Rosy George's Convention Conundrum

by Polly Young

  Tom started towards the door but Rosy held him back.

  “What about Christmas? Is there a nativity play or pantomime?” Cogs whizzed in her brain.

  “Rosy writes plays.” Judy beamed with pride.

  “Dunno. But we need something like that. Are you offering?”

  What did she have to lose? It would keep her occupied over Christmas and there seemed enough people to help in the village. What else would she do in the absence of shops? She folded her arms, resolutely. “Yes.”

  The TV blared through the doorway. A smile spread over Tom’s face like the sky after a spring shower.

  “Terrific. You’ll have to get your skates on if you want to get some rehearsal dates booked though. Ask Angus: he’s a genius at pulling strings. Hope thinks he’s wonderful.”

  “He IS.” Judy glowed whilst Rosy blushed at the thought of Angus pulling strings of a different sort.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said quickly. A mist had lifted from around her heart at the thought of the project and she didn’t want to encourage its return thinking about the finer details just now.

  * * *

  But as the days rolled by and David’s calls shortened, work tedium settled like a too-thick duvet and it wasn’t long before Rosy grew restless. Free, if not from Deborah’s watchful eye, from her looming physical presence, her writing accelerated. She scribbled frantically: under her office desk, in meetings, in the loo ... and the script took shape, grew, morphed, crystallised. In her mind’s eye, costumes formed. Inception-style sets were built, ripped down, built again. Shamefully, she mentally plucked pre-teen actors from the pavement outside St. Mary’s school as she drove past. She needed help. So she summoned a powerful duo.

  Storm pulled her all the way down the road and up the drive to Angus’ house. The training classes may have worked wonders for socialisation, but Rosy had a suspicion ‘bronze’ status would elude them before the end of term. She skipped over a stump, tugged Storm off a dead hedgehog, circled the Triumph and rat-tatted on the door.

  She stood on the step, presuming Angus Hart liked living by himself. Sometimes, she supposed, he must get lonely, but according to Cathy he seemed content to mow the lawn, bait cougars and shuttle to and from the sailing club. Apparently the house had belonged to a batty old Welsh aunt, so passionate about roses she’d demanded her favourites be uprooted and buried with her. Judging by the immaculate front borders studded with pink-frilled hollyhocks and spidery clematis, Angus was a pretty good gardener too.

  He answered the door in jeans and a salmon coloured sweatshirt with a jaunty windsurfing logo emblazoned across his well-structured chest. His hair was scrunched and his eyes sleep-creased. Probably up all night with Alison, she thought darkly.

  “Rosy. Hi,” he leant forward to kiss her on the cheek. His breath smelt of tobacco. “Nice scent.”

  “Thanks,” she said, thrown momentarily. “Steph Gables.” He wouldn’t know the brand; it was only available in one shop. In Chelsea.

  “Alison’s favourite.”

  Hmph. With satisfaction, she noticed Storm pawing a small hole in his left sock and yelled. But Angus laughed as he lifted and flipped the puppy into a cradle position before scratching her behind the ears.

  “Just saying hello. The usual reaction I get from women. Come in.”

  Luckily he led so he couldn’t see her expression, striding through the hallway with its sailing paraphernalia and wellies. She followed him into the lighter of the two sitting rooms: a wooden-floored retreat with a smell of old cricket bats. Pictures of yachts decorated the walls and three corduroy sofas framed an old raffia rug, the fourth side flanked by a flat screen NASA might be missing. There were several photographs bordering the doorway, some of which she could see Angus in, at different stages of his life. She would have like to look for longer but it might have seemed rude.

  “Nice room,” she muttered.

  “Thanks,” he said, hearing her.

  Storm skittered across the floor towards an antique cream silk cushion. She seized it, shook it and started to strip the tassels with frenzied delight.

  “Don’tdo that!” But Storm gave a backwards glance of pure joy and slithered under the table. Hope bustled in from the kitchen holding a tray.

  “Rosy! I was just saying ...”

  A medley of brown and cream catapulted through her legs. The tray avalanched, rock buns tumbled to the floor and lemonade cascaded down Hope’s mountainous bosoms. Storm squealed and disappeared behind a sofa.

