‘Listen to this, Rosa.’ They sat together on the sea wall, the sun shining on the last days they shared before Guto went away to university. He had made her promise she would come and see him but her father later steadfastly refused to let her leave the flat now that her A level exams were in sight. ‘You’ve got far too much work to do,’ he’d said and Guto had grown resentful of taking the bus to Cardiff and then being forbidden to see her. So Rosa’s father achieved his heart’s delight. He was able to stand in wine bars, an empty glass in his hand, boasting of his daughter who was studying Law at Oxford.
‘Listen to this, Rosa,’ side by side on the sea wall at Penarth, Guto with a book in his hand. ‘It says here that the greatest mystery in the world is that man is mortal and yet greets every day as though he were immortal. That can’t be right,’ he’d said jumping from the wall and holding out his hand, inviting her to follow him. ‘We’re not that important. What do you think is the greatest mystery, lovely Rosamunde?’ He caught her as she slid down onto the beach.
‘A volcano,’ she had replied, ‘the most beautiful, terrifying, wonderful thing on earth.’
He grinned mischievously. ‘Did you know,’ he draped his arm casually across her shoulders, ‘in Nicaragua, to appease the god of fire, only the most beautiful virgins were sacrificed to the boiling lava lake of Masaya Volcano?’ His other arm was catching her across the backs of her knees so that she was powerless to stop him lifting her above the shallow waves. ‘How would you have liked that?’ he asked and then let her drop into the water, standing above her laughing.
It was in the last few minutes before dawn that Rosamunde’s father had stopped breathing. She waited for the returning spasm but this time it had not come again. Afterwards she sat with him for an hour. There had been more tea and, suddenly, there were biscuits. He was exactly as he had always looked but she would not touch him again, afraid that he had already grown colder and that this would be her last memory of him; afraid that, in her subsequent dreams of him, she would reach out and he would be like stone. Across his cheeks, steel grey tips had begun to appear, ‘You need a shave, Dad,’ she said and walked away.
‘It’s not fair!’ she shouted, as she stood in the car park trying to call a taxi. ‘People don’t die at sixty-four.’ In Rosamunde’s hand her mobile phone began to scream. Automatically she answered it, though she recognised the number.
‘Thank Christ, Ros! Where the hell are you?’
‘Cardiff.’
‘Well get the next pony and trap back here immediately, the Bank’s about to go tits up!’ Her angry boss disconnected. A synthetic bubble of water rose and floated vertically over the screen.
She did not go back to London that day but stayed and registered her father’s death. Kieran Shaw, born Dublin, 1943, died Cardiff, 15 September 2008. She signed it, Rosamunde Shaw, daughter, present at the death. When she returned to work her boss had told her how sorry he was to have disturbed her at such a sad time and then he had sobbed dryly for his annual bonus: ‘I earned that money, I deserve it.’ But they both knew that no one was going to step up to the plate and save this moribund bank.
Now, an empty cardboard box on her desk, Rosamunde tried to sweep away the final meal of bread, brie and apple from the crevices in her computer keyboard and then switched off the television. In the end she left the box, taking only the fountain pen her father had given her on the day her mother went. There were no family photographs anyway, only a novel she had half read and no longer cared for. Tomorrow she would put her London house on the market and, once again, take the train from Paddington back to Cardiff. There she would carry her father’s ashes down to Penarth pier, to the exact splinter of wood where, twenty-one years before, on the very day she had left school, she had stood in her summer gingham dress and blazer and thrown her straw hat into the sea. She had watched as it nudged and shrugged across the gentle undulations until she grew tired of waiting for it to drown. It would be different this time. She knew that what was left of her father, sealed in his expensive urn, would not float but be gulped up and sink to the bottom of the bay. Then she would move into his flat, book a ticket to Sicily and, she promised herself, however demanding the climb, she would find the tenacity to make the four-day trek up the volatile slopes of Mount Etna.
Rosamunde and the month of October had settled into her father’s flat when, sitting in a café opposite the travel agent’s, comparing prices in holiday brochures for Italy, she looked up to see Guto’s mother crossing the floor.
