by Polly Young
“I’ve always wanted to go on one of these,” shrieked Amy. “Dan says it’s the ‘deluxe’ version. It’s MASSIVE!! I’m next!” She ran towards the ticket vendor, waving her shoes above her head.
Emma had a glint in her eye. “We should all do it!”
“No way.” Rosy shook her head firmly. “There is no chance in hell you’ll get me on a ...”
“Ta daa!” Amy waved three bits of paper under their noses. “It’s a lottery type thing: apparently they’ve got loads of people who want a go so they’ recalling the numbers out randomly over the next couple of hours.”
Thank goodness, thought Rosy. At least she could get the hell out of the tent before they had a chance to call ... she glanced at her ticket ...
“Number 21!”
... number 21.
“Oh my GOD, that’s you!” screamed Emma and Rosy was dragged towards the ring before she had time to think.
“You’ll never get me on that thing!” Rosy shouted. “It’s a physical impossibility!”
“Why would you think that?” asked Emma, innocently.
“No. In fact I don’t think you stand a chance,” said Amy, puffing through her teeth as Rosy dug her stockinged heels ineffectually into the ground.
“Especially against that,” agreed Emma. “Listen.” A slow, lager and Pimms-fuelled chant had started to build around them. “Rosy, Rosy!” called her work mates.
“I really don’t feel too well.”
“Never mind,” Emma said sympathetically.
The last hapless contender, Mick; a sturdy looking man from the post room, grinned ruefully at her as she arrived at the gate and, rubbing his backside and limping slowly, patted her arm. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just hold on and close your eyes.”
“Wow, if Mick had a bad time, it must be hardcore,” Emma said admiringly.
Rosy was feeling slightly faint as she crossed the floor to the mechanical monster. Her dry throat tasted of alcohol and she felt as though she had a million bees in her stomach. The gate clicked shut behind her and a man in dungarees, leather gloves and sturdy boots handed her a helmet. “You’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about ... assuming you haven’t had too much to drink.”
“Why is the wall padded?” she pouted, as the crowd gathered like gannets at the edge of her vision.
He chuckled and gave her a leg up. She clutched the nylon strap that hung from the neck of the enormous red plastic beast and shut her eyes. The crowd grew quiet.
“Go on, Rosy!” Emma. Rosy gritted her teeth. She would kill her later.
A slow, low grinding noise began from somewhere beneath her. She held her breath and felt the monster start to come alive.
“There she goes!” yelled a voice from the crowd. As the machine began to spin, she allowed herself a tiny peep but Deborah’s tight smile made her eyes clamp shut again. She held squeezed her knees and thighs ... hell, she squeezed everything. Faster and faster ... she revolved and dipped and surged with all the control of a Teletubby. Her hair flew into her mouth and her fingers slipped on the strap. She tried to keep her feet in the stirrups but they refused and she slid sharply to her left.
“Wooooah!” roared the crowd. She opened her eyes again and was nearly blinded by the light from the tent’s entrance. Miraculously, she hadn’t fallen off.
“You’re doing so well!” called the girls and Rosy tried to ignore the headache and the heat and the hurt and ...
“I think I feel a little bit sick,” she whispered to herself. “Bleurgh!” chunks of fruit and the remains of breakfast slithered down the red plastic back of the bronco. Rosy slipped with them into a puddle on the straw. She heard the whine of the motor as it slowed and stopped. She felt hands under her armpits and around her waist as she was hoisted up.
“Are you alright?” An expert wipe across the mouth from Emma.
“Yeah,” she croaked. Suddenly she was fifteen again, drunk in the flowerbed at Jackie Pringle’s party. She shuddered at what David would say if he saw her now.
“Let’s get you out of here.” Amy and Emma marched her out of the pen. Dan gave her a sympathetic grin as she hobbled through the crowd and even Deborah managed a tentative pat. “Weekend tomorrow,” she managed, and a frosty smile flitting like sun between snowstorms.
Rosy sat with a sick bag between her knees and shut her eyes as the minibus carried her home. She stared out of the window at the darkening landscape. Why had she been so thrown by Monica Bates? The woman was a harlot but basically harmless.
