She nods. ‘I fill my time, to avoid thinking about it. But then I sit in that house, on my own, with no one to talk to, and I just . . .’
I picture Dorothy Fletcher, the previous owner of our house. ‘What about . . . um . . . one of those retirement village thingies?’
Rose shudders. ‘Ghastly.’
I remember I read about the foundations of the bridge we’re standing on, how everyone thought they were solid, but then they found immense vaulted chambers beneath, a huge lost space just sitting there, waiting to be discovered. Taking another long pull, this time I don’t cough. I’m a smoker now.
‘Listen, I’m sorry that you’re feeling lonely, but I don’t think moving in with us is the answer. We’d just annoy you, the house would annoy you, and, putting it mildly, you would annoy us.’ I stub out the fag and chuck it in the nearby bin. ‘But . . .’ I can’t believe I’m about to say this. ‘Why don’t you come visit a bit more? I mean, really visit? Stay with us, hang out with us, take the kids out? You might find your empty silent house is actually quite nice and peaceful when you get back.’
Rose laughs, wiping her cheeks again. ‘Maybe.’ She stares at the smouldering tip of her cigarette. ‘I . . . Your grandfather – my father . . . He was very strict. I wasn’t . . . I didn’t . . .’ She clutches her neck with her free hand, remembering.
‘Grandpa Bill?’ He died when I was little. Thinking hard, I can’t recall much about him except he had a beard and a Volvo he cleaned every Saturday morning.
‘Yes.’ Rose lets out a breath. ‘He’s why Harry is such a mess.’ Uncle Harold, always crying at weddings. ‘He was such a soft child. I was made of sterner stuff. But . . .’ She turns to me, smiling a twisted smile. ‘Father liked things neat, quiet. Girls were girls, boys were boys. It stuck.’
‘I see.’ Poor Rose. Poor Harry.
‘Anyway, no point getting all introspective.’ Rose stubs out her cigarette. ‘But maybe your messy, noisy house would be nice, once in a while.’
‘And in the meantime . . .’ Having a brainwave, I bend towards my bag. ‘Here’s a companion to keep you company in the evenings.’ Reaching in, I carefully lift out Bigwig, smoothing his soft fur and kissing his downy head. His whiskers twitch enquiringly.
‘What on earth is that?’
‘It’s a rabbit. I got it for you. You know, as a pet. It’s not a cat, so you won’t be allergic to it.’ I’m sad to let him go, but he’s going to a better place. Better, at least, than a boiling hot car. ‘I think it’s an English Lop.’ That’s what Danny the taxi driver told me, after googling it on his phone.
‘What will I do with a rabbit?’ Rose is baffled, but reaches out a tentative finger to stroke Bigwig’s long floppy ear.
‘Live with him. Look after him, fuss him, talk to him. Show him the sights of Stroud.’
‘What will people say?’ My mother looks horrified by the prospect.
‘They’ll say: “Oh, there’s Rose Parker and her rabbit. She’s such a character.”’ Leaving no room for argument, I load Bigwig into her arms. To my astonishment, he nuzzles her and settles in the crook of her shoulder. If he was a cat he’d be purring. My mother looks confused for a second, but then her expression clears. She’s obviously picturing herself out and about, bunny in tow, the talk of the town: ‘Yes, it’s an English Lop; from a very old family. A pure pedigree.’
‘I’ll call her . . . Clover,’ she breathes, her face transfixed.
I frown. ‘But . . . I’m called Clover.’
‘Mmm,’ returns my mother absently, gazing at her new offspring dotingly. ‘This Clover will be a true comfort to me.’
‘Right.’ Picking up my much-lighter bag, I give my alter ego rabbit a farewell pat. Rose clutches her jealously. ‘Bring her over to show the kids soon, won’t you? They’d like to meet their new . . . aunt.’
She nods distractedly, busy picking up her bag. ‘I’ll need a cab back to Redcliffe. Can you arrange it?’ Rose’s crown is restored, she’s returning to the palace.
‘Sure.’ I get out my phone, summon an Uber and add one for myself at the same time. To hell with it; I make mine a Lux. Mum can slum it.
We have another cigarette while we wait, and by the time the first car approaches I’m heady with nicotine, a full-on fag ash Lil. Maybe this will be my thing now; I can learn French and wear sheath dresses and carry a little dog like Lafayette. Except I hate Lafayette. I miss Bigwig, my emotional support animal, who is now my mother’s daughter substitute. Maybe I could try to summon Barbara the alpaca again, but feel the moment’s passed. There’s always Grizelda, waiting at home with a dead mouse and a flicking tail, but she’s not exactly comforting – more of a fluffy assassin. I need comforting.
The first car pulls up and I help my mother into it, tucking her Visa card back into her purse before I hand it to her. Rose makes herself comfortable in her carriage, and then my own arrives and her eyes narrow in annoyance when she sees it’s a better one. She opens her mouth to complain and suggest we swap.
‘Too late now.’ I slam her door. She lowers the window.
‘What happened to you today, to make you like this?’
I hesitate. ‘Robbie put the forks in the dishwasher the wrong way up. Down. It set me off.’
She nods, satisfied. ‘Count yourself lucky. Your father never even bought me a dishwasher. My hands were red raw.’
‘What a shitbag.’
Rose grins. ‘That Spanish woman is welcome to him.’
‘Olé.’ I pat the roof of the car and step back; she waves her vertical hand twist, and they’re off, back to the Redcliffe penthouse. Then I get into my own car, which is a gleaming Jaguar, and finally I’m on my way home.
45
The driver is a very different beast from Danny. Or maybe I am a different passenger. Taking one look at my face in the rear-view mirror, he switches the radio from Magic to Classic FM.
‘You look like you need something soothing,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m Stanislaw. I’ll leave you be.’
It’s just too much. I begin to sob loudly, much to his distress. ‘There, there,’ he says, doing a three-point turn, taking in my bedraggled hair and wild eyes as he cranes round. ‘Shall I call someone?’
‘Nooooooo,’ I wail. ‘I’m actually quite happeeeeeeheeeee. I just need to . . .’ I give into the paroxysms, relishing the release.
‘Ah,’ he nods. ‘Catharsis.’ He passes me a box of ultra-balm tissues. That’s what you get with a Lux.
Mumbling my thanks, I put my hands over my face to really go for it. It’s pouring out, all the tears, along with the anger and guilt and worry and fear, to the accompaniment of Mozart’s ‘Queen of the Night’ aria. It’s pretty frenetic – the station’s choices aren’t as calming as they might be and Stanislaw discreetly flicks to Radio Four, which is playing the shipping forecast.
‘North-West Malin . . . losing its identity . . . new high expected . . .’
