Dear Rosie Hughes
Page 8
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 9 February
Hi, Rosie.
It’s late afternoon and I’m sitting in my cottage looking across to Skye. I love this time of the day - the still time - when the birds are thinking about settling down after a last flurry of excitement, when it’s not quite dark but not light either. The sea is a lovely translucent evening blue – that colour which is a perfect mix of blue and pink – and the lights in the tiny villages on Skye are just beginning to twinkle. Anya says twilight is nature’s way of putting mammals and birds (and everything else that scamps about on the planet) in a calm place before bedtime – like Horlicks or Camomile tea. But most humans have stopped noticing how everything, even the sea, takes a little time out at twilight, which is a shame. Have you noticed that we rush around at the most calming times of the day? If we were more in tune, rush hour would become meander hour; wouldn’t that be lovely?
But I’m melancholic because twilight is a special time for me. I can’t help but think of Mum and those lovely years when I was little. She used to stroke my hair and sing me a bedtime song; I insisted on the same song every night:
Just a song a twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flickering shadows, softly come and go,
Tho’ the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight, comes Love’s old song.
Maybe I should grab my coat and enjoy the last dregs of twilight – go roaming in the gloaming, as ‘twere.
Love, Ag
Bluey
From: Gethyn
To: Aggie
Date: 9 February
Dear, Agatha
But you were a distraction – a welcome one. I should have been attending a meeting with the Chief of Staff, but I became so engrossed in your letter I missed the beginning of the meeting.
Back to our discussion. I agree, the same stories are indeed told over and over again (nothing is new under the sun) and they can be as individual as they are timeless. But I’ve been giving some thought to the formulaic element of the romantic novel and feel that it is, on the whole, a story arc that acts as a disservice to women.
To explain: the classic idea that a stereotypical romantic male – the hero – will ride up on his charger (after a great number of obstacles have been scaled) and rescue the damsel in distress, only serves to perpetuate the idea of the white knight. I do not believe men can live up to this stereotyping. Are romantic novels setting men up to fail? And weren’t white knights, in actuality, dark characters? Men do not have the same mental processes or hormonal fluctuations as women, we do like to please and are capable of falling in love, however.
So, what happens when we meet a woman we really like? We pursue her (men like to pursue) but in our pursuit we know women have a set idea of what constitutes romance and we endeavour to meet this need and expectation, even though it is all just a temporary act to satisfy the ego of the woman in the eyes of her peers. Inevitably, the man becomes settled into the relationship and the artificially heightened romance phase (which was an unnatural process to him in the first place) falls away. Funnily enough, the woman becomes disenchanted when his true persona comes to the fore. Ah, and that’s another point, I am not comfortable with the use of the phrase, ‘happy ending’ – use of inverted commas allowed in this case, I feel. Rather than saying that a book or a film has a happy ending, shouldn’t we all agree to say that there is a pre-requisite in contemporary romantic fiction for the main protagonists in the story to achieve an acceptable outcome by the end of the book, whereby the reader believes that such an outcome will lead to the continued happiness and contentment of the hero beyond the remit of the story?
Regarding your writing style, if art reflects life, then you, Agatha, are the hero in your own story, and if all stories are the same (an ongoing journey of transformation) shouldn’t you also keep pushing yourself further to enable your own personal growth?
Yours,
Gethyn
P.S. I disagree that poor men cannot be romantic. Perhaps the crux of the whole issue is that we differ in what constitutes as romance.
P.P.S. You were happy to be a muse to a millionaire but not happy to be a distraction to me.
P.P.P.S. You said you were almost decapitated by a giant exclamation mark. Can you expand on this?
P.P.P.P.S. Harems can be hugely successful blueprint for living harmoniously, but that is a discussion for another time, perhaps.
P.P.P.P.P.S. Something about you has led me to be unacceptably frivolous with postscript. I hope you write again soon.
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 10 February
Hi, Aggie
It’s midday and I’m sitting on a sandbag in the sunshine drinking tea, and for once, I have great news.
