Page 28 of One More Day
Rose is at the sink wearing yellow Marigolds, quietly scrubbing the pocket of her oil-stained coat when I join her in the kitchen around an hour after Rusty’s grand departure.
We’ve been playing some strange game of cat and mouse since then, with her taking George for a walk even though the heavens had opened with snow, and me playing hideout in the bedroom as if I’d lose some points if we found ourselves in the same room at the same time.
To be honest, I don’t know what I was thinking of, suggesting Rose could stay, but there weren’t too many other options.
Clodagh’s words that keep popping into my head might be right for once. If only I could stop myself from trying to fix everyone else, I just might find a way of fixing myself, which is what I came here for after all.
I’m a sought-after counsellor, I’m a good father, I’m a good friend. But my heart is in tatters, despite my brave front. I need to find a way of accepting the changes that have come my way like a freight train since this time last year. If I’dknown it would be the last Christmas with the most important person in my world, I’d have taken absolutely nothing for granted.
You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone. That’s my motto.
I hear Niall’s voice in my head now, which makes me shiver. I’d mocked him, instantly recognising ‘his’ motto as the lyrics to ‘Big Yellow Taxi’. But Joni knew her stuff, that’s for sure.
Rose is humming gently to herself as she scrubs her coat, which is both endearing and annoying at the same time. She quite simply hasn’t a note in her head.
I cough to try and subtly interrupt.
‘Sorry to disturb you.’
‘Oh hi, Charlie,’ she says without looking my way. ‘I know, I’m a terrible singer, sorry.’
For a split second, I fear I may have expressed my thoughts out loud.
‘I must remember I’ve company,’ she continues, before going back to her scrubbing. ‘It’s usually just me and George all the time, so he’s probably used to it, or else he’s a lot harder of hearing than I’ve realised, but I’ll do my best not to make your ears bleed.’
She seems nice. Light-hearted. Humble even, which makes the sheet of paper I have in my hand feel like overkill now. I’ve spent the best part of the last thirty minutes jotting down some house rules to try and make our unexpected joint stay in this tiny cottage a bit smoother, but now I wonder if there’s really any need.
‘It’s just … well, I’ve jotted a few things down which might help make our time here a bit easier,’ I say, and thankfully she doesn’t look too surprised. Her green eyes are heavy with mascara, her lips are a deep shade of red as usual and she wears an electric-blue cardigan tied around her waist which draws my attention, but within seconds the Marigolds are off and she is looking my way.
She blows her dark fringe away from her eyes. Endearing or annoying? I’m taken aback that I’m no longer sure.
‘Are you a teacher, by any chance?’ she asks, knocking me off my tracks.
‘Why do you ask?’
She shrugs.
‘Just you seem very, very organised. I mean that in a good way. I must confess, I’m not very good at following rules – generally I’m the one who makes them, which naturally means I can break them – so I hope your conditions aren’t too …’
Her tone is light and jokey, but I’ve decided it will be much less complicated if we don’t get too familiar.
I came here to give my mind a break, not to make a new friend with my unexpected housemate. In fact, the last thing I need is to get cosy with a stranger this Christmas, which I’d imagine is the same for Rose too. I’ve a lot of figuring out to do, and I need a lot of head space over the next while.
‘I’m not a teacher and they’re not conditions, just suggestions,’ I reply, determined to keep this swift and to the point. ‘Look, I’m sure you did too, but I wanted to come here to bealonefor Christmas, so the first suggestion I’ve made is that we don’t feel any pressure to be familiar or friendly.’
‘Oh. Of course,’ she says. ‘And yes, likewise. I wanted to be alone too.’
There it is again – that look of deep pain. Her eyes glisten. She looks away. I want to ask if she’s OK but I’ve got to keep my distance. This is not my job. She is not my problem.
‘Good,’ I mumble.
I refer to the page where I’ve written downkeep conversations factual and minimal, and only when required. It seemed a good idea when I was making notes upstairs but now it feels cold and over the top. But anyhow …
‘So, I’m Charlie, you’re Rose,’ I continue, gesturing to each of us as if we’re on some cheesy game show. ‘The dogs are Max and George.’
She raises her eyebrows and nods along.
‘If we have a problem, we contact Rusty or Marion,’ I read, then I look up at her. ‘We don’t need to know anything more than that on a personal level, do we?’
