Rescuing Rose

‘I don’t mind telling you,’ I suddenly said, disarmed by her candour. ‘My husband had an affair.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Yes. Oh dear. Exactly. So I’m separated, pending divorce.’

‘How long were you married?’

How short, rather. ‘Erm…a bit less than a year.’

‘I see…So do you know anything about Camberwell?’ she asked, sensing my discomfiture.

‘Not much. I just liked the house.’

‘In that case I’ll give you the gen. Camberwell was so called because it had lots of wells in the area, one of which was visited by the sick and crippled for a cure. Not that it’s done me much good!’ she exclaimed with a tinkling laugh. ‘In the eighteenth century it was just meadows and streams and it gave the Camberwell Beauty butterfly its name and it also inspired Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song”. But in the nineteenth century it became more and more built up and it’s been pretty much downhill since then. But it’s still got lots going for it. We certainly like it, don’t we Trev? Milk? The up side,’ she added as Trevor passed her the carton, ‘is the lovely Georgian architecture and the parks. The downside is the lack of decent shops, the wail of police sirens and the incessant screaming of car alarms.’

I found it hard to concentrate on what Beverley was telling me as I was still mesmerised by the dog. The washing machine, which had been spinning away, had now stopped. Trevor pushed on the catch with his nose, opened the door, and was now pulling out the damp clothes with his teeth.

‘Thanks Trev,’ said Beverley as he dropped a white bra into a red plastic basket. ‘We’ll hang them up in a bit. If you want the gossip on Hope Street I know it all,’ she added with a laugh.

‘Oh no, not really,’ I lied.

‘Of course you do. You’re an agony aunt aren’t you? I recognised you. I read your column sometimes. Right, number four opposite – that’s Keith. He’s in computers and calls himself “Kay” at weekends. Number six is that reporter, whatsisname, from Newsnight and he’s getting divorced; number nine is a chartered accountant and his wife ran off with a priest. Number seventeen is a chiropodist and once did Fergie’s feet. Then number twelve – Joanna and Jane – they’re employment solicitors and they’re both gay.’

‘Right. Well, thanks,’ I said vaguely as I was still transfixed by the dog. ‘Trevor’s…clever isn’t he?’ I added feebly as he thrust his head into the washing machine again and emerged with a pink pillow case.

‘Trev’s a genius,’ she agreed. ‘But then he’s had special training. And in case you’re wondering, which I’m sure you are, I did a parachute jump and it went wrong.’

‘Oh, I…wasn’t,’ I lied as I took a proffered digestive.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind. It’s perfectly natural so I make a point of telling everyone, then that gets it out of the way. It happened two and a half years ago.’

‘I’m…sorry,’ I said feebly. Poor kid.

‘It was no-one’s fault – just one of those things: I took a risk, that’s all – I did a jump for charity and my chute opened late – I hit the ground with a bit of a crunch. The hilarious thing though,’ she added with a good-natured chuckle, ‘is that it was in aid of a new spinal injuries unit!’

‘Really?’ I said feebly. I mean – Christ! – did she expect me to laugh?

‘Ironic or what!’ she went on gaily. ‘Mind you I raised a lot. I presented them with the cheque from my hospital bed. I had ten months in Stoke Mandeville,’ she added, ‘then I had to get on with the rest of my life. I’m okay now about it – I really am – I’m okay – because I know it could have been far worse. For a start I’m alive and not dead; I’m para, not tetraplegic; I’m not catheterised any more, plus I can live independently, and I’ve been told I’ll still be able to have kids.’

‘Do you have a partner?’

‘No. After my accident he lasted nine months. I always knew that he’d leave,’ she went on cheerfully. ‘The minute I came round from theatre, I thought, that’s it: Jeff’ll be off – and he was. I do think it was mean of him to go off with my favourite nurse – but, hey – that’s life!’

My God – all these confessions! They popped up like ping pong balls in a bingo hall. It was like being on Rikki Lake.

‘Well, I’m…sorry,’ I said again, impotently.

‘But I decided to stay put. I loved this house, and being early Victorian it actually suits me quite well. No steps up to the front door and there’s no basement. I’ve got a downstairs loo. And the stair-lift gets me up to my bedroom – I’ve got another wheelchair up there. The house has been modified a bit. My kitchen worktops are slightly lower for example; but I haven’t had the internal doors widened – hence the gloves – because I don’t want to live in a “disabled” house. But I have a roll-in shower, and I had the patio doors changed to a slide system to make it easier to get outside.’

