by Hilary McKay
‘Santa is dead lovely,’ said David, looking far from lovely (although not far from dead) in his ancient track suit bottoms and his mangled Iron Maiden tee shirt. ‘Once he brought me an actual real life Darlek like on Dr Who!’
Buttercup (who is only slightly less scared of the Darleks on Dr Who than he is of Santa) hiccuped with horror.
‘Santa didn’t bring David a Darlek!’ said Saffron very firmly. ‘You take no notice, Buttercup! Santa doesn’t bring things like that! He brings toys and sweets and hair straighteners. Last year he brought you those pyjamas you are wearing right now! No, don’t take them off! DON’T take them off! Oh, please stop that awful noise, Buttercup!’
But Buttercup did not stop the awful noise and he fought when we tried to cuddle him and he struggled out of his Santa-contaminated pyjamas and flung them away.
Indigo vanished and reappeared with the biscuit tin with the lid off. It was full of chocolate biscuits. Indigo gave it to Buttercup to do what he liked with, and Buttercup (now dressed in my leg warmers and David’s tee shirt) did.
‘Santa,’ said Indigo, when Buttercup was finally speechless with chocolate, ‘is a story made up for little kids.’
Buttercup pointed a wobbly and unspeakable finger at his discarded pyjamas.
‘Gone,’ said Indigo, and kicked them under the bed.
‘Gone?’ asked Buttercup, hopeful and exhausted and we all said, ‘Yes. Gone. Lovely. Snuggle down. First one to go asleep gets a prize in the morning.’
So Buttercup lay down and shut his eyes tight and a great slinking away began.
And then the sugar rush kicked in. For the next hour the only thing that Buttercup would consent to do was toboggan down the stairs on his little blow-up bed. He did this until it split.
Then he was sick on the landing.
And in Saffy’s hair.
And then he begged to play in the snow.
And for sandwiches.
And for one Christmas present to open early from under the Christmas tree.
We gave in to every demand. What are seventy-seven exhausted years, against three on a chocolate high sugar rush?
But all things come to an end, even chocolate fuelled toddlers. At three o’clock in the morning Buttercup finally fell asleep, and so did Indigo and Saffy and David.
But not me.
Three o’clock in the morning here is only late evening in New York. It is also the time when my resistance is at its lowest, and I think the most.
So I crept downstairs to the telephone and I dialled the number that I know by heart and I said, ‘Are we still friends? Are we? Or not?’
‘Hello?’ said Tom.
‘Just say,’ I said.
‘Rose?’ said Tom.
‘Tom oh Tom oh Tom,’ I said. ‘It’s three in the morning and everything’s awful and I need to know before I die.’
‘Permanent Rose,’ said Tom. ‘Permanent Rose. Permanent Rose.’
And other things.
For me to think about.
At three o’clock in the morning.
5th February 2011
Who Will Write My Blog For Me?
‘I will,’ said Caddy, ‘if you will do my shift at the zoo. Buttercup will be no trouble because he likes to help but you will have to take along plenty to keep Jassy and Juniper quiet. We’ve a school trip coming at lunch time. Count them in and count them out and make sure nobody’s got guinea pigs stuffed up their jumpers. It happens all the time.’
‘We will,’ said Saffy and Sarah. ‘We should like to very much. And we will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’
‘That’ll be a nice change,’ said Indigo, ‘and I’ll put in some photographs. You always wimp out of pictures, Rose. I can’t imagine why.’
‘I will,’ said Dad. ‘Just as soon as I finish my Tax Return. It should have been in at the end of last month. Every minute it’s late costs me money.’
‘I will,’ said Mum. ‘If you’ll just stand still while I sketch you. Could you try and hold your head like Old Mrs Green?’
Old Mrs Green is dead.
‘Only just,’ said Mum, scribbling madly while I stooped and shuffled (that’s how much I hate writing my blog). ‘They wanted a drawing for her order of service. They could have used a photo but they were desperate for wings …’
So I ran away and sent David instead. He was quite pleased to model as Lead Character in Old Mrs Green’s Funeral Order of Service.
