MALCOLM’S DIARY

Dear Diary,

1^st January.

It’s a brand new year and it’s got me thinking.

I know I should have told Rosie that I loved her, but it was a long time ago and such fanciful emotions didn’t pass so easily through my mind and just about never reached my lips. And now, all these years after we parted company for that dreadful last time, I want to find her to tell her. But, diary, I don’t know where to begin.

2^nd January.

I saw old Bill in the bar where I go for a pint when I’m thirsting. He’s still with Jenny. Most times when I see him they’re together, the two of them, him with his foaming pint and she with her glass of white wine. I asked him where Jenny was and he looked me squarely in the face.

“It’s her birthday,” he said, “and I bought her a ticket to go to Paris. She always wanted to go to Paris. I’d have gone with her, but she wanted to discover that city on her own. She talked about artists living there. She said I wouldn’t enjoy it. She said that I don’t like artists, that they’re not what she called my scene.”

“That’s a beautiful present,” I told him, and couldn’t think of anything else to say. So I emptied my pint and ordered a fresh one.

“I’ll buy you a refill,” I said to him.

“That’s kind,” he replied, “cheers.”

“I’m used to being on my own,” I said, “not being the marrying sort.”

“You were once,” he reminded me, “but you let the woman get away. And I would have loved to go to Paris. To see artists. Even poets if they’re still congregating there.”

“Oh,” I murmured, lost for words.

3^rd January.

I have a laptop computer and I decided to see how easy it is to find people on it. There are social networks and loads of people seem to use them. Maybe Rosie does. Maybe she’ll answer me if I find her. It’d be nice to know that she’s okay and happy. And where does she lived all these years after we said goodbye for the last time? I should have said it then, that I loved her, because that was the truth. But that sort of talk was alien to me back then.

It still is.

4^th January

I looked on Faceache. I even signed in and joined, and then in the search box I wrote her name. Rosie Jameson, just like that. It took me ages to actually press the enter button on my old laptop, because a bit of me didn’t want to find out that she was as miserable as I feel now. But in the end I did press it, and didn’t have to wait long.

Have you any idea, dear diary, how many Rosie Jamesons there are? And they’ve got images, photos of them, and I started trawling through them. I ignored those in other lands. There are some in America and Canada, and I can’t see my Rosie going to live out there. And the Indian girl who I liked the look of, she was, beautiful, but younger than my Rosie would be, too young for me...

There I go on calling her my Rosie. Maybe if I’d told her how I felt about her she might have become my Rosie. My fiance and then my wife. But we drifted apart, and not in the best way. I think she must have wanted me to affirm my feelings for her, but I didn’t.

I lit a cigarette instead. I don’t smoke any more, but I did then.

5^th January

Back in the pub with old Bill. Silly old sod, he was crying.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“She didn’t phone me last night,” he said, “and she said she would. I miss her, Malcolm. I miss her like I never thought I would, and I was really looking forwards to hearing her voice last night.”

I felt uncomfortable. An old man like Bill in tears, and I was lost for what to say.

“Maybe tonight,” I said, “maybe she’ll ring tonight. Maybe her phone needed charging last night, and that’s all it was. Who can tell?”

“I wish I’d kissed her goodbye when she left in the taxi,” he moaned.

I was never going to kiss him, so I bought him a fresh pint instead.

6^th January.

I got a message on Faceache today! It was from a woman called Rosie, but she was Rosie Buckfast, not Rosie Stamford. But she must have got a message from me because I sent quite a lot on the Internet, hoping that one of them I was messaging turned out to be my Rosie.

Who are you? The message asked, “my name is Rosie Buckfast and I’m eighty three years old. Are you a beau from my past come to relight an old fire? How exciting, though I don’t think I’ve ever known a man called Malcolm.

I replied in general terms, saying I once knew a lass called Rosie and wondered if I’d find her on Faceache. But she wouldn’t be eighty three. Not quite.

Then I looked again at her image and noticed something I hadn’t see at first.

