Rose Rivers

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘Yes, but not this girl – a friend of Miss Pamela and Lucinda-May and Cecily,’ he insisted. ‘What’s Mrs Feynsham-Jones going to say, eh?’

  Mrs Feynsham-Jones said quite a lot. She sent the stable boy running for her doctor and had me carried up to Pamela’s room and laid on her bed.

  ‘You poor dear soul, try to bear up,’ she said, holding my hand.

  ‘Will I send for her mother, madam?’ asked a maid.

  ‘I think the doctor had better examine her first. We will have to tell poor Rose’s mama very sensitively. She’s rather an invalid and suffers from nerves,’ said Mrs Feynsham-Jones.

  I felt very apprehensive about the doctor’s visit. I remembered the time Algie played at being a tightrope walker along the top of a wall and over-estimated his balancing skills. He dislocated his shoulder and screamed blue murder when the doctor put it back into place. I didn’t want my leg to be manipulated in such a brutal way. The cramp had faded anyway.

  I knew I should tell Mrs Feynsham-Jones that I was perfectly all right, just a little bumped and bruised. However, the doctor arrived surprisingly quickly, before I could manufacture a miraculous recovery. I told him that I was feeling much better now, but he prodded and pressed me all over anyway. Thank goodness he didn’t decide anything needed to be manipulated.

  ‘Keep her lying down for half an hour, and tell her nurse to keep an eye on her during the night to make sure there’s no relapse. But she should be as right as rain,’ he told Mrs Feynsham-Jones. Then he nodded at me. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, I’m sure they’ll make a horsewoman of you yet.’

  I was determined never to go near a horse again. I realized I hadn’t even studied the construction of Marker’s legs. I had just looked at them warily in case they started kicking out at me.

  ‘Stay here quietly, Rose,’ said Mrs Feynsham-Jones. ‘The girls will be back from their ride before long.’

  I soon got bored. I sat up gingerly, and then eased myself off the bed. I could walk perfectly well, thank goodness. I didn’t even have a limp. I gave a great sigh of relief and wandered around Pamela’s room, peering at her belongings. She seemed to care for reading more than vacant Lucinda-May: she actually had a bookcase, though she didn’t have many proper books, just a pristine leather-bound set of Mr Dickens’s novels. It didn’t look as if she’d read any of them. I wondered if she would let me borrow one or two. After all, she’d let me borrow her riding skirt, and seemed surprisingly fond of me all of a sudden.

  I bent down to examine the bottom shelf. It was mostly dreary fashion journals, but she also had some big bound volumes of the Girl’s Own Paper. They have proper stories in them, and I like reading the advice columns because the girls have such trivial problems and the adviser is so sharp with them.

  I picked out last year’s volume, and perched carefully on the end of Pamela’s bed with it. I usually sat cross-legged, but my right leg was still throbbing. I started flicking through the pages for the first column of tart answers.

  IRISH GIRL: We cannot decipher your letter because your handwriting is appalling.

  KEEN TO PROSPER: It is unattractive for a young girl to seek to earn a great deal of money.

  DESIREE: If you want to know how to make an Apple Charlotte, you should obtain a recipe in the cheapest cookery book published.

  LOVELORN: We do not approve of hankering after such an unsuitable gentleman. You cannot be a well-brought-up girl. Do try to curb your romantic nature.

  There were dried flowers inserted between several of the pages. Pamela definitely had a romantic nature. Then a letter slithered from between the pages. I stared at the dashing black copperplate. I knew that handwriting! I turned the letter over to see the signature, hoping I was somehow mistaken … But no, there it was, plain for all to see, with the distinctive flourish of the t at the end. Rupert.

  I READ THE letter and returned it to the annual, which I thrust onto the bookshelf. I lay back on the bed, wrapping my arms around me, rocking to and fro to distract myself. Beth rocks in exactly the same way. I never understood why before.

  I can’t remember the letter word for word, but the beginning and end are seared on my heart.

  My dear Pamela. And then: Your loving friend, Rupert.

  LOVING, LOVING, LOVING, LOVING, LOVING.

