Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  As I crunched into my parents’ gravel drive, I couldn’t help smiling at the frantic display of red and green fairy lights slung busily about the leylandii in the front garden. As I’d driven down their private road, slowing down for the sleeping policemen, it hadn’t escaped my notice that the Christmas lights had got more and more competitive as I went along, and Mum had clearly spent a small fortune ensuring that she’d be blowed if her display wasn’t the best. I have to say, sartorially speaking, I found myself reluctantly lining up with Annabel on this one. I was all for a bit of Christmas spirit, but this was like being in Regent Street.

  Finding myself without a door key I pressed the bing-bong chimes and peered through the bevelled glass. A second later I heard humming, and Mum flung open the door. Her jewellery jangled merrily, her face was flushed from the oven, she had lipstick on her teeth and she was clearly slightly pickled already from her second sweet sherry.

  ‘Rosie!’ She held out her arms.

  I grinned as I hugged her, reeling under the heady, familiar sensory onslaught of Je Reviens, Brussels sprouts and ‘Carols From King’s’ playing in the background. Suddenly it was good to be back.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Mum.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, my darling!’

  It was the usual, festive gathering at The Firs that year; Mum, Dad, Philly and Miles and their three boisterous children, and me and Ivo, but minus Harry of course. In this respect I think I’d been rather dreading it, thinking Mum might do a lot of sighing and breast beating, holding handkerchief to eye and wailing about how sad it was to be without the prodigal son wolfing down the whisky and the turkey as usual, but in the event it was quite the reverse. Mum was surprisingly perky for her, and if anything, it was the rest of the crew who seemed a touch piano. The children were as noisy and overexcited as ever of course, and Ivo was in his element with three big children to play with, but Philly looked tired and drawn and seemed to snap at Miles for no real reason, and he in turn resorted to skulking behind a newspaper. Dad was quiet and subdued, and took himself off to the potting shed quite a lot, all of which was perfectly normal, but it seemed to me that he’d aged dramatically in the last few months. He looked exhausted, and as he laid aside his paper and raised himself heavily from his armchair for the umpteenth time to answer yet another call for ‘More logs, darling!’ or ‘Lay the table please, Gordon!’ it seemed to me that his teeth were well and truly gritted.

  The reason for my mother’s skippy excitement finally became clear when she cornered me in the kitchen after Christmas lunch. I was trapped in the sink – hello sink, fancy meeting you again – with all the choice, crusty saucepans, when she sidled eagerly up to me.

  ‘So!’ she declared portentously, whipping a tea towel round her waist by way of an apron and seizing another to dry up with. ‘I gather you’re seeing a vet!’

  My Brillo pad paused mid-scrub. I turned slowly. Her eyes were shining.

  ‘Who told you that, Mum?’

  ‘Oh, it’s all the talk, darling,’ she breezed, picking up a pan to dry and polishing away with brio. ‘Everyone knows, seems the whole of Philly’s village is positively buzzing with it!’

  ‘Well, you can jolly well get her to un-buzz it then. I am not seeing a vet, as in walking out with a vet, or even dating a vet, I just went for a drink with a vet, all right?’

  ‘I hear he’s ever such a nice young man, very respected in the community, and frightfully successful too. Got quite a large practice I believe.’ I gritted my teeth. She liked that word, ‘practice’, it made him sound like a bloody doctor, which of course was Mum’s idea of middle-class heaven. ‘And by all accounts he’s rather taken with you too, and good heavens, why not! So he jolly well should be!’

  I leaned the heels of my hands heavily on the bottom of the sink. ‘Mum, he’s a friend, that’s all. I’m not looking for a relationship with anyone at the moment, okay?’

  ‘Not what I hear, my love,’ she trilled with a deadly beam. She leaned sideways into my ear. ‘From what I gather you were, ahem, rather interrupted last night.’ She nudged me in the ribs. ‘Having a little kiss and a cuddle, hmm?’

