The kitchen was huge – even bigger than it had looked from the outside when she had peeped through the windows – and empty. The walls were lined with cupboards above and below, work surfaces that stretched right the way round, and all manner of appliances. In the middle was an enormous square island, with yet more cupboards topped by a thick slab of polished wood. A strong ironwork frame was suspended above it, from which numerous cooking utensils were hanging. Rose couldn’t understand why anyone would need so many different pots and pans, especially a family as small as the Luca family. She hovered in the doorway, undecided as to what to do next.
Something was cooking. Drawn by the rather delicious smell, Rose ventured across the tiled floor and peered through the glass front of one of the ovens. A large tart was browning, sugar bubbling stickily between neatly cut slices of apples and pears.
Esme used to make apple dumplings, Rose remembered. As a family, they had gone apple-picking for orchard owners and were allowed to keep some of the spoils. Nicu would climb a ladder and delve among the branches of a tree to wrest ripe fruits from their stalks, before dropping them for Rose to catch. Rani would try to catch them too, but he was butterfingered and they would fall through his hands or, worse, hit him on the head, though that didn’t stop him coming back for more. Esme would set Rani to work looking under trees for apples that had already fallen and were perfect in every way, while she searched for damaged fruit that could always be turned into apple jelly or jam or pickle.
Rose had loved helping Esme to cook. Sometimes they spent hours at their little stove, or in front of a log fire at the edge of a wood, using recipes that had been passed down through generations. It made her feel as though she was becoming part of her family history just by keeping such practices going, and she knew that when she had children herself she would pass on the same recipes to them.
The memories and the smell of the baking tart made Rose feel hungry. An open packet of biscuits was lying on the central island. She walked over slowly and picked it up. Surely nobody will notice if I have just one biscuit? she thought to herself. And if they do, surely they won’t mind?
Rose was about to take one when there was a loud knock on the window. She dropped the packet in fright, then stared in horror as several biscuits spilled out across the floor, broken. She looked up to see Goran outside, wagging his finger at her and leering. She fled from the kitchen and ran upstairs to her bedroom, where she threw herself on to the bed and burst into tears.
Rose lay there weeping over Goran’s behaviour towards her, then for everything she had lost and in fear for her future. When she could weep no more, she dreamed of running away and somehow finding her way home to her own country and to her remaining family and friends. It didn’t matter how kind Mrs Luca tried to be, Rose couldn’t help feeling that something rotten lay at the core of her carefully manicured world. Something rotten that threatened Rose herself. More immediately, it was Goran who threatened her, yet she had done nothing to incite his sinister interest in her. She dared not go downstairs now and she despaired at the sense that she was being confined to an ever smaller place on the Lucas’ vast estate.
From somewhere deep inside, though, Rose discovered a nugget of defiance. I can’t go outside and I can’t go downstairs, but I refuse to be cooped up in this room, she thought angrily.
She slid off the bed and headed for the door, opening it quietly and stepping out on to the landing. The hooded eyes of someone’s ancestor stared at her disapprovingly from a gloomy portrait on the wall opposite. Rose stuck her tongue out at him and giggled inwardly. She had made up her mind to explore, and no miserable old bore was going to stop her. As she slipped along the landing, she felt excited and anxious, but above all she felt more alive than at any time since the accident. She was doing what she wanted – instead of what she was told – and that made her heart beat strongly.
Rose arrived at Victoria’s room. The door was firmly shut, as it always was, with a notice attached to the handle warning of the dire consequences to be suffered by anyone who entered. It was a challenge Rose couldn’t resist. She strained her ears to check that there were no sounds from anywhere close by, then, heart racing, she swiftly took hold of the handle, turned it and pushed the door back.
