Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Oh, shame, I was rather counting on that. Oh well, never mind, Cornwall for us again as usual,’ she said lightly, seeing my face and sensing I didn’t want to talk about it. ‘So how was Tom then?’

  I grinned. ‘Dreadful. Rich, successful, handsome, dynamic, just about to fly back to New York and then on to LA, positively oozing glamour.’

  ‘God, poor devil. Ah well,’ she sighed, ‘just the doctor’s surgery and then on to Sainsbury’s for me, there’s no end to the glamour in my life. Honestly, Rosie, when I was talking to Tom at Harry’s funeral I found myself practically having to invent a life for myself. He said, “The last time I saw you you were playing Miranda at Durham,” and I seriously thought he’d got the wrong person. It seemed so long ago, I felt it couldn’t really have been me at all!’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I agreed wistfully, remembering taking Tom to watch Alice in her university production of The Tempest as a very beautiful Miranda. Red hair tumbling Pre-Raphaelite style down her back, blue eyes sparkling with intensity, her heart-shaped face pale and ethereal.

  ‘Speaking of Sainsbury’s,’ I said coming back down to earth, ‘I ran into Tim the packer yesterday.’

  ‘Oh yes? Still got the hots for you?’

  ‘No, quite the opposite. He completely ignored me. I said hello and he just looked straight through me as if he’d never seen me in his life before.’

  ‘How strange.’ She shrugged. ‘Oh well, perhaps it was seeing you out of context like that, I mean not in the supermarket. It happens, you know, like seeing your postman on the Tube or something.’

  ‘I suppose,’ I said doubtfully.

  She jumped in the car. ‘Anyway, I must go, Rosie, we’re late already, but I thought I’d come down and see you next week when Michael’s in Cheltenham. Thought we could all go out to dinner.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d love that.’ I brightened instantly.

  ‘Good. See you then, then. ’Bye!’ She waved cheerily out of her window, but Alice was a terrible driver and needed two hands. The car performed a series of violent kangaroo jumps before lurching dangerously round the corner.

  I took Ivo back to Meryton Road to pick up our things and did a quick whip round the house, taking some curtains, rugs and cushions for the cottage, then as quickly as possible bundled everything into the car and set off back to Gloucestershire. It occurred to me that all Harry’s paintings and furniture could go back to Yorkshire. They’d be happy there.

  The first thing I did when I arrived in the little village was to pop into the general stores. I bought some blank postcards then hastened back to the car. Balancing a card on my knee I scribbled: ‘Cook available to cater for dinner parties or lunches. Anything considered.’ Then I added my address at the bottom. I was just about to dash back into the shop, when I glanced down at the card again. I set it aside slowly and reached for another one. I gazed out of the window, sucking the end of my pencil thoughtfully. Finally I wrote:

  ‘Qualified cordon bleu chef (Pru Leith, Jean-Philippe du Fort and Albert Roux trained) available for dinner parties, luncheons, buffets etc. First-class French cuisine in your own home at affordable prices. Inquire within.’

  ‘Okay Tom,’ I muttered, hastening back to the shop, ‘I will try. I’ll try really hard, but I’ll try what I’m good at first, all right?’

  The woman behind the counter was round, smiley and apple-cheeked. She read the card with interest.

  ‘Oh, you’re a cook, are you deary? And you trained with that Albert Rooks fellow? The one on the telly? Oooh yes, I like him, he’s got ever such a lovely face, hasn’t he? And that funny French accent, although to my mind you can’t beat that Johnnie Cradock fellow, old Fanny’s husband. He was a one, wasn’t he! I’ll never forget that day when she’d done a bit o’ baking and he turned to the camera and said, “Well, I hope all your doughnuts turn out like Fanny’s!”’ She threw her head back and roared. ‘How we laughed! Anyway,’ she chortled, wiping her eyes, ‘enough vulgarity, I’ll put this in the window for you, luv, and you never know, there are plenty of posh women round here who live in big houses and ’aven’t got the time nor the inclination to dirty up their fully fitted kitchens. I should think they’ll snap up a Cordon Blair like you. Too busy selling knickers in pyramids or whatever it is they do to make their own volley-vonts.’ She sniffed.