We finally have a tent of our own!
Gethyn managed to procure (OK, steal) a tent for us to sleep in. He’s refusing to say where it came from, but it’s American and Gethyn is very good at cards.
Honestly though, Ag, what an absolute relief it is to have a home of our own. I don’t have to sleep next to a lorry and fold my bed up every morning and can leave my kit in one place. I still go to the wash tent to get water from the bowser for a wash, but at least I can have a quick ‘baby wipe’ clean-up in private now, although, to be fair to the guys out here, I often think that they are more embarrassed than the handful of women who also use the wash tent. This time away with the Army seems to be teaching me how to become indifferent to being a woman. Although, most of the men here definitely see me as a woman first, then as a northerner (so sick of having my accent mimicked), and then as a met forecaster – ‘here she is, Little Miss Sunshine, the weather girl’. My life here is more challenging physically than if I was a man, but luckily my navy days taught me how to be resilient. I’m fed, watered, I don’t have to shoot anyone (hopefully) and as long as I stay determined to cope with it all, I’m sorted.
In other news, it’s really hotting-up out here, and I would know as I have to read the temperature out to the troops every day. The operational tempo is hotting-up too, which has led to the army digging out trenches around the HQ for us to jump into if the war should suddenly start, but they just look like empty mass-graves to me.
What news from Appledart? Has your soulmate manifested (or has anyone pitched up who you might even just snog?). I think it was a good idea to help out at the café. A handsome backpacker is bound to pitch up at some point, or a mysterious foreigner, perhaps? Hope so.
Write soon.
Love, Rosie
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 14 February
Hi, Rosie
Happy Valentine’s Day!
That’s fab news about the tent. I suppose I shall have to cut Gethyn some slack as he came up with the goods (although it pains me to say it). Did he tell you we’re continuing with our correspondence? I’m writing because he is one of our chaps ‘at the front’ and so deserves my gratitude, although I’m yet to be convinced he isn’t a bit of a cock.
The fire ritual on the beach worked (kind of). Within a day of the ceremony I did indeed have a date. His name was Sven, a Marine Biologist from Sweden (honest to God that was his name and profession, even I wouldn’t create someone so clichéd) and he was staying at the pub on a two-day diving break.
He sauntered (like a cheeky, adorable Adonis) into the café, with the rain dripping off his chiselled jaw and his trousers sticking to his bulging thighs, and I swear a great shaft of sunlight entered the café, making his dazzling blue eyes sparkle and his teeth glint whiter than an advert for toothpaste. I was cool for at least the first ten minutes but flirted my arse off after that. Anya’s nose kept twitching, so I should have known better than to accept his offer to join him in the pub for dinner, but of course, I just couldn’t say no.
Did I tell you I travel to the only othe
r village on horseback now? I ride Hyde and Jekyll comes along on a halter lead – he can’t stand being left alone. At 7p.m., I pinned my courage to the sticking place, Ishmael saddled me up, slapped Hyde on the behind (which is ever so risque for Ishmael) and I set off with a torch and a sense of purpose, on the five-mile journey in the dark to the pub.
Let’s face it, there’s desperate, and then there’s me.
I arrived in one piece (although I did take a faint smell of a stable yard into the pub with me) and we had a lovely dinner – all very Scottish West Coast, oysters, scallops, skinny fries – and the conversation was fun. But my God, the man loved himself. The pub was packed with tourists, most of whom I’d met in the café during the previous few days and after several glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, Sven went to the toilet and I realised that there were only five words on everyone’s mind – ‘will she or won’t she?’ I looked around and realised that absolutely everyone in there, including Sven, and let’s face it, including me, expected our evening to end in Sven’s bedroom. I felt like a tart – and I don’t mean Bakewell.
I thought, ‘What would Boudica do?’
So, when he came back from the loo, I took control, kissed him hard on the lips, thanked him for a lovely evening, jumped on Hyde and left. Sven was too cool (or stunned) to care.