  I froze, then turned to her aghast. ‘Who on earth –’

  ‘Oh, Philly said that Annabel Dubarry woman was in the village this morning. She was in the queue at the baker’s apparently, giggling about it – not unkindly though, darling. I think everyone’s genuinely very pleased for you.’ She nodded earnestly, put her hand on my arm. ‘Really. Especially after all your unhappiness, everyone’s absolutely delighted you’ve found a, well, a new amour.’

  ‘Mother, he is not a new amour! Jesus, Harry has just this minute up and died and –’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ she interrupted, jerking her head skywards. ‘I’ve told him all about it, he knows.’

  ‘Told who all about it?’

  ‘Harry, of course.’

  I stared at her in amazement. ‘Harry!’

  ‘Yes, darling. I had a little chat with him the other day. Honestly, my love, he doesn’t mind at all. He completely understands.’

  My mouth dropped open. Oh God, she’d really lost it now, hadn’t she? She was barking. No wonder Dad looked so grim and witless.

  I spoke gently. ‘Mum, you’ve got me worried now. What are you saying? What d’you mean you spoke to him?’

  ‘At Marjorie’s, silly.’ She looked at me, exasperated. I stared back.

  Suddenly her eyes widened. ‘Oh! Lord – didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Oh, gracious, I must have forgotten!’ Her eyes were huge now and full of portent. ‘Guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Marjorie Burdett is psychic!’ she hissed.

  ‘Marjorie Burdett is …’ I groaned. ‘Oh God. Since when?’

  ‘Since last month!’ She folded her arms triumphantly. ‘She discovered quite by accident and in the middle of the most unlikely setting. She was out on the golf course on her own, doing a little green practice on the eighteenth, vaguely thinking about a late uncle of hers who’d had a very nice putting action, when all of a sudden – there he was! Her late Uncle Terence! He appeared out of nowhere apparently, just as she was putting into the hole – held the flag out for her and everything!’

  ‘Mum, hang on –’

  ‘Quite extraordinary, it was. She said there he was, larger than life and as clear as you’re in front of me now. Spoke to her too! Told her her grip was all wrong – well of course it always has been lousy – and that she wasn’t keeping her eye on the ball. Well, you can imagine, Marjorie got herself in a right old state about it and went hurrying off to see one of those mystic medium types who held her hand and said, “Yes, yes, my dear, you are! You’re psychic, and it’s a gift!” Well I have to tell you, Rosie, it is a gift and it’s been absolutely marvellous! Given her a whole new lease of life, and us girls too because, frankly, between you and me, Jeannie and Yvonne and I were getting just a l-i-ttle bit fed up with all that pyramid jewellery stuff of hers. I mean there’s only so much paste and diamante you can con your friends into buying, isn’t there? But now, instead of looking at her ghastly old baubles, we have a little seance instead! Such fun. We cover the table with a darling red tasselled cloth that Marjorie picked up for next to nothing in Costco, and then we all hold hands – frightfully giggly to begin with, darling – and Marjorie sits at the head of the table and looks solemn, and then she mumbles a bit and her eyes go all squiffy, and her bosoms heave about a bit, but then suddenly, hah!’ Mum clasped her hands, eyes huge. ‘She’s got someone! She’s established a channel!’

  ‘Well, bugger me,’ I said drily.

  ‘It’s just like fishing really. She dangles a hook and up comes someone we know! Sometimes it’s Jeannie’s ex-husband who was an absolute rake and goes on and on about all sorts of risqué you-know-what, and sometimes it’s Yvonne’s aunt who was terribly well connected and is absolutely riveting on various members of the royal family – dead ones
of course – and then the other day it was Harry!’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Yes, and, oh darling, he’s on such good form, I wish you could hear him! We had such a lovely long chat about how happy he is up there and about all the nice friends he’s made – he’s sharing a room with a frightfully nice chiropodist from Purley apparently, not top drawer of course, but then Harry says heaven is a much more classless society, and that actually quite a few of his friends are rather common now, which I thought showed he was really trying. Really entering into the spirit of the thing. Very illuminating on bunions, by all accounts.’

  ‘Bunions?’ I muttered faintly.

