Rescuing Rose (13 page)

The letters I get! Listen to this!

Dear Rose, I am on probation for arson, but my probation officer has changed and I'm starting to get itchy fingers again. I'd really like to set fire to something so I'm getting in lots of matches and petrol
—
please help
!

Good God! I don't like to go behind my readers' backs— confidentiality is absolutely
sacred
—but sometimes it's something I have to do. So I've just phoned up the woman's social services and someone's going to go round to see her right now. And how about this one—in green ink of course.

Dear Rose, I have messages from Martians coming through my bedroom radiators. But that's not my main problem. The main problem is the volume which keeps me awake at night. I've asked them to keep it down, but they just won't. How can I stop them disturbing my sleep in this way?

Dear Phyllis
, I wrote,
Thank you for your letter. How very annoying for you having noisy Martians in your radiators. But did you know that doctors have a very clever way of dealing with this problem these days, and I do suggest that you go and see your G.P.
straight away
. With best wishes, Rose
.

Then here was a letter, sixty pages long, written on graph paper and signed, 'King George'. The next three were from people with flatmate problems—all the usual stuff:
He slobs in front of the TV all night… she never does the washing up… he's always late with the rent
. .
. she has her friends round all the time
… As I composed my replies I thought about my own flatmate, Theo. Despite my initial—and wholly justified—anxieties I've scarcely seen him—we're like those proverbial ships that pass in the night. Sometimes I hear him pacing above me in the early hours because, since my split with Ed, I haven't been sleeping well. Theo does go out sometimes in the evenings but, strangely, only when it's dry—not when it's wet. It's all a bit peculiar really, especially with that strange remark of his about the lights. I mean, he seems too wholesome to be a Jeffrey Dahmer but then still waters and all that…

I dealt with the flatmate problems enclosing my leaflet on
Happy Cohabitation
, then I opened what turned out to be one of my very rare letters back. It was from Colin Twisk, that Lonely Young Man.

Dear Rose
, he'd written.
Thank you very much for your very, very kind letter. I carry it about with me all the time. And whenever I'm feeling low I get it out and read it again. Knowing that a famous
—
and very attractive
—
person like you thinks I'm good-looking makes me feel so much better about myself. I'm doing everything you advised me and
—
guess what
?—
I think I may have now found my Special Lady Friend! With deep affection, Colin Twisk
. xxxx.

Ah, I thought, isn't that nice? That's what makes my job so worthwhile. The knowledge that I've been able to help alleviate someone's distress and pain. I put Colin's letter in my 'Grateful' file—that's just my little joke—then suddenly a cry went up. Ricky, who had been away for two days, had evidently just returned.

'Who the fuck wrote this fucking headline?' he shouted at Jason Brown, our Chief Sub. As he jabbed his finger at the offending page, my heart sank. Jason was about to get what's known in the trade as a 'bollocking'. '"SOMETHING WENT WRONG IN JET CRASH EXPERTS SAY"?' Ricky shouted.

'It's shite! And as for this—"PROSTITUTES APPEAL TO POPE!" Total shite! "STOLEN PAINTING FOUND BY TREE"?—that is effing shite as well!' This was true. Now he went over to the features editor, Linda, while Serena and I exchanged nervous looks.

'The features are shite too, ' Ricky shouted. ' "Why Not Include Your Children When Baking?"; Crap! "Unusual Applications for Everyday Household Objects—Try polishing your furniture with old tights and conditioning your hair with last week's whipped cream"? It's all shite, ' he repeated truculently. 'It's a pile of poo! It is complete and utter ca-ca. No wonder our circulation's going down the khazi—what this paper needs is R. '

'R?' said Linda miserably. We looked at each other.

'R, ' Ricky repeated slowly. 'As in the R factor. ' Ah. 'As in aaaaaaaahhhhh!'

'Aaahh… ' we all said.

'What we want, ' he said, slamming his right fist into his left palm, 'is Triumph Over Tragedy, Amazing Mums, Kids of Courage. And animals!' he added animatedly. 'I want more animals. The readers like them and so do I. So get me Spanish donkeys, Linda, get me orphaned koalas, get me baby seals.

