Page 40 of The Show Woman

39

Feathers

Rosie is lying in Violet’s bed. It still has a whiff of her, that spiced, woody scent, and when she buries her face in the pillow she sometimes catches it. Or perhaps it is simply the memory of her.

Violet flying on the trapeze, utterly, resolutely herself. Violet gripping her hand as they whirled through sun-soaked afternoons at the fair. Her soft, rose-petal mouth. The smooth skin, creamy as milk, at the delicate tops of her thighs. The way she sighed with pleasure when Rosie kissed the nape of her neck.

Before Violet died Rosie made a matching carpet wool ring for herself, and now, she twists and turns it on her finger. The material is rough, and scratchy. Violet had been buried wearing hers. Rosie would be put in her grave with hers now too. She would never take it off.

Lena has not been by today. Rosie thought she might have looked in the day after the funeral to see to her, check on how she was doing, tell her tales of the drunken night. Perhaps Lena is in her bed too. It’s not as if there is much to get up for.

The door to the wagon opens, and Rosie sits up.

‘Hello,’ says Belle. She is wearing a hat and coat, and Morag perches on her shoulder. Beyond her Rosie can see that the ground is carpeted with thick, gleaming snow. ‘I brought you a piece.’

Belle approaches the bed with her offering, thick slices of ham sandwiched between hunks of good bread, and Rosie realises that she is hungry. She has not eaten for days, has not been able to face it, but now she is ravenous.

‘Thanks,’ she says, taking the piece, ramming it into her mouth. Both Belle and Morag eye her with interest.

‘I expect you’re missing your sister,’ says Rosie, between mouthfuls.

Belle nods, but says nothing.

‘I had a sister. Still do, I suppose. Jennifer, her name is. Sometimes I miss her too.’

‘Why don’t you see her?’ asks Belle. ‘Is it because she’s away on the road?’

Rosie gives a small laugh. ‘Jennifer? No fear. She’s married. Lives in Ayrshire. Husband works down the mines. And she’ll be busy making babies now.’

‘Violet never wanted babies,’ says Belle. ‘She told me. Said she’d leave that to me. The other girl in the family.’

‘And do you want babies?’

Belle shrugs. ‘There’s other things I want to do.’

Rosie finishes her piece and, seeing there are a few crumbs left, offers them to Morag. Daintily, with her beady eyes never leaving Rosie’s, she pecks at them.

‘She’ll like you now,’ says Belle. ‘No one around here ever offers her food.’ She points at the little wool ring on Rosie’s finger. ‘Violet had one like that too, didn’t she?’

‘I made it for her,’ says Rosie. ‘They matched.’

‘You must have been really good friends.’

‘We were.’

Belle stokes Morag’s feathers thoughtfully. ‘Can we be friends, then? Since you were such good friends with Violet? Only, I’d like to show you something, and Lena’s away now, so I can’t show her.’

Rosie sits up. ‘Lena’s away? Where to? She didn’t say anything.’

‘I don’t know,’ says Belle. ‘She and Harry left first thing. Seems a daft thing to do with all the snow, but my mammy says they wouldn’t be telt.’

Rosie wonders where on earth Lena could have gone. To Galston, finally? But with Harry? It seems unlikely.

‘Will you get dressed now?’ asks Belle. ‘I’d like you to see me on the trapeze.’