Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Groin injury,’ I informed him.

  ‘Ah.’

  He removed the nappy, laid him down on the table, felt for his heart, then looked up at the assembled faces. ‘Well, I’m awfully sorry, folks, but this rabbit is dead.’

  A shriek went up from Lucy. She did a brief stagger, then a swoon, and then promptly collapsed in a heap on the floor. I hurried to pick her up but she pushed me away, clearly beside herself with grief and needing a floor to prostrate herself upon.

  ‘No, no! It can’t be!’ she wailed.

  ‘Oh, Lucy darling, don’t! I’ll get you another one, I promise!’

  ‘I don’t want another one!’

  ‘You can have Smelly-Pig if you like,’ Toby offered gallantly.

  ‘I don’t want Smelly-Pig! He’s a murderer!’

  Alex sidled up to my ear. ‘Er, shall I dispose of the body?’ he inquired quietly.

  ‘NO!’ shrieked Lucy, suddenly jumping up. ‘No, I want to bury him.’

  Sobbing and sniffing, she carefully picked up the limp rabbit and placed him tenderly in his box. Then she tucked the box under her arm and out we all trooped again, into the grim, hostile crowd that was waiting ominously for us in reception. One old fellow raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Toby shook his head grimly and made an eloquent, throat-slitting gesture with his finger. All at once hostility turned to sympathy, and a collective ‘Ah …’ went up from the crowd. A gangway was made for the small weeping girl and her dead bunny. Silently the procession made its way out to the car park, with Lucy leading the way and even Ivo, it seemed, silenced by the solemnity of the occasion. I drove slowly home in the rain, windscreen wipers slapping.

  ‘I want to bury him in the garden,’ said Lucy, in a barely audible whisper from the back.

  ‘Of course, my darling. And so you shall. We’ll make a nice little grave for him.’

  ‘With a headstone.’

  ‘Yes, my love.’

  ‘And flowers.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And lots of mourners, everyone’s got to come. We’ll ring Martha and Vera. Even Daddy’s got to come, and we’ll sing hymns.’

  ‘Er, yes, I expect so,’ I said doubtfully. That last bit made me slightly nervous. Daddy and hymns? I had a feeling Daddy was less than pious.

  In the event, I needn’t have worried. I knocked softly on the workshop door, shut it behind me and quickly explained to Joss exactly what had happened and how upset Lucy was. He rose magnificently to the occasion, left the pagan gods standing in gigantic splendour behind him, and out we all trooped into the garden for the funeral. Vera was duly summoned and came hurrying up the hill from her cottage and even Martha whizzed over from the hospital, glad of a reprieve from bedside duties. Huddled under macs in the pouring rain and ankle-deep in Flanders mud, we all looked on, as Joss, under close instructions from Lucy and Emma, dug what looked to me like a sodding great hole.

  ‘Bigger!’ Lucy kept calling. ‘Bigger, Daddy. I want to bury him in his hutch and blankets and everything so he doesn’t get dirty!’

  ‘Okey-doke!’ gasped Joss, sweat pouring off his brow. ‘Shan’t keep you a moment, my darling.’ He turned to me in an aside. ‘Does this come under ‘digging the garden’ in your practical book then? I seem to remember I’ve only got to clean a car and I’m a New Man, aren’t I?’

  ‘Nearly,’ I grinned. ‘Just a few more shelves to put up and it’ll be welcome to the real world, Joss.’

  The grave finally dug, we all stood about solemnly as Lucy, our chief mourner, officiated at the ceremony. First we had to hold hands round the grave and privately remember Darling-Heart, then we all sang ‘Away In A Manger’, and then, it being the only prayer Lucy could remember, we all said, ‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’ I couldn’t look at Joss during any of this and kept my head well and truly bowed. Lucy then nodded importantly to her father, the undertaker, who with due ceremony and gravitas picked up the box and walked slowly towards the hole.

  He was just about to lower it in when Lucy suddenly cried, ‘One last kiss!’

  Joss turned. ‘Oh Lucy, sweetheart –’

  ‘Yes, Daddy, I just want to give him one last kiss!’

  Joss sighed and came back. He removed the lid. ‘All right.’

  We all clustered obediently round to watch Lucy administer the last rites, when suddenly … the rabbit opened one eye.

  ‘ARGHHHH!’ shrieked Vera.

  ‘Holy shit,’ murmured Joss.

