When Aunt Sophie rang a few days later with an invitation to go to Southport again, Rosalind accepted at once. ‘As long as you’re not too tired for visitors, Soph.’
‘I really enjoyed your last visit, dear.’
This time Southport looked grey and unwelcoming. People were hurrying along the pavements, umbrellas much in evidence, headscarves shrouding women’s faces into anonymity. She shivered as she parked outside her aunt’s and ran through the pouring rain to knock on the door.
When Prue opened it, her face crumpled and tears filled her eyes. ‘I tried to catch you before you left this morning. You’re’ – she hesitated, then finished – ‘too late, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you mean?’ But she knew, really.
‘Your aunt died in her sleep.’
As Prue held the door open, Rosalind walked into the hall and stood there. It was a moment before she could speak. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone. Soph was always so alive. And I spoke to her on the phone only last night.’
‘I’d grown very fond of her, too. More than I usually do with patients.’ Prue wiped her eyes. ‘Do you want to see her? The undertakers have attended to things – she wanted to lie in her own home, not in a funeral parlour, and I said I’d stay with her. She looks very peaceful.’
‘Oh.’ Rosalind swallowed. ‘Um, Prue – to be honest I’ve never seen a dead person before.’ Not even her own father. ‘Maybe I should just – you know, remember her alive.’
Prue put her arm round Rosalind’s shoulders. ‘If you want my professional opinion, I think it’s better to say goodbye properly. There’s nothing to be afraid of, you know.’
‘Oh. Well, all right.’ Feeling shaky inside and wondering why she wasn’t weeping, she who even wept at sad items about complete strangers on the television news, Rosalind followed Prue into her aunt’s bedroom, hesitated just inside the door, then walked over to stand by the bed.
To her surprise Sophie dead was still someone she loved. ‘She does look peaceful,’ she whispered, not knowing why she was speaking in hushed tones.
‘Yes. And if it’s any comfort to you, I think she was more than ready to go. Though she’d have been sorry not to see you again. Isn’t it wonderful that you came to England when you did? That you were able to say goodbye to her properly?’
Rosalind felt a surge of guilt at how reluctant she’d been to leave Australia. Her aunt had been asking her to come and visit for years. ‘I’d like to sit with her for a while. On my own, if you don’t mind.’
Prue gave her a quick hug. ‘Sure. I’ve put you in the same bedroom as before.’
Rosalind pulled a chair up to the bed and found herself talking to her aunt. ‘I’m going to miss you very much, Soph. In fact, I don’t know what I’ll do without you for the next few weeks.’ She blinked her eyes, but no tears came. Why wasn’t she weeping?
She sat on for a while, feeling a sense of peace in the quiet, elegant room. Prue was right. It was good to say goodbye properly and knowing how much her aunt had hated her increasing incapacity, she couldn’t be sorry that Soph’s suffering had ended.
Soon she found herself talking again. ‘I’m still annoyed with Paul, you know. He’s gone off to Hong Kong. For a whole month. That’s why I was counting on coming to see you and—’ She broke off. She could hear her aunt’s answer to that echoing in her head.
Count on yourself, girl. You’re the only person in the whole world you can really rely on. Soph had said that to her so many times before, but it had never meant as much as it did now, when it was merely an unspoken echo.
She sighed and stood up. ‘I’ll try, Soph.’ Then she went off to ring her mother and tell her the sad news.
Her mother seemed a bit uptight, but Rosalind didn’t ask if anything was wrong. She had enough on her plate at present coping here. More than enough. If her daughter was misbehaving, she didn’t want to know yet.
The funeral was held two days later. Only three neighbours and the solicitor attended, apart from Rosalind and Prue. When the neighbours had left the cemetery, Mr Dennison came up to Rosalind, leaning heavily on his stick. He looked top-heavy with age, like a tree ready to be blown down by the next gale.
‘Could you possibly come and see me in my office this afternoon, Mrs Stevenson, about your aunt’s will? I only work two days a week now, so if you don’t come today, it’ll have to be next week, I’m afraid.’ He patted his chest. ‘Ticker’s not doing too well. Got to take things easy.’
