by Hilary McKay
‘Kind, and a bit thick,’ agreed Saffron, watching as the gold letters faded off the screen. ‘Thinks he’s an artist, and so do lots of other people…Here comes his photo! Just look at that smile!’
‘It’s the Casson smile,’ said Sarah, ‘you all do it. Like you don’t want to smile, but you can’t help it. Slow, and then suddenly there. And a little bit guilty. I call it the Casson smile. Devastating…Come on then! Here’s the menu: Reviews, Site Map, Gallery, News! Which do we want?’
‘Not the reviews,’ said Saffron. ‘I’ve seen them. They are full of stuff about emotional honesty and Scandinavian Roots (which are the thing to have, as every one knows). Open up News. See what he’s up to.’
News was a list of exhibitions, past and future. London, Copenhagen, Stockholm (‘He really is digging for his Scandinavian roots, isn’t he!’ commented Sarah. ‘Nearly North Pole!’), Munich, New York.
‘No wonder he hardly ever gets home,’ said Saffron. ‘Now look in the Gallery! There’s a picture of a carton of milk and a hat called Darkness Returning…’
At the same time as Saffron and Sarah were commenting rudely on their relations’ websites (and Eve was making sketches of everyone’s teddy bears in the hospital Children’s Ward, and Bill was checking out hotels in New York, and Michael was wistfully admiring the enormous motorbike beside him at a red traffic light, and Caddy was hunting for her diamond ring, and Indigo was telephoning David and getting his mother instead), while all these people were doing all these things, Rose was standing, still with fear, on the back doorstep of an empty house.
She could see no one, and she could hear no one, but she was still afraid. She wished Sir Lancelot (or even better Tom) would jump out of a window and save her from whatever it was hiding among the trees. But Lancelot didn’t and neither did Tom, and nor did anyone else.
So Rose had to save herself and she jumped from the step, swerved round the side of the house, skidded and went sprawling on slippery dried yew needles, sprang up again, made it to the gate, heard something fall: Caddy’s ring which had worked its way out of her pocket, grabbed it up (grazing her knuckles), clutched it tight and didn’t stop running until she reached Sarah’s house, and saw Sarah’s mother, watering tubs of blue and white flowers on the front porch, cool and immaculate and organised.
‘Rose!’ exclaimed Sarah’s mother when she saw her, and put down her watering can and took her straight to the kitchen. There she bathed her bleeding knees and hands, fetched her orange juice and paper hankies, and tactfully didn’t notice that Rose was transferring something from hand to hand and trying not to cry.
‘Whatever happened?’ she asked at last.
‘I fell over.’
‘Does anyone know you are here?’
‘Caddy and Indigo do,’ said Rose, and was very thankful that this happened to be true. ‘I thought Saffy was here.’
‘She’s upstairs with Sarah,’ said Sarah’s mother, passing Rose the kitchen telephone. ‘Just give Caddy or Indigo a quick call to let them know we have you safe, and then you can go up to find them.’
Sarah’s mother was used to being obeyed, so Rose rang quite meekly and said, ‘Hullo, Indigo, I’m at Sarah’s.’
‘I know you are,’ said Indigo on the other end of the line.
‘He says he knows I am,’ related Rose to Sarah’s mother.
‘Does Caddy?’ asked Sarah’s mother.
‘Sarah’s mum says, Does Caddy?’ Rose told Indigo.
‘You know she does!’ said Indigo, sounding so surprised that Sarah’s mother heard him too. She laughed and said, ‘All right, Rose! I’m sorry! I fuss too much. Sarah tells me so every day. Tell Indigo I fuss too much!’
Rose passed this message on, and then said Goodbye very quickly and put the phone down. She had not lied to Indigo, or to Sarah’s kind mother, but she felt like she had. She tried to give Sarah’s mother something good, to make up for having deceived her.
‘Do you know about Lancelot and the dragon and the lady who was in the bath for five years?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Sarah’s mother packing up her first aid box. ‘Lovely stories. Legends.’
‘Legends?’
‘Like Santa Cl—’ Sarah’s mother suddenly stopped, and looked at Rose, and Rose could see her wondering whether there still was a Santa Claus in Rose’s world. ‘Well, not like Santa Claus…I didn’t mean to say that…Like…who brings you Easter eggs, Rose? The Easter bunny?’
