Rosy George's Convention Conundrum

by Polly Young

  “Planning will help, darling. I just watched a programme. “Wedding Dreams ..?”

  “Nightmares.”

  “That’s right. The bride got jilted. But it was jolly well organised.” Wedding talk could make Rosy sick with excitement but she slammed on the brakes. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Well, you’ve help in the village if you want it. Make a list, delegate, relax. Tom’s keen. Any transport requirements, he’s your man.” Tom was the local mechanic. Rosy had never met him. Her nerves beginning to jangle.

  “And your job ..?”

  “... starts September. So I’ve got a nice long summer holiday. I’ll be down for good in a couple of weeks,” she swallowed hard, “and David and I are off to Greece at the end of August.”

  Judy grew misty-eyed. “Charles. Do you remember when we used to do things like that? Take holidays on a whim?”

  “We still do. Just less often. It’s expensive.”

  “Don’t be so mean. I’ll elope with Angus Hart if you’re not careful.”

  Rosy blinked away bikinis. “The bloke on the corner? We met him just now, when we were ... driving.”

  “Such a decent man.”

  “Indecent, I thought,” David muttered and got a kick under the table.

  “He helped us out,” Rosy said diplomatically.

  “Well, you might talk to him. He’s the sailing instructor down at the harbour and runs all the courses — beginners and advanced; kids mainly. He knows his stuff — he does some drama workshops with them too sometimes during the summer camps. In fact, we were talking role-play just the other day ...” she tailed off, wistfully. “Anyway, all the women at church think he’s marvellous.”

  Which reinforced how obviously unlike them she was, Rosy thought. She was unimpressed. “I don’t do improvisation, I write scripts. I’m trying to get published Mum, not teach kids method acting.”

  Her father spoke sharply, “Rosy, that’s uncharitable.”

  “Sorry.” She suddenly felt very tired. “I thought he was a bit flash, that’s all.”

  David kneaded her arm. “Let’s get going. We’ve a long drive ahead of us.”

  Didn’t she know it? It was alright for him. David could sleep on command: anywhere, any time. It surprised her to find she would have given anything to clamber up the stairs to her old room and sink into bed. Instead she hugged her parents and kissed David hurriedly.

  “OK, whizz kid,” she said with enforced cheer. Get ready to be transported to the big smoke.”

  * * *

  The next fortnight was a whirlwind of drinks, meals and house visits as Rosy said goodbye to friends and colleagues. It was fun but as she drew breath on the bus between engagements, the revelry made it harder to leave her beloved life. Sod it, she thought, on the day of departure. It’s probably the last chance to shop properly so I may as well splurge. And she did - on a pair of strappy vertiginous heels that made her look like a celebrity hippy.

  It was these she was wearing in Lytton Farm Shop as the bell ‘ding’ed behind her on her first Tuesday in the village. Looking up from the wheat-free pasta, she reddened. Angus Hart stood before her in corduroys and a faded polo shirt, holding a baby’s head.

  She screamed. Not just a scream; a screech a banshee would have been proud of. On the far side of the shop, a bottle smashed. People stared. Angus blinked.

  “My God! What the...?”

  “It’s not real.”

  She looked again and saw it was true. It was incredibly life-like ... but plastic.

  She’d been less disturbed by David’s Speedos. “What on earth are you doing?”

  Smirking, he raised an eyebrow. “Shopping with a friend.”

  He was too weird for words. She picked up a basket and made to go, but he fell into step beside her and the aisles were too narrow to run.

  He cornered her by the soft fruit. “I’m sorry I scared you.” He gestured towards the doll’s head, which sat like a curious pineapple, gazing up through the bars of his trolley. “It’s just a prop. I use it with the children at camp. It prompts interesting discussion.”

  God help the children; who knew what sort of conversation he was into. She hurried on, but he followed.

  “I thought you’d be in the beauty section.” She steeled herself for the inevitable. “Buying nail varnish.”

  She threw him a withering look. “I have enough left, thank you. It was only a very small scratch.”

  “The tree wasn’t quite so lucky.”

  Boy, was he hard work. She turned to face him. “I’m sorry. Again. But it’s a tree. It’ll live.”

