The Winter Rose (64 page)

When his emotion was finally spent, he raised his head and looked at
her. "Jesus Christ, India, what have I done?" he asked, wiping away her
tears. "Dragging you into my life. I should have done the right thing
that night at the Bark. I should have taken you home. Instead, I'm
making you cry for all the horrible things I've done."

"No, not for what you've done. For you."

Sid was silent for a while, then he said, "No one's ever done that. Cried for me."

"No one's ever loved you like I do."

Sid could not look at her, so he looked at his hands.

"Tell me the rest," India said. "Tell me how you got to prison. And
what you did when you got out. Tell me where you grew up. What songs
your mother sang to you. What your father was like. Tell me."

He had to talk about it. He had to tell her. To trust her. It was his only chance. Their only chance.

She rose from the bed and refilled the two glasses on the night table
from a half-empty bottle standing next to them. She handed him one.
"Here," she said. "This will help." Sid drank deeply. He leaned back
against the pillows and closed his eyes. And then he began.

His words came haltingly at first and then in a great gush. He talked
for more than two hours, telling her about his life on Montague Street.
His family. That his first name had once been Charlie. He told her
about his fa-ther's death and his mother's. How he'd run away from the
sight of his dead mother. How he'd lost touch with his family. India
guessed that the memo-ries of them were still very painful for him. He
told her how he'd fallen in with Quinn and eventually found himself
stuck so deep into the life that there was no way out. He talked until
his throat was raw. And when he had finished, he looked at her with
weary, hollow eyes and said, "There. That's it. That's everything."

"Thank you," she said.

"I don't know why you're thanking me. It's all as ugly as hell. And telling it doesn't change a damn thing."

"Actually, it does. I know what you need now, Sid. You need to get
away from here. Far away. Away from London and your life there. Away
from England and all the horrible memories."

"Is that all? Why, let's move to the Riviera, then. I'll book our passages tomorrow."

India ignored his sarcasm. Her brow was furrowed; her gaze inward.
"We could go away. We could leave London, the two of us together," she
said.

"Oh, aye?" he said. "Am I mistaken, missus, or are you just about to open a clinic in Whitechapel?"

She turned her gray eyes on him. "I would leave it," she said, "for you."

"And close the doors on all those people? The ones you said you wanted to help?"

"The doors will stay open. Harriet and Fenwick and Ella can take
over. At least for a little while. Maybe we'll come back one day. When
things calm down. When people don't remember you anymore."

"Forget it, luv. The people you're talking about have very long memories."

"No, listen to me--"

"No, India, you listen to me. It's too late for me, don't you
understand that? I'm a lost cause, but you're not. That clinic is your
dream. And you've worked bloody hard to see it through. I won't let you
walk away from it. You've built something wonderful in this fucking
awful city. Something beautiful."

"Sid," she said quietly. "You are something beautiful."

He looked away from her, unable to speak, his eyes full of emotion.

India took his hand and squeezed it. "It's not too late. We'll start
again. As Mr. and Mrs. Baxter. We'll go away. We could go to Scotland.
To Ireland. Or to the Continent." And then she suddenly sat up straight
and grabbed Sid's arm. "No ait!" She laughed out loud. "My God, it's
been right there all along! Why didn't I think of it before? I'll tell
you what we're going to do. We're going to begin again!"

India jumped out of bed, ran into the sitting room, then returned to the bedroom with a folder in her hand.

"My cousin called it the end of the world," she said excitedly. "Then
he said he was wrong, that it wasn't the end of the world, it was the
beginning. He said when he stood there, with only sea and sky before
him, he felt like it was the very first day, and he was the very first
person, and that there was no ugliness or evil in the world and nothing
but beauty all around him."

"India, what are you on about?"

She opened the folder and handed him the photographs. "Remember
these? This is Point Reyes, California," she said. "It's mine. I own it.
That's where we're going."

Sid looked at the photos. She remembered how taken he'd been with
them when he'd first seen them. He wanted to believe--in this place, in
them, in a new life. She could see how much he wanted that.