  Angus and Rosy reached her at the same time. She lay on her back, saintly bemusement playing on her lips, her ruined twin-set heaving with emotion. Moments passed during which puzzlement and the shadow of what might have been annoyance battled across her features. Holding a table leg for support she hoisted herself but her knees buckled and she sat down heavily in the chair Angus thrust under her buttocks. She mourned the rock cakes with bovine eyes as Storm Hoovered. A surprisingly child-like chuckle from Angus made Rosy want to giggle too.

  “Hope, I’m so sorry. Storm, don’t be so wet,” she said, as Storm cowered her mistress’ glare - which caused Angus further splutterings.

  Later, over the dregs of coffee, Hope sat like a Michelin monk, in one of Angus’ enormous hooded ski tops. Rosy fizzed with excitement as she read from her notebook.

  “Actions are:

  Rosy to take auditions in the hall at the end of the month

  Angus to get notices made and spread the word at the sailing club

  Hope to sort out the village website and book the hall to the end of the year.”

  Hope nodded and Rosy paused. “We still need costumes and set design, but I can ask Tom and Stuart.”

  “What about the script?”

  “It’s coming,” she assured Angus. “I’ll be finished this weekend.”

  Hope patted Rosy’s arm.

  “Lytton’s very own Rosy-crantz.”

  Rosy didn’t need to look at Angus’ face to feel the sardonic smile but she gave Hope a hug. “Thanks. I hope people like it.”

  “Organ donation next.” Hope chirruped, mopping sugary crumbs with a wet finger. “We’re getting rid of the old one.”

  Angus insisted she wear the sweatshirt home. Burbling with pleasure, she was shown out.

  Rosy sat at the table alone, suddenly self-conscious. The room was welcoming, if sparse. Angus — or his aunt - had painted it a rich, egg-yolk yellow, which glowed in the afternoon light. She imagined how it must have looked before his aunt had died: patchwork cushion covers, beeswax candle blocks on the mantelpiece. She felt warm, comfortable and suddenly rather shy so she cleared the plates and carried them through to the kitchen. Tick, tick went the clock above the sink.

  The front door clicked.

  “Leave those.” Angus appeared in the doorway.

  She turned the tap on and the faucet gushed loudly. “It’s no bother, I get to wash up every night.”

  “All the more reason to stop,” he reasoned, and turned it off. She shrugged, dried her hands and turned to face him.

  The tap dripped twice.

  “Thanks for your help today,” she said.

  “Thanks for taking this on,” he said, at the same time. They looked at their shoes.

  “I’d better be going. I’ve a phone call to make.” A lie! Oh, God. But she’d spoken to David earlier in the day; maybe she wouldn’t go to hell for it. “Really. Thanks for helping. I know you’re busy.”

  “It’s no bother,” he said. “I’ll be pretty much at a loose end at the end of the summer school mayhem. It should be fun,” he added. I’m looking forward to getting involved. Thanks for that note.”

  She looked at him quickly. “Just a reminder that manners don’t cost anything.” Her cheeks burned. Could she sound any primmer? “I mean ... I had a really good night and it didn’t matter you weren’t ... anyway,” she folded the tea towel for something to do, “I should go.” Storm, pole-axed on the rug, jumped at the swing of her lead
.

  Angus followed her to the door. “Any plans for the weekend?”

  No, none. “Yes, lots. My friend Vic might be coming over to watch a film,” — Vic, she knew, was away with Roger. “My mother mentioned a walk; we’re going to check menus for the wedding ... and of course I have the play to finish.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Well, if your calendar allows, I was thinking of a sail on Sunday: the tide’s right. We could potter round the harbour.”

  She felt her neck flush. Somewhere between outraged and the excited she said, “I’ll let you know” and stepped past him neatly. It sounded much ruder than she’d meant but his skin was so thick it would bounce like a beach ball.

  He certainly didn’t seem concerned. “Suit yourself. I’ll let you know about notices. Should be able to drop some round tomorrow,” he yawned. “See you then. I’m going to have to have a bit of a snooze.”

