Permanent Rose

by Hilary McKay

  ‘What?’ asked Caddy, backing out. ‘Oh Rose! Are you still there? What did you say?’

  ‘I was talking to myself.’

  ‘Sorry! Well, since you are still here, would you like to empty that bucket into a bin bag for me, Rosy Pose?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Could you just hold the bag then, while I do it?’

  ‘No. In case it gets on me.’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘Or in case I have to breathe near it.’

  ‘Hold your breath.’

  ‘I don’t like looking at it either.’

  ‘Rose!’

  ‘Actually, I’m not still here,’ said Rose and disappeared very quickly indoors. There she found Saffron and Sarah searching for food in the kitchen because swimming had made them terribly hungry. Rose came in just in time to hear Sarah ask plaintively, ‘Why ask someone over for supper if there isn’t any supper? What if my mum is making something fantastic and I am missing it for nothing?’

  ‘Go home then,’ said Saffron, as she turned through the pages of the only cookbook Eve possessed (Christmas present from Bill at least four years before and still immaculate). ‘Go home if you like. Or hunt through the fridge and stop moaning! No one’s ever starved here yet!’

  ‘No, but there always has to be a first time,’ said Sarah as she pulled open the fridge door. ‘And think how upset you would be if it was me! (I leave you everything by the way: the entire contents of my bedroom; how inconvenient is that?) There’s practically nothing in this fridge but Diet Coke! Diet Coke and tubes of paint! Why would Eve keep paint in the fridge?’

  ‘Why would anyone?’ asked Saffron. ‘Hello, Rosy Pose! Didn’t see you there! You’re an artist. You will know. Why would Eve keep paint in the fridge?’

  ‘It’s handy there, isn’t it?’ asked Rose, surprised at such a silly question, and they were still laughing when Caddy and Eve came in.

  Eve Casson was a garden-shed artist. She painted pictures in the garden shed, which was her favourite place in the world and contained all the luxuries she could imagine desiring: a shabby pink sofa to go to sleep on, a kettle to make black coffee (instant) and unlimited peace. When she wasn’t in the shed painting pictures of anything that anyone would buy (‘Not exactly Art’ was how Bill described Eve’s pictures), she was teaching at the college, or giving lessons in old people’s homes, or helping young offenders turn into young artists instead. This summer, however, with the college closed until autumn, and the young offenders and old ladies too hot to feel like painting, she had found a new job. Decorating the long grey walls and waiting rooms of the local hospital with inspiring and cheering art.

  ‘I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!’ she moaned, flopping down in a kitchen chair, all sandals and painty cheesecloth. ‘I’m sure I’ll catch something dreadful! Do I smell? I feel like I smell. I wish I’d never said I’d do it! I’d have chucked it weeks ago, but they’re all so grateful! Pass me a drink, Sarah darling, since you are so close to the fridge!’

  Sarah passed her a Diet Coke and Eve took a few huge gulps, topped up the can with gin from a bottle on the windowsill, and felt better.

  ‘I’ve been painting copies of Greek statues all over Geriatrics,’ she told them. ‘Cheered them up no end, all the old men saying, “I Used To Look Like That!” and all the old ladies saying, “Shocking Oh They Are Lovely!” Promise you’ll shoot me, Saffy darling, before I get that old!’

  ‘I promise,’ said Saffron.

  ‘Rose will help you,’ said Eve, taking another swig from her can. ‘Have you had a good day, Rosy Pose? What made you decide to clean off your tattoos?’

  ‘They were admired by that awful boy Indigo knows,’ said Caddy (who had taken off her wellies and yellow gloves but was still having problems with the bikini). ‘That fat one who always smells of sweets…’

  ‘I know. PatrickJoshMarcus,’ said Eve, pouring a little more gin into her Coke.

  ‘David,’ said Saffron, and then she and Rose described David’s arrival in the garden (with embellishments) to Caddy and Eve.

  Eve suggested very solemnly that perhaps in future Saffron might warn people when naked sunbathing was going on in the garden.

  ‘How, exactly?’ enquired Sarah, and Eve said, maybe a little notice on the gate.