‘All right. I’ll come today.’
He presented her with a business card, then walked slowly away.
The two women strolled back to the car park in a companionable silence.
‘Have you made any plans yet?’ Rosalind asked as they got into her car.
‘No. But if you like – well, your aunt suggested after your last visit that I stay on for a few days to help you go through the house and see what you want to keep. I know where everything is, you see. I’ve helped her sort out all her things over the past few months. She was very anxious to leave everything in good order.’ Prue paused and sighed. ‘I shall miss living there. It’s a lovely house, a real home. I suppose you’ll be selling it?’
‘I suppose so, eventually. I’d like you to stay on for a while. I hadn’t really thought about dealing with Soph’s things.’
As they went inside, Rosalind stared round. She couldn’t believe that this gracious old house belonged to her now and still felt more like a visitor than an owner.
At the solicitor’s that afternoon, Mr Dennison summarised the arrangements Sophie had made.
Rosalind nodded. ‘Yes, she told me all that.’
He looked at her sideways, as if assessing her, then added, ‘She was a bit worried about your husband, even so, worried he’d try to take the money off you, or that you’d just give it to him.’
Rosalind flushed. ‘She made her wishes quite clear and you can rely on me to respect them. I’ll open a separate bank account for the money.’ It upset her that Soph had considered her so much under Paul’s thumb. It upset her even more that there had been good reason for that belief.
Mr Dennison nodded. ‘Right, then. Do we have your address in England? No? Well, could you just jot it down, then? And your phone number? Good. Now – anything else you want to ask me?’
‘Um – about Prue’s wages? My aunt wanted her to stay on for a few days, to help me clear things out. She knows where everything is, you see.’
‘Your aunt provided for that. Just send us a written note when she stops work. Until then, the estate will continue to pay her weekly at the reduced rate agreed upon.’
When Rosalind left the lawyer’s office, she decided to go for a walk along the seafront. She needed some fresh air – and some quiet thinking time, too.
She found a series of neat, if uninspired, gardens surrounding artificial sea lakes – well, she presumed they were artificial. They were too regular to be natural, surely? It was a cold day, but sunny, and there were few holidaymakers so early in the season.
At one stage she sat on a bench and held her face up to the sun. More changes, she told it.
It continued to smile down at her. What had she expected? it seemed to be asking. Life was full of change. As if to emphasise that, some clouds passed across it and everything went dull until the clouds moved on and the world brightened up again.
Rosalind sucked in a deep breath, which was shaky with grief not only for Sophie but for herself, for her loneliness and uncertainty, her desperate need to sort her own life out.
What did she really want? To become a company wife and follow Paul around the world – or to put down roots somewhere on her own? She knew what the first choice would entail and as for the second, well, she’d been doing that for years. It was the one thing she’d stood up to Paul about. And it wasn’t truly satisfactory being on your own, either.
Sighing, she stood up and began to walk back to the town centre. Since Paul wouldn’t be back for a while, she’d make going through Sophie’s possessions her first priority.
I’ll try to be stronger next time I see him, she vowed as she walked up the garden path. Even if I do decide to become a company wife, I’ll make sure I have my own life too. Things like my embroidery. I must. I can’t go on like this, letting him use me as ‘a wife’.
Tim Stevenson edged forward, his eyes darting from side to side. If the cops caught him – if they put him in prison – but the buyer muttered what he wanted, handed over the money and hurried off as soon as he had the small packet. The next sale was just as easy.
When Tim had sold all his packages, he shuddered with relief and walked back to the bar. Handing over the money, he accepting the percentage agreed on – which was quite good pay for an hour’s work.
‘See,’ said Wayne afterwards. ‘It was easy. We’ll work for a while here, then move on. How about buying me a drink with your profits? And I bought some stuff for tonight. We can share it, if you like.’
