Trisha Ashley - Sowing Secrets

‘Well they didn’t,’ I said firmly, though I couldn’t put my hand on my heart and truthfully say that I was one hundred per cent sure that Rosie wasn’t Tom’s baby, because we might have got a little slapdash with the contraception towards the end of our affair … ‘And don’t think I didn’t try and convince myself that you were Tom’s, because I did – but I’m positive you’re 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?’

‘Collin ge , not Collins!’ I said. ‘And why do you want to talk about him? It’s pointless – what’s past is past. We’re happy now , aren’t we? That’s the important thing.’

This was rhetorical: no teenager is ever going to admit to being happy, it’s not in the job description.

Mal came in, the tall, dark and handsome answer to any almost-maiden’s prayer, except for the thunderous frown, and snapped, ‘Rose, your phone’s been going off every five minutes in your bedroom – can’t you hear it? And why must it play such loud, irritating music?’

Rosie gave him her best ‘you’re speaking a dead language, you fossil’ glare. ‘Why didn’t 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 don’t 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 table’s otherwise pristine surface. Pigs should be so lucky.

‘She takes after me and Ma: chaos comes naturally to us. And she’s going back to university on the fourth, after my birthday,’ I sighed. ‘I do miss her when she’s gone.’

‘Well, you’ve got me,’ he pointed out jealously.

‘Not for girlie chats, though, and you’re 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 didn’t want to seem to be complaining. It’s not like his hobbies are gambling, binge drinking and loose women, is it?

‘We’ll 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 don’t mind Mal’s 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 don’t, apart from token gestures, but I’d 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 don’t 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 I’ll 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 doll’s 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 Ma’s 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, you’re 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 I’m doing it unless I’m out somewhere and a space clears all around me as if by magic.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m just feeling happy.’

And let’s not forget mega relieved too: I’d managed to get through the tricky question-and-answer session with Rosie that I’d known had to come one day, and I thought it had gone quite well, considering.

Must remember to disillusion Ma too.

Although relations between them were a little strained by my birthday, Mal and Rosie still hadn’t 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 second’s pause.

‘What colour was Adam’s hair?’

‘Like dark clover honey.’

‘What was Adam’s 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 gardener’s full name and address at the very least. Mind you, had I known the outcome I wouldn’t have done it in the first place – but then I wouldn’t have had my beloved and infuriating daughter, would I?