  No stamina, Rosy thought, as Storm snuffled her way back home. Thank goodness she had David. And she tried hard to ignore the geyser-like thrill that had bubbled at the words, ‘drop some round tomorrow.”

  Chapter 7

  The Metro doors hissed and smacked shut with a rubber kiss. David watched the station slide backwards as the train gathered speed. He took out his phone and checked for messages: nothing. But then they’d spoken earlier. It was so great that you could use your mobile on the Metro. Scrolling through his address book he hit ‘call’ for Ian. The phone rang six times and he was about to give up when his best friend answered groggily.

  “Pettigrew, what the fuck are you doing ringing me this early?”

  “Keep your hair on.” David’s response was standard: Ian had none.

  “I’m not joking, this’d better be good. The bird’s in the shower and I’m gagging for action so make it quick.” This was Ian at his humorous best.

  “Remind me again why we’re mates.”

  “A girl winked at me on Tuesday.”

  “Something in her eye. I need a favour. Rosy’s coming over for her birthday and I’m thinking surprise. Any ideas?”

  “For romantic suggestions? From me? Might as well ask a monkey to swim.”

  “Monkeys do swim.”

  “This one doesn’t. Jewellery?”

  “She’s got loads. And the engagement ring cost a bomb. But it’s the match that weekend. It’ll have to be something pretty spectacular to take my mind off it.”

  Manchester United. Champions’ League. In Paris. For a blissful two days, David had floated around the city, before realising it clashed with Rosy’s birthday. The remembrance had felled him on the spot, very nearly causing him to topple into the Seine but after some firm self-motivation, he’d almost accepted the team would have to do without his presence.

  Rosy despised football. They’d come to blows over his obsession with the Red Devils on numerous occasions and one rule was that matches were an exclusively David activity. He was trying to take it on the chin — really he was - but it was tough and he was cross.

  “Take her for a pint. They must have sports bars. Or brasseries? Sounds a bit like brassieres ... ”

  The train reached Oberkampf and David shifted his bag to make room for an attractive brunette who skimmed his knee as she sat, causing him to drop Le Monde.

  “I don’t know. She’s your responsibility.” It seemed a perfectly reasonable suggestion to Ian. “Mr and Mrs Pettigrew ... not long now.”

  They talked briefly about Ian’s property law exams and the difficulty of finding land in Earslfield before David rung off, agitated. He was now faced with a genuine dilemma. He’d tried to think of something. He’d explored various routes ... hadn’t he? He’d asked someone else’s advice and drawn a blank. There was a fallback plan, only to be used in emergencies of course. But after exhausting all avenues, this was one. Wasn’t it?

  As he climbed the steps and emerged at Oligncourt into the late September sun, he did a mental calculation. She would just about be finishing work. If he timed it right, he could give her a quick call before he met his study group in the Bar de Trevasse. Was this the right thing to do? For the hundredth time he told himself, ‘yes.’ His phone rang and he got his chance.

  * * *

  Rosy picked her way through dormant dinghies, lying like body bags against a granite sky. The halliards clinked as she jogged, hurrying her along: she was late. Storm had smashed the sugar bowl and she ‘d been unable to find the dustpan but at least the script was finished. Angus had sounded out of breath on the phone that morning and she’d regretted ringing. Of course he had other things — Alison - to do.

  “Tide’s at four. See you at three,” he’d said and hung up.

  And there he was. She was slightly shocked: in a dark t-shirt and rolled up jeans, he looked like a younger version of her father. His neck was very brown. The Kestrel cover lay on the ground and he was partway through rigging. She allowed herself a few seconds to catch her breath, watching his arms strain as he heaved the mainsail into place.

  Rosy hadn’t sailed for twelve years. When she was five and Ollie a screaming lump, Judy and Charles had invested in a small wooden yawl. Now she thought about it, the responsibility of two small children and a boat needing hours of work in the winter must have been tough, but summer weekends filled with trips out to Trewley Head - a spit of sand best accessed by boat, beyond the reach of the swarming, sweltering masses who endured sweaty traffic-jams to reach the beach — made it worth all the labour.

