Chapter 17
Rose was a firm believer in the benefits of the great outdoors. Why be stuck inside a stuffy old house when you could be outside breathing in great lungfuls of real, un-centrally heated fresh air? Besides, as well as being good for you, venturing out into the square enabled you to interact with the outside world, to nod and smile and exchange a few cheerful words with pleasant-looking passers-by.
Not that all of them fell into this category. Yesterday a rigid-looking couple - husband and wife, presumably, and not necessarily happily married if body language was anything to go by - had taken the path that led past Rose’s bench. The man, in his sixties or thereabouts and with a military air to him, had narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the sight of her. Rose had set down her knitting and smiled at them perfectly politely, but the pair had remained hatchet-faced.
‘Morning,’ Rose called out as they drew level. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Hrrmmph,’ the man snorted in reply. His wife, averting her thin face, behaved as though she hadn’t noticed Rose’s presence.
And they had marched on by, not looking very cheerful at all. Feeling sorry for them, Rose had picked up her knitting and smiled to herself. Separate Tables, the film that had earned lovely David Niven an Oscar, that was what the couple reminded her of. They’d have fitted right into that hotel dining room, sitting stiffly and in silence in the background.
Rose took a packet of homemade fudge out of her bag and popped a square into her mouth. She gazed around with satisfaction, listening to the birds twittering in the branches of the ash trees overhead. It might only be Tuesday, but already she regarded this bench as her bench. The weather had improved dramatically since the weekend and the sun was out. What, Rose thought contentedly, could be nicer than sitting here in the garden square with her knitting and her fudge, admiring the trees and the beautiful houses beyond them?
Reaching the end of a row, Rose heard a rustling noise from the bushes to her left. Next moment there was a yelp of pain and the sound of frantic whimpering. Jumping to her feet, she headed over to the bush and saw a pair of terrified brown eyes peering out at her.
‘Doreen, Doreen!’ shouted a voice, and the young man called Zac rounded the bend in the path. When he saw Rose on her knees, he broke into a trot.
‘She’s in here,’ Rose told him, attempting to part the spiky branches and wincing as a thorn scraped her wrist.
‘Oh Doreen, you are hopeless,’ Zac chided, reaching Rose’s side and tut-tutting at the little dog’s predicament. ‘Come on, baby, sshh, keep still, let me just untangle you . . .’ Bravely he plunged in, ignoring the vicious thorns, separating the branches until there was enough of a gap to ease Doreen through. ‘There, you silly thing, you’re safe now.’ Leaning back on his heels, he pulled Doreen onto his lap and soothingly stroked her ears. ‘Honestly, what are we going to do with you? Thanks,’ he turned to Rose, ‘she’s a hopeless case, a bit too intrepid for her own good. She thinks she’s Indiana Jones. I spend my life having to rescue her from ridiculous places.’
‘She has an enquiring mind,’ said Rose, ‘and the spirit of adventure. That’s not such a bad thing. Och, look at her wee nose, that’s what made her yelp.’
There was a small scratch just above Doreen’s nose. Zac gently wiped away the beads of blood and kissed the top of her trembling head. ‘Poor baby, never pick a fight with a hawthorn bush. They’ll always win.’
‘She’s not the only one in the wars. Look at you.’ Rose tut-tutted, pointing to the injuries Zac had sustained while plunging fearlessly to the rescue. There were several scratches on the backs of his hands and a deeper one on his wrist that was actually bleeding quite a lot.
‘I’ll live,’ said Zac.
‘But you might drip blood on your clothes.’ Rose pushed back the sleeve of his completely impractical lime-green suede jacket. Rising to her feet, she said, ‘I’ve got an Elastoplast in my bag. Come on, let’s sort you out.’
As they reached the bench, Doreen began to snuffle excitedly. Opening her capacious bag, Rose said, ‘She can smell the fudge. OK if she has a piece?’
‘Home-made,’ marvelled Zac. ‘My word, it’s like meeting Mary Poppins.’ Clipping Doreen back on her lead, he accepted two pieces of fudge, one for himself and one for Doreen, then allowed Rose to mop at his wrist with a tissue before carefully placing the Elastoplast over the scratch. Shaking his head, he said, ‘This fudge is phenomenal. And you knit as well.’ His gaze fell upon the hastily abandoned heap of knitting on the bench. ‘What’s it going to be? Can I see?’
