Brought to Book

Rosemary tiptoed through the sleeping house, then ran down the path to the boat. She rowed along the shore, passing house after house, shuttered and silent. She was the first person ever to breathe this fresh air. She drew it deep into her lungs and expelled it with a sigh.

The houses she passed were large and elegant, with imposing terraces and gardens. All except one, which looked out of place. It was stuck between two rambling mansions and seemed to have been constructed out of driftwood. The garden was colourful and wild, the flowers fought amongst themselves to reach the sun.

Here at last was movement. A red and white check curtain was drawn back, the rickety door opened. A white-haired woman stepped outside, waved and beckoned. Before she had time to think, Rosemary rowed to the shore, jumped out of the boat and ran through the garden to greet her new neighbour.

‘Been for a swim?’ The woman pointed to the towel draped round Rosemary’s neck.

‘Not yet. I’d like to, if it’s not too cold.’

‘It’ll be fine. There’s nothing like an early morning swim, particularly if you have a hot drink immediately afterwards. Would you like chocolate?’

‘Oh yes!’ cried Rosemary, eager to earn it.

‘Off you go, then, and I’ll heat the milk to a froth. By the way, what’s your name?’

‘Rosemary.’

‘I’m Olga.’

Rosemary left her clothes in the boat and waded into the lake. Olga. She rolled the word around her mouth. It sounded exotic. It also sounded familiar. Why should that be? She shivered as the cool, silky water reached her waist, took a deep breath and plunged in. Suddenly the shore, trees and houses seemed far away. Her own splashings and the smoke rising from Olga’s chimney provided the only movement in the stillness. She dived, felt a rock graze her knee and weeds wrap around her foot. When she looked up, she could see the sun speckling the surface. But the water all around and beneath her was murky. She wondered how deep the lake was.

‘So tell me about yourself,’ said Olga as her guest sipped at an enormous cup of foaming hot chocolate.

Rosemary looked over the rim in surprise. As the youngest of the family, she was used to being overlooked, not asked about. What was there to tell about her almost fourteen years? Mother, Father, Bella and Henry, of course. The dusty city and washing the plane tree. School. ‘The best thing is,’ she said as she drained the last of her drink, ‘we’ve got two weeks of term left, and I can be late every day! Because I’m going with Father on the train, which only arrives when school starts, at eight o’clock. Then every afternoon I’ll take the train back alone and go for a swim.’

‘And come and visit me, if you like,’ said Olga.

‘Yes, please!’

The family settled into a routine. Rosemary enjoyed the novelty of travelling with Father every morning, even though he was always too busy with his papers to talk to her.

At home Mother was the calm centre of a kitchen tornado. Several pans bubbled on the range. The table sagged under steaming bowls of stewed fruit, jars of jams and jellies. Mother had taken to country life in a big way. Not so Henry and Bella.

On the last day of school, as Rosemary dashed upstairs to put on her swimsuit and celebrate freedom, she found Henry’s door wide open. He was dragging his easel from sunny to shady spot, muttering: ‘Does here feel any better? No! Let’s try here. No!’ His brush and palette lay untouched by paint.

Bella held court on the beach. Much to her disgust, she only had one courtier: boring Bernard from next door. Every afternoon he played her Richard Tauber love songs on his wind-up gramophone.

Bella lay on her side, chin cupped in one hand, gazing into Bernard’s eyes through half-lowered lids. Today she’s Marlene Dietrich, thought Rosemary. They took no notice as she picked her way over records, lemonade glasses and their bodies to reach the boat.

‘So how was your last day at school?’ asked Olga. And for the first time on that as on every other day, Rosemary felt she had suddenly become visible.

‘I had an Aunt Olga,’ you say, startling me. I had almost forgotten you were there, so wrapped up was I in the story. ‘She wasn’t my real aunt. She was married to my uncle. She was beautiful, with jet-black hair, and very vain. As a child I loved playing with the things on her dressing table. It was full of creams and powders and perfumes.’ You pause. ‘Is it the same one?’

‘Possibly. Only in my story she has white hair.’

‘Aunt Olga’s hair would be white by now, unless she dyed it,’ you say with Rosemary’s kind of logic. But then, isn’t Rosemary based on you? The boundary between real life and story is blurring. ‘Knowing her, she’d have dyed it.’

‘No!’

‘Why not?’

‘That’s all wrong for the story. This Olga isn’t vain.’

‘Isn’t she?’

‘Weren’t you listening?’

‘Don’t be cross with me–’

‘I’m not cross!’ But I am. Yet how can I be when you’re so ill? Now look what I’ve done! Your frightened look has come back again. Why the hell can’t I let Olga dye her hair if that’s how you see her? Only I’m also afraid – of losing my grip on the one thing over which I have some control. ‘Are you tired? Shall I stop the story?’

‘No, please … tell me … about Olga.’

The name Olga rang a bell with Rosemary. She knew it was Russian. Was that why she connected it with her set of babushka dolls? They had always been her favourite toys. She still enjoyed opening each one and being greeted by a smaller version inside. Come to think of it, the dolls, round and pink-cheeked, resembled her new friend along the lake. ‘Mother, who gave me these?’ Rosemary asked, bringing them into the kitchen.

‘My Russian aunt. She had a soft spot for you because you were born on her birthday – but I’ve told you this before. They’re very old. Don’t get flour on them.’ Mother was rolling out pastry.

‘What was her name?’

‘Olga.’

‘So she was Olga, too!’

‘Who else is Olga?’

Rosemary hesitated. She had not mentioned her visits to the little ramshackle house simply because, here in the country, no one ever asked her where she had been. She relished having a corner of life that was entirely her own. This, she thought, is how grown-ups must feel all the time!

‘Did your Aunt Olga die, then?’

‘When you were only a year old. But you know all this, Rosemary.’

‘I’d forgotten.’ Surely, Rosemary was thinking, someone must have seen me rowing on the lake with Olga. When I waved to Bella yesterday, she seemed to, though she was busy with Bernard and didn’t wave back. ‘Mother, have you noticed a small house on the lakeside when you and Father take your evening stroll? A wooden one, different from the grand ones, about sixth on the left?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure? It’s more like a shed, really. With a wild garden. Lots of flowers.’