What’s odd about Aggie’s trip is that she’s gone to Appledart – Appledart! Do you remember, it’s where I took Josh for that disastrous holiday when I was pretending everything was OK? It’s where I saw that famous psychic and, believe it or not, her prediction is one of the reasons I accepted the posting with the Army – she told me that one day I’d find peace in the desert. Wouldn’t it be great, Mum, to stop the fog? To wake up each morning without that feeling of despair. To have a few hours where every single thing I see and do isn’t shrouded with the cloak of Angelica’s death?
Love you,
Rosie x
‘E’ Bluey
From: Mr Hughes
To: Rosie
Date: 4 February
Dear, Babe
It’s been snowing buckets! But worry not, your friends at the Met Office got it right and so we did a big shop on Friday. We’ve hunkered down and can sit it out till April if necessary. There is some good news though; a couple of days ago my snow shovel materialised behind the compost heap. Strangest thing: it’s got a red blade, not black, and the handle is wooden not cork. Mammy says I’m going mad but I’m sure it’s not the same shovel. Anyway, it’s a good ‘un, wherever it’s from. I had the drive cleared quick sticks (mammy was nagging me to get it done so the dog can still get out to have a pee). We’ve been watching Lovejoy on Sky Gold and are just about to have a splash of whiskey in our tea and then get to bed. This school business isn’t looking good. The council want to cut their losses and build an extension at Oakworth Primary. Surely Oakworth is too far away for our poor little mites to travel every day. We’re still fighting – the spirit of the Blitz is strong in Midhope. I told that councillor fella at the meeting, I said, ‘The school is the heart of our little community, and if that goes, the village will lose its soul’. For once it helps that the council is a slow old beast, so we’ve a while to wait for a decision. I shouldn’t imagine we’ll know what’s to be done this side of May. Keep your fingers crossed and we’ll save the old girl yet!
Love you lots babe and remember, KYHD.
MumnDad x
‘E’ Bluey
From: Agatha
To: Rosie
Date: 4 February
Hi, Rosie
It’s official. I’m never leaving Appledart!
The cottage is lovely, but bloody cold. Some nights I sleep downstairs on the settee, in front of the wood-burner, which is cosy. But despite the cold, Nature is a good friend to me here (we were only on nodding terms in Yorkshire). I will admit, she lulled me into a false sense of security yesterday, but that’s some friends for you. The sun, acting as a wrecker’s lantern, encouraged me outdoors with an arm full of washing, pegs and a hatless head. Two minutes later, I was back out there in a squall, dragging the washing off the line, pegs flying everywhere, my hair stuck to my head. But on the whole, the cold is not keeping me indoors in Scotland, although I will admit that my cheeks and hands are taking the brunt of the breeze. I danced a little jig when I discovered a pot of Vaseline at the back of the bathroom cabinet the other day. Anya has given me a Shetland wool jumper to keep the wind at bay and what with my thermal-lined wellies and ear muffs, I’m good to go.
Why is it, do you think, that we eventually despise the familiar? I never could bear the wind at home. Oh, I know I imagined myself as Cathy searching for Heathcliff on the moors, but I never ventured out if it was really windy, and in my adult years, I’ve been known to stay indoors for a week, concocting bizarre meals from freezer-finds, if a spell of bad weather was passing through. And yet here, the wind - that very same bundle of energy - is a tonic to me and I rush to the beach to greet it every day. I do feel sorry for the chickens, though. They look as miserable as sin. I love all of them, except for one who has the beady-eyed glance of a psychopath. But the rest of my avian friends are all beaks, balls of fluff and twiggy legs. They’ve inspired me to write a little story called No Room For Chickens. Drumming up children’s stories is a regular pastime at the moment as it’s the only way to quieten down the annoying kids from the ‘too good to be true’ family. I give their faces a good wipe-down with the dishcloth and then tell them stories, the latest one being about a little boy who wants to smuggle his best friends – the chickens – on holiday with him. They loved it. Worryingly, it’s the best story telling I’ve done in months!
