According to YES (15 page)

In the service entrance doorway of McDonald's, with the bright lights of the electronic billboards flickering all around them, Rosie, Three and Red are fiddling about, getting the last bits of their costumes on. The whole point of this exercise is to make some cash, so Rosie has refused to spend money hiring costumes, and anyway, she explained to the boys that it was good to do a bit of sewing: they'd find it useful in the future. Three asked her exactly
when
they might find sewing a useful skill? Rosie faltered, then reminded them that they would
always
be glad to know how to take up trousers and sew on buttons. They utterly believed her, although she had to admit to herself that in all probability, these youngsters would take after their tall father and taller grandfather, and will never have to take a single pair of trousers up in their lives. Buttons though, are different. Everyone should learn how to sew on a button. With any luck, a sizable fortune, some slap-up dinners in expensive restaurants and consequently, an ever-expanding
girth, then the twins may well have to replace plenty of pinged-off shirt and trouser buttons in their prosperous long lives.

Whatever the benefits, they have had a fairly stressful head-scratching time measuring out and cutting up some of Thomas's old shirts and trousers to make their outfits. The colours are right, stones and burgundies and muted earthy tones. Red wears a brown shirt and maroon trousers which are looser than he wants. He made his droopy hat from some old pantyhose of Granma's, stuffed with cotton wool, and he has a big belt of Granpop's round his middle. Three is wearing browny-orange leggings borrowed from Rosie, and for the shirt, he has adapted one of Granpop's pyjama tops. He cut and sewed the sleeves to be much smaller and he tucked the collar inside. He too, has a big belt round his middle, which is stuffed with a cushion to give him a paunch. He has covered a floppy wizard's hat from Halloween in cloth from a sludgy old tracksuit of Granpop's. Each of them attach a Christmas Santa beard to their ears, and put their slippers on, and they are ready. Rosie has had to be inventive, she has wrapped a yellow tablecloth around her middle to make a long skirt, and she has pulled apart a blue dress to put it back together as an upper bodice with puffy little sleeves. The high white collar at the back is made from a white shirt of Thomas's, with wires attached to make it stand up from the neck. She has scooped up her hair, and placed a big red bow slap bang in the middle on the top, bold as you like, pure Disney. She stands up straight and looks at the boys. Bless
them, they have tried so hard. Frankly, they all look a bit shoddy, but Rosie secretly thinks they may make even more cash due to the convincingly maladjusted and rather pathetic collective appearance. They just might elicit the sympathy dollar.

‘So remember lads, if anyone asks, we are Snow White's Older Redhead Sister, and the Two Forgotten Dwarfs …?'

‘Greedy,' Three says, patting his big tum.

‘And Farty,' says Red, and he christens himself with a tiny, strained parp, to demonstrate.

Rosie says, ‘Thank you for that. Very classy … Not! OK, here we go … try to look suitably impoverished …'

They wander out into the bustling crowds of Times Square and are immediately surrounded by various other panhandling costumed characters – a couple of Elmos, a Hello Kitty, two Minnie Mice, a Spider-Man, a Super Mario and three Statues of Liberty, all hustling aggressively for the attention of the tourists to have their photos taken, and receive tips in exchange for the privilege.

Rosie has a basket of apples on her arm and starts to draw attention to her motley crew by shouting ‘Apples! Free apples! Poisoned apples!' which, on reflection, she thinks might not have been the
best
selling technique, but certainly does pull some focus.

One small child starts to cry and grabs her father's hand, sobbing, ‘Daddy! I don't want a poison apple from that scary, ugly lady!' as they rush off.

‘Shut up Rosie, you're frightening people,' Three mutters

‘OK! OK!' Rosie agrees, and tries an American accent, and a sweeter line of squeaky-voiced persuasion, ‘Hello folks, wanna take a picture with me and my two height-challenged chums?' Absolutely no-one responds. Either people push roughly past them, or give them an extra wide berth. Rosie whispers at the boys, ‘You need to sing, that'll help …'

‘What?! Sing what?'

‘Sing the mine-digging song, you know the one … dig, dig, dig, that one …' she encourages them.

‘Really?!' moans Three.

‘Yes!'

Red pleads under his breath, ‘Someone please kill me.'

‘Hey people!' Rosie shouts brazenly, to anyone who will listen, ‘Wanna hear my little guys sing their favourite tune?'

