Rosie (13 page)

He went to her room, thinking it had been quite a day for packets, and returned with a small parcel that was, perhaps, three inches square. He gave it to her, and she handed it straight back to him.

‘Happy birthday, my love.’ She took another sip of her gin. ‘Just a little something.’

He fingered the parcel, and his unease about her financial status was reawakened. ‘You haven’t done anything silly, have you?’ he asked.

‘Of course. Old lady’s prerogative.’

He pulled off the wrapping to reveal a small box. For the second time that day, his heart thumped. He hoped she hadn’t been ridiculously rash. He lifted the lid of the box. A diamond winked at him.

It was the same size as those he had seen earlier in the day.

‘What’s this?’

‘Your present.’

‘Well, yes . . . but . . .’

‘Now, stop making a fuss and just admire it.’

‘But – but – what am I going to do with it?’

‘Keep it for a rainy day.’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘What’s that got to do with you?’

‘But, Gran – I mean, Rosie, you’ve bought me a car, and now this and – I mean your bank account—’

Rosie raised an eyebrow. ‘Someone’s been talking.’

‘Yes.’

‘Your mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wondered how long it would be before she found out.’

‘But how could you afford—’

‘By being careful for the best part of eighty-seven years.’

Nick flopped down in a chair. ‘I don’t understand.’

Rosie took a restorative sip of her gin. ‘I got the idea from the Queen Mother.’

‘What idea?’

‘Getting rid of my assets.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, she did it. Gave everything to her grandchildren. That way you can avoid death duties.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Provided you live for seven years after you’ve handed the stuff over.’

Nick looked at her with a plaintive expression on his face. He was sure he’d read something about ‘gift tax’ or ‘capital gains’. His thoughts were cut short.

‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m eighty-seven, am I likely to last until I’m ninety-four.’

‘No!’

‘Don’t interrupt. I looked at my bank account, and at how much interest had built up and it was pathetic. Did you know they charge you 7.8 per cent interest when you want to borrow money, and they’ll give you 2.5 per cent when you invest it? Pathetic! Shouldn’t be allowed. It’s fraud. So I got to thinking that it wasn’t worth leaving all that money in the bank, and having the taxman take his cut when I died. He’s taking enough from me while I’m alive!’

Nick was listening to her, mouth open.

‘Catching flies again, dear?’

He closed it.

‘So I looked at the papers every day – you know, the financial pages – and worked out what the best investment was. It’s a risky business. What do they say? “Interest rates can go down as well as up.” I decided I needed to sink my money into something that was unlikely to be so . . . er, volatile, I think the word is. And the financial experts seemed to think it was the right time to invest in diamonds. So I emptied my bank account and bought a few. This one’s yours.’

‘But . . . what’s—’

‘What’s it worth? Oh, at the moment about twenty-five thousand. Hopefully a bit more in a few years’ time.’

‘And what about Sophie and Alice?’

‘Don’t worry; I’ve taken care of your sisters. They have one each as well.’

‘I see.’ Nick gazed at the stone. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, as though in a trance.

‘Yes. I’d take it to the bank and leave it there for a while, if I were you. Until you need to cash it in. Then you can take it to a dealer. Shop around. I’ve written down some instructions so you can get the best price.’

Nick shut the lid of the box and looked at his grandmother. ‘We’ve just got to make sure you live for another seven years, then?’ His lips curled into a grin.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. As far as the government’s concerned I’ve just spent my money. No need for them to know where. I probably lost it on the horses. It’s yours now.’

‘Rosie! Is that legal?’

‘Probably not – but it’s no more wicked than taxing old ladies so that they can’t afford to live on their savings, is it?’

‘So how are you going to—’

‘Live?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t worry, angel. I’ve a little left in the building society and that should see me out.’

‘Don’t say that.’ He hated it when she talked about the end.

‘Just practical. We sailors are, you know. Anyway, hadn’t you better be getting ready to go out for dinner? Don’t want to keep Alex waiting.’

She winked at him. As he smiled back at her he thought that, royal or not, she was the most amazing person he knew.

 
 
14

. . . one of the best . . .

T
he butterflies in his stomach were obviously due to recent events. At least, that was what it suited him to believe as he eased the MG along the narrow lanes of West Wight. If he were honest with himself, though, he knew that his dinner date was at least partly responsible for them.

A vision of her had floated into his mind countless times that day, and he had done his best to banish it. Not because he didn’t want to think of her, but because he didn’t want to imagine feelings that weren’t there. On her part as well as his. As excuses go, it was pretty futile.

He had arranged to pick her up at the end of the lane on the Undercliff, a hundred yards from where she was staying. He drew in at the appointed spot, but there was no sign of her. The hood of the car was down, and he looked up at the trees, now fully decked in late-spring finery. The early-evening sun slanted between the sap-green leaves of sycamores and beeches. He checked his watch. She was late, but only just. He drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel and craned his neck to see round the corner.

Then he heard running feet, and she rounded the bend, a pale blue sweater draped over her shoulders and tied loosely at her neck.

She greeted him breathlessly. ‘Sorry. Bedtime story took a bit longer than I thought.’

He leaned over, opened the car door, and she slid in beside him, kissed his cheek and said, ‘Blame it on inheritance.’

‘What?’ he asked.

‘We’ve finished
Pride and Prejudice
and we’re on to
Sense and Sensibility
.’

‘What’s that got to do with inheritance?’ He started the car and drove down the lane.

‘Have you tried explaining to a ten-year-old girl why in 1811 a father’s estate was bequeathed to the son of his first wife and the three daughters of the second wife got nothing?’

‘No.’

‘Well, if you had, you’d find it took longer than you’d think.’