She had a sneaking suspicion that Monica knew where Angus was. And she was disgruntled because, more than anything, she wanted to know too.
* * *
Puppies yapped, yelped and wound around ankles as the smell of urine and cacophony of barks signalled the beginning of Cathy’s silver award obedience class. Of the sixteen dog owners, Rosy was the only one to forget a toy, systematically, every week. Storm whined at the stuffed ducks and squeaky bones, her ears pinned back in lust, as she stood outside the village hall. See? She was a Bad Mother. She leant down slowly to praise Storm for being so patient.
Having collapsed into bed and woken in pain, the train journey to Lytton that morning had passed in a hung-over stupor but two paracetamol and a nap had helped. Charles had been in good spirits and with David still in Dublin, a trip down was too good an opportunity to miss, though it would be brief.
Tom pulled up. His new whippet jumped out of the car and ran, wriggling, towards Storm.
“Rosy,” Tom had growled, hugging her to his chest whilst the little dog licked her hand to oblivion. “Meet Lewis! As in Hamilton!” he’s Toby’s really,” he ruffled his son’s hair. “I’m on training duty.” He looked at her searchingly. “What’s your news? Down with David?”
She explained. “Thought we’d show Cathy how well we’re getting on.”
Tom beamed and Rosy prayed he wouldn’t push further.
But, “when are you coming back?” Toby fixed her with a penetrating stare. She fussed with Storm’s collar and laughed, shaking her head.
“We miss you,” he continued, pouting, “I want to do another play,” and, having delivered his message like Pheidippides, ran to join Ella whose Boxer was causing mayhem outside. Tom’s raised eyebrows said more than enough but she was saved by Cathy in a green velour leisure suit, throwing open the doors to the hall and clapping sharply.
“Beginners with me; advanced over on the right with Veronica. Rosy! Storm, aren’t you well behaved? Let’s get started.”
Storm half-dragged Rosy to the left but, “join Veronica,” Cathy instructed.
Proudly, they crossed the floor and Rosy wondered how long it would be before Storm blew their cover.
* * *
Later, after the treats were gone and puddles of urine cleared, they trekked back outside. Boots slammed, cheery goodbyes were called and those whose dogs had not disgraced them breathed a sigh of relief, with every intention of practising ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ but small faith they actually would.
Cathy jogged over, clutching paper towels and Dettol. “Coffee?”
Like her appearance, Cathy’s home was a riot of colour and angles. Rosettes were strung along the wall and there were flowers everywhere. The windows were wide open, allowing the scent of thyme to waft into the kitchen. Over crumpets and the strongest coffee Rosy had ever tasted, they compared notes. Hope’s new passion for butterfly conservation. Stuart’s website, which had crashed on more days than not and was riddled with spelling mistakes. Alan and Ralph’s incessant ogling of Bernie’s breasts. Rosy’s father.
“So you’re happy,” Cathy said finally.
Rosy blinked. “I’m fine ...” Storm looked dubious.
And then she confessed to Cathy what she hadn’t told Vic. She couldn’t find her feet in London again. She was ecstatic about Vic’s pregnancy but the idea of having children left her cold. David’s work was making him happy but her miserable. How delaying the marriage felt right but quite poss
ibly wasn’t. How she loved David and that love was still there. Finally she asked about Angus.
Cathy looked puzzled. “I saw him yesterday.”
Rosy’s breathing stopped.
“Packing. He’s going abroad for a while.”
An aeroplane passed by overhead, its engines silent. “Why?”
Cathy looked at her strangely. “Because, like you, he’s searching for something.”
Storm yawned and sighed. Cathy reached for Rosy’s hand. “He said he’d be back when the dust’s settled.”
“I thought he was a good man.”
“Not quite good enough,” Cathy said sadly.
Chapter 26
Once upon a time, before she’d opened her ‘A’ Level results, Rosy feared she might end up living with her parents forever. Before university, she was so excited at the prospect of leaving sleepy Lytton that she’d bought a small, gold leather notebook with her initials embossed on the front. In it she had written guilty, winsome odes to her parents and siblings, to remind herself when she was having too much fun that she loved them and, in case she got run over or died, to remind them too.