  It wasn’t exactly a love letter. Rupert didn’t wax lyrical about the arch of her eyebrow, the long line of her neck, the curl of her blonde hair. Rupert wrote about himself, not Pamela. There was a long paragraph about the other boys in his form. He dismissed most as swots or saps, but said there were two capital fellows called Hardy and Martin, and the three of them got up to all sorts of japes.

  He mentioned one of the prefects, Mackinley, who seemed a lordly sort of fellow. It was apparently Rupert’s job to cook sausages for his breakfast. There was a great deal about food – the beefsteak pudding at lunch and then herrings for Mackinley’s tea, though Rupert and the capital fellows had to make do with bread and jam.

  There were complaints about the hardness of his school bed and the thinness of his blankets, and a passage about his charwoman and her adenoids. It was supposed to be comical, but it sounded unpleasantly mocking.

  The last sentence was the worst:

  School is all right, I suppose, but this first half seems endless because I’m missing you.

  I cannot bear it. Rupert isn’t missing me at all. He hasn’t even bothered to write to me. He’s written to Pamela instead. He’s missing her, though he hardly knows her.

  There was a great fuss when I got home. Mama insisted I spend the night in the green guest room so that Nurse Budd could keep an eye on me. I hated this idea, but at least I would get to see how she treated Beth. There was an argument about whether Beth could take Marigold to bed with her.

  ‘It would be such a shame to spoil her hair and her lovely silk frock,’ said Nurse Budd.

  ‘Papa said that Beth should be allowed to take her to bed,’ I said.

  Nurse Budd sighed. ‘Well, Miss Rose, we must do as your papa says – though I think he’ll regret it when this lovely doll is ruined,’ she said.

  ‘Ruined?’ said Beth anxiously.

  ‘Now now, Miss Beth, no need to get worked up,’ said Nurse Budd. ‘I think it’s dosing time, my dear.’

  She went over to the washstand and unlocked a small leather case with black bottles neatly stacked inside. ‘Open wide for your nice medicine, Miss Beth.’

  ‘Nice medicine,’ said Beth, her mouth gaping like a baby bird’s.

  I was astonished. Whenever Nurse tried to dose Beth with castor oil she screamed blue murder and spat it straight out. Now Beth swallowed this dark sticky potion eagerly and even licked the spoon.

  ‘What is that medicine?’ I asked. ‘And why are you giving it to her? She isn’t ill.’

  ‘It’s only Godfrey’s Cordial, Miss Rose. Lovely and soothing – and look at the label: it’s so safe it’s recommended for little babies,’ said Nurse Budd, showing me. She even pulled out the cork so that I could have a sniff. It smelled strongly of treacle.

  ‘I should keep it well away from Algie if I were you,’ I said.

  I settled down to sleep. I dreaded Nurse Budd peering at me during the night, but she was soon snoring steadily. So was Beth. I stayed wide awake, thinking about Rupert and Pamela. I needed soothing too. I felt like taking a swig of Godfrey’s Cordial myself.

  Your loving friend.

  The phrase seemed to be scrawled on the insides of my eyelids so that I could see it awake or asleep.

  Why did Rupert think so much of Pamela? She was more than a year older than him and deadly dull. When we were forced to take tea with the Feynsham-Joneses, Rupert had talked to her, but kept rolling his eyes at me to show how bored he was.

  He couldn’t be bothered to write to me, his twin sister, his closest companion, his best friend since birth, but he wrote to Pamela. Had they been secretly meeting during the summer? When he came home for his first half holiday, would he
want to see her? What about Christmas? Would he go skating on the Round Pond and select a Christmas tree from the market and build a snowman with her?

  ANGUISHED SISTER: Your handwriting is so appalling we can scarcely decipher it. Writing by candlelight is no excuse! We feel you are making a ridiculous fuss about nothing. Your brother is free to write to whomever he wishes, as long as his letters are perfectly proper. Jealousy is not a becoming trait in a young lady.

  They didn’t really write this – I was just imagining it. I knew I was being ridiculous. I’ve always known that Rupert would one day become interested in girls, though he always claimed that they irritated him, especially the niminy-piminy ones. I’d thought I was the only girl he cared for.

  He’d said so the morning he left for school. He swaggered about in his new smart clothes, and seemed very lively at breakfast, but I noticed he ate very little. Half an hour later I heard him being sick in the downstairs water closet.

