Casson Family: Rose's Blog

by Hilary McKay

  My nephew Buttercup (that’s not his real name) and Caddy and Michael are still living at the zoo. I went to stay with them not long ago and while I was there I painted the walls of Buttercup’s room with a design of hot air balloons, helicopters, sky scrapers and rockets.

  It is an animal free zone (except for Buttercup). Michael repaid me for my hard work by teaching me to drive in the zoo car park after closing time. My friends Molly and Kiran are very jealous.

  How I wish I had a photograph of me driving to stick at the end of this letter. And one of Saffy with her pink hair, and Indigo in his tent, and Daddy with his cakes and coffee and bald patch …

  But I don’t. You will just have to imagine us all instead.

  Happy imagining!

  Love, Rose

  14th January 2009

  I am the only person I know who does not live in a centrally heated house.

  ‘Can’t we get central heating?’ I moan at Daddy.

  ‘Certainly,’ says Daddy, ‘if you can find a plumber who will do it for free.’

  ‘The frost patterns on the windows are lovely,’ remarks Mummy, when pursued with the same question. ‘Besides, it is nearly Spring.’

  I don’t know if I would call January 14th nearly Spring, but it is true, the frost patterns are lovely. Molly and Kiran came here for a sleepover so that they could see them for themselves. They prepared for this subzero experience with fleeces over their pyjamas, space blankets on top of their sleeping bags, socks and hats and fingerless mittens, hot blackcurrant and hot water bottles.

  None of these devices worked. I knew they wouldn’t. By midnight the air was icy. Kiran and Molly begged to come in bed with me but I cruelly would not let them, and so they huffed and moaned and blew on their fingers until hypothermia set in, and they went quiet at last.

  But in the morning they thought it was worth it. The frost patterns were spectacular. Our huffings and moanings and shivering breaths had crystallized on the thin glass of the windowpane into a frozen forest of wild spinning fern patterns. And then the sun rose yellow and hit them from behind, and it looked like the window had been blasted by the breath of an arctic dragon, all swirling flames of fire and ice.

  But we forgot it when Saffy came in with hot chocolate and a blow heater to defrost any survivors (she explained). When we looked back again the magic was all gone. The window was just wet grey glass, with puddles on the windowsill.

  ‘It will be here again tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘But we won’t,’ complained Kiran and Molly. ‘Oh, it’s not fair! Oh, you are so lucky! Oh, why can’t we live in houses with no central heating?’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘You could always turn it off.’

  Then Kiran and Molly went a bit quiet and thoughtful for a while, until Kiran said, very loudly and firmly, ‘That would be BONKERS, Rose!’

  And I have to admit, she was right.

  14th February 2009

  Happy Valentine’s Day. Although I Prefer Pancake Day.

  Less Stressful.

  My friend Kiran is very, very lucky. Her birthday is on Valentine’s Day. Naturally she gets birthday cards, and of course people add after the Happy Birthday an extra Happy Valentine’s. So she gets loads and loads and the postman is always very impressed. It would be fairer if she explained to him that it was actually her birthday, not incredible popularity, but she doesn’t.

  Kiran was still ripping open cards when Molly and I arrived at her house for the Annual Valentine’s Day Moan.

  Molly began.

  Very gloomily.

  After arranging her Valentines in a tidy line on Kiran’s mum’s kitchen table.

  Two cards, and two edible tributes.

  ‘I can guess who sent them all,’ she said, and sighed.

  That is the fatal thing about Valentine’s cards. You can’t help guessing. And then, how your heart sinks when you recognise your mother’s pathetically disguised handwriting. Or even worse, your Gran’s. (Yes, Molly’s Gran, I am talking about you! No one else does Card Craft with cut out pictures from Saga magazine that we know. Or recycles old envelopes previously addressed to The Sunny Side Residential Home. You will have to try harder if you want to be mysterious next year.)

  The second of Molly’s cards came from the next door dog, and included a poem.

  Molly says she will kill me if I put the next door’s dog’s poem online.

  The edible tributes were:

  A pink marshmallow heart on a stick which her Brown Ted was found clutching when she woke up this morning.

