Perhaps the most powerful love story is one which ends unrequited. Take love songs. They rarely end well. You may have noticed that most romantic novels are written by women, while the romantic lyrics in songs, which provide, I believe, a deeper connection to the soul (found, not in the heart but in the gut by the way) are written mostly by men. Take it from a doctor who has treated a great many people suffering from emotional issues, the part of the body that carries the burden of our emotional state is not the heart but the gut, hence the phrases, ‘gut-reaction’, ‘I just knew in my gut’, ‘butterflies in the stomach’, ‘I was shitting my pants.’
To surmise, But That’s Not What I Meant is an enjoyable read that ticked all the boxes that the majority of women in their middle years would expect to be ticked. But I will leave you with this. Goodbyes hurt the most when the story is not yet finished. Isn’t this where a story of true love should end? Rosie tells me you’re having difficulty with your present manuscript. She also tells me you love to sing. Perhaps you could pour some of that deeper emotion you find in your voice into your next novel and you may find it will start to come together in quite an unexpected way.
I would appreciate your thoughts on my thoughts.
Kind regards,
Gethyn
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 14 January
Hi, Rosie
Unfortunately, I did not swim naked in a midnight triste with the Dalai Lama (his loss!). I was in Wales on a singles canoeing holiday and it was bloody freezing – that Timotei advert has a lot to answer for (my nipples have never fully recovered!). As for the Dalai Lama – OK, it might be an exaggeration to say I met him, but I’ve certainly seen him from a considerable distance and listened to him speak. It was in London a few years ago, when he was giving a motivational speech (inner peace, world peace etc. etc.). It was a life-changing experience. I soaked it all in and can honestly say that I turned into a really lovely person after that (for at least a week, anyway).
Speaking of peace, I see from the news that we’re edging closer towards war. I would hate to be in your shoes right now and to think, you volunteered too, you nutter. Regarding the bucket list, I’ll give it some thought, but you can’t get out of it that easily, Rosie Hughes. War zone or not, life is far too short to be lived vicariously through another. Use your imagination for goodness sake!
In other news, I spent the afternoon at Mum’s flat today. It was not a pleasant experience, but I had to put some facetime in just in case I go to Scotland, which, I realise, I haven’t told you about yet.
Basically, an old friend from uni (Casey) left Manchester a couple of years ago to run a café and smallholding in Appledart, which is a remote peninsula on the Scottish west coast. Out of the blue, Casey’s partner, Shep, was asked to be on standby to step into a reserve place on the British Expeditionary Force in Antarctica – he’s a geologist. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. The man who was scheduled to go has failed his medical and is waiting for the results of more tests. If Shep steps into the breach, Casey will go with him – next week! Casey wondered if I might like to go to Appledart and watch over the house for her for six months or even a year. I’m to feed the chickens, make shortbread, recite Burns to customers. Another lady who lives there is going to keep the café open for them and I would generally help out. I wasn’t sure at first, but now I think I should jump at the chance, which is why I’m sucking up to Mum (you know she can’t stand it when I go away but wants bugger all to do with me when I’m at home). She phoned last week to announce she was having a clear out and to see if there was anything I wanted. This is how the conversation went:
Me: You’re having a clear out? Why?
Mum: Bergerac has finished on Sky.
Me: Well, what sort of thing are you getting rid of?
Mum: Everything.
Me: Everything?
Mum: Everything.
Me: Even the ornaments I bought you when I was little?
Mum: Yes.
Me (incredulous): What? All of them? Even the clog?
Mum: Yes, why not? I’m sick of having a mantelpiece covered in crap.
Me: But Mum, I bought you that clog on that school trip to Holland in 1982. I spent all my pocket money on it. And please don’t tell me you’re getting rid of that blue and white statuette of the flower maid holding the water bowl?
Mum: Which statue? The one with an arm missing or the one with no head?
Me: The one with an arm missing.
