Rescuing Rose

Chapter Three

After a nasty break-up it’s a good idea to put a few post-codes between yourself and your ex. The further the better in fact. There’s nothing quite like it for distracting you from the fact that you’ve just been given the push. Dumped in Devon? Then why not move to Dumfries? Given the big E in Enfield? Then uproot to Edinburgh. You’ll be too busy focusing on the newness of your environment to give a damn about Him. Not that I am thinking about Him. He’s history. My campaign to exorcise Him is going well. It’s already eight weeks since we split and I can barely even remember Ed Wright’s name. I’ve done what I advised that girl Kelly to do – I’ve neatly excised him, like a tumour; I haven’t even sent him my new address. So I think it’s all going to be plain sailing from here. Were it not for one thing…

I was coming downstairs yesterday morning when I had this terrible shock. I heard Ed’s voice, quite clearly. My heart zoomed into overdrive.

‘You are IMPOSSIBLE!’ he shouted as I clutched the banister. ‘This marriage is HELL!’ By now I was hyperventilating while a light sweat beaded my brow. I stood, paralysed with amazement, in the kitchen doorway, staring at Rudolf’s cage.

‘I don’t know why I married you,’ the bird muttered shaking his head.

‘Don’t talk to me like that!’ Rudy sobbed in my voice now. ‘You’re really upsetting me.’

‘Oh Rose, please don’t cry’ ‘Ed’ pleaded as Rudy bounced up and down on his perch.

‘Uh, uh, uh!’ I heard ‘myself’ sob as Rudy lifted his glossy black wings.

‘Please Rose,’ ‘Ed’ added. ‘We’ll work it out. Please, Rose – I’m sorry. Don’t.’

I gazed, horror-struck, at Rudy as the dreadful truth sunk in: he was obviously a very slow learner but he’d got us both off to a tee. I reached down the mynah bird handbook to have my diagnosis confirmed. With a young Java Hills mynah there can be a delay of several months between it learning its vocabulary and actually speaking, the book explained. But don’t worry – once they’ve started, nothing will stop them! Oh God. They tend to repeat words spoken with enthusiasm or excitement, it went on. So be very careful what you let your bird hear. Oh. Too late for that.

‘Problems problems!’ Rudy yelled in Ed’s voice.

‘Don’t be horrid,’ ‘I’ replied. ‘And take your shoes off before you come in!’

I glanced at the book again. The thing about mynah birds is that they are truly brilliant mimics. Parrots only ever sound like parrots, but mynahs sound like human beings.

‘Anorexic of Axminster!’ shrieked Rudy. ‘Your cooking’s awful too. You couldn’t put Marmite on a cracker with a fucking recipe!’

‘Ed, that is SO unfair!’

‘It’s true!’

I stared in stupefaction at Rudy, as the implications of his sudden loquacity sunk in.

‘You’re selfish!’ he shouted as he stared at me, beadily.

‘And you’re Rude,’ I replied. I pulled down the cover to shut him up.

‘Nighty night!’ he said.

Having my marital rows re-enacted at top volume by a bird had shaken me to my core, so I did what I always do when I’m feeling upset – I got out the ironing board. And as the iron sped back and forth, snorting a twin plume of steam, my heart rate began to subside. I find there’s nothing more therapeutic than a nice pile of pressing when I’ve had a nasty shock. I iron everything, I really don’t mind – tea-towels, knickers, socks. I even tried to iron my J cloths once, but they melted. I’ve never really minded ironing – something my friends find decidedly weird. But then my mum was incredibly house-proud – ‘a tidy home means a tidy mind!’ she’d say – so I guess I get it from her. Now, as I felt my pulse subside, I thought about how appalled she and Dad would be: my marriage only lasted seven months, while they made it to fifty years. I wondered too what they’d have thought of Ed – they never met him – but then they were already middle aged by the time they had me. When I say they ‘had’ me, I don’t mean in the conventional sense. They acquired me; got me, rather than begot me – I was adopted at just under six months. But since you’re asking I don’t mind telling you that my childhood was idyllic in every way. We weren’t well off but my parents were great – we lived down in Ashford, in Kent. Dad was the manager of an upmarket shoe shop and Mum worked in the town hall. She’d been told years before that she’d be unable to have kids, but then they got the chance to have me. Right from the start they told me that I was adopted, so there were no nasty surprises. At least not then.

