‘Let Rosa have her birthday party in peace. I’m sure I’ll bump into her at some stage. You have fun.’
Didi couldn’t help herself; she took a deep breath. ‘How long are you back for?’
Shay studied her in silence for a couple of seconds and she felt a surge of adrenalin whoosh through her veins. Finally he said, ‘I don’t know, haven’t decided yet. There are things that need to be sorted out.’
Chapter 3
There had to be more dignified ways of concluding your fifty-fifth birthday celebrations, but sometimes the call was just too great to ignore. Having changed out of the yellow sundress she’d worn for the party into a long-sleeved black T-shirt, jeans and ballet flats, Rosa Gallagher left her cottage for the second time that evening and made her way along Barley Lane. It was midnight and pretty quiet by now, but she kept to the shadows just in case, turning left, then right, until she reached the high wall she’d become so well acquainted with over the course of the last two years.
There on the other side of the Cotswold stone was the garden she’d known for far longer than that, and beyond it in the darkness Compton House, her old home, the place she’d loved with all her heart, almost as much as she’d loved Joe.
Pausing on the pavement, she waited for the all-too-familiar wave of sadness to pass whilst mentally gathering herself for the climb. She knew the footholds by now, but there was always that tricky bit over to the left where it was perilously easy to lose your footing.
OK, coast’s clear, over we go.
Up she went, pausing at the top to double-check that all was quiet before swinging both legs over and launching herself into the garden she wasn’t permitted to enter. The trick was to land like a cat, silently and gracefully, and not break an ankle or jar her knees. So far she’d managed not to do this, but she was aware that at her age it was increasingly likely to happen. Either that or the new owners might one day surprise her by acquiring a ferocious snarling guard dog.
Sliding with practised ease behind the garden shed and through the shrubbery, Rosa finally reached Joe’s tree and gave the trunk a hug. Yes, she knew anyone witnessing this would think she’d lost her marbles, but there was no one to see her so sod them, who cared? It wasn’t remotely like hugging Joe, but it still felt like the right thing to do. She’d scattered his ashes around the base of the trunk, and that night it had rained hard, which meant that they had sunk into the earth and been absorbed by the roots of the Japanese maple. In her mind, the essence of Joe was now instilled in the tree he’d planted over twenty years earlier, and being here, touching the branches and the leaves, felt like being close to him.
She seated herself cross-legged on the dry grass and whispered, ‘Hi, darling, I’m here. How’re you doing?’
Joe didn’t reply, of course; he never did. But she felt better just being here, could feel herself relaxing in his imagined presence, and that was good enough. Stroking the rough bark of the tree trunk, Rosa said, ‘I’m fifty-five, can you believe it? You always used to be older than me, and now I’ve overtaken you. It feels so strange.’
In her mind she pictured Joe’s eyes crinkling at the corners as he replied, ‘So does that mean I’m your toy boy now?’ Because this was exactly the kind of thing he would have said if he were able to say it.
‘Oh Joe, is it ever going to get easier? Because I still miss you as much as I ever did. I miss you so much.’
Rosa knew that a lot of people wondered why she would, considering the unholy mess he’d left her in, but there was no way in the world she could have stopped loving him even after the whole sorry story had come spilling out. She’d been lucky enough to spend over a quarter of a century with the absolute love of her life, and that was a damn sight more than most people could say. Meeting Joe Gallagher when she was twenty-one had felt like all her Christmas wishes come true. He’d been a dynamic character who embodied the meaning of the word entrepreneur, a cockney chancer unafraid to take a risk, leaping from one start-up business to the next, endlessly striving for more and often getting it. A string of serendipitous deals had followed their first weeks together and Joe had declared her his lucky charm. Two months later, she’d been stunned to discover she was pregnant, and petrified that Joe would be appalled and instantly do a bunk. But he hadn’t, he’d been over the moon and a hasty register office wedding had been arranged to appease her parents, who’d nevertheless pursed their lips and sourly predicted that the marriage wouldn’t last.
But it had, gloriously and in thrilling, uproarious fashion. Growing up in a silent house, Rosa had always dreamed of meeting the kind of man who’d dance with her in the kitchen, and in Joe she’d found him. He worked and played hard, they danced often, all over their little flat in Bermondsey, and when she gave birth to Layla, their happiness knew no bounds.
Life continued to be perfect, Joe’s various businesses boomed and they moved out of London in order to give Layla the kind of semi-rural upbringing Joe had always planned for his family. Compton House had been owned for decades by an ancient widower who didn’t believe in mod cons, and they’d lived in chaos for eighteen months whilst the property was repaired and renovated around them. The four-storey Georgian villa faced onto the market square, and at the back there was a long garden that Joe had restored himself, planting new trees and nurturing rare plants. Extrovert and endlessly hospitable, he threw huge parties and invited an eclectic mix of friends from London and everyone he liked the look of in Elliscombe. As newcomers, they were nouveau riche and a bit flashy, which meant some locals had been dubious at first, but it hadn’t taken long for Joe and his irresistible charm to win them over.
It was so easy to conjure up the happy memories, here in their old garden. Rosa ran the flat of her hand over the grass beside her; as well as Joe’s ashes, it covered the graves of a dozen or so of their beloved pets, sadly lost over the years. Albie the Cairn terrier, Jennifer the nervous whippet, Beano and Biggie the cats, as well as various rabbits and guinea pigs belonging to Layla and a tame magpie called Gerald who’d met a sticky end thanks to the combined stalking skills of Beano and Biggie, and whom Layla had insisted be buried with honours because they couldn’t just put him in a bin; magpies deserved proper funerals too.
Smiling now, Rosa recalled the burial service. Layla, aged seven at the time, had made them gather around the grave and sing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ before reading aloud a poem she’d composed herself that went:
Gerald, you were my favourite magpie
How I loved the way you looked at me with your beady eye
I really hope you didn’t cry
When Beano and Biggie catched you and made you die.
Rosa hadn’t dared to glance across at Joe, who’d been standing next to her with his hands clasped before him, his lips pressed tight together as silent tears of mirth rolled down his cheeks. Layla had finished the poem with a reverent ‘Rest in peace, Gerald. Amen.’ Then she’d turned to look at her father and said consolingly, ‘Daddy, don’t cry, he’s in heaven now.’
Oh goodness, such memories. Rosa found herself having to squeeze her own eyes shut; she mustn’t cry either. Today had been a good day; the little party this evening at the hotel had been lovely and so many kind people had given her flowers that she’d had to borrow two extra vases from her neighbour. There’d barely been enough room for them all in the cottage.