Dear Rosie Hughes

by Melanie Hudson

  I know! ME!! I said that!

  I genuinely have no idea what came over me, but I did get my period the next day.

  Love, Rosie

  P.S. Guess what? Gethyn is in a relationship. Has been for years, apparently. She’s from Surrey – dead posh (he doesn’t seem too enthusiastic though).

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Josh

  To: Rosie

  Date: 19 February

  Rosie

  Of course my letter was impersonal. You walked out on me over a year ago. You asked for a divorce. I’ve barely had two words from you in all of that time – what do you expect? Regarding the ‘gassed to death’ comment, you said in your first letter that you were perfectly safe on the General’s staff and I believed you. Why tell me you’re safe if you aren’t? Stop testing me.

  Josh

  From: igambini@hotmail.com

  To: aggieb@yahoo.com

  Subject: Re: The Worst Writer Ever!

  Date: 19 February

  Dear, Aggie

  You are not the worst writer ever and you haven’t let me down. I’m just relieved to have heard from you. And I’m not on the lookout for another writer, you ninny. My voice is your voice, and it’s a voice worth waiting for so I’ll arrange for an extension to the deadline. You’ve always delivered everything we’ve ever asked for, so don’t worry.

  The girls are fine but Anise didn’t get the pony. She’s going through a phase of despising me, so the pony had to be put on hold. They are both going to Switzerland to stay with their father over Easter. I hate it when they’re away. I’m hoping Anise misses me this time, but I won’t hold my breath. The winter seems endless, I’ll be glad when it’s spring. Where are you, exactly? Where is the café? Keep in touch.

  Yours affectionately, Isabella

  From: aggieb@yahoo.com

  To: igambini@hotmail.com

  Subject: Re: Re: The Worst Ghost Writer Ever!

  Date: 19 February

  Dear, Isabella

  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I’m so relieved. You’re a wonderful, wonderful friend. The café is in Appledart on the west coast of Scotland. It’s heaven but I must dash as I have the day’s cakes to bake. Isn’t it odd that I’m saying this to you – it’s usually the other way around! Maybe you should try your hand at writing now that I’m baking, but don’t be too good at it or I’ll find myself out of a job. With much love.

  Aggie

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Gethyn

  Date: 19 February

  Sir,

  Two things:

  1. Your postscript, ‘Perhaps the crux of the whole issue is that you and I differ in what constitutes as romance’ was clearly an attempt to rile me, the implication being that I have a materialistic view of romance while you are driven by a deeper ideology.

  2. Trust me, in real life, a genuinely poor man has more pressing things on his mind than romance, and if the silly fool hasn’t, he should have.

  3. I do not wish to discuss the socio/economic benefits of a harem with you and never will. I have two women heroes, the first is Boudica (obviously) and the second, Scheherazade (the storyteller in One Thousand and One Nights) – who probably knew a thing or two about so-called harems. Scheherazade (in case you don’t know) was a very clever woman who devoured books on literature and history in her youth. Anyway, the King of the land (A Tosser) married a new virgin queen every day and also each day beheaded the previous day’s queen (his first wife was unfaithful, and he decided to punish all women for her transgression). Scheherazade’s own father was the man who took the virgins to the King each night and this ‘troubled’ him. When he ran out of virgins he told his daughter the story and, of her own free will, the next night, she entered the king’s bedchamber because she had a plan to save her father and her womenfolk. Cleverly, Scheherazade decided to outwit the King by telling him a new story every night. She would leave the story on a cliff-hanger, and the King, hanging on her every word, kept her alive until the next night so she could finish the story. This telling of interconnected, clever stories (the stories become a magic carpet) continued for one thousand and one nights, by which time, exhausted, the poor woman ran out of ideas (I know how she felt).

  But if you think about it, there were two weapons in the bedchamber each night – the king’s sword and Scheherazade’s words. The words, of course, won over in the end. The King fell in love with Scheherazade, the murdering of Muslim women ended and she became his permanent queen. In sum, Scheherazade did not agree with the subjugation of women, and nor do I.

