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Six Months Earlier

Electronic Letter (‘E’ Bluey)

From: Agatha Braithwaite, Midhope-on-the-Moor, West Yorkshire

To: Lieutenant Rosanna Hughes RN, British Army Headquarters, Kuwait

Date: 7 January 2003

Oh, my Jesus Christ, Rosie. I’ve just found out you’ve gone to war!

Before I go on, it’s me, Aggie Braithwaite. (I know it’s been an uncomfortably long time since we spoke.)

I bumped into your dad in the village shop this morning and I knew something must be wrong because he was turning a squidgy mango over in his hand and staring glassy-eyed into the ‘past its best’ fridge. Bearing in mind your dad is from that generation of Yorkshiremen who would never dream of buying a mango (not even a squidgy one) I asked him if he was OK and he said, ‘Oh, I’m bearing up, lass, considering.’. I thought, shit, someone must be dead. So, I followed on with, ‘Considering what, Mr Hughes?’. And then he told me how you’d flown to Kuwait yesterday – with the Army. What were you thinking, Rosie? No-one looks good in khaki. Not even you.

The last time I bumped into your Dad was about eighteen months ago in Midhope. He was at the Chinese picking up a sweet and sour chicken. I broke open a fortune cracker and wrote my number and address on the back of the paper – did you get it? He told me you and Josh were living in a thatched cottage in Devon and you were working at the Met Office in Exeter. But now I hear you’re back in the Navy as a reservist and you’re getting divorced? Eh? I’d heard you left the Navy ages ago, so I’m utterly confused and believe that the world must finally have gone topsy-turvy bonkers bananas mad, because many things that I’m hearing do not make sense:

1. What’s a sailor doing in the desert? Surely this is a misnomer?

2. Unless you’ve taken up body-building, your physique and personality are not equipped for combat. If you were built like me (an Amazonian Warrior Goddess) it would be different.

3. You don’t have the name of a war hero (and I’m an author, so I know these things). How can someone called Rosie go to war? It’s too soft. Surely you should be sitting in a cosy cottage toasting marshmallows, playing that violin of yours to twenty children?

4. As founder member of the Charlie’s Angels (Huddersfield Division) I know for certain that you’re a bit of a scaredy-cat.

In sum - Rosie Hughes at war? It doesn’t make sense.

Despite my best efforts, I didn’t get much information out of your Dad. He had to rush off because he had parked on double yellow lines and had lent his dashboard disability sticker to your Aunty Joan – she’s got fluid on her knee due to a nasty fall down the steps of the mobile library. But he told me about the forces electronic bluey letter system and pressed your BFPO address (and the mango, bizarrely) into my hands before he disappeared, which I saw as Kismet (the address, not the mango) because I’ve been desperate to get in touch for ages, but when you didn’t phone or write after I gave my number to your dad, I thought it was best to let it go. But now that you’ve gone to war, all that silliness seems irrelevant, and I just wanted to write and say, ‘hello’, ‘take care’ and ‘what the fuck, you idiot?!’

But enough about you. My own life has been a series of bad decisions meshed together by good intentions, and you will not be surprised to learn that I still haven’t managed to nail it, and by ‘it’ I mean that thing called love. I’ve moved back to Midhope and I’m a writer, which despite being my lifelong dream, bores me to death. I joined the operatic society again with the hope of bagging myself a leading man (I never learn), but all of the men are either spoken for or just plain boring, and anyway that casting bitch at MAOS gave the part of Maria in The Sound of Music to Jessie Cartwright! So, I told them to fuck right off. I mean to say, Jessie Cartwright? As Maria? Please!

It was exactly like that time in lower sixth when they gave the part of Juliet to Cheryl Brown just because she was light enough to stand on the balsa wood balcony. And to rub insult into injury, they’ve offered me a consolatory part playing a nun, and I don’t mean the pretty one. They offered me the part of Bitch Nun, the one with a face like crumpled steel. Honestly, Rosie, Jessie Cartwright has a weak, tinny voice and – mark my words – she will struggle to reach the back row. But I suppose she’s impish which fits the stereotypical image of Maria. When will people realise that the real Maria was a buxom, single-minded, man-eater who got chucked out of a nunnery for being a slapper? And I bet she was a total bitch with those kids once she’d got a ring on her finger. And answer me this: who else but me (in West Yorkshire) could play a buxom Austrian ex-nun who shags a sea captain? I nailed that audition. I did my usual Ella Fitzgerald impression and banged out, Puttin’ On The Ritz (great number for ‘filling the stage’ with song and dance), followed on nicely by With A Song In My Heart for the emotional pull. (Mrs Butterworth was actually crying when I closed the final line.) Basically, I nailed it, only to hear, ‘We’ll let you know.’

We’ll let you know?!

Apparently, I can’t just rock up in Yorkshire after ten years of absence and expect to be a leading lady.

Why? Why can’t I?

But they aren’t completely daft as they fully expect me to plonk my fat backside on the piano and accompany all the rehearsals – what a cheek! Anyway, I’ve told them to stick the part of ugly nun – and their piano – up their arses. I’m not remotely suitable for the role and I refuse to play her, it’s degrading. Shaun Jones asked me if I’d like to start doing my Ella tribute down the club again (I think he felt sorry for me) but I can’t face it. I’m done with singing. Anyway, it doesn’t matter as I’m fleeing to Scotland soon.

More anon.

Love, Aggie

P.S. Any hunks over there? If there are, don’t forget, he has to be tall. Despite my best efforts soaking myself in the Dead Sea for ten hours on retreat last year, I have not shrunk.

P.P.S. On a serious note, I know we haven’t been in touch for (what?) fifteen years, but I decided to go for a light (let’s pretend nothing ever happened and we were just gossiping over tea and cake) tone to this letter. Do you mind? I know things need to be said to clear the air properly, but can we be in touch while you’re away without raking up the past – at least, for now?

Bluey

From: Rosie

To: Aggie

Date: 3 January

Oh, Aggie.

It was just brilliant to get your letter, and it’s a crazy coincidence because only yesterday I was in the General’s evening briefing, drifting off, thinking of you, wishing we were in touch, and here you are – swear to God! I was thinking about the time we went to the Proms in Leeds on a Sixth Form night out. That woman in the balcony leant forward to wave to her friend and her false teeth fell out and landed in your pint! Hilarious. It could only have happened to you. Did you drink the pint after you fished the teeth out? Probably.

Like you, I’ve also been wanting to get in touch, but when you didn’t reply to the invitation I sent for my wedding a few years ago, I thought, perhaps, you hadn’t forgotten (or forgiven) what happened that last summer before we went to university. I confess that Dad did give me your address last year. The fortune cookie made my throat catch. It said, ‘A friend asks only for your time, not money’ but at that moment, my marriage had just broken down – amongst other things of equal catastrophe – and I suppose I wanted to hide away. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I made up my mind to come and see you before I left for Kuwait, but I bottled it at the last minute and decided it would be best for us to catch up when I get home, when I’ve got more time.

Like you said, though, let’s park all that for the moment. But I would just say this: if you kept away because of what happened with Simon, then I’m truly sorry. He can be a bit of an inconsiderate shit sometimes, but if it’s any consolation I honestly don’t think he means any harm.

So, why am I in Kuwait with the Army? Temporary insanity is all I can put it down to.