No-one does. People just stare, perplexed.

She starts them off, ‘One, two, three, four … Heigh Ho! …'

The boys fall in reluctantly and give it a half-hearted go, ‘We dig did dig dig dig dig dig dig dig the whole day through …' they sing.

‘Louder,' she prompts.

‘To dig dig dig dig dig dig dig is what we like to do …'

Their feeble attempt is fairly painful but the sound and sight of themselves sets them all off giggling helplessly, which makes the singing virtually impossible. After a few minutes, two Elmos and a Hello Kitty sidle over. The Elmos are very tall
and not a little intimidating, and they stand directly in front of the twins, obscuring everyone's view of them. The twins are immediately uncomfortable.

In her high-pitched, best Snow White voice, Rosie says, ‘Hey, Elmo, can you trot on, please, mind out.'

She is immediately confronted by a hostile Hello Kitty in a swingy neon pink dress, with her hands on her hips.

‘Listen lady, you need to vacate,' Hello Kitty seethes quietly. ‘This is our patch,' comes from inside the giant white head. Shockingly, the voice is that of a man. How incongruous is this monstrosity with her cutesy face and glittery pink bow?

Rosie responds loudly, ‘How lovely to talk to you, Miss Hello Kitty, especially since you don't appear to have a mouth …' then she lowers her voice, ‘but you do appear, remarkably, to have a dick.' She reaches out for the boys, and raises her voice again, ‘I think you'll find, Miss Hello, that since the parading of lovely fun characters like us ALL here, is not licensed or regulated by the city in any way, EVERYONE is welcome to join in, WHEREVER they wish, so thank you for your interest, and now perhaps you would like to move along …?'

Rosie waits a moment, sees that Miss Hello Kitty and the Elmos aren't going to move, and shuffles the boys a few metres further down the street. She nudges them to start singing again.

‘I don't think so,' says Three. ‘These Elmo guys are pretty serious, this isn't good.'

‘Just trust me guys, OK? We're not going to be bullied off by those twats. Do what I say. Stand still. Hold tight. Look up. And sing … two, three, four …'

The boys start up again, this time a little louder. Within seconds, the Elmos and Kitty return, and this time they have brought reinforcements, in the shape of Minnie Mouse, Winnie the Pooh and Piglet. Rosie and the twins are surrounded.

‘Keep singing, Greedy and Farty! Look up! We shall overcome!' Rosie urges them on.

The sinister circle of colourful grotesques closes in on them, and the evil Hello Kitty once more leans in, and in its raspy voice hisses, ‘Move … NOW!'

The boys continue to sing, although by this time, they are so frightened that they forget the words, and attempt to make some up in panic, ‘Heigh ho, heigh ho, it's home that we should go! With a … bum bum bum and … a tum tiddle tum, let's go, crap, let's go.'

Rosie stands firm, and still in her whiney Snow White voice, she loudly says, ‘Oh Minnie, Kitty and Pooh, you're being so mean! If you continue to terrorize me and my little men in this fashion …'

‘Shush!' says Kitty, ‘Shut up,' fearing that punters might hear.

Rosie continues, ‘then I'm afraid we will simply HAVE to call for the POLICE! POLICE!' she shouts.

Kitty waves her hands wildly and growls, ‘Shut the fuck up, lady. OK. Listen. We do a deal, OK?' The giant weird white
kitten looks around shiftily to check no public or cops are listening or approaching, ‘You're scarin' people off. If we give you this – it pulls out a hundred-dollar bill from it's bright pink dress pocket – you disappear and you don't never come back. Capish?'

For a brief, victorious moment, Rosie looks Hello Kitty directly in the big, shiny dead button eyes, and is tempted to kick her in the Kitty gonads, until she feels a tug on her skirt from a trembling Three cowering next to her, still attempting to sing, bless him.

‘Capish,' she snarls, snatching the money, then she turns to the twins. ‘Slowly and surely now, with your heads up, lads, follow me, and sing out! Heigh ho …!' With this, Rosie marches off like a mother duck with her two little ducklings following behind, keeping in step and singing proudly until they are around the first corner, out of sight. Then, the boys rip off their beards and clutch each other in equal measures of victory and relief. They all cling together and Rosie brandishes the money.