  4. I’ve often wondered what the view is like from the moral high ground. Perhaps you could enlighten me? Does spending a great deal of time at such a level lead to a lightness of head? This could explain a great deal.

  5. With regards to your question about the exclamation mark, I once supported Isabella at a book signing on Oxford Street. A giant punctuation mark was hanging from the ceiling directly above her head. It became loose and began to fall. I noticed and pushed her out of the way, which was every bit as dramatic as it sounds. Unfortunately, I was not nimble enough to dodge the bullet myself, and sustained a deep gash to the skull and lost consciousness for a few minutes (ok, seconds). As my editor forced me to kill off use of the exclamation mark early on in my career, one might regard it as karmic revenge.

  I’ve sent you another book: For What it’s Worth (which is both the title and the sentiment).

  Regards,

  Agatha

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Aggie

  Date: 21 February

  Hi, Aggie

  We’ve moved – we’re always moving. The tent has been packed away and I’m sleeping with a few others in the open desert again next to a truck with a stretch of tarpaulin draped across us as we sleep. It’s still freezing at night but the heat will kick in soon and then I suppose I’ll complain about that, too. Last Friday I managed to scam a trip into Kuwait City with Gethyn. He has a civilian friend from med school who works there. We met up with him and stayed in his apartment. It was the most amazing night of my life. Guess what? I had a bath – an actual bath, Aggie - AND a gin and tonic (life does not get better than that). I’m now back with the Army in the desert and have moments of absolute abject terror when I think about what may happen soon. In a way though, I wish the war would just kick off. After all, if I’m going to die, I’d rather be clean and still have the aftertaste of a good strong G&T in my mouth as I draw my last breath.

  Love, Rosie

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Mrs Hughes (via the Post Office)

  Date: 21 February

  Oh, Mum, how did I end up in this mess?

  Why didn’t I just stay put in my marriage and in my lovely home in Devon? I wish my future held more certainty, but from where I stand at the moment, I’m looking ahead to a wide-open abyss with no structure and no real purpose.

  I’ve done what you suggested and stopped writing to Angelica in my journal, but it doesn’t help. No matter what I do or where I go, she’s always there. I know it sounds odd, but I keep getting the scent of tomatoes – not the tomatoes you buy at the supermarket, but the real tomatoes in Dad’s greenhouse. Do you remember the day I lost Angelica? I was holding her in my arms. Her skin was so perfect, this immaculate child, but she was so cold. Then Dad came and took her from me. He smelt of tomatoes that day.

  Anyway, I’m just sitting and watching as HQ is being packed up around me. Off we go, nomads in the desert. I had my anthrax jab yesterday, God my arm hurts. I would give anything to be home right now. I’m a whinging, whinging, woman and I’m not good enough to wear this uniform. Don’t worry about my ramblings too much. I’m only letting off steam. Living out here is a paradox. You cannot help but live each day as it comes and yet I find that I have too much time on my hands to be able to live in the moment. I’d give anything to be at home with you and Dad right now, sat in front
of the fire with the dog on my knee - watching kids’ telly, drinking tea and eating marmalade on toast, asking Dad to nip to the shop for a video and some French Fancies, like he used to. Maybe if Josh and I got back together and somehow, miraculously, we had another baby, the sadness would go away. Did this work for you? Did I ever really replace Anna? I know you’ve never wanted to talk about her, but maybe it’s time.

  Love you.

  Rosie x

  Bluey

  From: Gethyn

  To: Aggie

  Date: 21 February

  Agatha

  Your book arrived today. Thank you. Would you like me to review it?

  Gethyn

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Gethyn

  Date: 21 February

  Dear, Gethyn

  And another thing:

  I now regret sending you another novel as I don’t share your conviction that I could write anything worthy of your praise and I have no intention of changing my ways. I blame book clubs for this literary snobbery. The members of such clubs never dare to stand up to their book club leader – often dictatorial types. I swear most book club members trot along and have a nice chat about a literary book, but then go home and secretly devour a bit of Jilly Cooper. My own village book club gathering is a sombre affair, other than in December, when I host the meeting and ensure everyone leaves inebriated on rum punch.