  ‘Well, that’s rather what I thought,’ I said eagerly, ‘and I thought in time I could set up my own catering company. A sort of dinner parties on wheels for stressed-out gentlefolk.’

  ‘That’s a very good idea, my duck, I’ll put the word about for you.’ She clucked her tongue sympathetically and shook her head. ‘Ooh yes, what with you being on your own an’ that now, and with the kiddie an’ all. Shocking, that was, shocking. Don’t know how you manage.’

  Ah, so word had obviously got about. ‘Yes, well, thanks so much, I’d really appreciate it.’

  ‘No trouble at all, my dear, anything I can do to help. I’ll get you a job, you see if I don’t!’ She wagged my card cheerfully and bustled off to put it in the window.

  You see, I thought, driving back to the cottage with a much lighter heart, things were looking up already. You just wait, Tom, I won’t need bailing out, the Rosie Meadows world famous catering company might be offering you a loan soon!

  The cottage was freezing and smelled musty as I pushed open the door, but at least I’d left it tidy, and once I’d lit a fire and arranged the things I’d brought from London, it immediately felt like home. The furniture I’d ordered from John Lewis had arrived recently and a small gate-leg table and a couple of wooden chairs were now in situ. I sank back happily into the armchair, swinging my legs up, while Ivo pottered about obviously pleased to be back. Gosh, this was great, I thought, basking in the solitude. I could eat cheese on toast in front of the fire, listen to whatever music I pleased, have a gin and tonic in the bath, pick my feet, read till midnight, go to bed whenever I felt like it and – good heavens, look at that. A phone!

  I sat up and stared. Sure enough in the corner of the room on my new table, sat a telephone. With a note on top. I swung my legs round and hastened over.

  ‘You can’t possibly live down here without some form of telecommunication so I had this installed for you. Joss.’

  I smiled. Pedantic, short, but very sweet, and yes, actually, what a huge difference that would make. I gave Ivo a biscuit to keep him quiet and then immediately settled down to ring Mr Mendleson the estate agent. He wasn’t so sweet. In fact, if anything, he was curt and abrupt and without so much of a glimmer of his old toadying manner.

  ‘It’s bad news I’m afraid, Mrs Meadows,’ he said grimly. ‘I can’t get you anything like the amount you expected to make on those houses.’

  My heart sank. ‘Oh, really? Why ever not?’

  ‘Well, the one you were living in wasn’t too bad, although I have to say it’s riddled with damp and the decor’s looking a bit tatty –’ rude bastard, I thought, fuming inwardly, that’s my home you’re talking about, let’s have a look at yours, matey, poke around behind the back of your sofas ‘– but the other one. My dear Mrs Meadows!’

  ‘What? My dear Mrs Meadows what?’

  ‘Well, have you been there recently?’

  ‘Um, no, not for – well, I suppose not ever actually. At least, not inside. It’s always had tenants in it, you see.’

  ‘Well, it shouldn’t have had really. I’m afraid it’s an absolute disgrace. There’s no central heating, precious little plumbing, the water’s pouring down the walls and in one bedroom the roof has completely fallen in; the occupants had taped plastic sheeting up in an effort to stop the rain getting in. The whole place stinks of rotting carpets and then there’s the rats!’

  ‘Rats?’ I echoed faintly, the phone slipping a bit from my hand.

  ‘Well, I didn’t actually see any but I can only assume that’s what the traps were for in the kitchen. I’m very sorry but I’ll have to put it on the market as a complete overhaul
job.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You had no idea?’

  ‘No, I – I didn’t take a very keen interest,’ I mumbled. ‘I mean, my husband always dealt with that side of things, you know, the rental.’ God, this was ghastly, appalling. A drunk, a gambler and now a Rackman-style landlord prising money out of people for unsanitary living accommodation. Had I really been married to this man for three whole years?

  ‘I really think all I can suggest is that you let me get what I can for it. Obviously I’ll do my best but under the circumstances …’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ I muttered, embarrassed. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Mendleson, just … do whatever you can.’