‘No, thanks. I’ve got a thumping head. I’m not—’ Tim paused for a moment as he realised what his decision meant. But he couldn’t be any more unhappy than he had been lately, and it was the only real alternative. He stared at Wayne. ‘I’m giving the hard stuff up. It doesn’t agree with me.’
Wayne laughed, a sneering sound. ‘It’s a bit late to stop, isn’t it? I mean, you’d need medical help to kick the habit.’
‘I’ve only been using when I could afford it, not every day.’
‘You can afford it easily now. Pusher’s discount is quite helpful. Quit later, if you must “see the light”.’ He tittered as if he had made a joke.
‘I want to quit now,’ Tim insisted. The haggard, sometimes desperate faces of the people who had bought from him underlined what the stuff did to you sooner or later, demonstrating it better than any films and lectures ever could. ‘Look, I’m going back to our room now. Don’t bring any chicks home tonight, right? I need some sleep.’ He didn’t even wait for an answer, just turned and walked away.
Over the next week or two, he pushed drugs only to survive and did try to give the stuff up, to Wayne’s great amusement. He slipped up a couple of times, but he did cut it down, way down, and that was a start.
His friend, on the other hand, was indulging himself in every new treat that came along and wasn’t eating well. Wayne looked thin and feverish, full of energy one minute, sagging around their sleazy little room the next.
Which also kept reinforcing how stupid they were to have got themselves into this mess.
Tim bought a money belt and it never left his body, because with his clearer head he’d realised Wayne had been going through his things when he was out and helping himself. As his belt grew heavier, he found another hiding place for his passport and part of his savings, away from their motel. Risky, but who’d look in a neglected cemetery urn?
When he’d saved enough for the fare, he was going back to Australia and he was never, ever going to leave it again. He didn’t tell Wayne or anyone else about his plans. He was just going to take off one day. He’d already sussed out the quickest way to get to the nearest airport. He’d be gone before anyone realised it, flying to another city before booking his flight home. Oh, yes, he had it all figured out.
Sometimes the thought of home and of his mother especially made him want to break down and sob his heart out. He hadn’t been fair to her. He’d mocked and scorned her, had encouraged Louise to do the same. His mother didn’t deserve that. He desperately wanted to see her and tell her how much he loved her.
Hell! If Wayne saw him crying like this, he’d laugh himself silly. And anyway, becoming sentimental was no way to get out of this mess. Tim knew he had to keep his cool, save his money and run for it when the right moment came.
Louise glared at her grandmother. ‘What do you mean: I’m grounded? What do you think I am, a child?’
‘Yes, I do. You’re only seventeen. That’s not grown-up in my book.’
‘Well, it is in everyone else’s. Anyway, I’m nearly eighteen.’ And no longer a virgin. But sex wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, not by a long chalk. Or else Todd wasn’t very good at it. What a let-down that had been!
‘You’re not eighteen for three months yet. And why didn’t your parents let you have a flat if you’re so grown-up? Why did they want you to live here with me while they were away?’
‘Because my mother is as stupidly old-fashioned as you are!’
‘Well, at least Rosalind is polite, unlike her daughter.’
Louise got up and moved towards the front door. ‘Grounded, eh? How are you going to keep me in the house, then?’
Audrey gaped at her. ‘Are you going to disobey me?’
‘You bet. Just watch!’ Louise opened the door, swept a mocking bow and walked out, slamming it hard behind her.
Audrey sank down on the nearest chair, legs trembling. She might be old-fashioned, but she wasn’t stupid, and Louise had definitely been taking something recently. Yesterday she’d been all dreamy and stupid-looking when she came home, not expecting her grandmother to be waiting up for her at two o’clock in the morning.
What am I going to do? she wondered. I wish I’d never taken this on. I’m too old for all these confrontations. But I’m not giving in. This is my house and as long as she’s here, she’ll keep to my standards.
The trouble was, what other sanctions could she apply? And how to enforce them?
Feeling out of her depth, she went across the street to see John, who was a great comfort to her. He’d told her she was crazy taking Louise in, but he hadn’t said ‘I told you so!’ when he’d been proved right.
