Rose Rivers

by Jacqueline Wilson

  Mama didn’t even try to defend me. She simply shook her head and sighed, then steered the conversation to Rupert’s last letter and his progress at school. At last she was in her element, because her golden boy was doing so splendidly. Mrs Feynsham-Jones had scored several points, but Mama held the trump card.

  ‘Dear Rupert,’ said Mrs Feynsham-Jones. ‘My girls miss him dreadfully, especially Pamela. She struck up a firm friendship with Rupert in the summer – did you know?’

  ‘Dear Pamela,’ said Mama, but she sounded uncertain. She wanted me to be firm friends with the Feynsham-Jones sisters, but she wasn’t so sure they were good enough for Rupert.

  When Mrs Feynsham-Jones had left, Mama asked me if I’d known that Rupert and Pamela were ‘firm friends’.

  ‘I’m not sure you could call it that,’ I said.

  ‘Mmm, I thought as much,’ said Mama. ‘Still, I suppose Rupert could do worse. For the moment. Of course, Rupert and Pamela are still children. It’s not as if they’re seriously courting!’

  ‘Rupert certainly isn’t serious,’ I told her.

  ‘For all he’s grown into a little gentleman, he has a head full of sport and tuck and japes. He’s years away from thinking about sweethearts. The very idea!’ said Mama fondly. She glanced at me. ‘Dear goodness, they’ll be telling me you’re firm friends with some boy next!’ She laughed as if this were a great joke.

  I don’t want to be romantically involved with any boy, but I couldn’t help feeling hurt that Mama found the idea so funny. I kept thinking about Paris’s sketch. I looked so fierce and plain. Positively ugly in fact. No matter how much I brush my hair or how often I change my dress or how scrupulous I am about keeping my hands ink free and my stockings unwrinkled, I am never going to be pretty.

  I didn’t want to be an insipid pink-and-white girl like Pamela. I wished I could be an exotic, dark-haired beauty like Paris’s friend in France. I wondered what it would be like to go abroad with him. In a few years’ time, when I was old enough, perhaps it might be possible.

  I thought about it at dinner as I looked at my unappealing fatty chop and mashed potato.

  ‘Do eat up, Rose. You’ve been toying with that chop for the last ten minutes. Edie is waiting to serve us our dessert,’ said Mama.

  ‘Sorry, Mama. I’m just not very hungry,’ I said, pushing my food to the side of my plate.

  ‘Less of that nonsense! Eat it up at once. You’re thin as a rake. You’ll make yourself ill if you don’t eat properly,’ said Mama. ‘Edward, make the child eat up.’

  ‘A few more mouthfuls please, Rose,’ said Papa. ‘Though I must admit, you look the picture of health, even though your mama feels you’re wasting away. Look at those lovely pink cheeks!’

  I was blushing because, inside my head, Paris and I were dining in a little French restaurant. I wasn’t sure what French people ate. I could only conjure up frogs’ legs, which didn’t sound very palatable – but I wouldn’t care. I’d have eaten sautéed frogs, toads, newts, indeed, any kind of reptile, just so long as I could share the meal with him. We were washing it down with red wine. Rupert and I had once shared a half-full bottle of wine to see what it was like to be drunk. It had been such an unpleasant experiment that just the smell of wine made me feel ill now – but in my daydream I sipped away happily, raising my glass to Paris as he sketched me.

  I managed the mouthfuls Papa demanded, ate half my strawberry tart and custard, and then escaped. I went to see how Clover had fared on her trip to Bethnal Green, but she was busy bathing the children and Nurse told me I was in the way. Clover didn’t even look at me.

  I decided to wait till later, when everyone else was asleep. At last the children had settled down, and I could hear Nurse snoring. There was silence from Beth’s room. I hoped Nurse Budd was asleep too. I was unnerved by the thought that she might be sitting behind the door listening, but I summoned my courage and tiptoed along the corridor.

  I opened the door to the servants’ stairs cautiously to stop it creaking, and then hurried up the narrow steps. The wood was cold on my bare feet, and so worn and splintered. The family stairs were all thickly carpeted, with polished brass stair rods.

