was the ideal solution to his dilemma. It was also possible Rosie needed a clean break with the past.

‘Mrs Hughes wrote on Saturday,’ Thomas said once the tea and sandwiches were on the table. ‘Alan’s settled in well at his new school. He didn’t even cry on the first day and when she picked him up at three-thirty he was full of it. It sounds like he’s very happy.’

Over their sandwiches Rosie steered the conversation well away from personal matters. She told him about the girls she worked with and Thomas spoke of painting the living-room of his flat above the shop.

‘It can’t have been touched since the turn of the century,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve painted it white now and it looks so different. I’m going to tackle the kitchen next.’

Rosie looked at his thin, unshaven face reflectively. She had always disliked seeing her father or brothers that way. It seemed brutish somehow. Yet for some odd reason Thomas looked quite the reverse; in fact she wanted to reach out and caress his bristly chin, and tell him not to worry about anything. She thought his life above the shop mending watches must be very lonely and she wondered if he cooked proper meals for himself. ‘You should find a lady friend,’ she said reprovingly.

‘And you ought to find yourself a boyfriend,’ he retorted, waggling a finger at her. ‘Get out dancing with some of those other girls.’