Rosy George's Convention Conundrum

by Polly Young

  David followed, his spirits lifting. They trekked down a passage with ‘encouraging’, scarily womb-like modern art, through a small, green-painted side door and into a cloakroom straight from Hogwart’s. Dark blue uniforms hung in regiments from pegs with pairs of white trainers lined up along the shelves below. “Staff changing room,” the man whispered, with a finger to his lips. “We’re safe until half ten. I bring my own supplies.” He produced from his pocket a carefully wrapped cling film package with tea bags and sugar sachets.

  “Thanks.” David slumped gratefully onto one of the benches, exhaled loudly and rested his head on a starchy, polyester trouser leg. He was exhausted. “I can’t be long,” he stressed. “There may be developments.”

  “Of course.” Tim looked understanding as he extracted two mugs from behind a pair of plimsolls. “But you’ll be more supportive for some refreshment.”

  Tim seemed remarkably calm such a male un-friendly environment. “Are you here in support?”

  “Yep,” he said cheerfully. “Fourth time. Mandy’s labour’s just started and the other three are with my mother so I’m feeling pretty good.”

  From somewhere under David came the sound of bubbling. Steam started to consume his legs. He leapt up sharply. “What the ...?”

  “They hide the kettle,” Tim said casually. “To stop people freeloading.”

  “What, on hot water?”

  Tim looked knowing. “NHS cutbacks,” he said soberly. “I can see the headline: ‘tea-making nurses deprive elderly of life-saving drugs’.” He poured water, added milk and, without asking, three packets of sugar.

  “Cheers.” David took a long slurp and burned his tongue.

  Tim tutted sympathetically. “Boy or girl?”

  “We’ve no idea,” David felt again the little thrill he had experienced when they’d said ‘no’ to discovering the sex.

  “How’s your wife? God knows how I’d cope.” Tim blew daintily across the top of his mug and looked to David for agreement.

  “Girlfriend,” he corrected, fondling a little red box over and over in his pocket. “She’s doing fine.” He glanced at his watch. “But I’d better get back soon. Don’t want to miss anything.”

  Tim looked delighted. “Not squeamish! That’s great,” he said. “She’s probably dying to see you. I’m just praying it’s all over in time for Match of the Day.”

  David smiled weakly. A year ago, he would have felt just like Tim. And, on the one hand, deep down, she’d probably be happy with him not seeing her red-faced and puffing.

  But he set down his part-drunk tea carefully, feeling positively grown-up. He stood to shake Tim’s hand and thanked him, politely and sincerely. Feeling invincible, he strode out of the cloakroom, past the nurses in reception and on, on; to room fourteen and the next stage of his life.

  Chapter 30

  It was near closing and the Moon was almost deserted as Angus pushed the door gently and ventured in. The rain had blustered into a storm that was rising, doing little to calm his unrest. Having gone without sleep for the last couple of nights, the floor seemed to tilt with every step. Gingerly, he crossed the carpet to his friends. Crunchwent a large crisp as he passed the bar, causing Bernie to pop up like a meerkat, revealing sweat patches on her white t-shirt as she reached to put glasses on the rack above her head.

  “Ooh, Angus! Nice hair. You look like that sexy gynaecologist up at the hospital.”

  He ignored her and asked for lemonade.

  “Are you crazy?” Bats envied Stuart’s hearing.

  Angus displayed down-turned palms and thanked Bernie who gave a lascivious wink and purred, “you’reverywelcome.”

  With Bernie’s cleavage honed on another customer, Angus picked up his drink and headed over to the men, sitting waiting like starving puppies. Tom cradled his pint protectively. Stuart sipped daintily at his lager. Trepidation from two sets of eyes followed him to his seat.

  “Did those red-blooded South Americans steal your balls?” Tom demanded, picking at a peanut in his teeth, his open mouth wide as the top of his pint glass.