  ‘He’s alive!’ screamed Lucy. ‘Darling-Heart’s alive!’

  After that it all got terribly giggly. Lucy rushed Darling-Heart inside, and under Vera’s instruction put him in a box in the low oven of the Aga to warm up.

  ‘Funny if she cooked him now,’ remarked Toby, peering in.

  For some reason Joss and I found this unaccountably amusing, but Lucy didn’t, so we hurried outside to hide our faces and ostensibly to fill in the hole. We kept having to stop though, and hold our sides and collapse on our spades from laughing so much; in fact at one point Joss nearly fell in the grave.

  Happily, Darling-Heart didn’t cook, and half an hour later was out of the Aga, hopping about, and tucking into some rather pricey rocket leaves Martha had found at the bottom of the fridge. I rang Alex.

  ‘No! That’s not possible. He had no pulse.’

  ‘Well, he’s got one now,’ I said eyeing Darling-Heart as he crapped on the kitchen table. ‘Either that, or we’ve got the second coming.’

  ‘Good God. Well, I suppose it must have stopped briefly, that can happen, you know. I’m so sorry, Rosie, it seems I made a mistake.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m just glad we didn’t bury him.’

  As I put the phone down, Joss looked up from reading the newspaper in the corner. ‘Damn vet doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. Too busy looking at you to diagnose the patient, I suspect.’

  I blushed, predictably, and busied myself with clearing up Darling-Heart’s mess on the table. I let my hair fall over my face as I did it.

  Joss grinned. ‘Thought so.’ He shut the paper. ‘You’ll be spending tomorrow night with him then, I take it?’

  I looked up. ‘No, I’m not actually.’

  ‘Really? Don’t tell me he hasn’t asked you to the New Year’s Eve shindig down at the Red Lion?’

  ‘Certainly he’s asked me, but I don’t particularly want to go.’ I met his eye, aware of Martha’s inquisitive gaze.

  He looked at me for a moment. ‘Oh okay.’ He got up, stretched widely, yawned and threw his paper down on the chair. ‘Well, if you’re going to be on your own at the cottage you might just as well come up here.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I muttered.

  He shrugged and made for the door. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Although,’ I said quickly, ‘I suppose I could cook supper for us both, or something?’

  ‘Why not? Or something.’

  With that he left the room, leaving me standing in the middle of the kitchen feeling slightly foolish and more than a little confused.

  Chapter Twenty

  I found myself going to a great deal of trouble preparing a simple little supper for New Year’s Eve. First I sat down and planned my menu, then I tore into Cirencester clutching my list of ingredients. In vain, as it happened, because asparagus, quails’ eggs, guinea fowl and fresh peaches are elusive at the best of times, but in mid-winter they’re downright invisible. I was determined not to be beaten though, and doggedly drove further and further afield in an effort to track them down. It was only when I found myself bouncing down an unmade-up track in the middle of nowhere because someone had suggested there might just be a farmer down there who’d be happy to kill a couple of guinea fowl for me that I began to question the logic of all this. What’s this all about then, Rosie? I wondered as I hit the main road again with a bump, my freshly slaughtered poultry safely stashed in the boot. Why are you scouring the countryside searching for pal
pably unobtainable out-of-season goodies when you could be slapping a couple of steaks in a pan and opening a tin of Libby’s fruit cocktail? Who’s it all for then, eh?

  It’s for me, I said firmly, as I swung the car back into Farlings’ drive. I’m doing it for myself, to prove to myself that when I was picked by Jean-Philippe all those millions of years ago out of scores of young hopefuls to train under him in his kitchen, there had actually been a reason. I’m attempting this culinary extravaganza purely for my own self-esteem, okay? Okay, I agreed doubtfully, somewhat unconvinced as I staggered through the back door laden down with shopping. Just then I caught a glimpse of Joss’s black jeans as he exited left to his study and my knees went a bit weak. I had to sit down. Must be carrying all those groceries I thought, panting a bit. And no breakfast too, of course.

  Even so, as I ranged all my ingredients around me later that afternoon, it occurred to me that ulterior motives or not, this feast was certainly going to put my skills to the test. It was a long while since I’d attempted anything as complicated as this and certainly not with four beady-eyed children watching from the tea table and an old-style country cook at my elbow.

