Rosie (16 page)

On top of that she wasn’t even grateful. And Edith suspected the girl was laughing at her silently.

‘I thought I’d drop Miss Pemberton a line tomorrow and suggest she finds another place for you.’

Rosie looked at Mrs Bentley, wondering what she’d done wrong. Her eyes began to well up. It wasn’t that she wanted to stay here, just the injustice of it. She tried to bite back the tears, but they came anyway, first one slipped out, then another and suddenly she was sobbing.

Edith Bentley had prepared herself for some cheek, so she was astounded to see tears instead. ‘Come now, my dear,’ she said, unsure of what to do or say. ‘You knew this home was only a temporary measure.’

‘But I thought I was to stay here until after the trial,’ Rosie sobbed. ‘I thought you were satisfied with me too.’

‘Now, Edith, let’s not be hasty,’ Mr Bentley said.

Rosie was so surprised to hear Mr Bentley speak, her mouth fell open and she swung round to look at him. He looked more animated than usual, a pink tinge to his parchment-like complexion and his eyes glittered.

‘Rosie is a great help to us,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I see absolutely no reason to send her away now just as she’s beginning to settle in.’

After Mr Bentley spoke, Rosie was sent out of the dining-room, so she didn’t hear what passed between the couple. But some time later Mrs Bentley came down to the kitchen with the tray of tea things, and for once she didn’t have much to say for herself.

‘We’ve decided you shall stay here, for the time being at least,’ she said quickly, as if anxious to say her piece and be gone. She had a pinched mouth as if she didn’t actually approve of this decision. ‘So you’d better pull your socks up if you don’t want me to regret it.’

Rosie didn’t know why she hugged Mrs Bentley. She wasn’t in the habit of hugging people, and the woman hadn’t really said anything nice enough to warrant it. But it seemed to be the right thing to do. Mrs Bentley didn’t exactly respond; Rosie might just as well have hugged a post box, they were both equally rigid. But she did get her head patted, and that was an improvement on yet another lecture.

Although the first three weeks in Kingsdown Parade had seemed endless, the rest of the summer flew by. There were even times on sunny days when Rosie was content to be there. Mrs Bentley was heavily involved in organizing a fête to be held at St Matthew’s at the end of August, so she was out a good deal of the time. Without anyone breathing down her neck, Rosie flew through the daily chores and most days she found enough time before lunch to do an hour or so of weeding out in the garden, and still more in the afternoon.

She knew she would never grow to like Mrs Bentley, but she adored her garden. As the house was built on a hill and the garden sloped steeply towards the town, it could easily have ended up a wasteland like others further along the road. But someone at some time had planned and laid out the series of terraces with great care. Rockery plants tumbled over the retaining walls, the strips of lawn between terraces were lush and soft. High stone walls around the entire garden gave it shelter and privacy, and there were many lovely trees. To Rosie though, one of its main attractions was that you couldn’t see it all from the house: there were rose-covered arches, dozens of different flowering shrubs, and perennial flowers which could only be seen when wandering right down to the bottom. But the Bentleys didn’t appear to care much for it. Mr Bentley mowed the lawns religiously, but weeds had hidden many of the smaller plants.

Rosie had always had an instinctive knowledge about plants and her first attempts to tidy this garden up were tentative. A clump of weeds pulled up here, a little thinning out of plants which needed more room. But as she saw the improvement, and the Bentleys didn’t appear to notice, so she became bolder. In the evenings she often buried herself in one of the many gardening books she found in the house, learning about flowers she hadn’t come across until now. She began to think of the garden as hers, and took it upon herself to do more.

Working in the garden, she could forget her father and Seth were only a few miles away in Bristol prison. She found that the small voice which kept suggesting she must admit all she knew about Seth to someone didn’t speak to her out here. Even thoughts of Alan were just tender memories rather than anxious ones. She liked to feel the soil in her fingers, to see things flourish under her care. The warm sun on her back, the smell of roses, pinks and freshly cut grass, and the beauty of the trees and flowers, erased some of the more ugly images in her mind.

