Dear Rosie Hughes
Page 2
Light up your face with gladness, hide every trace of sadness, although a tear may be ever so near, that’s the time you must keep on trying, smile what the use of crying, you’ll find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile
And remember - Keep Your Head Down (KYHD)
Love you, babe
MammynDad x
P.S. Did you take my snow shovel to Devon? It had a smooth handle and the angle of the scoop was perfect. I can’t find another one for love nor money.
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 7 January
Dear, Rosie
Of course I drank my bloody pint! We only had our bus fare and there was no way I wasn’t having a drink. Admittedly, there was a faint tang of Polygrip and I had to fish out a bit of popcorn, but other than that, it was pretty tasty.
Right then, here’s a quick update on the past few years. After university I moved to London and worked as an editor at Maddison and Black. It was a fab job, loads of social, loads of shagging and a couple of years later I even finished my much-discussed first novel (plus another two). I’ll let you into a big secret (but only because you’re stuck in the desert and can’t spill the beans) … I ghost-write comedy romance novels for (none other than) celebrity chef, Isabella Gambino (Isabella my arse, she’s called Sharon Froggatt). Isabella is a sweetheart and I suppose it’s fitting that I (a woman who was whipping up a Victoria sponge whilst transiting the birth canal) now write books for the best baker on the planet. Isabella sends me free copies of all her cookbooks, which means I have to run the equivalent of a marathon every week just to keep the diabetic nurse from my door, but here’s confession time: after banging out eight books in eight years, I’ve dried up. My imagination is kaput! My latest work in progress, My Foolish Heart, is just not coming together AT ALL. So, I’ve left my characters languishing in the doldrums, and they hate that.
You’ll not be surprised to hear that Mum is frustrated to hell that she can’t tell anyone I’m a writer. But truly, it’s amazing she’s kept schtum all these years. She’s still an absolute dragon and I never know from one day to the next if she’s talking to me, but on balance, I think she’s glad I moved back home (a knee-jerk decision following the breaking of a heart – his, not mine). The problem with writing is that I sit alone for hour after hour lost inside my own imagination, which, as you know, is a bizarre and wild place to be, and what’s worse, my imagination is pretending to be someone else’s imagination, which adds even more weirdness to the situation. But at least the lives of my pretend friends are sexy and interesting, which is more than can be said for my crappy old existence at the moment. It’s a sad state of affairs when my characters are getting more action in the bedroom than me *breathes deep and heavy sigh*. My latest serious squeeze was a competitive fisherman, David. He got me into bed by saying I was his greatest catch (please!). We lived together for a while but it was an average type of relationship. Predictably, I woke up one morning and realised he bored me out of my mind, and even if he didn’t bore me out of my mind, there was no competing with his ultimate fantasy – not me dressed in red lycra wielding a whip – but the elusive twenty-pound conga eel (or some kind of big fish or another). So, one day, while sitting in silence at the riverbank burning the skin off my top pallet with scalding coffee, I took my lead from the salmon, told him it was over, fought my way up stream and came home to spawn.
But now, I find that sperm is in scarce supply, which is worrying. There is this one man I met a couple of weeks ago on the Internet who seems rather nice. He’s Irish and (thank God) very tall. I’ve begun to imagine myself playing Maureen O’Hara to his John Wayne in The Quiet Man, but without having to live in Ireland or grow roses. Not that I have anything against the Emerald Isle, except it rains a lot and I’ve promised mum I’ll partner her at cribbage next year. She’s determined to annihilate the competition – namely Janey Peters – who stole her boyfriend TWENTY YEARS AGO. You’ve got to hand it to Mum, she knows how to play the long game. I’ve popped some sweets and magazines into a parcel for you along with one of my books – But That’s Not What I Meant. You might not have time to read it, what with being on the brink of war and everything, but if you do, feel free to give me a proper review (an honest one).
Ciao, Bella!
Aggie
P.S. Yes, I did keep away because of Simon. Your dad mentioned he’d moved to Australia for a while, which must have been a terrible shock. I know how much you all adore him.
