Rose Rivers

by Jacqueline Wilson

  Papa sighed, but then beckoned the waiter over. ‘We will have plum cake,’ he told him. ‘And what would you like to drink, Rose? Shall we share a pot of tea? And I think I would like a glass of champagne, even though it’s only mid-morning. My spirits need lifting.’

  ‘I wish I could have champagne,’ I said.

  ‘Well, why not? We’ll have two glasses of champagne, please.’

  ‘Papa! Really?’ I said, thrilled.

  I wasn’t sure if he was serious until the champagne arrived.

  ‘I wish you health and happiness, my darling,’ said Papa, raising his glass to me.

  I took a cautious sip. I wondered if the champagne would turn out to be syrupy and disgusting. I had once secretly tried a gulp of sherry from the decanter in the drawing room and disliked it intensely. Champagne was entirely different. It was light and bubbly, and so delicious that I took several mouthfuls and then choked.

  ‘Careful,’ said Papa, passing me his napkin. ‘Maybe you’d better stick to tea! But have a slice of cake. Mmm, it looks excellent.’

  I merely nibbled half-heartedly at first, but it was such a very fine plum cake that I ended up finishing my slice and eating half another. I wanted to save the other half for Beth, who never goes out for treats in case she has one of her turns. Papa had the waiter pack it up in a little white box for me. They even tied a ribbon round it.

  I couldn’t parcel up my champagne so I took a few more sips.

  ‘Careful now,’ said Papa. ‘Imagine what Mama would say if you came home tipsy.’

  ‘I rather wish I could get tipsy,’ I said. ‘Isn’t alcohol meant to drown your sorrows?’

  ‘Oh dear, do you really feel so sorrowful, Rose?’ asked Papa.

  ‘Well, the cake and champagne have helped a lot,’ I said gratefully. ‘But I still feel pretty wretched.’

  Papa put his hand over mine. ‘Still missing Rupert terribly?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m so miserable that he hasn’t written to me,’ I confessed.

  ‘But, darling, I’ve tried to explain what it’s like when you’re away at school. A chap doesn’t write to his sister, no matter how much he might secretly want to.’

  ‘The chap still writes to his sweetheart though,’ I said bitterly.

  ‘Rupert has a sweetheart?’ said Papa, choking on his champagne. ‘You can’t be serious, Rose!’

  ‘I am deadly serious,’ I said mournfully. ‘I read the letter, even though I know it’s very sneaky to read another person’s correspondence.’

  ‘So who is the young lady in question?’ Papa asked, all agog.

  ‘It’s Pamela Feynsham-Jones,’ I said, spitting the words out.

  ‘Oh goodness – Pamela?’

  ‘I just don’t understand it,’ I said. ‘Those Feynsham-Jones girls are so boring. Rupert and I have always joked about them. Yet now he seems to be positively yearning for her.’

  ‘Take comfort from the fact that thirteen-year-old boys are notoriously fickle. I dare say that by Christmas he’ll have stopped yearning after the redoubtable Pamela, and will probably declare himself passionately in love with some other young lady entirely,’ said Papa, chuckling.

  ‘It’s not funny, Papa! It’s ridiculous! Rupert has always despised all girls apart from me.’ I had such a lump in my throat I could barely swallow.

  I expected Papa to continue joking, but he squeezed my hand.

  ‘Poor Rose,’ he said softly.

  ‘I know I’m behaving like a fool,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all. You and Rupert have always been very close. You were so sweet when you were little. You insisted on doing everything together. You must feel very lonely without him – and now you’ve been betrayed into the bargain! But I promise you’ll find a special friend of your own soon, Rose.’

  ‘Please don’t let Mama inflict any more girls like the Feynsham-Joneses on me,’ I begged.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Papa. ‘Right, my darling. Shall we go and have a stroll in the Gardens now?’

  I felt a little wobbly when I stood up, though Papa had ended up drinking most of my champagne. I needed to use the ladies’ cloakroom, so Papa escorted me there. On the way we went past the restaurant. The door was open and we peeped in. There, halfway up a ladder, was a young man in a smock, painting an elaborate picture on the wall. It was a Japanese scene, with lots of ladies hiding behind fans and sipping tea and painting scrolls in a very decorous manner.

  ‘I say, that looks splendid!’ said Papa.

