Rosie (77 page)

She thought London was so glamorous and exciting by night. Car headlights and neon signs flashing, brilliantly lit shop windows, so much noise and bustle. The Ritz across the street to her left gave her a glimpse of the rarefied world of the rich. She could almost hear the chink of champagne glasses as liveried flunkies hailed taxis for guests and held open doors for elegant women in fur coats. She looked up at the windows above, wondering what the bedrooms were like and which famous people might be staying there tonight. Golden light from the restaurant on the side of the hotel streamed out into the darkness of the park, and through the windows she could see a waiter shaking out a starched tablecloth, another holding up glasses to the light to check for smears. Rosie wondered how much it cost to have dinner there, and silently vowed to herself that whatever it cost, one day she and Thomas would eat there.

She smiled at her audacity as she drew the curtains. Three years ago she would have been awed by just an ordinary self-service cafeteria – she’d thought places like the Ritz were only for the upper classes. But now she knew the entrance requirement for such places was really only confidence: with the right clothes, and enough money, you could do anything, go anywhere.

‘What can I do to help?’ Rosie asked Norah as she went into the kitchen at the back of the apartment. It was much quieter here, the traffic a mere drone in the distance.

‘You could peel the potatoes,’ Norah suggested. She was holding a beef casserole she’d brought from home. ‘I’ll put this in the oven, then I’ll make some custard.’

Rosie found the potato peeler in the table drawer and went over to the sink. She liked this kitchen. Aside from a modern gas cooker and a refrigerator, it had remained virtually unchanged since the apartments were built a century before. Large glass-fronted cabinets full of beautiful china lined the walls, there was a big, scrubbed table in the centre, and standing at the sink she could see right down into brightly lit offices and other apartments.

It was almost like seeing into half a dozen theatres, with a different show in each. She could see girls sitting at desks typing in one, in another a businessman was leaning back in his chair, with his feet up and his hands behind his head. She thought he was dictating a letter to his secretary, though she couldn’t see anyone else. In an apartment to her right, a slim and elegant woman in a red dress was placing a huge vase of flowers on a baby grand piano; she stopped to tweak them into place, then stood back to admire then. Rosie had a suspicion it was probably the nearest thing to work she’d done all day.

‘I wonder what it would be like to go back and live somewhere like May Cottage,’ she said thoughtfully, glancing round at Norah, who was bent over by the cooker arranging the oven shelves. ‘I never thought it was awful when I lived there, but after living in your house and seeing places like this, how on earth would I cope without all the comfort and modern appliances?’

Norah stood up and smiled. She wondered what had prompted Rosie to think of such a thing.

‘I suppose that would depend on the circumstances,’ she replied. ‘I doubt you’d mind roughing it a bit with Thomas. Or indeed with us, if it was just a short holiday.’

‘I didn’t mean like that,’ Rosie said. ‘I was imagining being uprooted, shoved back there permanently, alone, without any money to make it nice.’

‘Well, that is a grim scenario, and an unlikely one,’ the older woman laughed. ‘But I have to admit that after I married Frank and moved to The Grange I hated having to spend more than an hour or two with my parents in their cottage. It was so tiny, so uncomfortable; the beds were hard and lumpy and so very cold. I tried to explain how I felt to my mother once, but she accused me of becoming a snob.’

‘Am I becoming a snob too?’ Rosie asked anxiously.

‘Of course you aren’t,’ Norah scoffed. ‘Being a snob is looking down on people who aren’t as fortunate as yourself. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with raising your standards. My mother could have improved her home, she had enough money, but she was too mean. She’d put a coat on rather than add some more coal to the fire, and moaned about the broken springs in her bed but wouldn’t buy a new one.

‘She always harped on about me “getting things too easily”. She didn’t see how hard Frank worked for what we had, or that I was looking after his ageing parents at the same time as bringing up Michael and Susan. She made me feel very guilty about everything when she visited me, so much so that I reached the point when I didn’t want her to come at all. I hope to goodness I’m never that crabby with my children.’

Rosie giggled. There was absolutely nothing crabby about Norah Cook. She rejoiced at her children doing so well for themselves and doted on her grandchildren.