Anya was waiting for me at my house when I got home. She’d lit the fire and the candles were burning – what that woman doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing. She asked no questions but insisted we had a nightcap. We played cards and I eventually fell asleep on the settee. I woke up this morning with a cashmere blanket over me and the fire stoked up – that’s the benefit of sisterhood for you. My days of hooking up with transient men are over, but if my resolve weakens (and I can’t believe I passed on a ripped body like Sven’s) I have learned one thing: if Anya’s nose starts twitching, I must stop flirting.
Lots of love, Aggie
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 15 February
Hi, Aggie
A few observations: life in the desert is SHIT. I stink! The proper collective noun for the Army is ‘Wankers’. They might win this war, but the Iraqis will never give in, not really. I will probably snuff it in a chemical attack. The bogs are shit, but at least I can now sit to poo as my arse is no longer cleaner than the toilet seat, although I do have to be careful not to zip a few flies into my pants when I pull my trousers up. Gethyn is miserable too. He’s having a morality crisis as he knows that if he wasn’t in the RAF, he’d be marching on Downing Street brandishing an anti-war banner.
Cheer me up, Aggie! Did Mr Perfect Pants show up? Perhaps I should have a go at writing down my own wishes while I’m in the desert. A full moon over the desert is an awesome sight so I reckon it must be four times more powerful (in terms of magic) than the itsy bitsy thing we get at home. I’ll give a go on the next full moon, but with that kind of power, I really had better be careful what I wish for, eh?
I got your letter about your mum’s behaviour and I wish I could phone you. Am I surprised she’s behaved this way? No, not at all. Her behaviour always struck me as irrational. She’s a child, Aggie, and just like a child I genuinely don’t believe she has any concept that her behaviour is bizarre, but she seems to be unable to cope with rationalising emotion. True, she’s also a passive-aggressive nightmare, but you aren’t going to change that. You aren’t going to change her. My ‘pocket psychology handbook’ suggests she’s frightened you’ll leave permanently and so she pushes you away before you do. I was going to suggest that you ask Anya for some spiritual healing, but if there is one thing I’m realising while I’m over here it’s this – the only real healer on this planet is Time.
Gethyn and I had a chat the other day about something that’s been bothering me. He said I should visualise the problem I have by placing it in a hot air balloon. Then I had to visualise myself desperately clinging on to the balloon from underneath. He said, as long as I hold on, I’ll be pulled in the wrong direction, and no matter how much I try or for how long, eventually I won’t be able to cling on anymore, and I’ll fall from a great height and get hurt. He said the best thing is to just let go while your feet are still on the ground – and whenever the pain comes back, accept it, but visualise the balloon and keep letting it go. But you know, even though we might be dragged into the guts of hell, there are some balloons that are welded to us and are impossible to let go of. I’m hopeful that one day, the thing will have simply drifted off while I was looking in another direction, and I won’t even have noticed.
Also, while I’m on a roll (sorry) I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I think you should stop looking for a fella for a while and focus on something more important. Ignoring Isabella is insane. I’m afraid I’m going to give you some tough love now, but ignoring emails, phone calls or texts from her isn’t fair – and it’s exactly what your mother does to you. Even if Isabella and the publisher are getting on your wick, ignoring them is rude, Agatha Isadora Braithwaite, and it displays a lack of courage. Write to Isabella with the absolute truth, rather than run away from the problem, and this will fix the issue immediately. You aren’t suddenly going to produce a finished novel in the next couple of weeks, so tell them, then play the piano and sing, or go to that café of yours and have a bloody good laugh or cry or dance or anything, really.
Do you remember that time when I brought Mum to the park to talk sense into you rather than leave you to smoke pot on the roundabout with Shane Jackson? That was a turning point in your life. If I’d left you to your own devices, you would never have been as successful as you are now, and I’m not going to sit back and watch you throw the towel in again. You need a break from writing stories for a bit, that’s all. Helping at the café is perfect, but don’t get side-tracked. I know you’re lonely, but please do yourself a favour and put finding a man to one side for a little while. Try to be happy single (I know I’m being a bloody great big hypocrite but it’s much easier to sort other people’s problems out, rather than your own) but if we can both learn to be truly happy alone – without husbands or babies and mothers – then we will only ever know happiness when, hopefully, we’re blessed with finding these people, and we’ll be better prepared for whatever life holds in store in the future (that’s the theory, anyway).