  I put the phone down feeling slightly sick. I made a few mental calculations, felt even sicker and ran for a pen and paper. I sat down and worked it all out carefully. First Harry’s debts, then the rental on this place – half price for the first few months – then the bare minimum for living expenses plus gas and electricity bills. I slightly overestimated what Mr Mendleson expected to get for the houses, subtracted one from the other and found … I was heavily in debt. I desperately added on what I might hope to earn from a few decent cookery jobs, a couple of mornings cleaning, scrubbing, flaying, anything, and found I might just keep my head above water except … I hadn’t got a job, and it could be weeks, months, before I got one. I dropped the pen with a clatter and my head sank into my hands. I stared at the table. There was only one thing for it. I’d have to give up this place. The only way I could break even and look after Ivo properly would be to move in with Philly and accept a loan from Tom. The two things in the world I least wanted to do. Bugger, bugger, bugger! I screwed the paper up into a ball, threw it at the wall and burst into tears. I had a damn good bawl actually, felt well and truly sorry for myself. After a while, though, I felt a little tug on my sleeve.

  ‘Mummy sad.’ Ivo’s worried little face peered up at me through the crook of my elbow. I hauled him up on to my knee and wiped my face with the back of my hand, smiling. ‘No, not really, darling, Mummy’s just being silly, that’s all. Feeling much too sorry for herself and being ridiculous.’

  ‘Dickylous,’ he agreed, nodding sympathetically.

  I blew my nose and stood up, hoiking him on to my hip. ‘Come on, this won’t do. Worse things have happened to millions of people, haven’t they?’

  ‘You got bogey on your face, Mummy.’

  ‘Oh have I, darling? Thank you so much.’ I reached for a hanky and wiped my nose. ‘Now, you see? I’m much better now, so come on, let’s go and get it over with. You’d like to go and live with your Aunt Philly, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Well, of course, and me,’ I said vehemently.

  I bundled him into his snowsuit and put my coat on. As I went to the door, I turned and looked wistfully round my small sitting room. It glowed with light and colour now that I’d finally got it organized. A couple of bright kilim rugs I’d brought from London completely covered the tatty old carpet and I’d brought some table lamps from home too, which gave off a soft, rosy glow rather than that horrid, harsh, overhead glare; tapestry cushions lay scattered in the window seat, faded rose-printed curtains I’d laboriously made by hand for our London bedroom but which Harry had abhorred hung at the windows; water colours, pastels and drawings covered the walls. The ugly sofa with its rusty springs was transformed by Alice’s glorious patchwork quilt thrown over it and either side of the roaring fire the shelves in the alcoves groaned under the weight of my books. All the things I’d made and collected and loved over the years had come together in this one small room to give an overall effect, which if I might say so could quite easily have come straight out of the pages of Country Living doing a feature on hideaway country cottages.

  I sighed and shut the door behind me. ‘Oh well, it’s only bricks and mortar.’

  ‘You still got bogey, Mummy.’

  ‘Thanks, darling.’ I wiped my nose again and held out my hand. ‘Come on then. Off we go.’

  He took my hand and with Blinky Bill in the other together we set off solemnly up the still icy hill to inform our landlord of our imminent departure. And anyway, I thought staunchly, what was so terrible about living with Philly? Plenty of single mothers would dream of having a rich sister to move in with. God, I was bloody lucky to have the option.

  It was a beautifully crisp afternoon and the bare, dark trees that flanked a softly gold Farlings were silhouetted dramatically against a sailor blue sky. As we walked through the yard, a clutch of chickens rushed out to greet us, clucking round our ankles, hoping we might be bringing their afternoon feed. One cheeky bantam cockerel chased me in zigzags all the way round the side of the house and up to the front door. Well, what do you know, I thought as I reached for the doorbell, I’ve pulled a chicken. Something to boast to Tom about anyway.

  I rang, and as my finger left the buzzer, Joss instantly opened the door. He stood in front of me dressed in an old Barbour and boots. He blinked.

  ‘Well, how about that. I was just coming to see you.’

  ‘Well, here I am.’