When I was little my parents would tell me this story about how this pretty lady, seeing how sad they were at not having any children of their own, came up to them in the street one day and asked them if they’d like to have me. And they looked at me lying in her arms, and said, ‘Oh what a sweet baby – yes please!’ So she handed me over, and they took me home and I lived happily ever after with them. It was a nice story – and I believed it for a very long time. I used to imagine this well-dressed woman walking around with me in her arms, scanning the crowd for the kindest-looking couple who were keen to look after a special baby like me. Her search wasn’t easy, because she was very, very fussy, but then, at last, she spotted Mum and Dad. She took one look at their kind faces and just knew that they were right.

Mum and Dad were great churchgoers – really keen – and they said that God had sent me to them. And I did sometimes wonder what God was up to allowing my real mum to give me away. I remember once or twice asking them to tell me about her, but they suddenly looked rather uncomfortable and said that they didn’t know. And I guessed that my question had hurt their feelings so I never asked them again. But I thought about her a lot and I convinced myself that she’d had a good reason for doing what she did. I imagined that she was very busy caring for sick children in India or Africa. And although I was blissfully happy with Mum and Dad, I also thought about how my ‘real’ mum (as I thought of her in those days) would one day visit me. I imagined her walking up to the house looking very pretty, wearing a flowery dress and a pair of white gloves; and I’d run down the path to greet her, just like Jenny Agutter in The Railway Children. Except that I wouldn’t be shouting, ‘Daddy! My Daddy!’ I’d be shouting ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ instead. Then I’d imagine her picking me up and cuddling me, and she’d be wearing some lovely scent; then she’d take off her hat, and her hair would be red and very curly, like mine; it would almost spring out of her head, in long corkscrews, like mine does, and she’d exclaim ‘Rose! My darling! How you’ve grown!’ Then she’d hold me really close to her, and I’d feel her cheek pressing on mine. And we’d go inside for tea, and I’d show her all the drawings I’d done of her – dozens and dozens of them – which I’d kept in a box under my bed.

I never told my mum and dad all this because I knew that they’d feel hurt. So instead I let them tell me this nice story about how I came to live with them. But later on I discovered that’s all it was – a nice story.

I guess you’d like to know the truth, but I’m afraid I simply can’t tell you – because I’ve never told a soul. Not Ed. Not even the twins. I never discussed it with Mum and Dad either, although I knew that they knew. I’ve always kept it to myself because it makes me feel somehow…ashamed. But when I turned eighteen I found out about my real mum, and all my nice daydreams about her stopped. I burned all the drawings of her on a bonfire and I vowed I’d never look for her. And I never will.

People who know I’m adopted sometimes express surprise at this, especially now that my adoptive parents are dead. ‘Why don’t you trace your natural mother?’ they ask, with staggering cheek. I’m always amazed that anyone should think I’d be interested in meeting the woman who’d given me up. It would be like tracking down the burglar who’d nicked your precious family heirlooms to shake his hand. So thanks but no thanks – I’m not interested: I’ve only ever had two real parents and they’re dead. So I never, ever think about my ‘birth mother’, to use the fashionable jargon, and if I do then it’s with contempt.

I guess that’s probably what’s put me off having children myself. I’m not really the maternal sort. When I was little I used to imagine myself with lots of babies, but later those feelings changed. Some adopted kids go the other way and have a big family, but they’ve probably got a nicer story than me. Anyway, enough of my ‘real’ mother – you must be bored with her: I mean, Jesus, I’m boring myself! All you need to know is that I had an idyllic childhood and that my adoptive parents were great.

