FIFTEEN

The phone rings on and on. Lizzie must be out. Rose will ring again later.

'Heard Lizzie had post-natal depression,' Olga said hastily, before she dashed off to her café. Their whole meeting had been totally unsatisfactory. Rose and George arrived at the bookshop, Rose said thanks, Olga said fine, that Rose would probably need someone to hold George while she shopped so she'd come back at three and go with her to the supermarket. 'Make it half past?' Rose asked, 'I want to have a word with Betty.'

'Half past,' agreed Olga, 'sorry Rose, must go, Leo says he's run out of space for the meat. Bye.'

What did you expect Rose? A passionate embrace, a plea for forgiveness? Fortunately she didn't have a lot of time to think about it. The shop was busy with people who browsed and didn't buy until five to three, George wakeful, and she was glad when finally the last one left with three collections of Lou Johnson's poems under his arm and she could lock the door. She shovelled the innards of the till into the canvas bag and hastily entered the orders she'd recorded in her diary on the computer, secure in the knowledge that they'd pop up when she opened up the computer on Monday morning. 'You're going to have to put up with a visit to Betty and then a trek around the supermarket,' she informed George, 'so you might as well put a good face on it.' He didn't appear to mind this straight talking. A bubble came out of his mouth, collapsed and dribbled down his chin. As she wiped it she thought of George Byron and his daughter, another Ada. One thing she would bet on with certainty was that Byron never wiped the dribble away from his daughter's chin. 'The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold.' It sure did. Both Ada Byron and her father were certifiably mad at times. Some tiny genetic connecting thing in their brain didn't work, or worked too much. Bipolar it's called these days.

George needs to be changed. Rose can't understand where all this piddle comes from. She didn't pee half as many times as George did and surely, on the basis of size alone, her bladder should produce more. He must have the bladder of a camel without the ability to hold on to its contents. 'Never mind,' she tells him, 'as long as your brain works, that's the main thing.' He seemed bright enough. He knew what to do to get fed, that was obvious.

Rose's brain works very well. It organises her actions, nerves, reactions, darts here, darts there. Some people describe the brain as a warehouse, but Rose thinks hers is a series of files, all of which hold different Roses. When the right buttons are pressed one of the Roses is brought up on the screen of her mind. Whether from the past or future, none of them resembles the present Rose. Randomly they surface, triggered by an image, a memory, some words, the sight of a tree, a sound or a smell. These other Roses, whatever their role in the actual happening they bring to the surface, now feature in the middle of events, incidents, images. It is other people who are on the margins, although the words they speak live forever in Rose's files.

'Is your mother home?'

'Of course I believe you — it's just — I can't afford to lose my job.'

'Miss Anthony said if I wanted to be Juliet I must be nice to her. And she touched me. There.'

'Once upon a time in a far distant land there lived a race of people composed solely of bones.'

'I'm very sorry Miss Anthony, there's been a terrible accident'

'Sorry Rose, it's definitely cancer.'

'If I didn't know you were anti all people I might think —'

'They can't do chemo, too late apparently.'

It is alchemy the way thoughts, incidents, memories are changed once they are secure in her files. None of them exact, all bearing exaggerations, wishful thoughts, dreams, fears, all essential because they tell her who she is. One of Rose's fears is that when she's really old all these Roses will crash and the real Rose will be lost. She sees an old Rose crouched in a cane chair giggling to herself and dribbling. With no one there to wipe her chin. Pretty depressing. She could live until she's ninety or even one hundred and there's no point spending the next forty or so years wallowing in worry about her brain's possible disintegration. She just hopes she knows who she is when she lies dying.

Ada Byron was a genius. She had a way, not with words, but with numbers; a talent she'd inherited from her mother whom Byron called, not admiringly, the Princess of Parallelograms. Rose is given to these enthusiasms for characters she finds in books, she enjoys them, and like old friends, she's always pleased to hear or find something new about them.

'There you are,' she says to George, 'please make that last for half an hour. Think you can do that?'

He stares impassively.

'OK,' Rose says, 'please yourself, if you get a rash don't blame me. It's your bum.'

Poor Lizzie. Post-natal depression. But she must be well enough to go out. Probably needed to go out. Better than staying home feeling sorry for yourself. Oh well, on with the dance Rose. She locks the canvas bag in the car and walks quickly into Calico and Cottons. She introduces George, and Betty smiles at him.

Everyone smiles at George.

'How's Anne?' she says to Betty who looks startled, as well she might. Rose has never shown the slightest interest in Anne before.

'Tired,' Anne's mother says, carefully placing her ruler on the fabric and running the rotary cutter firmly along the side. She pats the fat quarter she's cut and folds it deftly into a small square. It's an unusual teal blue. Be good if you wanted to do the sea over at Evans Bay on a fine day. Sort of picture postcard, but striking. Rose wants it. 'Haven't seen her for a couple of weeks because my husband's had the flu, but we've spoken on the phone. She sounds a bit tired, a bit frazzled. It's not easy on your own.'