  The young man turned round. He had a smear of black paint on one cheek and his long curly hair needed a good brush, but he still looked incredibly handsome.

  ‘Oh my goodness! Edward Rivers!’ he cried, and then he leaped down off his ladder and rushed to embrace Papa.

  ‘Paris!’ Papa declared, and hugged him back. Then he turned to me. ‘Rose, this is Mr Walker, my dear friend from art-school days.’

  I shook the artist’s hand. I discovered later that he’d left black paint on my palm. Mr Paris Walker had literally made an impression on me.

  I LONG TO go to Paris! Papa lived there for a while after leaving art school. I think it’s a wonderful name. I felt very shy when Papa introduced me. I grew up meeting artists, but they were always old Pre-Raphaelites, grey-haired and wrinkled. Mr Walker seemed extraordinarily young, perhaps half Papa’s age. I couldn’t understand how they could have been at art school together. It turned out that Mr Walker had been Papa’s pupil when he taught at the Academy.

  ‘Not that Paris needed any tuition. He’s so talented he started at the Academy when he was only fifteen,’ said Papa, clapping his friend on the back.

  ‘So talented that I can’t sell a single one of my paintings and have to earn my living decorating fancy hotels!’ said Mr Walker, laughing.

  ‘Well, you’re making a magnificent job of it, I must say,’ said Papa. ‘Don’t you think so, Rose? My daughter is rather artistic herself, Paris.’

  I felt myself blushing. ‘I’m not at all. Papa is obviously prejudiced,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I’m encouraging her to sketch from life,’ Papa said. ‘She has a head full of amusing fancies, but no idea whether horses’ legs should go backwards or forwards.’

  They both laughed and I felt very silly. I kept silent while they reminisced about their time at the Academy.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d be exhibiting there by now,’ said Papa.

  Mr Walker shrugged. ‘So did I!’ he said ruefully. ‘Still, I keep in touch and always attend the exhibitions.’

  ‘I dare say you find the art there stuffy and old-fashioned,’ said Papa.

  ‘No one could call your portrait of the lady in the black dress stuffy and old-fashioned,’ Mr Walker replied.

  I looked at Papa. Now he was the one who was blushing.

  ‘Of course, you had a stunning model,’ Mr Walker went on. ‘Is she still your special muse?’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ Papa said, with false heartiness. ‘I believe she’s a married lady now, and is no doubt getting rather dull and stout.’

  I don’t think she’s any such thing. It was just Papa pretending. Adults tell just as many lies as children and are forever twisting the truth.

  ‘Marriage has obvious benefits for you, Edward,’ said Mr Walker, smiling at me.

  ‘Very much so,’ said Papa. ‘I have seven splendid children into the bargain. You must come to tea and meet them all!’

  ‘I should like that enormously,’ said Mr Walker.

  I decided that I should like it enormously too. I do hope he comes. When we said goodbye he shook my hand warmly and said that it was a delight to meet me.

  ‘It’s a delight to meet you too, Mr Walker,’ I said.

  He smiled and I hoped I was looking my best, but when I went to the ladies’ cloakroom I was mortified to see my reflection. My eyes were red with crying and there was a large crumb at the corner of my mouth. I hoped he hadn’t noticed.

  I didn’t feel like
going home at all – and then in the afternoon Mrs Feynsham-Jones called round, accompanied by Pamela, with my skirt neatly folded in a parcel.

  ‘She’s been so concerned about you, Rose dear,’ said Mrs Feynsham-Jones. ‘Well, of course we’ve all been worried. I feel personally responsible, Mrs Rivers.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Feynsham-Jones, I’m sure it was all Rose’s fault. She’s such a reckless girl,’ said Mama. ‘I dare say she dug in her heels and set off at a gallop.’

  ‘Hardly!’ said Pamela, smirking. ‘Poor Rose seems very nervous on horseback. Still, I suppose it must be unsettling learning so late in life. We were all riding by the time we were four, weren’t we, Mama?’

  I could have slapped her! I sat there silently on the uncomfortable gilt chair, feeling my cheeks flush scarlet.

  ‘I’m sure Rose will prove a quick learner all the same,’ said Mama. ‘Once she’s had a few more lessons she’ll be trotting around very capably.’

