Chapter Seven
Rosie awoke on Sunday morning feeling unusually stiff, and she sat on the edge of the bed flexing her arms and gently squeezing her hands into a fist. Clearly she was not as fit as she thought she was.
Over a breakfast of tea and toast, she dithered over whether to do some more sorting out now she’d taken the first step and dealt with the Beatles memorabilia, continue with her dressmaking, or get back to her garden.
There was no rain forecast for today, and she was keen to get in the garden while the weather permitted, but she was also conscious that all the time James’ things sat around in the flat, she was struggling to move on.
Even now, she sometimes woke in the morning dying to tell him about a funny dream she’d had, and she had to remind herself that he was no longer here.
She had tried sleeping in the middle of the bed to condition herself, but it was no good; in the morning she always woke curled up on her side of the bed.
Having got rid of the Beatles memorabilia, she now worried she was being a bit too ruthless.
After all, they had been married for eight years and she’d known him for a lot longer so why shouldn’t she want to keep a few of his things?
Then there was his computer that she’d done nothing with.
After James died, she’d sorted out their finances and had got everything transferred into her name, but occasionally in her more daydreamy moments she would imagine herself logging in to James’ computer and uncovering details of a hitherto unknown and unclaimed insurance policy.
The real reason she hadn’t touched his computer was far more pragmatic; in amongst all the humdrum details like the weekly shopping order and the utility bills, there would be dozens of ordinary emails, messages and photos that had formed the warp and weft of their everyday life together; a life which – in the real world – had been dramatically curtailed and now only existed within the confines of a black box.
She wasn’t sure she was ready to revisit that just yet.
In the end, Rosie decided to make a crumble with the blackberries instead.
After lunch she put a portion in a Tupperware pot for Connor, and then pulled on her gardening clothes and headed over to Mickleborough Gardens, taking a detour via the local tip.
Since she had cut back the grass and the foliage, she had a much better idea of what size plot she had, and as she dragged all her gardening equipment through the rear entrance, she pondered over the possibility of getting some sort of tool store.
She wondered what Bob the builder did as he would have a similar problem being in the upstairs flat on the other side of the block.
There was only one way to find out, so after a quick check up at the windows to see if anyone was watching, she grabbed hold of the fence and peered over.
His patch was identical in size and mostly turfed, although there was a paved path that snaked through the plot from the side gate, via a small patio, up to a shady area in the far corner where there stood a playhouse.
It was beautifully made and Rosie gazed at it admiringly.
It was built in the style of a Swiss chalet.
The window at the front was framed by wooden shutters that had heart shapes cut out of the middle, and underneath, a window box.
There was even a small veranda at the front with two child-sized chairs sitting ready.
She hadn’t asked if he had children but Dorothy had mentioned something about children playing in the garden.
She would have loved something like that when she was growing up.
Rosie sighed, picked up her tools and resumed her work on the other side.
There was still more cutting down to do, but today’s plan was to start at the trellis end and properly weed the area.
Last week she had nipped out in her lunch break to the discount store and bought a tray of winter pansies.
They would provide a splash of colour for the colder months and it would be an improvement on green weeds at any rate.
They would have to rely on rainwater though, as Connor didn’t seem the sort to venture out with a watering can.
While she wrestled her weeder into the roots of thistles and other as yet unidentified weeds, she wondered what the fourth resident of Mickleborough Gardens was like.
By a process of elimination, they must live in the ground floor flat underneath Bob, but neither Dorothy nor Bob had referred to them so maybe nobody lived there.
It was the one garden she couldn’t see from her patch, but next time she saw Dorothy, she’d ask her.
Dorothy seemed like the sort of person who knew a lot about what went on locally; in fact she would make Miss Marple look positively disinterested.
After a couple of hours of what felt like hard labour, Rosie stopped for something to eat.
Like the previous day, she had made a sandwich.
She couldn’t see the point of cooking a full Sunday lunch for just her, although when she’d voiced this thought to her mother on the phone last night, she was thoroughly chastised and made to promise to come over for a proper Sunday dinner when she had finished in the garden.
Many women lived on their own, her mother had added pointedly, and they didn’t all sit around feeling miserable and lonely and eating microwave meals for one.
Rosie knew her mother’s no-nonsense approach to life meant you had to dig deep to uncover her sympathetic traits, but for Rosie, cooking Sunday lunch was yet another painful reminder of what she had lost.
James had loved nothing better than a roast dinner with roasted potatoes and all the trimmings, and Rosie had been happy to do it.
She loved cooking when it wasn’t just for her, and James had always been very complimentary.
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach was another favourite saying of her mother’s.
It reminded her that she had a pot of crumble to give to Connor and before she recommenced work in the garden, she brushed off the dried soil from her jeans, then walked back along the little path and up the steps to Connor’s front door.
She rang the bell but there was no response.
She waited for a few moments and then rang again.
In the absence of a response, she put the crumble back in her zip-up lunch bag, and didn’t give Connor another thought until she had finished for the day and started packing up.
It was only four o’clock, but she was now bone weary and was also getting hungry, possibly why she thought of the blackberry crumble again.
She loaded everything else into her car and then poured some water over her hands from a bottle in the car to clean them, before picking up the neighbourly offering to try again.
She clumped carefully up the stairs in her wellington boots and rang the doorbell. After waiting several seconds, Rosie knocked politely on the door and called out, ‘Hello! Anybody home?’ while simultaneously feeling like a nosey neighbour from a 1970s sitcom.
She heard a door open but not the one she was expecting.
‘Anything I can help with?’
Rosie leaned over the railings. ‘Hi, Dorothy. I was hoping Connor was in. I picked his blackberries, you see, so I thought he ought to have a fair share.’ She waved the pot in the air as a fleeting show of evidence.
‘I don’t think he’s in. He went out last night but I didn’t hear him return.
Perhaps he’s gone to visit his brother? Anyway, why don’t you just drop it off for him, I’m sure he’ll be very grateful,’ she continued chattily.
‘His brother, Patrick, owns the flat. He gave me a spare set of keys you see, when the place was empty. I used to go in from time to time to collect the post.’
‘I’m not sure he’d be happy with me doing that because—’
‘Goodness me, you’re doing him a good turn. I’m sure nobody could mind. Wait a tick and I’ll go and get them.’
‘But shouldn’t I just leave this with y—’
Dorothy had already disappeared back indoors, returning a few seconds later with a set of keys on a key ring in the shape of a shamrock.
‘Here you go. You can pop them through my letterbox when you’ve finished.’
Rosie waited for Dorothy to go back inside but annoyingly she seemed to be loitering outside her front door.
Clearly she wasn’t the only nosey person around here.
Anyhow, if Connor wasn’t in, there was no need for her to worry, and it wasn’t as if she was attempting to burgle the place or spy on him, but the thought of him returning and finding her in his kitchen made her feel very jittery.
She carefully inserted the key in the lock and quietly opened the door into the smallest hallway she had ever seen.
A shoe rack sat in the corner and a couple of coats hung from a row of hooks on the wall.
A set of stairs led up to what she guessed must be the main living area, and she tugged off her boots so they didn’t leave footprints on the carpet.
At the top of the stairs was a bright, airy room dominated by a brown leather sofa and a light oak coffee table.
An armchair in matching upholstery sat next to a large window overlooking the gardens.
A couple of storage boxes in a variety of funky designs were piled up in the corner.
As she looked around the room it seemed very minimalist and didn’t tell her much at all about its occupant, but then she hadn’t realised it was Connor’s brother that actually owned the place.