THE SWEETEST SUMMER WINE part 2

2. Phoning Rosie{/b}

“Are you alright, mum? You sound a bit … different.”

“Who wouldn’t after what I’ve done!”

“Why? Mum? Have you robbed a bank or something? I know times have been getting a bit hard, but robbing banks? With a six shooter? Or did you go in for a longbow and arrows?”

“Now don’t be silly, Rosie! As if I’d do anything of the sort! And I’ll be seventy-one soon! Septuagenarians don’t go around robbing banks!”

“Then what is it?”

“Who said it’s got to be anything at all? Maybe yesterday’s shock, with snow out of the blue, has cheered me up? Reminded me of when you were a kiddie and had that sledge you shared with the boy next door. What was his name?”

“You know perfectly well, mum: it was Paul and I married him when I was a little bit older, and we had a daughter between us before he ran away with a milkmaid!”

“I don’t know. We’re not much good at keeping our men are we, darling?”

“Speak for yourself! I’ve grown up a bit now and I’ve met Ian. Now he’s a bit special and brilliant in bed.”

“Is that the sort of thing you tell your mother, Rosie?

“What? That he sleeps so firmly he never wakes me up?”

“You didn’t mean that, Rosie.”

“Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”

“How’s little Rosie getting on?”

“You mean taller than her mum Rosie who’s doing her “A” levels before she’s off to University?”

“Yes, that Rosie.”

“She’s got a fella too. She thinks I don’t know, but mothers have a way of noticing things. Like the way she’s put herself on the pill.”

“Good for her! It’s more sensible than finding yourself unexpectedly pregnant.”

“Like you did, you mean?”

“Like we both did, darling.”

“Anyway, what’s wound you up this morning, mum? It’s not like you to be so… jolly.”

“It’s the window cleaner…”

“I didn’t know you had a window cleaner? Last time I pipped in to see you there were the sort of smears that good window cleaners don’t leave.”

“Well I do and I don’t.”

“Now you’ve got me intrigued. What is it? You haven’t found another man at your time of life?”

“Now careful, darling…”

“It’s you who called yourself a septuagenarian!”

“It’s just that snow yesterday.”

“I only live a mile away and we didn’t have any snow. Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“It turned all the world white for a bit, and then it melted.”

“And that cleaned your windows?”

“No, silly. A window cleaner knocked the door and asked if I needed my windows cleaning. The cheeky devil said he could see from cross the road that I did.”

“He’s got eyes, then?”

“Now stop it. It started snowing, a fair blizzard it was for a few minutes, so I had to invite him in for a cup of tea in case he caught his death outside, and he had a nice silver flask with something delicious in it and he put a drop in my first cup, and then he put a bigger drop in my second cup, and then we had a third cup…”

“You had three cups of tea?”

“Darling, it was snowing and he was in my kitchen. Anyway, and then his flask was empty.”

“Mummy! So you got pickled in your kitchen, with a stranger?

“I couldn’t help it. And he wasn’t exactly a stranger. Not in the absolutely stranger use of the word.”

“Now you’re not making sense, mum? Tell me what happened, then? Did he small-talk you into thinking you were a princess? Was he young like princes always are, and did he sweep you of your feet and into your bedroom while you swooned?”

“Really, Rosie! He’s as old as me and he wears shorts!”

“What? In November? In a blizzard?”

“Exactly. But I don’t know what he had in that flask, but when he was gone I sat in front of the television watching an antiques programme, you know how I like watching them…”


“What’s an antique today was commonplace when you were a child, mummy.”

“Now then, Rosie!”

“I’ve heard you say it.”

“Maybe I have. Anyway, I was no sooner sitting in front of the television and my eyes fluttered shut and the next thing I know was it was getting dark and the afternoon was over!”

“It can happen to the best of us, mum.”

“But I hadn’t even had my tea, Rosie! But I felt great! The telly had gone off like it does if nobody presses a button on the remote after a while…”

“And all because a bloke who, what did you say, wears shorts in winter, gave you a few drops of whisky in your tea?”
“Drops is a bit of an underestimate, darling.”

“Anyway, are you going to see him again? It sounds like you want to, and he might well get an itch in his shorts… don’t tell me they were denim, sort of cut down jeans, like the youths of today wear?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Oh, but mummy, you did! I remember when you brought that bloke Davey home and he stayed until I was fed up with his silly face and told him so, and you always noticed when he changed into something different. You even noticed when his jeans stopped being pale blue and became indigo!”

“They were khaki, then.”

“What? An old fart and khaki shorts? Like a big game hunter? It doesn’t bear thinking of!”

“He’s nothing like a big game hunter and he wouldn’t be so cruel!”

“So you know that about him? He’s an animal lover, is he? What else did you find out?”

“It stopped snowing and he went.”

“Will you see him again?”

“I shouldn’t think there’s much of a chance of that. I never told him I needed a window cleaner and he isn’t on Facebook!”

“So what was it you did that made your sound different, darling mummy? You said it was something you’d done…”

“I told you. I got tipsy in the afternoon.”

“Not for the first time. So what was so special this time?”

“Nothing, darling, nothing.”

“Except, mummy?”

“Now just you stop putting words into my mouth, Rosie!”

“You liked him, didn’t you? At your age, and you fancied the window cleaner!”

“What’s age got to do with it?”

“Nothing, mum, nothing. I tell you what: get him to go on Facebook and I’ll check him out for you.”

“There’s no need, Rosie! I’m a good judge of character without your imput.”

“And you’ve got three exes to prove it.”

“Anyway, he says he doesn’t know anything about Facebook or any other social media.”

“Even though he wears khaki shorts. Okay mum: you know best. Look, I’ve got to go. The window cleaner’s at the door.”

“Cheeky!”

“No, he really is! See ya!”

The line went dead and Helena slipped her phone back into her skirt pocket.

The door bell rang.

“Go away,” she muttered, but she went and opened the door anyway.

“You really will have to get some sort of computer,” she said as he leant a ladder up against her wall. “And why wear shorts?” she asked as an afterthought.

© Peter Rogerson 14.11