‘We did it! Not quite the way we imagined, but we did it! Listen, we made enough money to buy the last plant. That's what we came to do. And I'll tell you something, chaps, it may not have been your talent that earned this dosh, but it most certainly was your immense courage! Well bloody done! And y'know what, there's enough left over to treat ourselves to sundaes! Phew! What flavour are you going to have Red?'

‘Chocolate.'

‘Three?'

‘Strawberry. What about you?'

‘I'm going to have double gin and tonic flavour … c'mon!' Rosie says.

With that, all three Disney rejects dive down into the subway station, and head for the plant shop around the corner from where they live, where the boys have already spied a beautiful big white rose bush they know Granma Glenn will love.

Up on the roof, the garden has flourished. The New York City summer is yet to begin and the more temperate May sunshine is tickling the flowering plants awake. Granma Glenn's rose bush is showing off a cluster of gorgeous creamy flowers, with glossy light green leaves. Rosie accompanies the twins whilst they cut a couple of stalks to take to her at the lunch table. It's their idea that if they take some cut flowers to her, she might want to come back up to the roof sometime, to see what they've done. How quickly they are learning to coax her without directly asking her. This is how Granpop Thomas has operated her for years, and his is the most successful technique, so of course, they ape it. Three is looking at the label from the plant shop, still attached to one of the thicker branches of the rosebush, describing it's horticultural genealogy. It's referred to as a ‘bush floribunda-korbin' and underneath, it states that this is an ‘Iceberg Rose.' The irony isn't wasted on Rosie, who chuckles quietly to herself.

Kemble is up there too in his sloppy Saturday leisure gear, chopping a handful of basil with Red to take to Iva for sprinkling on their soup. He has even helped to replant a patch of watercress. Red drowned the first lot after re-watering it when Three had already done so. An elementary and useful mistake. Kemble bought the watercress in tiny pots and nurtured it on his bedroom window ledge until it was ready to bring up here and join the more mature plants. He appears to be flourishing at approximately the same rate. Pretty soon, Rosie thinks, he might well be entirely grown up. He really must hurry, because Teddy is hurtling into adulthood at the rate of knots and Kemble needs to leapfrog over him and reinstate himself, as the astute, protective parent Teddy needs him to be. Watching him lovingly assist Red, Rosie fills up with hope. Perhaps the sunshine is thawing this family a little bit?

Rosie has been doing a lot of quiet thinking in the last month, trying to be honest with herself about why everything crazy that's happened, has happened. Why she was so avail­able for it, and why she didn't stop it? She hasn't had any more alone time with Thomas, but he is repeatedly, secretly, asking her if they can. She must find a way to talk to him, to explain why, despite their desires, she knows full well that it's better for them to put the brakes on. He constantly tries to catch her eye, and she constantly finds ways to be looking elsewhere. She must sort it. Must.

Tomorrow.

Red and Three place the small glass vase with the two vanilla-scented blooms in front of Granma Glenn at lunch, and for the briefest moment, she is speechless. The beauty is there for all to see, utterly tangible. The outside has come in, and Glenn can't deny how lovely it is. Neither would she, because she's not a monster, she's just a frozen fossil. The twins tip their hopeful faces towards her, waiting for a response.

‘Well, well, well,' she begins, ‘how splendid is this? Grown especially for me, you say?' She smells the flowers, ‘What a pleasant, fresh aroma. Thank you, boys.'

‘And Rosie, she dug it in,' says the ever-honourable Three.

‘I see,' replies Glenn, ‘well then, yes … thank you … Miss Kitto.'

It may be begrudged, reluctant, and leave a taste of vinegar in her mouth, but Glenn has done it, she has thanked Rosie, and that effort is noted. This isn't easy for Glenn, there's a good deal more joy in the room than her control gauge can comfortably manage.

Thomas smiles at Glenn and leans over to pat her hand for reassurance, as Iva doles out the soup. He knows more about Glenn's complicated internal struggle than anyone else, and he is the person who notices when her better nature prevails. Glenn has her full court assembled for lunch and should really be content enough to sit back and enjoy the view.

Rosie looks around the table and takes a deep breath when it occurs to her that she has come to learn more about all three of the adult men sitting here than she ever could have imagined, and here she is, sitting snugly in the midst of them, the only one in the total know. How precarious is her position? She could feel powerful if she were an entirely different person altogether. She doesn't. She feels privileged.

And strangely vulnerable … ?

