Rosie Hughes
Bluey
From: Gethyn
To: Aggie
Date: 30 March
Dear, Aggie
It’s 2a.m. and I’ve just walked back into the HQ tent after stepping outside for a moment to get some air. There’s no moon tonight. Just for a second, I was able to sit, take in the stars and pretend that war wasn’t raging around me, that it didn’t exist. I’ve never meditated before, and I don’t believe I intended to tonight, but it was like I had lifted out of my own body, and just for a moment, I wanted to wander into the desert, drift away and never look back. But I knew if I started walking, even after a few paces, without the moon’s guiding light, I would never find my way back to the safety of the tents. I stepped back inside, picked up a blank Bluey and wondered who I’d like most to write to at this moment of peace, and it was you.
I wonder if Bush and Blair know how frightening war really is? A jet passed over HQ earlier today. I thought it was an Iraqi jet and I can tell you, just for a moment, until I realised it was one of our own, I was petrified – my emotions were certainly in my gut at that moment! There’s something beyond frightening about being on the receiving end of an attack from the air. If I was an Iraqi woman, holding a child in my arms and waiting to see where the bombs were going to fall, I don’t believe I could cope with such an ordeal and I hope, more than anything I have ever hoped in my life, that this war is for good reason, because if it isn’t (and we are yet to find the promised WMD) then in years to come I’m not sure I’ll be able to rationalise in my mind what we’re doing here, or maybe I’m being overly-sentimental. Maybe the horrible truth is, when I get home, I’ll be so busy with my easy western lifestyle, that other than the occasional pang of guilt – the occasional flashback - I will have forgotten all about it.
But enough of my melancholy. You said your writing isn’t going well. Surely more happy endings are in the pipeline? As your newest and biggest fan, I do hope so.
G
P.S. If you can get your hands on a violin do you think you could send it out for Rosie.
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 31 March
Oh, Aggie.
Why is the value of something – someone – so much greater when you don’t have it, than when you do? I spent the last year absolutely sure that separating from Josh was the right thing for my future (and for his) but now I miss him like hell and can’t ever imagine being with another man. Shit, I’ve messed up. I’ve not mentioned this before – and please don’t be upset that I haven’t told you - but one of the reasons our marriage broke down was because my baby, Angelica, died. After three previous failed IVF attempts, I finally got pregnant; but the pregnancy was a disaster. I developed pre-eclampsia at thirty weeks and was hospitalised because my blood pressure sky-rocketed. My whole body blew up with fluid retention. The hospital staff hoped to keep me stable for as long as possible, but at thirty-six weeks, my body packed in and I developed eclampsia and started to fit. They rushed me to theatre and delivered the baby. Tragically, she died three hours after delivery. Josh was with her, but I was in intensive care fighting for my own life. I was pumped with magnesium and Lord knows what else and had a blood transfusion. I never held her while she was alive, which haunts me to this day. When I was stable enough to hear the news, they told me she had gone and rested her in my arms. The only name we could think of was Angelica. When you wrote about feeling a gaping hole in your heart in the shape of your mum, I realised it was the perfect way to describe how I feel about my baby. I don’t want to let go of the balloon she rests in, but maybe here in Iraq, finally, I will.
Anyway, I don’t want to think about that right now. I’m alive and that’s more than can be said for the poor people who we repatriated today. What’s worrying though (and I haven’t even admitted this to Gethyn) is I seem to have lost my capacity to display emotion and I’ve been this way for some time. Standing in line earlier today with my colleagues, paying our silent respects to five soldiers laying in coffins covered in union jacks, I didn’t shed a tear. One young soldier standing further down the line collapsed, but I felt numb. Am I a monster? Sod it, I don’t want to write about that either.