‘I read about your father in the local paper. I am so sorry.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied.
‘Would you mind if I told Guto?’ his mother asked.
‘Of course not. How is he?’
He had done well, rising to a senior rank among the civil servants at the Welsh Assembly Government. A respected and trusted translator, he had worked at the UN as well as in Cardiff and London. ‘In London?’ Rosamunde interrupted.
‘He often asks after you,’ Guto’s mother buttoned her coat to leave and then, as if changing her mind, she leant forward over the plastic table. ‘I know he was only a boy but he nearly broke his young heart over you.’
A postcard dropped onto her father’s doormat the following morning. The photograph was of a sandy sweep of bay and the Irish Sea stretching flat out to Cardigan Island. On the back he had written:
Dearest Rosa – Mum has just rung to tell me about your dad. I am so sorry and hope you know that I am thinking of you at this miserable time. Over is the view from my garden. After my divorce came through I decided to buy some land out here. I am now working for the Welsh Pony and Cob Society and am hoping to do some breeding myself in the next year or so. Come anytime – we could walk and ride or just sit by the sea and drink some red wine. My love, as always, Guto.
My inspiration: The inspiration for my story comes from the themes and characters in Persuasion. Beginning with the single image of Louisa Musgrove’s jump from the Cobb at Lyme Regis, I attempted a contemporary retelling of Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth’s experience of separation, maturation and second chance.
THE SCHOOL TRIP
Jacqui Hazell
Stop. I have to stop.
Wheezing like an idiot.
Where’s my inhaler?
My bag’s stuffed: packed lunch, Diet Coke, project folder, mobile, Tampax, I can’t find it. Why can I never find it? They should make them fluorescent.
‘Sorry,’ I’m in the way – doorway to Victory News – better move. Oh, it’s the Jolly Jack Tar – violent dump – thank God it’s shut.
That’s it, there it is.
Okay, breathe out loads. Now puff, and puff again.
Embarrassing and never works fast enough.
Wish I could wait a while, but I have to run, Mr Sole will be doing his nut.
Breathe slowly, or should that be deeply? Be calm. It’s stress-related, according to Mum. She should know seeing as she causes it all.
Okay, Johnsons Shoes, Mothercare, Debenhams, the concrete fountain, Top Shop – wish I could look but I can’t – oh, slow down.
Bag strap is killing me. Nelson’s café and the pound shop – can’t see that nice bloke, must be his day off.
Wait, catch breath, I need to cross.
There’s the coach by the main gate.
It’s the usual English mustard turd of a bus, it matches the school. If you did one of those quizzes like you get in Minx Magazine, you know where you have to match the celebrity to the dog: Paris Hilton and her chihuahua, Sharon Osborne and her pug and Lily Allen and her English bull terrier. Well, the school equivalent would be Portsmouth High for Girls teamed with a gleaming, silver coach with onboard toilet facilities, seatbelts and headrests with inbuilt DVD players and this turd-mobile teamed with my school, Portsmouth City Comp. The dumping ground for hopeless cases and kids whose parents never bothered to fight tooth and nail to get them in anywhere decent.
It’s an eight-storey, 70s bloc
k with a few other flat-roofed buildings branching off at right angles, an eyesore, and to make it worse they’ve painted all the window frames a dark, dismal seaweed green like the crappy uniform. It’s listed of course, but that’s Portsmouth for you, so bombed out during the war, they struggle to find anything worth listing.
I can see Mr Sole beside the bus in his stripy knitwear and slacks.
‘Imperative, Lucy Welch, what does imperative mean?’ He’s shouting at me, going on about the last thing he said the day before. ‘It’s imperative you all get to school on time tomorrow.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m having the worst day.’ Did he hear me wheeze? I’m trying to hide it, but I’m really hot and probably red, not to mention sweaty.
‘You can tell me all about it in detention tomorrow, Lucy.’
Mathew Relf is at the front. He’s holding up his fingers in an ‘L’ shape by his forehead. ‘Loser,’ he says, and Eric Boulter sniggers.
