Drowning Rose by Marika Cobbold Read Free Book Online Page B

shade of grey, I thought his might have been a good choice. The lake of my nightmares was a mere, as deep and as dark as despair. The trees did not stand guard as they did here but trailed their branches in the black water like skeletal fingers, the reeds reaching out from the depths as if begging for help. And always there was Rose, Rose being dragged to the bottom, her hair heavy with weeds, her eyes wide open and begging me for help I could, would not give.
    But here, in the pale winter sunshine, Rose was dry and safe and seated next to me on the trunk of the fallen tree. She was not Uncle Ian’s visitation nor the vengeful Rose of those nightmares but simply a peaceful presence, my beloved old friend.
    ‘I wish I knew what Uncle Ian wants from me,’ I said to her. ‘You didn’t really come to see him, did you?’
    Of course, I knew I wasn’t actually speaking to Rose so I didn’t expect a reply. I left all that to Uncle Ian. He was so much more convincing at it. But everyone knows that articulating a problem, even if it’s only before an imagined audience of one, could be helpful. And it was, it has to be said, so very quiet in the woods by the lake with every sound muffled by snow or wrapped in cold, still air, that you felt that when you did speak your voice might easily carry through time and space, even beyond life itself.
    I couldn’t see to the lake’s end but Uncle Ian had told me that to get to the far shore would take some twenty minutes of rowing or on skates if it were frozen over. I was wearing a heavy quilted jacket and a knitted hat and gloves but the cold was winning and it most certainly drove Rose away. As I said, I didn’t believe in ghosts but someone/some thing had been there by my side and now it was gone I felt more alone than I could ever remember feeling before.
    I wanted the presence back. I whispered to it to return. When nothing happened I sang ‘Sweet Rose of Allendale’. It was Rose’s favourite song. She’d sing it all the time. We had worked out the harmony, taking turns as to who sang the melody and who joined in on the refrain.
    I sang quietly. I only wanted the dead to hear. I sang it twice and then I gave up. The lake stretched out before me, covered with a layer of ice that was just enough to lure the unwary, or stupid, out across, but too thin to carry the weight. I buried my face in my mittens. When I looked up again the setting sun was showing me a path across the ice. As I got to my feet I thought how easy it would be to walk out and never return.

Eight
    Sandra/Cassandra
    The others were in the sick bay so it was just Eliza and I hanging out. I was perched on the chair in her cubicle; I’d had to move a heap of clothes meant for the laundry to be able to sit. Eliza was on the floor, writing in one of her hundreds of A5 notebooks, her back resting against the bed, long ragdoll legs stretched out, big feet pushing up against the wall opposite. That’s what she looked like, I had decided, a beautiful rag doll. She dressed like one, too. Today she was wearing red and black horizontal striped woollen tights, a floral print summer skirt with different coloured patches sewn on and a long black knitted sweater. Back when I first met her I had thought that she dressed the way she did for effect but I had come to realise that she actually thought those weird combinations looked nice. And on her, to be fair, they usually did.
    ‘Shall I take your stuff to the laundry?’ I asked her.
    She glanced up as if she were surprised to hear from me, then she threw me a warm smile. ‘Would you? That’s really kind.’
    As I went down to the basement I thought of Gillian Taylor saying that I should be careful not to let Eliza treat me like some kind of servant. ‘She doesn’t mean to,’ Gillian had said. ‘She just thinks it’s completely natural that other people should run around doing things for her.’
    So what? Gillian was jealous. Everyone knew she had the biggest crush on