place in my life for a long-lost daughter and I don’t want to make one. There is simply no point, don’t you see?’
‘I didn’t come to find you, you know,’ Rose said after a moment, feeling it was important he knew that, and surprised by the lack of emotion in her own voice, which came out flat and even, the tidal wave of feelings that she had feared suddenly, utterly gone. ‘I came here, to Millthwaite, because of you, sort of. Because of this.’ She held out the postcard of John’s painting, which he squinted at, but did not take. ‘I left my husband, you see. I needed a place to go and this place was the only one I could think of. I had no idea that you were here until I arrived. And it’s taken me two days to decide to come up here to the cottage. And now I’m here, now I’m looking at you …’ She paused, examining his aged face, looking for any trace of the man she’d once worshipped. ‘I agree, I don’t know you. And you certainly don’t know me. And perhaps talking wouldn’t make any difference to you, but I think I found you here for a reason, and I think it would help
me
. And after all is said and done, I think you owe me, don’t you, John? More than you know.’
John looked at her for a moment, a deep furrow carved between his brows, and then he bowed his head, standing where Rose had cornered him. In the weak light it was hard to see him properly, but he seemed to be wearing the same pair of round wire-framed glasses as he had when she’d seen him last. Rose wouldn’t put it past him. He always was a man who liked objects, who kept them around him like talismans. Those glasses had once been his father’s too, her grandfather, whose knee she had once sat on, she dimly recalled from a far-removed childhood memory, in a summer garden full of flowers. Typical that her father would treasure so carefully such an object, and yet cast away his family without a second thought.
‘You can’t stay here,’ he said finally.
‘I don’t want to stay here,’ Rose said, finding herself almost laughing out loud at the absurdity of the situation, John was being so cold, so distant, he was almost like a pantomime villain; all he needed was an audience to hiss his every word. If only she could pinpoint any exact emotion as she stood here, looking at him, some instinctive compass to tell her where to set her course from here, but she felt surprisingly little, besides a need to make him face the past he was obviously so desperate to hide from.
‘And I don’t expect anything. I might have, perhaps, until I saw you. But now, not only do I know that there isn’t going to be a grand reunion, or hugs and tears and love, I’m not at all sure that is what I want either. The only thing I want from you, John, is answers. When you left, you changed my life for ever and I want to know why, and I want you to meet your granddaughter, and find out about me, about the life you left behind. You don’t have to care, you don’t have to love me. I just want you to listen and answer my questions. Which, quite honestly, is the very least you can do.’
Rose wondered at her own coolness, her control. Perhaps Richard had taught her this also; when faced with unbearable pain to simply cut off all emotion, to numb every nerve-ending so that no matter what might happen next, nothing could hurt her.
After several seconds, during which John did not respond, Rose spoke once into the void, emboldened by her self-possession and immunity to his cruelty.
‘Do you mind if I make a cup of tea?’ she said, crossing to the stove, where a battered old kettle sat squat on the hob. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Rose,’ John said quietly, ‘you can’t just turn up here like this. You can’t just foist yourself on me. I’ve told you, I do not want it.’
‘Well, I do.’ Rose stopped, clenching the handle of the kettle, forcing herself to keep her voice low and quiet as decades of angry words she had never had a chance to
‘I didn’t come to find you, you know,’ Rose said after a moment, feeling it was important he knew that, and surprised by the lack of emotion in her own voice, which came out flat and even, the tidal wave of feelings that she had feared suddenly, utterly gone. ‘I came here, to Millthwaite, because of you, sort of. Because of this.’ She held out the postcard of John’s painting, which he squinted at, but did not take. ‘I left my husband, you see. I needed a place to go and this place was the only one I could think of. I had no idea that you were here until I arrived. And it’s taken me two days to decide to come up here to the cottage. And now I’m here, now I’m looking at you …’ She paused, examining his aged face, looking for any trace of the man she’d once worshipped. ‘I agree, I don’t know you. And you certainly don’t know me. And perhaps talking wouldn’t make any difference to you, but I think I found you here for a reason, and I think it would help
me
. And after all is said and done, I think you owe me, don’t you, John? More than you know.’
John looked at her for a moment, a deep furrow carved between his brows, and then he bowed his head, standing where Rose had cornered him. In the weak light it was hard to see him properly, but he seemed to be wearing the same pair of round wire-framed glasses as he had when she’d seen him last. Rose wouldn’t put it past him. He always was a man who liked objects, who kept them around him like talismans. Those glasses had once been his father’s too, her grandfather, whose knee she had once sat on, she dimly recalled from a far-removed childhood memory, in a summer garden full of flowers. Typical that her father would treasure so carefully such an object, and yet cast away his family without a second thought.
‘You can’t stay here,’ he said finally.
‘I don’t want to stay here,’ Rose said, finding herself almost laughing out loud at the absurdity of the situation, John was being so cold, so distant, he was almost like a pantomime villain; all he needed was an audience to hiss his every word. If only she could pinpoint any exact emotion as she stood here, looking at him, some instinctive compass to tell her where to set her course from here, but she felt surprisingly little, besides a need to make him face the past he was obviously so desperate to hide from.
‘And I don’t expect anything. I might have, perhaps, until I saw you. But now, not only do I know that there isn’t going to be a grand reunion, or hugs and tears and love, I’m not at all sure that is what I want either. The only thing I want from you, John, is answers. When you left, you changed my life for ever and I want to know why, and I want you to meet your granddaughter, and find out about me, about the life you left behind. You don’t have to care, you don’t have to love me. I just want you to listen and answer my questions. Which, quite honestly, is the very least you can do.’
Rose wondered at her own coolness, her control. Perhaps Richard had taught her this also; when faced with unbearable pain to simply cut off all emotion, to numb every nerve-ending so that no matter what might happen next, nothing could hurt her.
After several seconds, during which John did not respond, Rose spoke once into the void, emboldened by her self-possession and immunity to his cruelty.
‘Do you mind if I make a cup of tea?’ she said, crossing to the stove, where a battered old kettle sat squat on the hob. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Rose,’ John said quietly, ‘you can’t just turn up here like this. You can’t just foist yourself on me. I’ve told you, I do not want it.’
‘Well, I do.’ Rose stopped, clenching the handle of the kettle, forcing herself to keep her voice low and quiet as decades of angry words she had never had a chance to
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