  ‘She would have half the town coming to visit,’ observed Caddy.

  ‘Darling, do you think so?’ asked Eve. ‘Yes, you are probably right, if my geriatrics are anything to go by! What are you doing with that horrible book, Saffy? Surely it’s too hot to be hungry…’

  ‘We’re starving to death,’ said Saffron.

  ‘Ring for pizza,’ said Eve.

  ‘What, again?’

  ‘We can have a lovely picnic in the garden,’ said Eve, but it did not turn out to be very lovely. Rose discovered that every pizza had been contaminated with olives and refused to eat any of them. Tom’s name was accidentally mentioned, and Saffron and Sarah began a two-part lament on the subject of how Indigo could have let Tom go back to America without thinking to get his telephone number or address or any other means of communicating with him. Indigo (who had been hearing this all summer) got cross, put on his earphones, turned up the sound on his CD player so loud everyone could hear the buzz and refused to communicate. Eve grew tearful and said, ‘Poor Tom! I blame myself. I should have asked. I am totally inefficient. No wonder Bill feels he needs a break (poor darling)…’

  ‘A break?’ asked Saffron. ‘What a cheek! His life is one long break!’

  ‘A break from me, I meant…’ (Eve blew her nose on a napkin, didn’t know what to do with the napkin, sat on it, looked pleased at solving a problem, and cheered up.) ‘You mustn’t be cross with him, Saffy! He is still your father as much as ever.’

  ‘No he isn’t,’ said Saffron.

  ‘Saffy darling!’ said Eve.

  ‘Bill isn’t my father,’ stated Saffron, so loudly that even Indigo heard. ‘And I have been thinking that I should like to know who is.’

  All Saffron’s family stared at her as if she had suddenly grown horns. Even Rose (who had been eating tomato sauce sandwiches behind a guinea pig hutch in a martyred sort of way) crawled out for a proper look.

  ‘Bill will be back, Saffy darling,’ said Eve, patting her hand. ‘This Samantha thing will pass…’

  Then there was the most tremendous argument about whether the Samantha thing could possibly pass, and what that had to do with Saffy’s father (Nothing, said Saffy), and while they were arguing they covered a lot of other topics as well, such as whether Indigo’s hearing would be damaged by too much music played too loudly in times of stress, and how Rose was allowed to do exactly as she liked, and whether or not Caddy’s lovely Michael should expect her to marry him on the strength of one diamond, ninety-seven driving lessons, a postcard from Spain and several bunches of flowers nicked from the flower beds in the local park, and they probably would have gone on for very much longer if Rose had not suddenly toppled over on the grass.

  Fast asleep.

  Chapter Four

  All summer long Indigo had been saying how ridiculous it was for anyone to expect a letter from Tom.

  ‘He is not the letter writing sort,’ he told Rose. ‘He never wrote a letter to America all the time he was here. Not once! He told me that himself. And he was here for months! Maybe he doesn’t even know how to send a letter.’

  ‘He knows how to write,’ said Rose, who had once received a note from Tom. ‘So.’

  She was a very stubborn person. Every morning she got up early and hung around the street by the front door, hoping. Even when the postman had passed (always without a glance her way), she still waited, just in case he found he had missed a letter and turned back. But he never did.

  That last Tuesday of summer Rose was loitering in the early morning sunlight when Caddy’s Michael came along in his driving instructor’s car. He pulled up a little way before the Casson house, climbed out and crossed to a nearby
garden where he stood, chin in hand, studying with narrowed eyes the roses tangling over the fence. Then he made his decision and reached down. A moment later he was back in his car and driving very slowly along to Rose, steering with his knees while he carefully de-thorned the flower he had just stolen.

  Today it was a pink one.

  Rose had had a rose every morning ever since Michael first noticed her watching for the postman. They had come from gardens all over town. Michael said he was the Early Morning Rose Delivery Service, bringing roses to Roses. So she never had to go in from her postman-loitering empty-handed; she could always go in sniffing a rose.

  ‘Going to be another hot one,’ remarked Michael, as he handed Rose her rose.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The day. So I’m coming round about four-ish for iced tea.’

  ‘Iced tea?’

