Rescuing Rose Read online

  ‘Now Wash Your Hands,’ I said wearily; then I went downstairs.

  I felt a little, well, yes, flushed from my exertions so I made a cup of tea. And the kettle was just boiling when I heard the loud clatter of the letter box. On the mat was a creamcoloured envelope, marked, To Our New Neighbour in a large, round hand. Inside was a floral card, inscribed, Welcome to Hope Street, from… Hey! I’ve got celebrity neighbours!…Beverley and Trevor McDonald.

  Chapter 2

  I realise, of course, that my neighbour is very unlikely to be the real Trevor McDonald. Why would a famous broadcaster choose to live at the wrong end of Camberwell? No, if Trevor McDonald had chosen SE5 then he’d have one of those vast Georgian numbers on Camberwell Grove. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about Hope Street, even if it is at the Peckham end. I had to move fast, it met my needs, and it has a kind of unpolished charm. And the mix of cars—Beemers and Volvos nose to bumper with clapped out Datsuns—suggests that the area is ‘coming up.’ But I guess my neighbour simply shares the same name, which must be a bit of a bore. Constantly being asked over the phone if he’s the Trevor McDonald, for example, or receiving the Trevor McDonald’s mail, or being introduced as ‘Trevor McDonald’ at parties and hearing everyone go ‘BONG!’ But on the other hand it’s probably useful for booking tables in restaurants, or getting tickets for Wimbledon.

  This train of thought diverted me from my thermonuclear fury with Ed as I found my way to the bus stop this morning. And I was standing there feeling perfectly calm, mentally backing a steamroller over Mary-Claire Grey, when suddenly the man standing in front of me did this distressing thing. He took out a pack of Marlboros, peeled off the cellophane, screwed it up, then chucked it down. And as I watched the wrapper skittering about in the gutter I realised that I felt exactly like that. I feel as though I’ve been screwed up and discarded. You might find that weird, but after what’s happened to me I see rejection in everything.

  So to keep negative thoughts at bay I started doing the crossword, as usual tackling the anagrams first. The skill with these is not in rearranging the letters—that’s easy—but in spotting them: you have to know the code. ‘Messy’ for example, usually indicates an anagram, as do ‘disorder’, and ‘disarray.’‘Mixed up’ is a good anagram clue as well; as is ‘confused’ and also ‘upset’.

  Doing anagrams makes me feel oddly happy: I often anagrammatise words in my head, just for fun. Perhaps because I was an only child I’ve always been able to amuse myself. I particularly enjoy it when I can make both ends of the anagram work. ‘Angered’ and ‘Enraged’ for example; ‘slanderous’ and ‘done as slur’; ‘discover’ and ‘divorces’ is a good one, as is ‘tantrums’ and ‘must rant’. ‘Marital’, rather appropriately, turns to ‘martial’; ‘male’ very neatly becomes ‘lame’, and ‘masculine’—I like this—becomes ‘calumnies’, and ‘Rose’, well, that’s obvious. ‘Sore’.

  At least my journey to work was going to be easy I noted as the bus trundled up Camberwell New Road. The Daily Post is bang opposite Tate Britain, in a brown smoked glass block overlooking the Thames. This is the home of Amalgamated Newspapers which also publishes Celeb!, and the Sunday Post.

  I got the lift to the tenth floor, swiped my security tag (for keeping out nutters), then prepared for the fray. I passed the News Desk, the Picture Desk and the back bench where the sub-editors sit. I smiled at our gossip columnist Norris Hamster and our new features editor, Linda Leigh-Trapp; I said good morning to ‘Psychic Cynthia’ our astrologer, and to Jason Brown, our Chief Sub. Then right at the end of the huge newsroom, by the window, I reached my ‘pod’ with its cupboard and files. I know quite a few agony aunts—we have lunch sometimes—and we all claim to be marginalized at work. Our (mostly male) bosses seem to view us askance; we’re like the white witch who lives down the lane. But I don’t feel slighted at being sidelined like this, not least because it’s relatively quiet. There’s always such a noise at the Post. The day starts calmly enough, but by eleven o’clock as the stories firm up, the background babble builds. There are people arguing, shouting and laughing; the incessant chatter of TV screens; computers are humming, printers spewing, and there’s the polyphonic trill of mobile phones. But being seated about two miles from everyone else I don’t usually notice the din.

