Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Is that your baby up there? Marfa said you had a baby.’

  ‘No, my baby’s asleep in the car. I’ll wake him up soon and you can see him. That’s a friend of mine. He’s helping me unpack.’

  ‘Your lover?’ she asked eagerly, making for the stairs, Emma and Toby at her heels.

  ‘No, it’s not my lover,’ I said, aghast. ‘Why did you say that?’

  ‘Marfa said you’d left your husband so you probably had a lover. Said you were probably a bit of a nympho.’

  Did she indeed. Marfa really was sounding more and more peachy. It was entirely possible she was destined to be my new best friend down here. I listened as they found Michael, whom they obviously knew, and then discovered beds to jump on and duvets to hide under. There were shrieks of glee as Michael pretended he didn’t know they were there and went to sit down on them.

  ‘Ahhh, good … a nice comfy bed …’

  ‘No! Arhh, no! MICHAEL, GEDDOFF!’

  After a deal of rough and tumble and hilarious horseplay, Michael stuck a rumpled head over the banisters.

  ‘I forgot to tell you, these three come free with the cottage. It’s one of the perks. They’re completely unchaperoned and undisciplined as far as I can see and they spent most of their time as part of our extended family when we were here.’

  I went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘But doesn’t anyone come and look for them?’ I hissed. ‘Does anyone know where they are?’

  ‘Oh, there’s a terrible, swearing, gum-chewing nanny who lets them do what the hell they like just so long as she’s left alone to lie in a heap eating chocolates and watching Neighbours.’

  ‘But why on earth do they employ someone like that?’

  ‘Because she’s been with them since the twins were born and anyway Annabel likes to think she’s frightfully right-on and forward thinking. She doesn’t believe in formal education and can’t bear pushy mothers with over-organized children trotting off to tennis and ballet after school. Thinks they should be running naked in meadows picking wild flowers and all that. What she’d really like is a one-legged black lesbian with an alternative approach, but she has to make do with Martha, and Martha’s not alternative, she’s just bone idle and uninterested. They could be snorting coke up their noses for all she cares, and probably will be in a few years’ time.’

  ‘But what about Joss? Doesn’t he care?’

  ‘Yes, I think he does actually, but he’s a soft touch where Martha’s concerned. Her father was the gardener here ages ago but he had to retire when he got sick, and I think Joss still feels a certain loyalty to the family. Anyway Annabel organizes things so he doesn’t see too much and Martha lies through her teeth about what they’re up to. I’ve heard him ask where they are and she says, “Oh, they’re climbing trees in the woods,” when in fact they’re glued to the Disney channel. Between them, those women run rings round him and he’s too busy to twig. Not that my heart exactly bleeds for him. You’ve met him, haven’t you?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘Well, briefly’s enough.’

  The door swung open and I spun round to see the man himself, framed in the doorway with Ivo in his arms.

  ‘I hate to tell you,’ Michael went on from upstairs, ‘but your landlord is a self-satisfied, pompous old fart.’

  The word ‘fart’ hung jauntily in the air, echoing around the room. I swallowed. Joss’s face turned to stone. Gosh, he really did look like Charles Dance, didn’t he? It must be those hooded eyes.

  ‘Your baby, I presume,’ he said icily, handing Ivo over.

  ‘Oh! Yes, thank you.’

  ‘He was crying and getting pretty cold in the car.’

  ‘Oh, yes, well, I was just trying to get the fire going before I brought him in. It’s a bit chilly.’ I blushed, feeling like a terrible mother. ‘Um, Michael, Mr – Joss is here,’ I said loudly, before any more indiscretions were bellowed down the stairs. I wasn’t quite sure what to call him, he wasn’t a man instantly to inspire first-name terms.

  ‘Joss will do fine,’ he said as Michael came down the stairs.

  ‘Joss! How are you!’ Michael cried jovially, clearly oblivious of his faux pas. He thrust out his hand blokeishly. ‘Good to see you again,’ he added. I cringed.

  ‘You too, Michael,’ said Joss drily, briefly taking his hand. He turned to me. ‘I came to see if I could be of any assistance, but I see you have all the help you require.’

  I could see why Michael had said he was pompous, his Bostonian accent was peculiarly pedantic.

  ‘Er, yes, we’re, um, I’m fine really,’ I mumbled, in a fairly unpedantic way.

  ‘I still think you’re crazy to take this place on with a child,’ he said abruptly, looking around. ‘You’re aware it has virtually no heating?’