‘Perhaps when I’ve got children I’d better not tell them about May Cottage,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want them feeling guilty about what they’ve got.’

Norah thought she was edging closer to what was really on Rosie’s mind. ‘I think you should tell them, but just keep it humorous. I know my children love to hear about their grandparents’ oddities. Or is that what you’re really worried about? That by telling them about May Cottage you might have to reveal the family history too?’

Rosie thought for a bit before replying. ‘I suppose so,’ she frowned. ‘The one does tend to lead to the other. I mean, if I began to talk about Seth and Norman skinning eels, or the scrap yard round the cottage, they’d be bound to ask what happened to them, wouldn’t they?’

Norah sighed. ‘For someone so young you can be remarkably astute, Rosie! In your shoes I’d probably invent a few white lies, at least until they were grown-up and able to understand. But let’s put things into perspective. You aren’t married yet, there are no children either, and by the time some are born and old enough for such revelations, you and Thomas might have had so many adventures together that your children will never hark back further than that.’

‘That’s a better thing to think about.’ Rosie’s face brightened. She didn’t really know why she’d got involved in talking about such things. ‘Besides, after tomorrow Thomas might be the toast of the art world.’

‘Indeed he might,’ Norah smiled. ‘Now, are you going to tell me the state of play with him? I don’t want to put my foot in it when we see him tomorrow.’

Rosie smirked, a little embarrassed. She was always surprised by how direct Norah could be. On the Sunday night after Rosie had returned from spending the weekend with Thomas, she had fully expected some sort of lecture. To her surprise Norah asked her bluntly if they had made love, and had they ‘been careful’, as she put it. She wasn’t disapproving. It was quite clear from what she said that she knew all about the joys of passion-filled nights. She was happy for them both, but she just didn’t want to see them saddled with a baby before they’d had time to enjoy being alone together.

Since then Thomas had been using all his spare time painting and he’d only been to Mayfield once. Norah had been very sympathetic about the lack of opportunity for them to spend any time together, and she had turned a blind eye to Rosie creeping into his bed late at night. The fact that she and her husband had arranged for them to have this apartment showed they wanted to smooth the lovers’ path. As such, Rosie felt compelled to confide in the older woman.

‘We desperately want to be together all the time’ she said. ‘But I don’t see how we can. Thomas can’t move away from Hampstead for some time.’

‘Well, go and live there with him.’

Rosie’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open in surprise. ‘Live in sin!’

Norah laughed at Rosie’s shocked expression. ‘I know, it’s not the done thing, at least not now in the prudish fifties. To listen to some people, you’d think they’d forgotten how uninhibited we all were during the war. But Thomas is an artist after all, and he lives in Hampstead which is a hotbed of Bohemian people. As I remember, being separated when you are in love is painful. I dare say Thomas will want to marry you anyway, but I can’t see any good reason for hanging around waiting for a ring on your finger, when it’s as plain as the nose on my face that you two ought to be together now.’

‘But what about Donald?’ Rosie asked. ‘I can’t just up and leave him in the lurch.’

‘He’ll be fine. It’s not as if you’d be going out of his life for good.’ Norah came closer to Rosie and put her arm around her waist. ‘Heaven knows Frank and I owe you so much, Rosie. You’ve taught our Donald enough to be able to work and make friends. He’ll miss you of course, as Frank and I will, but all of us would rather see you two happy and fulfilled than try to keep you with us for our selfish needs.’

Rosie turned and buried her face in the older woman’s warm, perfumed neck. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispered as tears of gratitude came into her eyes. ‘Just thank you for being so understanding doesn’t sound enough.’

Ever since that night in Hampstead with Thomas, Rosie had thought of little else but wanting to be with him permanently. It seemed ironic that when Gareth had wanted her to move to London she’d raised so many objections. Yet now she didn’t care whether she lived in Mayfield, London, Manchester or even Australia, just as long as she could be by Thomas’s side.

She remembered so clearly how he had once mapped out her life with Gareth for her, and claimed that one day she would become dissatisfied with the kind of future he offered. At that time she hadn’t fully understood what Thomas was getting at, but she could see it for herself now.