"What would we do there?" he asked.

"I'm a doctor. People always need doctors."

"I'm not."

"You can cook. Keep house. Knit socks."

"You've missed your calling. You should write fairy stories. You're
bloody good at telling them. You almost make me believe them."

"They're not fairy stories! We'll go there, Sid. You and I. There's
an old farmhouse there. We'll fix it up. Live in it. We can start
again."

"Aye, luv," he said wistfully.

"We will," she said fiercely. "Do you believe me?"

"India..."

She took his face in her two hands. "Say it! Say you believe me!"

Sid opened his eyes, but said nothing.

"There is such a thing as redemption, Sid Malone. And forgiveness.
Even in this world. Even for you. You can start again, if you choose to.
You found a way into the life, you can find a way out. I'll help you."

Looking into his eyes, so deeply green, so full of pain, India willed
him to imagine a new life. A new start. A future different from
anything he'd ever known.

"Believe me?" she asked again.

"Yes, India," he finally said. "I do."

She kissed him hard, then took off her clothes and slipped beneath
him. They made love more passionately than they ever had. And when they
were finished, Sid rested his head against her chest. She put her arms
around him and told him they would go as soon as she got the clinic open
and running. In two weeks' time. Three at the most. They'd take a train
to Southampton and then a ship to New York and then another train
west--all across America, all the way to California. She would give him
one of the photographs to keep with him, to remind him of their future.

"We'll like it there," she said. "I know we will."

Sid didn't answer. She looked down at him. His breathing was deep and
steady. And his head was heavy against her chest. His eyes were closed.
He was asleep. Finally asleep.

A fresh volley of rain battered against the window. India looked out
at the tree branches waving crazily in the wind and the dark skies
beyond them. Her eyes were fierce as she watched the storm, daring the
thunder and lightning to do their worst. And the black night. And the
city and everyone in it.

Sid needed her and she would be there for him. Loving him. Protecting
him. No matter what it took, no matter what she had to sacrifice, they
would begin again. There were beginnings, not only endings. She would
show him that. Make him believe it. They would leave the past behind. No
one would hurt him ever again. He was hers now. Hers. And she would
never let him go.

"You have to tell her!" Willa Alden shouted at a fitting-room door in Burberry's outfitters in London's Haymarket.

"No" came the muffled reply.

"What are you going to do? Just disappear? Send a postcard from the South Pole?"

The door to the fitting room banged open. Seamie Finnegan clomped out
barely recognizable in a pair of baggy trousers, an anorak, and a
balaclava-- all made from Thomas Burberry's patented waterproof
gabardine.

"Oh, very stylish," Willa said.

"Burberry isn't stylish, it's durable," Seamie replied, pulling the bala-clava off. "And warm."

"I hope so. You're going to freeze your bum off."

"Why, Willa, do I detect a note of jealousy?" Seamie asked.

"There's nothing to be jealous of. You haven't made it to the Pole yet."

"I will."

"We'll see."

"Crikey, Seamie. Can you believe it? Scott, Shackleton, the South Pole--and you'll be there for all of it." That was Albie.

Seamie looked in the mirror. An explorer looked back at him. He couldn't believe it. Not at all. It still seemed like a dream.

Only two weeks ago, he was standing outside Ernest Shackleton's home
in the wind and rain, trying to convince the man to take him on the
Antarc-tica expedition. Shackleton had finally taken him inside and fed
him breakfast. They'd talked for two hours. He was very curious to hear
about Seamie's sailing experience and his winter climbs in the
Adirondacks. By the time the maid had cleared the breakfast dishes, he
still hadn't said yes, but he hadn't said no, either.

Five days later the lad who was to be the cook's assistant was
arrested for public drunkenness. Two days after that Seamie received a
letter at 12 Wilmington Crescent, the Aldens' house, inviting him to
join the expe-dition. He'd opened it--in the privacy of his room--and
learned that he was to be the cook's assistant. He let out a whoop, then
ran straight down the stairs to tell Albert and Willa.