  ‘The chiropodist, darling. Oh and he’s joined the gym, lost quite a bit of weight, and –’

  ‘The gym!’ I groaned. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mum!’ My God, Marjorie was going to have to do her homework a bit better than this.

  ‘Yes, and that’s interesting actually, because I was thinking of joining the one in Banbury, but Harry says the facilities are far superior up there and I’d be better off waiting.’

  I stared at her. She laid a hand on my arm.

  ‘Until I get there, darling,’ she said gently. ‘We all have to go some time, you know. Oh, and he goes jogging now and plays badminton and –’

  ‘Mum, are you sure you’ve got the right Harry? You haven’t got him muddled up with some other Harry, Harry from Billericay or Harry from Croydon or something? You do speak to him, do you?’

  ‘Well, indirectly, darling, through Marjorie of course. She’s the medium. But I do get the most terrific buzz when he emanates, my whole body turns to jelly and I shake and tremble and get hot and sweaty – it’s just as if he’s a living orgasm!’

  ‘I think you mean organism.’

  ‘Whatever, but the point is I had a word with him the other day about your young man.’

  ‘Ah.’ I gritted my teeth.

  ‘No no, now don’t look like that, my love, he’s absolutely delighted! Really thrilled to bits for you, says he knows the family very well – the father’s on the same corridor as him apparently, just across the way – and he says his first cousin is related to the Earl of Suffolk!’

  I moaned low into the soap suds. God, what had Marjorie conjured up here? A flying motel full of dead aristocrats and chiropodists?

  ‘Anyway, the thing is, he says you’re not to waste another moment shilly-shallying around on his account. He says he simply wants you to be happy and I told him that those were my sentiments exactly. And shall I tell you something so weird, Rosie?’ Her voice lowered to a portentous whisper.

  ‘I’m hungry with curiosity, Mother.’

  ‘Well, on the way home from Marjorie’s, I popped into Menzies for a bar of chocolate – summoning up ectoplasm is terrifically munchie making – and just as I was passing the magazine rack, guess what fell off the shelf? Slap bang at my feet?’

  ‘What?’ I said guardedly.

  She drew her pearls warmly about her, raised her chin and regarded me with mad, important eyes. ‘Guess!’ she hissed.

  ‘Mum, I can’t, just tell me, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Brides magazine!’ she announced triumphantly. She pulled open the kitchen drawer and produced it with a flourish. ‘And do you know what page it fell open at?’

  ‘Surprise me,’ I muttered, feeling weak from the onslaught.

  She opened it with a flourish. ‘Suitable speeches, etiquette and bridal gowns for second marriages! Now isn’t that spooky?’

  I stared at her for a moment. Looked into her wide, pale blue eyes. Then I snatched the magazine from her, ripped it straight down the middle, and popped it into the bin beside me. ‘Certainly is, Mum. So spooky that it can go straight back to the underworld where it came from. And now if you’ll excuse me I must go and relieve Dad of Ivo, and no,’ I swung round as she beetled after me, almost banging into me, ‘no, there will be no second marriage –’

  ‘But –’

  ‘And there will be no suitable speeches –’

  ‘But, Rosie darling –’

  ‘And there will be no mother of the bride outfits either, and do you know why?’

  She pouted petulantly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there will be no bloody second bride, that’s why! Mother, I am not, repeat not, getting married!’ With that I turned on my heel and with a suitably extravagant flounce marched out of the kitchen.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Suffice to say, after all the festivities I wasn’t too unhappy to leave The Firs. What with Mum cornering me at every opportunity and urging me to join hands with her and Feel The Vibrations, and Philly and Miles bickering constantly and Dad skulking off at a moment’s notice, I felt I was in a madhouse. It did actually make me realize that having Harry around had given the sane members of my family – and I don’t include my mother in this – a focus; some sort of rallying point, someone to join forces against and roll our eyes heavenwards about. Yes, I thought as I drove thankfully back to the cottage after breakfast, how extraordinary. Over the last couple of days I’d almost, almost, missed him.