  A packet of Love Hearts sellotaped to a red paper rose from Guess Who? We can all guess who, unfortunately. There is only one boy in the world who spells Molly so it looks like Moley.

  No wonder Molly sighed.

  BUT do not be too sorry for her! Think of me! I am almost 100% certain that the only Valentine I received came from my favourite-person-in-the-world’s LITTLE SISTER!

  ‘That is so not good,’ said Kiran, shaking her head.

  I know.

  Molly and I did not cheer up until Kiran unwrapped a very glamourous looking purple and silver birthday parcel which turned out to contain school uniform.

  Then we all went into town with Kiran’s birthday money to make ourselves feel better with retail therapy. And all the way into town we chanted:

  The Dog’s Poem

  It’s very jolly

  To live near Molly

  Even though her cat has died

  She still has me faithfully by her side.

  It was signed with an actual muddy paw print.

  (Now Molly will kill me.)

  9th March 2009

  After Valentine’s Day when Tom did not send me a valentine I did a good bit of moping and moaning until my brother Indigo kindly noticed. And then I allowed him to drag out of me what was wrong. Indigo understood completely and said he would very subtly and carefully ask Tom whether he sent valentines to other people but not me, or whether he just forgot. Indigo said he was sure the answer would be just forgot, and he reminded me of all the other things Tom had forgotten and I was beginning to feel better BUT THEN that great big nuisance David who lives in our attic and plays a drumkit in our shed and is forever interfering in our lives came bouncing in.

  And he said, ‘Indigo, mate, I have texted that Tom and asked him what he is thinking of, upsetting our Rose like he has. Oh hullo, Rose.’

  What a pity murder is illegal, and probably so messy too.

  Otherwise I would.

  25th March 2009

  Indigo is packing to go to Iceland this Easter. He does this by loading as many tracks as possible on to his iPod whilst Sarah and Saffron and I run around with fleeces and cereal bars and suncream and ski gloves and waterproofs and cameras and thermal hats and phrase books and packets of hot chocolate that you make by just adding water.

  ‘Do try to see the Northern Lights,’ says Mummy.

  ‘Don’t mention the recession,’ says Dad. ‘It may be a sore point.’

  (How little they seem to know their son. My brother Indigo is the least likely person in the world to either ignore the Northern Lights, or mention the recession.)

  ‘I’ll miss you, mate,’ says David, as if he was going for a year instead of just-over-a-week.

  I have more or less forgiven David for what he did to me after Valentine’s Day (I have not yet forgiven Tom, who is sending cheerful messages as if nothing had happened. Nothing did happen. That was the problem).

  I have noticed that I am getting good at forgiving David, and I suppose this is because I have had to do it so often.

  David, who in the past has posted me on unknown trains without any ticket, wrecked my bedroom, shopped me to the grown-ups when I went to live in the zoo, and caused my sister to be sliced open by a drumkit (among many other things), now says very solemnly to Indigo, ‘I’ll take care of Rose while you’re gone.’

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ says Indigo.

  23rd April 2009

  I h
ave never been so tempted to press SELECT ALL: DELETE.

  Indigo is back from Iceland where we should never have let him go, even though he said it was wonderful.

  He has:

  A suntan

  A snow tan

  17 mosquito bites (the earliest in the season he explains, rather proudly)

  Used his ice axe on real ice at last

  Wrenched his shoulder using his ice axe on real ice at last

  Crossed the Arctic Circle on a special arctic-circle-crossing-boat

  Sleep deprivation.

  He is in bed, passed out. Dead with exhaustion. It is not possible to wake him, not with noise or cold water or pulling him out of bed and dumping him on the floor. But before he collapsed he did say that I could unpack his rucksack, and so I up-end it while he snores and find (Hurray!) the camera.

  Let’s have a look.

  Ah!

  Outside school, whole family, as seen through coach to airport’s rear view window, waving goodbye.

  Two pictures of chaotic interior of coach.

  Sea from several thousand feet up in sky.

  Reykjavik airport.