When Josh and I decided to separate, I couldn’t bear the thought of selling up my home on Dartmoor. Remember when I used to draw pictures of my dream home? Thatched roof, roses, duck pond, loads of kids? Well, I pretty much nailed it, except for the kids. Josh agreed he’d leave his money in the property for a couple of years and rent in town, he was away at sea most of the time anyway, but if I was staying at the cottage then I would have to pay all the bills. I agreed, but the reality was that I couldn’t afford it. To rewind further, I left the Navy in 1999 (after the shortest military career in history). I liked being a Navy Met Officer, but once I married Josh I wanted to settle down and start a family. So, I got a job at the Met Office in Exeter, but joining the reserves was a way of keeping my link to the Navy and it also meant I could afford to keep the house once we decided to split. Then, last November, I was asked if I’d consider deploying to Kuwait, to support the Army as a Met Forecaster. Call it impetuous irrationality, but I said yes (probably because I didn’t want to look like a coward). The Met Office released me for six months and before I knew it, I’d picked up my kit, done a bit of training, jumped onto an RAF transport jet and here I am.

Shit look at the time! Must dash. I must prepare a forecast for the 1800 briefing, but I’ll write later with more info. Please write as often and as much as you can. I’m miserable and friendless out here. I want to know what you’re up to now! You said you’re an author? What are you writing? Did you ever finish that steamy novel?

Love, Rosie

P.S. Even though I’m in a target-rich environment, there are no hunks around here – sorry.

P.P.S. Apparently the whole village is in bewilderment as to how you’ve managed to buy that flash barn conversion overlooking the river. Bloody hell, Aggie! Have your lottery numbers come up or something?

‘E’ Bluey

From: Mr Hughes, Rosie’s Dad

To: Rosie

Date: 3 January

Dear, Babe

How are you settling in? How was the journey? Mammy wants to know where you are exactly and if you’ll be staying in Kuwait if it kicks off? Are you in a bunker? Also, she wants to know if you’re getting enough food, especially roughage (I know you’ve only been there a day or so, but you know how she worries about your bowels). Speaking of that kind of thing, we took Fluffy to the vet this morning because she kept wiping her backside on Mammy’s sheepskin rug. She’s had her anal glands squeezed (£45 quid!) and seems brighter so fingers crossed the rug will be spared future embarrassment when Aunty Joan comes over.

I bumped into that big lass you used to knock about with at school the other day. She’s not fat now, but big enough to see that she still likes her food. She stole my mango (perfectly ripe and half price too!). I was going to cut a bit up for Mammy with some avocado, although why I persevere with avocado God only knows, the bloody things are either as hard as iron or on the turn and I never catch them right. Anyway, she’s going to write to you – Agatha, not Mammy. Mammy sends her love in my letters (you know she’s not one for writing).

What else to tell you? Bill and Mary over the road are having their windows done. We don’t think they’ve thought it through. Faux wood effect. Nuff said. They’re having a big conservatory built, too. He calls it an ‘orangery’, the daft sod. How can a terrace house cope with an orangery? The new bloke next door to Bill (Tracy and Jack’s old place) put in a complaint to the council. He thinks it will block out all the light from his chicken hutch, but Bill is ploughing on with it. We don’t mind what he does because, like Mammy says, having a house in the street with an orangery will put the price of ours up and she’s fancying a bungalow. But I’ll only ever leave this place in a wooden box, so she can think again!

The weather has been raw this week with a vicious wind but at least it’s too cold to snow so that’s something. Well, I’ve just heard the letterbox go and I’m waiting for my metal detecting magazine to come so I’ll sign off. Mammy is sitting in her chair looking through holiday brochures (she says she fancies a cruise, but I think we all know she could never cope with all the people and the chatter). Maybe we’ll treat ourselves to a new caravan at Whitby, although they are such a price these days I doubt we will.

Well, that’s all for now. If you feel a bit low over the next few weeks, take out this letter and pretend I’m singing along with Nat King Cole in the car, just like we used to:

Light up your face with gladness, hide every trace of sadness, although a tear may be ever so near, that’s the time you must keep on trying, smile what the use of crying, you’ll find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile

And remember - Keep Your Head Down (KYHD)

Love you, babe

MammynDad x

P.S. Did you take my snow shovel to Devon? It had a smooth handle and the angle of the scoop was perfect. I can’t find another one for love nor money.

‘E’ Bluey

From: Aggie

To: Rosie

Date: 7 January

Dear, Rosie

Of course I drank my bloody pint! We only had our bus fare and there was no way I wasn’t having a drink. Admittedly, there was a faint tang of Polygrip and I had to fish out a bit of popcorn, but other than that, it was pretty tasty.

Right then, here’s a quick update on the past few years. After university I moved to London and worked as an editor at Maddison and Black. It was a fab job, loads of social, loads of shagging and a couple of years later I even finished my much-discussed first novel (plus another two). I’ll let you into a big secret (but only because you’re stuck in the desert and can’t spill the beans) … I ghost-write comedy romance novels for (none other than) celebrity chef, Isabella Gambino (Isabella my arse, she’s called Sharon Froggatt). Isabella is a sweetheart and I suppose it’s fitting that I (a woman who was whipping up a Victoria sponge whilst transiting the birth canal) now write books for the best baker on the planet. Isabella sends me free copies of all her cookbooks, which means I have to run the equivalent of a marathon every week just to keep the diabetic nurse from my door, but here’s confession time: after banging out eight books in eight years, I’ve dried up. My imagination is kaput! My latest work in progress, My Foolish Heart, is just not coming together AT ALL. So, I’ve left my characters languishing in the doldrums, and they hate that.

You’ll not be surprised to hear that Mum is frustrated to hell that she can’t tell anyone I’m a writer. But truly, it’s amazing she’s kept schtum all these years. She’s still an absolute dragon and I never know from one day to the next if she’s talking to me, but on balance, I think she’s glad I moved back home (a knee-jerk decision following the breaking of a heart – his, not mine). The problem with writing is that I sit alone for hour after hour lost inside my own imagination, which, as you know, is a bizarre and wild place to be, and what’s worse, my imagination is pretending to be someone else’s imagination, which adds even more weirdness to the situation. But at least the lives of my pretend friends are sexy and interesting, which is more than can be said for my crappy old existence at the moment. It’s a sad state of affairs when my characters are getting more action in the bedroom than me *breathes deep and heavy sigh*. My latest serious squeeze was a competitive fisherman, David. He got me into bed by saying I was his greatest catch (please!). We lived together for a while but it was an average type of relationship. Predictably, I woke up one morning and realised he bored me out of my mind, and even if he didn’t bore me out of my mind, there was no competing with his ultimate fantasy – not me dressed in red lycra wielding a whip – but the elusive twenty-pound conga eel (or some kind of big fish or another). So, one day, while sitting in silence at the riverbank burning the skin off my top pallet with scalding coffee, I took my lead from the salmon, told him it was over, fought my way up stream and came home to spawn.