  I crept past Edie and Maggie’s room. I could hear them whispering. ‘Honestly, it makes me so flaming cross,’ Edie was muttering. I wondered what it was that made her angry. Was it us? Did they even like us? I knew so little about them, and yet they knew everything about us. Maggie emptied our night-time chamber pots and dealt with our dirty clothes, washing and ironing them and sewing on all the missing buttons. She must think us a trial.

  Edie wasn’t so involved with us children, but she knew Mama intimately. She held out her towel when she bathed, and squeezed her into her corsets, and powdered her bosom. She padded out her thinning hair and applied rouge to give her cheeks a girlish blush. She was snippy with us, but always flattered Mama:

  ‘Oh, madam, that blue suits you beautifully!’

  ‘No one would believe you’d had seven children!’

  ‘What tiny feet you have! Those pearl kid boots set them off a treat!’

  Edie can’t really think that. She is as adept at wheedling as Paris. She even makes a fuss of Alphonse, giving him little titbits – yet once, when he snapped at her, I saw her bend down and bare her own teeth, imitating his growls. She was larking around for Maggie’s benefit, but she looked truly menacing, and Alphonse ran away in fright.

  Perhaps Edie wants to bare her teeth at us too. Maybe all the servants disliked us. Cook might secretly spit into our food as she stirred our stews and puddings. Mr Hodgson might be quietly selling off the silver and vintage wine and pocketing the profits. Jack Boots and Mary-Jane might pull faces and do cruel impersonations behind our backs. Our own nurse had dandled and rocked us to sleep, but perhaps she was sick and tired of us now. And I was sure that Nurse Budd hated us, for all she sounded so sugary sweet.

  Nurse Budd! She hated Clover too. She wanted to get rid of her. It seemed so obvious now. She’d taken the sapphire brooch and put it in Clover’s bed!

  I burst into Clover’s room. I thought she’d be crying in the dark, but her candle was lit and she was sitting up in the tattered petticoat she wore as a nightgown. I saw that the pillow and all the little presents I’d given her were neatly parcelled up beside her.

  ‘Clover?’ I said, forgetting to whisper.

  ‘I should lower your voice, Miss Rose. Here are your things. Please take them away.’

  ‘Oh, Clover, don’t be like this,’ I begged. ‘I didn’t really think you’d stolen the wretched brooch. And I didn’t tell on you, did I? I lied because I wanted to protect you.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Rose,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Please don’t call me Miss Rose. I’m your friend! And listen to me, I’m sure I know how the brooch came to be in your bed. Nurse Budd put it there! She hates the way you try to protect Beth. She was trying to get you dismissed.’

  ‘Have you only just realized that? And you’re supposed to be so clever! I worked that out the moment you told me you’d found the brooch in my bed,’ said Clover. ‘You thought I’d stolen it, just like everyone else, because I’m just a slum child from Cripps Alley.’

  ‘All right, it was dreadful of me, and I feel deeply ashamed now. Please say you’ll forgive me,’ I implored her.

  ‘As if you care whether I forgive you or not! You’re the daughter of the house. I’m just the servant,’ she said.

  ‘Will you stop this! I care dreadfully!’ I sat down beside her and tried to put my arm round her, but she flinched.

  ‘Please be friends with me, Clover. I made a mistake, and now I’m sorry. For goodness’ sake, friends can sometimes behave badly to each other, can’t they? Rupert used to say terrible things to me, and I had to put up with it. I still liked him.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like you any more,’ said Clover. ‘That’s one thing you can’t make me do, even though I’m your servant. Now please take your things and go back to yo
ur room.’

  ‘I won’t! Not till we make up. I’m not budging from this room until you say you truly forgive me,’ I said.

  ‘Then we’re neither of us going to get much sleep,’ said Clover. ‘You can make me say anything you want, but you can’t make me feel it in my heart.’

  ‘But you’re breaking my heart,’ I declared. ‘You’re my one true friend in all the world.’

  Clover sniffed. ‘Is that right, Miss Rose? How long have you known me? I might have told you little things about my life, but you don’t really know anything about me.’

  ‘I want to know! I want to be your friend.’