‘And anyway, Rose,’ he said, ‘I’d do anything for you.’
What?
Even write my blog?
I must admit I wavered.
I was very much tempted.
But then I thought, it hasn’t come to that yet!
And I wrote the thing myself.
April 13th 2011
By Molly. Guest Blogger. Because Rose Won’t.
Rose says she cannot write her blog. And she said, ‘Will you do it, Molly? You are good at writing. You keep that diary. It does not hurt your brain to write, the way it hurts mine. Say you will, say you will. Please oh please oh please. This is me, begging.’
‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘How can I? I’m not you. I might do it wrong. What if you don’t like what I write?’
‘I’ll like it,’ promised Rose earnestly. ‘I’ll love it. Trust me, Molly, I’ll adore it. Would it help if I got down on my knees?’
She did, and it helped. Well, it made me give in. So here I am, writing this blog.
Rose and I have been friends for years and years, ever since we were at Junior School. At first I was a little bit afraid of Rose, because she was so different from me. In those days I was afraid of anyone who was a bit different from me, and that meant (I see now) that I was afraid of nearly everybody in the world. I used to hang around on my own a lot, not joining in. There was another Molly in the class at the time and she was much more exciting than me. She was called Molly and I was called The Other Molly and that made me feel awful.
And then one day Rose noticed I felt awful. I don’t know how, but she did. We were doing Science in pairs. ‘Choose a partner,’ the teacher ordered, and Rose smiled at me and said, ‘Mollipop’.
Being Mollipop changed everything, and so did being Rose’s friend because she was the one that everyone liked best. So after that I was all right.
My mum used to say ‘Poor little Rose,’ and want her to join the Brownies with me, and she used to invite her back to our house for tea and give her large helpings and say things like, ‘Rose, would you just like me to pop that cardigan through a quick wash?’ And offer to teach her to make cookies. Meaning to be kind.
And then I would go to Rose’s house and her mum would say, ‘Molly, darling! You couldn’t have come at a better time!’ She was nearly always painting pictures and most of them had animals in them, and Rose’s mum knew animals were my favourite thing. So she would say, ‘Come and look at the eyes, do you think they are dark enough?’ ‘Should that fur be curlier?’ ‘Have I made him look too sad?’ And once for my birthday she painted me a picture of my cat. A real little oil painting in a proper gold frame, and it looked just like her. And another time when I went round, that boy David who is friends with Indigo was sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his arms. Rose’s mum was sitting with him, not doing anything, just being there. As I tiptoed away I heard her ask, ‘Would it help if I came with you?’ And then David lifted up his head.
But she doesn’t cook much, and my mum thinks this is awful. I don’t think it matters because everyone else in the house can cook very well indeed. Even Rose can cook two things so well that they count as food. One of them is spaghetti with marmite and the other is hot chocolate sauce. She made both these things for Tom when he came over from New York for Saffy and Sarah’s 21st birthday party. Tom helped. And Rose said afterwards that she had not any idea how the chocolate sauce ended up on the spaghetti. Neither of them noticed at the time.
But I had better not write too much about Rose and Tom because everyt
hing there is to know about them is only guessing. And if Tom means so much to Rose why did she dye her hair dark crimson when she knew he would hate it? And if Rose means so much to Tom, while did he break off in the middle of a song he was singing and say, ‘Meg usually sings the next lines, she does them better than me.’
I don’t know why.
I was invited to Saffron and Sarah’s party but my mum said no. ‘It is entirely the wrong age group for you,’ she said.
Rose was very disappointed when I passed on this news and she went to see my mum. ‘It’s exactly the right age group for Molly,’ she told her. ‘Buttercup’s coming. He’s four. The twins are coming. They are nothing. Sarah’s mum is coming. She’s stopped counting. Sarah’s great grandpa is coming too. He’s a hundred. So you can see that Mollipop will fit in perfectly.’
‘Hmm,’ said my mum very doubtfully indeed.
‘I suppose,’ said Rose, ‘you are worrying that Molly will get drunk.’
