Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Oh good,’ sighed Dad. ‘I thought it was your mother. We’ve had a bit of a session in here, nothing serious, but you know how she carries on.’

  I smiled. Ivo was covered in mud, as was his grandfather, and before them were rows and rows of overflowing flowerpots.

  ‘Always a tricky job, watering the seedlings, and Ivo can get rather carried away,’ admitted my father, as Ivo, kneeling up on the bench, wobbled dangerously with a huge watering can before sloshing half a gallon of water into a two inch pot.

  ‘Twicky job,’ he confirmed gravely as the bench flooded.

  ‘Oh, Ivo, be careful! All Grandpa’s seeds!’

  ‘No, no, love, let him be. I can sort it out later,’ Dad said. ‘He’s enjoying himself.’

  I smiled gratefully. ‘Making work for you, you mean.’

  I sat down in the corner, watching them work. Happy, quiet and diligent, the silence punctuated just occasionally by Ivo’s ‘Like this, Grandpa?’

  ‘That’s it, laddie.’

  The peace, the earthy smells, the tangible contentment of the pair of them was comforting. I basked in it. Then after a while I picked up a seed catalogue beside me. I flicked through it idly. At length, Dad spoke.

  ‘Who was that at the door then?’

  I put down the magazine and told him. And the outcome. He chuckled. ‘Oh, Rosie, that’ll take your mother months to get over, months and months! And it’ll be dragged up every time you put a foot wrong, how Rosie blew her last chance, you mark my words.’

  I sighed. ‘I know. I shall undoubtedly live to regret it, and the worst of it is, she’s probably right. My judgement is so appalling, I probably don’t know a good thing when I see it.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with judgement, love. You’ll know, the moment you feel it. You just haven’t felt it yet that’s all. You don’t weigh these things up, Rosie, it’s instinctive.’

  I gazed into his kind brown eyes. ‘Yes,’ I said quietly, ‘yes, I do know that actually.’ I gulped. Picked some dried Ready Brek off my jeans. Then I looked up quickly, narrowing my eyes. ‘Dad, why did you marry Mum?’

  ‘Why?’ He laughed, put down his trowel. ‘Well she was everything I wasn’t, I suppose. She had a posh southern voice, she drank sherry like a lady, she could dance, she could chatter away sociably like, she was pretty and cultured. Or so I thought. And I was just a loutish yob from the North.’

  ‘So you weighed it up?’

  He paused. Glanced across at me. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. I suppose I did in a way.’ Quickly he picked up his trowel again, then just as abruptly set it down. ‘I was ambitious, Rosie,’ he went on quietly. ‘I’d made a deal of money all right, but I didn’t have anything to back it up. Didn’t have the class. Your mother wore the latest Paris fashions, made them herself from Vogue patterns, played tennis in proper whites. I thought she was the bee’s knees. I thought she was everything I needed to put the cherry on the cake.’

  ‘And she wasn’t?’

  He paused. ‘I’ve no regrets, Rosie. But let’s just say I hadn’t reckoned on her being even more ambitious than I was. And you can’t make a sow’s purse out of a pig’s ear. She thought she could and she’s been thwarted in her attempts ever since. Whichever way you look at it, I’m still a pig’s ear.’

  I squeezed his arm. ‘Well, you’re the nicest pig’s ear I’ve ever seen,’ I said warmly.

  ‘Why, thank you for those kind words, oh daughter of mine,’ he said, grinning, ‘but if you could just see your way clear to taking your left elbow out of my azalea pots I’d be even more grateful … thank you.’

  He carried on pricking out his plants for a bit. Then after a while he spoke, but he didn’t look up. ‘I’ve been thinking, Rosie, about building a cottage at the end of the garden.’

  I glanced up. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Well we’ve had planning permission for four years now and it runs out next year. Seems a shame not to use it. Thought you and Ivo could have it. I’d build it down by the stream so you’d have that in your front garden, make it the boundary to the house. Might be a bit of a hazard for a bit, but it’s not deep, and Ivo would love it later on, building dams, that sort of thing.’