There is Thomas, assured and benevolent, thankful to her and trusting her with the security of his marriage. A man who fears the sunset of his life, their sex has been his tonic, a kind of latter hurrah, a celebration, a rapture, easy and fun.

There is Kemble, a crumpled man, still partly hidden by his own shame, but slowly emerging. He shared his difficult secret, and believes she will keep his counsel, and he is right to have that faith. She will. He is safe. A man who fears this middle-aged, noon part of his life, a man for whom the sex was a kind of remedy, an acceptance. It was a happy mistake, which reminded him of what he truthfully knows about himself.

There is Teddy, the anxious novice, keen as mustard and hungry to know. He was in a wobbly no-man's-land of experience until she tenderly took his hand and … nudged him to a more confident place. A young man fearful in the dawn of his experience, who feels lucky to have found himself under the auspices of her bounty.

There they are. The secret three. And who is she? How did
she come to be so bold? Where is her heart in all of this? Has she, as she truly believes, got it neatly tucked away all nice and sound, so that none of these astonishing experiences can hurt? Is she right to feel delightfully bewildered by it all, or is that just rash and irresponsible? Right now, she can hardly contain all her thoughts, and she doesn't even really want to. She wants to relish her time here, and feel everything she can. Be the impulsive her.

Rosie is giddy with all the reflections tumbling around in her mind, and somehow, even forgets to eat her tomato soup. She has nibbled at her bread and had a few sips, but she is so preoccupied that she doesn't desire any more, and she pushes the plate away, half-eaten.

Kemble has had no such problem. He has heartily scoffed the lot. ‘That's me,' he says, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

‘Don't be silly, Kemble,' says Glenn, ‘That's such a small bowl, eat some more.'

Kemble wonders if his mother even knows how easily she belittles him. It's become sheer habit, and utterly acceptable to her. More dangerously, it seems to be pretty acceptable to every­one else too. He looks around the table to see who might have noticed Glenn's little stab at control. No-one is in the slightest bit interested, except Rosie, who holds his gaze. Christ, he thinks, it's so clearly customary for his mother to treat him as if he were four years old that even his own sons don't notice it any more. The unacceptable has become normal.
He really mustn't allow it. Rosie's supportive presence spurs him on.

Quietly but firmly, he says, ‘But I'm not hungry.'

Glenn stares at him. This would ordinarily work, and be enough to intimidate him into submission.

Kemble is not prepared to even enter the arena. ‘I'm not hungry.'

To which Glenn merely sips her coffee and says nothing. All is calm, all is dignified. A small battle is won nice and quietly, but make no mistake, Glenn registers the shift.

Rosie is helping Iva to clear up after lunch, after the family have all dispersed. Kemble has taken the twins out, and given the rare opportunity of an unexpected afternoon off, Rosie is intrigued to realize that her number one desire is to sleep, which is not at all typical. She walks to the swanky fridge and pours herself a large glass of chilled water, which she glugs down.

‘Iva,' she asks, ‘is there a medicine cabinet? I feel a bit drained. I think I've got a bug. Need to knock it on the head before the boys get it.'

Iva looks at Rosie. She considers, then goes to a cupboard in the corner and opens it. She reaches up to get some para­cetamol.

‘Here,' she says, ‘but between you and me, what you need, we don't have.'

‘Excuse me?' Rosie is popping a couple of tablets out of the blister pack.

‘You are pregnant, I think,' says Iva.

Rosie is stunned. She turns to stare at Iva, wide-eyed. Then, with a disbelieving laugh she says, ‘Yeah. Right.'

Iva stares back at Rosie, straight-faced, unblinking. There is a heavy, heavy, heavy pause whilst the two are eye-locked together. Rosie slowly puts the paracetamol down on the table.

Within ten minutes, Rosie has bombed down to the nearest pharmacy, and with her legs wobbly under her she asks, in a shaky voice she's never heard before, even though it is her own, for a pregnancy-test kit. As she rushes back to the apartment, with the kit in her handbag, and her head in a whirl, she ducks in to the Church of the Heavenly Rest opposite, above where the boys go to school.

There is a big wedding in full swing, and the aroma of newly cut flowers instantly overwhelms her. She feels slightly nauseous. An usher approaches her, and asks in hushed tones, which side of the family she is part of, so that he can direct the latecomer to her seat in the very full church. She indicates that she will be discreet and sit at the back and slips into the last
pew, next to and behind a row of middle-aged couples in suits, posh frocks and huge, frothy fascinators.