But now, I find that sperm is in scarce supply, which is worrying. There is this one man I met a couple of weeks ago on the Internet who seems rather nice. He’s Irish and (thank God) very tall. I’ve begun to imagine myself playing Maureen O’Hara to his John Wayne in The Quiet Man, but without having to live in Ireland or grow roses. Not that I have anything against the Emerald Isle, except it rains a lot and I’ve promised mum I’ll partner her at cribbage next year. She’s determined to annihilate the competition – namely Janey Peters – who stole her boyfriend TWENTY YEARS AGO. You’ve got to hand it to Mum, she knows how to play the long game. I’ve popped some sweets and magazines into a parcel for you along with one of my books – But That’s Not What I Meant. You might not have time to read it, what with being on the brink of war and everything, but if you do, feel free to give me a proper review (an honest one).

Ciao, Bella!

Aggie

P.S. Yes, I did keep away because of Simon. Your dad mentioned he’d moved to Australia for a while, which must have been a terrible shock. I know how much you all adore him.

From: Wright and Longstaff Solicitors, Exeter

To: Rosanna Hughes

Dated: 3 January 2003

Read: 7 January 2003

Dear Mrs Hughes

Please find enclosed a copy of your Decree Nisi.

We have received an offer of £245,000 for Rose Cottage which Mr Fletcher would like to accept. In accordance with your last instruction we will proceed with the sale. The equity will be split between yourself and Mr Fletcher as per the divorce settlement.

Please find enclosed your updated Last Will and Testament as per your instructions. Please sign where indicated and return one copy to me at your earliest convenience.

Kind regards,

Justin Grant

‘E’ Bluey

From: Aggie

To: Rosie

Date: 7 January

Me again!

Oh, my good Lord! I’ve just had phone sex with the Irishman. Gorgeous voice. I was worried he would sound like Gerry Adams, but no, his accent was soft and sexy. I tried to sound less northern and more like a BBC news reader, but as it turns out, panting sounds the same whatever the accent, so I think I pulled it off. The next time we do it, I’m going to wear something sexy and lay on my bed so I can get into the mood a bit more. There’s something a little disturbing about having phone sex while wearing rabbit slippers and watching Midsomer Murders on mute, but I have a hundred per cent success rate at guessing the murderer by the first set of adverts and I’m not prepared to let it slip now. So anyway, don’t judge, but I’m meeting Paddy (do you think that is his real name?) in Venice tomorrow for one night – how bloody impulsive is that!? I’ve got a good feeling about this one.

Ciao, Sweetie, or as the Irish say, ‘may the road rise.’

Aggie

P.S. Shit, I hope these letters aren’t proof read by the Army.

P.P.S. Guess what? I was going through some old journals yesterday and found that bucket list we wrote together when we finished in upper sixth. It’s brilliant, but we weren’t nearly as adventurous or sanctimonious enough. I’ll write it out for you in another letter – can you believe we actually signed the ‘document’ IN OUR OWN BLOOD!

Bluey

From: Rosie

To: Aggie

Date: 8 January

Hi, Aggie

Very quick one. Can you do me a big favour, please? A few years ago, I bought Dad a snow shovel from the Wednesday market and he loved it. It had a black, plastic shovelly bit with a wooden shaft, but the handle was made of cork which he really liked. The thing is, I broke it when Josh and I used it as a sledge on Hound Tor. Can you do me a massive favour and go to the market and see if you can buy another one? If you do manage to get one, please can you rough it up a bit and leave it next to the compost heap (behind the pile of old slates which are behind the greenhouse) and let me know when you’ve done it. I’ll write again tonight.

Love, Rosie

P.S. You mentioned tripping off to Scotland as a throw away remark. What’s that about?

Bluey

From: Rosie

To: Aggie

Date: 8 January

Hi, Aggie

Oh my God, the bucket list! Signing in blood was your idea, but it was easier for you because you only had to tear the scab from your elbow (a roller skating incident I think?) but I had to cut my finger with a fruit knife. We must have been mad. I can’t wait to see what we put.

Sorry about the abrupt letter re the snow shovel but Dad gets a bit precious about his stuff and I wanted to get the letter into the post straight away. Your letters are sometimes printed off on the day that you type them, which is amazing, but I’m guessing my hand-written ones take a few days to reach you? You asked for some detail of my life in the desert, so here’s a potted history of my first week.

We landed in Kuwait City late in the evening on 1 January. After the aircraft taxied in, I ducked down to glance through the window, half-expecting to see the usual airport goings-on, but found myself watching RAF personnel (with their respirator cases attached to their belts) unloading the aircraft. Even though I’m carrying my own respirator case and a pistol, the possibility of being subject to a gas attack suddenly seemed very real. We disembarked the aircraft and were shepherded through a series of tents (the in-theatre arrivals process).

Absolute silence.

No one smiled. I don’t think any of the other people on the aircraft (soldiers, mainly) even looked at me. I was issued with NAPs tables (Nerve Agent Poisoning), an atropine pen (in case of chemical attack), some very strong anti-biotics (in case of biological warfare) and ten rounds of ammunition, which I shoved in my ammo pouch. Arrivals procedure complete, I was bundled onto a knackered, cold coach and taken to British Army Headquarters.

I have absolutely no idea how long that journey took. Again, no one spoke on the truck and no one greeted us on arrival at the camp, either. The guys disappeared off and I stood there, alone. It was the middle of the night. I was exhausted and had absolutely no idea where to go or what to do. I put on my head torch and walked down an avenue of tents packed full of soldiers who were sleeping on camp beds or on the sand. One of the tents I passed had a gap between two soldiers big enough to roll out my mat, so I fell to my knees, dropped down my rucksack, got out my sleeping bag and tried to sleep between the two soldiers, but desperate for a pee, I couldn’t sleep. It was so bloody cold, too. You would think, being a Met Forecaster, I would have clocked how cold it gets in the desert at night in winter, but I’m clearly an absolute amateur.

At around 6am, everyone got up. I waited for the tent to clear before putting on my Bergen (AKA rucksack) because it’s embarrassing. Although I scaled down my kit to practically zero before leaving the UK, picking up my heavy Bergen is a major operation. I have to kneel next to something I can hold on to, hook the straps over my shoulders and then use every bit of strength I have in my legs to stand. Walking is simply a case of forward momentum overcoming gravity. Anyhow, I followed in the direction of the masses and found the portaloos, cleaned up as best I could with wet wipes, went through the whole palaver of putting my rucksack on again, then asked an American where I might get some breakfast and was pointed in the direction of the chow tent. Then, finally, I was pointed in the direction of HQ, where I spent an hour looking for someone who could give me some pointers.

Basically, in terms of delivering a met forecast, I’m on my own.

Regarding the set-up here, it’s all a bit Heath Robinson. Everything the American military have is state-of-the-art, but the same cannot be said for us Brits. Our HQ is a marquee-style tent which saw its best in Churchill’s day. There are two British armoured brigades in theatre. They have set up camp somewhere else in Kuwait – as have the Paras – and we will also have Royal Marines in theatre, but they are also elsewhere just now. Fox News plays on a big TV on permanent loop in HQ, so I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, although I haven’t been briefed regarding what I can and cannot include in my letters, so sod it. It’s really quite odd watching the news to see the Political machinations as they unfold. I see they are saying that they are trying to find a peaceful outcome. I hope they get one, but war seems like a fait accompli from where I’m standing.