‘You’re amazing,’ I said, awestruck by her courage. ‘But I expect people often say that.’

‘I’m just resigned that’s all. I was bitter about it, but then six months ago I got Trevor from Helping Paw. He was a throw-out,’ she added. ‘He was found on a motorway at three months.’

‘Oh. Poor baby,’ I said. ‘Poor little baby,’ I repeated softly, although, as I say, I don’t really like dogs.

‘He used to be a Guide Dog,’ Beverley explained, ‘but it didn’t work out.’

‘In what way?’

She glanced at Trevor, then lowered her voice.

‘He was hopeless at crossing the road. In fact, well, put it this way,’ she added darkly as Trev stared at the floor, ‘he’d had three previous owners before me. But being an assistance dog suits him much better – doesn’t it Trevor?’

‘Woof!’

And now I watched him gazing at Beverley, as he waited for his next command. It was as though she were a film star, and he her number one fan.

‘What devotion,’ I said. ‘He really loves you.’

‘Not half as much as I love him.’ Suddenly the telephone rang. Trevor trotted into the hall, returned with the cordless handset in his mouth, and passed it to Beverley. She spoke briefly, then hung up. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘It was the local radio station. They want to record an interview with us. I don’t mind as I’m never that busy and it helps to publicise Helping Paw. It’s a new charity,’ she explained, ‘so they need some good press. And we don’t mind, do we Trev? By the way is it okay if I have your phone number?’ she added, ‘in case of emergency.’

‘Of course.’ I gave it to her, and she programmed it in, then Trevor put the handset back.

‘And what do you do for work?’ I asked as I got up to leave.

‘Telephone sex.’

‘Really?’

‘No! Just kidding!’ she laughed. ‘I teach English over the phone to foreign students. It’s mind-blowingly boring but it pays the bills.’

‘And is that what you did before?’

She shook her head and, for the first time in an hour, her smile slipped.

‘I was a PE teacher,’ she said.

So that solves the mystery of the hockey sticks I thought as I unlocked my front door a few minutes later. I felt simultaneously drained and inspired by my encounter with Bev though I was horrified to see I’d picked up some of Trevor’s hairs. I carefully removed every single one with a brush, and then tweezers, as I listened to my answerphone.

‘Hi! I saw your ad, my name’s Susan…Hi, I’m a pharmacist and my name’s Tom…Hello, this is Jenny and I’m a single mum…’ I’d only been out for an hour and I’d already had three replies. Over the weekend I had twelve more, of whom I arranged to see five.

First was a lugubrious looking engineer called Steve. He inspected the whole house, opening all my kitchen cupboards – bloody cheek! – as though he were buying it, not renting a room. Then came Phil who sounded promising but who spent half the time staring at my legs. Then there was an actor called Quentin who was jolly, but he couldn’t stand birds and he smoked. After him came Annie, who was twenty-three, and who found everything ‘reely nice.’ The house was ‘reely nice,’ the room was ‘reely nice,’ and she worked in marketing and that was ‘reely nice’ too. After five minutes of this I wanted to stab her but instead smiled and said I’d ‘let her know.’

‘That would be reely nice.’ As I waved her off I realised that the anagram of Annie is ‘inane.’ Then there was Scott who was Born Again and who wanted to hold prayer meetings on Monday nights, and finally there was a student at the Camberwell Art School who wanted to bring her two cats. Disappointed with the respondents I went to the local gym I’ve just joined for a kick-boxing class.

‘KICK it! And PUNCH it! And KICK it! And BLOCK it!,’ shouted our instructor, ‘Stormin’ Norman’. ‘KICK it! And PUNCH it! And KICK it – and KICK it!! C’mon girls!’ As I pounded the punchbag in the mirrored studio I imagined that it was Ed. And now I visualised myself breaking down his front door with a single blow of my foot, and booting Mary-Claire Grey to Battersea. Were it not for that manipulative little Madam, Ed and I would still be married and I would not now be contemplating having to share my house with some stranger whom I’d probably hate.

‘You’re real good, Rose!’ said Norman appreciatively when the class came to an end. I wiped the sweat out of eyes with my wristband. ‘Done it before?’

‘Just a couple of times.’

‘Well, take it from me, girl – you’ve got a kick that could break a bank door.’