'It's the wrong time of year. '

'I don't give a flying
fuck
!' he shouted. 'Get me baby seals. And while you're at it get me puppies with pacemakers and kittens with hearing aids too. And if I don't see some
fucking
heart-warming animal stories in this paper within a week, Linda, you're for the fucking chop. '

'Well, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning!' Serena remarked briskly as Ricky stomped back to his office. 'Still, we
all
have our problems. Oh yes, we all have our crosses to bear, ' she added with a tight little smile. I looked at her as she turned on the shredder.

'Nothing serious, I hope. '

'Oh nothing we can't deal with, 'she replied serenely. 'It's just that Rob crashed the car last night. '

'Oh dear. I hope he wasn't hurt. '

'Not really. Just a large bump on his head. But unfortunately the garage door's a write-off—he demolished it. '

'Oh no!'

'Still, these things are sent to try us, aren't they?' she said perkily. I smiled blankly and nodded my head. As Serena fed the old letters into the shredder—we keep them six months—I glanced at Linda, who was ashen-faced. I'd had an idea. Trevor and Beverley. That would make a good, heart-warming animal feature. Linda agreed.

'It sounds
brilliant
,' she said gratefully after I'd told her. 'We could do a big spread with lots of photos. Will you ring her for me right now?'

Beverley was in—well she usually is in, poor kid—and she sounded quite keen.

'Are you
sure
you and Trevor wouldn't mind?' I asked her. 'It would probably mean having to talk about your accident, so I wouldn't like you to say yes if you didn't feel comfortable about it. '

'No, we'd be happy to do it, ' she replied. 'And it would be great publicity for Helping Paw. '

Having given Linda Bev's number I now tackled my huge pile of post. The run up to Christmas is an incredibly busy time of year for agony aunts. In fact there were so many letters to answer that I didn't leave work until eight. When I got in I felt pretty tired, but even so I decided to give the kitchen a thorough clean. I wiped down all the cupboard fronts—and the worktops, not forgetting to empty the toaster crumb tray of course; then I went into the hall and polished the telephone table. When I'd finished I noticed that the spindles on the banisters were looking
disgusting
. Being white, every speck of dust shows. As I rubbed away at them with the Astonish, I heard Theo's door open. He was on his mobile phone.

'Are you up for it?' I heard him say as he came downstairs. 'Right then. I'll be there in fifteen. Don't start without me!' he added with a laugh. 'Oh, hello, Rose, ' he said pleasantly as he put his phone in his pocket. 'Haven't seen you for a while. ' His eyes suddenly narrowed. 'What the heck are you doing?' What the heck was I doing?

'What the heck does it look like?'

'Er, cleaning the banister spindles. '

'Correct. '

'Oh, ' he said. He looked dumbfounded for some reason. 'I'm just on my way out. Well, er, have a nice evening, ' he added uncertainly. 'See you. '

'See you, ' I replied. As he left, carefully locking the front door behind him, I wondered about that remark. 'Are you up for it?' Hmm… that could only mean one thing. He'd obviously got someone. Well, that's fine, I said to myself broad-mindedly—as long as he conducts his romantic affairs elsewhere. There'll be no hanky-panky under
my
roof I decided firmly as I went into the kitchen and found a pack of instant soup. 'Country-Style Leek and Asparagus' said the box. Disgusting but it would have to do. I loathe cooking—I've never learned—and I don't bother with food that much anyway so I simply buy things that are quick. Pot Noodles for instance—yes, I know, I
know
—bought pies, that kind of thing.

'This is Radio Four!' yelled Rudy as I emptied the greenish powder into a saucepan. 'Scilly Light Automatic. Five or six. Rising. Occasionally good. ' Oh no. I've been leaving Radio Four on for him during the day and he's started regurgitating selected bits. 'Viking North Utsire. Steady. German Bight. Showers. Decreasing. Good. ' However, unlike the radio, I can't turn Rudy off. 'And welcome to
Gardener's Question Time
!' he announced warmly.

'You start singing the theme tune from
The Archers
and you're in big trouble, ' I said as I opened the fridge in search of some grapes to keep him quiet. Normally there's not much in it. A heel of cheese maybe, two or three bottles of wine, half a loaf and Rudy's fruit. But today the fridge overflowed. In the chiller were tiny vine-ripened plum tomatoes, three fat courgettes, and a glossy aubergine; on the shelf above a roll of French butter and a wedge of unctuous Brie. There were two free-range skinless chicken breasts, a tray of tiger prawns, and some slices of rosy pink ham. Theo was clearly a
bon vivant
.

