Rosy George's Convention Conundrum

by Polly Young

  She was silent.

  “Hashe tried?”

  “I told him not to.” She sounded ridiculous; like a petulant child.

  It was Stuart’s turn to be silent. “Don’t you think he’d like to hear from you?”

  “Yes,” she said meekly. “

  The air hung like treacle as she trudged off with a heart like lead. What would David think if he knew she was gallivanting around the countryside looking for ways to get in touch with Angus? But wasn’t she justified in trying to get things straight in her head? She was halfway back to the sailing club before she realised where she was heading. She dragged an old parka from the boot and was struggling into it against the spitting rain when a familiar voice behind her rang out against the evening’s breeze.

  “Yoo-hoo! Rosy dear,” a large bosom emerged from the dusky woods behind the lavatory block brandishing a large branch of May blossom. “Just doing a recce for spring blooms. A May wedding is such a joy when the weather behaves, don’t you think? Which brings me to your own nuptials, of course.”

  “Hello Hope,” Rosy said weakly. She crossed her fingers behind her back as she spoke about the wedding plans: lying to Hope felt worse than blaspheming in church.

  “Jolly good. The vicar and I have been worried,” she wagged a mitten at Rosy. “It’s unusual for a bride to be as nonchalant as you, dear. Since last year I’ve hardly seen you. So how about you drop in next week for a little chat? How long until the big day? Eight weeks?”

  Rosy smiled but answered curtly. “Do excuse me Hope; we’d better get going. Loosen the old bowels, you know what it’s like,” Rosy smiled broadly, pointing to Storm. Hope coloured to the fuchsia of her lightweight cagoule.

  “Of course, of course,” she wittered. “Lovely to see you dear, and if you have any ideas about flowers, doshare them: it’s so important to get these things right.”

  Rosy backed away. Flowers? Did she have to think about such things? Her heart sank at the thought of favours, even though a few months ago she’d gone mad over white chocolate cherries. They’d discussed having a one-man band at their wedding but she wondered just how much of a one-woman band organising it might be.

  * * *

  David couldn’t work out why Rosy was craning her neck to peer into Pizza Express but he was finding it highly irritating. Following her eyes through the window at the ultra chic restaurant Dock Seventeen, he watched her watch a dark-haired woman with a baby in a high chair and a child who looked about three. The woman was struggling to spoon-feed the wriggling baby, but looked relaxed, with the dreamy, patient air David hoped Rosy would have one day. He gave a little inward sigh. She was getting broody, excellent. He grabbed a piece of rosemary bread, plastered it with butter and continued.

  “ ... so I should be being asked to lecture on my research papers by Christmas.” He glanced up to see her reaction.

  “Sorry, darling; not listening,” Rosy smiled and rubbed his forearm. Her ruby glinted reassuringly.

  “I can see that,” he bristled. “Darling, we haven’t seen each other months. What do you think we’re going to do? Communicate by osmosis?”

  “Don’t sulk,” Rosy said. “And you could be earning towards a hundred grand. Marvellous.” But the words tasted hollow.

  “And I’m doing this for us, Rosy Posy. For us.” He said brightly and grinned. “Let’s talk about nibbles.”

  Rosy was silent.

  “Darling?” Despite his guilty conscience, David’s patience was wearing thin. He ran through the ways he had tried to win Rosy’s affections over the last couple of weeks. The night out to see The Mousetrap. The weekend in the Michelin-starred hotel and seafood restaurant in the Lake District where they’d lounged in a hot tub, silently looking up at the stars; the lunch with a unusually quiet Vic and the day at Lords where Rosy had shown little interest in Giles, his new colleague’s, four-bedroom Chiswick house and much more in his gardening tips and stared straight ahead a lot of the time. As she was now. He watched with alarm as tears welled. Please not again. What waswrong with her? The slightest thing seemed guaranteed to set her off. And then light dawned. Perhaps ..? No; she couldn’t be. It was too much to hope for. Or could she?

  “It’s nothing. Really. It’s just so much has happened.” She took his hand in both of hers and swallowed hard. “David, I do want us to be happy,” she said, her eyes boring into his. “Do you think we can be?”