Nick frowned. ‘Did you manage to convince her?’

‘Not really, no. She’s furious – thinks it was completely unfair. Or, to use her word, minging.’

‘Hang on, let me get this right. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife as long as she’s not minging!’

Alex laughed. ‘Something like that.’

‘Isn’t Jane Austen a bit ambitious for a ten-year-old?’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But ever since she saw one of them serialized on TV she’s been nuts about them. She’s even decided she wants to change her name to Dashwood because it sounds better than Pollen.’

‘Victoria Dashwood . . . It does have a bit of a ring to it. But it’s not as delicate as Pollen, which makes you think of flowers.’

‘Why, thank you kindly, Mr Robertson.’

‘Robertson’s a bit dreary in comparison, isn’t it? What does that make you think of? Jam? Which reminds me. Are you hungry?’

‘Starving. Where are we going?’

‘Well, there’s a little bistro at the back of the George in Yarmouth. I’ve booked a table there – if that’s all right?’

‘Fine.’ She leaned back in the seat and looked skywards as they drove along the coast. ‘I’m looking forward to this.’

They were given a corner table in the dusky, cream-painted restaurant, candle-lit and secluded, and ushered to it by a girl in her teens. Nick ordered a bottle of Rioja, and she brought it to their table rather hesitantly. Nick noticed that her black shoes were huge, almost like clogs, at the end of her sparrow-like legs.

Alex had followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Surprising she can lift them, isn’t it?’

Nick shook his head. ‘I must be getting old.’

‘Steady on! If you really want to feel old you should start mixing with girls half her age.’

‘Well, if it’s all the same to you I’ll stick with the thirty-somethings.’

Alex smiled. ‘Very sensible.’

‘Cheers!’ He lifted his glass of wine and clinked it against hers.

‘Happy birthday! And lovely to spend it with you.’

They sipped their wine, and then he asked, ‘It must be hard going out when you’re a single mum.’

‘Is this where I sound sad? I don’t manage it as often as I’d like.’

‘Can’t think why,’ he said warmly.

‘Where are you leading, Mr Robertson?’

‘Nowhere. I can’t believe men aren’t falling over themselves to take you out.’

Alex spluttered into her wine. ‘Either you are the most ridiculous chatter-upper I’ve ever met or you don’t understand the effect that a child can have on a potential relationship.’

‘Ah, I see. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman with a child will find it difficult to get a man.’

‘You know, if anybody else had said that to me I’d have told them where to go, but as it’s you . . .’

‘Sorry. Will you let me off?’

‘Just this once.’

Nick could not recall anyone, apart from his grandmother, to whom he found it so easy to talk. Even with Debs he had not relaxed as much as he did with Alex. He watched her animated face over the glow of the candle. Her flashing eyes seemed almost jet black.

She wore a loose-fitting white shirt and a pair of black trousers that hugged her slim figure. Her hair, fastened back with the tortoiseshell clip, shone like ebony. He was entranced.

She told him of her childhood on a farm in Devon, of losing her parents when she was in her teens, of her marriage to Paul and their broken relationship, her hopes for Victoria.

‘And what about you? What do you want?’ he asked, over coffee.

‘Oh, that’s a big one. Don’t really have time to think about me.’ She looked away. ‘I’m a bit scared, I suppose.’

‘Why?’ he asked gently.

‘Got it wrong once. Might get it wrong again.’

‘So why bother trying?’

‘There’s a bit of that, I suppose. Don’t want to rush into something that might not work out. I can’t mess it up any more for Victoria.’

‘There she is again.’

‘You see? It’s impossible for any man to understand my responsibilities.’

‘I think you might be underestimating any man.’

‘You think so?’

He looked into her eyes. ‘I think so.’ He laid his hand on hers. ‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ he said.

She wrapped her fingers round his. ‘Are you just being kind?’

‘Oh, no. I’m not being kind at all.’

Alex looked wary. ‘You’re funny.’

Nick looked serious. ‘Funny? Why do you say that?’

‘Because you’re not like other men.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Nick was puzzled.

‘No. I mean, you listen.’

‘Don’t other men?’

‘No. Only when they want to get you to . . . well . . .’

‘And I don’t?’

‘I don’t know.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘Sorry. I didn’t want to embarrass you.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

She squeezed back.

Their eyes met. Then the silence was broken by a plaintive voice: ‘Was everything all right?’ asked the waitress.

Nick began to speak, but Alex beat him to it. ‘Oh, yes. It was lovely.’

He opened the car door for her, then walked round to the driver’s side and slid in. The engine roared into life and he steered the MG out of the car park. They said nothing, but he could feel her sitting closer than before. He caught an occasional whiff of her perfume. Suddenly it started to rain heavily.

‘Oh, God!’ He swerved into the side of the lane, beneath the shelter of the overhanging sycamores. ‘It won’t take a minute! Hang on!’ He leaped out of the car and fought with the hood. It took several minutes to fasten it in place, during which time Alex shrieked, at first from the shock of the freezing deluge, but then with hilarity as he battled with the canopy and its collection of poppers and zips that seemed to bear no relation to the fittings on the car. Eventually, she jumped out to help, and soon the car was shielded from the worst of the elements by the ancient black shroud that passed for weatherproofing.

‘Get in!
GET IN
!’ Nick roared, as he ran round to his side and stumbled into the damp interior.

Alex did her best to obey. ‘I can’t! My door’s stuck!’ she yelled. He got out again, ran round to her side and applied masculine pressure to the handle, which finally yielded. Nick tumbled into the driver’s seat and was greeted by a drenched Alex, laughing until tears and raindrops were running down her cheeks in tandem.

‘You silly man! What a ridiculously impractical car.’