  He explored her with his eyes. “Why are we arguing?”

  She was temporarily thrown. Because you scared me. Because of your arrogance. Because you like to fuck people in the bushes. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry if I scared you.” His hair curled into his neck at the back, she noticed. Just at the back. Otherwise it was quite straight.

  She exhaled slowly. “That’s ok.”

  And that was that. Rosy’s shopping list was thorough, but as she didn’t know her way around it was useful to have Angus point out organic salads, local wine and the deli counter, bursting with olives and pungent salamis. She was particularly impressed with the wide range of artisan chocolate, including Montezuma’s which she loved more than life itself. Everyone in the shop melted before Angus and she marvelled as he delivered perfect dollops of discourse. Despite a few puzzled glaces, Rosy too was smiled at warmly. Unlike the garage in Kilburn, people here seemed happy to look you in the eye. She looked on approvingly as he scooped up ripe Brie and salmon pate.

  “Entertaining?” she thought of Alison.

  “Picnic.”

  “Lovely.” She was a little envious. Picnics with David were few and far between. It was a beautiful day and she had no plans at all.

  He smiled. “I’m taking a couple of kids out back at the sailing club at lunchtime.”

  She felt strangely elated by the word, ‘kids’. “Oh, right. What do you sail?” Not that she knew the difference between boats.

  “Kestrel. Wish I could go out today but I’ve got plans. How about you?” He looked doubtfully at her jewel-encrusted feet.

  “I don’t get much chance in London. What?” she bristled at his expression. “Don’t you like them?”

  “It’s not that. I just can’t imagine how you get around.”

  There was no way she would admit how much her toes throbbed. “They’re great,” she said brightly. “David loves them.”

  “Great,” he echoed. “That’s all that matters.”

  She shoved him affably as they queued. “They’re actually incredibly comfortable ... and good for your back,” she crossed her fingers at the lie. “I can walk for miles.”

  “That’s good ... though I don’t believe you for a minute. I’d offer you a lift, but far be it for me to stop your workout. It’s a fair way back to Lytton, mind.”

  Three miles to be exact, but she’d shot herself in a decorated, levitated foot. “As I said, I like it.” Plus she had nothing better to do.

  If he was disappointed he masked it well and regarded her coolly. “Suit yourself.”

  They stepped out of the shop together. The heat was intense and Rosy felt a rush of recklessness. He was the only person under forty she’d met in a week and he gave good banter. Shading her eyes, she squinted up. “So, when are you going to introduce me to the masses?”

  He laughed. “There’s a guitar evening in the Moon on Friday if you’re interested. Starts at seven. Come along if you want.”

  “Sounds thrilling.”

  He was unmoved. “Or not. I’m easy.” He swung his cotton shopping bag easily into the back of the Triumph and slammed the door.

  She was stung. “I’ll see.”

  “Suit yourself. But you should get involved. After all, you’re going to be here for the next twelve months and a year’s a long time to be bored.”

  Don’t I
know it, she thought, as she watched him drive off, leaving a trail of fine dust.

  Chapter 3

  The temperature soared over the next three days as Rosy lazed on the lawn reading Dick Francis, working on a new play, planning her holiday wardrobe and trying not to think about the return to work. David enrolled on a pre-placement course in London and his phone calls were pleasingly frequent. He was having a lovely time sleeping on his friend Ian’s floor and, though she missed him, Rosy had to admit a small part of her was enjoying having time to herself. Even in Lytton.

  When Friday evening arrived, she spent nearly an hour getting ready. With Angus’ shoe jibes still stinging, she teamed trusty Converse with jeans and a strapless top. She spent a good ten minutes deciding between earrings and wouldn’t have been able to explain quite why she felt nervous. Her mother accosted her as she was adding ice to a quick vodka and coke.

  “You look nice, darling,” she lifted her head from A Hundred Ways with Watercress.“Going somewhere fun?”

  “Angus Hart is introducing me to the Moon.”

  Judy’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Goodness! Say ‘hello’ from me.”

  “Sure, Mum. He likes older women.” Rosy dodged the dishcloth before it ruined her top.