The words ‘Shut it, volcano face’ are on the tip of my tongue when I notice his mum seated opposite, talking to Kelvin’s mum. Both women glance over.
They’re talking about me or more likely my mum, I know it.
‘Find a seat quickly, Lucy, you’ve held us up long enough.’
Megan is already sitting next to Katie. She mouths ‘sorry’ to me and shrugs. I’ve got to sit next to Janine and I haven’t even brought my iPod.
‘All right, Janine,’ I say, sitting down on the brown-flecked upholstery.
‘All right,’ she says, beaming at me, ‘have you heard the new Lady Ga Ga?’
‘Quieten down, everyone,’ says Mr Sole, ‘just a few words before we go. No chewing gum, no mobiles, no fizzy drinks. It’s going to take a good hour to get there then there’ll be a short talk and a tour of the house, followed by lunch and then back to school in time for the bell. Does anyone have any questions?’ Mr Sole looks towards the back of the bus. ‘Yes, Akshat.’
‘I get travel sick.’
A few people moan.
‘I suggest you come forward and sit at the front.’
Akshat moves up the bus, knocking everyone with his oversized sports bag.
‘Cretin,’ says Katie.
The bus moves off with a shudder and the clunking of gears.
‘It’s like a right boring place to go, innit,’ says Janine. ‘My cousin’s school went to Chessington World of Adventures. They went on Rameses’ Revenge and the Rattlesnake and everything.’
‘I’m gonna have a nap, Janine. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘Why’s that, Loos?’
‘Dunno really, just couldn’t sleep.’
As if I’d tell her how it all kicked off once I got back from swimming. I wouldn’t tell her anything.
‘You don’t look tired,’ she studies me with her hard brown eyes. ‘You look nice, you always look nice, and your hair’s so pretty,’ she fiddles with the bit that’s hanging down my shoulder. ‘I wish I had blonde hair like yours. You’re so lucky.’
‘Janine, I really need to sleep,’ I shut my eyes, and concentrate on breathing. It’s almost back to normal, while the inside of my eyelids are all red and squiggly as if my head’s on fire. It is. Perhaps I should listen to Janine go on about theme parks and pop stars. It would take my mind off things.
Diaries are dangerous, I knew that, though I thought the risk was all mine, like if Amy found out who I fancy or who I’d kissed.
I’m kicking myself. Normally, I’m so careful. You have to be when you share a room. I never write in front of Amy. I wait till she’s out or in the bathroom or else I take it with me. And then, when I am writing, cross-legged on my bed, I always have a cushion close by so I can hide it. I reckon I’ll always have a few seconds once I hear the door.
Mind you, I didn’t hear the phone at first. I must have been too engrossed. Then Dad was shouting up the stairs and I know not to ignore Dad if he shouts. Still, Amy should never have read it. And she certainly shouldn’t have told Dad.
‘Lucy, are you crying?’
Oh God, Janine’s curly head is hovering right over me.
‘It’s nothing, the sun’s in my eyes.’
Janine gives me the kind of hard look I’d normally run from if I didn’t already know how much she admires me.
‘It’s just the sun, I just woke up. I’m all right now. What were you saying about Lady Ga Ga?’
After about an hour the coach leaves the motorway and trundles along a few quaint country roads where the period houses are all absurdly pretty with perfect, flower-filled gardens and not a hint of dark green woodwork anywhere.
‘Looks like a film set, doesn’t it,’ I say.
‘People really live here, yeah?’ says Janine.
The boys at the front start to cheer and whoop.
‘That was the coach park,’ shouts Kelvin, ‘He’s missed it.’
Mr Sole jumps up to peer out of the side of the bus then has a quick word with the driver.
‘He has bloody missed it,’ I say to Janine.
Next thing we know, he’s trying to do a three-point turn in a tiny country road and backs into what is probably a listed Elizabethan wall resulting in more cheers from the boys. The bus stops. The driver gets out, inspects back of bus and glances at wall. Wall looks okay, don’t know about bus.
He gets back in, manages to manoeuvre it into the right direction, finds the coach park and at last we can all get out.