As she sat at her parents’ kitchen table, Rosy could have done with a reminder.
“I don’t understand,” her mother said, “why a sensible man like Angus would leave the country.”
“New horizons,” Rosy said flatly.
“Or women,” said Charles. Vic, over for the day and bursting at the seams, picked at the parsnips.
“Dad, you’ve got no idea,” Rosy snapped.
Charles, resplendent in his position at the top of the table, shot back, “my house.”
“Sorry.”
“Ollie! Lunch!” yelled Judy. Ollie came thumping down the stairs and made full use of the wide sweep of hall, landing in a Spiderman stance.
“For God’s sake, Oliver. Aren’t you supposed to be grown up, cohabiting and everything?”
“Yeah. But it’s not like we’re getting married,” Ollie shot back.
There was an awkward silence.
“What’s David up to in Dublin?” Charles carved the lamb carefully and Rosy noticed Judy’s supportive shoulder squeeze.
“Lecturing other surgeons and comparing notes on breast sizes.” Rosy tried to sound as light hearted as she could.
“Amaze-balls,” said Ollie, rolling his eyes and shoving a potato into his mouth. “Or rather, boobs.”
“Rosy, can’t you tell him not to work weekends?” Judy said, off-handedly.
“No, mother, I cannot.”
“But when you have children, how will you cope?”
Rosy sighed. “David and I are still talking things through.”
Vic rubbed her stomach with the resigned serenity of one who has reached their pinnacle in life. “You’ll work it out. And when this one comes, you’ll have me to help,” she laughed.
“I do worry about you, Rosy.”
Rosy clenched her fists and spoke through gritted teeth. “I know,Mum. I get it. You want me to have children. You want grandchildren. But verbally wringing your hands every time I come down Does. Not. Help. So lay off.”
Judy stared, gulped and left the table.
“Well done,” said Charles, setting down his carving knife to follow.
Putting her head in her hands, Rosy found herself staring at Vic’s bump. “Cheers,” Ollie said, with a rueful look at the lamb.
“I’m going,” said Rosy wearily, and made her way through the hallway and up the stairs.
* * *
The carpet squished as she padded, cat-like up to the door and peered through the crack.
Her mother stood, dark grey against the moon washed window, with her back to the door. On top of the chest of drawers were a dozen silver-framed photographs. They told the story of a family.
In one, Ollie stood completely naked, tongue out, looking petulantly into the camera. Behind him stood Rosy, her arms folded, looking disapproving. It was summer and she wore a My Little Pony t-shirt in ‘extra large’, acquired with Weetabix box tokens. Then a memory like sun on a wet pavement: Judy struggling baby Ollie into his snowsuit.
Judy picked up one of Rosy’s favourites: all four of them in France for Rosy’s thirteenth birthday. Charles had an expression he had thought was quintessentially French: a wrinkled upper lip and mincing pose. Ollie, eight, was engrossed in a comic and Rosy beamed into the camera, wearing anew black angora beret and holding a bag from the Pompidou Centre. The wind was so strong she’d had to stuff the beret into the bag. Judy stroked Charles’ face through the glass. “He wanted to go back.”
“What?” Rosy was thrown. “Who?”
“Daddy. After his operation, he wanted us all to go back to the hotel we stayed in for your birthday.”
“Why?”
“Because of what happened in Paris with David. Because you were so happy there on your birthday. And,” she said, turning round, “because he’s your father and he wants to make things better.”
Rosy twisted her hands.
Judy crossed the carpet. “He knows he can’t change things. None of us can,” she put an arm around her daughter and squeezing her so tightly, Rosy felt like Ollie in his snowsuit.
“David’s a good man,” she said. “But he hurt you badly. If you have children, the person you’re with should be your best friend. The one you can rely on; turn to. Make the path easier, not harder. And if you don’t have children, they need to be even stronger. To be your best friend, even with no distractions.”
