Dear Rosie Hughes: This is the most uplifting and emotional novel you will read in 2019!
holster (men do not have this problem) and I’m frightened to death I might drop the pistol into the trench. Losing your pistol is a serious offence. I think I’d be in less trouble if I shot The Queen.
I’ve just read the letter back and I’ve had to laugh at my moaning. I mean, what the hell did I expect conditions to be like? The Hilton? What a naïve fool I was. I have to stop feeling sorry for myself and see the whole process as an exercise in both self-discipline and learning to cope with very little.
That’s all for now. Sorry I’ve nothing much to write about except toilets but I can’t write any of the ‘war stuff’ or I’d be in trouble.
Love, Rosie
P.S. Meant to say, I’m gutted you didn’t manage to solve the problem of Maria. But you’re right, sod em.
P.P.S. Don’t compare your mum with mine. No mum is perfect, although we do expect them to be, don’t we? And you have not always been a model daughter either. Remember when you went through your ‘great women of history’ phase and paraded through Midhope dressed as Boudica for a whole month (Boudica?? Couldn’t you have found someone a little more contemporary, or at least a woman who shaved her legs and didn’t carry a sword?) – and don’t even get me started on your Joan of Arc antics.
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 19 January
Dear, Rosie Hughes
Fall to your knees this instant and pray for forgiveness from the immortal one, you poor excuse for a woman, you! Boudica was – without question – the most impressive warrior of either sex history has ever seen (and I would kill for that mop of red hair!). You should have been proud to dress like a warrior queen and have unchecked body hair for a while - freedom!
So anyway, in other news, being chucked over for the part of Maria was obviously meant to be. It’s decided! I’m closing the house up for six months and hot-footing it to Scotland. I catch the train to Mallaig on the 23rd and then a little man called Hector will meet me at the pier with his boat and take me to Appledart. My mail will be redirected, so if you’ve already sent a letter to Yorkshire, don’t worry, I’ll still get it.
I can’t wait to get away. Casey’s café is called, The Café at Road’s End, because it literally is at the end of one of the most remote roads in Britain because Appledart is only accessible by boat, or on foot across the Highlands. Perhaps I’m putting my writing career in jeopardy by going – perhaps it’s subconscious–or actually completely conscious – sabotage. My latest novel is due for submission at the end of April, but focus eludes me at the moment, what with Mum popping round every two seconds and the village in uproar about the school and the proposed housing development, it’s like a sodding war zone back here, never mind Iraq. I try to keep my letters to you upbeat, but I’m at a low ebb just now. God knows why I shagged that Irish bloke. Talk about desperate. Who flies all the way to Italy to meet a complete stranger? And even worse, who shags a stranger even though she doesn’t really fancy him? I’m turning into my mother and it frightens me.
Sometimes I think my life is more unrealistic than my fiction. I’m approaching middle age, single and very lonely, and I can’t see how that’s going to change. I had some counselling last year, but it was a bit of a waste of time. I spent nearly a thousand pounds to come to a conclusion that I’m a fat old maid who nobody fancies.
But that’s not the only reason for fleeing to Scotland. I’ve begun to despise sitting down in front of the laptop, but I have to keep the Isabella Gambini cash cow coming in to pay the mortgage. I also help Mum out financially, too. In my letters I’ve been playing the part of eighteen-year-old Aggie Braithwaite. I didn’t want you to see the mess I’m in, but if you can fess up about your worries and heartaches, so can I.
My new address is: Skye View Cottage, Aisig, Appledart, Scotland.
My only regret in going is that I won’t be able to take care of your mum and dad, as you asked. I’m so sorry, but I’ll take them a cake before I go. I should never have kept away – your mum didn’t deserve it, after everything she did for me when I was young.
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