From: Wright and Longstaff Solicitors, Exeter
To: Rosanna Hughes
Dated: 3 January 2003
Read: 7 January 2003
Dear Mrs Hughes
Please find enclosed a copy of your Decree Nisi.
We have received an offer of £245,000 for Rose Cottage which Mr Fletcher would like to accept. In accordance with your last instruction we will proceed with the sale. The equity will be split between yourself and Mr Fletcher as per the divorce settlement.
Please find enclosed your updated Last Will and Testament as per your instructions. Please sign where indicated and return one copy to me at your earliest convenience.
Kind regards,
Justin Grant
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 7 January
Me again!
Oh, my good Lord! I’ve just had phone sex with the Irishman. Gorgeous voice. I was worried he would sound like Gerry Adams, but no, his accent was soft and sexy. I tried to sound less northern and more like a BBC news reader, but as it turns out, panting sounds the same whatever the accent, so I think I pulled it off. The next time we do it, I’m going to wear something sexy and lay on my bed so I can get into the mood a bit more. There’s something a little disturbing about having phone sex while wearing rabbit slippers and watching Midsomer Murders on mute, but I have a hundred per cent success rate at guessing the murderer by the first set of adverts and I’m not prepared to let it slip now. So anyway, don’t judge, but I’m meeting Paddy (do you think that is his real name?) in Venice tomorrow for one night – how bloody impulsive is that!? I’ve got a good feeling about this one.
Ciao, Sweetie, or as the Irish say, ‘may the road rise.’
Aggie
P.S. Shit, I hope these letters aren’t proof read by the Army.
P.P.S. Guess what? I was going through some old journals yesterday and found that bucket list we wrote together when we finished in upper sixth. It’s brilliant, but we weren’t nearly as adventurous or sanctimonious enough. I’ll write it out for you in another letter – can you believe we actually signed the ‘document’ IN OUR OWN BLOOD!
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 8 January
Hi, Aggie
Very quick one. Can you do me a big favour, please? A few years ago, I bought Dad a snow shovel from the Wednesday market and he loved it. It had a black, plastic shovelly bit with a wooden shaft, but the handle was made of cork which he really liked. The thing is, I broke it when Josh and I used it as a sledge on Hound Tor. Can you do me a massive favour and go to the market and see if you can buy another one? If you do manage to get one, please can you rough it up a bit and leave it next to the compost heap (behind the pile of old slates which are behind the greenhouse) and let me know when you’ve done it. I’ll write again tonight.
Love, Rosie
P.S. You mentioned tripping off to Scotland as a throw away remark. What’s that about?
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 8 January
Hi, Aggie
Oh my God, the bucket list! Signing in blood was your idea, but it was easier for you because you only had to tear the scab from your elbow (a roller skating incident I think?) but I had to cut my finger with a fruit knife. We must have been mad. I can’t wait to see what we put.
Sorry about the abrupt letter re th
e snow shovel but Dad gets a bit precious about his stuff and I wanted to get the letter into the post straight away. Your letters are sometimes printed off on the day that you type them, which is amazing, but I’m guessing my hand-written ones take a few days to reach you? You asked for some detail of my life in the desert, so here’s a potted history of my first week.
We landed in Kuwait City late in the evening on 1 January. After the aircraft taxied in, I ducked down to glance through the window, half-expecting to see the usual airport goings-on, but found myself watching RAF personnel (with their respirator cases attached to their belts) unloading the aircraft. Even though I’m carrying my own respirator case and a pistol, the possibility of being subject to a gas attack suddenly seemed very real. We disembarked the aircraft and were shepherded through a series of tents (the in-theatre arrivals process).
Absolute silence.
No one smiled. I don’t think any of the other people on the aircraft (soldiers, mainly) even looked at me. I was issued with NAPs tables (Nerve Agent Poisoning), an atropine pen (in case of chemical attack), some very strong anti-biotics (in case of biological warfare) and ten rounds of ammunition, which I shoved in my ammo pouch. Arrivals procedure complete, I was bundled onto a knackered, cold coach and taken to British Army Headquarters.