‘ROSE!’ I shouted, but what is the use of shouting. Rose has always had the most terrible way of telling the utter truth. And that is what Mum had been worrying about right from the start.
Right from Junior School.
Me and all those wild Cassons.
‘You needn’t worry,’ said Rose. ‘I’ll look after her. I promise I will. I always did, didn’t I, Mollipop?’
‘Yes you did,’ I said.
‘Ever since we first made friends and I used to come here and you used to pop my cardigan in a quick wash!’ Rose told Mum triumphantly.
Then Rose and Mum looked at each other.
Looked and looked and rushed and hugged.
‘Rose!’ wailed my mum. ‘Did you notice? Did you mind? Did you mind all the time?’
‘I’ve got over it now,’ said Rose.
May 14th 2011
What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger
The Proof
By Rose. Because Molly said, ‘No. I am not writing about that. People won’t like it. I’m not writing things that people won’t like.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because then they might not like ME!’ explained poor Molly, in the husky voice she uses when the awful truth is forced out of her.
‘And so?’ I said.
‘And so what?’ asked Molly, obviously thinking that she had explained completely.
‘And so that’s their problem, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘What do you care?’
‘I do care if people don’t like me,’ said Molly. ‘Everyone does.’
‘Surely it depends on the people?’ I said.
‘Um,’ said Molly doubtfully.
So it looks like I will have to write it myself.
OK.
Tom said, ‘Rose, you are just not cute anymore.’
He came over without warning. One moment all endearing and unobtainable in New York or somewhere. The next, singing at the student union of Saffron and Sarah’s university. And of course, S and S rushed out as soon as they heard and bought multiple front row tickets in case he sold out.
Well, he didn’t.
Nothing like.
(I know I said ‘He,’ but I was leading up to it gradually. ‘They.’ Him and Meg. Long brown hair. Large square teeth. Not mentioned on the posters. A surprise.)
‘Rose!’ whispered the utterly appalled Saffron and Sarah. ‘We didn’t know. We didn’t know. We didn’t know.’
‘Too late,’ moaned Indigo, and it was, and there we were. Me and Kiran and Molly in the front row. Saffron and Indigo and Sarah in her wheelchair behind. And quite a few other people scattered amongst the empty seats. Dozens perhaps, not hundreds.
So.
Sarah leaned forward and spoke, ‘Rose.’
‘What?’
‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,’ said Sarah.
Sarah’s voice is very clear, so clear it reached the stage. She received a most terrible look from Tom. But then he glanced away and picked up that black guitar I got for him and they were off. Tom playing and doing the harmonies. Meg singing. And between them an awful lot of toe-curling eye contact.
Yuck.
Meg sings as if she is quite sure everyone is adoring her. She sounds like she has a nose cold. She sounds like electric bagpipes.
Tom is not only guitar playing, he is also hairdressing. Every now and then he smoothes his hair behind his ears. Oh dear, oh dear, but worse is to come. He reaches out a hand and smoothes a brown snake of Meg’s.
Darling Kiran, my wonderful friend, saves me from heartbreak by giving one of her tremendous snorts. And then Molly and I began shaking.
There is nothing more catching than silent giggles, nor more painful. My ribs hurt the way they did when I had bronchitis and I could not sit up. When I looked to see how the others were coping Kiran’s face was running with tears and Molly had her jacket on backwards with the hood over her face. I did not mean to slide off my seat but once I was on the floor I thought I might as well stay. I writhed there in silent agony (front row, remember) and I hoped it was darker than it seemed.
‘We want to dedicate this next song,’ remarked the snakey Meg while I was lying as invisible as possible (but still very much in pain) ‘to all those people who have encouraged us – and loved us – for so long …’
I admit I shrieked.
That stopped the music.
Eventually I hobbled out, and I suppose it must have started again.
There was a sort of party afterwards. I got behind Sarah in her wheelchair because Sarah is brave and would never let anyone kill me. I got there just in time.
‘Rose!’ roared Tom.