She was shocked by what she found. The room was beautiful – or should have been. The walls were lined with a pale pink paper that looked like silk. Thick, raspberry-coloured velvet curtains hung ornately around the windows. The carpet was richly patterned in pinks and greens and yellows. The bed, big enough for six people, like her own, had a canopy of cream organza drapes. But the room was a shambles. Every single drawer of the chest of drawers was half open and spilling out clothes. The dressing table was piled high with pots of cream with their lids off, several combs and brushes sprouting weeks’ worth of hair, pieces of jewellery and scarves, piles of CDs with no cases and endless screwed-up tissues. More tissues surrounded the base of a bin, which was full to the brim. Discarded items of clothing and oddments of underwear covered the floor, and shoes were scattered everywhere, none of them in pairs. The doors of the wardrobe, which extended the full length of one wall, were open wide enough to reveal a similar chaos behind them.
I can’t believe Mrs Luca allows her daughter to live like this, Rose reflected. Esme wouldn’t have allowed it. There wasn’t room in the wagon for any of the family to be untidy, and it was important to her that they were immaculate at the beginning and end of the day, whatever might transpire in between. Whether they worked in muddy fields, travelled for miles on dusty roads, or gorged themselves on blackberries and other messy fruits, when the day was over Esme would dispatch Rose and Nicu to fetch buckets of water from a nearby river or village tap. She inspected Rose and Rani while they washed, and wielded the sponge herself if they weren’t doing the job properly. Even Nicu caught the wrath of her sponge if he tried to skimp on his ablutions.
Rose picked up a tube of lipstick from the dressing table. It was gold with a tiny red crystal embedded in one side. She loved the smoothness of the metal and toyed with the crystal, pressing her finger against it and studying the indentation on her skin. She removed the top from the tube. The lipstick was ice pink. She held it up to her mouth. Do I dare? Esme always wore bright red, she recalled – the colour of roses, her favourite flower. Rose wondered what pink would look like against her dark Romani skin. There’s only one way to find out. If Victoria knew she’d go berserk! She tightened her lips and painted them, first the upper then the lower, and stared at herself in the mirror. She pulled a face. The pink didn’t suit her at all. There was a box of tissues by the side of the bed. She grabbed one quickly and rubbed her lips hard, upset that she had allowed herself to use something as intimate as a gadje’s lipstick.
Rose shut the bedroom door tight on the wreckage and moved on to the next one. She was disappointed to discover that it hid nothing more than shelf upon shelf of bedding and towels, all neatly arranged by size and colour. A muffled clattering of pans from downstairs made her hesitate briefly before continuing. She was glad to know that Marina was around, but felt safe to carry on.
She crossed to the other side of the landing and peered into a vast bathroom that boasted an armchair and thick white rugs. Rose wondered whom it was for, since she assumed that Mr and Mrs Luca had their own private bathroom within their bedroom, and so far no visitors had stayed at the house. There was another bedroom adjacent to it, beautifully furnished and with the bed made up, but clearly not used. It had a musty smell about it, which made Rose wrinkle up her nose and withdraw quickly.
At the very end of the landing was one final room to be explored. First, though, Rose went back along the landing to the top of the stairs and listened. She was surprised to hear the sound of music and singing. She smiled to herself when she realised that Marina was making the most of her employers’ absence by singing her head off to tunes on the radio. Satisfied that the housekeeper was happily occupied, Rose made for the final door and opened it te
ntatively.
Chapter 19
The room was in darkness. Rose sneezed as soon as she entered and tried to make out the shapes that were just visible in the gloom. She thought there was a bed, but wasn’t sure because it seemed too high. She ran her hand over the wall to find the light switch, but when she found it and flipped it, nothing happened. There was something forbidding about this room that made Rose want to close the door and flee, yet curiosity made her determined to stay her ground. She felt her way to the windows, where thick velvet curtains blocked out all trace of the day. She hesitated, then pulled at one of the curtains.
A ray of sunshine fell on a grand piano that dominated the centre of the room. Myriad particles of dust hovered in the sunlight, released suddenly from their resting place and unwilling to settle again. Rose pulled the curtain back further. More light flooded in. The room seemed to devour it, like an animal that has been deprived of food and suddenly has a bowlful put in front of it. A musical score lay open on the top of the piano, though the lid of the piano was closed. Rose crossed the room and trailed her finger over the lid. It was thick with dust.
