Two Loves by Sian James Page B

in bed Rosamund went over the last weeks of Anthony’s life. He was very weak and frail, and unhappy, too, knowing that he was dying. Occasionally she would read aloud some of his poems, hoping they’d comfort him, remind him of his achievements, but he didn’t seem to think much of them. ‘I didn’t read that very well,’ she’d say. ‘Shall I try it again?’
    He’d shake his head feebly as though all his most famous lines meant nothing to him now. To Rosamund it was unbearably sad. That he had nothing to say and nothing he wanted to hear.
    During the last days, though, he seemed to rouse himself and want to talk. He gripped Rosamund’s hand, though she wasn’t sure that he knew who she was, ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said over and over again, but without saying anything else.
    At last she guessed what he wanted. She got a pad and pencil and said, ‘Right, I’m ready to take it down,’ and then he dictated a few sentences to her – the beginning, she realised, of his life’s story. Less than half a page it turned out to be, before he lapsed into sleep again.
    Rosamund had kept that page in a cardboard box with Joss’s baby clothes, and that night she got out of bed to fetch it. She hadn’t looked at it for years, hadn’t thought of it for years: ‘When I was two or three years old, my nurse would take me past the grounds of a mansion where there were soldiers convalescing, soldiers wounded in the First World War. They would come over to the gate as we walked past. Some of them had only one leg and walked on crutches, but the ones I was really frightened of were those with bandaged heads. I was afraid the tops of their heads would fall off. I used to dream of those men.
    â€˜I was very fond of my nurse who was called Florence Maud. She was a large pretty girl with dark eyes. Her breasts would bob up and down when she ran downstairs. One night I woke up and went upstairs to the attic to find her and discovered my father lying on top of her and hurting her. I said, “Papa, Papa.”’
    That was the last thing Anthony said. ‘Papa, Papa.’ He repeated it several times over.

Chapter Five
    Rosamund and Erica Underhill sat at the window looking at photographs of Anthony. He was certainly handsome when he was young, Rosamund thought. She wished she’d known him at that time.
    She’d expected at least a measure of hostility when she’d first contacted Erica, but there’d been none; Erica had agreed to a meeting as though it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘I expect you’ve heard about the book I’m planning to write,’ she’d said on the phone. ‘I hope you’re not worrying about it. I won’t have anything bitchy to say about Anthony, I promise you. You see, I loved him.’
    â€˜Do you live on your own these days?’ she asked Rosamund when they met.
    â€˜Apart from my son who’s almost ten now.’ She described Joss; his charm, his forthright manner, his dark eyes and hair.
    â€˜I’d have liked Anthony’s child,’ Erica told her, ‘but it wasn’t possible. In my day it was one thing to have a lover, quite another to have a baby outside marriage. Anyway, I still hoped to get married at that stage. I needed to get married. I needed money. All my life I’ve needed money. Such a bore. I’ve never had a proper job, just odds and ends.’
    Was she apologising for publishing the poems, Rosamund wondered. If so, there was no need for it; she already felt both pity and affection for her.
    Erica had great style, even now. A grey jersey suit, a bottle-green blouse exactly matching her eyes, peacock-blue glass beads, elegant shoes. Rosamund, who had made an effort with her appearance, subduing her natural enthusiasm for too many colours, too many patterns, had only managed to look neat in a cream linen suit her mother had chosen