Love, Rosie x
Bluey
From: Gethyn
To: Aggie
Date: 31 March
Hi, Aggie
It’s the witching hour again and I can’t sleep. We move further into Badlands every now and again, but I’m not worried as this brave young warrior called Rosie says she’ll protect me (she’s suddenly turned into Lara Croft and I honestly think she could kick a bit of Iraqi arse, too). She wanted to chirp me up, so she read me your Be Careful What You Wish For letter, the one where you attempted to conjure up your dream man in the moonlight (please don’t be cross with her, if you knew the circumstances, you wouldn’t be). As ever, your letter forced a smile to cross my lips, but it also got me thinking about you (I know what you’re thinking, ‘Oh God, here he goes again with the lecturing bollocks’).
In one of my earlier letters, I said the heart was not the correct imagery for love. On reflection, I was wrong. To explain:
The thing about the heart is that it does not have to think about beating, it just does it, from the first beat until the very last. Since I wrote my first letter to you, I’ve come to realise that, like the very first heartbeat, love is not something a person can manufacture artificially, it starts in a single moment. And once it has begun, true love will not stop until the heart dies. So, you were right, the heart is the correct symbol for love, after all.
And so, in my random round-a-bout way, the thing I wanted to say to you is this: please believe me when I say you do not need to conjure up a man or read any self-help books. Everything you’ll ever need to know about life is already inside of you – inside your heart. I confess, all of your books have been sent out to me, and three of your novels in particular touched me deeply. When I Let You Go, But That’s Not What I Meant (hilarious) and Here You Come Again were all fabulous books, and I realise to my horror and embarrassment that you absolutely did not require a pompous lecture from yours truly about the merits of the romantic novel. However, despite all of the above, perhaps one day in the future, just for me, you could try your hand at a different kind of love story – perhaps one that doesn’t focus on the white knight?
Anyway, I’ll sign off there, but please don’t worry about being single in a world of couples, because I promise you this, Agatha Braithwaite, your soul mate will appear by your side one day, and it will almost certainly happen on the day you least expect him to pitch up.
G
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 1 April
Dear, Aggie
I’m so desperately tired tonight, I’m not sure how much sense this will make. I can hear the shelling of Basra. It’s become normal. The scud attacks that plagued us last week are less frequent as we are now too close to the enemy for them to range on us. Special Forces are on the hunt in the western desert for scuds and WMD. They won’t find the WMD. That’s not what this is about, not really. The biggest threat to British troops now is from local suicide attackers – I suppose there’s not much else can they do. The Army don’t annoy me anymore. Has this fish found water? I seem to be coping better than some of the staff – is this because they’re taking naps tablets, or is it because I have a true friend and I am able to laugh and dance with him, even on the worst days? I arrived full of self-pity and spent the first few weeks here moaning, as you well know (sorry). But having been stripped naked of all preconceptions and previous persona, I feel like I’ve been able to get as close to a new beginning as possible. I don’t need a baby to live anymore, I’ve given birth to myself. I am enough, in me, myself.
Dad is right, if you just keep smiling, life is easier, whatever it throws your way. I think my smiles (even though at times they have been forced) are becoming cont
agious. I’ve noticed others smiling back at me – finally – and their shoulders seem to relax a little. Just maybe I have had a purpose here, after all.
With love,
Rosie
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Gethyn
Date: 6 April
Dear, Gethyn
I’m so very touched the person you chose to write to at the moment you felt lost in the desert was me and I’m genuinely honoured to know that my books have given you light relief during a difficult time.
I’ve not managed to write one word this week. Maybe the title – My Foolish Heart - is wrong. I was listening to a 70’s CD this morning and had the idea that all my future titles should be taken as inspiration from Bee Gee songs. For example, How Deep Is Your Love, could be an erotic novel about a gigolo deep sea diver with an ‘impressive instrument’ who entices women into his under-water world – OK, it’s terrible.
Anyhoo, I’m a little miffed with Rosie for sharing my letter with you *sniffs, irritated*. Some bits of information are strictly for girls’ eyes only. On balance, though, I’m glad she did read it to you, because your words have given me the confidence to keep going. However, I’m afraid I do not share your optimism regarding the materialisation of my soul mate. But if Mr Right does pitch up, I hope he gives me a little prior notice, or at least enough time to jump out of my PJs, put a comb through my hair and ditch my fuzzy slippers!
