At the Break of Day (44 page)

‘Come for Christmas,’ she said. ‘For lunch. You mustn’t be alone. No one should be alone.’

She stood now, keeping the glass in her hand. She walked to the door, took the coat off the hook and gave it to Joe, because the pain was beginning and it was hard to breathe. So hard to breathe.

He left, walking softly down the stairs.

She called, ‘There can be no mistake?’

He stopped and turned. ‘No, Rosie, no mistake. I can vouch for that.’ And what did it matter, he thought, as he moved down the stairs, what did it matter if he had lied. That man didn’t deserve her. She was far more suited to him.

The Christmas meal was held in Mario’s flat. Mrs Orsini drank sweet sherry and gave some to Rosie because the older woman had heard the news. They pulled homemade crackers and Joe gave her a gold watch and she smiled, felt its coolness against her skin, felt his fingers as he did up the catch. She held it up to the light.

‘Luke will be pleased,’ she murmured. ‘Thanks, Joe.’ She wished that Luke and Sandy were here.

She heard her voice from a distance, saw his smile. She gave Lucia Grandpa’s nailer’s penny, hung now on a silver chain. She pulled her cracker, ate turkey, ate Christmas pudding, found silver sixpences, fed Lucia, sat by the fire, listened to the King’s speech but was dying inside.

Joe came the next day and the next and the next, helping, talking, comforting. He played with Lucia who laughed and held her hands out to him. He took the baby to the park, then hoovered the flat for Rosie, typing out his copy, talking to her about her writing, about the Cougars, about the tennis courts at the lake, about Frank and Nancy, about a world which did not include Jack.

She worked in the café, she played with Lucia, she wrote a letter of thanks to Frank and Nancy and on New Year’s Eve she stayed up until midnight in the Orsinis’ flat and Joe clicked his glass against hers when the clock struck twelve.

‘Happy 1952,’ he said, and smiled and both their gold watches glinted in the light from the Orsinis’ lamps but Rosie wanted her own lamps, her own fire, and could bear all this no longer. She ran from them, taking Lucia, running up the stairs, laying her child down in her cot, stroking the hair that was Jack’s, kissing the smile that was his too.

Now the pain broke and she stood at the window, hearing the music. And she cried, great racking sobs, because he wouldn’t be in her life again, but how could he not be? He was part of her. His memories were hers. They had swung on the rope tied to the lamppost together. They had smelt the hops, they had stolen the cheeses. How could he do this?

Then she felt terrible rage, searing violent rage. He had shared her life, hated her, loved her, thrust himself into her, torn her, taken her in his confusion and now he had forgotten her and all their years together. Goddamn you, Jack. I hate you, I hate you.

She leaned against the window and hated him, loved him, wanted him, wanted Nancy, wanted the comfort of arms about her. And then Joe came. He held her, his arms were strong, and they had memories too. The lake was there as he soothed and stroked. The lake and the sun and the long sloping lawns where she had known peace and love. Where everything had been so much easier.

He carried her to the bed, he undressed her and undressed himself and she clung to him because he was part of Frank and Nancy’s world. He was kind, he was here, he wanted her. Jack didn’t. His hands had found someone else’s body; his mouth, someone else’s mouth.

But Joe was too fast for her, and it was as if they were at the barbecue by the lake again with his lips on her breasts, his hands on her body. She knew she only wanted comfort, nothing more than that, but what did it matter? What did any of it matter? She shut her mind to the face which loomed over her, to the body too close, too heavy. The body which wasn’t Jack’s and which was entering her, filling her, and now she held him, because passion of a sort was sweeping her too. Passion born of anger, of pain.

In the morning they walked Lucia in her pram across the frost-hardened grass, carving out patterns on the ground. Her hand was warm in his, her lips too, from the kiss he gave her, and it was good not to be alone. But Jack was still everywhere and her love for him was too, and her anger and her pain.

But as the weeks wore on and Joe was seconded to a Fleet Street paper it became easy to be with him. He laughed, he joked, he tossed Lucia in the air and took her back to the time she had shared with Frank and Nancy.

At night she forced herself not to think of Jack as Joe kissed her and held her, because Jack had held another, he loved another. The waiting was over. Their love was over.