Rose said she didn’t think so, and Sarah’s mother looked relieved and said, ‘Well, like that!’ and shooed Rose out of the kitchen.
Rose plodded up the stairs very slowly so as not to crease the beautiful new plasters on her knees, pushed open Sarah’s door, walked into the cardboard film star, and said, ‘Hello! What are you laughing at?’
‘Come and look!’ said Sarah, and turned the computer screen so that Rose could see the extremely long list of people Bill felt must be thanked for encouragement and inspiration. Mozart and Michelangelo were listed (with dates), but Eve, Caddy, Saffron, Indigo and Rose were all lumped together in one brief comment: And of course my wonderful family.
‘No mention at all of me!’ said Sarah.
Joking about Bill (‘We found him while we were looking for Saffy’s father’), making sandwiches for lunch in the kitchen, hurrying home to give Michael his iced tea (‘Some people slice the lemons; some don’t,’ remarked Michael), explaining that Caddy had suddenly rushed off, no one knew where, or why (‘If you say so, Rosy Pose,’ said Michael sadly); all these things pushed the frighteningness of the morning further and further back in Rose’s mind.
By bedtime the memory was hardly scary at all. Hardly scary, but very puzzling. A lingering feeling of being watched from behind traced up and down Rose’s spine like a finger.
Someone was there, she thought. I am sure someone was there, but it could not have been anyone bad. Nobody shouted at me, or chased after me, or tried to stop me getting away.
In the middle of the night, tossing and turning, too hot to sleep, she thought, Perhaps it was Tom.
Rose sat up in bed to think about this idea properly.
Tom had not wanted to go home to America. Perhaps he had found a way to come back. Perhaps he did not telephone or write because he was already here. Secretly here. That would be so like Tom.
The more Rose thought about it, the more it seemed that this must be true, until in the end she got up and crept into Indigo’s room and shook him awake.
‘Indy!’ she whispered.
‘What? What?’ groaned Indigo, flinging up his arms as if to defend himself, still three-quarters asleep.
‘Wake up!’
‘Oh, not now, Rose! OK, OK, I am awake! You can stop banging me about! What is it?’
‘Indy, do you think Tom is here all the time?’
‘Have you been having weird dreams, Rose?’
‘No. I’ve been thinking. What if Tom is back at his old house, living secretly. Do you think he could be? Will you come with me to look?’
‘Don’t be daft, Rose!’
‘Is it daft?’
‘You know it is. Listen.’ Indigo sat up and switched on his bedside light. ‘Think, how Tom left. On the first flight they could get him. Rushing, because his sister was so ill and he might be too late…’
‘He didn’t care a bit about her until she got ill,’ interrupted Rose.
‘I know,’ agreed Indigo. ‘He’d been horrible about her. And that made it ten times worse for him. And as well, he knew we knew.’
‘What does that matter?’
‘I think maybe that’s why we haven’t heard from him. Maybe he wants to forget about all the stuff that happened when he was over here.’
‘We are the stuff that happened when he was over here!’ said Rose indignantly. ‘He can’t forget about us! And we can’t forget about him. Forgetting is not that easy. So!’
‘Well, he knows where we are. Any time he likes he can get in touch. He knows we’re still here.�
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Indigo switched off his bedside light as if that was the end of the discussion. Rose switched it on again.
‘How does he know we are still here? He might think we want to forget about him. Like you think he might want to forget about us. He might be thinking, Maybe they don’t want to find me.’
‘We can’t find him!’ said Indigo. ‘We don’t know where to begin. We’ll just have to wait.’
‘We’ve waited all summer. Nothing has happened. It’s like a game. Someone is going to have to go first!’
‘And do what?’
‘Just say, It’s OK. Just say, I’m still here.’
‘Good old Permanent Rose,’ said Indigo. ‘Go back to bed now, though. Take this with you if you like. It’ll send you to sleep!’
He pulled Morte D’Arthur out from under his pillow, handed it to her and lay down and shut his eyes.
‘Night, night,’ he said firmly.
