Rosie (10 page)

Newtown had always been a special place. It was where he and Debs had come on their first date. Supper at the New Inn, then a walk across the creek. Now he tried not to let it put him off the place. It was too ancient and beautiful a spot to be given up for sentimental reasons. Although if he had really loved her he wouldn’t want to be here and reawaken all those memories.

Maybe he would never fall completely in love. He’d never experienced the earth-shattering, life-changing force that was supposed to infuse your every fibre and prevent you thinking of anything else. And if it hadn’t happened by the time you were thirty-eight, what was the chance of it happening at all?

Anyway he wasn’t sure he believed in it. If brainless teenage pop stars could do it on a daily basis what value was there in it? True love –
real
love – wasn’t like that. It was a known fact. People stayed together for a long time because they got on. Because they were friends. Because they liked each other. Not because they were ‘in love’. That sort of love didn’t last. There was enough proof of it all around him. You could have one thing or the other: loving friendship for keeps, or a short-lived mind-blowing passion.

Look at Henry. A couple of years ago he’d been besotted by a young art student from Derby. He’d taken her paintings, then her body. Then she had taken him for ten grand and disappeared. Poor Henry. Soul-mates, he’d said they were. But the girl gave her soul to someone else and left Henry with a hole in his pocket.

For three hours he worked on the painting, until the light had changed too much. Then he packed away his paints and walked back to the car. The three boats were hauling up their sails to catch the breath of wind that was ruffling the surface of the water. Now the muddy creeks were turning into rivulets, swirling into hollows by grassy banks.

He drove through sleepy Calbourne and sprawling Carisbrooke to Newport and went into a bookshop. Under the section headed ‘European History’ he found what he was looking for: a book on the Russian royal family. He looked around as he bought it, just in case someone was observing him, then felt embarrassed at his own stupidity, and watched the shop assistant drop the book into a carrier-bag with his receipt. She clearly hadn’t rumbled him, which was a relief.

By the time he had returned to the Anchorage Rosie had gone out. He made some coffee, and opened the book.

Three hours later, he closed it and sat back in his chair, strangely apprehensive. He was now acquainted with the Tsar’s family – he still couldn’t begin to think of it as
his
family. He knew about Rasputin, Lenin, the Bolsheviks, and the murderous Yurovsky. He had read about Olga, the eldest of the sisters, shy, with long chestnut hair, bookish and close to her father. Tatiana was the most elegant, tall and willowy with grey eyes and auburn hair, an accomplished pianist, full of energy, and regarded by the rest of the children as their unofficial governess. She was devoted to her mother, often washing and dressing her hair, always attentive to her needs.

There were the two younger daughters: Marie, the prettiest of all, whose dark blue eyes were known as ‘Marie’s saucers’, and the dumpy, mischievous Anastasia. She had been the tree-climbing tomboy, the practical joker who had hidden stones in snowballs until one had knocked Tatiana out cold and brought Anastasia to her senses.

And then there was the Tsarevich, Alexis, known in the family as Alexei. The haemophiliac child had been next in line to the Imperial throne, and was a martyr to the disease, which caused regular internal haemorrhaging, made his joints painful, and a nosebleed life-threatening. Nick felt sorry for him.

He had read of the Tsar’s mishandling of power, and of Alexandra’s devotion to him. From what he could remember of history lessons, the Tsar had been portrayed as an autocratic tyrant, but his reading led him to wonder if that had really been so. One authority in the book had suggested that he was every bit as effective a ruler as his cousin George V, but what had been seen in George as positive attributes were regarded in the Tsar as weaknesses.

Would he ever know? Did it matter? But whether he was related to them or not, the story was compelling, and the way in which the Imperial family had met their end was shocking and inhumane.

He looked at his watch. Half past one. Alex would probably be out painting. He had her mobile phone number but was reluctant to call. Then his own phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Is she with you?’

‘What?’

‘Is Rosie with you?’

‘Yes.’

It was his mother. She was not calm.

‘Bloody typical! I’ve arranged for her to see two lots of sheltered accommodation and she’s buggered off.’

‘Well, did you ask her if she wanted to see them?’

‘I arranged it with her the other day.’

‘Yes, but did you
ask
her?’

‘I told her I’d—’

‘Yes. You
told
her.’

‘Well, what do you expect? She’s eighty-seven, for God’s sake.’

‘But she still has opinions.’

‘Yes. And look where they got her. Honestly, Nick, I’d have thought you’d more sense.’

‘Than what?’

‘Taking her in and encouraging her to think she can be independent.’

‘But she can. It’s just that she gets a bit upset now and again. It’s not surprising, is it?’

Most daughters-in-law would have been only too willing to relinquish a relationship with their mother-in-law on the breakdown of their marriage. Not so Anna Robertson. Rosie was a loose end, and loose ends had to be tidied up.

‘Well, she’ll have to come back and look at these two places. I’ve made appointments.’

‘Unmake them. She’s here for a while now.’

‘How long?’

‘Not sure. Till she feels better.’

‘What she regards as “feeling better” is hardly likely to be much of an improvement, as far as I can see.’

‘Well, cancel them for now.’

‘Only if you promise to send her back.’

‘I can’t do that. She’s not a child.’

‘Now, listen, Nick—’

‘No, Mum.
You
listen. She’s getting on and she’s a bit unreliable, but that doesn’t mean you can shut her away.’

‘I’m not shutting her away. These are lovely places and they’ll look after her.’

‘Well, I’m looking after her at the moment so that’s all right, isn’t it?’

‘But how long can you carry on?’

‘I don’t know. But, quite honestly, I’d rather she was with her family than stuck in some home that smells of pee with chairs all round the walls.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

‘Exactly. And she’s having fun here. She’s even booked to go on a sailing course.’

‘What?’