Rose had never before had interest expressed in her knitting by a member of the opposite sex. Maybe men really were different in London. Reaching for the needles and holding up the work in progress, she said, ‘It’s a bit of an experiment, I’m just seeing how it works out. My daughter wanted a kind of light lacy jackety thing to wear over a long yellow dress she has. Between you and me,’ Rose lowered her voice, though they were the only two people in the square, ‘she’ll probably tell me it’s perfect and never wear it. Still, it’s always fun to try something different.’
At their feet, Doreen was bouncing around, recovered from her incarceration in the hawthorn bush and agitating for another piece of fudge.
‘No, darling, bad for your teeth. Where’s the pattern?’ said Zac, studying the front of the knitted jacket and picking the already completed back and sleeves out of the carrier bag on the bench.
‘I’m not using one.’ Intrigued by the attention he was paying to the frilled, pointy-edged sleeves, Rose said, ‘I’m just making it up as I go along.’
‘Clever.’ Zac ran his fingers along the edge of the sleeve, assessing the neatness of the stitches. She had chosen a thin silky two-ply thread in pale silvery-yellow; the effect she was aiming for was glamorous and cobwebby, more like lace than knitwear. He had nice hands, Rose noted; long-fingered and sensitive like a piano player’s. He smelled nice too, kind of peppery and lemony. What he was doing growing his hair so long she couldn’t imagine; surely a nice short back and sides would be more flattering.
‘Is your wife a knitter?’ Rose said eagerly, because it worried her that young women these days seemed to have lost interest in such a rewarding hobby. Nancy was a fine cook but she’d rather stick pins in herself than knit.
‘I’m not married.’ Zac gave her a quizzical look, as if she’d said something funny without realising it. ‘Nor likely to be.’
‘Oh now, don’t be such a pessimist! You never know who might be just around the corner,’ Rose encouraged him. ‘There are so many lovely young girls, you’re bound to meet someone one day.’
Zac grinned. ‘Can’t see it happening somehow. Maybe a lovely - no, sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘Actually, I’m the one interested in knitting.’
‘Really?’ Rose was delighted. ‘Well, that’s just wonderful! I’ve never understood why more men don’t—’
‘I can’t knit,’ Zac cut in apologetically. ‘But I do design knitwear. I have my own shop, just around the corner in Levine Street.’ Proudly he added, ‘I’m a clothes designer.’
‘Really?’ Rose cast a dubious glance at his lime-green jacket, mustard-yellow sweatshirt and frankly bizarre trousers - black, with white squiggles randomly hand-painted over them. It looked to her like the kind of get-up more commonly worn by those frenetic presenters on children’s TV.
Sensing her doubt, Zac said good-naturedly, ‘I’m actually quite successful. Well, in a minor way.’
Rose hurried to reassure him. ‘Oh, I’m sure you are, pet! I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s OK. Listen, I employ out-workers to knit for me. I don’t know if that’s something you’d consider.’ Zac was still fingering the intricate sleeve of Nancy’s jacket. ‘But if you think you might be interested . . .’
Rennie, glancing out of the window, called out, ‘Come and take a look at this.’
Nancy was emptying the dishwasher in the kitchen. Hurrying through to the living room, she followed Rennie’s pointing finger and said, ‘Oh God, what’s she up to now?’
Below them, Rose had emerged from the gardens across the street, chattering animatedly to a long-haired man with a small dog. As Nancy and Rennie watched, the three of them happily set off along the pavement.
‘Does she have a thing for toy boys?’ Rennie suggested helpfully.
‘How many times have I told her not to speak to strangers.’ Nancy heaved a sigh. ‘And does she take a blind bit of notice?’
‘Want me to go down and bring her back?’
There were con artists around, Nancy knew, who specialised in tricking old ladies into emptying their bank accounts and handing over all their money. Heading over to the chair where Rose had left her handbag, she reassured herself that her mother’s purse, credit cards and chequebook were all still here.
‘Don’t worry. We saw him there the other day, walking his dog.’ Why that should make a difference, Nancy didn’t know, but somehow it did. ‘Mum was chatting to him before. The dog’s called Doreen,’ she remembered. ‘I think she’ll be safe. He looks too clean to be a mugger.’
‘I’m sure the police will be impressed,’ Rennie said with a grin, ‘when you tell them that.’