  “Of course! We’re over our ... problems, aren’t we?”

  “But things can change. How do you ever know if you’re making the right decisions in life?”

  She was asking his advice. This was better. “We’ve been through a lot and come out the other side. We’re good people. We play by the rules, you and I.”

  She looked at him narrowly.

  “Well ... I ... you know what I mean.” He took a deep breath. They had skirted around each other uneasily like cat and dog for too long. “We had a misunderstanding. At least we don’t go around abusing people.”

  Her face grew more suspicious. “David, what — or who — are you talking about?”

  He feigned ignorance. “No-one. What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing.” She sighed. “Do you remember Angus? Hart?

  His own skipped a beat.

  “You met him last summer when I moved down here. We wrapped the van around his tree.”

  “I remember,” he said cautiously.

  She gazed out of the window. That table again. The woman had stopped feeding the baby and was concentrating on her own meal. Rosy would make such a great mother. He squeezed her hands but she pulled away and sat back, arms folded.

  “He’s a sailing instructor. Who’s been dismissed on the grounds of sexual charges.”

  David took a moment to produce the correct expression. “How terrible,” he said, “that these things happen. That’s what I mean about the two of us being good people. We’re ...”

  “Stop it,” Rosy said sharply. “I don’t want to hear why we’re better than other people. We’re not. I don’t feel very good about myself at the moment. And I can’t imagine why you do.” The waitress buzzed to refill their glasses and the bottle clinked to fill the silence.

  She continued in a low voice. “I believe — believed — Angus was a good person.”

  “You were wrong.”

  She gave him an odd look. “I suppose so. I’ve been proved wrong before.”

  He ignored the comment. “The guest list. Would you like Angus included?”

  “I don’t know where he is,” she answered. “And no, of course not.” She gave a quick headshake, though her eyes were dull. “Let’s think. Guests. Immediate family: four your side, four mine. Then there’s Vic, Rachel, Stuart, Tom .. “

  “Who?”

  She explained.

  “Fine,” said David, not likely to argue now the subject was safer. “So we’ll stick to the original number — a hundred and fifty.”

  Rosy looked aghast. “No way!” she exclaimed. “After all the hitches we’ve had? It’s got to be a very small affair.”

  He winced at the word ‘very’. “What’s changed?”

  “If I have to spell that out for you, maybe you’re not destined for a guest appearance on Horizonafter all.” They glowered through the candlelight.

  “I give up. Whatever you want, Rosy. Your wish is my command.”

  “No need for sarcasm.”

  “Sorry. But I really don’t know what you want any more, darling.” And it was true. He really didn’t.

  Chapter 19

  Despite her family, David and Vic telling her it was bonkers, Rosy had decided to put on a ‘cabaret explosion’ during May half term. As she looked around the village hall at the puffed out faces of her ‘seasoned performers’ she felt exhilarated and proud.

  “Helloooo!” Vic waved from across the hall, struggling in with an enormous pair of kitchen scales under one arm. Behind her came Roger: broad chested and big-biceped he might be, but even he see
med defeated by the object he carried. Rosy yelled happily, delighted to see them. She jumped off the stage, disrupting Stuart who was fixing a picket fence to the side of the set, who banged his thumb hard.

  Things hadn’t been the same with Vic since their awkward conversation outside the Moon. Rosy was desperate to get things back on track but a spontaneous appearance was a good sign, right?

  “Roger’s sister’s doing a clearout. We thought you might need some props,” Vic said shyly. “Is a kids’ seesaw and climbing frame any use?”

  “Sure we can use them somewhere. Cuppa?” Rosy asked tentatively.

  “Shaken not stirred for me,” said Roger, saving any awkwardness.

  * * *

  The coffee shop owner next door stared blankly at the word latte but fifteen minutes later, clustered around steaming mugs, the tension eased as they ploughed through chunks of millionaire shortbread.

  “Vic says you’re getting married again. Not again of course,” Roger laughed, spraying damp crumbs in Rosy’s lap. “I mean — you were, then you weren’t; now you ...”

  “Yep,” Rosy cut him off, “and you’d better not be stuck under some box under the sea,” she said, smiling so that Roger and Vic could see she was as relaxed and blissful as any right-minded bride-to-be.