  ‘Hi, Serena,’ I said brightly to my assistant. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Well…’—I braced myself—‘…can’t complain. And at least,’ she added, with a glance outside, ‘the weather’s nice for the time of year.’ Serena, let me tell you, inhabits Cliché City: she could win the Palme d’Or for her platitudes. She’s one of these people who are perennially perky; in fact she’s so chirpy I suspect she’s insane. Especially as she invariably has some dreadful domestic crisis going on. She’s late thirties and mousy with three kids and a dull husband called Rob (anagram, ‘Bor’).

  ‘How was your weekend?’ I enquired as I sat at my desk.

  ‘Oh it was lovely,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Except that Jonny got his head stuck behind the radiator.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘He was there for three hours.’

  ‘Gosh.’

  ‘He’d been looking for Frodo, his white mouse, but then, somehow, his head got jammed. We tried olive oil and butter, even that low-cholesterol Flora, but it just wouldn’t budge. In the end we dialled 999 and the fire brigade got him out.’

  ‘What about the mouse?’

  ‘Well, sadly, after all the palaver was over, we discovered he’d been eaten by the cat.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt unaccountably crestfallen.

  ‘Still, it could have been worse. All’s well that end’s well,’ she concluded breezily. Not for Frodo. ‘And how was your weekend, Rose?’

  ‘It was fine,’ I replied with a tight little smile. ‘You know, settling in. New house.’

  ‘Onwards and upwards,’ she said encouragingly.

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘No use crying over spilt milk.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘I mean, life’s not a…’ Oh God…

  ‘Bowl of cherries?’ I interrupted. She looked slightly nonplussed.

  ‘No. Dress rehearsal I was going to say.’

  ‘Okay, Serena,’ I said mentally awarding her a Bafta for banality, ‘let’s get down to work.’

  I stared, with anticipatory pleasure, at the envelopes in my over-flowing in-tray. There were brown ones and white ones, airmail and Basildon Bond. There were typed ones and handwritten ones, some strewn with flowers and hearts: I fancied I could hear the voices inside, crying out for my help.

  My practised eye had already identified from the writing the likely dilemmas within. Here were the large, childish loops of repression, and the backwards slope of the chronically depressed. There the green-inked scorings of schizophrenia and the cramped hand of the introvert. While Serena logged and dated each letter for reference, I sorted out my huge index file. In this I keep all the information sheets which I send out with my replies. I’ve got over a hundred leaflets covering every human problem under the sun, from Abandonment to Zoophilia, via (and this is just a selection) Acne, Blushing, Body Hair, Confidence, Death, Debt, Insomnia, Jealousy, Nasty Neighbours, Nipples, Pregnancy (both wanted and unwanted), Race Relations, Snoring and Stress. Seeing the problems neatly ranged in strict alphabetical order like this gives me a satisfied glow. Having tidied the drawer—Smoking had somehow strayed into Smacking—I opened the day’s jiffy bags. Serena always has these X-rayed in the post-room because occasionally we get sent vile things; used condoms for example—disgusting—or lacy knickers, or porn. Usually, however, the bags simply contain self-help books of which I get loads. They’re sent to me by publishing P.R.s all desperate for a plug. I rarely oblige but can’t blame them for trying—I have three million readers after all. How to Start a Conversation and Make Friends announced the first one. Helping People Cope With Crime, How to be a Happy Homosexual, and Breathe Away Your Stress. I put
them in the cupboard, arranging them neatly by height, then felt ready to face the day’s post. In my column I answer letters on any issue ‘Moral, Medical or Miscellaneous’, but I knew more or less what I’d find. At this time of year it’s failed holiday romances, dreadful second honeymoons, and disappointing exam results.

