Dear Rosie Hughes

by Melanie Hudson

  Before I came to Appledart I was lonely, but now I’m here, I’m happy. My only fear is that the portal to Brigadoon will close soon, and I’ll have to slip out of my pretend reality and return to my real one.

  Stay safe, my friend.

  Aggie

  P.S. I’m working on the violin.

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Mr & Mrs Hughes

  To: Rosie

  Date: 8th April

  Dear, Babe

  Are you still safe in Kuwait? I see scuds have been hitting the city. Wouldn’t you be safer in the desert? Mammy wants to know if you’re getting enough sleep? We’re watching the news as much as we can. Terrible business. I’ll kill Tony bloody Blair if I ever get my hands on him. Simon phoned last night to see if we’d heard from you. Mammy was so pleased he phoned, she even agreed to take a little run out to the garden centre afterwards. Don’t think badly of him if he hasn’t written. He’s just so busy. But, credit to him; I haven’t seen Mammy smile much since you went away and his phone call made her chuckle (he can wind her round his little finger, that one).

  For God’s sake, KYHD.

  Love you.

  MumnDad xx

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Aggie

  Date: 9 April

  Dear, Aggie

  I think Gethyn is still in a relationship, but I’m not sure how solid it is (you know what men are like, they never get down to the proper detail).

  I had such a shitty day today. At the evening briefing when the Chief of Staff asked the Brigades (via the communications link) if they had any points, some bloody colonel piped up and asked why the sand storm we had experienced that morning hadn’t been forecast. He said, ‘If the Met girl isn’t up to the job, get someone else in’. He then went on to say that the wind direction I had given at the beginning of my brief was different to the one given by the NBC (nuclear, biological and chemical) guy and this was unacceptable. I wasn’t given the opportunity to explain which left me standing in the brief like a humiliated, inept, naughty school girl. The Chief of Staff said he would ‘speak to me in private’ which I suppose was the professional thing to do, but that brief goes out to the whole of the army, and I would have loved to fight back and say:

  ‘Fuck you, you numb-nut, arse-wiping cock-face, tosser. I get the met forecast from the Yanks, so have a dig at them! AND, by the way, if there is a sandstorm and a chemical attack at the same time, the wind direction will be so variable it won’t matter – you’ll be completely fucked. And another thing, if there’s a chemical attack, put your fucking respirator on rather than try to remember the wind direction which probably will have changed since the morning briefing!’ Can you imagine the look on everyone’s faces if I had said all that and just let rip!

  Also, why did he assume the NBC officer (a MAN) was right and I (a WOMAN) was wrong? Whatever the answer, he’s fucked over my reputation good and proper. Gethyn said I should put it in context and see that the man was clearly operating under extreme pressure, was stressed out, desperate to look after his troops and may be under the effect of NAPs tablets, and that I shouldn’t take it personally. Luckily, Gethyn had a compass on him, so now, before each brief, to get an accurate wind direction, I step out into the desert and look for an oil refinery, follow the fumes and get the wind direction from that – clearly, if that arse-wiping colonel had any sense, he would do exactly the same thing! Why oh why didn’t the army bring a fucking met unit with them, or at least give me some basic kit – like a fucking hand-held anemometer?

  Please save all my letters. When I’m back at the Met Office I must remember to read them to remind me that nothing that happens at work can ever be as frustrating as this. Rant over.

  Love, Rosie

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Aggie

  Date: 10 April

  Dear, Aggie

  Sorry about yesterday’s letter. What a moaning, whinging baby I was. Truth is, I cocked up and I just couldn’t bear it.

  I phoned home today for the first time since I got here. They’ve introduced a welfare package to provide us with a couple of minutes of satellite phone calls per week. Poor Dad. I thought he was going to have a heart attack when he heard my voice. He just started screaming, ‘Marge, Marge, it’s our Rosie, quick!’ And I was trying to tell him there was no time to get Mum and not to waste the call, and so I spent the first minute speaking to no one - typical. Mum’s voice was shaking a bit but she was calm, then Dad grabbed the phone and said, ‘I’ve had a terrible nightmare! Under no circumstances are you to get on a helicopter – promise me, Rosie!’ What a ridiculous thing to say. And the worse thing is, I AM getting on a helicopter, about an hour from now, so I feel vulnerable today, which is not how I’ve been feeling at all lately.

  I want to put my hands up and say, ‘This is madness. I want to go home immediately.’ But there’s no getting off this bloody fairground ride once you’re on it and to be perfectly honest, even if someone pitched up in the next ten minutes and said, ‘OK love, there’s been a huge mistake, you shouldn’t be here, I’m taking you home,’ I still wouldn’t go because how can you leave your mates once it’s started? How can you not stay as part of the team until the bitter end? Gethyn and I were sarcastic, opinionated onlookers before the war started. But now we get it.

  Reading your letters is like hearing your voice again, and you’ll never know (except for the fact that I’m telling you now) what a comfort you have been. So many memories of the two of us have come flooding back, memories of the little things, like sitting at my house watching films, usually with me laying on the settee and you sprawled across Mum’s sheepskin rug (do you still sit on the floor rather than a chair?). Do you remember that year your mum gave you a spy set for Christmas and you persuaded me to hide behind the bins in Janey Peters’ back yard to see if she was having a fling with that bloke your mum was knocking about with – can you actually believe she really was? Your poor mum was heartbroken.

