Rose Rivers

by Jacqueline Wilson

  I know that Beth can read, but she is not generally allowed books because she tore pages out of a valuable collection of Tennyson’s poems with Pre-Raphaelite illustrations. She’s not allowed to write either, ever since she threw a bottle of ink and ruined the old Persian rug.

  It must be so boring to be Beth. No wonder she is attached to her dolls. I’m so pleased that she likes her new doll so much.

  Pamela must have seen my face soften. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sounding genuine. ‘I didn’t realize. I’ve never seen your sister Beth. I’ve just heard silly rumours, that’s all. I think she must be your favourite sister …’

  ‘Yes, she is very dear to me,’ I said.

  I wondered if I dared take Pamela to meet Beth. I have to admit that Beth has been much calmer since Nurse Budd joined the household. However, she still finds it disturbing to meet new people. I decided not to risk it.

  ‘Do you have a favourite brother?’ Pamela asked.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said, looking her straight in the eye. ‘My brother Rupert. I dare say you know he is away at school at the moment.’

  She went a little pink, but stared back at me serenely. ‘Yes, at Kilbourne. It’s a very good school. My papa went there.’

  ‘Mine did too,’ I said.

  ‘Rupert sounds as if he’s settling in well, doesn’t he?’

  I swallowed. ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘Did he tell you about the trick they played on Jenkins Minor?’ Pamela asked. ‘Those boys!’

  ‘What trick?’ I asked, in agony.

  ‘Didn’t he tell you about it? It was in his first letter to me.’

  First letter. So there have been at least two. Maybe more.

  ‘You don’t mind that Rupert writes to me too, do you?’ Pamela asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ I muttered. ‘Though I didn’t realize you were such good friends.’

  Pamela smiled. ‘Well, we only became close this summer. We met by chance in the High Street. Rupert was taking a stroll while Mama and my sisters and I were shopping in the arcade, so we invited him to have an ice cream at the little Italian parlour. Then we met up at the Serpentine – and of course there was that trip Rupert and I took on the Kensington omnibus. It was such a hoot, though I didn’t dare tell Mama! Did Rupert mention it?’

  ‘I believe he said something about it,’ I bluffed. I was stunned. Rupert had been seeing Pamela all summer, and he’d never said a word to me about it.

  I’d been puzzled when he sometimes went off for a stroll by himself. He had seemed a little moody and distant, but I thought he was probably just worrying about going to school.

  It was difficult to hide my hurt from Pamela, especially when she put her arm round me again.

  ‘Dear Rose,’ she said. ‘I do hope we can become good friends too.’

  I’m never, ever going to be any kind of friends with Pamela Feynsham-Jones. Rupert is still my brother, but he’s no longer my best friend. He has betrayed me. I will never get over it.

  I HAVE CHANGED my mind. I couldn’t give two pins about Rupert and his pash on Pamela Feynsham-Jones.

  I have a pash myself.

  Mr Walker came calling last Thursday! I was on the window seat, reading, when I heard the front doorbell jangle. I assumed it would be someone calling on Mama. I tucked up my feet and huddled behind the velvet curtain, not wanting to be seen. I feared it might be the Feynsham-Joneses.

  Edie went flouncing to the door, her freshly starched white apron crackling. ‘Yes, sir?’ she said, sounding a little surprised.

  I heard someone announcing themselves. I wasn’t sure who it could be. Edie didn’t sound as if she knew him. She ushered him into the hall, but no further.

  ‘Please wait here a moment, sir. I’ll see if the mistress is at home,’ she said.

  ‘Very well – though it’s actually your master I’ve come to see,’ he replied.

  I thought I recognized that voice. I slid off the window seat and peered down the stairwell. Yes, it was Paris Walker! He saw me peeping and waved up at me.

  ‘Hello!’ he said.

  ‘I’m Rose,’ I said shyly. ‘We met before at the hotel.’

  ‘Of course we did. You’re Miss Rose Rivers, the artist. Are you at home, Miss Rivers? I have come calling on you specially.’ He swept me a very grand bow.

  ‘How delightful,’ I said, joining in the game by curtsying.

  ‘And I dare say I’d better have a word or two with your dear father while I’m at it. Is he in his studio?’

  ‘I expect so,’ I said.

