through clearly. The other voice was female also.
Rose looked at Ada, who shrugged.
They pushed the door wide and stepped in.
‘Goodness, you surprised us,’ said Imogen.
Ada, close behind Rose, said, ‘Can’t think why. Believe it or not, this is our room, ducky.’
‘Yes, it’s an intrusion. I’m sorry, but there was nowhere else to wait,’ said Imogen. ‘And something very special…’
… was interrupted by something very unexpected. The other woman opened her arms wide, said, ‘Darling, where have you been?’ and stepped forward to embrace Rose in a hug that squeezed a high note out of her like a Scottish piper starting up.
Ada cried out, ‘Watch it – she’s busted her ribs.’
The woman released Rose. ‘Oh, my God, I had no idea.’
Actually the discomfort was mild, for the pressure had been cushioned by a substantial bosom. The woman was sturdy, though sylphlike compared to Ada. She was about Rose’s age or younger, with fine brown hair, worn in a ponytail. Her get-up was strangely chosen for visiting a hostel for the homeless. She looked as if she had spent the last hour having a make-over in a department store. She was in a white silk blouse that hung loose over black leggings. An expensive-looking coat was draped over a chair-back.
Imogen said, ‘This is your sister Doreen. Don’t you recognise her?’
Rose felt as if lightning had struck. ‘My
‘Stepsister, to be accurate,’ said the woman. ‘Roz, it’s me.’ She took one of Rose’s hands and clasped it between both of hers. ‘It’s all over, love. I’ve come to take you home.’
Pulses buzzed in Rose’s head and none of them made any helpful connections. She took a step away, releasing her hand.
Imogen said, ‘When Miss Jenkins called the office, I just had to bring her here. I know it’s late and obviously we’ve taken you by surprise.’
Rose said flatly, ‘I don’t know her.’
‘You don’t
‘But if she’s my own sister…’
‘It doesn’t mean that your memory will suddenly switch on.’ She turned to the woman. ‘You’ll have to make allowances, I’m afraid. It’s like a shutter in her brain. She can’t see anything behind it.’
Rose went white with anger. Imogen had no right to discuss her as if she were some dead laboratory animal pinned out for dissection. She was intelligent, for God’s sake. She could hear what was being said.
Before she opened her mouth to object, Ada said, ‘The point is, we can’t be too careful. Yesterday, some gorilla claimed to know Rose and then tried to force her into a car. I was there. We both had to fight to get away.’
Imogen quickly said, ‘It’s all right, Ada. There’s no question of any deception here. Miss Jenkins has satisfied me that she’s Rose’s sister. She has proof. Photos.’
Doreen Jenkins picked her handbag off the back of a chair, unzipped it and opened a pigskin wallet. And she had enough tact to address Rose directly. ‘Here’s one of you with Mummy in the garden at Twickenham.’ She handed across a standard-size colour print of two women arm in arm in front of a lavender bush.
Rose had to steady the photo from shaking in her hand. Here was a large, smiling middle-aged woman in a print dress. The other was younger, slimmer, dark-haired, with the face she saw in mirrors, the face she had learned to accept as her own. Sharply focused and in a good light, the likeness couldn’t be dismissed. ‘This is me with my mother?’ she said, frowning.
‘Yes, and she’s my mummy, too, of course,’ said Doreen Jenkins, smiling. ‘Look at some others.’ She handed across two more. ‘They’re more recent. I don’t know where they were taken. Probably on holiday. I didn’t take them. I got them from you.’
Imogen, suddenly at Rose’s side and squeezing her arm, said, ‘There isn’t any doubt, is there? It’s you.’
A detail in these extra pictures clinched it. Both were shots of Rose alone, one seated on a drystone wall, the other standing in a doorway. In each she was wearing the belt she had been found in and was wearing now, its large steel buckle unmistakable. Probably the jeans were the same designer pair she had damaged in the accident.
Ada came over to look. ‘Pity,’ she said. ‘We were shaping up nicely as sleuths, weren’t we, petal?’
Rose turned to the woman she now had to accept as her stepsister. She had to force herself to speak. ‘Did I hear right just now? Did you call me Roz?’
Doreen nodded. ‘That’s your name. Rosamund.’
Imogen said in a self-congratulating tone, ‘I wasn’t far out, calling you Rose.’
‘What’s my surname – Jenkins?’
‘No,’ said Doreen. ‘You’re Rosamund Black. You and I had different fathers. Mummy got a divorce in 1972. It’s so peculiar having to tell you this.’
It was more peculiar listening to it, struggling to believe it. ‘Rosamund Black,’ she repeated as if the name might trigger some reaction in her brain. She ought to feel genuine warmth for this woman who was her stepsister and had gone to the trouble of finding her. Instead she felt like running out of the room. Now that the uncertainty was removed she was panicking. She wasn’t sure that she could face any more truth about herself.
Imogen said, ‘When you’ve had a chance to take it in, everything will fall into place.’
Doreen said, ‘I’m going to take care of you.’
‘I’m not sick,’ Rose snapped back, then softened it to, ‘I can take care of myself, now that you tell me who I am. How did you find me?’
‘We tracked you down,’ Doreen answered. ‘Mummy was worried. You always phone her Sunday nights, wherever you are, and you missed last week. When she tried you, there was no answer. You can imagine the state she was in, with her imagination. She’s always reading stuff in the papers about women disappearing. Remember the fuss she made about your trip to Florida? I suppose not. Well, you still managed to call her from the States at the usual time. What with Mummy going spare, I promised to make some enquiries. Jackie – your friend, Jackie Mays – thought you’d said something about a weekend in Bath. Some hotel deal. She didn’t know which one. I phoned a few without success, and then Jerry said he’d got a week owing to him so why didn’t we go down and stay at a bed and breakfast. The first or second person we asked said there had been a report in the local paper about a woman who’d lost her memory. It was you – my own sister! When I saw your picture, I phoned the social services and here I am.’
‘Who’s Jerry?’
Doreen gave her a surprised look. ‘My bloke.’
‘Does he know me?’
‘Of course he does. I’ve been living with him for the last three years. You’re going to stay with us tonight. I insist, and so does Jerry. There are spare rooms in the place where we are out at Bathford. It’s a lovely spot and it’ll do you good.’
Rose said – and it must have sounded ungrateful, but she refused to be swamped by all the concern – ‘I’d rather get home if you’d tell me where it is.’
Imogen said quickly, ‘That might not be such a good idea. You’d be better off with your family until your memory comes back.’
Doreen took Rose’s hand and said, ‘We can help you remember things. Between us we’ll soon get you right. You’ll be home in no time. Promise.’
She tugged her hand away. ‘For God’s sake, will you all stop treating me like a four-year-old?’
She was angry with herself as much as them, playing the spoilt brat and insisting they treated her with respect. She felt guilty giving bad reactions to this well-meaning sister who wanted to take her over. There was no way she could explain the degree of alienation seething within her.
She asked, ‘Where do I live?’
‘Hounslow,’ said Doreen. ‘Quite close to Mummy. We’ll take you back in a day or two. Now that Jerry’s here, he’d like to see a little more of Bath. It