  I crunched up the main drive and round the side of the house, peering through the dark, mullioned windows and looking for signs of life. Seeing none, I drove on through the stable yard and down the back drive to the cottage. It was absolutely freezing inside and that damp, almost reproachful air of being unloved and unlived in for quite a while hit me as soon as I walked in. I badly needed to get to the shops to replenish the larder but knowing I’d be loath to return to these Arctic conditions I dashed about zapping on radiators, collecting firewood from my little shelter outside and tried to get the fire going. I’d just about got it to draw by holding a sheet of newspaper in front of it when the telephone rang. I swore, dropped the paper which went up in flames, and reached for the receiver, gloves still on.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ah, you’re back.’ I recognized Annabel’s drawl.

  ‘Yes, I’ve just got here.’

  ‘Excellent, only Martha’s father’s still at death’s door, damn it, so I’m up to my eyes here, and I was hoping you might be a real honey and go to the store for me.’

  For a moment, I was stunned into silence.

  She hurried on. ‘It’s just I’ve got a plane to catch in the morning – I’m going back to the States to spend some time with my folks,’ glory hallelujah! ‘but the house is in total chaos and the kids are rampaging about like anything, they seem to have gone completely crazy since I’ve been away. Would you mind, Rosie? I’d be so grateful.’ Her voice had taken on an unattractive wheedling tone.

  I hesitated for a moment. ‘Okay,’ I said finally. ‘I was going anyway, so –’

  ‘Terrific.’

  There was a click and I realized she’d put the phone down. I stared at my receiver in amazement for a moment, then quietly seethed. So, dishwasher and errand runner now, eh Rosie? You’re not a pushover, are you? You just go down of your own accord. I did a few ante-natal deep breathing exercises to assuage the old temper – knew they’d come in handy one day – checked that the fire was going, and then with Ivo’s little gloved hand firmly in mine made my way grim-faced up the drive to the house.

  She’d obviously been watching out for me from a window because as I approached, the back door opened.

  ‘Here you are.’ She waved a piece of paper imperiously in my face.

  Curbing the urge to say, ‘Look here, Mrs Dubarry, is there any need to be quite so spectacularly unpleasant?’ I regarded her with interest.

  She was looking particularly young and dewy today, damn her, dressed from head to toe in some sort of kittenish, cashmere legging-and-top ensemble, which clung to her tiny figure and made her look as if she was entirely composed of a series of gentle, seamless grey curves. I felt she should be designated an area of outstanding natural beauty, whilst I, panting from the exertion of the hill in an old Barbour, a felt hat and dragging a toddler, could quite easily pass as a historic monument. I wondered how
much younger she was than me, and gave what I hoped was a sophisticated smile.

  ‘Thank you, Annabel,’ I murmured as I took the list, hopefully demonstrating that I may be a desiccated old bag but maturity had at least taught me some manners.

  ‘Rosie, do you happen to know if the kids have been getting any ease? You know, in food colouring. Candy and things.’

  ‘Oh, Es!’ I laughed. She didn’t. I hastened on, ‘Um, no, I don’t think so, except, well, I’ve bought them the occasional packet of sweets from the village shop, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, please don’t give them the occasional anything, Rosie. It sends them totally haywire and makes them completely unmanageable. In future a piece of raw carrot will suffice or, if you must, a healthfood nutbar. Now, you should be able to get everything on the list in the village but if you can’t, Waitrose will be open in Cirencester.’

  I ran my eye down the list. I was tempted to tell her exactly where she could put her piece of raw carrot but heroically restrained myself. God, she’d be lucky. Herbal tea, organic oats, freshly squeezed orange juice, bagels – I wasn’t convinced Mrs Fairfax’s store could stretch to any of that – Vogue, Hello!, Harpers – all vital consumables for the larder of course, essential I should go this very minute – pine nuts, condoms – I looked up sharply. Her dark eyes were watching me.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ she purred. ‘Only we’ve run out, and we won’t be seeing each other again for quite a while. Here’s fifty pounds, that should cover it all. Thank you so much.’ And with that, she very sweetly shut the door in my face.