  He opened the door so I could pass through and I walked into the softly defused light of the flagstoned hall, the only room I’d ever actually seen in this huge house, and the only one I was ever going to get to see now, I realized with a pang. A log fire burned in the grate just as before. Did he light it every day I wondered, or did he have servants to do that for him, just before they ironed the newspapers and warmed up the loo seats? Either way, it was the height of luxury and I made a mental note that one day, when my ship finally came in – which of course it would after this small, ephemeral financial hitch had passed – I too would have a fire in my Grade II Jacobean hallway. Might even have a pair of lurchers stretched out in front of it too, you never knew. He shut the door behind me.

  ‘Drink?’

  I sank into a leather wing chair by the fire with a sleepy Ivo on my lap. ‘Oh God, why not? Thanks.’

  He went to a mahogany dresser in the corner and poured a couple of fingers of whisky from a decanter. As he handed it to me he regarded me curiously.

  ‘You’re not your usual cowering self today. What’s all this flopping down into my chairs uninvited and drinking my Scotch?’

  I smiled wryly. ‘I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose any more. It doesn’t exactly matter if I offend you and you chuck me out.’

  ‘Ah, so the obsequious manners were calculated to ensure your continued survival at the cottage. Well, before you actually relieve yourself on my carpet, might I inquire why that no longer applies?’

  I told him, skimming lightly over my horrendous debts and the state of the rented property in London, but I think he got the general idea.

  He stood over me, listening, one elbow leaning on the mantel above the fire while his other hand swirled the golden liquid around in his glass. When I’d finished, he nodded.

  ‘Okay. Well, prepare to hand back that drink, perch on the edge of your chair and resume tenant status, because the reason I was coming to see you is I have a message for you. It seems you have a job.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The pub called ten minutes ago. Asked to speak to “the cook wiv the kiddie” – I take it that’s you. My God, you’ve only been back a day and already I’m taking messages for you. Thank Christ I had a phone installed for you down there if this is any indication of your popularity.’

  ‘Oh no, no I’m not popular at all, I mean – what did they say?’ I asked eagerly. ‘The pub?’

  ‘Well it appears you have a friend in Mrs Fairfax at the village shop. After you gave her your ad she rang her brother Bob who just happens to be the landlord at the Red Lion – this is the Pennington mafia for you – and it transpires he’d that minute sacked the chef down there. Caught him in a compromising position with one of the barmaids apparently.’ He rubbed his eyes wearily with his hand. ‘Please don’t ask me to expand on that, Rosie, I can assure you that I got the lot
in glorious, lurid detail from the outraged landlord but I’d rather not share it with you if you don’t mind. Anyway, the long and short of it is that Bob and cheffy had a mutual fuck-off conversation and now Bob wants you to step in as cook.’

  ‘Oh! Oh God how marvellous, what exactly would that mean? I mean, did he say what it entailed or anything?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Sadly I had to bring Bellowing Bob to an abrupt halt as my other line went, and I’m afraid I deemed my dealer ringing from Cologne with details of my next exhibition more important than inquiring whether the pub liked its eggs sunny side up or not, but he did leave a number for you to ring. Here.’ He handed me a scrap of paper. ‘His name’s Bob Carter incidentally.’ He frowned. ‘He did mention something about him needing forty three-course meals for tomorrow night though.’

  ‘Christ – you’re kidding!’

  He grinned. ‘Correct. No, I swear, Rosie, I haven’t the faintest idea what it involves, but take it from me, whatever you serve up in that joint is bound to be better than anything they’ve subjected us to in the past. Tatty old omelettes with bits of flabby bacon inside and soup that you daren’t get to the bottom of for fear of what you might find.’ He shuddered. ‘Oh yes, you’ll be doing Pennington one hell of a favour by taking over that stove.’

  I stood up, delighted, hoisting Ivo on to my hip. ‘I’ll go and ring him now. Oh, this is marvellous, Joss, I can’t believe it’s all happened so quickly! I thought I was destitute, thought it was the poor house for me. I’ve got so many debts to pay and – yes, I must ring Mrs Fairfax too, you know, thank her and – oh,’ I turned suddenly as I made for the door. I paused and beamed back at him. ‘Thanks for coming to tell me, Joss. And for the drink too.’

  ‘No problem, and to tell you the truth I was going to the studio anyway. If you can bear to hang on for just two seconds I’ll get my stuff and walk down with you.’

  ‘Okay.’