  A lump came to my throat for various reasons. Firstly, how sweet of my father to use all his savings to provide a roof over my head, knowing full well that if I shared one with my mother we’d end up killing each other, but also – oh also because there was such a dismal sense of finality about it. This was it then, was it? The spinster daughter, at home with her parents. Now and – what, forever more? I sighed. In the distance I heard tyres crunching on the gravel drive. That would be Philly probably, back off home to her house, her family, her husband. I cleared my throat.

  ‘Thanks, Dad, I really appreciate the offer. Can I – well, can I think about it?’

  ‘Course you can, lass. There’s no rush, you take your time.’ He looked pleased that I hadn’t turned it down flat. He turned to help Ivo, who was struggling to separate terracotta flowerpots. One cracked as he finally pulled them apart but Dad ignored it, sweeping the pieces on the floor and giving him the whole one. It occurred to me that if I couldn’t provide Ivo with a father, the least I could do would be to provide him with a resident grandpa.

  ‘What does Mummy say?’

  ‘What does Mummy say about what?’ My mother suddenly stuck her head round the door. She looked cross. Dad and I both jumped like naughty children.

  ‘Nothing, my love, nothing at all,’ soothed my father. She clearly didn’t know.

  ‘Really,’ she said drily. ‘I know you, Gordon, and I know the pair of you when you get together. So this is where you all are. Back in here getting filthy again. There’s a cup of tea waiting in the kitchen if anyone wants it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ we both muttered dutifully in unison.

  She went to go then popped her head back. ‘Oh, by the way, that was your ex-landlord calling to see you, Rosie. I told him where to go in no uncertain terms I can tell you.’

  There was a silence. I gazed at her. ‘Joss?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes, flaming cheek, having thrown you out of your house. I sent him away with a flea in his ear all right, gave him a piece of my mind. Now come along, Ivo – oh good gracious, look at the state of those trousers! Leave all that mucky earth now and come and wash your hands with Granny, come on!’

  It hadn’t been Philly. Those had been Joss’s tyres on the gravel. My father’s eyes left his workbench and came round to meet mine.

  ‘There’s roadworks down at Markham’s Corner,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s bound to get stuck there. If you ran through the woods and across the stream, like as not you’d catch him.’

  I stared at him for a moment – then needed no further prompting. I jumped up, pushed past my mother in the doorway and dashed down the garden.

  ‘Where on earth d’you think you’re going!’ Her voice carried after me but I raced on, on and on until I reached the stream. Ignoring the bridge which was further upstream I leapt across. One foot slipped back and I felt water seep into my boot, but I caught hold of the reeds on the other side and pulled myself through them, panting up the bank and staggering across to the little wood beyond. I plunged into it, breathlessly dodging round the thickets as one after another they reared up at me. There was no real path running through here, just a clump of brambles here, some saplings there, bigger, more mature trees to race round and then more clumps of brambles. I put my head down and went for it, shielding my eyes with my forearm and pushing on through. Oh please, please let me catch him, my heart was pounding, please let me be in time!

  Eventually I made it to the clearing. I raced across the wet grass, down the bank, tumbling over and over at the bottom. I picked myself up and threw myself at the fence that marked the end of our land. Ignoring the fact that it was laced with barbed wire and panting hard now, I clambered over, tore my jumper, yanked it free and jumped down the other side. Then I raced off on the last leg, through some
scrubland, across some rough pasture and then finally, finally out on to the verge of the main road. The fast road that led back to Cirencester.

  I stood at the side of the dual carriageway gasping, covered in mud, clutching my side, looking desperately about. Cars were coming thick and fast, flying along in both directions, but no green Range Rover. Oh God, I was too late, he’d already gone, except – yes! Yes, here it came, hurtling along much too fast, definitely defying the speed limit, and with a very grim-looking Joss at the wheel.

  ‘STOP!’ I shrieked at the top of my voice, stepping out into the main road Anna Karenina style. I waved my arms frantically then at the last minute, thinking better of being squashed to a pulp on the tarmac, hopped back on to the verge. He shot by me and for a moment I thought he wasn’t going to stop, but then I saw the brake lights flash and he screeched to a halt a few hundred yards down the road. A swarm of angry motorists swerved to avoid him, blaring their horns, shaking their fists madly.