  ‘With lots of lemon please. That all right?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather have wine?’ asked Rose, thinking of Bill. ‘Or Diet Coke with gin in it like Mummy?’

  ‘No thank you, Rose,’ said Michael, laughing. ‘I’ll see you later then? Four o’clock. No problem?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Rose. She and Michael were very good friends. It was Rose who had gone with him to choose Caddy’s engagement ring. If Michael wanted lemon tea at four o’clock that afternoon, then as far as Rose was concerned, he should have it. Even though until that morning she had never heard of such a thing, couldn’t imagine how it was made, and had a vision of lots of lemons in a teapot which she was sure could not be right.

  ‘Good,’ said Michael, started up his engine as if he was going to drive away, and then seemed to change his mind and turned it off again.

  ‘Rosy Pose?’ he asked.

  ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. I’m not going to get that ring we chose handed back to me, am I?’

  ‘Oh Michael!’

  ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘Would you be very sad if it was?’ asked Rose fearfully.

  ‘Well,’ said Michael. ‘I think it would be fair enough to say I would be a bit sad. Yes.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Take myself off, I suppose.’

  Rose nodded. She supposed he would.

  ‘I notice you did not immediately say, “Michael, I am sure Caddy would never think of such an awful thing!” ’

  ‘I am sure Caddy would not think of such an awful thing!’ said Rose at once, but she said it with her eyes shut and her fingers crossed behind her back.

  Michael noticed this, but he did not ask any more questions. He just smiled and said, ‘Thanks, Rosy Pose. You can open your eyes now.’ And then he drove away.

  Rose sat on the doorstep and she sniffed her rose and she thought about how bad it would be if Caddy gave her diamond ring back to Michael, causing Michael (a bit sadly) to take himself off. Rose had completely and utterly had enough of people taking themselves off that summer. She thought and thought, and after a while she thought of a way to prevent it.

  Caddy could not give back a ring she did not have.

  This solution was so simple she was surprised it had not occurred to her at once. Tom would have thought of it, she was sure. Sir Lancelot would have considered it the obvious thing to do. Now Rose (successful shoplifter and student of archaic chivalry) thought of it too.

  Luck was with her. When she returned to the house Caddy was out of bed and splashing about in the bathroom. Rose searched through Caddy’s bedroom with the ferocious intensity of a dozen burglars and she found Caddy’s diamond ring in its little blue box and she took it out of the box and she stole it.

  ‘I am not really stealing it,’ said Rose to Rose, as she pushed it into her pocket. ‘I am taking it to keep it safe.’

  It sounded good, but it did not feel good. Rose did not need anyone to tell her that if she took someone’s diamond ring without telling them, it was stealing.

  ‘Good stealing,’ said Rose to comfort herself. ‘Like Michael getting my roses. Is that bad stealing? No! This is just the same.’

  That felt much better.

  ‘Anyway, it’s for a very good cause,’ said Rose to Rose.

  Caddy’s ring had come from a jeweller who made his own designs. This was because Rose and Michael, after searching the high street’s shops armed with Michael’s credit card and Rose’s enormous ability to spend other people’s money, had decided that nothing in any of them was good enough for Caddy.

  ‘When I buy diamonds for myself,’ Rose had said at one point, ‘they will be quite big, and they will be in silver rings. Not gold. They will look much starrier in silver.’

  That was why Caddy’s ring was a quite big diamond in platinum, not gold. It looked like a star in a knot of light.

  It burned in the pocket of Rose’s chopped-off jeans. It felt as if she had stolen a flame. She could not stop checking in the mirror to see if the light was shining through.

  ‘You look perfect, darling,’ said Eve, noticing Rose inspecting her reflection for the third time that morning.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Rose. ‘Do you know how to make iced tea?’

  ‘No,’ said Eve, who did not know how to make anything much. ‘I can’t even imagine! It’s probably one of those things that ordinary people can’t do because you need so much equipment. Like cappuccino coffee. And popcorn.’

  Rose said that Sarah’s mother had a cappuccino coffee machine, and a popcorn maker too, but added fairly that she was far too rich to be considered an ordinary person.

