Mal is the jealous kind, so one previous lover seemed as much as he could take when we were at the true-confessions stage of our relationship. Mind you, although I didnt tell him who Rosies father was or wasnt my words circled in an endless holding pattern around this perfectly obvious gaping hole in my narrative, and he never once asked the question.
Rosie had got up and was wandering restlessly about, scowling. But if you are telling the truth this time, Mum, then you can tell me something about my real father, cant you? You did at least know who he was? Didnt you want to tell him about me?
She came back across the room, a paler, taller version of myself at her age, as though her father had been a ghost, which for all I could remember of him he might well have been. I mean, in eighteen years Ive nearly convinced myself that there was no second party involved, so Rosies was practically a born-again virgin birth: shes mine, all mine.
So what was he called? Where did you meet him? What did he look like?
I cant remember, I said uncomfortably, but I could see I wasnt going to be allowed off the hook until Id given her more than that. He was just passing through the town and we picked him up in a pub somewhere and took him on to the end-of-term party with us. Wed all had a lot to drink. He said his name was Adam, and he was a gardener, but thats about all I know about him.
And you expect me to believe that? she said angrily.
Well, I did. And he had an old camper van, I added, though thats one of the details I have allowed to go fuzzy over the years except that sometimes I wake up with a thumping heart in an absolute panic, thinking Im back in the damned thing and trying to creep out before the stranger Ive spent the night with wakes up.
(And it smelled like a potting shed, come to that, so perhaps he really was a gardener, generous with his seed. But lets leave the analogy there before I start to feel like a Gro-bag.)
Mum, you could at least tell me the truth, and not fob me off with yet more fairy stories! she said vehemently. A camper van!
I have, Rosie, I said, getting up and giving her a hug, which she endured rather than returned. I have told you the truth, and if I knew more details Id tell you those too. But I love you, and Granny loves you isnt that enough?
I didnt include Mal, fond as he is of her in his way, for the relationships always been tinged with mutual jealousy, though things are better now that Rosies away during term-time studying veterinary science. But shes always spent a lot of time with her granny anyway, since Mal is not a pet lover, and so most of her menagerie stayed with Ma after we married, something Im not sure shes ever quite forgiven him for.
Mals footsteps sounded upstairs and Rosie said quickly, I wish I knew if you were telling me the truth this time!
Rosie, Im sorry if its not what you wanted to hear, but thats what really happened, I assured her. (And how did I come to have such a bossy little cow for a daughter?) And by the time I knew I was pregnant there was no way to find out more no means of tracing him. I never even knew his second name.
You must have talked to each other!
Yes, but we had both drunk an awful lot, dont forget, I said patiently. I dont remember what we talked about, but he must have been really nice or I wouldnt have gone back with him. I was only horrified next morning when I was sober, because I thought I still loved Tom.
But if Tom was your boyfriend, why are you so sure hes not my father? she demanded.
On any list of twenty questions you didnt want your daughter to ask, this would come fairly high up.
I just am And although I wasnt on the pill, we always took precautions.
Accidents happen, she pointed out. I hope she doesnt know this from experience, but am not about to ask her while she is interrogating me. Or even at all.
Well they didnt, I said firmly, though I couldnt put my hand on my heart and truthfully say that I was one hundred per cent sure that Rosie wasnt Toms baby, because we might have got a little slapdash with the contraception towards the end of our affair And dont think I didnt try and convince myself that you were Toms, because I did but Im positive youre not.
She changed tack with disconcerting suddenness. You could tell me something about this Tom Collins, though like, why his parents called him after a drink?
Collinge, not Collins! I said. And why do you want to talk about him? Its pointless whats past is past. Were happy now, arent we? Thats the important thing.
This was rhetorical: no teenager is ever going to admit to being happy, its not in the job description.
Mal came in, the tall, dark and handsome answer to any almost-maidens prayer, except for the thunderous frown, and snapped, Rose, your phones been going off every five minutes in your bedroom cant you hear it? And why must it play such loud, irritating music?
Rosie gave him her best youre speaking a dead language, you fossil glare. Why didnt you tell me before? she demanded indignantly, and dashed off.