Love, Rosie
From: aggieb@yahoo.com
To: igambini@hotmail.com
Subject: The Worst Ghost Writer Ever!
Date: 19 February
Hello, Isabella
I’m so very sorry to have been incommunicado lately. Are you terribly cross with me? The thing is, my very close friend who lives in an (almost) inaccessible part of Scotland, has had a family catastrophe and pleaded with me to rush to Scotland on a mercy mission to help keep her little café open so that her business doesn’t fold. What could I do but drop everything and rush to her side? Internet access has taken a while to arrange and the phone lines are hit and miss but, fingers and toes crossed, this email will be delivered successfully.
As far as the latest manuscript goes, I will confess that My Foolish Heart is not coming along particularly well, and I’m afraid I will not make the deadline. I know this will not be the news you were hoping for, but I wanted to escape for a while in the hope that the creative juices would start to flow again. The café isn’t busy at this time of year, so I’ll get cracking over the next couple of weeks and have the first draft with you by the end of April – can you get this squared away with everyone?
But more importantly, how are you? How are Saffron and Anise-Star? Did Anise get her new pony?
With much love, Aggie.
P.S. I’m truly sorry to have let you down, especially after all you have done for me. I completely understand if you choose to find another writer.
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 19 February
Hi, Ag
I sent you a letter of tough-love a f
ew days ago and I really shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry. Your email to me about your date with Sven must have crossed in the post and now I feel like such an arse. Your letters are fantastic, and I know you’re only trying to keep me amused. Please, please pay no attention to anything I said.
But anyway, I have some upbeat news from the shithole for once. Gethyn and I had a brilliant time this morning: believe it or not there is great fun to be had in the simple act of digging a trench. The Sergeant Major threw a couple of spades in our direction and said we had to dig a trench directly outside of our tent in case the war suddenly kicks off and the scud alarm sounds when we’re asleep. Obedient as ever, we got digging. Now when I say trench, you’re better off imagining a mouse scratching than a trench, but you have no idea how hard digging a trench actually is, even in sand. We dug to about a foot deep, then gave up, laughing. We aren’t worried. When the shit hits the fan we’ll not be in our tent anyway, we’ll be in the HQ tent supporting the guys on the frontline, so we think the depth of the trench is pretty much immaterial, but it gave us some exercise for a few hours, which I’m guessing was the whole point. If we do have to use it and are hit by a scud, the trench will double up as a coffin, so it’s perfect.
So, in the Army’s eyes, Gethyn and I are even more effing useless pieces of poo than they suspected, but as Gethyn said, we’re not useless, just pragmatic free-thinkers who refuse to follow the crowd. There is a deep, ingrained level of prejudice in the British armed forces and it goes like this: The Army resent/hate the RAF and tolerate the Navy. The Navy tolerate the Army and look down on the RAF. The RAF resent no-one because it’s an emotion savoured by those who are discontent with their lot and the RAF are, on the whole, a comfortable, contented clan who spend a great deal of their time hunkered down in hotels (according to the Army). Everyone respects the Royal Marines.
Because we’re relaxed, non-conformists (well, Gethyn is and I’m taking my lead from him) I’m categorised as nothing more than a civilian and, to be honest, they aren’t wrong. Although, you would have been proud of me the other day. A young army captain shouted, ‘Hey, Weather Girl’ across the desert to catch my attention. Now, I don’t mind being hollered at, but I won’t be regarded as a ‘girl’. This might sound a bit precious on my behalf, but when you’re on the brink of war and are one of only a handful of women surviving in a hostile environment, it’s vital not to be seen as a modern day Private Benjamin. I turned around, walked towards him, smiled and said, ‘Call me that again and I’ll cut you balls off, dickhead’ and then walked away.