  ‘I’d take them diddly little chickens straight back where they came from if I was you,’ sniffed Vera, peering over my shoulder. ‘Blimmin’ nerve. Fancy selling you scrawny little buggers like that.’ She poked one in disgust.

  ‘They’re guinea fowl actually and yes, you’re right, they do tend to be a bit lean but they taste delicious,’ I assured her, hurriedly measuring the marinade into a jug.

  ‘Guinea fowl? Oh, Daddy likes those,’ piped up Emma, putting her plate in the dishwasher. ‘And you’ve got those titchy little eggs, and sparrow’s grass too, how clever, Rosie, those are all Daddy’s favourite things!’

  ‘Really? Gosh, how extraordinary, I’d no idea,’ I murmured.

  Vera flashed me a sudden, curious look and I hid behind my hair, concentrating hard on extracting some giblets. Why couldn’t everyone just go away and leave me alone? I still had loads to do and I was beginning to feel a bit hot and flustered now – Jesus, was that the time? Five o’clock already! Vera seemed to have taken root under my feet.

  ‘What’s that then?’ She narrowed her eyes as I began smearing the breasts.

  ‘It’s a sort of saffron mixture, with herbs and butter. Um, Vera, I don’t mind holding the fort for a bit if you want to pop out and get something nice for Vic,’ I suggested tentatively. ‘I mean, I expect you’ll want to cook him something special, won’t you, seeing as it’s New Year’s Eve?’

  ‘Ooh, no, luv, I shan’t bother to cook. I’ve got a nice bit of tinned salmon for ’is tea and that brother of ’is is coming round to drink our rum and talk nonsense at us all night. It’d be wasted on him. ’E’s never been quite the same since he had that plate put in his head, poor bugger.’

  ‘Yes, well, I can see how that might send one a little … off beam,’ I murmured, eyeing Emma as she popped her finger into a bowl of cream. ‘Emma darling, if you’ve finished your tea why don’t you – where d’you think you’re going, Toby?’

  Toby stalked past me into the hall, carrying his plate of untouched food.

  ‘I can’t eat this, it’s disgusting.’

  I’d noticed that as the end of the holidays drew near, Toby’s behaviour was getting more and more unmanageable.

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s just lamb and vegetables. The girls ate it, it’s delicious.’

  ‘It’s not delicious and I hate these sprouts. They make everything smell farty.’ He disappeared round the corner into the loo. ‘And there’s only one thing to do with farty sprouts …’ There was a splash, then we heard the loo flushing. He reappeared with a clean plate. ‘All gone.’

  Emma snorted with laughter.

  ‘Toby!’ I stormed.

  ‘Sorry, but I just couldn’t eat it. It was too vile for words.’ And out he went into the garden, slamming the back door behind him.

  I banged down my carving knife. ‘God, that boy just gets worse and worse!’

  ‘Needs a bloody great rocket up his backside if you ask me,’ remarked Vera. ‘How are you placed for rockets?’

  ‘Not too well at the moment,’ I said miserably, watching him through the window and wondering if I should follow him.

  ‘Exactly, me neither. Leave him alone, luv, and have a chat with him later. He’ll come round, you’ll see. It’s this school business what’s worrying him.’

  I sighed. ‘I know.’

  ‘And meanwhile we’ll get out of your way and get the dusting done. Come on, you two.’

  I smiled gratefully as she led the twins and Ivo away, clutching a duster apiece. ‘Thanks, Vera.’

  My next visitor was Joss. I’d just legged it to the loo for an emergency pee, but on flushing had discovered that the sprouts were still bobbing about merrily. The S bend, it seemed, couldn’t swallow them any more than Toby could. I flushed again, and again, then cursing vilely fished them out with my hand. I was just on my way to the kitchen bin with them when Joss appeared. He peered into my hands.

  ‘Ah, dinner is served, I see. Gone vegetarian, have we?’

  I laughed. ‘No, it was the children’s tea actually. Toby wouldn’t eat them.’

  ‘Bloody boy doesn’t know what’s good for him,’ he remarked, and so saying took a sprout from my hand and popped it in his mouth. ‘Mmm … delicious.’ He looked at my stunned face. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing!’ I hurriedly took aim and chucked the rest into the open bin.

  He shook his head. ‘You’re terribly wasteful, you know, Rosie. Those sprouts are full of fibre.’

  Too right, I thought weakly as I washed my hands. Thank God he didn’t know how much.