It was the worst dogsbody job possible. He'd be nothing but a
scullery maid--peeling potatoes and scrubbing pots--but Shackleton
promised him that he'd get off the ship and trek into the interior with
the rest of the crew. He would make history, for he was certain Scott
and Shackleton would find the Pole--how could men like that fail at
anything? It was an opportunity of a lifetime and nothing and no one was
going to stop him from going.

"What, exactly, would happen if you told Fiona?" Albert asked now.

"She'd go completely crackers. She doesn't want me to leave school."

"But what's she going to do? You've already made your decision. She's your sister, after all. Surely she'd understand."

"You don't know Fiona. I wouldn't put it past her to show up at the dock and try to drag me off the boat by my ear."

Seamie frowned at his reflection. He wanted to tell Fiona, he knew it
was the right thing to do, but he also knew he'd be in for an epic
battle. If only he could send a telegram from the boat. Or find some
other way to tell her early enough so that she wouldn't worry about his
absence, but late enough so that she couldn't stop him.

He felt a tug at the back of his anorak. Willa was pulling it straight, smoothing it across his shoulders.

"You need a smaller size," she said.

Seamie snorted. "Do not."

"You do. It's meant to be worn with some room, not too much."

"How do you know?"

"She's in here every week," Albie said. "Hanging her nose over tents and rucksacks."

Seamie watched her as she adjusted his sleeves. Their eyes met in the mirror.

"You have to tell her. You know you do. It's cruel not to. You'll
feel terri-ble," she said. Willa was right, but her being right didn't
make his task any easier. Looking at her, he suddenly had a brainstorm.

"No, I won't feel terrible. Because I'm not going to tell her," he said. "You are, Wills."

"I'm not!"

"Please, Willa. You have to. Fiona likes you. Always has. She'll take
the news better coming from you than she would from Albie."

"Forget it, mate. Don't even think about me doing it," Albie said.

"I'm going up to Dundee with Shackleton next month. After Christmas.
We're going to look at the ship. It's being built especially for the
expedition. All you have to do is wait until I'm gone, then go and tell
her."

"She'll twig pretty quick that I was in on it," Willa said. "Puts me in a bit of a bad spot."

"I know. I know it does. And I'm sorry. But it's better that way."

"For you."

Seamie winced. "Yeah, I guess so. But for her, too. It would be so
much better than her finding out from a letter. Or a telegram."

"Oh, Seamie. You wouldn't tell her by telegram, would you?"

"Only if there was no other way. Please, Wills. Do this for me."

Willa deliberated and Seamie waited, knowing better than to push her. She was her own girl.

"All right, then, I'll do it," she finally said. "On one condition."

"Anything."

"You do the same for me one day. When I go to Everest, you tell my mum."

Seamie smirked. He opened his mouth, ready to tease her, to tell her
that was one condition he'd never have to meet, but the look on her face
stopped him cold. She was serious. She meant it. Her green eyes held
his fast, and looking into them, he had the sudden, unsettling feeling
that he was seeing himself--his fearlessness, his adventurous spirit,
his own rest-less, questing soul.

"All right, then," he said. "It's a deal."

Seamie turned back to his reflection. He stood tall, puffed his chest
out, and adjusted his trousers. He heard laughter. Willa was still
looking at him, her eyes merry and challenging now.

"Better stop preening and start packing, kitchen boy," she said. "If
you don't take the South Pole, I will. Just as soon as I finish with
Everest."

"Frankie?"

"Aye, Des?"

"There's a bloke here wants to speak with Sid. Says he's the new MP."

"Has he got the prime minister with him?"

"He ain't joking. Says either he sees Sid right now or he's coming
back tonight with two dozen rozzers and taking the place apart."

Frankie looked up from his cards to Oz, seated across from him, then to Desi.

"The fucking cheek. I'm sick of this. Who is this tosser? Tell him to come over here so I can kick his arse for him."

Desi motioned for Joe. He approached the table and said, "Are you Frank Betts?"

"What's that to you?"

"My name's Joe Bristow. I want to see Sid Malone."