Rosy George's Convention Conundrum

by Polly Young

  “... take it for walks, throw things, play with it ... ”

  “Repetition.” But Vic knew when Rosy really wanted something she usually got it.

  “Your parents don’t mind their house being chewed to destruction?”

  Rosy crippled her with a look. “They’re very supportive, thank you.” This was partly true: after a couple of hours of top class emotional rhetoric, she had finally succeeded in winning them round - although mentioning a dog would enhance their ‘twilight years’ had set her argument back a bit.

  “Here we are,” she cried, spotting Cathy’s Peugeot outside a whitewashed house on the edge of a small meadow. The homes were ex-council; sold a few years ago to their owners, they resembled experimental children in school uniform. Cathy’s door was deep pink with nasturtiums bordering the path while next door were two supermarket trollies and a rusting Ducati. They pressed the doorbell and a plinky-plonk rendition of How Much is That Doggy in the Window?rang three times before Cathy appeared, looking exhausted. She led them through to a tiny kitchen, poured tea and sank onto a stool.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I had the puppies all last night.” She looked at Rosy through glassy eyes. “Nine are too much for one person full-time. Jenny works in the library and although they’re pretty understanding, she can’t be there all the time. So I am.” She gave a limp smile and wiped her pointy nose. “I’ve had to give Titus to my mother for the week. Look at you!” she marvelled. “Don’t you look glam ...”

  Rosy rather thought she did. In honour of Vic and the puppies, she had unearthed a chiffon maxi skirt and, determined to make the most of the fading weather, thrown on a cashmere sleeveless vest. Looping a couple of strings of pearls around her neck finished the look.

  Cathy fished around under the sink. “ ... but take this.” She handed over an item that was more dishcloth than Dior. Vic snorted.

  “Why?”

  Cathy looked her up and down. “Puppies don’t usually appreciate ...”

  “Whistles?” Rosy added helpfully.

  “Well, only if you’re lucky,” Cathy said wryly. “They’re more likely to eat pearls than admire them. You’ll need to help me in a sec, anyway. Scabby-bum needs attention.”

  Vic wrinkled her nose and Rosy looked sour.

  “He’s got eczema,” Cathy explained, scooping up a tiny ball of fun and kissing its head. “Blackberry tea soothes it.” Rosy thought fondly of David.

  Vic spilled the beans about Rosy’s non-consultation about getting a dog and Cathy spilled blackberry tea and looked worried. “You really should talk. I’ve seen more divorces over dogs than you’d believe.”

  Rosy scoffed. One of the puppies had crawled onto her lap and under the old shirt and was now asleep. “It’s something we’ll tackle together,” she said confidently. Cathy and Vic’s eyes met.

  Rosy searched under her shirt for the puppy, which had begun ingesting pearls like a python. “This one has taste! He appreciates the finer things ... that’s a boy!” she set it free.

  “That’s a girl,” Cathy corrected.

  Rosy’s eyes shone. “She’s mine.” The puppy yawned.

  Penny mentioned that three families in neighbouring villages, an old man buying for his granddaughter and Bernie from the pub were also interested.

  “Angus?” Rosy asked.

  “No time for dogs.”

  That was debatable.

  “He’s busy ... on his boat or away with some woman or other.”

  “Sounds appealing,” Vic laughed. “A boat, lots of free time ... introduce him to me!”

  “You’ve got a boyfriend,” Rosy said a little too quickly.

  “So’ve you.”

  “Angus is a rum thing; never with a woman off his arm yet by all accounts impossible to be with.”

  “What canyou mean?” Rosy rolled her eyes.

  “Wouldn’t kick him out of bed but I need someone with a bit more ambition,” Cathy harrumphed.

  “He’s probably the strong, silent type,” Vic said charitably. “You’ve always been hard to please, Rosy. Give him a break.”

  And for only the first time that week, thoughts of Mike, Rosy’s first boyfriend, loomed again from the depths of memory.