  ‘Then shall I simply scoot upstairs without bothering your maid any further?’ he said. ‘You’ll show me the way, won’t you, Miss Rivers?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I said. ‘This way.’

  But he’d only climbed three steps when Edie came scurrying back.

  ‘Sir! Come back! What are you doing?’ she demanded.

  ‘I said Mr Walker could come upstairs, Edie,’ I said.

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Miss Rose?’ she said. ‘Please come down this minute, sir, or I’ll be forced to call Mr Hodgson. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. Mrs Rivers is not at home today – and we don’t recognize your name as an acquaintance.’

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ said Mr Walker, shrugging his shoulders and pulling a face at me. ‘I’d better go then, Miss Rivers.’

  ‘No! Please stay! This is all a stupid mistake. How could you treat our guest like this, Edie!’

  Though perhaps it wasn’t entirely Edie’s fault. Mr Walker’s hair was in a tangle, he had smears of blue paint all over his ancient cord jacket, and his trousers were frayed at the hem. If you hadn’t known he was an artist, you might have thought him a vagabond or beggar. Heaven knows how Edie described him to Mama. She took no notice of my protests and stood there with her chin up, making flicking gestures to indicate that Mr Walker should make himself scarce immediately.

  I didn’t waste time arguing with her. I didn’t rush to Mama in the drawing room – I knew she wouldn’t listen. I had to summon Papa. I didn’t have time to clatter all the way up to his studio. I opened my mouth and yelled at the top of my voice, ‘Papa! Come immediately! Mr Paris Walker is being turned out of our house!’

  Well, that caused pandemonium! Edie actually shook me. Nurse came running, Phoebe on her hip, petticoats trailing. Beth heard my shout and wailed. Sebastian and Algie and Clarrie all started shouting. Mama came to the door of the drawing room, quivering with rage. But, wonderfully, Papa came flying down the stairs two at a time, a delighted smile on his face.

  ‘My goodness, Rose, what a clarion call! All my children seem to have excellent lungs! Paris, my dear chap, how splendid to see you. Edie, run and tell Cook to prepare tea for us, with at least two types of cake, possibly three. Jeannie, my sweet, allow me to introduce my marvellous erstwhile protégé and now dear friend Mr Paris Walker, artist extraordinaire.’

  Dearest Papa sorted everything out, though Mama looked appalled at the idea of Mr Walker joining us for tea. I got invited too! Sebastian and Algie and Clarrie had to have bread and butter and plain sponge up in the nursery under Nurse’s supervision. Beth had hers with Nurse Budd hovering over her like a hawk. I got to sit in the drawing room and eat cucumber sandwiches, iced sponge layered with jam and cream, and apple puffs. I ate enthusiastically, though I dabbed my lips after every bite just in case there was a crumb there. Mama kept frowning at me because it’s not ladylike to have a voracious appetite.

  When I reached for a second apple puff she murmured, ‘I think you’ve had more than enough, Rose, dear.’

  I wasn’t to be deterred. Apple puffs are my absolute favourite. We never get them at teatime. Cook must have made them for dinner, when you rarely get a chance of second helpings. Before Mama could stop me I’d taken a great bite out of the second puff. I thought I might have gone too far, but she simply sighed. She didn’t lecture me – she was in too good a mood.

  It was truly amazing. For the first five
minutes she’d been icy cold, sitting ramrod straight, her lips pinched, a sharp line between her eyebrows. She scarcely uttered a word, leaving Papa to chat merrily to Mr Walker. Papa seemed oblivious to her mood. Perhaps he simply chose to ignore it. I can never tell if he’s insensitive or devious. He plied Mr Walker with questions, wanting to know all about his travels since leaving the Academy. He sighed when Mr Walker spoke about his time in his namesake French city, and listened enviously when he spoke of Florence and Rome and Venice. Papa had never been to Italy.

  ‘What a fool I was to make a journey north to Scotland when I could have gone south to sunny Italy and seen such wonders,’ he said.

  Mama sniffed, clenching her hands so hard that the handle of her teacup was in danger of snapping. Was Papa implying that he wished he’d never gone to Scotland because then he wouldn’t have met her? Or was he simply denigrating her country? This time Papa couldn’t ignore her reaction.

  ‘Come, Jeannie, you can hardly call the bleak city of Dundee picturesque. Even the most patriotic Scot would hesitate to call it bonnie,’ he said.