In the middle of the HQ tent is something called the ‘bird table’ which is roughly an eight by eight trestle table covered in a map showing enemy lines. The table is covered in Perspex and there are stickers on it showing the positions of all the troops. Twice a day, the General appears at the head of the bird table (quiet chap) as does the Chief of Staff. A representative from each army section gathers around the table. A green, old-fashioned telephone handset hangs from a wire above the table. You press a button to speak into it and we all take turns to brief what’s going on in our respective departments. This brief goes out to the brigades and to the Paras. We stand around the table in a set order - the met forecast always comes first so I stand shoulder to shoulder with the Chief of Staff, next door-but-one to the General, and watch the operation unfold every day, which means that my voice is the first voice the soldiers hear on the radio every day and will be throughout the whole operation.

Typically, I still haven’t escaped from people complaining to me about the weather. Some things never change. I’m bored ninety five percent of the time. The lucky ones are the smokers. The other day I grabbed myself a cuppa and stood with the smokers – just to try to make friends. But I was holding a Polystyrene cup rather than a metal one with a lid that keeps the tea warm, and so I didn’t have the right kind of cup that says, ‘Experienced Military Woman’, so I didn’t fit in and had no conversation of worth. It was exactly like being the unpopular girl at the disco. Standing with the smokers I had a flashback to Home Economics and wish with all my heart I had befriended poor Jenny Jackson. The bullies were horrible to that girl and I watched it happen but said nothing. I was a coward and now I’ve got my comeuppance.

Sorry to be so negative. I’m just lost at sea. In fact, that’s the irony. At sea, I wouldn’t be the least bit lost. I’d have my bunk, my place of work and my extra duties to stop my mind from wandering. Sea-time was awesome compared to this. I’m also on a downer because my Decree Nisi just arrived in the post – how messed up is that? If I could turn the clock back a couple of years I wouldn’t have left Josh and I wouldn’t be losing my house. My whole life is shattered, and the person who broke it was me. It’s like I’ve been on a suicide mission to strip my life down to the absolute basics and now I feel naked, homeless and alone. Thank God for your letters and the support of Mum and Dad, I’d be lost without you all.

But … more importantly, Venice with a total stranger? Are you completely barking mad? Write as soon as you get home.

Love, Rosie

Bluey

From: Rosie Hughes

To: Joshua Fletcher, HMS Drake, Plymouth

Date: 8 January

Hi, Josh

Just thought I’d let you know I made it to Kuwait. Not sure if you still want to know I’m OK, but it seems odd to have spent all those years together and then suddenly not communicate. I got the Decree Nisi through yesterday and my solicitor told me the news about the offer on the house. It’s probably best that the sale goes through while I’m away as I couldn’t bear to empty the old place. Can you please put my stuff into storage? Before I left I put my most precious bits and bobs into a blue plastic box. You’ll find the box in the little bedroom, it has ‘Rosie’s Special Stuff’ written on the lid. Can you keep that box – and my violin – safe for me and I’ll pick them up when I get home? Hope all is good with you?

Rosie

‘E’ Bluey

From: Mr Hughes

To: Rosie

Date: 9 January

Dear, Babe

Terrible news. The school burnt down last night! Every last bit of it. Shocking. Mammy woke up at 3a.m. to the sound of an exploding LPG tank. The kids have been given the rest of the week off school which has caused havoc for the working mothers. No news on how the thing started, but it’s caused a lot of tears and upset and it’s distressing for the kids to see it – just a charred pile of rubble – and all their bits and bobs burnt to a cinder. Those nativity costumes have been worn by generations of kids. Terrible.

There’s an emergency meeting with the council in the village hall tonight, so I’m sure I’ll have more information soon.

Love, Dad x

‘E’ Bluey

From: Aggie

To: Rosie

Date: 9 January

Hi, Rosie

Just got back from my night in Venice to find out that Midhope Primary has burnt down! The girls are moping around the village in floods of tears while most of the boys are whooping it up (and they wonder why girls out-perform boys). The whole village smells of burnt toast and God only knows how much asbestos we’re all inhaling.

I’ll write later with the details of Venice but in one word – disaster.

Love, Aggie

‘E’ Bluey

From: Aggie

To: Rosie

Date: 9 January

Hi, Rosie

I’ve just got home from a meeting about the school – I didn’t know your dad was still a governor? Bless him. I’ll not steal his thunder regarding details of the meeting, because I know what you’re really aching to hear about is my night in Venice, and what a catastrophic mistake of a lifetime that was.

Paddy was only a bloody jockey – five foot three inches, max! What a liar. It seems the only correct detail on his online profile was that he’s Irish, and even then, the accent could have been fake. Who the hell knows with the Internet?

My flight arrived an hour before his into Marco Polo Airport. Clearly, I took the time to sort out my make-up and put on fresh knickers (a lacy thong would have been far too uncomfortable on the plane). I hovered around the arrivals hall feeling sexy, optimistic and very tall. When his flight came through I was so busy scanning the crowd at my head height I failed to notice the man standing directly in front of me with his face in my tits and his tongue hanging out.

I’m afraid my expression did not mask my disappointment, cue awkward taxi ride followed by a blazing row in the middle of St Mark’s Square about the importance of being earnest (moral virtue, not book) which lasted until we mounted a gondola at the bridge of sighs (bridge of lies, more like). It wasn’t a one-way conversation, though. He was sparky, but then he’s a Celt, they’re like that. He said I was a ‘total fecking hypocrite’ as I had been equally as economical with the truth as I was clearly not a twenty-seven-year-old model. But as I said, if I had put my real age on my internet profile, men my age wouldn’t consider dating me because all men are pricks and they only go for women at least seven years their junior (he had the good grace to agree). I turned my back on him under the kissing bridge and instructed Paulo to ‘just keep rowing – presto!’ (I temporarily forgot the verb to punt, although even if I hadn’t, I could not have translated it into Italian. Mum may have improved my language skills by dating a Russian, a Frenchman and a Spaniard, but she never did shag an Italian).

Eventually we cut our losses and decided to go out for a meal together. Over dinner I apologised and explained that my hostile behaviour could be explained (but not excused) by my disappointment. I said we could never have a relationship because:

a. When standing side by side we looked like a comedy duo.

b. He was just too tiny to be able to carry me over the threshold and I’ve ALWAYS wanted to be carried over the threshold – not negotiable. His honesty in replying to points one and two (above) was refreshing.

He confessed that the threshold had been the last thing on his mind when he’d asked to meet me. He’d flown to Venice expecting to have the best shag of his life with a woman who had the most magnificent tits and arse he’d ever seen in a photograph (a statement he stood by, which was nice). He’d surmised that if my sexual prowess in the sack matched my performance on the phone, he knew he would be onto a winner and had booked his ticket to Venice immediately (I have now learned that a romantic location in no way guarantees a romantic interlude).

So anyway, we eventually laughed at the scenario and I ordered lobster, which was the same colour of my face having remembered the phone sex. And after a pleasant if slightly strained evening we said our goodbyes at the airport and flew home the next day. I’m so disappointed. I really thought I’d found the elusive one. But, fear not, I’ll take a deep breath and, like Paddy, jump straight back into the saddle, so to speak.

With much love.

Aggie

P.S. Sounds like a bloody nightmare out there. Chin up, Buttercup!

P.P.S. Bucket list in next letter, promise.

Bluey

From: Rosie

To: Aggie

Date: 10 January

Hi, Aggie

Oh dear. It sounds like Venice was a bit of a mistake. Shame you didn’t get a shag out of the jockey, but perhaps it’s for the best. Maybe you need to take a leaf out of your own book? Didn’t you say your next title is My Foolish Heart? Is your title telling you something?