Audrey knew if she gave him any encouragement, he’d like to be more than a friend, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to live with anyone again. She enjoyed living alone. Her family and friends worried about her, but she had a quiet, happy life – or at least, she had been happy until Louise joined her.
It was nice, though, having John to turn to, to go out with from time to time. Someone who really seemed to care about her problems.
‘I’ll give Louise a week longer,’ she said after talking it over with him. ‘If things don’t improve, I’ll ring my daughter and say it’s too much for me.’
‘Why not ring the father? He’s a damn sight closer to hand.’
‘Yes, of course. You’re quite right. Anyway, it’s about time he took a hand in the everyday problems of raising his children, instead of leaving it all to his wife.’
With Prue’s help, Rosalind spent a few days going through the house. She’d expected it to be a chore, but instead found it fascinating. Sophie had been a hoarder and there were mementoes dating back to the 1920s and even earlier, the residue of many lives, other members of the family, people Rosalind had never even heard of before.
Soph had put together a family tree and labelled all the photographs, so that her great-niece would be able to identify them. And oh, Rosalind did love those photographs! Album after album of sepia prints, all neatly labelled as to subjects and year – or approximate year in some cases. ‘Aren’t they wonderful?’ she exclaimed one afternoon.
Prue nodded. ‘One or two of them date back to the 1860s. That makes a shiver run down my spine. Miss Worth wrote her memoirs, too.’ She went to the bookcase and pulled out a huge bound ledger, the sort they had used in old offices.
Rosalind opened the book at random. Soph’s familiar spiky handwriting. It should have made her weep, but it didn’t. Why hadn’t she been able to weep for her aunt? Why was the grief sitting inside her in a tight bundle? It was so unlike her. ‘I shall enjoy reading these.’
‘You’d better take them with you, then. You don’t want them being carted away with the rest of the stuff.’
‘I shan’t have anything carted away yet, Prue. I may want – no, I definitely shall want to keep some of her things. And I’d like my children to see this place before I close it down. There are some lovely pieces of furniture. I’m going to ship them back to Australia and keep them in the family.’
Before she left, she arranged for Prue to stay on for a few weeks, rent-free, then set off back to Dorset.
She drove slowly. There was so much to think about. What was she going to do about her life? There were still nearly three weeks to go before Paul would return. She had to come to some decisions before then.
Jenny groped through the mists of sleep and picked up the phone. Who could be ringing in the middle of the night? She jerked into full wakefulness at the thought that something might be wrong with her mother in England.
She could hear someone breathing heavily at the other end of the line and yelled, ‘Stop this, Michael Lazzoni! You hear me? It won’t get you anywhere. I’m not coming back to you and that’s that.’ She slammed down the phone but within seconds it started ringing again.
She stared at it, her breath coming in gasps, as if she’d been running. What was she going to do about this harassment? She’d asked at the police station, but they said they couldn’t really help without proof, and the phone company seemed to think the calls would die down of their own accord. How had Michael got hold of her new number, anyway? She’d only given it to her close friends and had sworn them to the strictest secrecy.
When the ringing began to irritate her, she lifted the phone and let it drop instantly, cutting the connection. But it was ringing again within the minute, so she left it off the hook.
Michael was stalking her – there was no other word for it – waiting outside work and staring at her, following her in his car. She didn’t know what to do about it, who to turn to. Let’s face it, she was scared out of her mind.
If only her mother was here! Or even her father. She smiled wryly in the darkness. This was actually the sort of thing he’d be the best person to handle. But she couldn’t face his scorn. She’d give it a little longer. Surely Michael would grow tired of pestering her?
Soon after Rosalind arrived back in Burraford Destan, the phone rang and Paul snapped, ‘Where the hell have you been, Ros? I’ve been calling you for days. I was thinking of getting on to the police to check that you were all right.’
Why hadn’t he, then? ‘I’ve been in Southport.’
‘But I rang there. Twice. No one answered. I assumed the witch lady was away.’