Her feeling of contentment was helped by Thomas writing to her every week. She felt less isolated, more optimistic knowing he cared enough to sit down every Sunday afternoon to write to her. He described Hampstead, the part of London where he lived, so well, she could almost see the quaint little shops, the steep High Street which went up to the heath and the cottages with pretty gardens. He sometimes described the people who came into the clock repairers, picking on the snootiest ones as if he knew she’d laugh about them.

She thought he must be lonely, and wondered if it was because of his missing leg that he hadn’t got married. He had been to see Alan again, and although he said Alan had been away for a week’s holiday in Cornwall with his foster parents and their children, and that he’d seen the boy’s new school uniform, Rosie had a feeling Thomas hadn’t made much headway with him.

Rosie wrote back each week too. She told him about the garden, and books she’d read, and new things she’d learned to cook. Often she felt like complaining about Mrs Bentley’s harshness, sometimes she wanted to ridicule the woman, but she stopped herself. Thomas wouldn’t want to hear such things. Besides, Mrs Bentley wasn’t all bad, she was growing quite kindly at times, allowing her to make cakes all on her own and helping her make a dress for herself in the evenings on her treadle machine. As for Mr Bentley, Rosie had no complaints there; in his quiet way he seemed to like her. He often brought her home the
Reader’s Digest
or
National Geographic
because he saw that her reading tastes stretched beyond women’s magazines. He even fixed her up a bedside lamp in her room so she could read in bed. The days just drifted by pleasantly; even the newspapers had run out of anything further to say about her father.

If it wasn’t for Miss Pemberton’s fortnightly visits, Rosie might almost have been able to believe she was in Kings-down to stay. But the social worker brought reality with her on her visits, reminding Rosie that she was no longer a child and soon she would have to fend for herself in the outside world.

On one visit she said she felt Rosie should think about her future and produced career leaflets which ranged from jobs in offices to joining the women’s army, and asked her to read them all and see if any of them appealed to her.

On another visit she explained the facts of life, in detail, unperturbed by Rosie’s embarrassment, and seemed concerned to discover she hadn’t yet had a period. In these visits they had never yet talked about Cole or her brothers. Rosie didn’t bring up the subject because she was too ashamed to, and Miss Pemberton didn’t mention what she knew because she felt the child was happier in ignorance.

It wasn’t until a visit in the middle of August, nine weeks after Rosie’s arrival, that Miss Pemberton felt the necessity to speak of them. She knew the date for the trial would be set any day now.

They were in the kitchen, Rosie cleaning the silver. Outside it was pouring with rain as it had been for several days. Over a cup of tea they discussed the awful flooding in Devon. Just that morning Rosie had read in the newspaper that thirty-one people had been killed in Lynmouth. She asked the social worker how things were on the Somerset Levels.

‘Very bad. Lots of fields are flooded,’ Miss Pemberton replied. ‘People living by the River Parrett have a foot or two of water in their cottages.’

Rosie was just about to launch into an account of one family she knew who got flooded out most winters and merely moved upstairs after Christmas in anticipation, when she sensed the older woman had something on her mind.

‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked.

Miss Pemberton folded her arms on the kitchen table and cleared her throat. ‘Not wrong exactly. I just have something I must discuss with you. You see, I went to see your father in prison a few days ago.’ She paused, looking a little flustered. ‘I thought it was essential that someone acted as a go-between. I’m sure there are things you both wish to say to one another.’

A cold chill went down Rosie’s spine. She sensed that what Miss Pemberton wanted to add was ‘before he’s hanged’.

‘I haven’t got anything to say to him.’ Rosie couldn’t even bear to call him ‘Dad’. ‘I try to forget him.’

‘I think you do have things to say to him,’ Miss Pemberton said gently but firmly. ‘He is your father!’

Rosie said nothing.

‘I think that if you don’t, you might regret it in years to come. We both know that he is almost certain to be found guilty at his trial. And we both know all too well what that means.’

Rosie gulped. She knew exactly what that meant. A rope around his neck and a long drop. ‘What did he say about me?’

‘He said he loved you. That he wished he’d done better for you. He said to say how sorry he was about hitting you that day.’

‘He’s just a murderer to me,’ Rosie said stubbornly. ‘I wouldn’t care if he was ill, mad or turning green. I just hate him.’