  Luck had provided them with adjacent rooms in the first year and after snogging for weeks through pre-supper episodes of Family Guy, they were official. Mike was a sporty specimen who DJ-ed part time. His sexiness was legendary. Rosy winced as she remembered the minions of girls only too willing to jump on the ‘Mike-machine.’ But she’d somehow kept him interested by being unavailable. Her stint at the Edinburgh Festival had kept her aloof all summer but she’d found out shortly after returning he’d cheated on her with a promotions girl in Croydon.

  “Breaks are for wimps,” she said cheerfully. “That’s why I love David.”

  “Sounds marvellous,” Cathy sounded unconvinced. “If you find another David, let me know. OK, I’m knackered. Let’s talk collection dates.”

  Leaving the house, Rosy picked a nasturtium and poked it into her hair. Breathing deeply, she watched the shadows grow longer and hugged herself. A dog of her own to look after ... nothing like a child, she thought, remembering Hope’s face. Nothing like.

  * * *

  New recruits to the sailing club and their first forays into the water for summer camp had a way of making Angus feel he was being sucked slowly down into the mud. But, judging by his Rubiks cube clock, he had nearly two hours’ peace to straighten the latest drama out. He loosened his collar.

  What a morning: firstly, a crash-course in anger management with a boisterous class of pre-teens as Susy Williams screamed blue murder across the water after her mobile phone plopped to the bottom of the sea. Crisis management at registration for Topper class with the discovery that one of the lifejackets had been blown up and used as a voodoo doll of one of the less popular children, but the icing had come at mid morning when Chris Bates had tripped as he hauled his Laser up the slipway and burst his lip. The blood caused by a chipped tooth was more of a shock to the poor boy than the pain but three children had subsequently fainted and Chris had thought he was dying. All this, coupled with Georgia Mopham suffering concussion last week after being hit by a boom left Angus in need of a break himself.

  It was a shame, he reflected, he hadn’t made it to the guitar evening but with Georgia’s parents away and her grandmother in loco parentis and at her wits’ end, Angus had no option than to spend Friday night in A and E discussing Robert Pattinson’s love life with a twelve year old. Rosy’s note had amused and surprised him and he was annoyed to have missed a good night.

  So lunchtime, followed by some free time, was a gift. He stretched and fantasised about sailing alone that evening; a quick blast around the harbour would blow the cobwebs. No weather was too wild for Angus, who was never happier than on the water. It was a shame Alison wasn’t more outdoors-y in that department. He smiled; summoning images from the previous night ... mature women could be so adventurous.

  He searched his desk for a red pen. Safety administration sucked. Recording attendance and progression alone took a few hours a week and the RYA handbook never quite delivered what he wanted so he ended up making his own rules more often than not. Although he still considered it the best job on the planet: working with children and spending time on the water was never boring and he’d be the first to admit that improving self-confidence and having fun was a pretty good deal for all involved. Not to mention the holidays. Technically, Angus wasn’t actually qualified to instruct. But ten years’ experience assisting with water sports and sailing in one of the best private resorts in Portugal in the south, together with the kudos of founding an after-hours dinghy race club had afforded him such an impressive reputation that no-one had ever thought to question his pre-entry assessment certificate. In all his time teaching sailing, Angus had never felt more at home than in his current job. He’d taken to Crabham — a picturesque, if craggy-cliffed harbour nestled in t
he neck of Lytton, with a wood stained clubhouse - like a duck to water. And it seemed he really could do no wrong — especially with the female instructors.

  There was a knock and Janet, the sailing club secretary, stood robustly in the doorway. A small woman in her late fifties, with her two-tone hair and black and white mini-dress she looked like a hip badger.

  “Parent wants a word.” She prodded her eyebrow archly with a pencil. “Mrs Bates.”

  Angus flinched, not relishing telling Chris Bates’ mother about her son’s accident. Chris lived with his father, a quiet, unassuming man who had taken the news calmly and whisked Chris to the dentist silently, without fuss, an hour ago. But he’d warned Angus his ex-wife would want answers. “She’ll be in touch,” he’d said glumly. “She likes to get to the bottom of things.”

  “Thanks Janet. Put her through.”

  “She’s here now.”

  “Fine, show her in.”