  ‘Yes, I am, and I’ve brought a radiator for Ivo’s room and another one for down here. Once the fire’s alight, we’ll be fine,’ I said smoothly.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lucy’s little face come round the top of the banisters. She put her finger to her lips then shot back again.

  ‘That won’t be enough, you’ll want one for your room. I’ll bring another radiator down from the house, it’s going to be freezing tonight. Why haven’t you lit the fire?’

  ‘Well, I tried, but –’

  ‘Here,’ he took the matches from me, rearranged the sad little tangle of sticks in the grate and set fire to them annoyingly expertly. ‘You’ll need a fireguard too of course,’ he said as Ivo, entranced by the flames, staggered eagerly towards them.

  ‘I’ll get one,’ I muttered, dragging Ivo back and wondering why Joss made me feel like a grubby fifth-former caught with ten Number Six in my gymslip pocket. ‘I’ve ordered a few things from John Lewis already so I’ll add it to the list.’

  ‘Well, see that you do. I don’t want to be held responsible for any horrific accidents.’

  I bridled in fury, thinking that there were one or two things I could tell him about childcare, seeing as his foul-mouthed, truant-playing children were even now on the premises, but the memory of Lucy’s white, alarmed little face stopped me.

  ‘Otherwise everything okay? The wood pile is just around the back of the barn so just help yourself, and don’t bring up a huge empty basket, fill it to the brim and then discover you can’t stagger back with it. Try to keep it topped up as you go along. Think you can manage that?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ I snapped. I was beginning to see why Annabel spent so much time abroad. He really was the end with his patronizing chauvinism, and the more I thought about it, the less like Charles Dance he looked. Well, all right, just a tiny bit around the eyes perhaps, but zero rating on the charm front. No, no, give me Michael’s laid-back sangfroid any day. On the other hand, a little voice inquired, who was it who’d got the fire going? And who’d stocked up the log basket? Not charming Michael. I sighed. Oh well, just give me a break from men full stop then. That was clearly the answer.

  ‘Right, well, I’ll be off then. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.’ He turned to go, nodding briefly at us both by way of dismissal, bending his head low to get under the tiny cottage door. A couple of border terriers who’d been waiting patiently outside sprang to attention, tails wagging eagerly the moment they saw him. Michael and I watched him go from the doorway, a tall, thin figure with his head slightly bowed, his dogs at his feet.

  When he was out of sight, Michael clicked his heels smartly together and gave a Nazi salute. ‘Jawohl, Mein Führer!’ He dropped his arm. ‘Arrogant shit,’ he muttered. ‘He’s enjoying himself, you know. Having a waif and a baby in one of his cottages makes him feel like a feudal lord. He’ll be riding down here on his horse tomorrow with a basket of turnips and a rabbit for you to skin, expecting you to run from your hut, barefoot in your shawl, baby at your breast, seize his jewelled hand and press it to your lips in gratitude. If you were a virgin he’d probably hump you by way of rent.’

  I giggled, but his vehemence surprise
d me. Michael didn’t get worked up about anything as a rule, he was far too lazy. ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’

  ‘No. And let’s hope you don’t find out why.’

  I would have questioned him further, but the children came creeping downstairs.

  ‘Has he gone?’ whispered the one with the freckle.

  ‘Yes, he’s gone.’

  ‘Thank God. He would have killed us!’ She rolled her eyes expressively at her sister and pressed her small hands to her heart.

  ‘Surely not. I mean, he must know you’re all at home, why would it matter if you came down here?’

  ‘Oh, well, he may not, sort of, know.’ She averted her eyes shiftily.

  Good God, what sort of house was this that the children could skive off school without their father even noticing?

  ‘Come on, you two, we’ll go home the back way.’ She tugged at Toby’s sleeve and they all crept off together, slinking round the side of the cottage and up through the trees, zigzagging through like a tribe of Red Indians.

  Michael looked at his watch. ‘Actually, Rosie, I think I’d better be off now too, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a meeting with the Superglue clients at three o’clock.’ He peered at me anxiously. ‘D’you think you’ll be all right on your own?’

  I blinked. What, without the benefit of his invaluable, superhuman help, did he mean?

  ‘Oh yes, Michael, I’ll stagger on. But thanks, you’ve been a tower of strength.’

  ‘It’s an absolute pleasure.’ He beamed magnanimously and bent down to kiss my cheek and I realized he reeked of aftershave. It wasn’t something I’d ever cared for myself, and I wouldn’t have thought it was Alice’s cup of tea either.