  Black sand. White snow.

  Large merry group of familiar faces in a crowded bunk beddish room flinging pillows about.

  Several screens of darkness with blurs which may or may not be the Northern Lights.

  Photo of perfectly normal breakfast with cereal and jam.

  Geyser.

  More geysers.

  Mud.

  Snow.

  Goodness!

  It is still impossible to wake Indigo, and so I do not know the name of the white-blonde, round-faced, skinny jeaned, Icelandic witch who grins from 47 of the remaining 54 photographs which my brother has taken on this camera.

  Which is not his camera, by the way.

  Not at all.

  It was kindly lent to my parasite-chewed, skin-peeling, Deep-Heat-Rub-reeking, treacherous brother by Sarah, his girlfriend, for the purpose of photographing landscapes.

  NOT GIRLS!

  ‘That girl!’ I screech into the sleeping one’s only visible ear. ‘That girl! Her name?’

  And from somewhere deep in dreams, somewhere close to the Arctic circle, some far off place of photo opportunities for long-legged blondes, Indigo murmurs, ‘Ilsa.’

  Ilsa? What kind of a name is Ilsa?

  ‘Wonderful,’ whispers Indigo, still fast asleep.

  30th April 2009

  First, I am going to talk about my father. Daddy. That is what I call him. It is partly habit, and partly because I like to be aggravating: he says ‘Daddy’ makes him think of little, sticky, clutching hands. ‘Call me Dad,’ he pleads, ‘Pa, Pop, Father, Pater. Call me Bill, for goodness’ sake, after all, it is my name.’

  But I don’t.

  Daddy’s chief characteristic (in his dreams) is his enormous artistic talent. In real life, outside of all dreaming, it is his ability to get away with things. Such as suede shoes, loud humming, running a dodgy antique shop which he calls a gallery, playing Bach’s Greatest Hits as background music in the dodgy antique shop, unacknowledged extra children (until I found him out), and multiple girlfriends at the same time.

  Which brings me straight to Indigo, Sarah, and the Icelandic Witch.

  I have been having lectures today from Saffron and Sarah on the subject of my big problem, which is that I would like everything and everyone to stay exactly as they have always been for ever and ever.

  True.

  Well, that is not how life works, says Sarah, and adds that she could not care less how many midge bitten Icelandic tour guides Indigo took leave of his senses to photograph on his recent escape. They are about as interesting as the geysers and the breakfast menu, continues Sarah, and quite frankly she does not care at all.

  Pause for breath.

  Saffron fills the pause by enlarging on the subject of how unimportant Indigo is to Sarah, with particular reference to ‘A’ levels, gap years, law school, and real guitarists who look the part. Indigo-based jokes begin and are very, very funny. Poor Indigo. But serve him right. We laugh so much our ribs hurt and Sarah goes home perfectly cheerful. And about ten minutes later I go after her because I have stopped laughing and am back with my big problem again. I arrive at Sarah’s house at exactly the same time as her father, and for some minutes we stand together in the front hall, stunned. Sarah clearly believes she is home alone and from her bedroom come these words (bellowed):

  ‘CURSE OH CURSE OH CURSE. CURSE ALL ICELANDIC WITCHES. MAY THEY BOIL IN ICELANDIC MUD. AND CURSE THAT BLASTED BOY. CURSE ALL MALE CASSONS. GRINNING PERFIDIOUS WRETCHES. INDIGO CASSON, CURSE YOU. OUT OF MY LIFE FOR EVER AND GOOD RIDDANCE. HA.’

  On the word ‘ha’ Sarah fell silent, but we in the hall did not.

  Sarah’s father and I applauded like mad. ‘That’s my girl!’ cried Sarah’s father. ‘Hooray! Well said! Encore! Encore! Don’t you agree, Rose?’

  ‘I do, I do,’ I yelled, clapping until my hands stung. ‘Encore from me too. Do it again, but louder!’

  By this time Sarah was out of her bedroom, and taking bows to left and right on the landing above. ‘Thank you, thank you!’ she called. ‘Your support was unlooked for but is much appreciated. I am afraid I have no time to repeat the performance as I need to get ready for a very Hot Date.’