Glowing from this compliment I showered and changed and was just leaving the club when I stopped in front of the noticeboard, my eye suddenly drawn to a hand-written card:

WANTED: Single room in house-share in SE5 for

very quiet, studious male. Up to £400 p.c.m.

Privacy essential. Please ring Theo on 07711 522106.

I scribbled down the number, phoned it, and arranged that Theo would come round at seven the following night. At five to the bell rang and I opened the door. To my surprise there were two well-dressed young men standing there. Theo had clearly decided to bring a friend.

‘Good evening Madam,’ said one of the men politely, holding out a pamphlet. ‘Have you heard the Good News?’ I gave them a frigid stare. I don’t mind being canvassed for my political views or being asked to buy dusters from homeless men. I have no objections to kids with sponsorship forms or fund-raisers rattling their cans. I’ll submit to the interrogations of market researchers, and I’m a good sport about ‘Trick or Treat’. But I absolutely hate finding Jehovah’s Witnesses on the doorstep – it can really ruin my day.

‘Have you heard the Good News?’ the man repeated.

‘Sorry, I’m a Buddhist,’ I lied.

‘But we would like you to be filled with the knowledge of Jehovah’s glory.’

‘Thanks but no thanks. Goodbye.’

‘But it will only take five minutes of your time.’

‘No it won’t.’ I shut the door. Ten seconds later, the bell rang again.

‘May we come back another time and share God’s glorious Kingdom with you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You may not.’ I was tempted to explain that I’d had enough religion rammed down my throat to convert half the world’s godless but decided to bite my tongue. ‘Goodbye,’ I said pointedly, then closed the door and was halfway down the hall when…ddrrrnnngggg!! For crying out loud!

‘Look, I said “no,” so will you kindly piss off!’ I hissed through the crack. ‘Oh.’ Standing there was an anxious-looking young man of about twenty-five. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said sliding back the chain. ‘I thought you were the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Can’t stand them.’

‘No, I’m…Theo.’

‘Of course.’ He was about five foot eleven, with blond hair cut close to the head; a strong, straight nose, and blue eyes which were half obscured by a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. He looked like the Milky Bar kid. He seemed a bit shy as he stepped inside but was at least quite tidily dressed; and as he extended his hand I noticed with satisfaction that his nails were neat and clean. As I showed him round I noticed his slight northern accent, although I couldn’t quite place it. He explained that he was an accountant working for a small computer firm in Soho and that he needed somewhere straight away.

‘Where are you living now?’ I asked him as I showed him the sitting room.

‘Just off Camberwell Grove. With a friend. He’s been very kind and he’s got a big flat but I feel I should find my own place. This is grand,’ he said politely as we went upstairs. Grand? Hardly. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘Just a month.’ He liked the room, which is large, with striped lemon wallpaper, sloping eves, Dad’s old cupboard and a small double bed.

‘It’s grand,’ he said again, nodding affably. And I realised that it was simply his word for ‘nice’. ‘I like the aspect,’ he added as he stood looking out of the window.

‘Are you from Manchester?’ I enquired with polite inquisitiveness.

‘Nope, other side of the Pennines – Leeds.’

As we went downstairs I decided that he was pleasant and polite and terribly boring and would probably do perfectly well.

‘So are you interested?’ I asked him as I made him a cup of coffee.

‘Well…yes,’ he said, glancing at Rudy, who was mercifully asleep.

‘In that case let’s cut to the chase. I am a very, very busy person,’ I explained, ‘and I’m looking for a quiet life. If you move in I guarantee that I will leave you alone and not bother you in any way providing that you don’t bother me – okay?’

He nodded nervously.

‘Right,’ I said whipping out my list. ‘Do you have any of the following unpleasant, anti-social and potentially hazardous habits? Do you a) smoke? b) take drugs? c) leave dirty dishes in the sink? d) fail to clean the bath? e) spatter toothpaste all over the basin? f) have a problem with birds? g) play loud music? h) nick other people’s milk? i) nick other people’s eggs/bread/stamps ditto? j) leave the seat up? k) leave the iron on? l) leave candles burning unattended? and, finally, m) forget to lock the front door?’

‘Er, no, no…no,’ he paused for a moment. ‘No. No, no…Sorry, what was g) again?’ I told him. ‘That’s no too. Er…no, no. Nope, no…no and, um…no.’

