The Last Kiss Goodbye (7 page)

The tinny chants of the Direct Action Group, huddled outside, floated through an open window, and Ros knew she could not stay here another moment.

‘Hmm,’ she said, trying to retain some dignity.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

She didn’t reply.

‘You don’t care for
Capital
magazine, but what is it you do care about, Rosamund Bailey?’

He looked at her directly, and for a moment he caught her off guard. Cursing herself for getting distracted by his eyelashes, she regained her poise.

‘I care about equality, fairness. I believe that everyone should have a chance regardless of who they are or where they were born.’

‘I think most people, on either side of the political fence, want that. Conservatism is rooted in meritocracy, liberalism in equality, but aren’t they just different ways of saying fairness?’

Ros snorted. She didn’t like feeling caught out. She liked being able to run people around in argumentative circles, but something was stopping her from taking Dominic Blake on.

‘Come on. Be more specific,’ challenged Blake. ‘What issues do you really care about? When you read the paper, what makes you boil with anger?’

‘I care that nuclear arms development is carrying on unchecked. I care that women’s rights are still not even nearly equal to men’s . . .’

‘So write about it. For me. For
Capital
. Tell me what’s wrong, and why.’

‘Write for you? For
Capital
? You must be joking.’

‘I don’t joke about who I want to contribute to my magazine.’

‘I don’t want to write for
Capital
,’ she spluttered, not believing he had just suggested it.

‘Why not?’ he challenged.

‘You might not think it’s a right-wing mouthpiece but I certainly do.’

‘Miss Bailey, rallies in the street, even in Hyde Park, are all well and good, but more and more I think that politics is going to be fought in the papers, in radio debates and on the television news. I don’t doubt that you want your views to be heard, but what better way to do that than to have them printed in a serious magazine with clout that reaches people who can effect change?’

‘As if your readers are going to like my views,’ she scoffed.

‘Precisely,’ said Dominic bluntly. ‘Half of them probably don’t ever hear opinions like yours. They have friends just like them, who think just like them. How can you change how people think if you don’t give them something to think about? To make waves, Miss Bailey, you have to throw the pebble in the pond.’

Rosamund looked at him with resentful new eyes. A voice in her head told her that what he was saying made sense, but there was no way she was going to admit that to herself, let alone to him.

‘I should go,’ she said, glancing away.

‘That’s a shame.’ He picked up her hastily copied handbill again and shrugged. ‘Someone gave me one of these before you came in. I read it and thought it was good. For an overheated, one-sided argument, anyway. You have talent. Cut out the hectoring tone, and I do believe that people would enjoy reading your stuff.’

He stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray and opened his desk drawer.

‘The offer’s there, anyway,’ he said, pushing a business card across to her. ‘Perhaps you can ring me next time, instead of shouting outside my window.’

Chapter Seven

It was an ordinary street. So ordinary, in fact, that to Ros it almost felt like a parody. The trees, the neatly parked family cars, the low red-brick walls marking the edge of well-tended gardens trimmed with hedges and flower beds; it was as if someone had painted a picture entitled
English Suburban Idyll
and blown it up to full size. The strange thing was how distant, how detached from it Ros felt. Acacia Avenue, Teddington, had been the street she had played in as a child, running in and out of other families’ little gardens, riding her scooter then her bicycle along the pavement, chalking hopscotch squares on the flagstones. But now it was as if she was watching a movie of someone else’s life. It was familiar, yes, but at the same time somehow nothing to do with her, even though it was her home.

She stopped at the gate to number 22. White, wooden, the struts fanned in the shape of a rising sun; she knew exactly how it would creak the second she pushed it.

‘Is that you?’ shouted a voice before she was even through the doorway.

It had been cold, dark and raining when Ros had got off the train, but the kitchen was flooded with warmth from the oven, mixed with the smells of cooking and early daffodils in a jug on the table.

Clearly her mother had been baking: there were a variety of mixing bowls, jars and packets on the counter top, next to a set of scales and an open recipe book, everything covered in a thin layer of flour.

‘Excuse the mess,’ said her mother, moving a pile of books from the wooden table and pulling out a chair.

‘Your father’s in the greenhouse, planting tomatoes. God knows why we don’t just buy them from the greengrocer like everyone else, but he swears they taste better.’

Rosamund looked out of the window and smiled.

Samuel Bailey had spent his days working in a high street bank, opening accounts and setting up mortgages and modest loans, a job that Ros had always got the sense he never much cared for. But in the evenings and at weekends, he would throw himself into a dazzling array of hobbies. The house was stuffed with the results of his enthusiasms: a wonky toast rack from his dalliance with woodwork, an abandoned clarinet from when he was going to be the new Benny Goodman, the many shards of glass and broken pipe stems in a cabinet in the entrance hall testament to the time he had read a book on archaeology.

‘Dad, come in,’ she called, suddenly feeling the urge to speak to him.