But she dreamed of him. Each night she dreamed of him and woke up crying, wanting to clutch at the image, wanting to shake it, hurt it, as she was hurting.

In February the King died and Frank wrote asking for a feature from each of them. Separate ones please, he said, which Rosie thought was strange, because how else would they do it? She left Mario to take any messages and wrote about the black armbands the children were wearing, the adults were wearing, she was wearing. She wrote of the simple oak casket which was moved from Westminster Hall to St George’s Chapel. She wrote of the thousands of subjects who paid their last respects to this man who had brought them through war and peace.

The coffin left Westminster on a gun carriage. Big Ben rang out one beat a minute to mark the fifty-six years of the King’s life and many of the men and women who stood with Rosie wept. And Rosie wept too.

The Household Cavalry, in ceremonial dress, walked in slow time to Paddington station where the royal train was waiting. As the cortège passed Marlborough House, Queen Mary, the King’s mother, stood at the window and bowed her head and the crowd wept again.

Rosie wrote about the woman who turned to her while she was writing and asked who all the words were for. Rosie told her. ‘Tell them we loved him,’ the woman said.

Joe was covering the story at the Windsor end and when he arrived back that evening he hugged her, kissed her, his lips eager, his tongue searching her mouth. His nose was cold from the frost-full air, and so were his hands as he slipped them beneath her shirt. She laughed and kissed his neck and felt his hands become warm as they stroked her back, her breasts.

‘You had a good day then,’ she murmured, glad that someone was coming home to her each day, glad that she was becoming used to it, welcoming it, wanting Jack to know that she was not alone either.

Joe kissed her forehead, tucking her shirt back in, moving away, laughing.

‘I sure did, so let’s have your notes, I’ll put this together and then we have the evening left for better things.’ He laughed again and reached forward, rubbing his finger around her mouth.

Rosie smiled. It was good to be wanted at last. ‘No. I’ll write mine. You write yours. That’s what Frank asked for.’

She moved to Grandpa’s chair and began to write. Joe came towards her. ‘Oh, come on, Rosie. Let’s put it into one. It’ll make a better feature. Won’t take me a minute.’

But she refused because George VI had been
her
king, not his.

‘Perhaps you should write about the return of the Duke of Windsor for his brother’s funeral. That might appeal to the Americans,’ she said, wanting to soften her refusal.

‘Trying to teach me my job?’ His voice was cold.

Lucia called out from the bedroom Rosie had made for her out of the boxroom. She moved towards the door. She didn’t want this row. She didn’t want any rows. There had been enough struggle already, hadn’t there?

‘No, you know your job. I know mine.’ She didn’t want to talk about this any more. She was too tired.

‘I still think it would make a better feature. We’ll split the fee.’

Rosie stopped. ‘Look, Joe. It’s not the goddamn money. I don’t need the money so much any more. It’s just that I have something I want to say from the British point of view. You wouldn’t understand.’

Joe moved towards her, pulling her back towards the chairs. ‘Oh, come on. I don’t give up easy. Let’s talk this over.’

‘I’ve told you. No.’ Rosie pulled away. He had hurt her wrist. Her watch had dug into her skin. She rubbed it and returned to the door. Now she was angry. ‘Goddamn no.’ She was shouting. Lucia cried.

Joe left her then, picking up his mac, thudding down the stairs, pushing aside Lucia’s pram, scoring the hall wall, and by the time he returned she had finished her feature and posted it. He was drunk. He was sorry. So was she, because he was a good man, a kind man.

Joe knelt by Grandpa’s chair and kissed her and she kissed him back because he had soothed her, comforted her, and there was some sort of caring growing inside her for him, though she didn’t know how much.

February grew colder and Rosie pulled the blankets up around Lucia’s shoulders when they went out. Lucia was sitting up now, pulling herself forward, pointing, her nose red in the cold. Joe never again drank as much as he had on the night of the King’s funeral. Instead he talked of the future, of Frank’s paper, of the need to keep it in the family, of his love for her.

At night his body sought hers and she liked the feel of his hands and his lips and now she stroked him too, held him, kissed him, and the dreams of Jack were not so fierce. But still they came.

Lucia was pulling herself up, using the table, and it was good to share these moments with someone else. But Rosie still read the news about Korea.