I was awake last night at the witching hour too. I tried to write, but nothing came. I’m a quarter way through my latest novel and despite your words of encouragement, although the will is there, the way is not. Some people believe that writing is inspired, in the truest, biblical sense of the word, and that any creative process is channelled via another source. If this is the case, the deep well containing my source of inspiration has dried up, and I’m not even sure I want the water to start flowing again. I love my new life of interaction, and the thought of sitting alone, writing, hour after hour, fills me with absolute dread. Truth is, I had become too lonely to be alone anymore. Keep smiling, lovely man.
Aggie
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 8 April
Oh, Rosie
I’m so sorry about the loss of your baby. I wish I could wave a magic wand and take all the pain away. I’m not going to try to give you words of wisdom, because you will have heard them all before, but I am sorry. It’s perhaps easier for me than for you to be childless because I’ve never yearned to have a child, it’s just something that I thought I’d get around to, one day, if I met the right partner. I suppose to sum up, I won’t sweat it if I’m never a mum, but if I fall in love, and if we decide we would like to start a family, then yes, I’ll go for it. Anyway, if you ever want to talk about it, or scream at someone, or just go out one night and get totally wrecked – I’m there for you.
My mother, the old cowbag, still hasn’t been in touch. I haven’t contacted her this week and I won’t again. No doubt I’ll see her when I get home (not that I’m sure I want Midhope to be my home any more). I have a few decisions to make, but not right now. Now is the time for providing a little TLC to the café pilgrims – and I bloody love it!
Life here continues with its renewed twists and turns. I decided to let Isabella settle in a bit before dropping the Nathan Browne bombshell on her, which is an appropriate word to use as she did look fairly shell-shocked after I broke the news. She blushed bright red and had to grab onto the counter to steady herself. AND, for the first time in her life, not only did Isabella Gambini proceed to overly beat her meringue, she forgot to add eggs to her cake mix, too. Hmm, something’s fishy here, me thinks. Do you think they had an affair? Oh – wait! Even better! Could Nathan be the real father of her first child? So exciting. I’ll wheedle it out of her soon, and if not, I’ll just get Anya to slip something ‘special’ into her gin and then we’ll discover the truth!
Love, Aggie
P.S. Are you sure Gethyn is in a relationship?
‘E’ Bluey
From: Oliver
To: Rosie
Date: 7 April
Dear, Rosie
I’m glad you have a friend. School was ok today because we did maths, but tomorrow is The Huge Write and I don’t like holding a pen too long and even if my work goes on the wall, I don’t have anyone who would want to come and see it and because I write slowly, I sometimes have to miss playtime to finish my writing. I love writing letters to you because I say what I want to say and Miss types. Here are my answers to your questions:
I don’t have a best friend because I’ve moved from school to school too much. The other kids in school are ok but they made their best friends by Year Three, so I don’t have one as I didn’t go to school much then and even if I had gone to school and got a friend I would have moved away from him by now, so it would be a waste of time. I didn’t cry when the school burnt down. I don’t know if I feel lonely, but it might be nice to have a friend. My last foster mum said there’s no point wishing for what you can’t have – she was talking about a dog because I wanted a dog. I like fishing. I don’t mind the bus now, but I will mind it in the summer because I’ll have less time for fishing in the evenings. I like all sweets. Didn’t you want your best friend in Iraq to be a girl?
Oliver
Bluey
From: Gethyn
To: Aggie
Date: 7 April
Hi, Aggie
Don’t force the writing, forget about it. You’ll know when the time is right to start again. I’m glad you’re enjoying life at the café. It sounds wonderful. I’d love to be there right now and can imagine myself drinking tea from a giant mug (do you have giant mugs? I hope so), eating one of your cakes and staring out of the window at the changing landscape of the sea while blithering on to you about everything and nothing. I don’t know how much Rosie has told you about my life (probably nothing, why would she?) but over the past couple of weeks - for once - I’ve found myself talking over a few bits and bobs, and this has helped. I think we both used the war as an excuse to get away, which is beyond ridiculous.
