Rowan nods, understandingly, adding Rosie’s husband to his mental list of people in dire need of a punch in the face.
Rosie deflates a little, putting Otto down on the floor and dreamily hanging him a lethally-sharp paintbrush and a water bill to scribble on. “It has been a bit of a nuisance, her being away this long without any warning,” says Rosie, looking genuinely pained for having spoken such a cruel thing. “I’m so pleased that she’s got the new lease of life and everything but she’s literally just toddled off without organising anything.” She pulls a face. “Sorry, she’s your friend …,”
Rowan laughs. “There are always casualties on the road to peace,” he says, philosophically.
“Even inner peace?” smiles Rosie. “I think it’s great she’s out of her slump, I really do, but I was there for her through a lot of things and now I’m here signing for parcels and turning away clients and talking to bailiffs because she’s in such a zen-like state she can’t be arsed to renew a Direct Debit.”
Rowan licks his lips. “Has it been that bad? How long has she been gone now?”
March,” she says, immediately. “I know that, because that was when we agreed to split the price of the central heating oil. She paid me in cash the first time but the last quarters have gone by and it’s getting expensive, paying for two lots. My husband is getting very irate.”
Rowan winces. On the floor, Otto sucks the tips of the paintbrush, his tongue turning slowly blue.
“I can’t wait to ask her about it,” says Rosie, happy again. She looks like she’s fighting the urge to clap her hands together. “She must have seen so many things. Felt so many things. Hopefully they’ve perked her back up”
“I did notice she’d been down,” says Rowan, vaguely, playing along.
“Well, you’ll have seen from Facebook, of course. Always the life and soul, always ready for Prosecco and Ladies Day at the Races. She was terrific when we moved in, before Otto came along. She was so friendly. Of course, she’s seen plenty come and go. We’re her eighth neighbours, she told me that on day one. But she’d made us this hamper with local products, local cheeses and crackers and jam and chutneys and stuff …,”
“Kendal Mint cake?” asks Rowan.
“Of course,” grins Rosie. She turns it inwards, smiling at a memory. “She and my husband never exactly going to become friends, I think that’s fair to say.”
“Dispute over a boundary line, is it?”
“In one way, yeah,” says Rosie, lowering her voice. “He thinks she’s a bad influence. Doesn’t let her in the house, though if he sees a way to save a few quid he’d make a pact with a Hell-beast.
“What’s happening with her post?” asks Rowan, nonchalantly. “I could sort it for you, if you ike. Get it to her and let her sort her own stuff out for a change.”
Rosie blinks, trying to look cheerful again. “Eve’s got most of it,” she says. “Do you know Eve? Older lady? Bit scary?”
Rowan nods. “Eve Cater,” he says. “They’re still in touch?”
“Well, you go through a thing like that I’d imagine it bonds you,” says Rosie, passing a pot of glue and a teaspoon down to her son, who has now taken on a distinctly Braveheart appearance.
“She’s spoken to you about it?” asks Rowan.
Rosie nods. “As much as she could, anyway.”
“As she could?”
“Well, obviously she doesn’t know what happened,” explains Rosie, and Rowan does his best impression of an idiot who’s just caught up. “That’s the big problem, isn’t it? I mean, people talk when they’ve had a few drinks and there was a brief period when she was over here most weeknights, helping me work through the alphabet of cocktails. And yeah, she mentioned it.”
“The abduction?” asks Rowan, playing the odds.
“Well she didn’t just blurt it out,” says Rosie, bringing him a mug of strong, dark tea. “There’s no sugar, by the way. Sorry. And yeah, she was telling me about how long she’s been here. I mean, it’s nearly 25 years so she had loads of interesting stuff to tell us about, and of course I remarked about how well she’d done to have such a lovely place when she must have been no more than 20, and she was smiling because I’d got the sums a bit wrong, but not by much. She said she came into some money – an inheritance. Bought her dream house and my goodness she’s done a wonderful job on it over the years. Some of those curtains cost more than my car.” She squeezes her face into an amazed smile at the thought of it. “Can’t be bad, eh? I tell you, if I suddenly inherited some dosh I’d buy me and Otto a big campervan and just take off, I really would.”
Rowan, resisting an urge to ask the current value of her husband’s life insurance policy, tries to keep his questions casual. He’s warming up. Feeling better. He sips his tea and nods appreciatively. ‘Thanks’, he adds, when it occurs to him she might not have heard the word for some time.
“Tickety-Boo” she says, proudly, as she tries to claw back her status as a progressive. “It’s Fairtrade.”
“I suppose that’s what makes it extra strange,” says Rowan, chewing his lip. “She loves the house, like you said. Leaving it to the elements and the bailiffs seems heartless.”
“I’ve said the same to my husband,” nods Rosie. She looks at Otto and his blue-streaked face. Nods, in approval. “I’ve been getting very concerned, if I’m honest. She answers like, one text in every five, and even then it’s hardly anything more than a few words. And with not being on Facebook I’ve only got what I heard third hand for proof that she’s even alive!” She raises her hands to her mouth, trying to return her fears to the place within her.
“What makes you say that?” asks Rowan, trying to show he takes her seriously.
“Well like you say,” mutters Rosie, over the edge of her mug. “I mean, she’s not short of money and owns the house outright so the only reason a bailiff would be round is if she’d forgotten to pay council tax or a car rental or something. And why would she do that? Even if she has found enlightenment it wouldn’t take a second to sort that out, would it? And the gutters needed doing in September and I got our guy to do it because I know she has it done every year, but …,” she stops herself. Looks at him intensely. “Van I tell you something?”
“Please do.”
“Look, it wasn’t my business, my husband’s right, but I couldn’t help poking around. I mean, over a few Proseccos she’d given me what she knew, and that wasn’t much. Whatever he gave them, it’s turned their memories to mush about what happened.”
“What he gave them?”
“The busker,” she says. “I mean, that’s all she remembers now, isn’t it? A few snapshots of these ripped-up memories. Something about dreadlocks and bare feet and a half a memory about smoking Bible pages as cigarettes, it’s all just gone. She said she’d been okay with that for a long time. And then of course she started wondering, and then really wondering, and she’d always been a bit of a hippy in her beliefs, hadn’t she? All that stuff about not being able to move forward while carrying baggage. That’s what this became. She wanted to know – for better or worse. And then it became about the other one.”
“Catherine?” asks Rowan, keeping up.
“No, Freya. The other one. After it all happened they didn’t get to see her again. The police made it clear, she was okay, she’d gone to be with family, it was all okay. I guess as she’s got older and wiser she’s started questioning that. She wanted to find her. Find this Freya.”
“So you helped?” asks Rowan.
“It wasn’t hard,” she protests. “I just went on a couple of forums. Websites helping people recover lost connections. All that ‘hello, I’m looking for the nanny who raised me in 1943’ stuff. I said I was looking to find Freya Grey, who’d been a pupil at her school and who I would love to make contact with. And of course I signed it as Violet, why wouldn’t I? So the next thing Violet gets a friend request from Freya – surname now Morgan.”