  “What’s going on?” Stuart shook his head sadly, brushing a crisp crumb from his legs. He shifted invitingly; ready to give Angus the airtime he needed to make everything alright.

  “I’m looking after myself,” Angus said shortly, “so I’m off the drink for a bit.”

  Tom emerged from his lager with a perfect blob of foam on his nose. “Do something stupid?”

  “You can talk.” Angus grinned.

  “Mate, you disappear for months and now you summon us out in the middle of the night. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Jetlag. Christmas. You know what’s it’s like.”

  “Yeah, wedo. Some have children,” Tom pointed out, having none of it. “But whyare you back? That’s why I’m sitting here when I should be wrapping a mountain of presents.”

  Angus waited, his chiselled jaw like Caesar. And then he tugged his chair forwards, rolled up his sleeves and began to talk.

  * * *

  “Good Lord,” Tom said later when the shock had sunk in. “But who would do something like that?” he stroked his chin, looking dazzled.

  “In Lytton, anyway,” Stuart added piously.

  “To you,” Bernie, lured by the incredulous expressions on Tom and Stu’s faces, got up and planted a smacker on Angus’ head and returned to her post.

  “That story calls for a drink,” Stuart followed her. “Pint, Angus?”

  He acquiesced. The effort of unburdening had destabilised his will power but hearing his description of events out loud, alcohol seemed appropriate. Smoothing his t-shirt flat over his newly honed pectoral muscles, he felt supportive silence. Tom returned with drinks and regarded him solemnly.

  “Are you going to carry on?”

  “Instructing? I think so.” Angus watched an elderly couple in the corner of the pub bicker amiably over the menu. “I’ve had my adventures. And the club wants me back,” he swallowed, trying to ignore the strange feeling of deep sadness.

  Tom studied him carefully, scooping peanuts steadily into his mouth. “I think you’re scared.”

  Angus reeled.

  “Of going for what you really want.”

  “Which is?”

  “Rosy George.”

  That conversational territory was a no-fly zone. Angus leaned forward, gripping the table. “Forget it,” he said, through teeth tighter than Fort Knox. He raised his eyes to Tom’s calm, cornflower gaze. Resistance was futile. “I saw her tonight,” he said finally, defeated.

  Stuart returned, setting the glasses down softly as he realised the importance of the conversation.

  Angus relayed his encounter. “ ... so she must know but still wants nothing to do with me,” he said, staring into his Guinness.

  “How could she know if you haven’t told her?”

  “I told Judy.” He was tired now; the hours spent staring at the ceiling over the last few nights were taking their toll. He yawned. “She will have told Rosy.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Tom said sagely.

  “Well, even if she does know, tomorrow’s Christmas,” he pointed out, ‘so she and David’ll be heading back to London soon.”

  “London?” Tom looked puzzled. “She lives in Exeter now.”

  Angus paused, mid-stretch. “Exeter?”

  “She’s got a new job. With kids, doing drama. And,” Tom paused for maximum effect, “there is no David.”

  Tom and Stuart exchanged a triumphant look. “Out of the picture.”

  Angus stood up to still his heart, which had begun hammering alarmingly. He walked to the end of the pub and saw that the couple were now happily finishing late-night chips and pork pie; the picture of perfect companionship. What if Rosy really didn’t know the full story?

  He strode to the back of the pub and opened the door. The frosty wind had finally stilled and his breath made sharp outlines in the night air. He hadn’t needed a cigarette since Argentina
but could have killed for one now. The church bells started ringing, summoning the faithful to midnight mass and Angus watched as the elderly man helped his wife avoid the storm-blown branches as they shifted along the road towards the service.

  He returned composed and laid his palms on the table. “No David. No London. No wedding.”

  “That’s right,” said Stuart. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  Chapter 31

  After a storm there is damage. Sometimes devastating: buildings destroyed, landscapes shifted; people dead.