  ‘I’m not going to have any more lessons,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Of course you are! Mrs Feynsham-Jones has been kind enough to invite you to ride once a week,’ said Mama.

  ‘But it’s pointless. I have no aptitude whatsoever,’ I insisted.

  ‘Don’t be so silly, Rose dear. All you have to do is sit on the animal and not fall off,’ said Mama shortly. She has never been on a horse in her life, but clearly considers herself an expert.

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with Rose,’ said Mrs Feynsham-Jones. ‘I had a word with Miss Havers at the stables. She says that Rose has no feel for the horse at all. Of course we can persevere, but I’m afraid we’ll never make a proper horsewoman of her.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mama, her hopes dashed.

  ‘But of course we’d still like Rose to come to tea. She’s already struck up quite a friendship with Pamela,’ said Mrs Feynsham-Jones.

  ‘Really? Ah, perhaps you’d like to give Pamela back her riding skirt, Rose? Take her up to your bedroom. I’m sure you two would like to play while we ladies chat.’

  ‘Play?’ said Pamela when we had left the drawing room. On the landing we came across Algie and Clarrie and Sebastian playing Circus. Sebastian was being a lion tamer, with a piece of string glued to his upper lip so that he could twirl his ‘moustache’. Clarrie was his assistant, and wore last year’s fairy costume, which was alarmingly tight. Algie was the lion, roaring loudly through the banisters.

  ‘Do you play Circus too, Rose?’ Pamela asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said shortly.

  ‘But I dare say you used to, with Rupert.’

  I can’t stand the way Pamela says his name. She drags out the first syllable with a sentimental ‘ooooh’ sound, sounding like a demented dove.

  ‘We always played together,’ I said.

  ‘You are so lucky to have brothers,’ said Pamela. Sebastian was using his dressing-gown cord as a whip, and Algie was red in the face with roaring. It was clear that she didn’t mean them. ‘What games did you and Roooopert play?’

  Oh, we had so many. We played Treasure Island, with the nursery table upturned and the big stuffed peacock from the hall pinned to Rupert’s shoulder. We played Tyger Tyger Burning Bright, and trekked through the jungle stalking the tigerskin in Papa’s smoking room. We played Mountaineering up and down the stairs, muffled up in Mama’s old fur coats. We played Murder, taking it in turns to creep up and strangle each other.

  Beth sometimes played with us then, but she was never any good at games. She screamed when we made the stuffed peacock fly through the air. She cowered when Rupert made the tigerskin rear up. She fell down the stairs when we climbed up, and yelled her head off when it was her turn to be strangled.

  We didn’t understand then that Beth couldn’t help being difficult. We just thought her a hopeless duffer and teased her. I feel so ashamed when I think of it now. I was so happy to be the tomboy twin who was good at pretending. If Rupert started to get bored, I could always invent an entirely new game.

  ‘I know, Rupe,’ I’d cry, and turn myself into a vagabond or a hyena or an African queen, and Rupert would laugh and join in the game with renewed enthusiasm.

  Of course, we were much too old for pretend games now, but this summer I’d suggested we create our own newspaper. Rupert was editor and chief correspondent, reporting on all household affairs and adding his own commentaries on real news events filched from Papa’s copies of The Times. I illustrated each item and wrote a serial about an artistic community where everyone drank and schemed and took lovers.

  Papa read our newspaper and found it hilarious, but Mama was so shocked by my story that she tore it up.

  ‘Tell me about your games, Rose,’ Pamela wheedled, putting her arm round me.

  ‘Oh, they were very silly,’ I muttered, not wanting to elaborate for her.

  At the top of the stairs I pretended to stumble so that I could duck away from her arm.

  ‘I’ll give you back your riding skirt,’ I said, hurrying along the corridor.

  The nursery door was open, and we could see Nurse walking wearily up and down with Phoebe, who was grizzling.

  ‘Oh, I forgot about the baby! You’re so lucky, Rose!’ said Pamela, as if a small infant were as amazing and rare as a unicorn. ‘I have to see her!’

  She went marching into the nursery as if she owned it, and gave Nurse the briefest of nods. ‘Let me hold the little lamb!’ she commanded, as if Nurse were her servant.

  I supposed Nurse was technically my servant, but she’d given me too many shakes and smacks and spoonfuls of foul castor oil for me to think of ordering her about now. Even Papa still knocked on the door before coming in to play with the little ones. But Pamela took hold of Phoebe as if she were her mother and clutched her to her impressive chest.

