Dear Rosie Hughes

by Melanie Hudson

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Mrs Hughes (via the Post Office)

  Date: 27 March

  Hi, Mum

  I’m sat on the sand outside our sleeping tent taking in some sun for twenty minutes. To the right of me a bunch of US Marines are playing the card game, Uno. This seems to be the wrong game, somehow. Shouldn’t Americans be playing poker and drinking whiskey?

  We’re on the move again tonight, edging ever closer to the border. I see the importance of my job now. The weather really matters in a war. I gave the air liaison staff a separate briefing a couple of days ago and the reality of war hit home all the more. I had to wait to brief them and listened as they got caught up in securing air support for the Commandos who were in trouble with an Iraqi tank brigade. Three American F18s, four AV8Bs and two A10s later, the marines were out of trouble. I don’t want to even begin to imagine the twisted carnage that that kind of fire-power left behind.

  Thanks for sending the knickers and baby wipes, by the way, and all the sweets and magazines, too. It’s all keeping me going. Thanks a million, Mum.

  Love you,

  Rosie x

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Oliver, via Mrs Cartwright

  Date: 27 March

  Dear, Oliver

  Thank you so much for your letter. It’s lovely to know people at home are thinking of us. I’ve got plenty of time to write to you because when I’m not working on a weather forecast there isn’t anything much else to do, except eat and sleep, so we all write lots of letters. I’ll try to answer your questions:

  It’s mid-afternoon here in Iraq and you are right, it is hot in the desert during the day. We try to stay in the shelter of the tents as much as possible and keep physical activity down to a minimum so that we don’t suffer from heatstroke. It’s a nice temperature at night now that it’s early spring, although it wasn’t when I arrived. In January and February, it was freezing at night but by July it will be so hot it will be very difficult to sleep, and working outside during the day will be almost impossible. Helicopters may have to stop flying during the day as it will be far too hot.

  Yes, I have a gun. It’s a pistol. I haven’t fired my pistol during the war and I hope I never will. In fact, I only fired it a few times in my life. I’m not a real soldier, I’m a weather forecaster. I’m here because I’m in the Royal Navy Reserve Forces and I was asked to come and work with the army headquarters staff.

  Sand gets everywhere, and it is all that you can feel and see and taste. I wear a scarf around my head and face to keep the sand away from my mouth and nose and hair.

  You are not going to be bombed. Saddam Hussein cannot bomb the UK. British children are safe.

  I’m neither sad nor happy to be here. I’m nothing, if you can understand that. I’m very sad about the war, though. I was lonely until I found a friend. He’s called Gethyn and I would be lost without him.

  I will get a medal.

  I can’t tell you for certain why we’re at war. I’m not sure even the General knows. All I can say is that our Prime Minister sent us here and we have to trust that he would only choose to do so if he had a very good reason.

  That’s my questions answered, perhaps you could answer some questions for me: How did you feel when the school burnt down? Do you mind travelling by bus to your temporary school? Do you think they should rebuild the school in Midhope? My dad wants it to be rebuilt. He’s asked for my opinion, but I would like your advice on this.

  Thanks again for writing and for praying for me. I hope you write again. Ask any questions you like.

  Best wishes,

  Rosie

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Mr and Mrs Hughes

  To: Rosie

  Date: 27 March

  Dear, Babe

  The village is enjoying a bit of a ceasefire at the moment. Although maybe I’m not hearing any news because everybody I bump into is walking on eggshells around me because they know you’re away with the army. Mind you, it’ll only take one misplaced comment in the shop or the petrol station and they’ll all be at loggerheads again. Mammy and the dog are both doing well. Mammy said to tell you that we’re not planning to open up the caravan at Easter like we normally do – Whitby can wait until we know you’re safe. We want to be at home during the fighting just in case you manage to phone, and the signal on my mobile is dodgy at the coast.

  Aunty Joan sends her love. Her knee is doing much better now, but she’s a long way off going back to line dancing at the Legion. The jammy bugger has managed to wangle a disability sticker for her car. They’ll hand them out to anybody with a bit of a limp these days!