  Dear Rose, I read, as I switched on my computer, I am 19 and have just failed my GCSE’s again… Dear Rose, last month I went to Ibiza and met this wonderful man… Dear Rose, I’ve just come back from a purgatorial cruise with my wife… Then there are the hardy perennials like low self-esteem and of course, Am I Gay? And I get so many letters from cross-dressers I can never meet a man without checking his feet for high heels. Then there are the weird sexual problems—this looks like one—I’m never judgemental, of course. Oh Christ that is so disgusting!! Dear Rose, I read, appalled. I’m a farmer, I’ve been married nearly twenty years, and to put it bluntly, I’m a bit bored in the sack. I’d like to ‘experiment’ a bit, shall we say, but my wife won’t oblige and this is causing a rift. She says it’s just ‘not on’ and that we should leave Grunty alone. Could you give me some guidance please?

  Dear Jeff, I typed smartly, my fingers stabbing at the keys with distaste. All sexual activity with other species is illegal. I agree wholeheartedly with your wife. Interfering with animals is, moreover, an abuse of their rights—I suggest you stick to eating them instead!

  I have my principles you see. Agony aunts tend to be liberal, but we all have certain bees in our bonnets. Mine are Zoophilia (gross), smacking (unacceptable), and infidelity (absolutely ditto). The number of women who write to me asking how they can persuade their married boyfriend to leave his wife! Take this letter here for example. Typical.Dear Rose, Please could you advise me what to give my lover for his birthday? I’d like to give him something personal rather than aftershave or a tie which his wife might spot.

  Dear Sharon, I typed energetically.Thank you very much for your letter. I know the perfect birthday present for your married boyfriend—may I suggest that you give him the boot!

  I mean, what do these women seriously expect me to say? Sleeping with someone else’s husband is the pits. Why can’t they find themselves a single man—God knows there are enough out there. And now I mentally pushed Mary-Claire Grey off the top of Tower Bridge before ploughing through the rest of the mail.

  I get, on average, a hundred and fifty letters a week. I type half the replies then record the rest on a dictaphone and give Serena the tape. She also leaflet-stuffs the envelopes, shreds the old letters—so important—and organises the helplines which appear on the page. We ring the changes with these but we usually have five or six on the go. Fighting Phobias is a popular one, as is He Wants Me To Dress Up. We also have helplines on Prostate Problems, Impotence and Bad Breath. Obviously we have to be careful not to mix up the phone numbers alongside each one. Dear Rose, I now read. I am f**g pissed off because yesterday I phoned your f**g Hair Loss helpline and got Haemorrhoids instead! Those lines cost a pound a minute so I wasn’t f**g impressed.

  I wrote back enclosing a conciliatory fiver and my leaflet on Self-Control. And now I tackled my e-mails which account for about a quarter of my mail. I find e-mails much harder to analyse than letters. There’s no handwriting with all its tell-tale signs and the language is cold and concise. You can see the problem itself very clearly, but not the person who’s having it. Because the main thing about the problem page is that the letters are often not quite what they seem. You have to work them out, spot the clues—like a crime novel—or deconstruct them like a piece of prac. crit. For example, someone might spend sixteen pages whining on about how they’re not getting on with their partner any more and how he’s always shouting at them and picking fights, blah blah blah. But then they’ll add, in the very last line, ‘but he’s only like this when he drinks.’ At which point I am frantically digging out my Alcohol leaflet and the number of their local AA. And that’s the real skill of being an agony aunt—you have to read between the lines.

  At parties people often ask me what other qualities are required. Curiosity for starters—I’ve got that in spades. I’ve always loved sitting on trains, staring dreamily out of the window into the backs of people’s houses, and wondering about their lives. You have to be compassionate too—but not wet—your reply should have a strong spine. There’s no point just offering sympathy, or even worse, pity, like that dreadful Citronella Pratt. What the reader needs is practical advice. So that means having information at the ready: information and kindness—that’s what it’s about. Having said which I’m not a ‘cuddly’, ‘mumsy’ agony aunt—if need be I’ll take a tough tone. But the truth is that my readers invariably know what to do, I simply help them find the answer by themselves. Take this letter, here, for example. What a nightmare. Poor bloke.

