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: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
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’.
Please pick up the phone when I ring, or maybe you could phone me? My number and address are on the card I left for you on my mantelpiece, next to the clog. Don’t go quiet on me again, Mamma. You’ve done this too many times over the years and each time it hurts more than you can possibly imagine, because it makes no sense. Pick up the phone when I ring, please. I love you.
Agatha x
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Mrs Hughes (via the Post Office)
Date: 2 February
Hi, Mum
You’ve probably guessed that I broke Dad’s snow shovel. Aggie replaced it before she left for Scotland. Have a look behind the greenhouse. Also, Josh broke Dad’s planer when he was sanding down the kitchen door at Rose Cottage, and, come to think of it, we may have nicked his adjustable spanner and wallpaper steamer too. I’ll ask Josh to send everything back when he sorts the house out. Regarding Aggie, you’re right, she isn’t on a yoga retreat. She’s gone to Scotland to look after a friend’s café. I think a lot of her jolliness is a façade; truth is, she’s very lonely. I wonder if she holds on too tight when she falls for a man. Simon said that’s what she did with him which is why he left. He said it was a bit claustrophobic. Her mum is furious that she’s gone away again and is refusing to communicate. They are almost as bad as each other, with Aggie repeatedly trotting off on a whim, and her mother wanting to keep her close but then acting like a child when she can’t.
Dear Rosie Hughes Page 5