  * * *

  There being only two social ‘hubs’ in the village, The Hunter’s Moon was an oasis plonked in the middle of acres of farmland. For those who preferred drinking to praying, it was a place to meet for pints, gossip and the occasional guitar gig.

  The door latch creaked as Rosy slipped inside. Original oak beams and low ceilings mixed Medieval maudlin with stale crisps. Sunlight streamed through the windows and a small jukebox in the corner pumped out seventies classics. Mysterious, lumpen farm machinery parts decorated the walls and the carpet smelled of old chips and beer. By the clock on the wall, she was ten minutes early.

  Four hundred years was a long time to spend in a pub but the Hunter’s Moon regulars looked like they’d laid the foundations. Behind the bar, a podgy young woman in hard-working Lycra leaned against the till, chatting with two bearded men who looked like they’d taken root. All three fell silent as Rosy approached.

  “Hello,” she said shyly, scanning the bar’s army of single malts. “A glass of Chardonnay, please.” Cocktails were out. The men stared. Obviously a woman in a pub alone was headline news. She flashed a ravishing smile and their eyes twitched like frogs’ legs, then dropped quickly back to their bitters.

  The barmaid introduced the men with a hefty hand, then herself as ‘Bernie’. “Don’t mind them; they’re not used to attractive girls. ‘Cept me,” she chuckled. “Sit anywhere you like,” she invited. “Menu?”

  “No, thanks.” Rosy introduced herself and explained her circumstances. “Have I got the wrong night? I thought there was music.”

  One of the men found his voice. “Stuart’s running late: had to deliver a calf this afternoon and there were complications.”

  “Stuart’s a vet,” Bernie explained, spearing lemon slices with a cocktail stick. “Plays guitar every month in the summer.”

  The door opened and a young couple with children piled in. Another couple followed them. And another. Seven o’clock on a Friday was crè,,che hour, it seemed. Bernie sighed. “I’ll get the crayons.”

  Half an hour later, knee-deep in colouring in and hula-hoops, Rosy was still Angus-less.

  “Who you here with, then?” asked the father of one brood.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” Rosy took a slug of wine, feeling a vague sense of déjà-vu.

  “Can I get you another?”

  They found a table outside and sat down in the warm evening light. Rosy discovered his name was Tom and he “mended tractors, mainly.” So this was the mechanic of whom her mother spoke. What did Judy expect? For Rosy to turn up to church on a combine? She was vexed. But strangely, wine and Tom’s witterings provided a pleasant sense of calm, albeit calm interrupted at regular intervals by zooming children. Glancing at the tubs of flowers, the crazy, weedy paving and worn-out benches, she thought lovingly of the clean architecture of Solar with its gas heaters and teak seating. Her jeans were sticky with lemonade and Angus was nowhere to be seen but, thanks to Tom’s generosity, she felt pleasantly drunk.

  Stuart Belling appeared at half-past eight; a tall, lanky man with a shock of black hair like an egret. Cheery and smelling faintly of manure, he greeted Tom, set his guitar on the bench and did an exaggerated double take. Rosy repeated her introductions.

  “A local wedding!” he seemed charmed by the idea in a camp sort of way. He bent his fingers back ecstatically. “With the reception in the pub? Jolly good!”

  Rosy choked. The thought of her guests in Hunter’s Moon, expecting linen napkins and getting paper serviettes made her shudder. She hadn’t the heart to explain her choice of church was mainly aesthetic and that the reception was booked in a hotel ten safe miles away. The menu was all planned out: pork scratchings and Old Thumper not included. Thinking of David in the smartest restaurant in Kensington for a classmate’s birthday, she suppressed a little moan.

  At the word ‘wedding’ a bulky woman with breasts to cushion a wrecker-ball swooped.

  “You must be Rosy,” she exclaimed delightedly. “Hope Winthrop, wonderful to meet you.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know ...”

  “Never mind, dear: your mother told me all about you at the bric-a-brac sale.” Did she, now? “She is so looking forward to the wedding — well, of course we all are! She’ll be centre of attention!” Hope guffawed, her chest heaving like bellows. “Only joking, but you know how mothers-of-the-bride like to get their outfits just so! Oh, it’s going to be wonderful! I do all the church flowers, you see,” she said, matter-of-factly. “In the church,” she added, seemingly necessarily. With her flamboyant figure, soft, flowing skirt and high-necked t-shirt, Hope reminded Rosy of a floral volcano. She felt a bit over-awed. Tom and Stuart, she could cope with. Bernie, Hope ... she’d work on it.