  Finally, our meal was prepared. All three courses had turned out beautifully and all it needed now was some immaculate timing. Quails’ eggs and asparagus sat in puff pastry baskets with a hollandaise sauce just waiting to be warmed through; guinea fowl breasts with saffron and a julienne of vegetables were all poised to be steamed; peaches baked in red wine with homemade vanilla ice cream sat chilling in the fridge. Perfect. All I had to do now was cajole the children into bed, get myself ready, and lay the table.

  It all went like clockwork. The children, for some reason, were tired and amenable and fell into their beds, and I ran excitedly off to my cottage to change. I’d already planned to wear a rather chic little navy blue dress that I hadn’t worn for ages because of being much too fat, but I was pretty sure that after all these months of stress it would be fine. I had a quick bath and slipped it on. It zipped up like a dream. I put on some dark tights, some low-heeled pumps, brushed my hair, and then with a surprisingly shaky hand applied my make-up. Very carefully I outlined my eyes, mascaraed my lashes, added just a smidgen of blusher, some pale pink lipstick and – I stood back to admire my handiwork. There. Just a squirt of Chanel here … and here … some pearl earrings … and I was ready.

  I dashed back to the house, my heart pounding. Now. The kitchen. I frantically cleared up books, papers, magazines, children’s toys, shoving them all into a cupboard and squeezing the door shut. Then I set about laying the table. Earlier in the day I’d polished some silver I’d found in a drawer so I set that out instead of the usual stainless steel. Then I carefully arranged the tiny bunch of snowdrops I’d picked earlier in a little vase and set that in the middle. I stood back. Now, candles. I’d bought some beeswax ones in Cirencester which smelled delicious so I ran into the sitting room, pinched some candlesticks and lit them. What else? I wondered, looking around, my heart pounding. Ah, yes, the lighting. Terrible, really dreadful; that overhead strip would have to go and – oh yes, I know, I could borrow a table lamp from the hall. I dashed out and found one with a red shade which gave off a rosy glow, came back and plugged it in. The effect was amazing, instant atmosphere.

  Now, music. A radio stood on the dresser. I flicked it on and a worthy, female Radio Four voice droned on and on about the relentle
ssness of the menstrual cycle. No, that wouldn’t do at all. Hastily I twiddled the dial until I found something moody and – ah, that was more like it, ‘Strangers In The Night’ – how apposite! Giggling to myself I twirled round the kitchen with an imaginary partner, humming along. I glanced up at the clock. Ten to eight, surely he’d be in soon? Needing a drink? Ah, yes, drink. I took a couple of glasses from the cupboard and poured myself some wine from the bottle in the fridge. I sipped it pensively. Leaning back against the dresser I smiled around at the softly lit room, admiring my handiwork. He’d still be working of course, but any minute now he’d put down his hammer, wander in here, take one look at the moody lighting, the elegant table, the flowers, the candles, hear the music, see me all dressed up and think, blimey. Is she hot for me, or what?

  The roundabouts slowed to a shuddering halt. My glass froze in my hand. My mouth fell open. I gasped in horror and clutched the dresser behind me. Oh my God, Rosie, what have you done? Have you gone completely mad? Have you taken leave of your senses? Are you clinically insane? You might just as well have written READY AND WILLING on your forehead and erected a banner announcing TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT! Perhaps you should have propped a mattress against the wall, just in case. I clutched my mouth. Oh-my-God-oh-my-God, what on earth would he think, and what if he comes in right this minute, sees all this seduction paraphernalia and – help!

  Horrified, I leapt into action. I blew out the candles, flicked on the overhead strip light, turned off the rosy glow, zapped off ‘Strangers In The Night’ – strangers in the night, Jesus! – and pausing only to fling the snowdrops in the sink, flew down the hill like a terrified rabbit. Frantically I tore off my dress, my tights, my shoes, found my old jeans, my sweatshirt, my woolly socks, my tatty loafers, threw it all on, and with as shaky a hand as I’d applied my make-up frenziedly scrubbed it all off again. Sensibly I stopped short of actually flaying myself, but by golly the end result was well-scrubbed. Oh God, I moaned as I tore back downstairs again, oh God, you idiot, Rosie, you total, utter, idiot! I did the 500 metre dash back into the kitchen clocking the time – twenty past eight, help! Quickly I swapped the silver for the grubby old stainless steel, glancing around and wondering what else I could do.