TEARS Part I

Bloggiana’s cousin Rubirosa came to stay for a few days last week on the rebound. Her boyfriend Romeo had just come and announced that what they had was not what he wanted and that he was going to go away for a while and leave her to her own devices while he worked out exactly what he did want.

Now I should tell you that Rubirosa is a fine girl with a fine head on her shoulders. Over the years, she has been responsible for many of the grander moments in Bloggiana’s life – the wisecracks flow and a sense of being engaged in life is reinforced and those who spend time at her table leave it feeling replete and enriched. Rubirosa’s spirit is one of life’s larger organs. And her heart was Romeo's for life.

Bloggiana and I had not realised in advance how distraught Rubirosa was and we had organised a season of dinners and a houseful of guests. Children poured out of crevices of Our House throughout Rubirosa’s stay and the Pinot G coursed into and out of our veins like lifeblood itself. There was much ribaldry, many bad jokes, late night giggling, early morning moans. Cigarette smoke swirled in atmospheric spirals around us all and we sat with half-closed eyes and laughed until our ribs ached.

Each time we turned to look at Rubirosa, she seemed serene, flowing gracefully over her own stormy seas. For the benefit of the children, she did a cracking routine with a burning butt and a racoon hand puppet. For the benefit of the grown-ups, she adopted a range of accents from Indian takeaway owner who’d been brought up on the outskirts of Glasgow to shepherd from somewhere near Shap to all-singing, all-dancing fully paid up member of the Sloane Rangers’ Handbook Nostalgia club. Guests, children, Bloggiana and I all beamed in her light, and thanked our lucky stars we were able to share it.

But underneath, Rubirosa was not feeling serene at all and when we went to bed on the last night, it transpired that the smiles were rictus grins and the laughter was the other side of sadness and the accents were varying takes on first glimpses of insanity. Rubirosa, we said, trying to hold onto her before her stormy seas washed her out of our sight, don’t be so sad, we said helplessly.

And once they came, Rubirosa’s tears could not stop. They were tears like pearls and tears like stones and tears like thistle heads. Huge tears of pain and grief and gnawing self-recrimination. By the time the tears were in full flow, Bloggiana and I were somewhat muzzy-headed yet that did not ease any of the pain that we felt at seeing the awful terrible degree to which Rubirosa had been wounded. In a trinity, we sat and held hands while the tears flowed. Now and again, Bloggiana withdrew her hand so she could reacquaint her glass with her lips – but it was not for long and we locked ourselves together, hoping that some of our love for our sainted grieving cousin would rub off and bring the dear girl back from the abyss.

Later, as we left Rubirosa to sleep, and headed off to our respective billets, Bloggiana said in a loud voice Fuck it. I mean damn and blast it to buggery, what on earth has got into the man? And, no doubt thinking for a moment of her own recent escape from life-partnership, pointed her lips towards the M6 southbound and blew one parting smoke picture in the air – which I could have sworn depicted a pair of fingers pointing sharply upwards in an unforgiving, uncompromising, distinctly Churchillian V-shape.