Life here is much the same. I can’t imagine any kind of peaceful resolution coming into play. I bumped into a helicopter pilot I knew in the Navy the other day and he said he feels sick when he looks down from his helicopter and sees the might of the American military (which is only a fraction of their Marine Corps and a bit of their Army) sitting in the desert, waiting to pounce. I wonder how the Iraqi civilians feel, waiting to be attacked? What the fuck are we going to do with all these bombs and bullets anyway? Blow the whole of the Middle East to smithereens?

Write soon

Love, Rosie

‘E’ Bluey

From: Josh

To: Rosie

Date: 11 January

Hi, Rosie

Thanks for your letter. I’ve accepted the offer on the house. Not sure on the completion date yet but it’ll be a while as the chain has collapsed. I said we would wait for our buyer to sell again as I can’t face the rigmarole of putting our place on the market, but it could be months before completion. I’ll let you know how it goes. By the way, is it OK if I give Mum the Tiffany lamp I bought you? You never really liked it and she always had her eye on it. Where is it? Did you give it away?

Take care of yourself.

Josh

Bluey

From: Rosie

To: Mr Hughes

Date: 11 January

Dear, Mum and Dad

All remains well on the Eastern Front and don’t worry because I’m being well fed. It’s the easiest job I’ve ever had – anyone could do it. I get a print-out of the weather forecast from the Americans and I read it out, job done. The weather never changes in the desert and so I’ve got lots of time to read books and write letters. I miss you both, but it’s honestly not too bad over here. I’m on the General’s staff and so I should imagine that, even as the troops move forward, I’ll be in absolutely no danger so try not to worry.

Ta ta for now. Give the dog a big hug from me. I’ve got no idea what happened to the snow shovel. Didn’t the handle snap?

Love you loads,

Rosie x

P.S. Did you give my BFPO address to Simon? I haven’t heard from him.

Bluey

From: Rosie

To: Josh

Date: 12 January

Josh

I’ve mulled over your last letter and I’m a bit pissed off and need to get things off my chest. We’ve spent what, ten years together, and all you can say to me when I’m at the brink of being gassed to death is to ask if your mother can have my bloody lamp! Re the house, I agree. Let’s wait for the buyers we have at the moment. I want the house to go to people I like.

Rosie

‘E’ Bluey

From: Mr Hughes

To: Rosie

Date: 13 January

Dear, Babe

It’s all kicking off at home. Even though the embers are still smouldering, the council have admitted they may not rebuild the school. Meanwhile, the kids continue to be ferried on the bus to Oakworth on a thirty-mile round trip, which is a shame. We’re not taking it lying down, though. A petition is being drafted as I type!

To add fuel to the fire, Cecil Robinson wants to buy the school grounds and put houses on it – he’s got a bloody nerve that man, but where there’s muck there’s money! It’s causing quite a rift. I bumped into Bill in the shop. He said, ‘I’m not building a bloody orangery to have a load of boxes go up in the field behind my house.’ Janet heard him moaning (you know what a booming voice he’s got) and she bit back (you may remember she used to have a thing going with Cecil). She said he should keep his trap shut because the area needs more affordable housing, and anyway, ‘Clamping an orangery onto the arse end of a terrace house in the middle of the Pennines is bloody ridiculous.’ He stormed out, but he’ll have to storm back in again if he doesn’t want a twenty-mile round trip to buy a pint of milk. We’re still waiting to discover the cause of the fire, but arson hasn’t been ruled out. Terrible.

Nothing else much going on. There’s a bit of a barny going on over the road because the man at number 42 keeps parking his campervan on the road outside number 48, but I think that’s a storm in a teacup. Mammy and the dog are well. I’ll keep looking for the elusive snow shovel. It must be Alzheimer’s setting in but I can’t find the bloody thing anywhere. I’ve emailed your address to Simon. Mammy said to not feel too bad if he takes his time to write; he’s constantly on the go and it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.

Love, MumnDad x

P.S. What’s your opinion on the school issue? Rebuild or move on?

‘E’ Bluey

From: Aggie

To: Rosie

Date: 13 January

Dear, Rosie

But I did get a shag out of the dwarf! Come on, he’s a bloody jockey. How could I refuse an arse that can move that fast?

Anyway, Ta Da … here is the bucket list (we were quite sweet, really):

Umpteen Things We Absolutely Have To Do Before We’re Thirty-Five (first draft)

By Aggie and Rosie, Age 15

1. Learn to river dance

2. Climb a mountain (Mount Kenya or Everest base camp)

3. Get married and have kids (Rosie only)

4. Watch one sunrise and sunset together every year (not negotiable)

5. Swim with dolphins (if no dolphins, seals will do)

6. Do the thing we are afraid of the most

7. Sleep under the stars

8. Get to grade eight - violin (Rosie) piano (Aggie) and become duetting superstars

9. Send a message in a bottle

10. Read one hundred classic books

11. Master the flick-flack (Rosie only)

12. Meet the Dalai Lama – combine this with going to ‘Holi’ festival and becoming yogis

13. Ride a horse bareback on the beach

14. Swim under a waterfall (naked)

15. Make a positive difference in one person’s life

We got bored by the list at this point and hit the cider.

Come on then: how many have you done? You were always a bendy gymnastic-type, so I reckon you could do a flick-flack if you really tried. What about the violin – surely you carried on with that? God knows why we chose such an arbitrary age as thirty-five to complete the list by. Why so long? Other than getting married I could crack out the whole lot in a month. That said, so far, I’ve only managed to achieve no’s 13 and 15. Although I could probably claim number 1 with a bit of artistic licence, because although I haven’t river danced, I did learn tap dancing for a year, so if I do it faster along to some Irish music and keep my arms by my side, I’ll have nailed it!

Anyway, another mercy parcel is winging its way out to the Middle East. It includes chocolates and a photo of the two of us posing outside the youth club disco when we were about fourteen. You’re wearing wicked Madonna lace gloves but I’ve got an afro and a snake belt (why the fuck did you let me rebel against fashion all the time?). I’ve also sent you a recent photo of me. It was done for my agent. I do articles and short stories for magazines in my own name. Let me know what you think of the photo. Do I look too tall? I was going for the ‘intelligent but fun’ look, but I think you can tell I’m pulling my tummy in. Diet starts tomorrow. I’ll confess that I didn’t buy the chocolates. Isabella sent them as a thank you for writing her a funny speech for her spot on This Morning, but I get a headache if I eat dark chocolate, so I thought I’d send them your way. I wish Isabella would send Milk Tray. Why do people believe the more they spend on a gift, the more significant the gesture?

What else? Oh, Paddy phoned. He wants to get going with the phone sex again (I was a foolish, desperate buffoon to shag him). I said (in my no-nonsense voice), ‘No, thank you’, but soon discovered that my no nonsense voice just turns him on even more. I explained that I had been swept away in Venice and that the ambience had led me to reveal a wild and exotic side of my personality which, on reflection, would have been best kept under a bushel. Undeterred, he asked if he could join me under the bushel – naked. So, I told him I was taking holy orders (the audition for Maria being the inspiration for that little gem) and hung up. I may have to change my telephone number. Thank God I told him I’m a podiatrist from Hull and didn’t let on I write for Isabella.