It was probably one of the boyfriends she prefers not to tell us about, though why they have to be a deep, dark secret I dont know. Perhaps they vanish if exposed to the light of parental inspection.
I could feel the twitchings of an idea for a new cartoon coming on or perhaps one of my Alphawoman comic strips. Something involving vampires and unsuitable boyfriends But before I could pin it down Mal jerked me back into reality by demanding, When did you say she was going back to university, Fran? And why does she have to be so untidy? The place is like a pigsty!
The newborn inspiration turned its face to the wall and died; I do hate these sudden transitions from my out-of-body experiences. And untidy was two abandoned magazines and a scatter of rose catalogues on the floor and an empty glass on the coffee tables otherwise pristine surface. Pigs should be so lucky.
She takes after me and Ma: chaos comes naturally to us. And shes going back to university on the fourth, after my birthday, I sighed. I do miss her when shes gone.
Well, youve got me, he pointed out jealously.
Not for girlie chats, though, and youre off on that six-week contract the day after Rosie leaves, I said.
Mal is something clever with computers, so he often works away troubleshooting. I might have added that even when he is home he is either up in his study messing about with his stamps, or down at the marina with his boat, but I didnt want to seem to be complaining. Its not like his hobbies are gambling, binge drinking and loose women, is it?
Well be able to keep in touch by email now too, I reminded him, for his surprise Christmas present to me had been the creation of the Fran March Rose Art website, which was very thoughtful of him. Rosie has promised to get me confidently surfing and emailing before she goes back to university, having much more patience with beginners than Mal, and I am to have a designated workspace under the stairs, with his old computer.
Truth to tell, I dont mind Mals absences that much once he has actually gone, since not only do I actually like being alone, but I have lots of work to get on with out in my studio. Right now I need to finish off the illustrations for my third annual Fran March Rose Calendar, because the deadline is the end of January, and I still have December and the cover illustration to go.
Truth to tell, I dont mind Mals absences that much once he has actually gone, since not only do I actually like being alone, but I have lots of work to get on with out in my studio. Right now I need to finish off the illustrations for my third annual Fran March Rose Calendar, because the deadline is the end of January, and I still have December and the cover illustration to go.
And oh, the bliss of slumping into comfortable, guilt-free slovenliness! The effort of constantly maintaining the level of household standards Mal increasingly favours would be beyond me even if I tried, which I dont, apart from token gestures, but Id had a pre-Christmas blitz and everything still looked pretty clean. But then, my idea of a hygienic and tidy home is merely one where the health inspectors dont slap skull-and-crossbones Hazard stickers on the bathroom and kitchen doors on a weekly basis, while his is the domestic equivalent of an operating theatre.
Do you want to go out for a walk before it gets dark? I asked hopefully. We always used to go for a long hike on Boxing Day.
No, I think Ill watch that tall ships DVD you got me for Christmas again, he said, and, while I was glad that my present had found favour, it occurred to me that we were leading increasingly separate lives. I expect it makes a marriage healthy not being on top of each other all the time, but I do miss the long country walks we used to take together before he got boatitis. And while nothing would induce me to get on something that can go up and down, or side to side or even both at once without any warning, at least it gives him a bit of fresh air and exercise when he is at home between contracts, playing dolls houses on his petit bateau, Cayman Blue, down at the marina.
Oh, well, not only have I got Mal and my beloved Rosie home and still speaking to each other, but Mas coming down to Fairy Glen (her cottage in the village) for a few days, so we can all be together for my birthday on the third: what more could I want?
I curled up next to him on the sofa, and after a couple of minutes he noticed I was there and put his arm around me. He smelled like a million dollars, which is about what I paid for that aftershave: worth every penny.
Fran, youre singing I Got You Babe, he pointed out accusingly, as though I was doing something antisocial which perhaps, considering my voice, I was. I never know Im doing it unless Im out somewhere and a space clears all around me as if by magic.
Sorry, I said, Im just feeling happy.
And lets not forget mega relieved too: Id managed to get through the tricky question-and-answer session with Rosie that Id known had to come one day, and I thought it had gone quite well, considering.