I used to wish that they’d adopt another little girl or boy for me to play with. I was often terribly lonely and I disliked being an only child. I remember asking Mum and Dad if they couldn’t adopt a sibling for me but they said I made quite enough work for them as it was! And the next day I was riding my bike and I saw a pair of ducks on the river with eight babies, all squabbling and cheeping, and I remember envying those ducklings like mad. But then, luckily, not long after that, I met Bella and Bea. They moved in next door when I was eight and they were six and a half. From the start they fascinated me, not because of their identical looks, but because they were always arguing – that’s how we met. I was in the garden one day and I could hear these two little voices, disagreeing viciously.

‘Barbie is HORRIBLE!’

‘She is NOT horrible, she is very pretty and KIND. Sindy is UGLY!’

‘No she’s NOT!’

‘She IS. Her head’s TOO big!’

‘That’s because she’s very CLEVER. She can speak FRENCH!’

‘Well Barbie can speak AMERICAN!!!’

I remember climbing onto the garden wall and staring at them in amazement. I’d never known any identical twins before. They were dressed in the same blue shorts and pink tee shirts, with conker-brown Startrites, and red and white striped toggles bunching their short fair hair.

‘Barbie’s a DOCTOR! And an ASTRONAUT!’

‘But Sindy’s a VET!’

They looked up, saw me, and stopped arguing, then one of them said, ‘What do YOU think?’ I shrugged. Then I told them that I thought both dolls were silly and they seemed quite pleased with that. It was as though they wanted me to be their umpire. I’ve been adjudicating ever since.

I think it was the twins’ sense of completeness which drew me to them – the way they belonged together, like two walnut halves. Whereas I didn’t know who I truly belonged to, or who I was related to, or even who I looked like. Nor did I know whether my real mum had ever had any other children, and if they looked like me. But Bella and Bea were this perfect little unit – Yin and Yang, Bill and Ben, Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Like Tweedledum and Tweedledee they argued a lot, but the weird thing was they’d do it holding hands. They’d been coupled from conception, and I’d imagine them kicking and kissing in the womb. And although their mum would dress them in non-identical clothes every day, they’d always change into the same thing.

They did absolutely everything together. If one of them wanted to go to the loo, for example, the other would wait outside; and their mum couldn’t even offer them a piece of cake without them going into a little huddle to confer. Sometimes I’d watch them doing a jigsaw puzzle, and it was if they were almost a single organism, heads touching, four hands moving in perfect synchronicity. And I found it deeply touching that they were so totally self-contained, yet wanted to make space in their lives for me. I was mesmerised by their mutuality and I deeply envied it – the power of two. They’re thirty-seven now, and very attractive, but they’ve never had much luck with men. They were complaining bitterly about this, as usual, when they came round on Wednesday night.

‘We can’t find anyone,’ Bella sighed as we sat in the kitchen. ‘It always goes wrong.’

‘Men don’t see us as individuals,’ said Bea.

‘Hardly surprising,’ I said. ‘You look alike, sound alike, talk alike, walk alike, you live together and when the phone goes at home you answer “Twins!”’

‘We only do that for a joke,’ said Bea. ‘In any case there are huge differences.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, Bella’s quieter than I am.’

‘That’s true,’ said Bella feelingly.

‘And we went to different universities, and until now we’ve had different careers.’ Bella was a financial journalist and Bea worked for the V and A. ‘Plus Bella’s hair is short and mine’s shoulder length; her face is a tiny bit narrower than mine, she’s left-handed and I’m right-handed, and we have different views on most things.’

‘Too right.’

‘We’re not one person in two bodies,’ Bella pointed out vehemently, ‘but men treat us as if we were. And the stupid questions we get! I’m sick of men asking us whether we’re telepathic, or feel each other’s pain or if we ever swapped places at school.’

‘Or if we’d ever sleep with the same man!’ Bea snorted, rolling her eyes. ‘You can see what’s going through their pathetic little minds when they ask us that!’

‘Or they meanly flirt with both of us,’ said Bella crossly, ‘to try and cause a rift.’

And there’s the rub.

The twins may complain about their single status but I have long since known the truth; that although they both say they want a serious relationship, the reality is that they don’t; because they’re very comfortable and compatible and companionable as they are, and they know that a man would break that up…

‘Rudolf Valentino is speaking,’ I said, changing the subject. I took the cover off.