Violet Pemberton looked at Rosie and felt desperately sorry for the girl. There was something upright, strong and bright about her. She’d come to this house under the worst of circumstances, yet she’d actually made the best of things. Her diction had improved, she always looked clean and tidy with well-brushed hair, she enjoyed learning new skills. Violet didn’t subscribe to the idea that character traits were all inborn, but believed much was learned by example and upbringing. As Rosie’s mother disappeared when the child was only six, she could hardly have been much of an influence. So it stood to reason that Cole Parker had to be responsible, at least in part.

In her time as a social worker she’d visited several men in prison to discuss their families with them. In the main they had been some of life’s weasels, unpleasant, shady characters who were so inadequate she felt little compassion for them. But Cole Parker wasn’t a weasel, he was a big powerful man who even in a prison uniform had managed to look dignified and proud. He looked her right in the eye as he was speaking, he hadn’t once lapsed into self-pity. He confessed that his relationship with Heather had fallen apart before Alan was born because he had reason to believe the child wasn’t his. Yet he said he was ashamed that he hadn’t found it in his heart to love the boy as his own. And somehow this man, for all his many faults had managed to pass on to his daughter his finer qualities. Courage, determination and pride. She found herself moved by that.

‘Well, you just think over what I’ve said.’ She gave Rosie a pat on the hand. ‘I’m not suggesting you go to visit him, prisons are no place for young girls, but maybe you might like to write to him.’

Herbert Bentley came home early from work on the 1st of September. Miss Pemberton had telephoned him at his office with the latest news about Cole Parker just as he got back from lunch. Knowing his wife would be out for the afternoon with one of her church committees, he thought it best to go home and take the opportunity to talk to Rosie himself. He didn’t quite trust his wife to be diplomatic.

Herbert wasn’t quite the little mouse that his wife’s friends and acquaintances took him for. He just bowed to her dominance because it was easier than confrontation. If his marriage was cold, empty and unsatisfying, his printing business more than made up for it. He was in charge there, looked up to by his staff whom he considered more friends than employees. He made a decent living, he kept others in work, he enjoyed it and he’d long since realized that he was luckier than most men.

He let himself into the house with his key and stood in the hall listening for a moment. The house was silent and he thought perhaps he’d come on a fool’s errand and Rosie had gone out to look in the shops.

Walking into the sitting-room, he dumped his briefcase on a chair and took off his jacket. It was hot again; it looked as if an Indian summer was on its way. He went over to the windows to open them, but stopped short as he saw Rosie below in the garden. She was on her hands and knees, planting out something in one of the beds.

Standing back a little by the curtain so Rosie wouldn’t spot him if she looked up, he watched her for a while. She was kneeling down, tenderly placing the plants in a way he could remember doing himself once, before Edith’s griping had driven him to spending more time in the print room. Rosie had proved to be worth helping; she was a brave little thing and as bright as a button. Anyone who could tolerate Edith’s constant criticism and learn so quickly deserved a medal.

Her hair looked like burnished copper coils today in the sunshine. Such pretty hair – it was a good job he’d stopped Edith from cutting it short as she’d once suggested. He wished now that he hadn’t rushed home. She looked so happy and what he had to tell her was going to ruin that.

Rosie jumped guiltily to her feet as he came out through the kitchen to the garden. ‘Hullo, Mr Bentley, er, um, would you like some tea?’ she said falteringly. He never came home at this time of day and she was embarrassed to be caught unawares.

‘I’ll make some for both of us,’ he said with a shy smile. ‘You get back to the plants. I was wondering who the good fairy was that had been looking after them for me.’

Rosie was now stunned because Mr Bentley had said a whole sentence and offered to make
her
tea. She knew too she really should have asked before touching things in the garden.

Curiously he didn’t seem cross at all. In fact he seemed pleased. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first,’ she said, hopping nervously from one foot to the other. ‘I should, I know, but I couldn’t bear to see so many weeds.’

Ten minutes later Mr Bentley came back down the garden with two mugs of tea. Rosie looked askance at them. She’d been told by Mrs Bentley you should only ever give a mug to a tradesman.