  I squinted into the distance. The car door opened. He jumped out and turned towards me. He shut the door and stood there, waiting. My heart stopped for a moment – then bounded on again. Oh! He was waiting for me! I must run to him, this was my big moment, it had come at last, yes, I could sense it! Delirious with happiness, I set off at a gallop, charging up the road like a demon. I ran and ran, but still he seemed so very far away. If only I wasn’t so desperately unfit, I thought, panting hard, and if only I hadn’t just run a marathon through a wood already. But no matter, on and on I puffed towards the tall dark figure on the horizon, standing legs apart in a pose somewhat reminiscent of Clint in A Fistful of Dollars. A rogue thought entered my mind that he could at least have broken into a walk and met me halfway, but I dismissed it instantly. No, no, that wouldn’t have been cool, men like Joss didn’t run, and this way was so much more romantic. Why, I was like one of those girls running through a corn field, arms outstretched, racing towards her lover; I’d fly into his arms, he’d swing me round, I’d kiss the living daylights out of him, oh yes, I would – I stopped for a moment, clutched my side, felt rather sick suddenly. I gulped down some air. Come on, Rosie, just a stitch, get going. Oh yes I would, I thought, setting off again at a trot – well, a limp – the moment I … God I felt ill … the moment I sodding well reached him, I’d kiss the living – Jesus did he have to park so far away! Finally I staggered up to him, wheezing, gasping, willing myself not to throw up on his black jumper. He reached out and grabbed my arm.

  ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing? You nearly got yourself killed!’ He looked furious. ‘And I nearly had half a ton of metal up my backside!’

  ‘Sorry!’ I gasped. ‘Wanted to catch you – heard you’d been round – Mum said – wanted to –’

  ‘Get in.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Get in, for God’s sake!’ He marched me round to the passenger side, bundled me in and slammed the door behind me. ‘D’you want to die on the freeway or something?’

  I watched, dazed, clutching the upholstery and gasping for breath, as he strode round and got in the other side. He started the car and we crawled along the hard shoulder with him glancing in his rear-view mirror for a gap.

  ‘Pillock,’ he muttered.

  Presumably that was meant for some other motorist, except – the road was now clear. I frowned. Pillock? Who, me? I boggled. Surely not, where was the romance in that? He joined the road at such a speed it practically gave me whiplash and I clutched the seat as he roared up to a roundabout, spun round it – all the way round, it seemed to me, and on two wheels too, but then again I was probably still in shock – and back down the road again.

  ‘So,’ he said, shooting me a surprisingly venomous look for one who I’d been planning on sharing a special harmony with, ‘you moved out. Nice one, Rosie, and perfect timing too. The children are delighted, can’t stop crying, in fact.’

  My mouth fell open. ‘I did not!’ I managed to squeak. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Annabel.’

  ‘Annabel! Is that what she told you? God, no, she told me to go, said you were embarrassed by me!’

  ‘Embarrassed by what?’

  ‘Oh, you know, hanging about and …’ I fell silent as my mind offered me a glimpse of me ‘hanging about’. Like a devoted spaniel, lying at her master’s feet, slippers in mouth. I bit my lip. ‘Nothing. She just said, well that she’d got some new tenants. Eco-warriors or something.’

  He rasped out a laugh. ‘Eco-warriors! God that’s a heroic, last ditch attempt.’

  ‘It’s true, Joss, she told me to go, told me to eff off. Just ask her if you don’t believe me,’ I said petulantly.

  ‘I can’t do that, she’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Who knows? To London I presume. Before making her way back to the States.’

  ‘She’s going abroad again?’ Blimey, and I thought she was going to be there for her ‘needy’ husband, have a baby, get the decorating done. ‘How long for?’

  ‘For good.’

  ‘For –’ I glanced over in surprise.

  He sighed. ‘Rosie, it appears to have escaped your notice that Annabel and I do not live like normal married couples. In fact we tend to live two thousand miles apart, and when we are in the same house, albeit briefly, we fight like banshees and tear each other limb from limb. Has this completely passed you by?’

  ‘Er, no, I suppose not.’