‘Don’t talk to me like that Ed!’ screeched Rudy. ‘Boo hoo hoo. Rose, let’s face it – you’re a mess! No, I have NOT done the washing up!’

‘God!’ Bea shuddered. ‘How ghastly. It’s probably been triggered by the stress of moving house.’

‘Rose you are WEIRD!’ Rudy screeched. ‘You need a SHRINK! No – you need an agony aunt!’

‘Now you know what it was like living with Ed!’ I said grimly as I gave Rudy a grape.

‘Er, yes.’

‘Imagine having to listen to all those vile and untrue things!’

‘You’ve got problems Rose!’ Rudy squawked. ‘And will you stop stop STOP tidying up!’

‘Ridiculous!’ I said, as I reached for my Marigolds and began cleaning out his cage.

‘Er…you’d better not let prospective men hear him,’ said Bea carefully, as I disposed of the newspaper.

‘Hmm.’

‘It might, you know, put them off.’

Over supper – I’d bought a quiche and a bag of salad – the conversation turned to cash. The twins want to find a shop.

‘We need premises,’ said Bea. ‘They don’t have to be big, but that way we’ll get passing trade. We’re on the look-out in Kensington but it’s bloody expensive and we don’t have much cash.’

‘Nor do I,’ I said vehemently. ‘I’ve hugely over-extended myself. I got my first mortgage statement this morning – it’s going to be nine hundred quid a month.’

‘Christ, that’s a lot of money for one person,’ said Bella.

‘Yes.’ I felt sick. ‘I know.’

‘But you must have known that when you bought it?’ she added.

‘I was too distressed to give it much thought.’

‘Have you got the money?’ asked Bea.

‘Just about. It’ll be fine if I never eat anything, never buy anything, never have a holiday and never, ever go out. Nine hundred pounds,’ I groaned. ‘I’ll be totally broke. I could try and get another column,’ I mused.

‘No,’ said Bea firmly. ‘You work hard enough as it is.’

‘Then I’ll have to raid a bank. Or win the lottery; or get lucky with a premium bond.’

‘Or get a flatmate,’ suggested Bella. I looked at her. ‘Get a flatmate and you’ll be fine.’

‘Yes, get a flatmate,’ said Bea. How weird – they were agreeing! ‘A flatmate would really help.’

‘But I couldn’t bear living with anyone else after Ed.’

‘You couldn’t bear living with Ed,’ Bea pointed out. ‘So how could a flatmate be worse?’

‘Rose,’ said Bella. ‘Get a lodger – you’ve got that big spare room on the top floor. You could find some nice girl.’

‘But I’m too old for flatsharing,’ I wailed. ‘Having to write “Rose Costelloe” on all my eggs, drawing up a rota for the washing up, bitching about whose turn it is to hoover…’

‘You love hoovering!’

‘…and arguing about the phone! I’m just not prepared to live the student life again,’ I shuddered.

‘But Rose,’ said Bea slowly, ‘you never did.’ This was true. I was set to read Art History at Sussex, but flunked my ‘A’ levels: as I say, I had a shock at eighteen.

‘We think you should get a flatmate,’ the twins repeated, in unison.

‘Absolutely not,’ I replied.

The following morning I received this.

Dear Rose, I have a problem which is bothering me and I’m wondering if you can help. One of my most valued customers has greatly exceeded her overdraft. The debt is currently £3,913.28 against agreed borrowing of £2,000. I don’t want to be too heavy about it because I know that she’s just moved house. But at the same time I feel that she ought to try and sort out her finances a bit. As you can imagine, I’m much too embarrassed to mention this to her myself so was wondering if you could help. Do you have any suggestions as to how this important client of mine might reduce her debt? Thank you so much for your advice in this delicate matter, Rose, and I look forward to your reply. Yours truly, Alan Drew (Branch Manager), Nat West Bank, Ashford. P.S. Please do not print.

Holy shit! Nearly four grand! That did it. The twins were right.