Mum: They’re both going. Oh, I know you bought them for me darling, but the time has come for me to have ornaments on display that have all their limbs – is that too much to ask?
Me: But they do have all their limbs.
Mum: But not necessarily glued on in the right places. I’ve got a china doll that looks like Hamlet (she starts laughing – actually laughing – at this point), I’ve got corn-dollies with no heads, pot birds with no beaks and a cracked Old Mother Hubbard cup with no handle. It’s embarrassing when people come round (absolutely no one goes round). Anyway, don’t be so overly-dramatic. You’ll thank me when I’m dead and you’re not lumbered with it all.
And that was that.
It’s tragic. I’d have coped better if she’d said she was running off with the pop man (let’s face it, it wouldn’t be the first time). And what’s worse, I stormed round there to rescue my memorabilia and now it’s me who’s got a mantelpiece full of crap and she’s right – it looks like a TV set for the Hammer House of Horror. I bet your mum’s loft is full of your old stuff – school reports, crap art work and everything. My mother has absolutely nothing of mine. She’s an uncaring old trout AND (as I told her) she’s even starting to look like one.
Hope all is good with you?
Love, Aggie
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 15 January
Hi, Aggie.
Poor you. But I’m not sure your mum has quite reached ‘old trout’ status yet. Try to see her good points? Surely she has some?
I know I keep asking for favours, but can you buy me an MP3 player and I’ll settle up with you when I get home? Everyone else seems to have remembered to bring music. And can you please put a couple of compilations on a disc for me, like the old-fashioned mixed tapes you used to do for us, and can one of the songs be Forgotten Dreams, by Leroy Anderson, and also the English version, Life in Rosy Hues. As you know it’s a very special song to me, not just because Mum and Dad sang it when I was little (and because we nailed it as a duet masterpiece), but because it was also the ‘slow dance’ song at my wedding with Josh. Listening to it will be a kind of self-harm, but it’ll match the mood I’m in right now.
Also, Mum and I made a pact just before I left. I said I would write to her with the truth of my situation – she knew I’d dumb the whole thing down for Dad. I said I would get letters to her via Mrs Jenkins at the Post Office, but can I send them via you, instead? Perhaps you could find an excuse to drop by and put the letter in her hand out of Dad’s sight? Do you still bake? Maybe you could drop round with a cake? I know if you go to Scotland you won’t be able to do this, but in the meantime if you could keep an eye on them I’d appreciate it. I’m sure Mum would love to see you. She was upset when you stopped coming round after the Simon thing.
Take care and please don’t let your mum upset you. I don’t think she means any harm.
Rosie
P.S. Regarding Scotland, you do know it can be even colder than Yorkshire up there, and you hate the cold, right?
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 18 January
Hi, Rosie
Jobs completed as requested. MP3 player dispatched. You’ll find mainly upbeat tunes but with a few memories on there from our melancholic teens, and obviously Ella Fitzgerald – to remind you of me, and the snow shovel is in position. I do think listening to La Vi
e En Rose is a mistake, I know I find it difficult to listen without welling up thinking of our duetting days, but if it was my song with my ex-husband, I’d probably end up rocking in a corner (just sayin). Anyhow, your wish is my command, and it’s on there as requested. I also downloaded an English translation version, which I think is lovely, although there really is no competing with Edith Piaf, is there?
I went on another date last night (internet, obviously). His card was marked from the off due to his terrible choice of pub. It smelt of stale beer and regret. And remind me never to go for a meal on a first date again. He ate like a wild animal and I really didn’t like his hands. It was not the best of nights (am I an unreasonable cow-bag?). Truth is, I’m not sure about this whole Internet dating malarkey. Mum is addicted to it and treats dating websites like other people treat clothing catalogues – tries something on for size then sends it back (worn). I know, I’m a big fat hypocrite, but I’m not a mother yet, she is. And surely there’s a moral code that dictates mothers should behave better than their daughters?