She felt angry at the way he referred to Sophie and was strangely reluctant to tell him the sad news. ‘How’s Hong Kong?’
‘Great. Busy as ever.’
‘Have you run into Liz? She’s there on holiday.’
There was a silence, just the sound of the line humming and fizzling.
‘Paul? Didn’t you hear me?’
‘Sorry, bad line. What did you say?’
‘I asked if you’d run into Liz.’
‘Why should I have done that?’
‘She’s on holiday there.’
‘There are rather a lot of people in Hong Kong, as you know from your own experience. Bloody millions of them, actually! Wouldn’t be my favourite place for a permanent posting, I can tell you. Anyway, never mind all that. Tell me how you’re getting on with the house? Have you sorted things out with the agents? Some rather important clients will be in town next month. I’d like to give them a country weekend. You’d better explore the district, see if there are any stately homes nearby. Those Americans adore them.’
When she didn’t reply immediately, he asked sharply, ‘Ros, are you listening?’
‘Yes. I’ll see what I can do. The agent’s authorised me to buy some more equipment.’
‘What do you mean, you’ll see what you can do? Is there some problem I don’t know about?’
She hesitated, but she had to tell him sometime. ‘Yes. There is rather. Aunt Sophie died last week.’
Silence, then, ‘Did she leave you anything?’
She slammed the phone down.
When it began to ring again, she waited for eight rings before picking it up.
‘Ros?’
‘Yes.’
‘We got cut off. Is something wrong? Why did it take you so long to pick the phone up again?’
‘We didn’t get cut off, actually. I put the receiver down. I’ve just lost a relative I loved very much and all you asked about was what she’d left me.’
Silence again, then, ‘Hell, don’t take things to heart, Ros. You know me. I’m the financial manager of the family.’
‘Not this time, you aren’t.’
His voice became very soft. ‘What – exactly – do you mean by that?’
She smiled as she told him. And afterwards, when he started complaining, saying they’d have to try to overset the will’s conditions, she didn’t slam the receiver down, but replaced it gently in its holder.
It started to ring but she didn’t pick it up. Instead, she poured herself a glass of her aunt’s cognac and raised it mockingly. ‘Well, Soph, you’d be pleased with me today. The new independent Rosalind’s first act of rebellion.’ Small but immensely satisfying.
The next day the embroideries her mother had picked up for her and sent by courier arrived from Australia. They felt like old friends. She carried them into the large sitting room and hung them on the wall, stacking the tacky prints they replaced in a corner of the attic bedroom with their cartoon-like blue roses hidden.
Much cheered, she began working on the new embroidery, the family group. Her preliminary sketch was of Paul, taken from a photo she’d brought with her. She’d tried to draw his figure several times, but it hadn’t come out as she’d wanted. Now, still angry with him, she tried again. And it was right, so absolutely right.
It would go in the centre of the picture, of course.
She started work on the head first. Muslin face, lightly padded. Dark brown embroidery silk for hair, boyishly tousled. Predator’s stance.
At that thought, she stopped stitching. Predator? Paul wasn’t a predator. He was just – a little aggressive and opportunistic.
He’s a predator! Admit it. The voice in her head sounded like Sophie’s.
OK, she told it. You’re right, really. He is a predator. But there have been times when I’ve been glad of his strength. And at least he’s looked after his family – in his own way. He’s not like some men, going off having affairs, behaving irresponsibly.
She continued sewing. Sometimes she had to make two or three heads to get the face right, but not this time. At first try she got Paul right. He was an arrogant figure, arms folded, dominating the foreground, standing on his own. Why hadn’t she realised before how dominating he was? Funny how the embroidery seemed to be helping her see things more clearly than usual.
Was she going to continue letting him rule the roost? Her small act of defiance yesterday wasn’t going to change much. She shook her head ruefully. She’d never been good at dealing with him in the past, why should she be any better in the future?
No, that wasn’t good enough. She looked up and promised Sophie’s hovering shade that she’d continue to do what she could to stand up for herself. She’d at least try.
She felt better for that, as well as apprehensive.