name,’
I said foolishly.
‘And yours?’ she said. ‘I
know I can’t even begin to thank you for what you did, but at least tell me
your name.’ Her smile lit up the room again with its brightness. ‘Maybe it
should be Lancelot,’ she said, with a touch of mockery. ‘Or maybe Galahad.’
I was not an
accomplished flirt; in fact, I was uniformly dull. I shook my head.
‘No, Holmes. Daniel
Holmes.’ I wrestled with my shyness again for a moment. ‘I’m so glad. I mean …’
‘Rosemary. Please call
me Rosemary.’
‘Rosem … rose …’ I
gave a nervous laugh.
‘And I am feeling
better,’ she continued. ‘Thanks to you, Daniel. How brave you must be, to
tackle the complete unknown like that, to leap in the river after me … And
you don’t know me at all, do you? I could be anyone. Anything.’
‘I don’t care,’ I said,
braver now. ‘You’re marvellous, like a poem—
Her
arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say;
Barefooted came the beggar maid
Before the king
Cophetua.
‘A poet!’ cried
Rosemary, clapping her hands.
‘No, no,’ I blushed. ‘That
was Tennyson.’
She smiled, more sadly
now, it seemed to me. She turned her face away into the sunlight, a rogue sunbeam
lighting up the transparency of one of her irises into a crescent of brightness.
‘I can hardly believe it
now,’ she said softly. ‘That I wanted to die, I mean. But it’s only a reprieve,
you know. One day there will be no Daniel Holmes to save me and make me feel
whole again; there will only be the river, waiting its time. Soon, I’ll have to
leave, and you’ll forget me.
‘Forget you?’ I gasped.
‘Nothing lasts for ever,’
said Rosemary. ‘I had friends, Daniel. I thought they were good friends. But
now, I’m alone, and there is a coldness inside me which can never be melted.
You called me the beggar maid; perhaps I am that, for ever on the fringes of
things, for ever alone.’
‘But—’
‘I have a face,’ said
Rosemary. ‘Was that what you were going to say? A beautiful face? I wish I didn’t!
‘She closed her eyes; the tragic mouth thinned, her fists clenched in her lap.
I longed to touch her, to comfort her, but I did not dare, so inviolate was her
air of tragedy. I will never forget what she made me feel, that passionate rush
of pity and love. I felt the tears spring to my eyes: I make no apologies. She
was a superb actress.
‘My parents were poor,’
she said. ‘I don’t blame them for that, or for wanting me to use my face to
help them. They didn’t understand. They thought that it would be easy, with my
face, to find the kind of husband who could look after me and them, there are
lots of nice young men in Cambridge, they said.’
‘You don’t have to tell
me,’ I said. ‘None of it matters, Rosemary!’
‘I want to tell you,’
she insisted. ‘I want you to know, even if it means you despise me afterwards.
I want you to try and understand. I found a job in a pub.’ She shuddered. ‘It
was hot, and noisy; sometimes I worked very late, and I was afraid to walk home
at night. I lived in a little flat in the town centre; it was too far to go
back to my parents’ house in Peterborough every day. My landlady was suspicious
of me — jealous, perhaps, of my face. Sometimes, men would follow me home. I
never let them in!’
She stared at me, her
lavender eyes intense and passionate.
‘Understand, Daniel, I
never did!’
I nodded. You would have
believed her too.
‘Then, one day, I met,
well, even now, I dare not tell you his name. It doesn’t matter; it may not
even have been his name. He said he was a professor at one of the colleges. He
was handsome, intelligent and, I thought, kind. As soon as he saw me, he said
he fell in love with me, told me that it was wrong for me to be working in that
place, said that all he wanted was to look after me. I was suspicious at first,
but he seemed sincere. He broke down my defences with kindness
I said foolishly.
‘And yours?’ she said. ‘I
know I can’t even begin to thank you for what you did, but at least tell me
your name.’ Her smile lit up the room again with its brightness. ‘Maybe it
should be Lancelot,’ she said, with a touch of mockery. ‘Or maybe Galahad.’
I was not an
accomplished flirt; in fact, I was uniformly dull. I shook my head.
‘No, Holmes. Daniel
Holmes.’ I wrestled with my shyness again for a moment. ‘I’m so glad. I mean …’
‘Rosemary. Please call
me Rosemary.’
‘Rosem … rose …’ I
gave a nervous laugh.
‘And I am feeling
better,’ she continued. ‘Thanks to you, Daniel. How brave you must be, to
tackle the complete unknown like that, to leap in the river after me … And
you don’t know me at all, do you? I could be anyone. Anything.’
‘I don’t care,’ I said,
braver now. ‘You’re marvellous, like a poem—
Her
arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say;
Barefooted came the beggar maid
Before the king
Cophetua.
‘A poet!’ cried
Rosemary, clapping her hands.
‘No, no,’ I blushed. ‘That
was Tennyson.’
She smiled, more sadly
now, it seemed to me. She turned her face away into the sunlight, a rogue sunbeam
lighting up the transparency of one of her irises into a crescent of brightness.
‘I can hardly believe it
now,’ she said softly. ‘That I wanted to die, I mean. But it’s only a reprieve,
you know. One day there will be no Daniel Holmes to save me and make me feel
whole again; there will only be the river, waiting its time. Soon, I’ll have to
leave, and you’ll forget me.
‘Forget you?’ I gasped.
‘Nothing lasts for ever,’
said Rosemary. ‘I had friends, Daniel. I thought they were good friends. But
now, I’m alone, and there is a coldness inside me which can never be melted.
You called me the beggar maid; perhaps I am that, for ever on the fringes of
things, for ever alone.’
‘But—’
‘I have a face,’ said
Rosemary. ‘Was that what you were going to say? A beautiful face? I wish I didn’t!
‘She closed her eyes; the tragic mouth thinned, her fists clenched in her lap.
I longed to touch her, to comfort her, but I did not dare, so inviolate was her
air of tragedy. I will never forget what she made me feel, that passionate rush
of pity and love. I felt the tears spring to my eyes: I make no apologies. She
was a superb actress.
‘My parents were poor,’
she said. ‘I don’t blame them for that, or for wanting me to use my face to
help them. They didn’t understand. They thought that it would be easy, with my
face, to find the kind of husband who could look after me and them, there are
lots of nice young men in Cambridge, they said.’
‘You don’t have to tell
me,’ I said. ‘None of it matters, Rosemary!’
‘I want to tell you,’
she insisted. ‘I want you to know, even if it means you despise me afterwards.
I want you to try and understand. I found a job in a pub.’ She shuddered. ‘It
was hot, and noisy; sometimes I worked very late, and I was afraid to walk home
at night. I lived in a little flat in the town centre; it was too far to go
back to my parents’ house in Peterborough every day. My landlady was suspicious
of me — jealous, perhaps, of my face. Sometimes, men would follow me home. I
never let them in!’
She stared at me, her
lavender eyes intense and passionate.
‘Understand, Daniel, I
never did!’
I nodded. You would have
believed her too.
‘Then, one day, I met,
well, even now, I dare not tell you his name. It doesn’t matter; it may not
even have been his name. He said he was a professor at one of the colleges. He
was handsome, intelligent and, I thought, kind. As soon as he saw me, he said
he fell in love with me, told me that it was wrong for me to be working in that
place, said that all he wanted was to look after me. I was suspicious at first,
but he seemed sincere. He broke down my defences with kindness
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