  And vanished.

  So Sarah’s father and I stop clapping and he says, ‘Cup of tea, Rose?’ and I say, ‘That would be nice.’ And in the kitchen he asks, ‘Did I say the right thing, Rose? I find this parenting lark very hard sometimes. Two sugars and no milk, pet.’

  ‘You were wonderful,’ I say, and give him three sugars because he looks so weary, and because it is so quiet upstairs, none of the loud music and hairdryer noises that usually indicate preparation for a Hot Date. And when I get home I say to Indigo, ‘Sarah thinks you are exactly like Daddy.’

  Indigo looks utterly stricken.

  Which I think is a very good sign.

  16th May 2009

  At school all we do is exams. Molly is working very hard, revising, but Kiran and I are trying an interesting experiment. It is to see how well we manage to do with no revising at all. It is my idea.

  I think revising is cheating.

  I think you should just be examined on what has sunk into your head naturally, not what you manage to squash in during the last few panic stricken days.

  BAN REVISING, that’s what I say.

  Buttercup my nephew is nearly two now. He can say all our names, and his own too.

  Carlos.

  Only, he is rather confused.

  ‘Who’s Carlos?’ we ask. ‘BURRACUP!’ yells Buttercup. Tom (who is coming over at half term, hurray, hurray!) says, ‘There are some truly weird names in your family P Rose, but Buttercup for a boy! Whose insane idea was that?’

  Oh dear. Oh dear. Mine.

  I called him Buttercup. I thought he was a hamster at the time.

  Indigo.

  Indigo is regretting Ilsa.

  Too late. I have now met Sarah’s Hot Date. He is hotter and datier than Indy ever was. He has got his own car too.

  Indigo has a bike.

  So.

  7th June 2009

  Kiran and I have just had the results of our interesting not-revising experiment. After we had understood them thoroughly and completely Kiran said, ‘Sorry Rose.’ And I said, ‘It’s not your fault you’re a natural genius.’

  I’m revising next time.

  Half term was brilliant. Indigo and Tom and Kiran and Molly and I all camped in our garden. At the bushy, bumpy end where the guinea pig hutches used to be. We had a fire every night and ghost stories and wild concerts. The last night was the best of all. David came with his burger stand and set it up by the fence. Michael and Caddy brought fireworks. Saffy brought Oscar and Sarah brought marshmallows and also Hot Date, who brought a saxophone. (Thank goodness Indy and Sarah are friends again). When David heard the saxophone he abandoned his burger s
tand and got his drumkit out of the shed.

  Nobody bothered trying to sleep. We wrapped ourselves in blankets and stayed awake all night and the smoke from burning guinea pig hutches rose high into the sky, and blotted out the stars.

  13th July 2009

  Oh dear, it has been so long since I updated this blog that some of my friends think I am dead.

  How very sad if that were true and I wonder who would come to the funeral.

  Crowds, I hope, all roaring and howling with grief. People showering roses down from hot air balloon baskets would be nice, and speeches and fireworks.

  Kiran, my best friend, is reading over my shoulder.

  She says she will be happy to see to arrangements and will make especially sure that my maths teacher has a good seat at the front so that he hears all the speeches. I bet he will be sorry then that he has put me in detention six Tuesdays and Thursdays running, and never for the same reason twice.

  I have been in detention for:

  1. Texting Tom in New York an early morning Good Luck message for his exams. Is it my fault that 7am in New York is the middle of maths in the UK? No.

  2. Wearing my luminous orange leg warmers when I had run out of other more school uniformish things to put on my legs.

  3. Hand stands.

  4. Giving in homework finished for me by David. I didn’t ask him to do that. I had no idea that he had filled in all the blanks on my worksheet in disguised hand writing until it was too late.

  5. Renewing my henna tattoo in class.

  6. Helping Kai write a birthday poem for Molly which was very difficult because nothing rhymes with Attenborough and very little with David.

  So, six detentions. I am being victimised. No wonder I have not updated my blog.