  ‘You can’t force people to be friends. You thought you were being so kind and splendid making friends with a girl like me, but when you saw that brooch so obviously planted in my bed, you thought I was a common thief like all the others. You felt so clever and noble pretending that you’d found it in your mother’s room. You were probably thrilled to get a chance to protect me. You wanted me to be humble and grateful and in your debt for ever.’

  ‘How can you say that!’ I said, but my heart started thumping. I knew it was partly true. I burst into tears.

  ‘Ssh!’ she said. ‘Edie and Maggie will hear!’

  I cried harder, unable to stop. Then I heard a door opening and the scuffle of bare feet. Clover put her hand over my mouth.

  ‘Clover?’ It was Maggie. ‘Is that you howling?’

  I held my breath, shaking.

  ‘Yes, Maggie!’ Clover said, pretending to sob.

  ‘Don’t take on so. I reckon Miss Rose saved your bacon today,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t steal that brooch!’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on,’ said Maggie. ‘What you crying for then?’

  ‘My feet hurt. They’re blistered from all that walking,’ said Clover.

  ‘It was quite a hike for a little kid like you. Want me to come and rub your feet for you?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘No, they’re too sore. But thank you. I’ll be all right now.’

  ‘Go to sleep then. You’ll feel better in the morning, you’ll see,’ said Maggie. ‘Night night.’

  We heard her shuffle back to her room. Clover kept her hand over my mouth until I was quiet, though I still shook. She sat still for a minute, and then sighed and leaned against me.

  ‘There now, Rose,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t take on so. I’m sorry I was cold with you. I didn’t mean to upset you so. I know you were trying to act for the best.’

  ‘Do you really hate me now?’ I whispered.

  ‘Don’t be daft. You mean the world to me. That’s why I was so hurt that you thought I’d steal from your family.’

  ‘Can we still be friends?’

  ‘Yes, if you still want to be friends with me.’

  ‘And you’ll keep all the things I gave you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And can I stay the night with you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, only keep quiet!’

  We cuddled up together. It was such a relief that we were friends again. I had hiccups from crying, but did my best to smother them. It made us get the giggles.

  ‘Do you still miss your sister dreadfully?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ said Clover. ‘We were so close, Rose.’

  ‘I know just how much I’d miss Rupert if something happened to him.’

  ‘Is he like you?’

  ‘Not at all, even though we’re twins. He has such charm. He can make anyone like him. Like Mr Walker,’ I added, without thinking.

  ‘The artist who’s painting your mother’s portrait?’ Clover whispered. ‘Do you like him then?’

  ‘Very much! He likes my comical drawings. He’s going to show them to an art editor friend of his. He thinks I have real talent!’ I said, unable to help boasting.

  I remembered that Papa had said Clover liked drawing too.

  ‘Can I see something you’ve drawn, Clover?’ I asked.

  But Clover was already asleep, her head lolling against my back, her wild hair tickling me.

  When we woke early the next morning, I asked her if she’d draw something for me.

  She screwed up her face at the thought. ‘You don’t want to see my scribbles. I just draw little pictures to amuse the children, that’s all. Hush! Isn’t that Phoebe wailing? You’d better run back to your room quick before Nurse starts stirring.’

  I took her at her word, thinking she probably copied illustrations out of nursery books. When Papa was working on his sketches that afternoon, I told him that she liked drawing.

  ‘I know she does, Rose. Thank goodness the unfortunate business of the missing brooch has been resolved. I’m so glad you’ve taken her under your wing. She’s a dear girl, isn’t she?’ he said.

  ‘I think she’s splendid, Papa. And it’s interesting that she likes drawing, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Have you seen any of her pictures?’

  ‘I have indeed. She’s very talented,’ said Papa.

  ‘Really talented?’ I asked him, surprised.

  ‘I have one of her sketches here,’ he said, leafing through his portfolio. ‘Yes, here it is.’

  He showed me a drawing of a child sitting on a step. Perhaps it was her sister Megs, because it was drawn with such care and tenderness. Papa had taught me enough to realize that some of the shading wasn’t quite right, the figure not quite centred on the page – but there was no mistaking its quality.