Her mother poured her a cup of tea and sat down opposite her.

‘How was your day?’ Ros asked.

Valerie barely glanced in her direction. ‘We’d better wait until your father comes in to discuss that one. Get the cutlery and glasses and put them on the table, would you? The dumplings just need another couple of minutes, but then we’re ready to eat.’

Samuel Bailey came into the house and kissed his daughter on the top of her head.

‘All done,’ he smiled, washing his hands with the bar of coal tar soap by the kitchen sink. ‘We should have tomatoes, runner beans and onions by June.’

‘I can make chutney,’ said Valerie vaguely.

Ros found herself smiling. Sometimes she felt a bit of a loser for still living at home at the age of twenty-four; everyone else she knew – school and college friends – was either married or had little bachelor flats or house shares around the city. She was aware that the arrangement saved her a great deal of money; she would never be able to afford to work at DAG if she had to pay rent. But it was more than that. Passion and emotion was the office oxygen at the Direct Action Group, but that made it stressful, and so she enjoyed returning to Teddington every night, away from the bright lights of Soho and the struggles of the world, to her parents’ homely chit-chat.

Wearing two oven gloves, Valerie lifted a casserole dish on to the kitchen table and asked her husband to pour them all a glass of water.

‘Marion next door gave me the recipe,’ she said, waiting for her family to taste the food and compliment her.

‘Delicious,’ said Samuel, noting his cue.

‘So? Your news?’ asked Rosamund.

‘It looks like Grandma and Grandad are moving in,’ said Samuel bluntly.

‘Why?’ asked Rosamund with surprise.

‘Grandad is suffering with his leg, and Grandma’s wrist hasn’t been the same since she fell outside the post office,’ explained her mother. ‘The truth is, they’re struggling, so I suggested they’d be better off here.’

‘
They
suggested,’ muttered Samuel from his seat.

Ros felt a flutter of panic, quickly seeing the implications of this move.

‘Where are they going to sleep?’

She didn’t miss the look between her mother and father.

‘There’s only one option really. They’ll have your room and you’ll move into the box room.’

‘The box room?’

‘I know it’s not ideal, darling, but we don’t have much choice. They’re my parents, your grandparents, and they need us. They need help.’

‘I can’t sleep in the box room. I’m not even sure it’s long enough for a bed.’

‘I agree,’ said Samuel.

An awkward silence settled around the room.

‘I’m going to have to move out,’ said Ros slowly. It was less a question, more a statement of fact.

‘It might be the push you need,’ replied her mother encouragingly.

Ros looked at her cautiously.

‘What do you mean? The push I need?’

‘Darling, you know how much we love you, but your father and I have been talking, and we think that living here is holding you back in your career.’

‘How is it holding me back?’

Another look of complicity.

‘Rosamund, you have a masters degree from the London School of Economics. You are as smart as a whip and the world is your oyster. We know you love what you’re doing . . .’ Ros could tell her mother was treading carefully here, but she could predict what was coming next. ‘But when are you going to get a proper job?’

There. There it was. She almost felt a sense of triumph when she heard it.

‘I run a political pressure group, Mother. We have an office and I employ—’

‘A
real
job, Ros,’ she interrupted. ‘With a salary and a pension. Something with prospects. This isn’t the Student Union any more, darling.’

Ban the bomb, troops out, crush apartheid; Rosamund had drunk it all in, and it had filled her up like oxygen. Within weeks of arriving at the LSE, she had organised a sit-in at the university refectory in protest at the sacking of a porter, revelling in the fuss and, yes, she had to admit, the power. It had fizzled out after two days when her fellow protesters began drifting off to lectures, but it had been a revelation to Rosamund, and she had carried on fighting against perceived injustice. She couldn’t believe her mother was dismissing it as some sort of ill-conceived hobby.

‘Of course things might be different if you were married. If you were supported. Janet down the road does wonderful work for charity, but her husband is an accountant, brings home good money.’

Ros was now feeling hot with anger. ‘What I do isn’t about making money. It’s about making a difference.’

‘How about making a living?’ said her mother more tartly. ‘You can’t even afford a roof over your head. Now, I have to go and make a phone call.’

‘Who are you calling? Grandma?’ Ros said childishly.

‘I’ll leave you two to talk.’ Valerie didn’t even glance in her daughter’s direction as she left the room.

When she’d gone, the tension subsided a little. Her mother had always been the more fiery of her parents, a woman never afraid of speaking her mind, and the two women regularly locked horns. At least Ros knew where she got her feistiness from.

‘If it’s any consolation, I’m not looking forward to them moving in either,’ said Samuel, finishing the last of his stew.

Rosamund managed a thin smile.

‘I remember when we went on holiday with them to Worthing. You thought the bomb had dropped – it was Grandad’s snoring through the caravan walls.’

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

‘So what is this, Dad?’ Ros said finally. ‘Tough love?’