  ‘It has the silvery Tay river, and we have Broughty Ferry and a wealth of beauty spots in the nearby countryside,’ Mama said coldly.

  ‘I should love to see Scotland for myself, Mrs Rivers,’ said Mr Walker. ‘I’ve always had a great longing to see the mountains, glens and lochs. Where would you recommend?’

  Mama unbent slightly, and became a Baedeker guide to Scotland. Mr Walker listened and asked questions and marvelled at the answers, leaning forward eagerly, even complimenting Mama on her Scottish accent.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not very attractive,’ she said. ‘I know English society feels any accent is unrefined.’

  ‘My dear Mrs Rivers, Queen Victoria herself is entranced by Scotland and its lilting tongue,’ said Mr Walker. ‘As soon as I’ve finished this wretched mural at the Palace Hotel I shall be off there like a shot. I might even change my tattered trousers for a kilt. You are being very tolerant about my appearance. I really must apologize. I’m afraid I’m nowhere near as successful as Edward. I am rather embarrassed financially at the moment, and the hotel management refuse to pay me a farthing until the work is completed.’

  ‘Tell me about your work, Mr Walker,’ asked Mama.

  This made me blink. Mama rarely shows any interest in Papa’s work. There’s a scrapbook hidden in a corner of his studio bulging with newspaper cuttings, along with a comical picture from Punch showing a cluster of society folk pushing and shoving to get a proper view of the Louisa portrait. I don’t think Mama went to any of the exhibitions. There were celebrations, and I remember waking up late at night and hearing Papa singing in a very jolly way, but Mama never accompanied him.

  I remember a new acquaintance once asking Mama, ‘Isn’t your husband the painter responsible for those notorious portraits of that stunning society girl?’

  Mama had frozen. She could have been a painting herself. For several seconds she had sat utterly motionless and silent, then cleared her throat and started talking about the weather.

  But here she was with Mr Paris Walker, pressing him for details of his work, wanting to know the design and colour scheme of the hotel mural.

  ‘Japanese style!’ she said, as if it were an entirely new and delightful idea, though she wouldn’t hear of it when Papa suggested refurbishing the house in that manner.

  ‘Perhaps we could go and dine there when Mr Walker’s mural is finished,’ I suggested hopefully, because the plum cake had been so delicious.

  ‘I don’t think luxury hotels cater for children,’ said Mama. ‘Try not to interrupt when we’re talking, Rose, dear.’

  My age is elastic as far as she is concerned. She is forever nagging at me to grow up and act like a young lady, and yet whenever I get an opportunity to practise she wants me back in the nursery. She turned her back on me and carried on talking to Mr Walker about art. He spoke of his admiration for the Italian masters.

  ‘Oh yes, I agree, I love the Italians too,’ said Mama. She reeled off a few names in a flamboyant manner, as if she spoke fluent Italian and they were old acquaintances.

  Papa caught my eye and we both struggled to keep a straight face.

  Mama flushed. ‘Of course, I’m well aware that I am no artist myself,’ she said huffily. ‘But I don’t see why I cannot have an opinion on art.’

  ‘I can see that you’re a woman of great taste and discrimination, Mrs Rivers,’ said Mr Walker. He looked utterly sincere, but I wondered if he were teasing her.

  ‘Mama’s dressmaker always compliments her on her eye for fashion,’ I said, which was true enough. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t inherited it.’ I tugged at my crumpled dress and wrinkled stockings.

  ‘Oh, Rose,’ said Mama.

  ‘I think you have your own natural style, Miss Rivers,’ said Mr Walker. ‘I wouldn’t have you change it for the world.’

  I don’t think he was sincere, but I was delighted all the same.

  ‘Maybe I should paint a portrait of you, Rose, before your natural style wears off and you turn into an everyday demure young lady,’ Papa said.

  ‘I wish you would paint portraits of all the children,’ said Mama. ‘Though I’d prefer them all to be properly dressed, with well-brushed hair. I certainly don’t want them looking like the little street ragamuffins you’ve taken to sketching, Edward. A waste of time, if you ask me.’

  ‘But I’m not asking you, my dear,’ said Papa. His tone was perfectly pleasant and the ‘my dear’ sounded affectionate, but there was an edge to his voice.