Reluctantly Rose went back to her own bed and looked at the book. The cover picture showed Arthur marrying Guinevere. They both looked terribly worried, and so did the watching congregation. Peering closely, Rose noticed that Guinevere’s crown was slipping over one ear and Arthur had forgotten to put on his shoes. Lancelot was nowhere in sight. Rose decided he was probably outside with Percival and the lion. She imagined them together, sitting on the church steps, chatting like friends:
‘Did you see their faces when you turned up with a lion?’
‘Typical Arthur, forgetting his shoes!’
I will read it, decided Rose determinedly, and she opened the book and peered inside it like someone might peer into a dirty paper bag. The usual repulsive grey print leered up at her in the dim light.
‘Sir,’ she deciphered, with great difficulty, ‘Sir-she-said…-I-am-aclean…-I-am-a-clean…-Mad…-A-clean-Maddn…-Maddn! -Maddn!’ What’s a maddn?’
Rose climbed out of bed again.
‘What’s a maddn?’
‘Gosh!’ moaned Indigo, blinking in the sudden light. ‘Are you back? That’s my foot you’re sitting on!’
‘Sorry.’
‘This had better be good, Rosy Pose.’
‘I only want to know what a maddn is. It says, Sir-she-said-I-am-…a-a-clean-maddn…’ You told me to read it!’
‘Show me then,’ groaned Indigo, holding out his hand, and when Rose had pointed he took the book and read, ‘ “Sir,” she said, “I am a clean maiden!” Oh! Actually, Rose, I don’t know if you should be reading this bit!’
‘Why? Is it rude?’ asked Rose hopefully.
‘Well. Not sure, let me look! Oh. Luckily nothing happens this time! There’s this knight fast asleep, who wakes up to find some girl has climbed into bed beside him.’
‘And then does she tell him she’s a clean maiden?’
‘Yep.’
‘That’s a funny thing to say in the middle of the night!’
‘Mmmm.’
‘Was he cross?’
‘He was annoyed but polite,’ said Indigo. ‘And he said, Fair damsel, arise out of this bed or else I will! ’
‘Read that again!’
‘Arise out of this bed or else I will! ’
‘Me or her?’
‘Both of you,’ said Indigo firmly
Chapter Six
On Wednesday Rose’s rose from the Early Morning Rose Delivery Service was small and red, with golden stamens.
‘Stick it behind your ear,’ ordered Michael, ‘like this!’ and he leaned over so that Rose could see that he too had a small red rose, fastened behind his left ear.
‘Gorgeous, or what?’ he asked.
Michael had smooth black hair, fastened in a ponytail with a red elastic band. Also narrow dark eyes, a gold earring and a faded red shirt.
‘Did you pick that rose to match your shirt?’ asked Rose.
‘Rose, I did.’
‘It’s just right.’
Michael nodded.
‘But you don’t look a bit like a driving instructor.’
‘Good.’
‘Don’t you like being a driving instructor?’
‘No.’
‘Why d’you do it, then?’
‘For money. Why d’you do the things you do, Rose?’
Rose, watching the postman walk past the Casson house without stopping, did not reply.
‘For love,’ said Michael, answering himself.
At the beginning of the summer Eve had asked Sarah, ‘What do children in hospital want more than anything?’
Sarah was a good person to ask. When she was younger, she had been in and out of hospital for weeks on end. She knew exactly what children in hospital want.
‘Home,’ she said.
All summer Eve had been collecting pictures of home for the children’s ward. She had a big folder full of sketches of washing on lines, cats on sofas, and dogs in gardens. She had sketched cluttered bathrooms, coat hooks overflowing with coats, beds with the teddies still in them and beds that had fallen in heaps on the floor. Also she drew brothers in boots surrounded by mugs and crisp packets, sisters in baths with bubbles up to their necks, fathers shaving while eating toast and mothers on the phone drinking coffee. The walls and corridors of the children’s ward were now bright with copies of these pictures.
Eve showed her collection to Sarah when she arrived after breakfast that Wednesday morning.
‘They are perfect,’ said Sarah, turning the pictures one by one. ‘Exactly what I meant! Eve, Dad said to tell you that you are all invited to a barbecue tomorrow night. It’s for Mum’s birthday. And do you think I could borrow your kitchen this morning to make a birthday cake? I’ve brought all the stuff and Saffy said she’d help.’