Speaking of feathers, I’m still spitting some of my own. Your mate Gethyn believes me to be the obedient slave of a mediocre story-writing machine. Apparently, I bang out shallow tosh to satisfy the greed of uneducated masses, who wish for nothing more stimulating than a fast read of mindless drivel. He thinks I should write a book that reflects more accurately that complex, yet fascinating enigma often referred to as the ‘human condition’. Ask him which human condition would he like me to write about next? Syphilis?
Anyway, must be off, but do kick Gethyn in the shins for me next time he passes your desk – don’t worry if you aim higher.
With love, Aggie
P.S. Don’t show him this.
P.P.S. Sod it, you can. I don’t care.
P.P.P.S No, second thoughts, don’t. I’m off to the café. I’m making Isabella’s triple layer tropical coconut sponge today. I’ll think of my response while I’m baking.
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Gethyn
Date: 4 February
Dear, Gethyn
Thank you for your review which has taken me some time to digest. You asked for my thoughts on your thoughts. Here they are:
You say my novel is formulaic and lacks a degree of reality. I disagree. If romantic fiction is formulaic then life, too, follows a formula. For centuries humans in the western world have been raised from childhood to expect a stereotypical monogamous relationship. Christian religion, to a certain extent, has played its part in this by promoting marriage, but to be fair to Christianity, being married is surely preferable to living in a harem? On the whole, the lives of my readership follow a formulaic pattern: i.e. they meet a partner, fall in love (romance stage), marry, have children, stay together (or divorce when it gets boring) then die. The course of true love may or may not run smoothly during the ‘fall in love’ stage, and it’s a good job love does not always run smoothly because ‘smooth’ does not make for an interesting read. It is far more fascinating if the couple concerned have a rough ride before the consummation of their relationship – and yes, by ‘consummation’, I mean sex. We want our protagonists to have to work for their reward.
Do you know that a reader becomes awash with endorphins when they close the final page of a feel-good book? This is the same physiological reaction we experience during orgasm (I suppose being a doctor you will know this). So, given the choice, wouldn’t you prefer to have an orgasm than a headache?
Additionally, although the structure of a romantic novel may be formulaic, the characters and their particular transformation are not. Every story ever told is, at its core, about the transformation of the hero and any story written in the modern day is merely a retelling of past works (I believe Aristotle came up with this particular hypothesis) and with my hand on my heart (or if it makes you happier, my gut) I can assure you that a great deal more thought goes into the creation of a romantic novel than you might think. Having said that, my fiction is a reflection of my own experiences and I do not overthink my stories and the fact that I choose to give my characters happy endings is not just a publishing requirement, but also a matter of personal choice. Isabella’s readers are not looking for a book to throw against the wall with utter frustration because half the characters are dead or mutilated by the end of the story – they want a satisfying resolution (Jane Austen got away with it, so why can’t I?). In sum, I agree that in real life, not everyone is blessed with a happy ending, although, unless you are very unlucky, I believe life is a series of endings followed by beginnings interspersed with love, laughter and a little bit of tragedy along the way (the length of the road is, I admit, the one va
riable we cannot necessarily control).
I will leave my thoughts there. I don’t expect you will be reading any of my other books in the near future, but I am glad to have provided a little light entertainment on what, as you say, would otherwise have been for you a dreary afternoon.
Regards,
Agatha
P.S. Although the gut is the place in the body where emotions are stored, a Valentine card with a picture of a twisted gut on the front (perhaps with an arrow through it and little a cherub vomiting while mopping up human faeces) would not, I suspect, sell well. So, for the sake of aesthetics, can I ask you to acquiesce and accept the heart as the universal image of love?
P.P.S. I cannot abide Romeo and Juliet.
‘E’ Bluey
From: Mrs Hughes
To: Rosie
Date: 4 February
Dear, Rosie
How are you holding up, my little love?