'No,' says Rose, 'and she's managing all right? Baby OK?'

Betty frowns and nods. 'Bit peaky. She says the baby's a bit peaky. Crying a lot. I said why doesn't she get the doctor, and she said she can't afford it. I said what about the subsidy, and she said you still have to pay something. She's only got enough for food and rent this week. So of course I said I'd pay.' She sighs, shakes her head, and as she automatically cuts two more fat quarters, out it pours. 'Sometimes you wonder about them, don't you. I thought the one thing my daughter would never do was get pregnant like this, no father around, but she did, she did. She was so sensible. That's what I thought. She had that good job. I do what I can, but with the shop, it's not as much as I'd like. She lives in this awful flat, honestly Rose, I nearly cried when I saw it. I think she's finding life very hard,' Betty tries to smile, 'if her bad temper's any indication.' She sighs, unfolds some more fabric. 'Sorry. Sometimes it just gets me down. I'd have her with us, but my husband is adamant. She's made her bed, let her lie on it, is his attitude. He's just so disappointed She was his favourite. I don't know, you do your best for your kids and where does it get you? You think they're grown-up and then this sort of thing happens. Oh, I put a good face on it, but really Rose, sometimes it's just too hard.'

'Sorry. I just wondered.' Rose has a brainwave. 'How's your other daughter? The one who works in Wellington?'

'Been made redundant,' says Betty, 'but it's not the end of the world, she says, reckons she'll soon find something. Always been an optimist. She will find something too. In the meantime she's going to stay with Anne, sleep on her sofa. Should help Anne and she reckons she'll save money. That's all she cares about, saving money.'

'What does she think of Anne's situation?'

'She thinks the baby's wonderful, but swears she's never going to have any herself. She wants some land somewhere, she's always on about permaculture and sustainable gardening. It's a funny thing, Rose, she's more like my husband than Anne ever was, but he's never really taken to her. It'd break my heart if I let it. He only had eyes for Anne and now she's, as he sees it, let him down, he's shattered. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to go home and that's a fact.'

Betty sounds so desolate, Rose wishes she'd never started this conversation. 'I'll have one of those fat quarters, please Betty.'

Betty brightens immediately. 'Did you see that new silver fabric? Just came in yesterday. It's pure cotton but looks like satin. Beautiful.'

'OK,' Rose says resignedly. She has to smile.

'Even in the midst of her anxieties Betty never misses a trick,' Rose says to Olga, as they wait in the queue, 'but she looked better when I left.' The woman ahead of them grabs sugar and eggs from the trolley and puts them on the counter. She adds milk. Bread. Coffee. A chicken, potatoes, kūmara, pumpkin, broccoli. Must be planning a good old-fashioned roast dinner. Followed by the peach and passionfruit ice cream for dessert. They all wait for the assistant to install her till. It's Millie. The spiky hair has changed colour, but it's the same smile. 'Hi Rose!' she says, 'hello Olga!' The woman in front, still transferring goods from the trolley to the counter, stops, looks, raises her eyebrows and gives Olga that East Coast hello, grins and continues transferring her groceries. Millie looks at George then looks at Rose. 'Just looking after him for a friend,' says Rose. She's perfected this script as they've gone around the supermarket aisles greeting various surprised faces. 'How long have you been working here?' she asks, 'and where's your baby?'

'With Mum,' Mille says quickly then smiles attentively at the customer who is still unloading. You're not supposed to talk to other customers while you have another one in front of you, but Millie continues.

'Decided it was time I did something about a job. Not much use having UE if it just goes to waste. Didn't fancy university; all those up-themselves noddies telling me how I should think, decided I get on well with people, so I applied for a trainee manager's job and got it, but I have to do my time on the checkout.'

Millie pushes the woman's goods over the barcode patch and slides them into the waiting hands of Marge Have a Nice Day. Out of the corner of her eye Rose sees the store detective, a large Māori woman, ease herself around the back of the checkout behind Millie and stand quietly, apparently looking out the window. Something is up. Olga has noticed too. They look at each other and wait.

The woman turns the trolley in which her bags have been placed by Marge Have a Nice Day, moves to go out the door.

The detective takes a step forward. The woman stops. She holds the checkout slip. 'Excuse me,' she calls to Millie, 'how many frozen chickens are there in my groceries?'

Millie gasps, rolls her eyes at Rose, tries her best to remember. Being a checkout operator is not the sort of job you can do blindfold whatever some customers think, but once you've gone past the checkout, you've gone out of the operator's life.

'Should've been two,' the woman says, 'there's only one on the list.' She walks back to the counter and starts unloading the bags from the trolley. 'Sorry!' she calls to Rose and Olga, 'sorry!' she calls to the queue behind them.

