The Last Anniversary

‘It will be lovely and bracing, darling.’ Rose slowly begins to walk towards the water. Her back is milky-white with purple age spots, her spine long and knobbly. Sophie can see the memory of a young girl’s beautiful athletic body in the length of her legs. Rose gets to the same mossy green rock she always chooses and dives straight in with barely a splash, emerging to do a graceful freestyle.

The woman is nearly ninety.

Sighing, Sophie follows. The first heart-stopping shock of the water when she dives in always makes her inwardly scream, ‘NEVER AGAIN! NEVER DO THIS AGAIN!’ She comes up gasping, teeth chattering, flailing about with her nose high above the water, like a puppy. After a few minutes she calms down and remembers why she keeps doing this. The water silky against her skin, the bay gradually becoming brighter and sharper as the sun rises higher in the sky–and the fact that she will still be burning fat for an hour after this swim, so the hot chocolate and egg and bacon pastries she and Rose will have for breakfast will be like eating nothing!

The pastries were originally cooked by Connie. Apparently Rose’s deep freeze is still stacked high with food cooked by Connie. Rose defrosts them each night, heats them up in the oven before their swim and they’re still warm by the time they’re ready to eat. Sophie keeps offering to take a turn at bringing the breakfast, but Rose just laughs as if she’s making a joke. After their swim they wrap up in warm jumpers and beanies and sit on the sand to eat.

‘How was your outing with Connie’s lawyer fellow?’ asks Rose.

‘It was fun, actually.’

‘Do you think he could be Mr Right?’

‘Maybe.’ She wishes she could get that stupid dream out of her mind. Whenever she thinks of Ian she imagines him covered in chickenpox spots. It’s very unfair.

‘Well, don’t rush. You’ve got to hold out for the right one.’

‘I can’t be too fussy. I’m getting on. I’ll end up an–’

Oh, God. She was about to say old maid. And she is talking to an old maid. The thought of hurting sweet, fragile Rose’s feelings makes Sophie feel ill. A blistering blush shoots up her neck. The blush feels hotter and redder than usual on her cold, wet skin.

Fortunately, Rose just keeps looking at the river, steadily sipping her hot chocolate. She says, ‘Connie said I was too fussy. She was always trying to match me up with someone.’

‘And you didn’t like any of them?’ asks Sophie.

‘Not really. I thought I was in love with a fairly nice chap some time in the Sixties. What year was it? I remember Connie was marching in the Vietnam protests. 1966? No, it was 1967. But I went off him after a while. To be honest, I was quite relieved. I was getting set in my ways by then. I didn’t want to be cooking and cleaning for some man. He drowned a few years later. So that was lucky, eh?’

‘Maybe not for him.’

Rose chuckles. ‘No, not for him.’

Sophie has seen black and white photos of Rose when she was a young girl, with long hair, smooth skin and elusive eyes. Is life really so horribly arbitrary that some people just never get around to meeting the right person? Here’s Sophie thinking that her life is a romantic comedy and there’s no way the director will let her finish up alone because the test audiences would hate that. But in fact, it could happen. It could just accidentally, capriciously happen.

‘Of course, I was such a silly, dreamy young girl,’ reflects Rose. ‘One day, I saw this fabric in the window of David Jones and I wanted it so badly. It was crêpe de Chine. A beautiful deep, rich turquoise colour. The same colour as the river on a bright sunny day. I could see the dress I would make. I needed about two and a half yards to make a dress. It was going to cost me two pounds and thirty shillings. That was an awful lot of money. We were doing it very rough. Not like now. We’re very rich now. Did you know we were rich? It’s lovely being rich. I recommend it. And all thanks to Connie. Anyway, the thing was, I couldn’t get that fabric out of my mind. I was quite obsessed with it. I used to dream about it! I had to find a way to make two pounds thirty. And then–oh dear, darling, I’m not meant to be telling you this story until you’re forty, am I? Enigma will be so cross with me. Are you forty?’

‘I’m very nearly forty,’ Sophie says hopefully.

‘Oh sugar!’ says Rose. ‘I can’t tell you any more. Enigma already thinks I’m losing my marbles.’

‘Can you at least tell me if you got the fabric?’ begs Sophie.

Rose smiles. ‘Yes, I did. But I never made the dress.’

‘And this is somehow related to Alice and Jack’s disappearance?’

‘Of course. It’s how it all started. When we take you up to Kingfisher Lookout on your fortieth birthday, Connie will say,

“We’ve got something to tell you about Alice and Jack. It all started with some green material that Rose just had to have.” Green material! It was turquoise crêpe de Chine! Oh dear, but this is terrible. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this! I don’t know what’s come over me lately. I’ve been feeling a little wild. As if I want to break all the rules. I wonder if I’m about to die, like Connie.’

‘You’re a picture of health.’

This is so tempting, thinks Sophie. The solution to the Alice and Jack mystery is right there hovering on the tip of Rose’s tongue. All she needs is the gentlest nudge and Sophie could know it all. But it seems so cruel and thuggish; like capturing a butterfly. Of course, if Veronika was here she’d be tearing its wings off by now.

‘Did you know that Veronika is determined to solve the mystery and write a book about it?’ Sophie warns Rose. ‘She’s even talking about getting some forensic expert to do DNA testing on the blood stains on the kitchen floor.’

‘No need for testing. It’s Connie’s blood. She bled all over the place that day. What a mess. Oh, sugar!’ Rose clamps her hand over her mouth. Her eyes dance. ‘I’m being so naughty today!’

Sophie puts her hands over her ears. ‘I’m not listening to another word you say.’

Rose giggles. ‘Thank you, darling. I appreciate it. Have some more hot chocolate.’

41

Sophie walks towards the ferry wharf to meet Rick the Gorgeous Gardener for their picnic lunch.

She feels quite pretty and appropriate and nowhere near forty. For once she has on exactly the right outfit for the occasion–a striped, subtly sailorish, flattering-to-the-waist top, with crisp white, leg-lengthening pants and flat, stylish, outdoorsy-girl shoes. Her hair is up in a bouncy, breezy ponytail. It’s refreshing to go on a date without her stomach clenching, without trying not to think: Is this it? Is this my chance? Will this change everything? What’s come over her? She doesn’t care less whether Rick likes her or not. There is Ian, after all.