  With much love, Rosie

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Josh

  Date: 11 April

  Hi, Josh

  Thanks for the apology, but you were probably right.

  Can you do me a favour, please? Could you possibly sort out all of Dad’s tools we’ve borrowed over the years? He’s getting himself into a pickle because he can’t find a few bits and bobs and is worried Alzheimer’s is settling in. If anything is broken just replace it. I think we have the sander, the matik (from when you dug out the drains for the new septic tank) a trestle table (from the wall papering fiasco) and a battery-powered drill (from when you built my raised beds).

  I’d forgotten how much work you did. I’m not sure what I was doing while you were doing all these jobs? If I never said thank you for all the hard work you put into the cottage, I’ll say it now. You created a beautiful home for us and, for what it’s worth, I loved it.

  Rosie x

  Bluey

  From: Gethyn

  To: Aggie

  Date: 11 April

  Hi, Aggie

  I’m in love with Appledart and want to fly there immediately. But there is one thing I don’t understand. In your letter you said you all travel to the pub on horseback, but you have two horses to share between three people, and one of the horses is a pony – do you and Anya share?

  Speaking of Anya, a few nights ago Rosie and I were laying in our bunks in the dark in the tent, hoping the scud alarm wouldn’t go off, and Rosie told me she had been to Appledart with her ex-husband (you probably already know this). But what you may not know is that Anya read Rosie’s cards for her (if that is the correct terminology). In fact, Anya’s presence at Appledart is the reason Rosie chose to go there. Rosie wanted to ask Anya if she would ever have a child. Anya didn’t answer Rosie directly, instead she told her that her future would not turn out as she might expect at that moment and that she had some challenging times ahead. Anya said Rosie would travel
to a hot country – to a desert - and her life would turn in an entirely different direction, but that in the desert she would finally find peace.

  I’ve often wondered if people actually find a way to act out the prophesies they are given. Take Rosie, for example. Would she have accepted the offer to work with the army if Anya hadn’t predicted she would go to the desert and find peace? Maybe Rosie’s future changed the very moment she stepped through Anya’s front door.

  My personal journey into the desert was less intense, but has a similar theme. I’ve journeyed from regular moments of melancholy before the war started, to the depths of despair when it began. But now I feel a greater force is pulling at me – pulling me out of myself. When I leave here I want to be a reborn version of a man others once knew – a phoenix out of the ashes. I’m babbling.

  Write soon.

  G

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Oliver

  Date: 11 April

  Dear, Oliver.

  How was The Huge Write – did you hate it? Why don’t you ask your teacher if you can do some of your class work on a computer? You write my letters on a laptop, so why can’t other long pieces of writing also be written on one? Can’t you ask for a scribe? You said in your letter you like maths – me too. My dad always told me to, ‘play to my strengths’. If your strengths are maths and fishing, then maybe focus on them. Maybe one day you will live near the sea and be a commercial fisherman? Or you could be a maths teacher? In answer to your questions:

  I don’t mind that my best friend is a boy. I’m beginning to realise that special friends appear from nowhere just when you need them the most, a bit like angels. Some of them will stay for life and, sadly, some of them won’t, but you will always carry them in your heart. Do you think you could try to believe that the right friend is going walk into your life sometime soon? I discussed this exact issue a few evenings ago with my friend, Gethyn, and he said, ‘like attracts like’. So, for example, if you are feeling down and low, then you may attract the same type of person into your life (someone without much joy about them) but if you dig deep and find joy and start to transmit joy from your soul, you will bring something – someone - more positive into your life. Will you try a little experiment for me? Will you please try to smile (for no particular reason) several times per day, and then see if things start to change – I bet they will! My friend Agatha thinks that if you wish for something hard enough (and write your wish down to make especially sure) then the universe will eventually provide it for you, one way or another. Even if you don’t believe in my theory, isn’t it worth giving it a try? I’m being a hypocrite in writing this, because I’m smiling on the outside rather than on the inside at the moment but smiling through the heartache is something I promised my dad I would do.

  I want to come home but I can’t. Once you are away with the Army you have to stick it out.

  You said you wanted a dog - do you like animals? I haven’t got much time today as we have just set up a new base and it’s a bit hectic, but I’ll write again soon, and do let me know how the smiling goes (don’t worry if people think you look a bit daft).

  Rosie

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Rosie

  Date: 12 April

  Hi, Rosie

  Guess what? I was right after all, our Isabella has indeed got a bit of history with the infamous Nathan Browne. Sadly, my idea that they may have slept together after some foodie shindig in New York (leading to the conception of her first child) was entirely unfounded (note to self – try to keep imagination in check).

  No, the truth (according to Isabella who I suspect could be a fairly unreliable witness) is this: ten years ago, at the height of his food-critiquing days, Nathan Browne criticised Isabella’s signature dish by saying (in a Sunday supplement) that he didn’t care a tot if her plums were smeared with amaretto and served with a sour juice, anything less than a mouthful was not worth the bother. I think Nathan served this comment with a side order of harmless fun-poking, but Isabella did not see the funny side and Alice’s old friend Time has not softened the blow.