  ‘And so she’s finally agreed to the divorce. She’s resisted it for two years now and I haven’t had the heart to push it, but I think even Annabel knows when she’s beaten. Knows when she’s outclassed.’

  ‘The … divorce? Outclassed? What d’you mean?’

  He bit his lip, staring straight ahead. ‘Nothing. If you don’t know then … maybe I’m wrong.’

  I swivelled round in my seat to face him. ‘No, Joss, hang on. Just tell me, please, in plain English. You’re getting divorced? I thought you adored her!’

  ‘You did? Why?’

  ‘Well, everyone said so!’

  ‘Who’s everyone?’

  I thought back, tried to remember. ‘Well, Alex actually.’

  ‘Really,’ he said drily. ‘Alex. Yeah well he would, wouldn’t he? Didn’t want anyone queering his own pitch with you, I imagine.’

  I stared stupidly at him.

  ‘Look, Rosie,’ he went on in the tone one normally reserves for very small children, and the educationally subnormal, ‘the first time we met was outside a solicitor’s office in London, am I right? Both seeing the same type of people? Divorce lawyers?’

  ‘But – I thought that was a social call. Seeing your brother-in-law you said, Annabel’s brother.’

  ‘I was seeing my brother-in-law. Kitty’s brother. He’s handling my divorce.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘And call me old fashioned if I didn’t spell it out at the time, but I didn’t think it gentlemanly to tell the world, particularly since Annabel was resisting the action. Didn’t think it was fair on her to blab. Especially since you went on to become the tenant in the cottage.’

  ‘N-no, of course not.’ The tenant. I sat on my hands.

  ‘She was still so desperate to make a go of it, you see, tried to keep up a show of marital bliss to everyone. God she even took Martha and Vera in, but it had never been like that. Not even at the beginning really. Apart from anything else, she’s incapable of having a proper sexual relationship, she can’t form an intimate bond with anyone but herself. Lately she calls it celibacy because that’s trendy, but it goes much deeper than that. She went off the boil soon after we got married, trotted out one lame excuse after another.’

  I gaped in wonder at all these illuminating revelations tumbling out. ‘But – I thought she was having an affair! When she asked me to go shopping, to buy those –’

  ‘She was warning you off. Figured you were getting too close. I knew what she was up to.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘It just wouldn’t o
ccur to her to have an affair, Rosie, not unless it could further her career. She’s not interested in sex you see. Some people are like that you know.’

  Blimey. No, I didn’t. ‘So – crikey, why on earth did you marry her?’

  He sighed. ‘Because I didn’t know all this at the beginning. She covered her tracks pretty well. I met her when she was a student at Harvard and I was over there giving a lecture. She made a bee-line for me. Seduced me, as a matter of fact, and went through all the sexual motions in what I now realize was a fairly calculating manner. I was immensely flattered because she is, I think you’ll agree, extremely easy on the eye, and she was incredibly sought after by all the young bloods there. At the time, Kitty had been dead for almost a year and for some reason that milestone loomed ominously. Made me fearful. Made me think I should be getting on with my life instead of sitting by the fire night after night crying into my Scotch, never going to bed, burying myself in my work – or the bottle – shutting myself away in the studio with my bits of stone.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess I was vulnerable and I clutched on to what I thought was a good thing, but looking back I don’t think I actually loved her.’

  ‘So then why did you –?’

  ‘Because I figured the kids needed a mother and I thought that in her homespun, alternative way, she’d be kind to them. She wasn’t. She wasn’t interested in home life or kids, she had a totally different agenda. She was interested in my name and using it to promote her own as a budding young writer – or guru, as she likes to think of herself. She’s a hypocrite you see. She likes to tell people how to bring up their kids and what to eat and how to give up smoking and how to have sex but she doesn’t do any of it herself. It’s just a money-making exercise. And of course that’s another thing she liked about me, my money, what there is of it.’ He sighed. ‘And d’you know, stupidly I think I believed it would work because she was so unlike Kitty. I think that’s what attracted me to her. She was so tough, so driven, so ambitious, so totally different from Kitty, and I couldn’t bear to be with someone similar because I feared the comparison. But I was so wrong. It just made me miss Kitty more.’