Rosy felt suddenly invincible. She raised her eyes to Judy’s. “Vic’s baby is going to be amazing. I don’t know if I’ll ever want, or have, my own, but if so, I’m pretty sure I’m making the right choice in the man I have them with.”
Judy looked at her for a long time. “I hope you’re right,” she said, after a long silence. “Daddy and I are right here whenever you need us.”
There was a crash of cutlery from below.
“And so’s Ollie,” Judy said, as they made their way downstairs.
Chapter 27
The iron gates towered behind David as he left Queen’s Park. The wind licked rain and mud into his face like Storm having a love moment and he struggled to keep his Aquascutum coat clean as he hurried along the pavement. It was Saturday. After a long day in theatre, he was late ... and she hadn’t been in the mood for forgiveness recently. He put his head down and pushed on. He’d had to cut short a promising phone call with the PR of a famous Spanish actress interested in reducing her eye bags. Sometimes it wasn’t easy, making the rich and famous look more beautiful. The ducks quacked, nodding sympathetically.
“We have to talk.” Something about her tone gave him a feeling it might be life-changing news.
His fingers flicked nervously as he drew closer and saw her sitting like a small, knitted Buddha outside a greasy spoon. She was toying with a plastic cup of tea, her feet encased in the brand new wellingtons she had bought in Lytton and insisted on bringing to London. Not such a stupid idea now, he had to admit, as he glanced disconsolately down at his slush-spattered Hush Puppies.
She smiled when she saw him. A tight-lipped, painful smile, but a smile nevertheless. She had come straight from a rehearsal: the show was starting the following week and looked tired and pale. He put his bag down. “Shall we go inside? It’s freezing.”
“I like it out here. I’ve been feeling a bit queasy today. It’s better in the cold.”
“Fine”. Her nose was pink and he noticed for the first time how stunning her ears were. He disappeared to buy a latte and emerged with a grin like Sheer Khan’s because now he knew exactly why he had been summoned. She gave him her hands and he stared expectantly into her eyes.
“I should have told you earlier.”
As she started, haltingly, to talk, his eyes lingered on the little playground through the bars of the park. He watched as a curly-haired girl took her younger brother by the hand and led him to the big swings. Their mother wiped their faces and redi
rected them to a spring-mounted wooden horse. The girl helped her brother up and began pushing him backwards and forwards.
“David? Did you hear me?”
“You’re pregnant!” he blurted out.
She looked horrified. “No! What on earth made you think that?”
Everything. Nothing.
“Oh God, David, no. I’m not pregnant,” she looked up at him. “I can’t believe we’ve gotten ourselves into this. Did we ever really talk? I don’t think we can have done.”
He felt as though he were in an avalanche. This was worse than being sued for a botched boob job.
“Us. Marriage. Children. It’s unorthodox for us to do any of it. You’re not even my best friend.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean you used to be my best friend. Before Paris.”
“Forget Paris. Before Angus, you mean.”
“David, this isn’t about anyone else. Or Paris. It’s about making each other happy ... and we don’t.”
Not fair, David thought bitterly. Her birthday was in two weeks’ time. They were going to celebrate at home, with steak and Fitou. He hadlearned lessons from last year.
He felt wobbly. “I thought Vic had changed your mind where I couldn’t. You came back from Goodwood feeling sick. You’re tired.” He coughed to cover the sob from his throat. “You’re a bit fatter, too.”
“Thanks.” Rosy jabbed him in the side and put on her mittens. “Let’s walk.”
They pushed their cups into the bin. They’d make such good parents, David thought.
They strolled, arm in arm, along the road, ignoring the hurrying shoppers, until they came to a corner and turned into a quiet street, where a ginger cat sat quietly on top of a wall. Rosy looked up to see David gazing, unseeingly, into the murky sky. Pigeons swooped as the cat watched. Rosy shivered and David gathered her into his arms.
“This is it?” he said into her hair.
She nodded.
“If you ever need a boob job, you know where I am. It’s never too late, you know.”
She laughed despite herself, took off her ruby, shook her head, then buried them both in his Aquascutum.