I have absolutely no idea how long that journey took. Again, no one spoke on the truck and no one greeted us on arrival at the camp, either. The guys disappeared off and I stood there, alone. It was the middle of the night. I was exhausted and had absolutely no idea where to go or what to do. I put on my head torch and walked down an avenue of tents packed full of soldiers who were sleeping on camp beds or on the sand. One of the tents I passed had a gap between two soldiers big enough to roll out my mat, so I fell to my knees, dropped down my rucksack, got out my sleeping bag and tried to sleep between the two soldiers, but desperate for a pee, I couldn’t sleep. It was so bloody cold, too. You would think, being a Met Forecaster, I would have clocked how cold it gets in the desert at night in winter, but I’m clearly an absolute amateur.
At around 6am, everyone got up. I waited for the tent to clear before putting on my Bergen (AKA rucksack) because it’s embarrassing. Although I scaled down my kit to practically zero before leaving the UK, picking up my heavy Bergen is a major operation. I have to kneel next to something I can hold on to, hook the straps over my shoulders and then use every bit of strength I have in my legs to stand. Walking is simply a case of forward momentum overcoming gravity. Anyhow, I followed in the direction of the masses and found the portaloos, cleaned up as best I could with wet wipes, went through the whole palaver of putting my rucksack on again, then asked an American where I might get some breakfast and was pointed in the direction of the chow tent. Then, finally, I was pointed in the direction of HQ, where I spent an hour looking for someone who could give me some pointers.
Basically, in terms of delivering a met forecast, I’m on my own.
Regarding the set-up here, it’s all a bit Heath Robinson. Everything the American military have is state-of-the-art, but the same cannot be said for us Brits. Our HQ is a marquee-style tent which saw its best in Churchill’s day. There are two British armoured brigades in theatre. They have set up camp somewhere else in Kuwait – as have the Paras – and we will also have Royal Marines in theatre, but they are also elsewhere just now. Fox News plays on a big TV on permanent loop in HQ, so I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, although I haven’t been briefed regarding what I can and cannot include in my letters, so sod it. It’s really quite odd watching the news to see the Political machinations as they unfold. I see they are saying that they are trying to find a peaceful outcome. I hope they get one, but war seems like a fait accompli from where I’m standing.
In the middle of the HQ tent is something called the ‘bird table’ which is roughly an eight by eight trestle table covered in a map showing enemy lines. The table is covered in Perspex and there are stickers on it showing the positions of all the troops. Twice a day, the General appears at the head of the bird table (quiet chap) as does the Chief of Staff. A representative from each army section gathers around the table. A green, old-fashioned telephone handset hangs from a wire above the table. You press a button to speak into it and we all take turns to brief what’s going on in our respective departments. This brief goes out to the brigades and to the Paras. We stand around the table in a set order - the met forecast always comes first so I stand shoulder to shoulder with the Chief of Staff, next door-but-one to the General, and watch the operation unfold every day, which means that my voice is the first voice the soldiers hear on the radio every day and will be throughout the whole operation.
Typically, I still haven’t escaped from people complaining to me about the weather. Some things never change. I’m bored ninety five percent of the time. The lucky ones are the smokers. The other day I grabbed myself a cuppa and stood with the smokers – just to try to make friends. But I was holding a Polystyrene cup rather than a metal one with a lid that keeps the tea warm, and so I didn’t have the right kind of cup that says, ‘Experienced Military Woman’, so I didn’t fit in and had no conversation of worth. It was exactly like being the unpopular girl at the disco. Standing with the smokers I had a flashback to Home Economics and wish with all my heart I had befriended poor Jenny Jackson. The bullies were horrible to that girl and I watched it happen but said nothing. I was a coward and now I’ve got my comeuppance.
Sorry to be so negative. I’m just lost at sea. In fact, that’s the irony. At sea, I wouldn’t be the least bit lost. I’d have my bunk, my place of work and my extra duties to stop my mind from wandering. Sea-time was awesome compared to this. I’m also on a downer because my Decree Nisi just arrived in the post – how messed up is that? If I could turn the clock back a couple of years I wouldn’t have left Josh and I wouldn’t be losing my house. My whole life is shattered, and the person who broke it was me. It’s like I’ve been on a suicide mission to strip my life down to the absolute basics and now I feel naked, homeless and alone. Thank God for your letters and the support of Mum and Dad, I’d be lost without you all.