  ‘Now have fun, little Rosie,’ he tapped my cheek playfully, ‘and don’t get up to too much mischief, will you!’

  I bared my teeth in a parody of a smile and watched as he went to his car. He eased himself into his dinky little sports car, checked his rear-view mirror – couldn’t be for traffic, must have been for hair – and as Ivo and I waved and smiled, he revved up like nobody’s business and turned his car round on a sixpence in an ostentatious spray of slush and mud. Thanks, I thought, screwing up my nose from the fumes and brushing myself down.

  ‘Be good, won’t you!’ was his parting shot from his car window.

  I couldn’t quite bring myself to reply, and as he tore up the back drive much too fast, it occurred to me to wonder exactly how good Michael was. Oh well, I thought carrying Ivo back inside, thankfully that wasn’t my problem.

  The snow was coming down thick and fast now, swirling past the windows and settling on the damp grass as the afternoon got steadily colder. I built the fire up, grateful for the huge pile of logs, and turned the radiator on full in Ivo’s room. The cottage was still cold but being so small I knew it wouldn’t take long to heat up. When I’d got the fire roaring, I ventured upstairs to the tiny bathroom, propped open the door and stuck my other radiator just outside to heat that up a bit too. Then I turned the radio on and charged around the cottage with Ivo on my hip giggling away – I didn’t dare put him down because of the fire – and between us we put up the travel cot, made the beds and unpacked the suitcases. Ivo, in supremely good heart and obviously finding the whole thing a huge adventure, sang away at the top of his voice. As we sat together by the fire an hour or so later, mopping up baked beans and fried eggs with slices of Mother’s Pride, I couldn’t help feeling ludicrously, absurdly happy. I knew this was early days and we’d just moved into a freezing cottage in the middle of winter and I knew I had precious little money and no job and no prospects either, but still, I thought as I looked around at the roaring fire, the cosy little room and the snow falling heavily outside while we were snug and warm within, still, not bad, Rosie. So far, so good.

  After our picnic supper I went upstairs and tested the bath water pessimistically. I snatched my hand back sharply. Blimey! It was boiling. It came out in little more than a trickle, but mixed with a splash of cold it didn’t take long to fill up a small bath for Ivo. I hastily undressed him to minimize the cold and plopped him in, watching as he splashed around happily.

  ‘In! In, Mummy!’ He flicked water at me.

  ‘No, Ivo, not yet. I’ll have one later.’

  ‘Yeth! In!’

  Oh God, why not? He did love me having a bath with him and apart from anything else there was always the prospect of the hot water running out later on. I quickly undressed and joined him and we splashed about for a bit.

  ‘Right, out,’ I said firmly. ‘Come on, quick, before it gets too cold.’

  I looked around. Ah, right. Towels. Damn, had I really forgotten to steal some towels from Harry? It appeared I had. Improvising wildly, I found Ivo’s towelling dressing gown and wrapped him in that, then ran dripping to the bedroom and grabbed – what? Oh, look, a spare duvet cover, that would do. Wrapped in thin cotton sheeting and feeling decidedly chilly now, I picked up Ivo, grabbed his pyjamas and hurried him down to the fire. At least we could sit here and dry off, and in a minute I could borrow his dressing gown and give myself a quick rub down with that. When he was dry, I shook out his pyjamas and tried to cajole him into them.

  ‘Come on, Ivo, quickly, put your legs in.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Chicken fing.’

  ‘No, darling, not tonight, not the kitchen thing, Mummy’s freezing. Come on, just get dressed.’

  ‘No! Want chicken fing!’

  What he actually meant was the ‘funky chicken’, a ridiculous squawking dance I’d once done out of desperation to rouse him from a bathtime tantrum, but which I’d prudently renamed the ‘chicken thing’ on account of Ivo’s pronunciation of funky, which rendered the n silent. We did, after all, live in a semi-detached house in London with paper-thin walls, and I didn’t particularly want Social Services knocking on the door demanding to know what sort of depraved poultry fancying I was into and whether it was suitable viewing for a two-year-old.

  ‘Yeth, Mummy, yeth!’

  ‘No, Ivo, now come on.’ I shivered violently, eyeing his few square inches of towelling enviously.

  ‘Yeth!’

  ‘Oh GOD!’ I gave a quick squawk and flapped my wings under my sheet. ‘There.’

  ‘No!’ His eyes filled up ominously. He knew he’d been short-changed. ‘NOOO!’ he roared.