  Other times it’s not so obvious. You might fix a dropped slate or fallen flowerpot; your neighbour may raise a sympathetic eyebrow as you pick up your dustbin lid. Becalmed sea might belie a storm only by murky silt. But things have happened. The earth’s axis may even have shifted.

  Rosy picked her way through dinghies, feeling fuller and emptier than she ever had done before in her life. Back for Christmas, Beauty and the beast had toiled to fulfil the George’s plates and tummies with delicately flavoured turkey, julienne vegetables, herb butter and a plum pudding fit for the queen. Yet it was like she’d been shot; her stomach shredded; a bullet hole the size of a golf ball. The lump in her throat would not be softened, no matter how much brandy butter or she spooned down.

  Massive clouds scudded across the horizon and the Downs lay crouching like panthers in the mist. Storm was subdued. Rosy took a short cut through the trees behind the shower block, across the fields and up onto the sea wall, fighting with a stiffening breeze as it tried to remove her scarf.

  “Rosy!” she was blinded by wool. The owner of the greeting removed it for her and she looked into grey eyes much warmer than the sky. She took in Angus’ battered LL Bean shirt - no protection against the weather — and realised he must have chased after her. “You’ll freeze.”

  “You will too.” This was true: in her meal-induced warmth she had failed to put on anything more substantial than a gilet intended for spring/summer transition. It was woefully thin.

  He wrapped the scarf back around her neck and she caught a whiff of wood smoke. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “If you’re walking, I suppose I might as well come too. We’ll head to the club.” He took her elbow and steered her. She bit back a retort and let him keep his hand where it was as they battled in chilly, complicated silence along the levee.

  The club hove into view. “Go and warm up,” he commanded. When he said, “I’ll go and find Storm some water,” she started to thaw a little even before she got to the loo.

  She swept a tissue under her eyes before looking in the mirror. After a brief audit of her appearance she pulled a comb through her hair and forced it back into a ponytail, stroked lip-gloss carefully around her mouth and then wiped it off again; added a slick of mascara and pinched her cheeks, which had an annoying habit of looking pale even in the whippiest of winds. That would do. If she knew Angus Hart, he wouldn’t be backwards in coming forwards if he had an opinion on her appearance. And anyway, the strip lighting in the sailing club was designed to unflatter Godiva.

  When she came out, shoulders and hands throbbing from the hand dryer’s’ blast, he had created a little bit of heaven.

  The lights were off. The morning sky weighed in through the windows, heavy with snow, but the usually austere dining area was studded with small tea candles, glowing bravely; little pools of light reflecting off the pictures of well-to-do captains. A tartan cloth lay across the middle of the largest table and Rosy recognised it as his bed sheet. Hoping the tea lights would hide her blushes, she tried to look stern but it was difficult when she realised he was also unpacking champagne, blinis, cream cheese and Scottish smoked salmon.

  “A peace offering.”

  He dug out two mugs. “Still in Argentina mode,” he said apologetically. “I should have remembered real glasses, I know. But I thought you might be in a forgiving mood ...” He held her eyes until she had to look away.

  “Angus ... “

  “Hear me out.”

  Storm was gnawing ecstatically on a bone. The weather outside was foul: freezing and dark. Her parents would be nagging Ollie about thank-you letters. There really was nowhere to go. So she gave in and accepted a loaded blini.

  “I don’t see what we have to celebrate. I’ll eat but I’m not drinking champagne, OK? This is all quite incredible,” she relented. He deserved that much.

  “Thank you.”

  “But wasted. Where’s Monica?” she tried without success to hide the wobble in her voice.

  “Rosy,” he put down the knife. “Monica Bates was never an option.”

  “Oh, Angus. What am I supposed to believe?” she said bitterly.

  “The accusation that led to my dismissal was false,” he said, his voice as clipped as his hedges.

  “You left me to defend you!” she cried. “And I didn’t know where you were! I didn’t know what to tell people!”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “And that was wrong. But,” he ran his fingers along the stem of his glass and though Rosy was no longer in the slightest bit cold, she shivered. “The fact is,” he continued, more slowly, “someone wanted to get rid of me.”