  “What music you going for?” asked Tom.

  “I’ve no idea,” Rosy welcomed a return to safer waters.

  “You ought to give Stu a try,” Hope’s blue eyes sparkled.

  “Weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, funerals, you name it.” Stuart head-bobbed enthusiastically. “Even got a charity gig in London doing ‘authentic folk flavour’.”

  Oh God. She hadn’t considered music at all! What would David like? Probably something conservative: a four-piece live band? That would be tasteful but at the same time lend ‘authentic classic flavour.’ She could get them to play something from Star Trek before his speech. She gulped the last of her Pinot Grigio, relishing the slow warmth seeping through her.

  A small maroon Peugeot that had seen better days drew up and in the back seat, Rosy made out a hulking shadow of what looked like a Bear. The passenger door squeaked open and an attractive woman in her early thirties with a beak-like nose and flaming red hair leaped out.

  “Hello, crew” she chirruped. “Just popping back home to feed Titus. Late, aren’t you Stu?”

  Stu put his drink down good-naturedly. “Prepping, Cathy. What can I get you?” he asked, and extended the offer to Rosy. Why not? She thought. He was nearly two hours late and obviously wasn’t coming, but the funny thing was, she didn’t mind particularly. In fact, she was beginning to enjoy herself. “Angus must be lost.”

  “Angus Hart?” Cathy, Tom and Stu’s ears pricked up. “Why didn’t you say so? Where is the pillock? He’s meant to be looking after Titus tomorrow.”

  “Can’t help, I’m afraid,” Rosy shrugged.

  “He’s got himself a cracker with Alison Hudson,” Tom winked at Stu, who raised his glass. “Been after her for quite some time, I believe.”

  Cathy laughed. “That’s what she’d like you to think.” She beckoned to Stu, who loped up to the wall. After a lot of whispering, during which Rosy picked at bar mats, did her best to look disinterested and wondered if she knew Tom well enough to do a
sexism rant, Stuart slapped the side of the canard headed back inside.

  Cathy drove off. "She’s nice," said Rosy.

  "She's wonderful," gushed Hope, who thought everything was.

  "Shame about the dog: that animal's the least deserving creature I know," Tom crossed his arms. "If it comes near my kids after wallowing in the millstream again, I'll wallop it."

  A small boy of eight popped up from under the table, looking worried. "Daddy, don’t. Titan’s nice and soft.” He put his fist in his mouth and wailed.

  "Bit like you Toby, hey?" Tom scooped him up and looked guiltily at Rosy. "Nothing against her, you understand. She’s a diamond. Come on you lot; bath and bed." He started to gather the troops. "Love to Angus if he ever turns up."

  Stuart plonked down drinks and hurried inside to tune up. More people arrived, greeting her with friendly smiles as they passed. Cathy appeared again with her hair tied back and a dab of makeup, looking quite stunning. She joined Hope and Rosy outside after wrestling Titus into submission under the table. “Bloody thing,” she grimaced. “Love him to bits but he’s no Lassie.”

  “Cathy’s a dog trainer,” Hope said. “Terrific with a harness and whistle.” Rosy avoided Cathy’s eye.

  "Gosh, I must get going," Hope’s dentures flashed. "Henry will be wondering where I am! He’s wonderful at making supper, but only if you like burnt shepherd's pie." She put a cool hand on Rosy's arm. "Will you be alright, dear?"

  “Oh yes.”

  And she meant it. David might be scoffing foie gras and Angus might have stood her up but Lytton was beginning to look more interesting than she’d expected.

  * * *

  By last orders, Rosy and Cathy had covered crucial topics like climate change (sun cream), politics and media (Cheryl Cole’s hair) and health (hangovers). It turned out Cathy was dynamic: she juggled dog training with an interest in professional hair colouring and loved sport: she had managed five trips up to London to see Olympic events and quizzed Rosy enviously on the areas of the city she knew. She also had friends at Jackson Taylor who attended her puppy classes.