  ‘Of course, Edward is renowned for his portraits,’ said Mr Walker.

  Mama flinched.

  ‘Edward must have painted you many times, Mrs Rivers,’ he went on hurriedly. ‘Isn’t that a sumptuous portrait of you in a blue satin gown over there?’

  ‘Why, yes, Edward painted it long ago, on our honeymoon,’ said Mama. ‘I believe the shine on the blue satin was much admired when it was first exhibited.’

  ‘And the shine in your blue eyes,’ said Mr Walker.

  ‘Oh, come, Mr Walker, stop this nonsense,’ said Mama.

  ‘Edward, why aren’t you painting another portrait of Mrs Rivers?’ Mr Walker demanded.

  ‘I think I have given up portraiture for now,’ said Papa.

  ‘And I’m hardly the young girl in the blue satin portrait any more.’ Mama looked down at herself disparagingly. ‘No woman can bear seven children and keep a girlish figure.’

  ‘Really, Jeannie, stop fishing for compliments!’ said Papa.

  ‘I think you are simply stating the truth as you see it, Mrs Rivers,’ said Mr Walker, looking straight into her eyes. ‘I’m sure Edward won’t mind if I insist that you are a beautiful woman now, no longer an insipid young girl. It’s criminal not to record that beauty. If Edward is no longer a portrait painter, please would you let me paint you?’

  Mama flushed rose pink. Somehow she did suddenly look beautiful.

  ‘You’re very gallant, Mr Walker,’ she murmured, ‘but I don’t think you can possibly be serious. And I’m sure my husband will not think it appropriate.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think it’s an excellent idea,’ said Papa, though he looked surprised. ‘Yes, of course you must paint Jeannie’s portrait, Paris. I’m sure you’ll make a marvellous job of it.’

  ‘I will set to work as soon as my mural is finished – it’ll only take a couple of weeks if I hurry. What kind of portrait would you like, Mrs Rivers? Full length? A sitting pose? Head and shoulders? Would you like me to include your lovely little dog?’ Mr Walker glanced at Alphonse, who was slumped on his cushion snoring like a small yellow piglet.

  ‘I’m not really sure. Perhaps you should decide, Mr Walker. You’re the artist after all,’ said Mama.

  ‘There’s just one small problem,’ he said. ‘I’m embarrassed to say I don’t have my own studio. I’m currently living in one dank room in a dubious lodging house. I cannot possibly invite a lady to such
quarters.’

  ‘You must use my studio,’ said Papa. ‘I’m not working on any painting in particular at the moment – and if inspiration strikes, there’s plenty of room for two. What do you say, old chap?’

  ‘I say it sounds a capital idea. But what do you think, Mrs Rivers? Would you truly be happy to sit for your portrait? It would mean a regular commitment, possibly for weeks. I know how busy you are,’ said Mr Walker.

  Mama busy! Most of the day she lies on her chaise longue. You’d think her dress was stitched to the upholstery. She gives orders to Cook and Edie and Maggie, and languidly strokes her dog, but that is all. She sees more of Alphonse than she does of any of her children, even baby Phoebe.

  At five o’clock Nurse brings the baby to see her, along with Sebastian, Algie and Clarrie. It is a performance getting every child ready. Sebastian generally stays spotless – he hates getting dirty – but Algie and Clarrie are usually in a very sticky state, and Phoebe leaks copiously at either end. They all have to be thoroughly washed and brushed, and then dressed up in their best cream silks. Sebastian loves his silk suit. He doesn’t even mind the lace collar. Algie and Clarrie protest bitterly every single day, and Phoebe generally howls when Nurse stuffs her into her petticoats and her long smocked baby gown, then kicks hard to rid herself of the woolly booties constricting her toes.

  After all this elaborate preparation Mama takes little interest in her children. It is supposed to be the children’s hour, but she listlessly supervises games of Spillikins for half an hour at most before suggesting that Nurse return her tribe to the nursery. When Algie is being particularly boisterous, Mama has been known to cut the visit to ten minutes!

  Beth has started to come too, though she was banned from the drawing room after she tried to play with the Meissen figurines on the mantelpiece, taking a fancy to the china shepherdesses. When Nurse stopped her, Beth flew into a temper and swept them all to the floor.