It’s been a difficult week here. Dad had a bit of a run-in at the shop on Wednesday. Old Mr Butterworth was buying his paper like he does every morning, and Dad had popped down for a box of biscuits because the vicar was coming around for tea (he wanted to do a pastoral visit because you’re away with the Army and Dad hadn’t the heart to say no).
Anyway, it’s a sorry tale, but the abridged version from Dad is that he overheard Mr Butterworth telling Janet about how he’d written to the Prime Minister to complain about the war – and that apparently, we’re no better than the Nazis. Dad was standing behind the bread trolley and out of eyesight but I’m sure Mr Butterworth would never had said anything if he’d known Dad was there. Dad lost his temper and said (amongst other things according to Janet who told the vicar), ‘No one calls my daughter a Nazi, you silly old fool,’ which isn’t like Dad. Mr Butterworth got upset and had to sit down. He said he hadn’t meant to offend anyone but was entitled to his opinion. They had a blazing row during which time Dad told him he was being disloyal to the troops and then Dad had to have a sit down too. Janet called for the doctor and somehow the vicar called into the shop on his way to our house and they all had a cup of tea.
Dad went off metal detecting for the rest of the day – in the snow, he is a silly old fool – and I sat with the vicar talking about the school. The reason I’m telling you all this is because Mr Butterworth has asked the vicar for your address. He wants to write to you. Maybe you could pop a note back to him in the post, he is ninety-two, after all, and he was in a POW camp.
Love you,
Mum x
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 4 February
Dear, Rosie
Summation of week two:
Number of words written: zero
Number of cakes made: ten
Number of cakes eaten: ten
Number of hours spent beachcombing with Anya’s cat (who follows me around and freaks me out): about forty
Fuck-a-doodle-do!
I tried to buckle down to a spot of (Sunday night homework) crisis writing on Wednesday but spent three hours staring out of the window watching a boat with a red sail jib towards Skye. Eventually the sailors gave up, but credit to them, they gave it their best shot. It struck me that I’m in exactly the same situation – luffed up. No matter how much a person bangs away at something, if the wind isn’t with you, it’s best to drop your sails, go home and try again another day. So, in harmony with the sailors, I closed my laptop down, put my wellies on and went back to the beach, once again leaving my poor characters bobbing around in limbo. As I closed the laptop lid I could actually see the heroine looking up at me saying, ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ (she’s not what you might call, erudite). Some characters are so bloody needy, it’s suffocating.
But the good news is that I still love my little cottage, although I’m rarely in it. What with walking to Morir and back a few times a week for rations (Anya gets me to cleanse her crystals in the river while I’m there) and helping out at the café every day, I haven’t got the time to feel guilty. Speaking of Anya, I hadn’t appreciated just how busy (and famous) she is. Get this: Anya (purveyor of dirty laughs and rude jokes) is also an internationally-renowned fortune teller (so I was right, she is a witch!). Who’d have thought it? Tourists flock on pilgrimage to see her (when I say flock, this is Appledart, so I mean she gets about five punters per week) but at fifty quid a pop it’s not a bad little earner. Can you imagine how lost you would have to be to come all the way to Appledart just to cross someone’s palm with silver? I’ve asked her to read my cards – she won’t. Friends are taboo, but she says I have a bright yellow aura around me, so that’s nice (at least, I hope that’s nice?).
We’ve had a couple of days of fine weather. Anya’s two horses, Jekyll and Hyde, live in one of the fields next to my cottage. Jekyll is a Shetland pony and Hyde is a girt-big shire horse. Jekyll is the boss, which is brilliant. It’s a rare day the sides of my jeans aren’t smeared with horse dribble. They get into a shitty mood if I don’t have a little something sweet for them in my pocket whenever I wander past. My lemon drizzle goes down a treat, but it’s hilarious because I swear Hyde pulls that face when the sour of the lemon hits that spot behind the back of his jaw!