  With eyelashes to die for and a glistening, honey-tipped bob, Ms. Monica Bates looked like a Cadbury’s Caramel bunny. Classic jodhpurs, designer cardigan and attendance at every school ‘do’ marked her out as an ‘A’ for effort’ parent. But, as she gave a friendly nod, every inch the concerned mother, Angus relaxed and assembled a winning smile. “Ms. Bates. Do take a seat.”

  “Thank you. Mr ..?”

  “Angus, please.”

  She remained standing, inviting him to speak further with carefully kohl-ed eyes. Patiently, he outlined the morning’s events, taking care to stress the presence of two instructors.

  “I thought those two wheel trailers were banned last summer?” Her words were thick with feeling.

  He agreed. “We’re taking steps to phase them out.”

  She laughed. “You expect a lot from children. What about those clod-footed types who can’t keep trailers in straight lines by themselves? Do other people’s children need to suffer at the hands of their clumsiness in the meantime? And please call me Monica.” Her voice was soufflé-light and Angus didn’t have the energy to correct her. She was ravishing but, sensing the afternoon beginning to slip through his fingers, Angus changed tack.

  “I’m sure Chris will be fine. He’s been doing very well so far, so I hope to see him back on the water with us soon.” He shifted backwards slightly as she perched on the corner of his desk.

  “I thought you taught sailing, not medicine?” She squeezed a rubber stress-ball slowly between manicured talons — a present from a past girlfriend who taught biology, it was shaped like a heart - and breathed something about needing some clinical examination. Face to face with a lambs wool cleavage, Angus levered himself to his feet.

  “Chris’ accident was certainly a shock but he’s an excellent boy who, I have no doubt, will deal with the incident manfully.”

  Her smile was disarming. “’Manfully’ ... now there’s a word. Chris certainly is lucky to have such a ... fine figure of an instructor. Lord knows he needs one. His father’s so wet ... ”

  Angus ignored the tone of her voice on the last word and cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I must return to my job,” he gestured towards the pile of safety forms.

  “Of course,” she slipped off the desk and smoothed down her impressive curves. “I mustn’t keep you from work,” her voice was childishly singsong. She reached the door, hovered, changed her mind and bee-lined Angus, whose heart raced as she slid behind the desk and caressed his left buttock with the same intimacy she’d used on her own. Leaning forward, she whispered her home address and jangled keys in his left ear. “These hang behind the statue by the garden gate,” she purred. I’m rather a good educator myself, but I’ll be there all afternoon. Waiting to be ... marked.”

  He was irritated now. She liked to get to the bottom of things, did she? His included? Before he could stop himself, his palm suffocated the metal and he pushed her knee firmly off the desk.

  “Mrs Bates, this is inappropriate. I appreciate your coming in person,“ he paused as she smirked, “to discuss Chris, but I think we both know that the outcome of today’s little ... episode ... is correct.”

  She tucked any offence discreetly into her Mulberry bag. Breasts heaving in their fluffy shroud, she bit her lip but finally retreated.

  “It would seem Angus Hart is too cool for Monica school.”

  And with a look that spoke of over-stuffed bedroom cushions, she was gone. Closing the door firmly, Angus took a deep breath and settled down. It was only as he reached for the pen to draw a smiley face on Iris O’Connor’s skipper theory exam that realised he still held the keys.

  Chapter 6

  Leaving Cathy to prepare one less sloppy Weetabix, Rosy departed with the puppy. As it struggled and squirmed in her arms, it hit her: she had a dependent. Once the engine had started and Vic pulled away, the squeaks from the bundle in her lap became rumbles of content and confirmed her choice of the name ‘Storm’.

  Vic disapproved immensely. “You can’t call an animal after a weather feature,” she frowned in the mirror. “Think how confused your kids’ll be. You’ll never be able to put that dog in a teacup.”

  “Lucky we’re not having them then,” Rosy said, stroking Storm’s nose in a bubble of bliss.

  “You don’tstillthink that?”

  “’Course.” It rung as true as the day she’d declared it, aged sixteen, after three girls in her class had succumbed to teenage pregnancy. Judy twisted with worry and even Charles wanted to talk but she’d shot them down, saying she’d abort in any case of accident, and they’d been silenced by her certainty. Like Vic, they didn’t believe her. In fact, everyone looked at her with that sceptical, slightly pitying face people pulled when they thought they knew better. But it remained: the idea of a tiny person clinging all day, every day ... no, thanks. And as for the argument about being selfish by not becoming a parent, how much more selfish was it to bring another being into the world to consume more precious resources: oil, plastic, fish ... Wimbledon tickets?