‘You know this will always be your home. There will always be a bed for you even if I have to sleep in the greenhouse. But your mother has a point about getting out there.’

‘You don’t approve of my work at the Direct Action Group? You of all people?’

‘Of course I do,’ he said, as father and daughter looked sadly at one another.

The Baileys – the Bazelskis as they had been then – had come to England just before the war as refugees from Hungary, where they had seen politics swing back and forth with deadly force until it had become life or death for anyone with a Jewish background.

Ros remembered listening to Samuel’s stories as a teenager. His recollections of her birthplace, Budapest. How settled and happy he and Valerie had been, until the growing power and sinister ambitions of neighbouring Nazi Germany became impossible to ignore. His crucial decision to leave Hungary with his wife and young child when the government starting passing anti-Jewish legislation.

‘Why did no one stop them?’ Rosamund had asked time and time again when she had learned how their relatives had been sent to Auschwitz and Treblinka, and the only way Samuel could respond was to say that perhaps nobody had realised what was happening until it was too late.

Rosamund lived in a state of perpetual concern that the same thing could happen again, and had made a vow to herself to always make her voice heard, to do whatever she could, in whatever small way, to help stop similar atrocities.

Samuel shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

‘I know how important politics is to you, darling. Your mother isn’t saying don’t do it. She is saying that spending almost two years working for nothing, with no prospect of ever getting paid, might not be the best use of your talents and qualifications, and I agree with her.’

‘Well what do you suggest?’ she asked, meeting his gaze with a direct challenge.

‘Become an MP. You’ll get a salary, a pension, the chance to make a difference.’

Ros snorted. ‘I don’t want to spend my whole life declaring the local gymnasium or post office open.’

‘What happened to “I want to be the first female prime minister”?’ said her father more softly.

‘I was ten years old.’

‘You were still serious.’

‘No major country in the world will have a female head of state. Not in my lifetime.’

‘Indira Gandhi is Congress President in India. I think you underestimate the potential of womankind.’

‘More like I understand the prejudices that exist in this country.’

‘How about journalism? That’s how many politicians got started.’

‘Like who?’

‘Like Churchill. Even if you never join a party, never try for selection as an MP, it’s a rewarding career. You were always such a nosy child,’ he smiled.

Ros couldn’t be cross with him any longer.

‘You know, you’re the second person this week to suggest I go into journalism.’

‘Who was the first?’

‘Just someone I met.’

‘Oh yes?’ smiled her father knowingly as she felt the base of her neck flush pink.

Dominic Blake. Since their protest outside the
Capital
offices three days earlier, the man had kept popping into her head unbidden. The good looks he was quite clearly aware of, his regular features, full lips and soft grey eyes, both irritated and fascinated her to the point that she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to exorcise all thoughts of him immediately or close her eyes and think of him again.

But it was more than the way he looked. Dominic Blake had surprised her, intrigued her, and his words had lifted her spirits, quite an achievement considering she had expected him to be a complete pig.

Write for me. You have talent. Change the way people think. I think you’d be good at this.

Although she was a confident woman, Rosamund wasn’t exactly sure what she was good at any more. At school and university, her talents and efforts, and their rewards, had been clear to see. Her clean sweep of A’s at A level, her first-class degree. The Direct Action Group tried hard, they gave it their all, but they hadn’t really changed anything except the odd light bulb in their office.

So it was nice to be told that she was good, that she was talented. To hear the words out loud and to know that Dominic Blake believed in her, regardless of his political views, made her smile at night.

‘Nothing like that,’ she said quickly, aware that her father was waiting for a response. ‘He’s an editor. He saw something I’d written and thought I had potential.’

‘Then listen to the man. He knows what he’s talking about.’

Rosamund scoffed at how ridiculous she would have found those words just a few days earlier.

‘So what do you think?’ asked her father softly.

Rosamund did not like to admit she was wrong, but a voice in the back of her head was telling her how selfish she was being, and that Grandma and Grandad’s arrival might even be fortuitous.

She puffed out her cheeks, aware that the deal had been done. Aware that it was possibly the best thing for her, but still racked with a sense of uncertainty about the future.

‘When are they moving in?’

‘Your mother mentioned next week.’

‘Next week!’ Her immediate reaction was to laugh.

‘I can give you the money for a deposit and a couple of months’ rent.’

‘Dad, I’m twenty-five next month. I’m not taking any more handouts from you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ve taken enough. I’m sure I can up my shifts at the café.’ She waitressed at weekends to earn herself some pin money.

‘Come here. Come round to me.’

She laughed and stayed in her seat.

‘I’m comfy, and my feet are tired.’

‘Get round here, Rosamund Bailey. You’re twenty-four. You’re not old enough to have tired feet and still young enough to give your old dad a hug.’

She went round to his side of the table and Samuel put a paternal arm around her waist.

‘Do you know what the secret to being happy is?’