Must remember to disillusion Ma too.
An Unconsidered Trifle
Although relations between them were a little strained by my birthday, Mal and Rosie still hadnt seriously fallen out with each other, which must have been a record though I think I might if she carries on shooting questions at me about her father at unexpected moments, as if trying to catch me out.
The mud at the bottom of the once limpid pool of my memory has been stirred with a big stick, so that when she suddenly shoots at me, How tall was Adam? up to the surface bobs the reply, Oh, well over six foot, without a seconds pause.
What colour was Adams hair?
Like dark clover honey.
What was Adams last name?
No idea.
What colour was the camper van?
Blue and white.
What on earth were you drinking?
Rough scrumpy cider.
However, I have now run out of answers so she has given up, thank goodness, and even Rosie can see that I can hardly put an ad in the press saying, Did you have a one-night stand nearly twenty years ago with a slender woman of medium height, with grey eyes and long, wavy, strawberry-blonde hair? If so, please answer this ad for news that may interest you.
Of course, had I known what the outcome would be, I would have noted Adam the gardeners full name and address at the very least. Mind you, had I known the outcome I wouldnt have done it in the first place but then I wouldnt have had my beloved and infuriating daughter, would I?
She was now packing for her return to university the next day, and I kept missing items of clothing, like my Gap T-shirt and good leather belt. Also several pots of home-made jam and two bottles of elderflower champagne.
Ma, fresh back from her seasonal visit to Aunt Beth up in Scotland, had arrived at her cottage with the dogs and was coming round later for birthday tea, bringing the cake, Tartan Shortbread and a litre of Glenmorangie.
I crooned This Could Be Heaven along with my inner Walkwoman.
You sound amazingly cheerful for someone on her fortieth birthday, Mal observed, tidying up the wrapping paper from the present opening and disposing of it, neatly folded, in the wastepaper basket.
At any minute he would be pointedly positioning the vacuum cleaner somewhere Id fall over it, I could see it coming, but Im not cleaning anything today or tomorrow, or the day after, come to that. Cleanings rightful place is as a displacement activity while you are psyching yourself up for something more interesting.
I smiled happily from under the brim of the unseasonal straw gardening hat, adorned with miniature hoes and rakes and even a tiny scarecrow, sent by my Uncle Joe in Florida. Of course I am! Ive got everything I could possibly need right here in St Ceridwens Well, havent I? A handsome husband, a lovely daughter, modest success with my work especially now Im selling more cartoons as well as my illustrations and we live in North Wales, the most beautiful place in the world. What else could I want?
He suggested mildly, To lose a little weight?
That deflated my happiness bubble a trifle, as you can imagine though thinking of trifle fortunately reminded me that I must pop out and decorate mine with whipped cream, slivered almonds and hundreds and thousands.
Rosie came in, carefully carrying a tray with coffee and some of the yummy Continental biscuits covered in thick dark chocolate that had come in the hen-shaped ceramic biscuit barrel that was her present to me. This, together with microwave noodles, is about the extent of her catering skills, but still one up on Mal, who doesnt even seem able to find the kettle unaided.
She cast him an unloving look, evidently having caught his comment. You arent hounding poor Mum about her weight on her birthday, are you? And theres nothing wrong with her shes perfect, just like Granny. Cosy.
Thank you, darling, I said to her doubtfully, but cosy isnt quite the image I want to project. It sounded a bit mumsy, and though Ma isnt fat, shes pretty well rounded. Good legs, though, both of us.
Well, I certainly dont want an anorexic mother, all bones and embarrassing miniskirts! Youre just right plump and curvy. No one would think you were forty, honestly, she added anxiously.
Clearly forty was something to be dreaded, only it didnt feel like that to me. Or it hadnt until then. And of course I had noticed that I was a bit plumper, because Id had to buy bigger jeans, though T-shirts stretch to infinity and all the tops I make myself for special occasions are quite loose caftan-style ones, so theyre still fine. (The one I had on today was made from the good fragments of two tattered old silk kimonos pieced together using strips of the crochet lace that Ma endlessly produces, dyed deep smoky blue.)