  “By telling Mr. Sidcup that you had an affair with Monica.”

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

  “My father was ill. You should have told me.’

  “Your father was ill,” he repeated, looking tortured. “I didn’t want to add to your problems.”

  “We should have been helping each other with problems. That’s how relationships work.”

  He looked as though he had something to say but changed his mind. “I know,” he said gruffly.

  Rosy chewed her lip. The blinis tasted better though, so she picked another up and popped it in her mouth to give herself time.

  “I think I will have some champagne.” It was bloody Christmas after all. The tea lights twinkled approval. He smiled.

  She waited until the fizz had settled. “Why are you back?”

  “New evidence.”

  “You didn’t sleep with Monica?” she watched him warily over her glass.

  “No.”

  “I heard someone say you ...”

  “If I didn’t sleep with her, I certainly didn’t sleep with her by ... force.” His discomfort was painful.

  “Then why ...”

  He looked at her levelly. “Rosy. The only thing you need to know is that I have been absolved. Absolutely.”

  There was music playing. The Beatles: Something. How had he done that? Her brain was fuddled and she pulled herself to her feet, rocking slightly.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need air.”

  Storm lifted her head anxiously, the bone only half disembowelled.

  “It’s horrible out there.”

  “It’s pretty horrible in here.”

  He folded his arms, beginning to prickle. “I know I’ve been unforgivably backward,” he said. “But I have seen the error of my ways.”

  “What about Argentina?”

  “I loved it,” he said simply. “But I thought about you the whole time.”

  Rosy twisted her hands together and thought for a millisecond. “You couldn’t have. If you had, you would have called.”

  “I wasn’t allowed to have contact with anyone in Lytton.”

  “What? Why?”

  He looked down. “I was under investigation.”

  “I want to believe you,” she said finally. And she did. “But why would Monica make those accusations?” Angus was silent.

  ‘I can’t handle this.” With trembling fingers, she wrestled the bone from Storm and thrust it at him. “A bit of spine,” she said. “You need it.”

  Marching towards the stairs, she caught sight of his defeated expression in the polished regatta plate on the wall above her and knew there was no turning back.

  * * *

  “ ... don’t forget to ring when you get there.”

  Rosy acknowledged her mother
’s last instruction with an exaggerated thumbs-up through the Citroen’s lower window and sped off, spurting freezing gravel in all directions.

  Storm sighed and settled down on the back seat as they pulled away from the village and onto the motorway. Rosy twiddled with the radio, trying to avoid predictable rounds of carols and Christmas songs, and found an evening play on Radio 4. As she cruised along the A31, practically the only driver on the road, dusk fell and with it the temperature. The little heater, temperamental at the best of times, put up a valiant fight but was no match for the steely cold outside.

  She shivered and hunkered into her ski jacket. Reaching backwards, she flipped the seat protector, which doubled as a picnic rug, over Storm and the little dog snuffled gratefully down into the folds. She tried to concentrate on preparation for tomorrow but one glance in the rear view mirror at Storm, fast asleep on tartan wool, brought the afternoon’s events vividly back to mind. She was still feeling numb. Plus points: Angus was back in the country. Alive. And ... she struggled but settled on, ‘sexy.’

  “No!” she said aloud to no one in particular, banging the steering wheel for emphasis. Storm opened an eye and then slipped back into sleep.

  Just what the hell did Angus think he was playing at? One minute a happy-go-lucky cad; the next her knight in shining armour; then he disappeared ...to return, only for Rosy to discover he had been on the other side of the world; a hero rescuing street children from the clutches of poverty. To love or despise? Give in to his haphazard, hopelessly seductive charms or cut her losses and stop wasting time? A looming sign read 24 miles to Exeter. With a little thrill of excitement, she turned her mind to work.