Rosie by Alan Titchmarsh Read Free Book Online Page A

he was the only one who didn’t fuss, who let her live her life.
    ‘What will you do?’ he asked.
    ‘Pace myself.’ She grinned. ‘That’s the secret. Go for a little walk. Catch a bus somewhere. Not sure.’
    ‘Well, take care. Don’t go too far.’
    ‘That’s what I used to say to you.’
    ‘Well, you know how it feels, then. I’ll be back late afternoon. We can have supper together if you want.’
    ‘That’d be nice. I just fancy a bit of fish.’ She waved, and went indoors as he steered the car down the track towards the village and out across the island.
    With his board on his lap, he was sketching the scene before him – the towering cliff, the neat row of cottages tucked in beneath it, the apron of rocks, girdled by shallow pools, and the children dipping for shrimps and crabs with their bamboo-poled nets. A couple of small yachts played nip-and-tuck half a mile out, and the lobster fisherman was carrying his catch up the steps to the little café. Nick had picked a good day.
    He did not like being watched while he painted, but out here, especially during the school holidays, it was an occupational hazard. He had just finished the sky when he became aware of a child at his side. ‘That’s nice,’ she said. Her dark hair was tied into plaits, and she was leaning on her shrimping net to examine his work.
    ‘I’m glad you like it.’
    ‘It’s better than my mum can do.’
    ‘Does she paint?’ he asked politely.
    ‘Yes. She tries to sell them.’ The child shrugged, dismissive.
    ‘So do I.’
    ‘I bet you sell more than she does.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know.’
    ‘I do. She hasn’t sold one yet.’
    ‘Oh. I see.’ He laughed.
    ‘Would you like to come and see her painting?’
    ‘Well, I’m a bit busy at the moment.’ He frowned, hoping she’d leave him in peace.
    ‘She’s only over there. And she’d probably appreciate some advice.’
    He gave in, amused by the child’s conversation, which was older than her years. She was nine or ten, and was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of baggy yellow shorts. Her feet were bare, and her toes, with chipped red varnish, were bent into the rocks for support. Her skin was honey-coloured from the early summer sun, and her turned-up nose was dusted with freckles. She had the darkest eyes he had ever seen.
    ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
    ‘Nick.’
    ‘Nick what?’
    ‘Nick Robertson. What’s yours?’
    ‘Victoria.’
    ‘Victoria what?’
    ‘I’m not going to tell you. My mum says I shouldn’t – in case you’re not very nice.’
    Nick grinned. ‘Quite right, too.’
    The child pointed her shrimping net to the other end of the cove. ‘She’s over there. Will you come and look? Please?’
    He could see that he would not get any peace until he did as she asked, so he put down his board, anchored it with a rock, and followed her as she picked her way nimbly through the sharp stones, using the shrimping net to keep her balance. Occasionally she would raise one leg in the air, looking as though she were about to topple into one of the small pools, then she would recover her balance and tiptoe quickly ahead.
    Around a particularly large and craggy outcrop they came upon a woman seated on a smooth, round boulder, with a stubby easel jammed among the smaller rocks in front of her. She was dressed like the child – in T-shirt and shorts – with her dark hair pinned up at the back of her head.
    ‘I’ve brought someone to look at it, Mum.’
    ‘Oh, poppet, why do you think . . .?’
    The woman looked up. It was Alexandra Pollen.
    Nick laughed.
    Alex scrambled to her feet. ‘Hello! Fancy meeting you here.’
    The child looked from one to the other. ‘Do you two know each other?’
    ‘Well, yes,’ Alex said, and coloured. ‘This is the man whose car I crashed into.’
    ‘Oh!’ Victoria turned to Nick. ‘I expect you’re pretty cross with us, then.’
    ‘No. Well a bit. But not much.’
    ‘We’ve got another one.’ She