Mr Sole has this strange, mesmerised expression. ‘That’s it, that’s where she lived,’ he says, looking across the road at a neat, red-brick, rectangular house with white-framed picture windows and a green sweep of garden on the corner with a majestic, ancient tree.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Here, sir, I thought you said she didn’t have much money.’
‘She didn’t, it was her brother who looked after her.’
‘Give me MTV Cribs any day,’ says Janine, making hip hop gangster-style gestures with her hands. ‘I like penthouses with walls of glass.’
Where the hell is Megan?
Behind me, thank God.
‘How’s your head?’ she smiles.
‘What?’
‘Janine – is she doing your head in?’
‘You have no idea.’
Mr Sole leads the way to an outbuilding that’s been converted into a classroom. It’s a pleasant, light, whitewashed room with chairs and there’s a young woman with long dark hair and a trendy fringe, dressed in a white linen blouse and trousers. ‘Hello everyone, my name’s Emma. I’m going to show you round today.’
‘Not Emma Woodhouse, surely,’ Mr Sole thinks he’s so hilarious.
Emma smiles, though she’s obviously heard it before, ‘No, I’m not Emma Woodhouse or Emma Knightley.’
‘But are you single though, miss?’ shouts Mathew Relf.
‘Mathew,’ his mum looks furious.
‘Not really relevant,’ says Emma with a smile, but Mr Sole is shaking his head.
‘No shouting out, and sensible questions only,’ he says, ‘do remember you’re representing Portsmouth City Comprehensive.’
Portsmouth City Dump, more like.
Emma then gives a talk about Jane Austen’s life at Chawton. ‘This house was provided by her brother, Edward, who owned nearby Chawton House, which you can also visit. It’s a much grander residence with a large hall for entertaining and a well-stocked library which Jane would often visit.
‘It was a great relief for Jane to have this house at Chawton and it enabled her to concentrate on her writing. It was here during the last eight years of her life that she revised Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility and Northanger Abbey, and also wrote Mansfield Park, Emma and Persuasion.’
Emma takes us back out into the courtyard, round the back and through the front door which is at the side and probably wasn’t the front door in Austen’s day. We file through the shop and I’m watching Janine. Her left hand can’t help reaching out to touch a Regency-style bonnet, an
d a Chawton eraser, and I can see she’s really tempted by a quill – just like Jane used to use – but thankfully she places it back down.
Emma talks us through a Jane Austen timeline, detailing the big events Austen lived through; then it gets more interesting: a lock of hair, a ball and cup, ivory dominoes and Jane’s silhouette. She really lived here. She really lived.
‘And this is where she wrote,’ says Emma, as we enter a lovely square room with a window of small-paned glass. And that is where she sat, by the window at a tiny wooden desk.
‘Bit small, innit,’ says Mathew Relf.
‘That’s all she needed,’ says Emma, and then she tells us about the door and shows us how it creaks. ‘Jane Austen wouldn’t let anyone oil or mend the door, she liked to have a warning if her writing was about to be disturbed.’
Upstairs, we see the room where she slept and then there are the clothes, the tiny clothes.
‘You are joking me?’ says Chantal Thomas, her arms folded, as we stare at the mannequins dressed in Jane Austen’s printed muslin dresses.
‘Jane Austen wore that? I was bigger than that when I was eleven.’
A few people nod in agreement. Chantal Thomas has always been tall.
‘I’m nearly six foot now,’ she says, ‘I’ve been scouted by Models One.’
‘Oh, very impressive,’ says Emma, ‘but I have to say, I doubt any woman was as tall as you in Austen’s day. You see, people weren’t as well nourished as we are today. Okay, I’m going to take you out to the gardens now and we’ll have a look at the kitchen and laundry.’
Everyone starts to move, shuffling down the stairs in a long, snaking line and out of the back door, but I don’t want to go. There’s something about this place. I want to stay and try to feel Jane Austen’s presence. I can’t do that with my schoolmates around so I hang back, check no one’s noticed, and then scoot back into Jane’s writing room.