In other news, my publisher wants me to give Isabella a side-line in erotica. They think her present run of romance has had its day. Do you think the cosmos is rubbing it in that I’m not having regular sex? I’m not sure I’m up to erotica as my enthusiasm for spicing up my (already spicy) sex scenes is waning. I may have to resort to more internet dating for the sake of my career, but if I do, I must remember to only date men who show their teeth on their profile picture. I once met up with a chap who was absolutely stunning, but then he opened his mouth and revealed only one tooth – one bloody tooth! A top front incisor. I felt so sorry for him I actually kissed him goodnight … no tongues, though.

Sod it. You’re right. I need a plan for my manhunt. I’ll give the Internet a second chance with a new fake name and I should also re-think my fake job. Maybe I’ll post a doctored picture of a more streamlined, younger me, and ditch the Nigella brunette look too and go blonde, but I’ll keep my tits and arse, obviously.

Ciao, Bella

‘E’ Bluey

From: The Staff at The Shop, Midhope

To: Rosie

Date: 13 January

Hello, Rosie, love.

Your dad has been giving people in the village your address, so we thought we’d write you a quick letter to say, WELL DONE YOU! We don’t see your mum much, but then it’s always been your dad who’s done their big shop.

Nothing much changes. Tracy Babcock is expecting again (that family allowance must be stacking up) and old Mr Jenkins passed away, bless him. It was a good turn-out at the funeral, but the sandwiches at the club afterwards were a bit disappointing (soggy egg) and Jack Blackmoor got pissed as a newt, daft sod. Mind you, he was like a son to Mr Jenkins, so we’ll let him off.

That lass you used to knock around with was in here the other day. It seems like only yesterday the two of you were running in here (it was Mrs Barker’s shop then) to buy jubilee lollies for ten pence-apiece. What a little bugger Agatha was. Why did she always insist speaking in French? Far too big for her boots, but that’s what happens when your mother disappears off to Paris to work for a Russian Cossack and comes home pregnant with money in the bank. God only knows who the father was, not that it’s our business, but with those thighs I don’t suppose the apple fell far from the tree. Did you know that the school burnt down? The kids are being ferried to Oakworth, but it’s a blooming long way for the little mites every day, and you know how treacherous that road over the tops gets in the winter. Old Mrs Butterworth was in here the other day and she was crying. Her kitchen window overlooks the playground. She loves listening to the kids. But the council say they haven’t the money to re-build it and Jed Jenkins wants to build houses (never one to miss out on an opportunity, our Jed).

Anyway, the bread man has just walked in, so I’ll sign off. Andrea Jones says, ‘Hello.’ She works two afternoons a week. I don’t think you’ll remember her, but she says to say she’s the one who used to sit next to you in Geography and fainted a lot. Keep smiling.

Pat (and the girls at the shop)

Bluey

From: Rosie

To: Aggie

Date: 13 January

Oh, Aggie

Thanks for sending the bucket list - I can’t believe you kept it all these years. I’ll confess that I was overcome with melancholy reading it and felt happy and sad all at the same. Happy, because it reminded me of all the fabulous times we had growing up together – my favourite memories are of us duetting on the piano and violin in your mum’s front room (we were bloody good, weren’t we!) Your dear old Mum would weep in her chair if we played that old Leroy Anderson melody, Forgotten Dreams) – but sad because, compared to you, I feel like I’ve been living a dull, joyless life for ten years. I’ll explain another time, but I’ve been so preoccupied with wanting to start a family these past few years, I’d forgotten to keep having fun. To answer your question, it was me who stipulated the ‘age thirty-five’ caveat (there’s a surprise). It was the latest age I was prepared to have a baby by (didn’t manage that one, did I?).

But here’s an idea: can we start the bucket list now? After all, we’re both thirty-five in July, so we haven’t got much time to crack it out. Admittedly, being stuck in the desert means that my options are limited (can’t imagine the Dalai Lama rocking up in the HQ tent and teaching me to river dance), but maybe you could do some of the list for both of us? I’d love that – experience my joy vicariously through your joy – it would help to cheer up my miserable existence *note sad face*.

In other news, I have finally found a friend! Actually, he’s very quickly turning into a brother, which is handy, as I haven’t heard a peep from my own. He’s called Gethyn, he’s thirty-seven and he’s a doctor in the RAF. He’s originally from the Welsh valleys. There’s a lovely calmness about him, but he also has a glint in his eye and a dry sense of humour. You’d like him, he’s tall and built like a brick shit house. He sings all the time (which is a little annoying) but being Welsh, I suppose he can’t help it (singing, not being annoying). But don’t get any ideas about me hooking up with him because there is not one iota of attraction between us. However, I’ll find out if he’s got a girlfriend because if not, he would be perfect for you!

Thanks for the book. I loved it. I’ve passed it on to Gethyn and asked him to give you an honest review. He’s been reading it ALL evening (with a wry smile on his face) so it should be a good one. I think he’s impressed with the sex scenes so he’ll probably be falling over himself to meet you when we get back. Aren’t I clever?

Loads of love, Rosie

P.S. Random question. Do you ever worry you won’t get around to having a baby?

P.P.S. Nearly forgot. You’ve ticked off 13 and 15??? So you’ve met the Dalai Lama AND bathed under the waterfall naked. I need details NOW (please tell me you did these two things at the same time).

Bluey

From: Gethyn Evans

To: Aggie

Date: 13 January

Dear, Agatha

My name is Gethyn Evans and I’m a doctor serving with the army in the Middle East. Rosie Hughes gave me your book But That’s Not What I Meant and asked if I would write an honest review. I usually keep my own counsel in such matters (I often find that when people ask for an honest opinion on something they don’t really mean it) but Rosie said you were made of sturdy stuff, so I decided to oblige. I am aware you ghost write for Isabella Gambini and please be assured your secret is safe with me. Here is the review:

I enjoyed the book as a pleasant read that passed a couple of hours during, what would have otherwise been, an uneventful afternoon. I don’t usually read romantic fiction, not because I allow myself to fall foul of gender predictable norms, but because romantic fiction follows the same formulaic lines of a romantic film and I prefer a read that delves deeper into the human condition - anger, regret, jealousy, fear, betrayal and, of course, love and familial relationships. Yes, your book ticks all the necessary boxes, and there were moments when you were almost there, but just when I thought you were getting into your groove, you resorted to humour rather than fleshing out the bones of the matter. Your one-liners were funny, but are you, perhaps, frightened to completely lose yourself in the power of your prose?

I can see that the novel would provide a very good read for its target audience, but have you considered breaking away from formula – is life formulaic? Does a love story always have to have a happy ending to be satisfying and does the happy ending have to show that the couple had, or are definitely about to have, sex? Would Romeo and Juliet have stood the test of time if they had wandered off into the sunset hand in hand? I fear not.

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 Vie 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 end 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.

Lots of love, Aggie

P.S. You asked if I want to have a baby. Yes, definitely. But I’ve often wondered if I would be the same sort of mother as my own, and if that were the case, I’d rather not perpetuate the appalling mamma gene pool. I take it you’re asking because it’s a subject that is troubling you?

‘E’ Bluey

From: Mrs Hughes

To: Rosie

Date: 19 January

Hello, Rosie, my love.