As I stirred my monosodium glutamate, I wondered who he was meeting—'Are you up for it?'—and what she was like. Or maybe… yes. Maybe she wasn't a she, maybe she was a
he
. Theo had told me he wouldn't be having women over—'that won't be a problem' he'd said: and he'd laughed, and grimaced slightly, as though the suggestion was not only ludicrous, but somehow slightly distasteful. Maybe he was gay. Now I wondered why this hadn't occurred to me before. After all, there was plenty of evidence that he might be. For example, he'd been living with this 'friend' of his, Mark, before, and then there'd been that gauche comment of his about my hair. He was obviously
totally
inept with women—he clearly hadn't a clue. And he was quite well dressed and toned-looking, plus he had suspiciously refined tastes in fresh produce. I mean, I really
don't
think a straight man—especially a Yorkshireman—would be seen dead buying miniature vine-ripened plum tomatoes, or, for that matter, free-range skinless chicken breasts. Yes, he probably was gay. What a waste, I thought idly. Oh well…

As the soup began to boil I suddenly realised that I'd found out next to nothing about Theo. So far we'd avoided contact— treading warily around each other like animals forced to share the same cage.

And now I thought about Ed again—but then he's always on my mind—with a dreadful, knotting sensation inside. Then I suddenly remembered: the shoebox… Oh God. It was still under Theo's bed. Heart pounding, I rushed upstairs, pushed on his door, and got down on my hands and knees. There it still was, undisturbed. Phew. The chances of Theo finding it were slim but I wasn't taking the risk. So I fished it out, but as I straightened up I turned round and suddenly stopped. For, positioned by the window, on a shiny tripod, was an old brass telescope. Hmm. So that, presumably, is what had been in the mysterious-looking black case. I listened at the door for a moment to make sure he hadn't come back; then I went up to it, removed the lens cap and peered through the end. Although the thing was clearly antique the magnification was very strong. To my surprise I found myself looking right into the backs of the houses opposite. There was a woman lying on her bed: her legs were bare and I could even make out the pink nail polish on her toes. I swung the telescope to the left and saw a small boy watching TV. In the next house along I could see a human form moving behind frosted bathroom glass. So that's why Theo said he liked the room's aspect so much—he was a peeping Tom! His ad had said he'd wanted 'privacy'—other people's privacy it appeared!

I just
knew
that there was something odd about that boy and I was absolutely
right
! That's why he spent so much time in his room and why I heard him pacing the floor late at night. Snooping on people is the
pits
I thought crossly as I decided to take a good look round his room. It was a complete and utter shambles—I had to fight the urge to tidy it up. The floor was strewn with discarded clothes, piles of old newspapers, rolled up posters and boxes of books. On the desk was a laptop computer surrounded by a mess of paperwork. His writing was appalling but on one pad I could just make out the words, 'heavenly body, ' and there was a pair of binoculars— well! So he clearly wasn't gay, he was a bit of a saddo I reflected crossly, or maybe he was a Lonely Young Man. But what a
disgusting
invasion of privacy I reflected indignantly as I inspected the rest of his room. On the mantelpiece were some strange-looking bits of rock, and, in a silver frame, a black and white photo of an attractive blonde of about thirty-five. She was laughing, her left hand clapped to her chest as though she'd just heard the most wonderful joke. Now I glanced at the bed. A maroon duvet was pulled loosely over it, but from underneath—oh God, not
another
one—protruded a square of floral silk. I lifted up the quilt. Under the pillow was a short silk nightie with a Janet Reger label. Well, well,
well
! And I was just thinking about leaving my
Am IA Transvestite
? leaflet lying casually about when I heard the telephone ring. I quickly replaced the nightie, swung the telescope back into position, then grabbed the shoebox and ran downstairs.

'Hello, ' I said breathlessly. There was nothing at the other end. 'Hello?' I said again. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of heavy breathing. Goose bumps raised themselves up on my arms. 'Hello?' I repeated, more sharply now. 'Hello, who
is
this please?' I suddenly remembered the silent call I'd had the night Theo had first come round. Now all I could hear was deliberate, slow, heavy breathing. I shuddered—oh God, this was vile. Tempting though it was to let loose with a stream of unbridled abuse I decided just to put the phone down.