Читать книгу: «Dear Rosie Hughes»

PART ONE

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.