There is only one chicken. 'That's funny,' she says, 'I know I picked up two.' She fumbles among the groceries as though she expects a frozen chicken to pop out of thin air. Get on with it, Rose thinks. 'Well, I don't know,' the woman says, and then a thought strikes her, a blinding light, it seems.

'Coarse acting number sixty-four,' mutters Olga in Rose's ear, 'maybe she'd like to audition for Hutt Rep.'

'Aha!' says the woman. She dumps her backpack on the counter, scrabbles in it and pulls out a frozen chicken. 'Sorry, sorry,' she apologises, 'sorry, I've been really busy lately!' She hauls the backpack towards Marge and says, 'You'd better have a look in it and see if there's anything else there.' She rips open the zip to its fullest and, while Marge is reluctantly peering in, explains to Millie and the supermarket at large that she's had a lot on her mind lately. Some real worries. Everything is all right now, but it just shows how your mind wanders. 'Must have been thinking of something else.'

Marge pushes the backpack back towards the woman, who repacks the trolley and walks towards the sliding doors with a cheery 'Morning!' to the store detective who, with a face like stone, is pretending to study the notices posted on the board provided for customers.

Rose keeps her face passive. Millie has a closer look at George. 'Your mother doesn't mind having the baby?' she asks Millie.

Millie laughs. 'She prefers them that age, says she knows where they are,' Millie snorts, 'and my ex-boyfriend helps out.' She lowers her voice, but Rose can almost hear the ears flapping in the queue. 'Still wants us to get married,' she says, 'but I told him he has to grow up, get a good job, get some attitude, you know? There's more to being a good father than playing ball.'

Rose nods, as though she understands what Millie means. How do you 'get' attitude? Maybe you go to an attitude shop and buy some. If so, I'll have a kilo, please. She pays and takes the receipt, and Olga pushes the trolley out.

'I'll get Mum to bring the baby into the shop,' calls Millie, 'and you can see how she's grown!'

The woman with the frozen chicken is unloading her goods into the boot of a large old bronze-coloured car. She smiles at them, winks, shuts the boot. 'Hello Olga,' she says and laughs. 'Just saw the D in time,' she says and gets into the driving seat, smiles and backs out, and drives away.

'Who's that?'

'Oh, just someone I met once,' says Olga.

One of them, thinks Rose. One of the women who stay in Olga's spare room. That room which is available for desperate women. George's mother is probably in that category. God, thinks Rose, I hope she surfaces soon. After they pack up the boot, strap George securely in the seat, get into the car, Olga is still smiling.

'I know the statistics,' she says, just a little defensively, 'shoplifting creams off three percent of any profit (or loss) and that it's a big no-no. But the last time I saw her she had a broken arm, bruises all over, and she'd been raped by two men. Somehow I can't judge her.'

'I got a letter from Marcy,' Rose says. She hasn't meant to tell Olga but the words come out.

Olga turns sharply. 'What did she want?'

'To say she's sorry.'

'Huh,' says Olga.

George makes a sound and they both turn and look at him. 'Aha,' he says.

'Yes, well, I'd better get him home,' says Rose.

'You OK?' asks Olga.

Rose nods. She'd like to have talked about the letter; whether she'd made a mistake ripping it up, whether she should have kept it. Whether she should forgive. Whether she could. Nelson Mandela had, and God knows he had more reason not to than Rose does.

George mews warningly. 'Soon,' Rose says to him, 'soon.' She turns to Olga. 'I hope his mother turns up soon. I don't want him to go, but she must be frantic.'

'Have you thought —' Olga stops.

'What? What?'

'Maybe she's not able to. Turn up.'

'Not able to? Oh shit. Oh no. Oh no. You mean badly hurt?'

'Either that, or —'

Rose is appalled. Although why she should be, she can't think. Of course it's a possibility. She's read worse, heard worse.

'Olga,' she says.

'Yes?'

'Why did you put up with the one night a week if you didn't like it?'

'I wanted to be sure,' Olga says, 'I thought that's why you suggested it. Because you weren't sure either. Now I am.'

'I'm sorry,' Rose says.

'Me too,' Olga says. She says it cheerfully, as though it's of no moment.

'Louise is very sick.'

'Mmn,' says Olga, 'Sib told me.'

Rose drops Olga off at the café and as she drives home she sings to George. 'I'm only a poor Cinderella,' she sings, 'nobody loves me it seems.' Cheer up for God's sake, she tells herself, cheer up.

Turning into Little Salamander, she hears the boom box. Bugger. Bloody Knock-Knock has started afternoon sessions again. Bugger, bugger. The noise is unbearable. George starts aha-ing and in a couple of seconds has wound up to full volume. Rose is immediately intensely, furiously, passionately angry. A thermometer inside has just shot up a couple of hundred degrees. She can't remember ever being so full of rage. Her whole body is on fire with it. 'Right,' she says to the now-screaming George, 'you're going to bed my boy, and I'm going to do something about that noise. Time I got some attitude.'