  ‘If you’re ill, then maybe you shouldn’t travel today,’ I said.

  ‘Of course I’m not ill,’ said Rupert fiercely. ‘Never felt better.’

  His face was very white, and when I took his hand I found it was icy.

  ‘Oh, Rupert, you poor thing,’ I said.

  He snatched his hand away. ‘Stop fussing,’ he said.

  When it was time for him to go to the railway station with Papa, he gave us all a big hug. I was last. He whispered, ‘I shall miss you most of all, Rose.’

  But not as much as Pamela Feynsham-Jones!

  When she came back from her ride I couldn’t bear to confront her about the letter. I barely spoke to her or her sisters. They thought I was too groggy from my fall to hold a proper conversation. In all the confusion I failed to return Pamela’s riding skirt and reclaim my own, but I vowed I was never going back there. Or sitting on a horse ever again.

  I exaggerated the details of my fall so that Mama wouldn’t keep pressing me to go riding. I described Marker as a vicious beast totally out of control.

  She shook her head at me. ‘Mrs Feynsham-Jones assured me that the stables had selected a steady horse with an amiable nature, suitable for a beginner,’ she said. ‘I wish you wouldn’t tell such dreadful lies, Rose.’

  But Papa was worried about me, and the next morning, after my long sleepless night, called in his own doctor.

  ‘I’ve already seen a doctor, Papa. I’m fine, truly,’ I said, though I winced when he took hold of my elbow.

  He rolled up my nightgown sleeve and we both stared at the bruises that had blossomed on my arm like purple flowers.

  ‘You don’t look fine, sweetheart,’ said Papa.

  ‘They’re only bruises.’

  ‘You’re also deathly pale, with dark circles under your eyes. We’re definitely calling the doctor.’

  ‘It’s a waste of time and money, Edward,’ Mama fussed from the doorway. ‘She’s simply had a little fall. Mrs Feynsham-Jones says she’s lost count of the number of times her daughters have fallen off their ponies, and they’ve never made a fuss. Why, Pamela once twisted her ankle when she was thrown, but she simply bound it up with a handkerchief and got on again.’

  I screwed up my face at the sound of Pamela’s name.

  Papa was watching me. ‘Does it hurt very much, Rose?’ he asked gently.

  I shook my head, feeling guilty. I had to endure the second doctor’s examination with Nurse Budd in attendance.

  ‘I feel that the child’s father is overly concerned, sir, but of course it’s none of my business,’ she told him, ‘even though I am a trained nurse.’

  ‘I tend to agree with you, Nurse. This young girl will be as right as rain when her bruises fade,’ said the doctor, patting me brusquely. Then he peered across at Beth, who was huddled in her own bed, her hands clasped over her head, Marigold hidden under her sheets. Beth hates it when strangers come to the house.

  ‘I fear for this poor imbecile though.’ The doctor made no attempt to lower his voice. Many people ignored the fact that Beth has ears and a perfectly normal understanding, even though she’s troubled. ‘You’re doing a grand job controlling her, Nurse, but poor souls like her are incapable of improvement. I don’t know why the family don’t put her in an asylum and be done with it. The child is scarcely aware of her surroundings – she would do better in an institution.’

  ‘No she wouldn’t!’ I said, shocked. ‘And she’s not an imbecile! You shouldn’t say such dreadful things.’

  ‘Now now, Miss Rose, don’t take that tone with the doctor!’ said Nurse Budd. She shook her head at him. ‘You see what I have to deal with.’

  He nodded at her sympathetically and gave me a tight smile. ‘I don’t really think it’s seemly for little girls to lecture professional gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Now, you may get up and go about your daily tasks and stop worrying your poor papa.’

  I was happy to do so. I joined Miss Rayner and the little ones in the schoolroom, and started the dreary task of copying out ‘The Angel in the House’ by Coventry Patmore. I love poetry, Tennyson above all, but I think Mr Patmore should be sent to Coventry for writing such tedious verse. But then, wonderfully, Papa put his head round the door.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Rayner, but I wonder if I could borrow Rose for the morning. The doctor assures me that she is more or less unharmed, but she still looks very pale. I think a little stroll in the fresh air would be beneficial.’