But back to Appledart. I’m trying to imagine what your friends look like. I imagine Anya is someone in her sixties who wears hippy clothing and has long white hair – is that correct? And how old is Ishmael, you didn’t say? Do you spend much time with him? What colour are the horses? Are there any seals? Have you had much snow? So many questions, but I have to say, Agatha, for an author you haven’t imparted much information. Please remember, I’m living in a black and white world at the moment and it’s your job to paint me the colours of home.
G
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Gethyn
Date: 11 April
Hello, you.
Don’t you think it’s odd that we’ve become friends (I hope you do regard me as a friend now?). I don’t suppose either of us would have believed we would have become such confidantes so quickly. We must be kindred spirits.
In answer to your questions regarding my neighbours, here is a little detail: Anya is beautiful, both in spirit and in looks. She has very short spiky hair dyed bright red (it was purple when I arrived and will be a different colour altogether next month). She’s in her sixties – I think. She never discusses any men in her life, but she gives off an aura of a woman who has known great passion. She moves like a cat. She is centred, calm and at one with her soul. She has never suggested any kind of need to have a relationship and I get the impression that she’s so utterly at peace with herself she doesn’t go out of her way looking for one.
And Ishmael? Well, he’s striking-looking. He’s quirky, too; abstract, kind, a little bit on the spectrum, perhaps? I haven’t asked his age but I would guess forty. It’s difficult to say because Appledart seems to give its inhabitants a timelessness about their looks. It’s as if everyone who lives here becomes fixed – tree-like - remaining constant with time. Wrink
les exist within their landscape – steady and sure and content. I do sometimes wonder if Ishmael and Anya have something going on (he tiptoes to her house late at night). How wonderful if that were true – an older woman with a younger man? What a refreshing change and what an absolute goddess!
The family-of-noise are blonde, white-teethed, healthy, completely self-contained and, although they’re REALLY annoying, are actually growing on me. Then there’s the Aussie, Shaun, who runs the pub (five miles away). He’s never lost for company as he has a constant stream of guests arriving to stay at the hotel thanks to Hector’s boat. The only people who enter into his life are transient – and he’s happy that way. He’s burly and hasn’t got a clue about small talk, but he is practical, which is a great asset for the rest of us. The three of us - Ishmael, Anya and me - spend one evening a week at the pub, usually on the night the fiddler comes across from Mallaig. We sing, and I play the piano and it’s all just fabulous (I know, aren’t we the twee ones?).
As for Appledart, it’s a mountainous peninsula only accessible by boat or on foot. The hills that rise directly from the water’s edge are steep and marvellously atmospheric. A couple of handfuls of cottages are divided between the only two hamlets - Aisig and Morir. Both have pretty little harbours. Morir faces out into a sheltered inlet of water and has a calm quality, but Aisig (where I live) is much more open to the elements. Looking up from my laptop and out of the front window, I can see the Isle of Skye, and the Cullin Mountains beyond, which are snow-capped and will remain so until late spring. Because of the Gulf Stream we don’t get too much snow, but it’s cold. We endure quite a lot of rain, which turns to ice on the track, which is why Jekyll and Hyde are invaluable.
The best days are the days of clear blue skies when the air is so crisp it could be cut with a knife. But whatever the weather, as soon as I step outside my front door I feel soaked through in the freshness of it all. My cheeks have never been so ruddy, and I have never slept so well. I have a wood-burning stove at home in Yorkshire, but it only serves as a luxurious appendage to the central heating system. In Aisig, my wood-burner is my only source of heat and it is the heart of the house. However, like a child, the stove requires constant attention, but I love it despite its neediness. We burn peat and the smell is delicious. My bedroom is always freezing cold, but I stoke up the wood-burner at night and when I dash downstairs in my pyjamas and slippers in the morning, the embers are still glowing and I’m toasty and warm in seconds. The cottage is an eclectic mix of bargain-hunt treasures, herbs, spices, old magazines, dust, Afghan rugs and house plants. I love it. It smells of earthiness and incense.
Dear Rosie Hughes Page 14