You'd Have to Be a Rosie
I swear, this was written back in 2018, but it might almost be a follow-up to BlackberryHoney's Aeroplane Noises and the Lesser Antilles, for which I don't quite know whether to apologize or not.
...
It was not Erzulie's week, but Fidel had gotten Juliet out of the house for a romantic date nevertheless. Camille and her date – one Henri, the son of a very old friend of Catherine's – had run into them as they made the rounds of the restaurants that stayed open late, and for a while they had become a foursome.
Yet another blind date. Henri was funny, handsome and successful, an intelligent and cheerful man very conscious of the special lady he was with. Maman would be in heaven if her daughter and the son of her old friend would fall in love and marry and have grandchildren. But for Camille, Henri was, well, lacking.
Catherine would fuss and accuse her daughter of saying every man she picked for her was lacking in some way: not handsome enough, not tall enough, not pleasant enough, not suave enough, and the list went on forever. "What can you be looking for, ma chère? There is no perfect man, surely you know that? I suppose what you'd really want would be . . ."
And there it always ended, because Catherine wouldn't go there. And Camille would shrug and grin, batting her eyes, and get off once more.
Henri was a professional guide, with his own touring boat around the islands, and the next morning he had an important party to sail to Marie-Galante and Guadeloupe. He apologized profusely, but he really did have to leave his beautiful date to prepare for the next day, and Camille charmingly let him, even allowing him to kiss her good night, on the cheek.
That happened as Fidel and Juliet were turning their own steps toward home and their baby daughter Rosie, whose sitter would no doubt be impatient to get home himself. Camille had glanced once at Juliet before they left Catherine's, and Juliet had nodded, smiling secretly. As soon as Henri was gone and Catherine had stepped into the back office, Camille slipped out of the bar and followed her friends.
Fidel pretended not to know. He escorted his lovely wife to their small home up the hill from the boulevard, unlocked the door and carefully left it so. They stepped inside to a happy silence; Rosie asleep. Not such a miracle anymore, since they had given up on Mama Cornelia or Aunty Giselle, and opted for the infrequent but always reliable services of one of the Met's finest.
Their small sitting room was on one side of the hallway, and Rosie's little nursery on the other, further along the hall toward the back. Juliet went there, and Fidel stepped into the sitting room to await their coming guest. Once through the door he paused, a fond grin spreading over his face.
"Fidel!" That was Juliet, hurrying from the nursery. "Rosie is not in her cot! Our child –"
"Perfectly safe," her husband murmured back.
Rosie was asleep, face down, part of her tiny right hand crammed into her mouth. She slept on the stomach of DI Richard Poole, who in turn slept stretched out in the best armchair with the matching ottoman, wearing the full suit with the jacket wide open, his brown hair tousled. He had been reading at one time, but the book had long ago fallen to the floor. One arm dangled above it over the chair side; the other hand was resting protectively on the baby.
As Juliet watched, the Inspector's normally firm mouth slackened just a little, enough to threaten a snore, but the intake of air woke him first. "Promise that a . . . wha' . . . oh, it's you lot."
"Good evening, sir," Fidel said gently. Juliet was too busy wishing for a photo of this scene.
"About what time do you call this, hm?" Poole was going on, quietly, his eyes still half-closed. "Fussing for hours, no let-up." His pronunciation was slightly imperfect, his light drawl falling off even as he complained.
"Sorry, sir," said Fidel. "Sorry, Inspector," Juliet echoed.
"Mmm," said Poole, dropping off.
Juliet carefully took up the baby, returning her to her cot under the mosquito netting. Fidel thought of the shadow he knew was approaching through the dark, and leaned over his boss, ahemming.
"Wha' –?"
"Time to go home, sir."
"Ah. Yes." In a moment Poole's length began to bend up from the armchair, then fell back with a humph. He growled softly and pulled himself up, waving away Fidel's outstretched hand. "I can manage, Fidel. Not decrepit – oww."
"Sir?"
"Nothing to worry . . . just can't – bloody – move."
Camille would come in at that moment, stopping in the sitting room doorway and clapping her hands over her mouth to hold back the laugh. Her boss was half-out of an armchair, his pale English face not happy. Fidel was saying something about his father who had showed him a trick once, while gently levering his chief to his feet.
Poole was bent at a perfect sixty-degree angle, and so caught sight of only the very nice pair of legs in the doorway. From them he recognized their owner, and groaned softly. "Of course. I knew it. The universe hates me. Always has."
"Just one moment, Chief." Fidel was maneuvering behind.
"Oh, poor Richard!" said Camille, grinning wickedly and coming forward to help.
A forefinger shot up into the air sternly. "Stay where you are, Sergeant. Officer Best will – oh!"