And she didn’t have such lovely blue eyes, I typed.

This Rosie didn’t reply to that.

7^th January

Back in the pub, and Bill was sitting in what was becoming our corner, so I joined him. I didn’t want to ask him whether Jenny had called him. I can’t feel at ease if the men I’m with start blubbing. It’s not a manly thing to do and makes me feel very uncomfortable.

“She rang!” he said, “she met up with a friend of hers from the old days! A woman by the name of Rosie. She said they were once best friends.”

“Rosie?” I asked, “Rosie what?”

“Ah, you’re remembering that bit of skirt you messed around with back in the day, aren’t you?” he grinned. “So I asked her and she said this woman was Rosie Smith. Plain and ordinary, Smith, not Stamford, was it?. Anyway, they’re coming here, the two of them because Jenny invited her to stay with us for a couple of days. So I’ve been like a washerwoman all day, cleaning and scrubbing and washing and ironing! I’ll let you know all about it next time we meet.”

“Sounds fun,” was all I could think of saying.

The rest of the evening passed in a kind of blur. If this Rosie was a friend Jenny had known at school all those years ago, how come I didn’t recognise the name? They used to say Smith was a common surname, but the big joke us kids all shared when the subject cropped up was there was never anyone called Smith in our class. Not in my class, and certainly not a girl. We used to laugh about it, for goodness sake!

8^th January

I had a visitor this morning. It was old Bill, and he hardly ever comes round, but he did this morning. And he was dull as dishwater. I could tell, just glancing at him, that something was wrong.

“She’s left me,” he moaned, “she’s gone off with Rosie.”

“Rosie Smith?” I asked.

He nodded. “Her,” he said, “a bloody woman in her seventies and my Jenny’s gone off with her! Said she’d always loved the creature and only stayed with me because I was second best. I ask you! Second best! To another woman!”

“That’s two of us on our own and all because of a lass called Rosie,” I mumbled, “I could have been happy if I’d told Rosie what I truly thought of her, but the words never crossed my lips. They should have but I was a twerp.”

“Rosie Smith, the bane of my life,” he croaked. “I could have killed her, you know. I could have not an hour since. And you know the good news?

“There’s good news?” I asked.

“Yes. You’ll smile at this. Smith was her married name, but she was a widow. Married a bloke called Smith, and he died. She is Rosie Stamford. I knew it the moment I saw her. And she’s only gone off with my Jenny!

“My Rosie?” I demanded.

He nodded. “If that’s how you see her, but you’re better off without her. Come on, old man, to the pub. It’s my round.”

“But where is she now?” I asked, “Rosie, I mean?”

“Off,” replied Bill, “I dunno where, and I don’t care. They’re off, the two of them. My Jenny, who I’ve never spent more than an hour away from in all these years, and that bit of skirt, your Rosie.”

9^th January.

They call it alcohol poisoning and you can take my word for it, it’s no joke. But I got it last night after I supped a great deal of anything that promised to make me ill and a bottle of something toxic from the late night off-licence before I got home. I coppased a dozen yards from my gate and I was taken to hospital ehere I had my stomach pumped, and it was revolting. Now I’m back home and wishing I was dead. I wish I’d told her that I loved her all those years ago.

When I feel up to it I’m going to go back to the pub and get pissed. I might die this time, and that would be a bonus.

10^th January.

Bill called and told me that Jenny had returned to him, full of apologies. She’d said she’d been taken in by the promises made by another woman. It had been the magic of Paris, she said, but back in her home town she realised the missed old Bill. And Rosie, that other woman, was going away.

To New Zealand, she reckoned, where she had grandchildren.

And she gave me a brief note from her.

Pity, it read, that we never became a proper item back in the good old days, but it was probably for the best, you not being really keen. Jenny tells me you’re a lonely old man, and the last thing I want at this time of my life is a lonely old man to weigh me down. I’m lonely enough on my own!

© Peter Rogerson 21.04.22

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