  Now I’m sure there are mothers out there who’ve never once resorted to pulling silly faces, standing on their heads, or even dishing out sweets to stop a child going critical. Me, I’ll resort to anything, and anyway it was bloody freezing and it might warm me up a bit. I flung off my sheet and strutted up and down, elbows bent as I flapped my wings and squawked loudly, wondering, as Ivo roared with laughter, if the Queen had ever had to sink to this with Charles and the gang, and deciding on balance probably not, as bottom out, bosom bare, crowing away, I suddenly heard something. I froze, mid-flap. Christ, there it was again! I dived for my sheet, horrified. Yes, there was a crunch in the snow outside. There was someone out there!

  I held my breath, staring fixedly at the black windowpane, cursing myself for not drawing the curtains, straining to see, to hear. After a while I crawled across the carpet in my sheet and came up under the window. I peered out. Nothing. Just blackness. Steeling myself, I reached across for the latch and opened the door, just a crack. My heart was pounding. All around was thick, white snow, and above, a dark, starry night. There was nobody out there, nobody at all. Hugely relieved, I went to shut the door when down at my feet I saw – a radiator and a fireguard. I stared at them, sitting together on the doorstep. Slowly it dawned. I gasped with horror and slammed the door shut. Oh God, he must have seen me! Stark naked! And not only that but impersonating a chicken! He must have glanced through the window, seen me flapping and clucking and thought, blimey, she’s barking, she’s laying eggs or something, I’m getting out of here, dumped the radiator and legged it. He was probably sitting in his kitchen even now, a large whisky in his shaking h
and, wondering what sort of nutcase he’d allowed into his cottage. I sank on to my bottom with a groan, covering my face with my hands.

  After a while I heard a little shuffle towards me. Two small hands pulled my fingers from my face and Ivo’s bright blue eyes peeped in. He smiled.

  ‘More chicken, Mummy. More!’

  I narrowed my eyes to resemble two tiny bits of flint, clenched my teeth, and without a flicker of wavering intent said, ‘NO!’

  To my surprise he drew back. In fact he almost looked impressed. I snatched up his pyjamas and buttoned him into them in silence. Now why couldn’t I have done that in the first place? Just said no and looked as if I meant business? I hoisted him furiously on to my hip and took him up to bed, still hot with shame at the thought of Joss’s shocked face at the window. Oh well, I reasoned as I tucked Ivo into his cot, I suppose it could have been worse. I straightened up and frowned. Really, Rosie? How so, exactly? I turned out the light and trudged wearily downstairs.

  Later that night when Ivo was fast asleep I pottered around the cottage putting china away in cupboards, folding clothes into drawers, and then I made myself a cup of coffee and sank into the chair by the fire. I sighed happily, enjoying the sweetness of solitude as it wrapped around me. Gosh, this was bliss, and so what if Joss thought I was mad, from now on he’d probably just give me an extremely wide berth, which suited me fine. I wanted to be left alone. Wanted the world to go away. Oh, I wasn’t naive enough to suppose that this Hansel and Gretel cottage existence would do for ever; friends, a job, a lifestyle of sorts, maybe even a man might one day enter the equation, but at the moment my equation was small. I wanted to shrink my world so that I, and I alone was in control and only when I felt comfortable would I consider expanding. But only on my terms. Never again would I be at someone else’s beck and call, never again would I agree to a takeover.

  I stretched out my legs to the hearth, luxuriating in the heat and the deep, country silence, like a cat about to embark on a long, lazy afternoon on a sunny length of wall. A delicious evening stretched ahead of me with no three-course dinner to get, no washing-up to do, no one’s mood to determine and no one to please but myself. I drained my coffee, got up from my chair and eschewing the television, which I somehow felt would intrude on my rural idyll, pottered across to the groaning bookcase. I crouched down to look. There were plenty of classics: the Brontës, Austen, Dickens, quite a lot of children’s books, sports books and a general smattering of good holiday reads – Agatha Christie, Dick Francis and Ruth Rendell. I was tempted by a Ruth Rendell but as I pulled it out, I spotted an ancient copy of Elizabeth David. I fell on it eagerly. To me, this was comfort reading in the extreme. Her wonderful descriptions of the Mediterranean, her marvellously evocative recipes – God, I’d be in the south of France in minutes. I tottered back to my chair in my thick socks, baggy jumper and jeans and curled up with my find. I threw another log on the fire, settled back, read a few chapters, and then I suppose at some point I must have shut my eyes.