  ‘It’s remarkable, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is. Far better than anything I could do.’

  ‘Your sketches are more technically accomplished,’ Papa said. ‘But certainly this child has a raw talent that is very rare.’

  ‘So why are you wasting your time teaching me to sketch? You should be teaching Clover!’

  ‘I would like to, but the child is kept so busy with all your siblings. And I’m sure your mama would not think it proper.’

  ‘Mama fusses so about propriety, but she doesn’t actually come from a long line of gentlefolk herself. It’s ridiculous!’ I said.

  Papa looked shocked. ‘I don’t think it’s seemly to talk about your mother like that, Rose. You’re too sharp at times. If you can’t show Mama the respect she deserves, at least feel a little compassion,’ he said. ‘Her life hasn’t always been easy. And I don’t suppose I have helped. Now run along, I have work to do.’

  I felt well and truly snubbed, but I suppose I deserved it. I felt humbled too by the quality of Clover’s artwork. Still, I’d never set out to sketch seriously. I only ever wanted to do my comical drawings. It was wonderful that Paris thought so much of them. He is younger and more in touch with current fashion than Papa. I hoped his art editor friend would like my drawings too.

  I imagined casually strolling into Papa’s studio and saying, ‘Have you read Punch this week? There’s an amusing little piece towards the end …’ I’d flap the journal at Papa and he’d glance at it quickly – and then stop, astonished. He’d surely be impressed if my art appeared in Punch. Then he’d have to be proud of me.

  But the opportunity will never arise. A few days later Paris told me that his friend rejected my sketches.

  ‘Don’t look so cast down, Rose. He’s very impressed by your work, especially when I told him that you were still a child. He’d love to see more of your drawings in the future. He feels they’re a little too sharp for Punch just now,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll show them to some other people. I still think they work wonderfully.’

  I couldn’t listen to him any more.

  Too sharp, too sharp …

  Nurse used to say that to me. ‘Really, Miss Rose! You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one day.’

  I feel as if I am cut now. And bleeding.

  I’VE STOPPED GOING up to the studio. Paris hasn’t commented on it. I think he feels embarrassed about leading me to believe that my work was any good. Mama is pleased to have him to herself.

  I’ve spent my time reading in my room. I found a t
ranslation of Madame Bovary hidden behind the five volumes of Vasari’s Lives of the Artists. It is an astonishing book. Mama would faint if she read certain passages.

  I’ve spent time with Beth too. I persuaded Papa to tell Nurse Budd that I must visit Beth daily. I hated the way she was always shut away from us now. I needed to keep an eye on her.

  ‘Of course, sir, whatever you say – though I think all these visits will interfere with my regime. Miss Beth’s behaviour is much improved. I believe dear Mrs Rivers is exceptionally pleased. It would be a shame if Beth became over-excited,’ she said.

  ‘I am not suggesting that Beth should be visited by a troupe of circus clowns, Nurse Budd. Rose is Beth’s sister. And I am her father, and intend to visit her whenever I wish too,’ said Papa firmly.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ Nurse Budd said, meekly enough, though her eyes gleamed with malice when she looked at me.

  I’d confronted her outright about the sapphire brooch.

  ‘Did you find Mama’s sapphire brooch after the children had been playing with her jewellery, Nurse Budd?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re very forgetful, Miss Rose. You were the one who found the brooch,’ said Nurse Budd.

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t put it in a certain place to make it look as if Clover had stolen it?’ I persisted. ‘I think you did!’

  ‘What a strange fancy, Miss Rose,’ she said. ‘Why should I want to do that?’

  ‘Because you dislike Clover. You don’t want her spying on you.’

  ‘Oh my, Miss Rose, your imagination really runs away with you sometimes. I think you should write storybooks when you grow up,’ said Nurse Budd.

  I was sure she’d taken the brooch, hoping that Clover would be blamed. But I had no proof – and Nurse Budd knew it.

  All I could do was visit Beth as often as I could and make sure that Nurse Budd wasn’t tormenting her. Beth didn’t seem particularly glad to see me. She was very quiet now, often sitting on the floor in a corner, clutching Marigold.