Nancy wrote to say that she was sorry, so sorry about Jack, but it didn’t seem like the boy Rosie had loved. Was she sure of her facts?

But Rosie wouldn’t allow herself to think about Jack any more, at least while she was awake. She had been working harder in these last few months than she had ever done before. She took phone calls late into the night and made them too, adding to the stable of bands, moving more and more into the promotion side, enjoying the battles, enjoying the triumphs, pushing away the failures.

Joe didn’t like it. He didn’t like the phone ringing when he was stroking her hair, when he was kissing her mouth. He put on the radio too loud so that she had to strain to hear. But he was so kind and he comforted her, she told herself. He had found out about Jack for her. And it was better than being alone, wasn’t it? And after all he had said he would listen to the band again now that Luke was coming home and send his final report to Bob. Rosie planned a party and Joe helped to lay out the drinks in Mario and Mrs Orsini’s flat, because her own wasn’t big enough. And then Luke was home and the gramophone played Bix Beiderbecke. Luke and Jake kissed her, held her, gave her a package. It was a gold watch.

She took it from the box, held it and couldn’t speak but then Joe came up.

‘Beat you to it, fellers.’ He lifted Rosie’s arm, pulled back her sleeve.

Luke and Jake flushed, then laughed, but Rosie didn’t laugh. She took off Joe’s watch and put it in her bag. She offered her wrist to Luke and he slipped the new one on.

‘I’ll wear one today, one tomorrow,’ Rosie said, knowing that Joe had stiffened. Jack would have waited until he saw whether or not she could cope. But she mustn’t think of him.

She took Joe’s arm, kissed his cheek, led him away, poured him a drink and told him he was handsome, kind, loving. Soon he was laughing again and asking her to book Luke for Mario’s club so that he could hear the group again.

The music was softer now and Luke came and danced with Rosie, holding her. He was familiar and he was safe. She told him that she was sleeping with Joe. She told him that the memory of Jack still hurt so much. He nodded.

‘Don’t rush into anything. Remember what your grandpa said.’

She didn’t rush anywhere. She woke, worked, loved, slept and the days passed, but it always seemed dark. It had seemed dark since Christmas. She was tired. She ached inside. Joe was with her but the loneliness remained.

At the end of March Rosie received a letter from Frank enclosing $50 for the article on the King’s funeral.

Lower Falls
20th March

Dearest Rosie,

Yes, this is what I wanted. All your own work. I didn’t tell you that the paper spiked your feature on the Festival. You copied Joe’s ideas about drawing comparisons between the new ideas and the Nissen huts, the austerity etc. I faced him with it. He’d been having some trouble handling domestic features, you know. He told me he had talked his ideas over with you. That you must have ‘borrowed’ them.

I was sorry you did that but he said things were tough, you might have become confused. I can understand that happening. I’ve done it myself. I was worried about you. You must have been real upset, real tired, but I guess things are better.

I wanted you to know I love you.
Frank

Rosie waited for the day to pass. Waited until Joe came home. She worked, she phoned, she cancelled one booking because the manager of the theatre was known to pass drugs. Her boys were too good for that. She took a taxi to Middle Street. She walked past 15 and 17 down to the rec. The wooden fencing was still up around the bombed houses.

‘Will it ever be finished?’ she murmured into Lucia’s hair, sitting on the swing, hearing her laugh.

She cooked a meal for herself, not for Joe. Not ever again for Joe.

He came in at seven. Lucia was in bed.

Rosie stood by the window. He slung his mac over the arm of the chair, poured a bourbon with his strong tanned hands. His cuff was white against his skin, his teeth white too. His watch golden. He was such a golden boy. He belonged at the Lake Club, not here. He moved towards her, kissed her, put his arm about her.

She handed him the letter, not watching as he read it but knowing when he had finished because he moved away.

For a moment there was silence, and then Joe said, ‘I know what this must look like.’

‘You must go,’ Rosie said, looking at him now. ‘You really must go.’

There was no anger in her voice. Just as there was no anger in it when she was dealing with difficult promoters and managers. That was business. This was business. Nothing else now.

‘I’m not going. I belong with you. I love you. Together we can do things. We can build up the paper. Take over from Frank. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, you know that. Married to you, that’s possible.’ He moved to her now, gripping her arm. ‘We need each other. Jack’s gone. You need me.’