  Did you get the silver bangle I sent? Did I mention it’s Victorian? I’m still trying to get access onto the field at Holmfirth. I’ll find that pot of gold yet love and then you’ll never have to do this bloody awful job again.

  Love ya babe.

  MumnDad x

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Aggie

  Date: 27 March

  Dear, Aggie

  I’m now officially in Iraq. Crossing the border was bizarre. Some Iraqis waved (mainly children) which felt odd considering the hard-fought battles the forward line of troops have faced, but there are pockets of resistance everywhere and no-one is safe. We threw food and water down from the trucks to the children so maybe that’s my first attempt at ending world hunger? (I’m not sure the circumstances count!) I’m excessively tired having only had four hours sleep in the last forty-eight and I’m frightened again and suddenly constantly on edge. Sorry, but that’s all the energy I have to write tonight.

  Love, Rosie

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Gethyn

  Date: 28 March

  Hi, Gethyn

  What a hateful situation you find yourself in. My ranting to you about the vagaries of romantic fiction seem inconsequential now and I feel guilty that my life has not been disadvantaged in any real way by the war. Perhaps if we had to endure food rationing or had doodlebugs landing in our laps we might have a greater realisation of what is going on. I can’t help but feel that as a nation we are far too comfortably-off to be at war – shouldn’t I be unable to bake due to a shortage of butter? Ishmael tells me that events in Iraq unfold on our TV screens twenty-four hours a day, but the cottage I’m living in doesn’t have a TV, so I’m not able to be a war voyeur, thank God.

  I popped round to see Rosie’s parents before I came to Appledart. I took a Victoria sponge (you can’t go wrong with a Victoria sponge). They were both pale, behind the smiles. I was given the obligatory cup of tea, but it’s clear they will both be holding their breath for a while, so it’s not surprising they are pale – after all, it’s impossible to be ruddy of cheek if you are short of breath. Rosie’s Mum had the same kind of distance in her eyes I remember from childhood. But listen to me! I need to buck up and send you some first-class sarcasm.

  Yours aye, Aggie

  P.S. To show solidarity for your plight, for the rest of the war I’ll wear a rough tweed skirt and draw a line up the back of both my legs each day with eyeliner as fake stockings. Enduring cold legs in the Highlands is the least I can do for the war effort.

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Rosie

  Date: 29 March

  Hi, Rosie.

  How’s the war going? Can you believe you’re in a situation where I’m even asking you this?

  The news from here is that I’m now playing agony aunt to Isabella. Her initial euphoria has worn off and the realisation of her situation has hit her. I hadn’t realised she was in such an emotional mess. She keeps crying and it’s driving me nuts. Yesterday, I wrapped her up in ten layers of warm clothing, made up a picnic – a flask of coffee, cheese and chili-jam sandwiches and a couple of slices of lemon drizzle (one of my recipes- ha!) – walked her along the beach and, once I’d heard the whole sorry story, she fell in
to my arms and wailed like a banshee. Then she ate more cake (I think she was a little curious as to how I got the sponge especially zingy) and eventually she sighed a massive sigh and smiled.

  ‘Well, Isabella,’ I said, ‘if you will insist on acting like a doormat, what can a man do but walk all over you? And you need to stop crying too, or you’ll have to have some serious work done on your face before your next stint on the telly,’ that seemed to sort her out!

  She’s had a shitty couple of years, bless her. Of course, a man is involved. One of her daughters is causing her all kinds of grief, too. But not to worry, because I sense Anya is working on Isabella surreptitiously. She’s been talking to her (generally) about emotional ownership and taking control of one’s own thoughts and actions, in other words, ‘get a grip missus’. Ishmael keeps out of it all and disappears off as soon as the topic of conversation turns to men.

  But - oh my God – Isabella can bake! It’s like watching an alchemist. Even Anya is impressed. I’ve noticed that Isabella tastes everything – every ingredient - as she adds it, but then never eats much of anything once she’s baked it. Surely this is self-harm? Her savoury snacks are little morsels of heaven, which is a nightmare. I’m already the size of a house, but with Isabella baking up a storm, I’m going to be the size of two houses by the time I leave here.