  Rosie informs me that you don’t agree with the war and that you believe invading Iraq is morally wrong. If you don’t agree with the war, why are you there? Could it be that, in order to carry out the requirements of your job, you’ve had to compromise on your own personal belief system? In your opinion I have let myself down by writing formulaic fiction in order to keep the money flowing in, but isn’t what you’re doing exactly the same thing? The difference between your situation and mine is that, to my knowledge, no one has died from reading my fiction, although Isabella did inform me that she received a letter from a lady who almost decapitated her husband when she threw one of my books at him while he danced the tango with a ‘young trollop’ on the cruise liner Oceana. I was glad to have been of help.

  Agatha

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Rosie

  Date: 21 February

  Hi, Rosie

  I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through right now but do remember that we’re all with you in spirit. Don’t worry about the tough love speech. I needed it. And you were right about Mum, but this merry-go-round of emotional instability can’t go on. I have a hole in my heart in the shape of a mother, and it’s been that way for as long as I can remember. When she’s being nice to me, the hole starts to heal a little, but then, when she turns cold again, the wound opens up and it becomes angry and exposed, and with every concurrent spell of neglect and disassociation, the soft tissue becomes hardened, and my heart is less likely to bond together in the future. So, for the sake of my heart, before it hardens over completely, it’s time to let go and not think about the fact that she will never be the one to say, ‘I’m sorry’ or even better, ‘I love you’.

  With much love, Ag

  P.S. I followed your advice and wrote to Isabella – all is well. Thank you, my lovely friend.

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Gethyn

  Date: 21 February

  Hi, Gethyn

  I sent you a letter earlier that contained some harsh words. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any of it – I get carried away and, like a rabid dog, I don’t know when to loosen my jaw from its grip. Maybe you push buttons in me that touch the sore spots?

  Best wishes,

  Aggie

  From: aggieb@yahoo.com

  To: sexymamma@hotmail.com

  Subject: Last time trying

  Date: 21 February

  Dear, Mamma

  This is my last email. I can’t keep banging my head against the goldfish bowl. Every time I let my guard down and show you love, you close the door. I know you didn’t want me to leave Midhope, but it’s not forever, and even if it were, aren’t children allowed to spread their own wings? When I came back to Midhope I never said it was forever (OK, I did) but things change – I need to change.

  I’m not sure when I’ll be home. I may sell up and start again somewhere new. My door will always be open - walk straight in and put the kettle on when you want to come back. There will always be Blue Ribbon biscuits in the tin.

  I love you. Agatha x

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Aggie

  Date: 22 February

  Hi, Aggie

  It can’t be long now. We practised the drill for a scud attack yesterday and unfortunately, I was shouted at because my hair was tied in a bun, which meant the straps of my respirator at the back weren’t tight enough which prevented my face from bonding a firm seal. I felt like such an amateur, and you know how I hate to look like a girl. So, my hair has had to go. Gethyn cut it off. He borrowed the cartographer’s scissors. I now have a very short bob cut. He did good job. At least, I think he did a good job, but with no mirror I haven’t a clue what I look like, but it doesn’t matter. Gethyn says I must remember that, in working with the Army, I don’t have to morph into being a man, and that I’m allowed to look presentable and cling on to some form of femininity. But, do you know, once the hair was gone, I felt so incredibly light and free, just like Jo in Little Women. I’m glad it’s gone.

  But if my hair weighed me down, my rucksack has weighed me down even more. What a f..king nightmare. When I left the UK, I didn’t think I’d be able to whittle down my essential items any further, but now I carry only my pistol and respirator case and a small day sack holding a few pairs of pants, a change of uniform, head torch, blank letters, pens, a note pad, a packet of baby wipes and my journal, which means I can move around more easily without looking like a complete girl.