‘It’s OK. She says they’ve taught people older than her.’

‘Maybe, but I bet they had all their marbles.’

‘And you don’t think she has?’ asked Nick.

‘Do you?’

He changed the subject, careful to ask the question offhandedly: ‘What do you know about her family?’

‘Oh, it’s quite ridiculous. She’s got it into her head that her mother was somehow caught up in the Russian revolution.’

‘How?’

‘I’ve no idea. She thinks she was smuggled out when she was a baby.’

‘Who were her parents?’

‘Russian peasants, probably.’

‘Does Dad know?’

‘Well, if he does he’s never bored me with the story. Look, I haven’t time to talk. I’ve a lecture in five minutes. Just let me know the moment she leaves so that I can arrange these meetings. OK?’

Nick felt reluctant to commit himself – or Rosie – to such an arrangement. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Nick!’

‘I promise to look after her and see that she doesn’t get into any more trouble.’

‘Well, I’m relying on you.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Speak soon. Must dash. Oh, and don’t let her spend any money. Apparently her bank account is overdrawn.’

 
 
11

So bright, this rose almost screams.

T
roubles are like buses: they come in convoys. Nick had quite a collection now. His grandmother’s presence, his grandmother’s state of mind, his grandmother’s apparent lack of funds, Alex’s opinion of him (which could not have been high) and the prospect of being a future tsar of Russia.

To his credit, he was relatively rational about the last, and put it out of his mind. But, as troubles go, it was never going to be one that he would get his head round. The choice was simple: incredulity or insanity. Wisely, he opted for the former. But the matter kept drifting into his mind and gave rise to an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach.

All of the above would probably have resolved themselves sooner rather than later had not two more buses turned up. They were clad in charcoal grey suits and wore dark glasses. They stood on the doorstep of the Anchorage looking strangely out of place.

‘Mr Robertson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Derek Robertson?’

‘No. I’m Nick.’

‘Are you expecting us?’ asked the shorter of the two. They were both sturdy men with close-shaven heads and no necks. The sort of men you’d find wearing twirly earpieces and standing outside a nightclub called the Matrix. One even had the habit of pushing up his chin to free his non-existent neck from a collar two sizes too small.

‘No. Should I be?’

The taller one looked down at the smaller one, then at Nick. ‘This is the Anchorage, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re not Derek Robertson?’

‘No. I’m his son.’

The small one cut in impatiently: ‘The son of Derek Robertson?’

‘Yes. Look, this is getting silly . . .’

‘Only your father said we’d be expected.’

‘Well, I’m afraid you’re not.’

‘Your father hasn’t been in contact, then?’

‘Not for a week or two.’

‘So you haven’t got the package?’

‘What package?’

The shorter hulk looked up at the taller hulk and frowned, then looked back at Nick. ‘Look, son, this is serious. We’ve come all the way across here because we were told that this was where it would be.’ He slipped his hand inside his jacket, after the style of Napoleon. ‘Don’t tell me we’re wasting our time.’

‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this some sort of joke?’

‘No,’ said the big hulk.

Nick felt uneasy. ‘Well, I can call my father, if you like, but he keeps changing his mobile so I’m not sure he’ll still be on the same number.’

‘No,’ said the shorter man. ‘That’s the trouble.’

Nick felt an overwhelming urge to push them down the garden path. But he thought better of it. It might have been something to do with their size, or that their suits had unidentifiable bulges in unexpected places.

‘Look, I’ll get in touch with him somehow and tell him you called. Have you got a number where he can reach you?’

At this, the larger man took a step forward, almost crushing Nick against the door frame. ‘We don’t mess about, you know.’

‘Hey! Look! What the—’

‘Don’t piss us around,’ growled his accomplice. ‘We’ve come a long way.’

‘Well, I don’t have what you want so I don’t see what I can do.’

Nick squeezed out from between the man and the door frame, then took a deep breath.

‘Hello, I’m back,’ said a voice. ‘Had a lovely walk right along the cliff path. Oh, hello – I’m Nick’s granny.’ The two men wheeled round in time to see Rosie hold out her hand. They didn’t take it. They just stared, while Rosie twittered on: ‘Shame it’s not brighter, isn’t it? I expect you needed your sunglasses when you set off, but it’s a bit threatening now.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘Quite cloudy.’

The two men froze as though they had been anaesthetized. They were clearly used to younger bodies than the fragile frame that had addressed them.

‘Are you staying for lunch? I think we’ve some salad left over from last night. And a tin of tuna. I can certainly put the kettle on.’

Nick made to stop her, but the shorter of the two men spoke first: ‘No, thanks, lady,’ he said, his tone bemused. ‘We’ve got to be going.’

He turned to Nick and partially recovered himself. ‘We’ll come back. You’ll have it by then. We hope.’ He gestured his companion towards the path, then nodded at Rosie. ‘Take care, lady.’

Nick and Rosie watched as the pair lumbered down the path and out of the gate. They heard a car start and drive away. Then Rosie asked, ‘Did I do all right?’

‘What?’ asked Nick, dazed.

‘I’m quite good at playing the harmless old lady. Did it help?’

‘I’ll say.’

‘What was it about? Who were they? Are you in some sort of trouble?’

‘I have absolutely no idea.’ And then, trying to sound casual, he said, ‘When did you last hear from Dad?’

‘About a fortnight ago. You don’t think they’re anything to do with him, do you?’

‘No, no. I just wondered if he was still on his last number or whether it had changed again.’

‘Only one way to find out,’ she said.

‘Yes.’ So he tried. The number was unobtainable.

The lighthouse at St Catherine’s Point winked out over the sea as Alex and Victoria ate their picnic lunch on the clifftop, huddled in windcheaters.

Victoria was nibbling an apple. She broke the silence: ‘Are you cross with me?’