  ‘She can’t help being rich,’ said Eve kindly, stirring instant coffee into Diet Coke, a potion she called brain juice, and would never let Rose try. ‘Want to come to the hospital this morning and help me paint pictures on the wall?’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Rose, fiddling with the ring in her pocket.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten what we said about not going into town on your own?’

  One of the things that had emerged during the huge noisy conversation the night before was the fact that (not for the first time) Rose had wandered off into town all by herself. And all Rose’s family except Rose agreed that nine years old was much too young for such behaviour.

  (‘But I am not nine!’ Rose had protested, and very nearly fooled them. Until they remembered she was eight.)

  ‘Rosy Pose?’ repeated Eve, who was waking up a bit more now. ‘About going into town? You haven’t forgotten?’

  Rose did not say whether she had forgotten or not, but she suddenly noticed how tired Eve was looking and hugged her, although she was not generally a great hugger.

  ‘Are you sad because Saffy wants to know who her father was?’ she asked.

  Eve paused for a moment, and then she sighed and said, ‘I suppose I always guessed she would.’

  ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Linda never told me. She was in Italy, and I was in England. Too far away. She never said a word until Saffy was born.’

  ‘But she was your sister!’

  ‘I know. And we always shared everything when we were growing up. But it was different when she went away.’

  ‘Did you quarrel?’

  ‘No, no, no! I missed her very much. I still do. I always will. But you don’t know how difficult it is, Rose, to stay a part of someone’s life when they are suddenly far away.’

  ‘Yes I do!’ said Rose at once. ‘Daddy went away. And Caddy goes off for weeks and weeks to university. And now Tom.’

  ‘I suppose you do know then,’ agreed Eve. ‘So you can understand how it was for Linda and me. Now then! Hospital! I’ve finished my rude nudes for the oldies, thank goodness! Back to the children’s ward today! Much more cheerful! I keep thinking of new pictures for them. What are you going to do with yourself, Rose?’

  ‘Can I draw on the wall by the stairs?’

  Eve said of course she could, gave her a handful of crayons and charcoal to experiment with, kissed the top of her head, and left for the hospital. Rose sat on the bottom stair and on
the wall beside drew a little ship sailing through a starry night towards a beach. She used a blue crayon for the ship, and the charcoal for the silky shadows on the sails, and the silky ripples on the sea. Then she hitched herself up a stair higher, found a red crayon instead of blue, and began to draw Lancelot getting out of his window.

  Rose was the real artist of the Casson family. More than Eve, who really preferred sleeping to Art. More than Bill, who had his own studio in London, exhibitions in all sorts of expensive and exclusive places, and his own website where anyone who wanted could admire samples of his Art and read for free his modest remarks on inspiration, respect, and the importance of not being swept away by public acclaim.

  Rose drew and painted the way other people daydream. She did not need an audience, and she did not care very much what anyone thought. She was very much in everyone’s way drawing on the stairs, but her family all stepped around her without too much fuss. They knew she did not like drawing on paper.

  The stairs were a very good place for waylaying people. Rose waylaid Saffron, who told her how to make iced tea, a skill which she had learned from Sarah’s mother, and supervised while Rose did it in an ordinary glass jug with no special equipment at all.

  ‘You have to remember to take the tea bags out,’ she told her, ‘and you need to put in a tiny bit of sugar or else it tastes of leather. And it’s better with lemon slices. Then you just put it in the fridge until it’s really cold. That’s it! You can go back to your stair! Want to come to Sarah’s with me for lunch? Sarah’s mother said we could.’

  ‘Yes please, but not now.’

  ‘Later then.’

  Caddy was the next person to be stopped by Rose. She fell right over her, which she admitted at once was her own fault for not looking where she was going. Caddy had found her old address book, and was looking up past boyfriends.

  ‘They must have been OK,’ she said, rubbing her shins and sitting down to chat. ‘Or else why would I have kept their names? But I can’t seem to remember so many of them! Who on earth was J Hamster?’

  ‘He was ages ago,’ said Rose at once. ‘His name was Jeff and he gave you a hamster. So Indy and Saffron and me used to call him J Hamster. Don’t you remember?’