  She’d learnt to sail quickly, taking courses in the summer holidays. Lasers were her favourite, zipping like fibreglass wasps, faster than light when the wind was right and the tide was high. Her parents had encouraged her as long as she wore a life jacket. “Rules of the road,” her father preached and she’d tossed her head when he’d said, “try to play safe. In life and sailing.”

  Although looking at Angus, he had a point.

  “I’m here. Storm,” she panted.

  His mouth twitched as he handed her a plastic bailer. “Insults before we’ve started?”

  Together they wheeled Mistydown the slipway. Rosy’s lifejacket, borrowed from Judy, was slightly too small and she felt as attractive as an overstuffed turkey as they stomped alongside the dinghy. She reminded herself it didn’t matter.

  “Where shall we go?”

  He shrugged. “Wherever you like.”

  They splashed into the murky water and Angus untied the painter from the trolley, passing it to Rosy to hold. She looked up at the mast.

  “Let’s skim down the harbour; the tide should have turned by the time we get out and we can head towards Trewley Head.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “I didn’t know you knew the channel. Want to helm?”

  Her stomach plummeted and her blood ran as cold as the water lapping her knees. The last time she’d sailed was such a distant memory. Where had the time gone? London’s opportunities didn’t extend to sailing. She swallowed. But how hard could it be.

  “You take her first.”

  “Suit yourself.” He was fixing the rudder. She sensed his smile and anticipated a “you usually do,” but it didn’t come.

  They launched into a stiff southwesterly. Angus leapt aboard, lowered the centreboard and straightened up, handling the tiller expertly. Rosy balanced the boat by sitting high up on the starboard side. As they wove between moored yachts, the sun was caught low between gunmetal clouds and Angus’ golden-edged profile was defined for an instant, and then softened by his flapping hair.

  “You’re good.”

  “Years of practice.” He stared straight ahead. She assumed he’d finished but, “taught sailing since my teens: the kids’ camp employed us for a few quid a summer before I moved to Portugal to do it full time. It was wicked: I lost my virginity over there.” He nodded towards a disused wooden hut on the shingle as they raced past. “Lucy Taylor. What a girl. Showed me how to windsurf, too. Can’t ask much more than that.”

  “Did she tire of outdoor pursuits?”


  He didn’t answer.

  Rosy concentrated on a family group picnicking on a yacht at anchor; a young boy swinging a bucket over the side, held by his waist by his father so he could peer into the sea. She waved at the mother, a pretty, auburn-haired woman who waved back cheerily. Would she and David ever own a boat? If it were up to him, it would be a completely stable gin palace, with enough safety features to equip a flotilla of lifeboats.

  “You must be dying for a go.”

  She slid towards the stern and swapped places, her fingers brushing his thigh as they crossed.

  “We’re heading towards the centre of the channel - we’ll have to put in a couple of tacks first.”

  “I know,” she snapped, concentrating hard.

  She managed them competently and soon they were speeding down the channel towards the custardy banks of Trewley Head. They sat listening to the chuckling water as the boat cut briskly through the waves; salt in their hair and on their lips, enjoying the emptiness of the harbour, the biting breeze.

  “Magic,” Angus said softly.

  Rosy glanced in his direction but he seemed not to notice.

  “It’s my birthday soon,” she volunteered a few minutes later.

  “Twenty first?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What are you planning?”

  “As it’s my thirtieth, a massive party with all my friends, obviously. But that will come with the wedding.” The boat hit a wake and she lurched forwards. Angus looked stony.

  “Tell me about the play.”

  “It’s called Journey’s End,” she replied, keeping an eye on an X-boat on course for a collision.

  They missed the boat by a whisker. “Very appropriate.”

  “Sorry,” he said, seeing her expression, and settled back folding his arms and narrowly avoiding a boom clonk. He looked ridiculous ... ly attractive.

  She eyed him suspiciously. “OK. There are a few main characters. Two children, a paperboy, a teacher, a fireman, a shopkeeper and an ambulance man, but the action takes place in a school so there are also parts for ...”