Agatha Braithwaite is leaving home again – did you know? She’s going on some kind of yoga retreat for a while. I don’t know what she’s really up to, but from what I remember of Agatha, it won’t be yoga. Her mother has come up with some fabrication that she’s a ghost writer for a famous chef and she needs to find some space to write her latest best-seller. Do you think her mother is unhinged? She always was a little different, wasn’t she? Anyway, I’ve told Mrs Jenkins you’ll send your letters to me via the post office and she’ll pop them round.

Dad’s getting into a bit of a pickle. This school business is winding him up. I suggested he resign from the Board of Governors years ago and he’s beginning to wish he had, but it seemed to fill the void after he finished working, not that he’s ever really let go of his working life. Difficult to let go, really, after all those years. I don’t think it helps that you’re away, and nothing has been the same since Simon left. Look after yourself.

Love you,

Mum. x

Bluey

From: Rosie

To: Agatha

Date: 21 January

Hi, Aggie

Hey! Right now, I have much more in common with Boudica than you do, Agatha ‘easy-life’ Braithwaite! Remind me who is it that has a loaded pistol strapped to her constantly? And my armpit hair it almost a foot long – I could bloody-well plait it! And don’t get me started on my bikini line and leg hair – it’s me who is the Amazonian warrior goddess right now!

Anyway, have a safe trip to Appledart. You’ll never believe it, but Josh and I went there once and walked the eight miles from our holiday cottage to find your friend’s café and had a lovely meal. We watched the sun set over the Isle of Skye. It should have been the most romantic moment of my life, but I ruined it and ended up in a strop. You’ll love it there.

Also, for what it’s worth, you are not an old maid. You’re gorgeous! You’re the most lovable, kind person any (very lucky) man could ever know.

Love, Rosie

P.S. Yes, the ticking clock baby issue troubles me, but more of that another time, perhaps. I’m sorry your life isn’t all you would have it be, either – we make a right pair of sops, don’t we? And don’t worry about not looking after Mum and Dad for me, they’ll be fine.

‘E’ Bluey

From: Aggie

To: Rosie

Date: 23 January

Dear, Rosie

Hurray! I’ve arrived in Appledart.

Predictably, Mum took umbrage at my decision to leave and is now refusing to interact with me in any way. She said it was yet another ridiculous moonlight flit and, oh, I’m dead to her, but I’m not too concerned. I’ve been dead to her at least four times before and somehow, I always manage a miraculous resurrection. Casey has already left for Argentina, but I’m too knackered to head to the cottage tonight so I’m staying at the pub. This evening is for eating food I don’t have to cook and sleeping in a bed I don’t have to make.

I spent the time on the train staring out of the window and thinking about my novel – where I want to go with it. As we left Glasgow, it struck me that I might be able to cobble together a story that ends with a life-affirming train journey. Oh, I know it’s been done to death, but who cares, I just need an ending. You know the sort of thing. The rhythmic rocking of the carriage soothes the heroine’s troubled mind as she rests her forehead on the cold window and gazes, unfocussed, at the landscape as it passes by. The landscape is a welcome stranger – it harbours no painful connection to the past. When she reaches her destination, the heroine steps off the train, glances around, finds the energy to smile at unfamiliar faces and, with the sudden realisation that all will be well, she takes a deep breath, grabs her bag, and disappears through a cloud of steam into a brighter future. But before leaving the platform, she takes one last look down the line, and with tears in her eyes she watches the train as it disappears into the distance. There can be no going back now, the train has gone; the ending has become the beginning (bla bla bla).

Having pictured myself as the heroine in my own story, I half-expected my own epic train journey (Huddersfield to Mallaig) to lead me to an immediate epiphany and a world of joy. I even booked myself onto the tourist steam train from Fort William to ensure the environment was as fitting as possible. As I walked onto the platform, I visualised myself as Ingrid Bergman in The Inn of the Sixth Happiness - kind and ethereal, but with fewer kids. My bubble burst, however, when I realised I was about to board the bloody Hogwarts Express. Dozens – scratch that – hundreds of kids appeared on the platform, all dressed in school gowns and jimmy wigs (homage to Ron Weasley, no doubt) flourishing twigs and shouting, ‘expelliarmus’.

I wished they would!

I survived the journey by playing eye spy with the little girl sitting opposite. She was a dour little thing (either that or she was doing a spot of Hermione improv). An hour of mountains and moorland rolled by, and after a final, ‘Something beginning with T’, the train coughed out its last choo choo and we pulled into Mallaig station just as the rain began to pour. Determined to have my spiritual epiphany one way or another, I said a few expelliarmus’ of my own and waited for the kids to disperse before getting off the train. But my old friend Disappointment continued to act as an overly keen travelling companion, and when I stepped onto the platform I noticed a buffer stop and it dawned on me that I would not be left standing in a cloud of steam next to Bernard Cribbins, after all. Mallaig is the end of the line.

You won’t be surprised to hear that I’ve brought more baggage than one woman could possibly need. As I lugged my cases across the road to get to the harbour (of course, it would be raining) you popped into my mind and I gave myself a good talking to about travelling light - you survive in Iraq with nothing more than a change of clothes and a packet of baby wipes so why do I need all this stuff? These thoughts stayed with me and I visualised the excess of emotional baggage I’m also dragging in my wake which, in my imagination, was manifested as a great pile of tea chests pushed along by a little Indian boy dressed in traditional dress of the Raj (the boy had a gammy leg too, poor thing). It hit me as my eyes welled with tears (at the thought of the orphaned Indian child) that I really do need to have a break from my imagination for a while, or else I’m probably only one more bad metaphor from parting company with my mental health altogether.

Anyway, an old gentleman dressed in yellow wellies and a woolly jumper (so thick I wondered if he was actually just wearing a whole sheep), snapped me back into the real world by saying, ‘Hello, you must be Agatha. I’m Hector. Let’s get you on board’, (how is it that some wonderful people manage to talk and smile at the same time?). He nodded towards a boat. A handful of tourists were already impersonating a tin of sardines stuffed into the boat’s cockpit, hiding out of the rain. I made a right tit of myself embarking. My foot slipped and I’m still rubbing a twanged hamstring having fallen down the last three rungs of the ladder. There was no room for me in the sardine tin, but I didn’t really care. My jeans were wet anyway. I perched my bottom on a lobster pot, rubbed my thigh and glanced into the cockpit, but immediately wished I hadn’t. A young couple, clearly in love, stole a kiss. The man placed a protective arm around the lady’s shoulder and at this point my eyes stung with tears, just as a goffer of a wave hit me side on.

But the wave that drenched me also acted as a slap across the face. The sea washed a lightness of spirit over me that took on an immediate effect, and as the boat edged away from the pier and we began to bounce high then low across the sea, I had an overwhelming sensation that all was going to be well. And it was definitely my overactive imagination, but when I looked back and saw the little Indian boy standing on the pier, gesticulating towards the pile of tea chests I had left behind, I ignored him, which was a little cruel, considering the limp. Instead, I turned to face forwards, looked at the mountains ahead and allowed my body to enjoy the rise and fall of the ocean. It was as if the angels were telling me to travel light this time, and it felt good.

Take care, darling Rosie. Write again soon.

Aggie

P.S. And don’t worry, Casey has left her phone line connected, so I’ll still be able to send eblueys on the internet, thank goodness.