  “I’ve got leave,” said Roger a little too smugly even for him, and Rosy noticed a small look pass between the couple.

  “What?”

  Vic looked into her cup.

  “We’re fifteen weeks pregnant!” exclaimed Roger, punching the air like an X Factor winner.

  Rosy felt the ground swell and recede. “Really?” she whispered. “That’s ... that’s amazing.”

  Except it wasn’t really. She could remember hosting tea parties with Vic’s seven dolls were her ‘babies’, whereas Rosy had brought along an old, battered monkey and a donkey on wheels. She had never thought to create imaginary children, any more than real ones. It was a shock, but no surprise. No one would make a better mother in the world.

  She could tell by the flush on Vic’s face the hug was appreciated.

  “I wanted to tell you earlier, you know when we met the other day, but ...” she said into Rosy’s neck, and trailed off.

  “I know,” Rosy said briskly. “It was too early: twelve weeks to be sure; fifteen to be certain.”

  Vic looked relieved. “It’s due mid-November so you’d better be on hand over Christmas. Even when you’re loved up in London, I’m really going to need you.”

  Although she looked petrified, Rosy had never seen Vic more beautiful. Even without makeup, her complexion glowed. No alcohol obviously helped. Rosy made a mental note about decaffeinated tea bags. One step at a time.

  “’Course,” she said. I’ve no plans after the honeymoon other than settling into being Mrs Pettigrew.”

  “I suppose you’ll be glad to see the back of Lytton.” Vic raised her eyebrows, turning the statement into a question.

  “I’ll have David, work and friends to catch up with,” Rosy agreed, sounding more vivacious than she felt. “I doubt I’ll have much time for pining.”

  “That’s great,” Vic said firmly, fixing her with a look and raising her cup solemnly. “To weddings, births and new beginnings.” And Rosy could only raise hers in return.

  Chapter 20

  Bracken: poison to horses, torture to hands, Angus grimaced as he ripped out another fistful. His gloves were in the cottage, five miles’ hike back. With the time already past four o’clock, he had another half-hour before the sun started to sink behind Snowdonia, turning the heather from pink satin to purple velvet.

  He snatched at another few clumps, piling the weeds on top of each other. Four hours’ activity in the afternoons had become par for the course; there was always something that needed doing. Since Mrs Brindle, the housekeeper, had resigned to look after her diabetic husband, there was the linen and cleaning as well as the estate grounds to take care of.

  Fences, weeds and wood chopping were no problem for Angus, but the more domestic tasks floored him. He just wasn’t interested. Vases of fragrant flowers and aired sheets had been replaced with musty, musky bedrooms that needed dusting, changing and goodness’ knows what else before the summer’s tenants arrived. But if it wasn’t outdoors and physical, Angus found he just couldn’t be bothered. The decision to call it a day was made for him as he heard a faint, “Hallooo,” from the road. He straightened up, shading his eyes from the dropping sun.

  “Alice?” he started to trudge up the slope towards a familiar looking pick-up.

  Alice Barker was the only octogenarian driving in these parts. The Welsh mountains were tricky at the best of times yet Alice ran her own small farm and had driven the mobile blood bank for the best part of forty years. Angus was thrilled to see her, bounding the last few metres to the road.

  “Angus? Is that really you? What are you doing back here?” Alice’s opalescent eyes shone as she gripped his hand.

  “Taking a break. How wonderful to see you.”

  “Tough old bird, me,” she gave a papery laugh. “How is it down south?”

  “It’s ... demanding,” he said, and shrugged.

  Alice had known Angus since he was too small to cross the stream at the bottom of the sheepfold. She’d hoisted him onto her shoulders to climb the hill on the other side of his mother’s studio all the way to the old World War II bunker where he had got scared by the expanse of sky, thinking bombers were on their way, and dived into the safety of her massive waterproof. She’d fed him his first black pudding, put him to bed when his parents had gone out for the evening and ferried him off to Swansea theatre when he was eleven, inspiring him to read Cymbeline and hooking him on Shakespeare for life. As she locked him in a beady stare, he succumbed.