She needed adventure before she settled down with a home and children. There was a huge world out there, and she’d seen only the tiniest corner of it. Thomas had made her hungry to see more. He wanted to go to Venice and Paris to paint, she wanted to see the gardens of Versailles, the Grand Canyon, jungles and deserts. Maybe they could do it all together.

Norah lifted Rosie’s face from her shoulder, and holding it in both her hands she looked right into her eyes as if she was delving into her soul.

‘Will you take another bit of advice?’ she asked. ‘Go with Thomas, be happy with him. But make sure you keep your own identity and talent intact, Rosie. You are as much of an artist as he is. The only difference is that the pictures you paint are with living, growing things. Don’t allow yourself to be sidetracked from your personal ambitions to be a garden designer by just slipping into becoming the perfect little wife and housekeeper. One of the main reasons you two are so right for one another is that you are both free spirits. So keep it that way.’

Rosie was surprised by such a statement, especially coming from someone who was such a superb role-model for womanly skills.

‘You’re amazed by me saying that, aren’t you?’ Norah’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve been totally content as a wife and mother, and I wholeheartedly believe that for most women it is a fully satisfying and important role. But times are changing, Rosie. There are opportunities for women now that were unthinkable before the war. Look around you while you are here in London, see how things have moved on since you were a child, and imagine how they will change even more drastically in the next ten years. You are young, strong and bold. You know more about gardening than most people three times your age. You can plan, build and design. Don’t waste that talent, Rosie. It’s precious.’

‘My goodness, you look sensational!’ Frank exclaimed as Rosie came into the sitting-room at half past six on Saturday evening. ‘Everyone’s going to be looking at you instead of Thomas’s paintings.’

Rosie blushed. Norah had insisted she bought the new dress this afternoon and the matching suede high-heeled shoes. She’d never imagined herself wearing anything so sophisticated as this black velvet, figure-hugging dress. It had three-quarter-length sleeves with a low-cut back and a spray of gold-beaded embroidery from one shoulder down to just above her right breast. Norah had lent her a pair of gold, dangly earrings and arranged her hair so it was swept up above her ears and held in place with two glittery combs.

‘You look like the Queen,’ Donald said. ‘And you’ve grown too.’

‘It’s only the high heels,’ Rosie laughed. ‘And you look like a prince tonight too.’

Donald’s height, wide shoulders and straight back were emphasized by his dinner jacket and bow tie. With his blond hair neatly cut, his bronzed face and bright blue eyes, he would undoubtedly attract attention tonight. Both Rosie and Norah were a little anxious as to how he would cope with that. He wasn’t used to strangers and there was nothing about his appearance to warn people he was retarded. But he needed the challenge to prove himself, and they couldn’t keep him wrapped in cotton wool for ever.

‘And another stunning woman!’ Frank exclaimed as his wife came into the room. She was always elegantly dressed, but the turquoise-blue cocktail dress she’d bought this afternoon was far more fashionable than any of her others. The colour suited her, enhancing her blue eyes and grey hair. She looked closer to forty than her real age of over sixty.

‘We’d better get going,’ she said, and nervously brushed Donald’s jacket. ‘Have you got a clean handkerchief? And don’t you dare sneak drinks when I’m not looking, or we won’t take you with us again.’

‘No, Mother,’ Donald said, like a small boy. ‘I’ll be really good. I promise.’

Rosie smiled affectionately. Donald and she were in the same boat tonight. Neither of them was used to smart places or mixing with society people. They were both excited and scared at taking a step into the unknown. But she expected that Thomas was even more scared. He had sounded confident enough when she spoke to him earlier on the telephone, he’d even laughed and said he’d be happy if he just sold one or two paintings. But she knew that was just bravado. He was pinning all his hopes on this exhibition changing his entire life.

‘Look!’ Rosie squeaked with excitement as Frank drove past the gallery in Heath Street, looking for somewhere to park his car. The gallery was in one of the old bow-fronted shops, and the windows were as brightly lit as a Christmas tree. What had excited Rosie was the banner across the window: THOMAS FARLEY EXHIBITION. Somehow seeing his name up in such big letters meant it was really going to happen for him.