‘Why didn’t you tell me that our uncle had died?’ Charlotte was sitting at the kitchen table while Rosie made the hot chocolate. ‘Kate told me this afternoon.’
‘I know she did.’ Rosie turned around, her back to the stove. ‘She told me she felt bad about it. She presumed I’d already told you.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me? I remember asking you about him after Arthur’s funeral.’ Charlotte was genuinely perplexed.
‘Well, that was exactly why I didn’t tell you then,’ Rosie said. ‘Because the day was sad enough already without me adding to it by telling you about someone else who had died.’
‘Yes, but I wouldn’t have been that sad,’ Charlotte argued. ‘I mean, I didn’t even know him, did I?’
Rosie turned back to the stove. She took the pan off the hob and poured the milk into a mug.
‘So, what happened to him? What did he die of?’ Charlotte asked.
‘He fell into the river and drowned after having one too many,’ Rosie said.
‘Really? Gosh, that’s quite a dramatic way to go, isn’t it?’ Charlotte was intrigued.
‘It is,’ Rosie said, handing her the hot chocolate.
‘So, was there a funeral or anything?’ Charlotte asked, wanting to know more.
‘The Borough buried him,’ Rosie said; she was working hard to keep her voice steady.
‘What? So, he had a pauper’s funeral?’
Rosie nodded.
‘Poor Uncle Raymond,’ Charlotte said, taking a sip of her drink.
Rosie banged the pan into the sink and turned on the cold water full blast. ‘Oh, I think he was old. He’d had his life.’
‘Still,’ Charlotte said, fascinated by such a bizarre death, ‘it’s a pretty grisly way to go, isn’t it? Drowning in the middle of the night. In the Wear.’
Rosie forced herself not to say anything.
‘Funny that Mam never mentioned him to us, isn’t it? That we only got to know we had an uncle when he turned up for the funeral?’
‘I don’t think Mam and him got on,’ Rosie said. She’d expected a grilling, but still, it was excruciating having to stop herself from telling Charlotte that their sick and perverted uncle did not deserve one iota of her kind thoughts or sympathy.
‘Actually,’ Rosie said, determined to change the subject, ‘some good did come of it.’
Charlotte looked at her sister, surprised.
‘How’s that?’ she asked.
‘Well, it was Peter who came to tell me, as next of kin, that he’d died. Peter was the detective sergeant in charge of the case.’
‘The officer in charge of the case?’ Charlotte’s eyes widened. ‘Why was there a case?’
‘Well, there’s always a case if someone dies unnaturally,’ Rosie explained.
‘So, they didn’t think anyone had pushed him in the river?’ Charlotte’s eyes widened even more. ‘They didn’t think he’d been murdered?’
‘Honestly, Charlie.’ Rosie forced out fake laughter. ‘You have such a vivid imagination. Of course Peter didn’t think anyone had killed him. It was just a process they have to go through. Legally.’
Charlotte sipped her hot chocolate, her mind churning over what she’d heard from Rosie this evening – and earlier on from Kate.
She suddenly perked up. ‘It’s a bit morbid though.’
‘What is?’ Rosie asked.
‘Meeting your future husband when he comes to inform you someone’s died.’
Rosie laughed.
This time it was genuine.
Charlotte looked at her sister and thought she had a strange sense of humour.
Half an hour later, after finishing off her homework and saying goodnight, Charlotte was up in her bedroom, looking through her wardrobe. She pulled out the hanger with her new skirt and looked at it. She couldn’t wait to wear it next time she went out. Lily had promised to take her into town and give her a tour of the best places to shop.
She put it back on the rail and pushed some of her boring old clothes aside so she could look at her red dress. Her favourite dress. Now her only dress, after she’d convinced Rosie she’d grown out of all her old ones and foisted them off on Kate.
As she got ready for bed she kept thinking about her sister. Why did she keep feeling that Rosie was lying to her? Or at least keeping things from her. Like about their uncle Raymond. Why hadn’t Rosie told her he’d died? And in such unusual circumstances.
It seemed odd she’d held back from telling her at Arthur’s funeral. Did she really think she’d get upset about someone she didn’t even know? Someone she’d met just the once? Someone she could barely recall.
Then there were the white lies about Lily. Rosie had told her that Lily went to bed early, yet it was clear from Kate’s reaction that this was most definitely not the case. And knowing that Lily was a night owl, why had Rosie refused to seek sanctuary there that night of the air raid? It would have been much safer than running all the way back home.
Even the other night, when they’d gone to check Lily and everyone else was all right after the really bad air raid, Rosie wouldn’t pop in for a quick cuppa. It was as though she was trying to hide something from her – something to do with Lily, or the house where Lily lived.
Jumping into her bed, Charlotte reached under the mattress and pulled out her diary. She turned to the back, where there was a page full of arithmetic. Lots of additions and subtractions. The final figure showed a big minus sign with an equally large number next to it. Thanks to Marjorie, or rather Marjorie’s parents’ openness about their personal finances and the cost of their daughter’s private education, Charlotte had been able to work out roughly how much it cost Rosie to send her to the Sunderland Church High School. This included extras such as a new uniform, overalls and gym kit.
So much didn’t add up.
There was her wage at the yard (she had seen Rosie’s wage packet so knew exactly how much she got paid with and without overtime), plus the money she reckoned she got paid for doing Lily’s books. (She had asked her teacher at school one day about jobs and what kinds of wages one could expect to get paid for certain jobs. Her teacher had commented on how impressed she was that Charlotte was thinking so sensibly about her future. She had even been inspired to dedicate a whole lesson to the subject.) The total of both jobs still fell short of the amount needed to pay for her schooling. Even if she had underestimated Rosie’s earnings, it was still not enough to pay for her education and keep them both fed and watered.
The only way her sister could just about scrape by was if she was making money on the flat she owned. But it sounded as though that was more of an investment and any money she got for rent went straight to George to pay off the money he had loaned her.
Charlotte sat back and chewed the end of her pen.
She looked at her open wardrobe.
At her lovely red dress.
The red of the material was the same red she had seen at Lily’s that day.
She had only managed to glimpse the room for a few seconds, but what she’d seen was unforgettable. Amazing. Red embossed wallpaper, a red and gold Persian rug, a huge gilt-framed mirror, and a massive brass four-poster bed piled high with plush red cushions. Charlotte had had to force herself not to run and jump on it.
The more she thought about that red room, the more she wondered whose bedroom it was. She knew Kate had the top attic room, which Lily often lamented was more a ‘seamstress’s sweatshop’ than a bedroom, and that Lily’s ‘boudoir’ was on the second floor – as were Vivian’s and Maisie’s.
So, whose bedroom was it?