Eve said of course she could, and stayed at home a little longer to add another picture to her collection, a kitchen table with a birthday cake being constructed upon it. Eve drew, Rose ate cherries soaked in brandy, and Saffron and Sarah broke eggs, melted chocolate and golden syrup into a dark and sticky goo, scattered flour everywhere and reported the progress they had made in finding Saffron’s father.
‘We’re more or less positive he’s a very rich Italian living in Venice with no one to spend his money on,’ said Sarah, whisking egg whites so vigorously they flew into the air. ‘Does that sound possible, Eve?’
Eve said cheerfully that it sounded more than possible. In fact, exactly the sort of man her darling sister Linda would have been least able to resist. ‘And neither would I,’ she added honestly, brushing egg white off her sketch.
‘I can’t imagine either of you being much good at resisting,’ commented Saffron. ‘Not like Sarah and me who are cultivating hearts of stone. Was your mother an unresisting kind of person, Sarah?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Sarah, licking cake mixture off her fingers. ‘We’ll ask her at her birthday party if you like. So, yes, rich Italian living in Venice, all we need now is a name.’
‘We’ll search the house while this cake is in the oven,’ said Saffron. ‘There must be stuff hanging about that came from Italy when I did. Letters and things…Do you know where they are, Eve?’
Eve, suddenly looking noticeably less happy, paused before she answered. ‘There’s a whole box full of that sort of thing on top of my wardrobe. Bill sorted it out and put it there years ago. I’ve never looked, it felt too much like prying, but somehow I don’t think you’ll find a rich Italian there, Saffy. Why not leave it a bit longer?’
‘Eve!’ said Sarah. ‘Don’t you want to know who Saffy’s father is?’
‘Not really,’ admitted Eve, as she began to pack up her drawing things. ‘Actually, not at all! Look at the time! I must be off to the horrible hospital…Well, of course it’s not horrible, but I am always so afraid I will catch a glimpse of B. L. O. O. D. And faint. Who’s looking after you, Rosy Pose?’
‘I’m looking after myself,’ said Rose.
‘Sarah and I will take her swimming,’ said Saffron, ‘as soon as we’ve finished this cake and…’ She hesitated, se
arching for the right words.
‘Tracked down your rich Venetian papa?’ suggested Sarah. ‘If you eat any more of those cherries, Rose, you’ll be too drunk to come swimming.’
‘I don’t want to go swimming,’ objected Rose.
‘You have to learn,’ Sarah told her, producing an enormous baking tin and beginning to ladle it full of cake mixture. ‘Me and Saffy checked out Venice on the internet. It looks the easiest place in the world to drown.’
‘I’m not going to drown,’ said Rose, rather indistinctly because she was sucking a cake spoon. ‘Because I’m not going to go there. So. I think this cake is going to be too chocolatey.’
‘Nothing can ever be too chocolatey, can it Eve?’ asked Sarah.
‘Of course not,’ said Eve, but she glanced a little doubtfully into the cake tin.
‘What on earth have you been making?’ asked Caddy, coming in and peering over Sarah’s shoulder. ‘It looks absolutely poisonous!’
‘It does, but it isn’t,’ Sarah told her. ‘At least I really hope not, because it’s Mum’s birthday surprise! And it’s all finished except we have to fill it with cream and cherries, and ice it with fudge and stick on forty-five candles. There’ll be room, I doubled the recipe. I’ll just sprinkle on our surprise secret ingredient and then someone can shove it in the oven for me.’
‘I always say a little prayer when I put cakes in the oven,’ remarked Eve, as she stooped to kiss Rose goodbye.
‘What do you say?’
‘I say, Please God don’t let me forget I’ve put that cake in the oven. Bye bye, everyone! Lovely rose, Rose!’
‘From Michael,’ said Rose, and Caddy groaned and said, ‘Don’t talk about Michael! I’m sure I’ve lost that frightful ring and when I telephoned him to ask him if it was insured he said, “You can’t put a price on love. Of course it’s not insured, I never thought you’d take it off!” What’s the matter, Rose?’
Rose was frantically searching the pocket where she knew she had put the ring. Then she searched the one where she knew she hadn’t. Then she rushed upstairs and grovelled all over her bedroom floor, found it, stuffed it back in her pocket and lay on her bed with her eyes tight shut, waiting for her heart to stop pounding. She discovered she felt sick.