  That’s all for now. Send some warm sunshine our way.

  Take care. Thinking of you always.

  Ag

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Mrs Hughes (via the Post Office)

  Date: 28 March

  Hi, Mum

  I thought I’d better let you know that I’m now in Iraq. But again, try not to worry, I’m about three kilometres back from the front line. I’ve adopted a ‘them and us’ mentality now that the bullets are flying. After all, if I was to walk out of this tent and wander into Iraq, I would be captured or shot, so whatever my thoughts might have been about the futility of the war before it started, those thoughts are irrelevant now. Survival is the key. We’ve stopped wearing a chemical protection kit in HQ and we operate on a risk basis because it looks like Saddam has neither the will nor the means to gas us. When the scud alarm sounds we no longer jump straight into trenches but wait to see where the computer predicts the scud is going to land. If close by, we hit the trenches (it’s rarely close by). I’m being completely honest with you in the hope it will show you not to worry. Yes I’m in a war zone, but under the onslaught of American hardware, I doubt the Iraqis would have the energy or ability to attack our Head Quarters, so all is fine. Say hello to Aunty Joan, and a big hug for the dog and Dad.

  Love you, Rosie x

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Gethyn

  Date: 29 March

  Dear, Gethyn

  Thought I’d write again as soon as I could, just to show you’re in my thoughts. How are you? I know it’s an obvious thing to say, but I do very much hope that you are safe.

  The latest from me is that I seem to I have found my niche. Running the café is fabulous and I seem to have more energy than I’ve had in years. All my victims (did I say victims, I meant customers) have to walk quite a way to get here (hence the metaphorical concept of reaching ‘the end of the road’) and have mammoth appetites.

  I always point their noses in the direction of the savoury specials board and the cakes on the counter while I’m helping to peel off their waterproof clothing, and we make sure the aroma as they walk in is a mixture of home baking and peat fires – perfect! The weather has been particularly cruel this week and so visitor numbers have been down. Only the rock-hard, stalwart walkers, or those poor souls who are in dire need of Anya, are prepared to cope with the icy winds whistling over from Skye. But I do love to see their ruddy faces light up as they fall through the door.

  Working here has been a real eye-opener regarding human behaviour. You would think the customers would rush to the roaring fire on entering, but they don’t, they edge their way towards it, like they’re cautious that it might breathe out a dragon’s breath. But once enveloped within the heat, that first wave of comfort is tangible. The next wave of comfort is the tea pot, and the wave after that (the biggest goffer of all) is Anya’s stew. Dessert is literally the ‘icing on the cake’ (I’m mixing my metaphors now, but you know what I mean), and as the last little crumb is dabbed off the plate with a moist fingertip, it’s like the crashing sea of their emotional angst has finally rested on the shore – calm and sated. By the time my customers walk out of the door, their souls have been cleansed by a tsunami of warmth, carbohydrates and sugar - it’s lovely. The occasional gluten/sugar free lost soul appears, but we cater for that so they are sated (but never in quite the same way, I think). Anya pops in and out, but likes to maintain a mysterious air about her (it doesn’t pay for a fortune teller to overhear details of her client’s lives in the cafe – that would be cheating).

  Isabella is on the mend – did I tell you she’s staying with me? If not, get the details from Rosie. She’s taken to walking the beach every morning with Anya’s cat (what that cat doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing). I keep an eye on her from the window to make sure she isn’t sitting on a rock – rocking (a melancholic habit I banned on her first day). As Anya and Isabella are often absent, I’m the café’s host, and I don’t mind in the least. You would never in all your life believe the things people talk about over coffee and cake, and what else can I do but eavesdrop? Many visitors make their way to the end of the road alone, kind of on mini-pilgrimages, which makes for interesting conversations, because if they want to talk, I’m all ears. Bizarrely, my pineapple upside down cake in particular seems to loosen the tongue of the lone traveller – what’s that all about? Is pineapple a lip-loosener? Tell GCHQ! Anya believes all this listening is good for my spiritual development. I’ve always been a first-rate eavesdropper, but in conversation, I’m usually the natterer. But here in Appledart, perhaps because of the stillness of the hamlet and the easy-going nature of my lifestyle, I don’t need to chatter anymore; I don’t feel the need to monopolise every conversation simply to entertain, and I pass my days with my elbow resting on the counter and my right cheek resting on my hand, just listening – I know, you don’t need to say a word: I’m experiencing my own transformational growth (but as I told you, life is formulaic).