P.P.S. Re Gethyn, didn’t you read his review? I’m still thinking up my reply …

‘E’ Bluey

From: Mr Hughes

To: Rosie

Date: 23 January

Dear, Babe

Your friend (the one who played the piano to accompany your violin) came round the other day. Oh, but she did make us laugh. She had Mammy in stiches when I went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I could even hear them laughing over the noise of the kettle. Agatha told Mammy some cock and bull story about a camping trip she went on a while back. Apparently, she ended up stranded with a load of naturalists in a remote Welsh Valley during a hurricane – do you think she makes half of these stories up? She brought us a lovely cake, though. Triple layer! It’s a shame Simon dumped her – she makes a bloody good cake!

Life goes on here as usual. Mammy had one of her appointments yesterday – routine stuff, nothing to worry about. It was good to get her out of the house. She’s obsessed with watching the news and I can’t stand it. I swear if anything happens to you she will kill Tony Blair. She spent two hours talking about you to the woman sitting next to us in the waiting area. I don’t think there was anything that poor woman didn’t know about you by the time she left, but at least Mammy chatted to a stranger, which is progress, you’ll agree.

We’re both hoping you’ll come home to Yorkshire for good after this mess in Iraq is cleared up. You’ll get a job somewhere round here, I’m sure. You could even go back to university to study something new, you’re never too old, and you know me and Mammy will help out financially, where we can. Give it some thought, at least.

Love you, Babe.

KYHD

MumnDad xx

‘E’ Bluey

From: Agatha

To: Rosie

Date: 1 February

Dear, Rosie

I’ve completed my first few days in Scotland as an eccentric recluse and can confirm that Appledart is wet, windy and awash with hill walkers. But it doesn’t matter, because the majestic hills and aquamarine seas are breath-taking whatever the weather, and the good news is that it stopped raining yesterday (I’m in tune with ‘the little things’ now, as you can see).

Disappointingly, I’m yet to meet a sexy, kilted Scotsman. In fact, there appear to be no Scotsmen here at all, with or without kilts, or, in fact, any single men within my accepted age bracket (which is widening as each year passes). The inhabitants of Appledart are an eclectic mix of international loners, all of whom (bar one, Ishmael) are over the age of fifty-five. Shaun (the landlord at the pub) owns the only vehicle on the peninsula (except for Hector’s 1950’s tractor, of course) and uses it to shuttle visitors between Aisig and Morir. He ferried me to the end of the road after my night at the pub.

As for Aisig – you didn’t say what a little piece of heaven it really is. I met my neighbours on the first day. Firstly, there is Anya, a white witch in her early sixties who lives in the cottage next door to mine. She’s not actually declared herself to be a witch, but the black cat, the well-used pestle and mortar and the deck of Tarot cards kind of gives her away. She’s got a pixie cut, a fabulous dirty laugh and a sharp sense of both perspective and humour. I love her already. Then there’s Ishmael, a poet, who is a little older than me. I have absolutely no idea how Ishmael found his way to Appledart or where he’s from originally. His accent sounds eastern European. I must ask him. Is Ishmael a Jewish name? He’s built himself a fab house with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the beach (I thought poets were supposed to be poor?). My cottage, on the other hand, is cosy but damp and dark, and is positioned next to the cafe and sits with its toes in the harbour. Anya likes whiskey, Ishmael does not.

Then there is ‘the family’ who live near the beach and are originally from Brighton. They provide the bay with a little noise and are *bitch alert* intensely annoying. They’ve been here since March having watched a few too many TV programmes about escaping to the country. He works from home (something to do with investments) and she flounces around drinking spinach smoothies and making art installations from beach finds. The kids are home-schooled, which means they get kicked out of the house at breakfast and are let back in at teatime (it’s an OK life, I suppose). The kids, who have ridiculously posh names I can’t remember, run into the café at some point every day, which feels like a tornado passing through. I usually shoo them out after about ten minutes (my tolerance of children has not improved).

The café is perfect (at least, now I’ve given it a bloody good clean, it is) – I’ll be bumping that food hygiene certificate up to five stars, thank you very much! Anya has been keeping the place open, but with a limited fresh seafood option, which is disappointing for some of the visitors. Her stews are awesome, but her cakes are dry – she just doesn’t put enough love into them, so as from tomorrow, I’m making the cakes! There are a dozen or so customers most days, thanks to Shaun and his Landrover, and even more if there’s a walking tour passing through (luckily the type of people who go on walking holidays are also people who don’t object to the weather in Scotland in the winter).

To surmise, I love it here, and the good news is there’s no mobile phone signal which means that if I ignore their emails, I can hide from my publisher and from Isabella for weeks. But oh, Rosie, for the first time in years I don’t feel lonely, even though I’m living so remotely. I suppose, because Anya and Ishmael live alone, and because I go to the café every day, we’re all collectively alone, but together.

I’ve written out the bucket list and stuck it on the fridge (I added, ‘drop a dress size, you fat cow – Aggie only’) on the bottom of the list.

Anyway, that’s my update. Stay safe, lovely lady.

Aggie

P.S. Ishmael is not for me AT ALL (if that’s what you’re thinking).

‘E’ Bluey

From: Agatha

To: Rosie

Date: 2 February

Hi, Rosie

I’ve just got back to the cottage after a stint at the café. The fire and the candles are lit, dinner is reheating on the hob (leftover chorizo and chickpea stew, care of Anya) and I’m going to settle down with a book. Who needs a man, eh? The cottage has a bookshelf full of fab titles, many of them classics, which means I can feel self-righteous by progressing with the bucket list. Shall I send some out to you?

I’ve been so busy writing books over the last few years, I’ve practically stopped reading, and as you’ll remember, reading was always my first love (strike that, my first love was and is baking, but reading comes a close second). Also, there’s a lovely little piano that is almost in tune, so what with the books and the piano, I can at least start working towards two of my bucket list objectives!

The not so good news is that, despite travelling several hundred miles north to my self-imposed retreat, the writing still isn’t flowing. I sit down in front of my laptop and perform my creative ritual every day – light a candle, place my Cornish pixie on the table next to me, and then begin. Only I don’t … begin, that is. It’s time to get cracking with that bucket list – maybe it will bring me inspiration. I’m going to start with sending a message in a bottle, and I know exactly which message I’m going to send.

I’m going to sign off now as I want to email Mum. Wish me luck!

Loads of love,

Aggie

From: aggieb@yahoo.com

To: sexymamma@yahoo.com

Date: 2 February

Subject: Don’t be mad at me, Mamma

Hi, Mamma

I know you’ll be checking your inbox for Internet dating messages, so please don’t pretend that you haven’t read this. Firstly, I want you to know that I love you, but please try to understand that in coming to Scotland my main priority was to help my friend and yes, I admit, I wanted to get away for a while. But the important point is this: I needed to get away from my life, not from you. I need to understand why I’m no longer able to focus on my writing and, like you have always said, a change is as good as a rest. Do you remember my friend, Rosie – her brother was that boy I dated, Simon (and that isn’t in any way a dig at you, I got over that a long time ago). Anyway, Rosie and I wrote a list of random things we wanted to do during our lives, one of them was to send a message in a bottle. I’ve decided to write my message now, cork it up, and send it out to sea. It will say, ‘To whom this may concern: Give love today because tomorrow doesn’t exist and yesterday is gone’.