‘Just the person I wanted to see,’ said Sarah-the-human-shield. ‘Do you mind answering a few questions for my article? Think of me as paparazzi,’ she added, zapping him with her iPhone. ‘You don’t mind if I record?’
‘It’s not you I want to talk to,’ said Tom rudely.
‘I know, I know, but us paps are ruthless,’ said Sarah. ‘It will only take a few minutes. Tell me what would you say your influences are now, since have clearly deserted what I remember from my childhood you used to call The Great God Rock.’
‘I never did!’ snapped Tom. ‘Rose, get out from behind there. I want to talk to you.’
‘Rose is under my protection,’ remarked Sarah. ‘Back to the interview I’m afraid. Were you pleased with the reaction you had tonight? Those who stayed, I mean. I noticed you cut the encores, despite the fact that by the end the audience were on their feet.’
‘Rushing for the doors,’ said Tom bitterly. ‘Clear out of the way, Sarah. I’ve had enough.’
‘Not very gracious,’ said Sarah. ‘I did my best to help. I blocked the fire exit with my wheelchair. Have you no gratitude at all? Oh, here’s Meg! Hello Meg! Have you met Rose?’
‘No, but Tom has talked of her so much I feel I know her already,’ said Meg, slinking around Tom the way cats slink round your legs.
‘No you don’t,’ Sarah and I simultaneously, and then, I don’t know why, the giggles came back again, worse than ever. For Sarah this time too.
‘I’ve had enough!’ said Tom, and he shoved Sarah out of the way and hauled me across the room and into the corridor (where Molly and Kiran had prudently already escaped) and he said (hissed actually) ‘Rose. Cut it out. You are just not cute anymore.’
Kiran went for him like a little dark tiger. Molly sobbed. I did not stay to see what happened after that. I just wandered outside, and I sat on the steps in the dark, and waited for the time when someone would find and take me home.
Which eventually happened.
It was Sarah.
And all the way back, in her little red car, with the hood down and the night wind in our hair we sang together many songs with loud and wonderful harmonies. And we laughed and laughed and laughed.
That is the story that Molly would not write.
Thinking people might not like her if she did.
So I wrote it myself.
&
nbsp; What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
That’s true.
And anyway,
I am SO not cute anymore!
September 25th 2011
I am fifteen. FIFTEEN! I can’t believe it. At home they don’t believe it. They still say things like, ‘Who is looking after Rose?’ And Dad gives me vitamins and says ‘What about a glass of milk?’ and Mum says, ‘Rosy Pose. Bedtime darling, don’t you think?’
I am not only fifteen, I am also an only child. Caddy has been gone for ages, living a life of harassed bliss with Michael at the zoo. Saffron and Indigo are back at University. ‘The annual trauma,’ Dad calls it, because Mum cries so much when they are gone. Wanders the empty bedrooms, smoothes the empty beds, says, ‘When did they grow up? Where have the years gone? Thank goodness for you, Rose! You’re still little, at least.’
This crying goes on for about week, and then Dad says the thing that cures it.
‘We’d better have a look at the financial situation.’
The financial situation is so grim that Mum is instantly cured. She has to be. She has to get into the shed and paint like mad, so that Saffy and Indigo don’t starve. Dad is also spurred into action. His antique shop is transformed. One corner is rearranged with bunting and labelled Fashionably Retro. Another part has another sign Actually Quite Special. The middle section Plain Gorgeous, has vases of fresh flowers. Good old Dad, how he seethes with hope, rushing up and down the stairs between his junk shop and the gallery. He ought to be rich. But he’s not.
Luckily, I am not expensive. I eat almost anything, I wear almost anything. School is free, the house is full of drawing things, I have learnt to use a library. I have Molly and Kiran and Kai, the best friends in the world.
And everyone will be home for Christmas.
So that’s all right.
Read on for a sneak peek of another brilliant family from Hilary McKay. Meet Binny Cornwallis in Binny for Short …
For Binny it had happened the way some people become friends. Totally. Inevitable from the beginning, like the shape of a shell.