  Dear Rose, in 1996 my adored wife died in a car crash, leaving me distraught. Three years later I met someone else and, after a short courtship (too short I now realise), I married again. Although I don’t claim to be a saint, I believe I have treated my second wife well. She is a pleasant-looking, but unfortunately rather aggressive woman in her mid forties—she broke my finger very badly last year. I can just about put up with her mood swings, what I can’t put up with is her affairs. I know that she’s had at least two during our marriage, and now have evidence that she’s on her third. And please don’t tell me to get marriage guidance counselling because she flatly refuses to go. All I know is that I’m miserable: I feel so lonely and I don’t sleep well. I often fantasize about being free (we don’t have children). What do you think I should do?

  Dear John, I typed. Thank you for writing to me and I’m sorry you’ve been having such a hard time. I know from my own experience that infidelity is unacceptable—it’s humiliating, it’s corrosive and it hurts. Any kind of physical aggression from your partner is also beyond the pale. You’ve already been forgiving twice, so maybe it’s time to say ‘no more’. John, only you know if your marriage can go on, but it does sound as though you might be at the end of the road. Then, because I always try to add some kind words, I added: You’re obviously a very nice man, and I hope you find the happiness you deserve. Now, I don’t really know whether he’s nice or not because we’ve never met, but because he’s placed his trust in me I want to lift his morale a bit. Note that I didn’t actually tell him to start proceedings; that’s something I never do. In any case it’s pretty obvious that he’s coming round to that idea himself. What he was doing—and I often get this—was seeking permission to go ahead. Basically, he was asking me to sanction his decision to divorce and so, indirectly, I did.

  Then there are all the sad letters—some so dreadful it breaks your heart. Letters with cheerful smileys all over them from children whose parents drink. Letters which start, I’m so sorry to bother you with my problems, but I have cancer, and have three months to live… Occasionally, there are the begging letters—like this one. I read it and sighed.

  Dear Rose, My three-year-old daughter Daisy needs a heart and lung transplant—she’s been desperately ill since the day she was born. The doctors here say she’s inoperable, but we’ve just found a surgeon in the States. But the cost of the operation is twelve thousand pounds—money we just don’t have. Please, please, Rose, would you print this letter, as we’re sure you have many kind-hearted readers who’d help?

  I heaved a sigh. I couldn’t print it because that’s not the function of my page and in any case it might not be true. But if it were true I couldn’t forgive myself for not having taken it seriously. So I wrote back enclosing the numbers for five children’s medical charities, and a cheque for seventy-five pounds. Ed used to get really cross when I did that so I stopped telling him after a while.

  And now I read a letter from one of my many Lonely Young Men. Dear Rose, My problem is that I’m 35 and have never had a girlfriend. Girls just don’t seem interested in me, probably because I’m very shy with them, and I’m not at all good looking…I glanced at the
enclosed photo—typical! He was very attractive…so I’ve been feeling very depressed lately and I spend every evening at home, on my own. But I would love to get to know a special lady who would be kind to me, and perhaps even love me. Please, please, Rose, can you help?

  Dear Colin, I wrote. Thank you very much for your letter and I’m sorry that you’re feeling so low. But let me assure you that you are a very handsome young man and I’m sure lots of girls would like to go out with you. But the point is you have to make a real effort to meet them—sitting at home’s no good! I think you should a) do an assertiveness course to help build your confidence and b) join an evening class (not car maintenance) where I’m sure you would soon make some female friends. I enclose my Confidence leaflet and the number for your local community college, and I wish you really good luck. I felt so sorry for him that, on the spur of the moment I added: P.S. If you feel you’d like to, do let me know how you get on. But as I sealed the envelope I realised that this was unlikely, and that’s the weird thing about what I do. Every month over a thousand total strangers tell me about their problems and their intimate affairs. I give them the very best advice I can, but I rarely, if ever, hear back. My replies go out into the void like meteorites hurtling through space. Did what I write help them, I sometimes wonder? Are things going better for them now?

  I was suddenly aware that our new editor, Ricky Soul, ex-News of the World, was standing by my desk. R.Soul—as he’s respectfully known—has been brought in by the Amalgamated lowerarchy to try and jack up our sales.

  ‘How’s it going in the Agony and Misery Department?’ he asked with a smirk.