Well, cakes to make so ta ta for now.
Love, Aggie
P.S. Don’t think I’m not keeping track of events in Kuwait. We don’t get newspapers here, but I do listen to the radio every day. I haven’t heard from you in a while. Hope you’re ok.
P.P.S. Oh, and I’m going swimming with dolphins tomorrow, just for you (yes, in this weather!).
Handwritten Letter
From: Mr Butterworth
To: Rosie
Date: 4 February
Dear, Rosanna
I hope this letter finds you well and that you are bearing up during your spell away with the Army.
I wanted to write a short note to say that we are thinking of you. Your father and I had an altercation in the shop and I would not have you believe that Mrs Butterworth and I are not fully supportive. However, I cannot say that I am in agreement with the Prime Minister’s stance in Iraq and have written to Downing Street to state my objection to the deployment of our troops. I pray Mr Blair listens to reason and the situation does not escalate to war. I know the reality of conflict. But as horrific as our situation in 1942 was, at least we knew we were fighting the Hun. I feel it is easier for a soldier to put his life on the line when the enemy is clearly defined, but I’m not convinced this is the case in Iraq. I hope I am proven wrong, but at ninety-two, I will probably not live long enough to find out. Despite my objections, please do know that we are proud of you – all of you.
Take good care.
Edward and Margery Butterworth
Bluey
From: Gethyn
To: Agatha
Date: 5 February
Dear, Agatha
Thank you for your reply which gave me great food for thought. I’m concerned I may have crossed a line. If so, I apologise. I’m in the habit of writing papers on medicinal matters and have become used to issuing blunt and, perhaps, detached opinions. I am enjoying our discussion, though, and was wondering if we could continue with our correspondence? War is a funny old business and the distraction is refreshing.
In your reply you said that your writing is a reflection of your own experiences. If so, one of the books you sent to Rosie is called Millionaire’s Muse, does this mean you have at some point been the muse of an eccentric millionaire? If yes, did you really pose naked in front of the Eifel Tower, or was that artistic licence?
Yours, Gethyn.
P.S. You are quite wild with your use of quotation marks. Is this an occupational hazard?
‘E’ Bluey
From: Mr Hughes
To: Rosie
Date: 5 February
Dear, Babe
We had the Jehovah’s Witnesses round today. They’d heard you’ve gone to war and took it as an angle to ge
t in. Mammy felt sorry for them and let them get a toe in the door. I couldn’t stomach it so went out with the metal detector. I went to Bickersthwaite – I swear there’s a Roman hoard buried there somewhere. As usual I didn’t notice at the time slipping away and my feet went numb in the snow and I’ve picked up a bit of a chill. Mammy says it’s gone onto my chest and wants to book me into the doctors, but there’s no point. You have to know two weeks in advance that you’re going to be ill in order to get an appointment when you need one, and you’ve got to be practically dead to get antibiotics now-a-days, so I’ll give it a miss.
The dog went for a shampoo and set yesterday afternoon. Looks a treat and smells sweet too - although the first thing she did when she got back was to scrape out the soil for a new nest for herself in the snow under the hedge between us and next door, scruffy little bugger. Her nails had grown quite a bit so they gave them a trim. Can’t think how they could have grown considering the amount of digging she does.
Oh, I found a lovely silver bangle at Bickersthwiate. It was under a big old English oak at the edge of a field. It’s Victorian. Wonder who it belonged to? I’ll post it out to you, it’s yours now. Luvyababe. KYHD
Mumndad xxx.
P.S. Meant to tell you, when I’m dead my best spade goes to you. Mammy thought it should go to Simon, but he’d just let it go to rust. It’s got a lovely handle on it. You’ll have another garden again one day, my love, and you’ll dig up your veggies with my spade and you’ll lean on it and take a moment and remember your old man who spent hours and hours walking the fields, looking for an elusive pot of gold with that very spade in his hand.
Dear Rosie Hughes Page 6