  The big news (and Rosie may have told you this already) is that Nathan Browne (as in, the Nathan Browne who publishes Browne’s Culinary Almanac etc.) is making his own journey to the end of the road in the very near future. I emailed Casey and suggested we put him off, but she says he may never come back if we don’t let him in now. I sought guidance from Anya, but unfortunately, the Tarot and the angels proved fruitless, and Anya simply sighed and said, ‘There are greater energies at work here’. So I’ve decided to relax, let it all happen and make sure the café is as awesome as possible by the time he arrives.

  What else? Oh, I now regularly ride a horse. The reason is a practical one. I need to streamline the café’s outgoings because at the moment we pay the landlord at the pub to deliver our fresh produce. Casey didn’t have this cost to bear because her partner, Shep took his little boat across to Mallaig to buy provisions once a week, but we don’t have that luxury because although I’m not adverse to cranking up the boat, I have never mastered the art of parallel parking. And if I can’t park a car, what chance do I have of parking a boat? Horses are easy to park. All they need is a slap on the arse and a sugar cube and they’re happy (aren’t we all?). Ishmael saddles up Jekyll (with additional saddle bags) and I ride to Morir and back a few times a week. I love it. Travelling on horseback is fitting for the place.

  So, to surmise, I’m now a Wild Highlander (it suits my hair) and although I sound a tad conceited, it seems I was born to ride – it’s so easy - and other than smelling like a stable yard, it’s a lovely trip out. My little jaunt eats into my writing time, but isn’t fresh air exactly what I needed?

 
Write soon,

  Aggie

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Mr Butterworth

  Date: 29 March

  Dear, Mr Butterworth

  Thank you for your letter, it was kind of you to write.

  I work in the army headquarters and I can say with absolute certainty that my experience of war can not even begin to compare to yours. There is a lot of pressure (not so much for me, but for my colleagues) but no direct combat.

  We’re in Iraq now. Crossing the border was a surreal experience. We travelled by truck in one big convoy and crossed the desert at night. We made camp in the early hours and slept for a short time by the trucks while soldiers kept watch around us. After a couple of hours of sleep we made tracks and crossed the border early the next morning. Crossing the border was an uneventful evolution and not at all what I expected. We drove onto the deserted Bagdad highway and headed north, and before we knew it, we were in Iraq – no gun battle, no hassle, nothing. The only Iraqis we came across were children who ran along the sides of the trucks. We threw sweets and water onto the road for them.

  When I first arrived in theatre I felt like a fish out of water. What was a Royal Naval officer doing on the battlefield? But now I realise I’m an equal out here. I’m one of Her Majesties Forces. No one forced me to sign on the dotted line, and as the days have passed I’ve come to accept my life here and respect my colleagues (they irritated me at first, but I think that was about my own insecurities rather than their behaviour).

  I do understand your concerns regarding the justification for the war, but right now, I’m here and I have a job to do. The marines had a hard time on the Al Faw Peninsula, but they have done incredibly well, and I’m beyond proud of them - I’m proud of all of us. We were sent to the desert ill-equipped and, in my opinion, unprepared for a war no one at home wanted, but we’ve made it happen. All I know is, for now, I have to remain focussed and wear my uniform with pride.

  Take care of yourself, Mr Butterworth, and say hello to Mrs Butterworth for me. When I get home, I would love to pop round and ‘exchange notes’.

  Best wishes,