I’d love it if I could meet someone the old-fashioned way, with eyes across a crowded room, just like in South Pacific when that foreign chap - is he French? - sings, Some Enchanted Evening. But that kind of thing never happens to me. When I stare around a room hoping to catch someone’s eye I just look like I’m stalking my prey. They’re doing a spot of speed dating at a pub in Huddersfield next week, so I might give that a go – that’s a crowded room after all (and Huddersfield is sufficient distance from home to avoid the gossips).
Life here is just the same, except for the minor fact that the village is now at complete loggerheads over the school issue. Every time I go to the shop or the petrol station I’m roped into the debate, but I can see both sides and intend to keep well out of it. Having said that, there’s a meeting tonight in the village hall and I’ll have to go or that bloody Janet in the shop will scowl at me every time I go in. But on the plus side, we may witness the lobbing of rotten fruit and the burning of effigies, so it might be a worthwhile trip after all.
Well, must go. This book of mine won’t write itself, more’s the pity. Still no news on Scotland, but I really do hope I get to go.
Love, Aggie
P.S. Is Gethyn a bit of a cock?
P.P.S. I’m working on the bucket list for you – next one, swimming with dolphins!
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Mrs Hughes (via Agatha)
Date: 18 January
Hi, Mum
Sorry it’s taken me a while to write. I’ve been waiting for things to settle down a bit. The truth of the matter (and I’m still taking you on your word that you only wanted me to write the truth) is that we’ve embarked on an express train headed to war, and as the train builds momentum, the desert floor is definitely beginning to rumble with the vibration of western military might, and whatever the politicians are saying at home, I know with absolute certainty that this runaway train is moving too fast to stop now.
It’s hard to describe how I feel about all of this without seeming cold because I feel utterly detached. Fox News plays on a constant loop inside the HQ tent, and it all seems so artificial. When the war starts, the guys I work with in HQ will dictate the pace of the operation. But just like the rest of the world, they too will watch the horror on the front line – just three kilometres away – unfold on TV. Try to imagine a tented prison – a prison with no showers, no light relief, no time off for good behaviour; a prison that is far too cold at night and far too hot during the day. And just like a prison, if I step outside I can see no horizon, no people, no life, just a wall of sand and it gets in, on and around everything.
I’ll sign off there, but can you please send more wet wipes, sanitary towels (super-plus) and Tampax? I started taking the pill before I came out so I wouldn’t get my period, but stupidly left the pills in the side pocket of my big rucksack which I ditched because it was too heavy, so I’ve missed taking the pill for a couple of days which means I’m bound to get my period in a week or so.
Thanks mum. I’m so sorry to be putting you and Dad through the worry of it all. I realise now how selfish it was of me to come.
Miss you both so much.
Love you, Rosie x
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 18 January
Hi, Ag
Nooooo, Gethyn is not a cock. Not even a bit of a cock. He’s lovely. He’s just quirky and very intelligent. Why? Did he write to you? What did he say?
Things have changed quite a bit out here. We’ve left the American camp behind and have hit the Baghdad Highway and are now in the middle of the desert closer to Iraq. I sleep on a camp bed on the sand next to an army truck. It’s still very cold at night and my sleeping bag just doesn’t cut the mustard. I wear every item of clothing I have (which isn’t much) and that just about keeps me warm enough. Please do not imagine me swanning around in Lawrence of Arabia style sand dunes. Imagine a flat landscape like Norfolk but covered in a layer of sand with black stuff (oil presumably?) rising out of it sporadically.
The Army have built a berm around our camp. A berm is a long pile of sand in the shape of a square pushed into a mound that wraps around the perimeter of the camp – a bit like an inverted moat. As we drove north from Kuwait city I noticed that the desert is strewn with abandoned berms – and litter – which is either dumped where it’s created or buried by the Army. As far as toilets go, the army dig a deep trench then place a row of portaloos across it. There’s no bottom in the loo so your business goes straight into the trench.