  Sometimes a small doubt appeared but, like a hangnail, it was easily pruned. Surely the world was better off with one less broody woman. God knew there were enough amongst her friends: should they, shouldn’t they; could they, couldn’t they? Clearing up sick, sleepless nights, spending a fortune the minute it was ill? Again, no, thanks. She’d said as much to David in the early days.

  “You’ll have all that with a dog,” he’d opined.

  “Dogs don’t scream.”

  “But I will when it chews my shoes and pisses in the house. And then has to be taken outside to piss more when it’s pouring. I reallydon’t think you’ve thought this through ...” David had teased, but she’d allowed him to lick peanut butter from her fingers and that had been that.

  Looking at Storm curled up; paws cradling her ears, she had no doubt that David would fall in love just as forcefully as she had, without any ridiculous ideas about having raindrops of his own.

  * * *

  “We’re back!” Rosy waved goodbye to Vic, slammed the front door and picked a path through cardboard recycling in the hall.

  Judy yelped and flew across the quarry tiles while Charles hung back at the Aga warily. He was not a dog fan. When the deluge of admiration subsided, Rosy placed Storm gingerly on the floor and the audience watched, with varying degrees of bated breath, the puppy slide like a Dancing on Ice reject across the floor. When she targeted Charles’ shoe, latched on to a lace and settled determinedly to chew, Rosy could barely contain her elation.

  Charles’ ears flushed. “I knew it wouldn’t be long before it started destroying things. MY things.”

  “Don’t be bolshie.” He was obviously secretly pleased. Rosy scooped Storm up and moved her to the far corner to explore the mysteries of the wood basket. “She’s young. Soon she’ll run and swim and find far more interesting things than your knackered old trainers.”

  Charles wiped his shoe with a hanky and said nothing.

  Judy leapt to the mirror as the doorbell rang and shoved a skew
er into her hair. A light dusting of flour coated her right cheek and her fingers gleamed with butter.

  “Whoever it is, I’m sure they won’t mind if your hair isn’t completely perfect.”

  “You never know, darling. It might be the Queen.”

  From the hallway came a good deal of drama, with several raised children’s voices.

  “Meet Tom Mason. Our saviour when it comes to cars, lawnmowers and God knows what else,” Judy beamed proudly, ushering him in.

  Tom stood in his overalls looking right at home and winked. “We’ve met.”

  In his uniform, Tom wasn’t unattractive, Rosy decided. With a mechanic’s muscular back and arms and a divorcee’s domestic CV, he could have topped someone’s list ... but was still a grease monkey. And his army of jungle children sealed the matter. Four was too many unless you were the Beckhams. She recognised Toby, whose arm was bandaged in ivy, and a fierce looking girl with mud plastered down her legs and grass stains all over her shorts.

  “This is my brood: Rowan, Toby, Joe and Sara.”

  “Is he ok?” Rosy whispered as Toby hugged his father’s trouser leg. He looked pale and unhappy.

  “Yeah, he’ll be ‘right. He missed out on a harvest festival place so he’s a bit miffed.” He mouthed the word, ‘gutted’ over his son’s head while Toby glared at the floor.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They put on a show at school every September — usually something with a bit of singing and dancing; sometimes comedy ... but this year they’ve run out of parts so not everyone who wanted to be in could be.”

  “But that’s hopeless,” Rosy was distracted from Storm’s antics enough to stand. “Surely every child who wants a go should be able to.”

  Tom agreed. “But in the last couple of years so many want in, they’ve held auditions.”

  Charles studied his watch. Creative talk bored him and Toby seemed uncomfortable too, so they were happy to take up the suggestion of watching the Premiership and bounded to the sitting room like old friends.

  “Has Toby ever performed?”

  “That’s the worst part: he missed out last year, too.” Tom accepted tea. “That’s life, I suppose.” He gave Rosy a warm smile. “Now Judy, the lawnmower?”