  After the ‘big hair cut’ we sat in our tent with my golden hair abandoned at my feet and had a really good laugh. I’ve been Rapunzel for far too long, with all that long blonde hair weighing me down. Years and years of sadness were locked up inside the atoms in that hair, and it felt good to let it go. I might not have been bonded to that respirator before we cut off my hair, but my bond with Gethyn will be steadfast for the rest of my life. Guess what he did to get me laughing? He put Stayin Alive on his MP3 player, turned the volume up to max, and we danced around on the sand in our little tent, which we’ve been able to put up again at this particular location. Then – in tribute to you – we jived around to, Let’s Face The Music And Dance (I’d already told Gethyn how well you can belt it out!). It was brilliant. We’ve decided to always do this whenever one of us is having a rough day. It’s a shame he’s seeing someone because he would have been perfect for you. I’ll see if I can get to the bottom of his relationship – maybe it’s on the rocks? Let’s hope so!

  Write soon with news of the café, I’m desperate to hear all your news. Big hugs,

  Love, Rosie

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Mr Hughes

  Date: 22 February

  Hi, Mum and Dad

  Not much to tell you other than that I’m safe and well. My friend Gethyn and I spent the morning filling sandbags, which killed a few hours. After filling about twenty bags, we stopped for a cuppa and fashioned a sandbag into the shape of a football to have a kick about. Before we knew it, a handful of Americans joined in and we’d got ourselves a game of soccer – it was like the Western Front all over again, only with Americans, not Nazis.

  But on the whole, my life is extreme boredom interspersed with weather forecasts. Is this how older people feel? I manage to while away half an hour cleaning my pistol every day, although Gethyn often does this for me as he finds it cathartic, and then there are always a few magazines kicking around. Talking to Gethyn fills the rest of the gaps, but it’s a peculiar life. One army captain prov
ided an entertaining hour by setting up a sweepstake for the start date of the war. Gethyn has gone for the 19 March and I’ve gone for the 21 March. I could win about $200 if I’m right so fingers crossed. Not much else to tell you.

  Love to you all, Rosie x

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Mrs Hughes

  To: Rosie

  Date: 22 February

  Dear, Rosie

  Sweetheart, I don’t talk to you about Anna because there isn’t anything to say. I also can’t tell you what to do about Josh, my love, but what I would say is this: having another child would not act as a miracle cure to your sadness. I think the way ahead can be summed up in only one word – acceptance. Start writing a new story for yourself, and please make it a happy one.

  Do you know why Dad and I called you Rosanna? Well it absolutely was not to keep Anna’s name alive in yours, but because we loved the sentiment of the song, La Vie En Rose, and it’s what we wanted for you - a life in rosy hues. We thought that by naming you Rosie Hughes you would automatically be blessed with happiness – if you think about it, it’s your destiny, your right. So, when you come home, re-write your life in a way that brings you joy and be good to yourself. I think you’re going through a process that has needed to happen for some time and you will be in pain, on and off, until you come out of it at the other side. Perhaps spending this time away is exactly what you needed to see a clearer path ahead. You’re grieving, Rosie, and the process will take time. Eventually, you will come out the other side and feel an overwhelming sense of freedom – of renewal and when that comes, you’ll be free of it all. This is how I feel about Anna.

  Regarding my depression (yes, I know it’s the black dog that floats above the surface that we never discuss), I want you to know that I am not depressed because of losing a child. I suffer from clinical depression and bouts of anxiety attacks because I’m made that way. Sometimes I worry that the same black dog hovers around you, too. All I can really say is that I’m thankful every day for the patience and love of your father and that I have renewed hope, lately, of seeing a brighter future. Regarding Josh, if you feel that your marriage can be saved and his love is worth fighting for, then fight for it, but be careful what you wish for, my love, and be sure your feelings aren’t being influenced by your present situation in Kuwait. Perhaps it would be best for you and Josh to delay the house sale until you get home - then decide.