‘Good. And do you have a mobile phone because I don’t want to share my land line?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you watch much TV?’

He shook his head. ‘Just the odd science programme, and the news. But in the evenings I write – that’s why I’ve been looking for somewhere quiet.’

‘I see. And finally, sorry to mention it, but I really don’t want women staying here. I mean, girlfriends.’

He seemed taken aback. ‘Girlfriends?’ he repeated. ‘Oh no.’ He drew in his breath, and grimaced. ‘That won’t be a problem. That won’t be a problem at all.’

‘Well in that case that’s all absolutely fine. I’m now very pleased to tell you that – subject to satisfactory references of course – I’ve decided you can have the room.’

‘Oh. That’s a bit quick,’ he said. ‘Don’t you want to think about it?’

‘I already have.’

‘I see…’

‘I make fast decisions.’

‘Uh huh. Well…’

‘Do you want it or not?’ I interjected.

‘I’m not sure actually.’ Bloody cheek!

‘Why aren’t you sure?’ I persisted.

‘Well, because I’d like time to reflect, that’s all.’ Time to reflect? What a wimp! ‘I mean, I do like the room,’ he explained earnestly. ‘And your house is grand, but I didn’t think that I’d have to decide straight away.’

‘Well I’m afraid you do.’

‘Er, why?’

‘Because, as I’ve already explained, I’m extremely busy and I want to get it sorted out tonight.’

‘Oh.’ He seemed nonplussed. ‘I see.’ Suddenly the phone rang and I stood up. I thought I heard him sigh with relief.

‘That’s probably someone else ringing about the room,’ I said. ‘I’ve had so many calls.’ I went into the hall, shutting the door carefully behind me, and picked up the handset.

‘Hello?’ I said. There was silence. ‘Hello?’ I tried again. ‘Hello?’ I repeated a little louder. Bad connection; but now I thought I detected a breath. ‘Hello,’ I said one final time, then I put the handset down. How weird. Probably a wrong number or a fault on the line.

‘I was right,’ I said airily as I went back into the kitchen. ‘That was someone else ringing about the room. I’ve had over twenty calls since the ad went in. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes. You wanted to have a think about it. You didn’t seem quite sure. So shall we leave it at that then?’ I added pleasantly.

‘Well…no. I…’

‘Look, Theo, I haven’t got all day. Do you want it, or don’t you? It’s a simple case of “Yes” or “No”.’ Theo looked at me for a few seconds, and blinked. Then he suddenly smiled this odd, lop-sided little smile.

‘Well, ye-es. I reckon I do.’

Chapter Four

‘This is London FM,’ announced Minty Malone, as I sat in the basement studio on City Road the following Tuesday. ‘Welcome back to Sound Advice, our twice-weekly late-night phone-in with the Post’s agony aunt, Rose Costelloe. Do you have a problem? Then call 0200 222222 and Ask Rose.’

It was five past eleven and we’d already been on air for an hour. We’d heard from Melissa who was wondering whether to become Catholic, and Denise who was going bald and Neil who couldn’t get a girlfriend and James who thought he was gay; then there was Josh, a jockey with mounting debts and Tom who hated his dad, and Sally who was having a nervous breakdown – the usual stuff. On the computer screen in front of me the names of the waiting callers winked and flashed.

‘And on line one,’ said Minty, ‘we have Bob from Dulwich.’

‘Hi Bob,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’

‘Well, Rose,’ he began hesitantly, as I scribbled on my pad, ‘I’m quite a, well, yeah, big bloke really…’ Hmm…another fatso with low self-esteem. ‘And I get my leg pulled about it at work.’

‘I see.’

‘Anyway, there’s this girl there who’s a real knockout and I think she likes me as she’s always nice. But my problem is that every time I get up the nerve to ask her out she makes some excuse.’

‘Bob, you say you’re a big bloke – how much do you weigh?’

‘About…’ – I could hear the air being sucked through his teeth – ‘…seventeen stone.’

‘And how tall are you?’

‘Five foot ten.’

‘Then you’re just going to have to lose the lard! Sorry to be brutal, Bob, but it’s true. I know you’d like me to say that this girl will fall in love with your great personality, but I think your great person is going to get in the way, and frankly, I think the only reason she’s being so nice is because she feels sorry for you. Bob, take it from me, no self-respecting woman – let alone a “knockout” – is going to go out with a Sumo-sized bloke. The number for Weight Watchers is…’ I glanced at my handbook, ‘…0845 712 3000 and I want you to ring it first thing. Do you promise me you’ll do that?’ I heard a deep sigh.