Which brings me onto my biggest fear – losing my pistol. In order to drop my trousers, I have to take my belt off, which holds my holster (men do not have this problem) and I’m frightened to death I might drop the pistol into the trench. Losing your pistol is a serious offence. I think I’d be in less trouble if I shot The Queen.
I’ve just read the letter back and I’ve had to laugh at my moaning. I mean, what the hell did I expect conditions to be like? The Hilton? What a naïve fool I was. I have to stop feeling sorry for myself and see the whole process as an exercise in both self-discipline and learning to cope with very little.
That’s all for now. Sorry I’ve nothing much to write about except toilets but I can’t write any of the ‘war stuff’ or I’d be in trouble.
Love, Rosie
P.S. Meant to say, I’m gutted you didn’t manage to solve the problem of Maria. But you’re right, sod em.
P.P.S. Don’t compare your mum with mine. No mum is perfect, although we do expect them to be, don’t we? And you have not always been a model daughter either. Remember when you went through your ‘great women of history’ phase and paraded through Midhope dressed as Boudica for a whole month (Boudica?? Couldn’t you have found someone a little more contemporary, or at least a woman who shaved her legs and didn’t carry a sword?) – and don’t even get me started on your Joan of Arc antics.
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 19 January
Dear, Rosie Hughes
Fall to your knees this instant and pray for forgiveness from the immortal one, you poor excuse for a woman, you! Boudica was – without question – the most impressive warrior of either sex history has ever seen (and I would kill for that mop of red hair!). You should have been proud to dress like a warrior queen and have unchecked body hair for a while - freedom!
So anyway, in other news, being chucked over for the part of Maria was obviously meant to be. It’s decided! I’m closing the house up for six months and hot-footing it to Scotland. I catch the train to Mallaig on the 23rd and then a little man called Hector will meet me at the pier with his boat and take me to Appledart. My mail will be redirected, so if you’ve already sent a letter to Yorkshire, don’t worry, I’ll still get it.
I can’t wait to get away. Casey’s café is called, The Café at Road’s End, because it literally is at the en
d of one of the most remote roads in Britain because Appledart is only accessible by boat, or on foot across the Highlands. Perhaps I’m putting my writing career in jeopardy by going – perhaps it’s subconscious–or actually completely conscious – sabotage. My latest novel is due for submission at the end of April, but focus eludes me at the moment, what with Mum popping round every two seconds and the village in uproar about the school and the proposed housing development, it’s like a sodding war zone back here, never mind Iraq. I try to keep my letters to you upbeat, but I’m at a low ebb just now. God knows why I shagged that Irish bloke. Talk about desperate. Who flies all the way to Italy to meet a complete stranger? And even worse, who shags a stranger even though she doesn’t really fancy him? I’m turning into my mother and it frightens me.
Sometimes I think my life is more unrealistic than my fiction. I’m approaching middle age, single and very lonely, and I can’t see how that’s going to change. I had some counselling last year, but it was a bit of a waste of time. I spent nearly a thousand pounds to come to a conclusion that I’m a fat old maid who nobody fancies.
But that’s not the only reason for fleeing to Scotland. I’ve begun to despise sitting down in front of the laptop, but I have to keep the Isabella Gambini cash cow coming in to pay the mortgage. I also help Mum out financially, too. In my letters I’ve been playing the part of eighteen-year-old Aggie Braithwaite. I didn’t want you to see the mess I’m in, but if you can fess up about your worries and heartaches, so can I.
My new address is: Skye View Cottage, Aisig, Appledart, Scotland.
My only regret in going is that I won’t be able to take care of your mum and dad, as you asked. I’m so sorry, but I’ll take them a cake before I go. I should never have kept away – your mum didn’t deserve it, after everything she did for me when I was young.
Dear Rosie Hughes Page 4