  The media had a field day with his comment and her insistence on wearing chicken-fillet bras now makes sense. I tried to limit the damage by insisting that, personally, I found small plums were often more sought after as they can be particularly juicy but coming from me - the woman who personifies excess – my words didn’t help. Anya isn’t convinced by Isabella’s distaste of Nathan and feels there is more to the Nathan Browne story than tiny plums, and she may have a point. The amount of blushing and stuttering issuing from Isabella when we told her Nathan was coming to Appledart, followed by a violent episode of cursing that her hair hadn’t been coloured prior to her rapid deployment, leads me to believe there may be more to this than she’s letting on. She asked Anya for a revitalising face treatment and has begun resting cold teaspoons under her eyes throughout the day.

  Anyway, we’ve put Hector (the boat man) on lookout duty and have given him strict instructions to telephone from the pub the moment anyone called Nathan (or anyone who looks like Nathan because he’ll possibly travel under a pseudonym) arrives. When asked by Hector to describe Nathan, Isabella shrugged and said, ‘I suppose he’s ok-looking. A bit rough round the edges, though. He often wears a woolly green hat, and he’s got a bit of a limp. Oh, and the last time I saw him, he had an eye patch’. She glanced out of the window at the gentle ebb and flow of the sea kissing the sand and as her eyes softened she said, ‘Lovely smile, though’.

  On that basis, Shaun and Hector had been told to look out for a man who is a cross between Long John Silver and Benny from Crossroads, who is travelling alone. Hector thought this wasn’t much to go on (what the fuck?).

  Anyhow, the whole of Appledart (twenty people max) have been instructed to waylay any man with a nice smile and only arrange for his passage to the café once we have given them the go ahead by telephone. What can possibly go wrong?

  Ta ta for now, Aggie

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Aggie

  Date: 14 April

  Hi, Aggie

  How is the writing going? Should I even ask? Do you want me to drop asking about it or do you want me to nag you? Just in case you want me to nag, I’ll admit that I’m worried you are getting bogged down sorting out someone else’s business to the detriment of your own. You have always been so imaginative and able to dream up all kinds of wonderful (successful) schemes and when Casey comes back I’m sure her café will be on the road to being uber successful. But what about you? Will you be back at square one without having written a word? I’ll stop worrying because presumably at some point Isabella will shoo you away from the café and back to the house, so you can write her next best seller (although she sounds to be a few whisks short of a meringue herself at the moment, so maybe not).

  You’ll be pleased to know I survived the helicopter trip. Dad’s nightmare (the one where I’m guessing I died) was clearly a load of bollocks. I’m not particularly keen on travelling by helicopter anymore. Night time, low level, evasive helicopter transits are the pits, we all just sit there and pray that the pilot won’t hit an electricity pylon or get shot down. Bearing this in mind, you’ll perhaps understand why our arrival at the airport was a surreal experience. The ramp opened and we all walked off the back of the helicopter onto the tarmac. Having seen nothing but sand for the past few weeks, it was odd to stand on firm ground and to see proper buildings rather than tents. I’m not sure I liked it. In fact, I am sure, I didn’t like it. We were anonymous travellers in the desert, like a nomadic tribe. But here at the airport, we’re fixed, firm, settled – trapped. The experience of arriving at the airport became even more surreal when we jumped onto the airport bus (which someone had either found the keys for or hot-wired) like tourists, which we are, I suppose.

  So, HQ is now established inside the airport terminal and what a mess this airport is. We’re working
and sleeping in an air-tight concrete fortress in forty degrees of heat with no air-conditioning. Life was much more hygienic in the desert. The toilets leave a lot to be desired as they constitute a dug-out trench with a plank over the top. There is a waste-high screen between the gents and the ladies, but when I sat down for my ablutions this morning and looked to my right, a man was on the other side of the screen doing the same thing. I looked away quickly and said, ‘If we both keep looking forward and just get on with it, we’ll be OK.’ But I’m honestly not complaining.

  The heat is now like nothing I’ve ever known, but at least it’s predicable, which is handy for a met woman. Oh, but the good news is there’s talk of an RAF mobile met unit being deployed here from Ali Al Salem (an airbase in Kuwait). Can you imagine how frustrating it has been finding out that the RAF has had a met unit in Kuwait for all of this time and yet I’ve had no communication with them, at all? But, enough self-pity because more importantly, if the RAF come, I think I’ll be able to go home! No one seems to know much at the moment, but let’s pray they pitch up. Now we’re here we seem to be in limbo. The war seems to have entered into a lull and I can’t help but wonder at what point someone will declare we have won and we can all go home.

  Lots of love,

  Rosie

  P.S. We have email now. My address is rosie-of-arabia@yahoo.com. Gethyn is sitting next to me and asked me to say that his address is gethyn-of-arabia@yahoo.com (we weren’t particularly individual in the creation of our email addresses).

  ‘E’ Bluey