  ‘She’s adorable! But why’s she crying, Nurse? Is she hungry? Why don’t you feed her?’ Pamela asked.

  ‘She’s already been fed, miss,’ Nurse replied indignantly. ‘She’s just got a bit of wind. I wouldn’t hold her like that or she’ll bring up her milk all over you.’

  I hoped that Phoebe would, but she simply gave a big hiccup and then, in surprise, stopped crying.

  ‘There! That’s better, isn’t it, darling? Oh, see how she’s smiling at me! She likes me, don’t you, baby dear?’ Pamela said.

  Nurse and I stared at her sourly. Phoebe smiled and smiled.

  ‘Oh, the perfect pet!’ Pamela buried her nose in the sweet warmth of Phoebe’s neck. It probably tickled, because Phoebe started giggling.

  ‘Now don’t get her too excited, miss. She has to go down for her nap,’ said Nurse.

  ‘You don’t want to have a boring old nap, do you, baby girl? You want to play with your new friend Pamela,’ said Pamela, tickling Phoebe’s tummy so that she wriggled and gurgled in delight.

  Pamela suddenly held her at arm’s length. ‘Oh dear, she’s starting to feel very damp,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’d better take her back now, Nurse.’

  Nurse snorted irritably and did as she was told.

  ‘My room’s this way,’ I said, setting off again.

  ‘What colour is it?’ Pamela asked, as if it were a matter of tremendous importance.

  ‘It’s pink and blue and white,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, how pretty!’

  Mama had had it decorated with a pink rosebud wallpaper. Peter Jones had made up rose velvet curtains with a coverlet to match, and there was a dark rose carpet on the floor.

  I suppose it is pretty, though it looks like a florist’s shop. It even smells like one, because there’s a large blue bowl of rose pot pourri which scents the air in a sickly fashion. Still, I have done my best to imprint my own personality on the room. Papa had a carpenter make me bookshelves, and now my books add a scholarly air, and the rich reds and blues and browns of the leather bindings soothe the eye.

  Pamela admired my room, and exclaimed over the prettiness of the curtains and the softness of the carpet.

  ‘But what a shame to spoil th
e look with those fusty old books,’ she declared. ‘Couldn’t you store them away in a cupboard?’

  How could my brother like her? I began to wonder if I’d made a silly mistake. Perhaps Rupert hadn’t written that letter after all. I’d seen the signature with its loving message, but perhaps Pamela had somehow written the letter herself, copying Rupert’s handwriting. It sounded far-fetched, but no more so than the idea that Rupert cared about her more than he did about his own sister.

  I handed Pamela her horrid riding skirt and tried to interest her in my favourite books, but she didn’t seem remotely interested. She roamed restlessly round and round my rose carpet, as if intent on wearing a groove in the pile.

  ‘Do you all have your own bedrooms?’ she asked. ‘I suppose those little ones playing the wild game on the stairs must sleep with your nurse.’

  ‘Yes, Sebastian and Algie and Clarrie sleep in the nursery,’ I said.

  ‘And what about …?’ Pamela paused delicately. I could see her lips pursing, ready to make the Rooo sound, but she lost courage at the last moment. ‘Your sister?’ she murmured in an undertone.

  ‘Baby Phoebe?’ I said, deliberately misunderstanding. ‘Well, of course she sleeps in her cot beside Nurse. In the night nursery.’

  ‘I actually meant your other sister. You know – the unfortunate one.’

  I kept my face blank, forcing her to continue.

  ‘The cretin,’ Pamela whispered.

  ‘My sister Beth is not a cretin,’ I said furiously. ‘She is highly intelligent.’

  When she was four, Beth had joined Rupert and me in the schoolroom, and within weeks she could read simple words and add and subtract. Miss Rayner was overjoyed. Papa declared that Beth’s fretfulness and tantrums must have been simple frustration because she was bored. Now that she could use her brain she would calm down and develop a sunny nature.

  But Beth remained resolutely stormy, fussing over the slightest thing, frightened of change, liable to throw herself full length on the floor and kick and scream. She took against poor Miss Rayner, and often had to be forcibly removed from the schoolroom, until her lessons were abandoned altogether.