  ‘I’m sure I’m pale as well, Pa. Can I come for a stroll?’ Algie asked eagerly.

  ‘Your cheeks are as rosy as apples, my son. We will have our own outing another day. But this morning belongs to Rose,’ said Papa.

  He bundled me up in my new purple jacket. Mama had ordered it from her dressmaker. I hated the design and the elaborate trimmings, and had refused to wear it.

  ‘It’s too hot. I’m absolutely roasting,’ I said.

  ‘Nonsense, it’s quite crisp this morning. I can’t have you getting a chill in your weakened state,’ said Papa.

  I pulled a face.

  ‘I’m joking, silly. But the new jacket is very splendid. You look quite the young lady,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly. I don’t want to look like a lady,’ I said.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you wanted to look like a young man,’ said Papa. ‘Seriously, it really becomes you, Rose.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose the purple matches my bruises,’ I said grumpily.

  ‘Are you bruised all over, sweetheart?’

  Papa looked so genuinely concerned that I felt it would be mean to pretend.

  ‘Not really,’ I admitted. Only my arms were bruised, though my right leg ached and my knee was grazed.

  ‘That’s a relief. Although I think we’ll tell your mama that you’re rather badly injured. That should put an end to the riding lessons,’ said Papa.

  ‘Oh, that’s a good plan!’ I said, cheering up a little as we set off up the street.

  ‘Is it the riding itself you don’t care for, or those Feynsham-Jones girls?’ Papa asked.

  ‘A combination,’ I said. ‘I’m scared of horses – and I detest the Feynsham-Joneses.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Papa. ‘Little Cecily is rather too fond of herself. I’ve never seen a child so frilled and beribboned! Thank the Lord our Clarrie is happy with a single ribbon and a plain pinafore. I felt sorry for you, stuck with Lucinda-May because she does seem to be an exceptionally vacant girl, though perfectly pleasant. Pamela’s more lively. Rupert seemed to find her tolerable.’

  ‘More than tolerable,’ I said – and I burst into tears.

  It was a great shock to both of us. I never cry, especially not out in the street in broad daylight.

  Papa looked at me in concern. ‘Oh, my darling, you are unwell! Let’s get you back home immediately!’

  ‘No, please don’t make me go home. There’s nothing the matter, I promise. I’m just feeling miserable,’ I sobbed.

  ‘Then we must try to cheer you up,’ said Papa.

  He
put his arm round me and steered me all the way along Kensington High Street towards a big hotel opposite the Gardens. We went through the imposing front door and stood under the glass chandelier, where he consulted his pocket watch.

  ‘Would you like a late breakfast or an early lunch, Rose? I find that eating always cheers me up when I’m down in the dumps,’ said Papa. ‘In fact, why don’t we have both?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ said the man behind the reception desk. ‘Our restaurant is in the process of being refurbished. But we would be delighted to serve you light refreshments in our new downstairs sitting room.’

  The sitting room was very modern and pretty, with comfortable chairs we could sink into.

  ‘I love a chair that allows a chap to sprawl,’ said Papa, doing just that.

  ‘I wish I could sprawl too,’ I said, perching decorously. I looked around the room. There were no little tables covered in knick-knacks, no display cabinets and desks, no dreary brown landscapes crowding the wall, no dark wallpaper with overblown roses like red cabbages. It was all fresh and pale and sparse, with screens showing golden herons flying across a pale sky, and Japanese prints of the sea on the walls. I knew Papa very much admires the Japanese style. He once painted a portrait of Louisa wearing a kimono, her arms raised as she fixed a decorative comb in her hair.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful here?’ I said.

  ‘It is indeed,’ said Papa wistfully.

  ‘I wish we had a sitting room like this.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not to your mama’s taste, sweetheart.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re the artist,’ I insisted. ‘You’re the one who knows about such things. You should be able to have the house exactly as you want!’

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ said Papa. ‘When you’re grown up you’ll find you can’t always do exactly what you want.’

  At first I thought he meant that Mama and the Scottish relations were in charge of the purse strings, and an entire overhaul of the house might not be possible on his own paltry earnings. But then I saw that he kept glancing at the Japanese prints and I wondered if he were thinking of Louisa too.