Fidel had knitted his arms around Poole's shoulders and jerked him upright. A soft snicking noise followed, and Richard Poole was casually shaking out his wrinkled jacket. "Well done, Fidel. And you had a pleasant evening –?" If he pretended it hadn't happened, maybe . . .
No use, of course. Fidel was properly modest about it, but Camille was giggling helplessly. Poole was going to have to pay, somehow; he saw it coming. "God bless Mr Best," he said, straightening his tie, "not the least for raising a son who doesn't think this is funny!"
A distant cry cut in at that moment, and Juliet was coming down the hall, baby-less. "She's awake! I'm so sorry, Inspector, but she heard the voices and she won't stop fussing."
"Ah, well, you have my sympathy, Juliet." Poole ran a hand over his hair, ruffling it further, and began casting around for his book. "I made it about three minutes on average before she would settle down with me." He threw a sharp glance at Camille, wondering how long she had been standing there, and so missed Juliet's smile and Fidel's impressed face.
By the time he found Giving Up the Gun, all three of them were where they had been, looking at him. "What?" he asked, buttoning the jacket.
Fidel took the easiest thing to say. "It takes me ten minutes to get Rosie to sleep."
Juliet went next. "Rosie really does love you, sir."
Camille dearly wanted to add something like 'We all do,' or 'Who doesn't?' or perhaps something more telling, but contented herself with "Time's getting on, sir. The Commissioner's weekly visit is tomorrow." She smiled dazzlingly.
Ugh, thought Poole. He looked at their faces, sighed heavily, tossed the book in the chair and moved down the hall to the nursery, saying "Ay, ay, ay, ay," softly to himself.
Juliet immediately went to Camille and began whispering to her, describing in detail the scene in the sitting room. They were so gushy about it that Fidel thoughtfully moved into the kitchen next door, checking. Sometimes the refrigerator cut out, if it was not pulled open regularly.
He heard the baby's tiny wail, and the quiet reassuring tones of his chief, soothing her in vain; he even heard the creak as weight was put on the side of the cot nearest the door. The Inspector would be leaning over it, perhaps patting Rosie's stomach. Fidel poured himself a glass of water, and by the time he had it ready to drink, the voice from the nursery had changed to a soft, honeyed crooning.
You'd have to be a Rosie, you couldn't be a Jane.
It fits you like a glove, and my love, if you ever find fortune or fame,
Still you'll be my Rosie, timeless as the tide,
Pretty as a picture of innocence, taking the world in her stride.
Fidel crept out across the hallway to the door of the nursery, the water in his hand. The melody was laid-back and lilting, like something that could be sung to a guitar. The Chief was leaning over the cot rail, with Rosie gazing up at him, one long finger clutched in her hand.
You'd have to be a Rosie, not Joy or Marguerite;
A rose by any other name could only be half as sweet.
Fidel turned and waved the approaching women to silence. The Chief's back was to them all and the moment was too precious to spoil. Besides, if it put the baby to sleep it might make for a quiet night.
Waking with the evening, dreaming with the dawn,
Say you'll be my one-in-a-million Rosie without a thorrrr . . .
At this point a yawn disrupted the tune, and half a fist closed it off. Obediently the baby yawned in reply, then blinked, still with her eyes fixed on the singer. "Hunnn. Where were we? Ah, yes . . ."
You'd have to be a Rosie, it suits you to a T.
You're a girl who bends with the wind, letting her heart run free;
Juliet put out a hand in the dark hallway for Camille and found her still as stone, her head leaning against the wall as she watched. In the dim light from the nursery lamp her face was soft but sad, her eyes glowing with dreams.
Promise that as long as I live, you'll run your rings 'round me.
Camille felt Juliet's hand creep into hers in a show of sympathy, and gave a reassuring shake in return, but she couldn't take her eyes from the profile against the lamplight, gazing down into the cot. Yesterday they had put a gang of drug-runners away, and Richard had faced down the last of them, even though the man was armed. Then he'd run him into the sand on the beach and cuffed him, cautioning him with the same voice he was using now to soothe a restless baby to sleep.
Henri was lacking indeed.
Poole yawned again and Rosie yawned, her eyelids drooping. "Sorry. All right, just once more. I'm supposed to be an authority on this island, not a child-minder. Loosen that grip, will you? Here we go, then . . . 'You'd have to be a Rosie . . .' "
...
NOTE: As far as I can trace it, the song Richard sings was written by Bob Barrett and Ed Welch for a 1974 television pilot that was not picked up. It was copyright 1979, the same year the book Giving Up the Gun by Noel Perrin was published.
"You'd Have to Be a Rosie" was performed by the King's Singers on the album New Day (1990). You can hear it on Spotify.