Dear Mr Drew, I wrote. Thank you for your recent letter and I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve been having this problem with such a valued customer. How thoughtless of her to let things get out of hand like that! As it happens I do have an idea which I’ll discuss with her, and I’m confident that her debt will soon be reduced.

I sealed it, stamped it and posted it, then phoned the Camberwell Times.

When I opened the paper on Saturday morning and turned to the House and Flatshare column I found that my ad had been condensed, like a Cortina in a car-crusher, into the impenetrable hieroglyphics of the classifieds.

SE5. Lge O/R in lux hse nr trans/shps/pk.

Suit prof sgle n/s M/F. £350 p.c.m. inc.

Refs. Tel: 05949 320781

I wasn’t at all sure that the ‘hse’ could honestly be described as ‘lux’. ‘Lux’ suggests marble floors and a gold-tapped jacuzzi, but the woman at the paper said I’d get a better response. And I was just reading the ad again, and wondering what kind of replies I’d get when I heard the clatter of the letter box. On the mat was a small parcel, addressed to Ms B. McDonald, so I went next door to drop it in. The McDonalds’ letter box however seemed to be slightly narrower than mine and I couldn’t get the thing to go through. I didn’t want to push too hard in case I damaged it, so I smoothed down my hair, then pressed the bell.

Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the curtain twitch, then suddenly the door opened. Standing there was a large yellow Labrador with paws like tea plates and a suspicious expression on its face. I shuddered slightly as I don’t really like dogs; and I was bracing myself for the thing to launch itself at me, barking and slobbering like Cerberus, when something quite different happened. It trotted up to me, took the parcel out of my hand, then went back inside, carefully shutting the door.

Feeling first and foremost surprised, but also somehow vaguely rebuffed, I turned to leave. But as I put my hand on the gate I heard rapid tapping on the window pane, then the front door opened again. There was Gnasher once more, and behind him, in a wheelchair, a very pretty dark-haired woman of about thirty-five.

‘Hello, I’m Beverley,’ she smiled. ‘You’re our new neighbour aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am. Thanks for the card by the way. I’m Rose.’

‘And this is Trevor,’ she said, indicating the dog. ‘Say hello to Rose, Trev.’

‘Woof!’

‘This is Trevor McDonald?’ I said, wonderingly. ‘Oh.’ Trevor wagged his tail. ‘I was just dropping in your packet,’ I explained. ‘It was delivered to me by mistake.’

‘Well, why don’t you come in? I promise we won’t bite – or at least Trevor won’t!’

And before I could manufacture an excuse because I was sure she was just being polite, Trevor had nipped behind me, ushered me inside, and then jumped up to shut the front door. I followed Beverley as she wheeled herself down the carpeted hallway into the kitchen which, like mine, is large, with pale wooden units and a dining area covered by a glass conservatory roof. Beverley filled the kettle then asked me how I was settling in, and told me that she’d been ‘living in Hope,’ as she put it, for three and a half years.

‘Do you live here on your own?’ I asked as she spun back and forth executing nifty three point turns. I noticed that she was wearing cycling gloves and wondered why.

‘No, I live here with Trev. He’s my partner. Aren’t you darling?’ He reached up and licked her ear. ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Er, coffee please.’

‘Get it will you Trev?’ Trevor opened a lower cupboard by tugging on a cord attached to the handle, then, tail wagging, he pulled out a small jar of Nescafé, passed it to Beverley, then shut the door.

‘Do you know this area?’ she enquired as I stared at the dog who was staring, enraptured, at her.

‘Er, no, no I don’t actually,’ I replied absently. ‘I lived in Putney before.’

‘Where exactly?’

‘Blenheim Road.’

‘Ooh, that’s posh. Big, smart houses.’

‘Yes,’ I said ruefully. ‘They are.’

‘So what brought you to Camberwell?’

‘My…circumstances changed.’

‘You mean you’ve split up with someone?’

‘Ye-es…’

‘So what happened?’ What happened? The cheek!

‘Well, I…’

‘Sorry,’ she said, laughing, ‘don’t tell me. I’m a nosy parker – it’s boredom you see.’