  “Alice.” He looked at her levelly. “I’m in trouble.”

  * * *

  “It seems to me,” Alice said after she had washed down two of her own scones with three cups of tea, “you need to fight.”

  “I can’t,” Angus sighed. “The deed is done; the die is cast.” His shoulders sagged and he stirred his tea despondently.

  It wasn’t often that Alice got cross. She couldn’t spare the energy. And there were few things to get cross about in life any more, unless you counted the post office running out of Garibaldi biscuits. Or getting older.

  “Rubbish. I knew your mother, your aunt and I know you; you’ll have thought what to say to this sailing club bully and the nasty Mrs Bates over and over and over again, and gone to sleep and dreamt about it!” she said, jabbing a fig roll with her teaspoon. “Don’t be so slack. There’s nothing to be gained by throwing in the towel!”

  And so Angus explained about Rosy. About how his heart was in Lytton with a girl engaged to someone else, and about how he would do whatever it took to prevent her being more hurt.

  “But you did nothing to this girl!” Alice shrieked.

  “No,” Angus said quietly. “But maybe it’s a wake-up call. Maybe I need to move on. I’m thinking of hiring a grounds man for this place, and a housekeeper. I can’t face being here over the summer, and I don’t want to go ...” he stopped short of the word, ‘home’.

  “Well, I hope wherever you end up it stops your hurting, Hart,” said Alice, laughing like a drain. “Could you fill the teapot?”

  Chapter 21

  Hope Winthrop bustled into the church with determination. Her purple scoop-neck t-shirt, so practical for the June weather, not to mention her most flattering shade, was damp under the arms but she glowed with more than perspiration as she hurried towards Rosy, standing with her arms folded gazing up at the statue of the Virgin Mary at the front of the church.

  “Beeeyootiful.” Hope sighed, with a whiff of halitosis.

  “She’s been on lookout since 1511. When you think the sights and seasons she must have seen,” she said fondly, patting Mary on the head and shivering with pleasure. “All the births, funerals and marriages!”

  David, standin
g in the pulpit, flicked a prayer book. “She’ll have one more to add to her list soon,” he said, winking at Rosy.

  The Wedding Rehearsal. Butterflies of excitement had danced in Rosy’s stomach and hot and cold flushes sluiced over her at breakfast. But now there was a sick feeling too; a feeling that overrode schoolgirl jitters. She sidled up to David, who was beckoning like Patrick Swayze at the end of Dirty Dancing. He was also looking particularly winning in his ‘practice’ wedding suit, which emphasised his tiny waist.

  “So, lover,” he crooned, taking her hand and almost crushing it in his paw. “What do you think? How much longer must we wait to say ‘I do’?”

  It was a rhetorical question but another wave of nausea broke. She stooped, on the pretext of finding a dropped hairclip.

  “What’s the entrance theme?” Reverend Scott strode into the church, small showers of shortbread ricocheting off his robes, having torn himself from the annual vicarage cake sale. He had a bit of a thing for Judy and had agreed to the rehearsal date at her request, even though it meant missing the tray bake-off.

  “Bad, Michael Jackson,” David guffawed, making the joke for the tenth time since the proposal.

  “njosnavelinby Sigur Ross,” Rosy said firmly. “I’m not having anything played on the organ I’m afraid, Father.” They moved down the stairs to meet him.

  David looked perplexed.

  “‘The Nothing Song,’” Rosy said gently. “It’s truly beautiful.”

  David looked unconvinced. “Bit ominous, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all, babe,” Rosy said brightly. “There’s nothing I want more than to marry you. I think it’s really fitting.”

  David scowled. “Complete rubbish, if you ask me,” he said.

  She didn’t, usually. They’d never agreed on music. David’s taste had started with David Bowie; and moved through the ‘80’s and ‘90’s in a whirl of Depeche Mode, Dire Straits, The Manic Street Preachers and U2. Now he liked to think ‘experimental music’ was a spot of Coldplay or The Arctic Monkeys. Music had been a sticking point in their relationship, but there had been a time, Rosy remembered, when they would spend rainy afternoons cuddled up in bed with an iPod and speakers.