Page 27

R ose sat poised over the laptop. Simon had argued himself into a full-stop over his comments on the proofs.

He was pacing the room, back and forth from front to back, pausing at the patio windows to stare up at the forest and then turning to pad across past Rose towards the door.

She was mesmerised by his tense lope and shook her head to evict the image of a wild animal glaring through wire at a bus-load of zoo visitors.

When no sensible suggestion or anything else was forthcoming, she sat back and looked out of the window herself, her eyes sliding away from the TV in the corner.

She imagined David trapped inside. ‘I’ve got to go, goodbye…

I’ve got to go, goodbye’ and turning to head into the danger behind him.

The window to the patio was still grubby, the wonky smile still mocked her.

If Simon wouldn’t focus on the book, he could focus on redecorating, if he’d only try.

Now he kicked at the pile of old sheets Rose was going to use as dust-covers. ‘What does it matter what it looks like inside? It’s just a place to eat and rest.’

‘Even animals like their lairs to be pleasant, Simon.’

He grunted and paused, staring outside again then glaring round the room.

Was he imagining himself as a wolf, cosy in a den with Sky and some rollicking cubs?

Or was he visualising Sky as a human, heading out from here with him to eat a steak dinner for two while good Old Auntie Rose babysat a horde of kids?

She rolled her eyes. Knowing Simon, even if he was a wolf, he’d try and get her to cubsit. She shut the laptop down and got up.

‘Where are you going? We haven’t finished.’ Simon snapped.

‘ You may not have, but I have. I want to play the cello for a bit and then I’m going to start decorating. The wallpaper in your room needs stripping, so why don’t you do that and work out what you want to do with the book.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my room. It’s effectively a cell anyway, who cares if it’s a cell with stripy yellow walls. ’

‘I’m getting someone in to talk about an extension into the attic. So you can have an office, or a whole suite or something. I can’t think what made me agree to living here. But in the meantime, I’m going to make this place mine, if not ours.’

‘My book needs finishing.’

‘Then finish it. I can’t write it for you. If you’re not happy with me, get someone else to do it. I’ll concentrate on David’s.’

‘David wasn’t writing a book.’

‘No, but I wrote one about his photographs and Sue organized its publication. It’ll be coming out at Christmas.’

Simon stopped pacing and frowned at her. ‘Neither of you ever told me that.’

‘You’re never interested in what I do.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Do you know why I think you’re struggling with the proofs?’ said Rose.

‘I clearly don’t know anything about what’s going through your mind.’

‘It’s because it doesn’t tell it the way it was. You can’t say what happened. It reads as if something’s missing, and you know it.’

‘You’re the one who doesn’t want me to tell anyone.’

‘So tell something else. Talk about the wolves. Talk about David’s work. We could combine what you’ve got and what I’ve got and make it a tribute to him.’

‘Then it wouldn’t be…’

‘Then it wouldn’t be all about you.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘Isn’t it?’

Rose stretched and flexed her fingers and went to get the cello. There wasn’t space in her bedroom to play and Simon would just have to pad around her or go somewhere else. His phone rang and when she came back into the sitting-room he was talking to someone.

‘That’d be great. What’s the best way to come? OK, yes I know, yes, right OK. Is it OK to bring a camera and recording equipment? Brilliant. See you in about half an hour.’

He closed the call and ruffled Rose’s hair as he went into the hall to get his coat and boots.

‘Why are you so cheerful all of a sudden?’ she asked.

‘I emailed the wolf resettlement project people about meeting up. That was them. I’m off to see whether there’s a production we could make out of it.’

Rose put her cello back in its case. ‘You don’t mean that. ’

‘Yes I do. It’s my job. Wildlife, TV, conservation, remember? I wasn’t always a prisoner with a miserable wardress.’

‘I mean, this is just to see Sky, isn’t it? Simon, she’s a wolf. Well, either she’s a wolf or she’s mad. What good is it going to do to see her if your theory’s correct? If she can’t shift then you’re as far apart as if she was still in Denmark.’

Simon paused in knotting his boots and looked up. ‘You’re always on a downer. Why can’t you be positive for once? When you saw her in the woods, while you were up that tree having some kind of crisis, did she recognise you?’

Rose considered. Had the wolf recognised her? The wolf was on its own, no sign of a pack nearby. It had come out of the undergrowth and stared up at her. Did wolves do that sort of thing?

‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’

‘Yeah well, maybe I’ll see her and maybe she’ll see me and recognise me. Then maybe seeing me will overcome whatever the shifting problem is. Who knows? You don’t. Worth a try.’

‘And if she can shift? What’s your plan then? What was your plan last year? Did you even have one?’

‘The trouble with you Rose, is all you see are problems.’

‘No, I see problems and try to work out what to do about them.’

‘And if it’s not obvious, you just stop.’

‘Whereas you just plough on without any idea of what the outcome will be.’

‘It’s called going with the flow, Posie, you should try it some time.’

‘Seriously, this time last year, what did you imagine the outcome would be?’

Simon stood up and put his jacket on. ‘I was going to get her back somehow and then persuade her to shift permanently, then I don’t know, marry her I guess and settle down…’

He went quiet, looking inwards.

Rose said, ‘You bring a wolf back, it mysteriously disappears, an illegal immigrant appears and you marry her.’

‘Where’s your sense of romance, your passion?’

‘Died in a forest in Denmark,’ she snapped.

‘It would have worked somehow,’ he argued.

‘It still can. Look at all those legends; those selkies who became women and married men. Those stories must have been based on something. Anyway, I’m off.

See you later when you’ve cheered up. I’m surprised you can compose anything worth listening to when you’re so cold all the time. ’

He slammed the door.

Rose pulled the cello and bow out of the case and sat cradling them for a few moments. She ran her hand along the varnished curves and her fingers down the strings, resting her head against the scroll until the pegs started bruising her cheek, resting the spike on her bare foot.

I can feel, she thought. My flesh can feel.

These pegs are hard; these strings are resiny, sinewy; this shoulder is smoother than satin; this belly curves; if I pushed down on the spike, my skin would break, my bones might splinter, blood would flow.

The blood would be warm. But I don’t know what makes it pump anymore.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe Simon is right. I have nothing inside but cold.

Maybe nothing I compose will be anything but stillborn.

Sitting straight, she tuned up and played a few chords and phrases. Nothing of her own, just the ceilidh music, ancient tunes and melodies for ancestral feet. But the rhythm was wrong, the pace slow. Dancing to what came from her hands today would be solemn, joyless.

Rose put the cello back in its case and snapped the catches shut.

You should practice , part of her said, you should play yourself out of this mood. Play till the bad music turns good. Play to prove him wrong.

The other part said, the music won’t come if you try to force it. Maybe it’ll never come back. You have other things to do. Get on with the decorating. Do something practical. Stop wasting time.

Rose made rude gestures in the general direction of Simon’s departure, Rob’s bungalow and David’s photograph.

‘He’s wrong,’ she said aloud. ‘Bloody men.’