‘Yeah, okay Rose. I will.’

‘And Bob I want you to phone in again a month from today and tell everyone that you’ve lost your first stone.’

‘Okay Rose, yeah. You’re right.’

‘Well done Bob,’ said Minty, ‘and now we have Martine, on line three.’

‘Go ahead, Martine,’ I said.

‘Well,’ she began in a trembly voice. ‘The reason I’m ringing is because, well, I’ve just been told I can’t have kids.’ A momentary silence followed: I could almost see the tears in her eyes.

‘Martine how old are you?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘And have you tried all avenues?’

‘Yes. But I had cancer when I was a teenager, you see, and because of that the doctors can’t help.’

‘Well I’d like to help you Martine, so stay on the line. Is that what you want to talk about – the fact that you’ve had this bad news?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to accept that. The thing is I’d like to adopt but my husband’s not keen.’

‘Does he say why?’

‘It’s because he was adopted, and he had problems so he’s afraid that any kids we adopted would too.’

‘But so might any children that you had naturally. They could fall ill – God forbid – or they could fail at school or drop out. Life’s fraught with difficulties and you can’t not go ahead with something which could make you happy out of fear that it might go wrong.’

‘I know,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘I’ve told my husband that.’

‘And you sound like a lovely person Martine so I’m sure you’d be a really great mum.’ There was a tiny sob. Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that. I could hear a Niagara of tears start to fall.

‘Well…I think I would,’ she wept, ‘but my husband seems set against adopting, but now I know it’s my only chance.’ I glanced at Minty, who’s three months pregnant. There was compassion all over her face.

‘Martine, do you have a good relationship with your husband?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘In most ways I do.’

‘And when did this issue first come up?’

‘A month ago. We hadn’t really talked about it before, because we thought I might still be okay. But then I got the final results from the hospital which told me that my chances of conceiving are nil.’

‘Then give your husband a little more time. He needs to think about it – and men like to come round to things in their own way. So my advice is don’t panic, and don’t put any pressure on him as that could easily backfire. But I do think you should both talk to someone at NORCAP, the National Organisation for Counselling Adoptees and Parents: their number is – I flicked through my handbook – 01865 875000. Will you call them, Martine?’

‘Yes,’ she sniffed. ‘Okay.’

‘The line may be busy because this is National Adoption Week, but leave your number and they’ll ring you back. And Martine, I don’t mind telling you that I was adopted and I was absolutely fine. I’ve never had any problems, I had a really great childhood, and I’m sure that your kids will too.’

‘Oh thanks Rose,’ she whispered. ‘I do hope so.’ And I was just going to go to the next caller, when I heard her say, ‘but I think the reason why my husband feels so negative about adoption is because he’s never traced his real mum.’

‘Oh…’

‘He still seems so angry with her for giving him up – it’s like a festering wound. He rarely talks about it, but I think that’s what’s really bothering him and the issue of our adopting has brought it all up.’

‘I see, well, look…thanks for calling in Martine and I, er…wish you the very best of luck. And now we go to Pam on line five. What’s your problem, Pam?’

‘Well, my problem is that I’m in my thirties, I’m single and as a freelance graphic designer, I work from home.’

‘Ye-es.’

‘But recently I’ve got to know my postman quite well…’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And I really fancy him.’

‘I see.’

‘I even get up early to make sure I catch a glimpse of him.’

‘That must be tiring.’

‘Oh it is. I’ve also taken to sending myself parcels so that he has to knock on the door. I’m totally smitten,’ she added.

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘He’s married – at least I think he is. He wears a ring on his left hand, put it that way.’

‘Yup. He’s married,’ I said.

‘But he’s absolutely gorgeous, Rose; I’ve never felt this way before. What should I do?’

‘Well, honey, I think you should get real. I’m sure this macho mailman is very dashing but my advice is to stamp him “Return to Sender” and try and get out a bit more. And now Kathy on line three. What’s the problem Kathy?’

‘The problem, Rose, is that my husband has left me!’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Well I don’t know why you’re sorry, as it was you who told him to!’

‘What?’

‘A couple of weeks ago my husband wrote to you at the Daily Post and you told him to get divorced.’