But … more importantly, Venice with a total stranger? Are you completely barking mad? Write as soon as you get home.
Love, Rosie
Bluey
From: Rosie Hughes
To: Joshua Fletcher, HMS Drake, Plymouth
Date: 8 January
Hi, Josh
Just thought I’d let you know I made it to Kuwait. Not sure if you still want to know I’m OK, but it seems odd to have spent all those years together and then suddenly not communicate. I got the Decree Nisi through yesterday and my solicitor told me the news about the offer on the house. It’s probably best that the sale goes through while I’m away as I couldn’t bear to empty the old place. Can you please put my stuff into storage? Before I left I put my most precious bits and bobs into a blue plastic box. You’ll find the box in the little bedroom, it has ‘Rosie’s Special Stuff’ written on the lid. Can you keep that box – and my violin – safe for me and I’ll pick them up when I get home? Hope all is good with you?
Rosie
‘E’ Bluey
From: Mr Hughes
To: Rosie
Date: 9 January
Dear, Babe
Terrible news. The school burnt down last night! Every last bit of it. Shocking. Mammy woke up at 3a.m. to the sound of an exploding LPG tank. The kids have been given the rest of the week off school which has caused havoc for the working mothers. No news on how the thing started, but it’s caused a lot of tears and upset and it’s distressing for the kids to see it – just a charred pile of rubble – and all their bits and bobs burnt to a cinder. Those nativity costumes have been worn by generations of kids. Terrible.
There’s an emergency meeting with the council in the village hall tonight, so I’m sure I’ll have more information soon.
Love, Dad x
‘E’ Bluey
From: A
ggie
To: Rosie
Date: 9 January
Hi, Rosie
Just got back from my night in Venice to find out that Midhope Primary has burnt down! The girls are moping around the village in floods of tears while most of the boys are whooping it up (and they wonder why girls out-perform boys). The whole village smells of burnt toast and God only knows how much asbestos we’re all inhaling.
I’ll write later with the details of Venice but in one word – disaster.
Love, Aggie
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 9 January
Hi, Rosie
I’ve just got home from a meeting about the school – I didn’t know your dad was still a governor? Bless him. I’ll not steal his thunder regarding details of the meeting, because I know what you’re really aching to hear about is my night in Venice, and what a catastrophic mistake of a lifetime that was.
Paddy was only a bloody jockey – five foot three inches, max! What a liar. It seems the only correct detail on his online profile was that he’s Irish, and even then, the accent could have been fake. Who the hell knows with the Internet?
My flight arrived an hour before his into Marco Polo Airport. Clearly, I took the time to sort out my make-up and put on fresh knickers (a lacy thong would have been far too uncomfortable on the plane). I hovered around the arrivals hall feeling sexy, optimistic and very tall. When his flight came through I was so busy scanning the crowd at my head height I failed to notice the man standing directly in front of me with his face in my tits and his tongue hanging out.
I’m afraid my expression did not mask my disappointment, cue awkward taxi ride followed by a blazing row in the middle of St Mark’s Square about the importance of being earnest (moral virtue, not book) which lasted until we mounted a gondola at the bridge of sighs (bridge of lies, more like). It wasn’t a one-way conversation, though. He was sparky, but then he’s a Celt, they’re like that. He said I was a ‘total fecking hypocrite’ as I had been equally as economical with the truth as I was clearly not a twenty-seven-year-old model. But as I said, if I had put my real age on my internet profile, men my age wouldn’t consider dating me because all men are pricks and they only go for women at least seven years their junior (he had the good grace to agree). I turned my back on him under the kissing bridge and instructed Paulo to ‘just keep rowing – presto!’ (I temporarily forgot the verb to punt, although even if I hadn’t, I could not have translated it into Italian. Mum may have improved my language skills by dating a Russian, a Frenchman and a Spaniard, but she never did shag an Italian).