Rosie has come in for five minutes of solace, but is sucked into the surreal other world of someone else's big day. She looks around to see if she can escape, but the ruddy ushers are standing between her and the big back door, so for the moment, she is stuck. Still, she thinks, she can try to sit calmly and gather herself, even though she is unwittingly part of this occasion. She closes her eyes and bows her head to concentrate and as she does so she is increasingly aware of the overpowering scent of the woman next to her, a sort of potent lupin smell. This is added to by the strong musky aftershave from the man directly in front, and the woman next to him, whose perfume of choice would appear to be warm pungent cat's piss. Rosie takes deep breaths to steady herself but, of course, this means she is inhaling deeper, so further odours are assaulting her nostrils. She opens her eyes and looks up to the beautiful vaulted ceiling. In the background the priest is wittering on about love and commitment and future and blah and blah and blah. Just a few minutes hence, she will find out whether or not her life is about to change out of all recognition, for ever. What the hell is going on? How should she be thinking about it? The normally centred Rosie is a feather in the wind, she has no idea how to be at this moment. All at once, her mind is churning different possible options at her. She tries to quieten it all
down, so that she can listen to her own heart and clear her head.

All she can hear herself wishing is:

‘Please don't let it be …'

followed straight away by:

‘Please do let it be …'

And, as she sits there in the giant church whilst other people are making their giant promises, she comes to realize that this decision is actually already made, and that she can do nothing to change it.

‘So maybe … let it be …'

And before she has any time to think about that startling simple truth, the organ blasts into life, propelling them all to stand and sing

‘All things bright and beautiful …

‘All creatures great and small …'

Oh God, a small creature might be growing inside her … right now maybe … inside her actual belly … where soup is slurping about at this precise moment … greasy orange Iva soup, that seems to not want to settle, it wants to get out, prompted by all the intense stenches coming from everyone nearby which are turning her stomach, which starts to rumble like a wakening volcano. Just as Rosie realizes it's too late, the soupy spew spouts out of her like a geyser, projectile vomiting forwards, spilling all over the whiffy couple in front, drenching their posh clothes in orange goo.

‘Oh my God, I'm … so … sorry …' she utters, as they turn around to see the telltale last drops dripping from her lips. She grabs her purse and in shock and horror, she runs for the door.

Twenty minutes later, Rosie is locked in her bathroom sitting on the side of the tub with Iva right next to her as they closely watch the tiny window on the white stick of the pregnancy test. Will the second blue line show up? Will it cross the first blue line already in evidence, making it all true? Making it fact? Rosie counts away the last minute.

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight

Fifty-nine …

Fifty-nine …

Fifty-nine … come on!

There it is. The second blue line.

FUCK.

Iva says, ‘See? Pregnant!'

Rosie is hypnotized by it. She can't take her eyes from it. Her face is a mixture of emotions. First, there's doubt, ‘Are these things always accurate?'

Then hope. Iva nods.

Now guilt replaces the hope.

Then gradually, like a cloud going in front of the sun … disbelief.

Then Rosie laughs, the kind of laugh you do when you've been very drunk and silly the night before. An excusing, self-conscious laugh. She says, ‘I really can't be. I've been trying for years. And my age … ?'

‘Believe me, kochanie, I been pregnant. I know you are.'

‘We'll do the test again. Yes, that's what we'll do,' says Rosie, and with that, they leave the bathroom and go straight to the kitchen where she glugs down several pints of water.

Later on, as night is falling, Iva is pouring coffee whilst yet another pregnancy test is developing on the table in front of them. Rosie nervously gabbles on, ‘I got to thirty-six, quite happy without a kid. I've always thought that I didn't need to mark my presence here by making another one of me. Of us. I didn't feel like I needed to live my life vicariously through a little person. I was very happy living it for myself, and for him. And I really thought all that biological clock stuff was bollocks. Until it suddenly wasn't. It happened, bam, like that. My nipples started to hurt every time I held a baby. And I realized that time really does run out, and as soon as you notice that, it runs even quicker, like you've tipped up the bottle of time and it's spilling everywhere, faster than you can scoop it up. I suppose I panicked a bit. Today is over by tomorrow. I asked myself, ‘Are you really not going to do this?” '