She could see enough now to identify other objects in the room. A wide, glass-fronted cupboard was filled with musical scores and biographies of famous composers, though to Rose they were just rather dull-looking books. A music stand stood in the corner. On the floor next to it, leaning up against the wall, was a violin. Rose’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. She bent down and stroked its smooth wooden body. She picked it up, blew the dust off it and plucked one of the strings. The noise was both familiar and foreign. Rose searched the room for the bow, and found it by the side of the cupboard. She laid it across the strings of the violin, drew it back gently, carefully, and tittered at the thin, squeaky sound that quivered in the air with the dust.
‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ she mouthed.
Memories of music her father had taught her overwhelmed Rose as she fiddled with the keys to tune the violin. She wanted to hear them again, feel them again, not just in her head, but through her entire body. She had been starved of them for so long! She now understood how much music had been in her father’s soul, and that she was ready for that feeling to invade her own soul. She plucked the strings one by one, before drawing the bow across them again. This time the sound was fuller, rounder, more melodic. Rose adjusted the keys one last time, lifted the violin to her shoulder and began to play.
She was rusty at first – so rusty that she nearly hurled the instrument away in frustration – but gradually her bowing became smoother and the sound she produced began to please her. Rose closed her eyes and allowed the music to wash through her. It gave her a sense of well-being. It made her happy. It made her believe she would be free again to listen to the comforting clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on the narrow lanes of her homeland.
When she opened her eyes again, Marina was standing before her.
‘You play well,’ the housekeeper said.
Alarmed at what she might do next, Rose lowered the violin to her side.
‘But the mistress would not be happy to find you here.’
Rose shook her head and shuffled towards the door, hoping Marina would note the pleading look on her face.
‘I won’t tell,’ Marina assured her, closing the curtains. ‘What use is a violin if nobody plays it?’
Rose nodded and hurried out of the room. Marina followed and closed the door behind her.
‘Beware of upsetting the mistress,’ she warned Rose. ‘And if you want a biscuit, you know I’ll let you have one.’
Chapter 20
It was raining on the morning of Rose’s new birthday. Rose didn’t mind. She jumped out of bed early to take Crumble for his walk and didn’t stop to put on a raincoat. They headed for the woods that lined the fields.By the time they reached them she was already soaked.
It was dry under the canopy of trees. Rose kicked her way through the fallen leaves and laughed as Crumble pounced on them barking excitedly. She was rather looking forward to the day now that she had got used to the idea of a second birthday. Mrs Luca had shown her a leaflet about the theme park and she understood from the photographs what had been meant by ‘rides’. She had been to a fairground with Esme and Nicu once and some of their friends worked in fairgrounds, but those were small affairs compared to this theme park.
‘I bet you’ll be terrified,’ Victoria had said to her. ‘You don’t look like someone who’ll enjoy being turned upside down high up in the air. You’ll probably be sick.’
No, I won’t, Rose thought. I’m not as pathetic as you think.
They had been sitting in front of the television the previous evening. Victoria seemed determined to spoil Rose’s birthday treat even before it had begun. Rose stared fixedly at the screen, trying not to react. She knew enough English now to be able to follow some of what was happening.
‘Of course, Mummy’s only planned this to make herself feel better. It won’t work, though. Nothing ever does.’ She paused before continuing. ‘Do you think that if you’re absolutely petrified, you’ll scream and then your voice will come back?’
Rose shrugged – she had no idea herself. If it did, she would be as surprised as anyone.
‘If I couldn’t speak, I’d want someone to take me out and shoot me, because I’d be so frustrated at not being able to tell people what I was thinking and feeling,’ Victoria said. ‘Especially if I couldn’t read or write, either.’
Rose made to stand up.
‘I don’t think you can read or write, can you? You certainly couldn’t when you arrived here. I had a sneaky look through the door after one of your lessons and I could tell from what was written on the board. I can’t imagine why Mrs Conta hasn’t said anything. Mummy hasn’t worked it out yet, or if she has she hasn’t mentioned it, but that’s probably because she doesn’t want to admit that her protégée is so . . . backward. Daddy would have a fit if he knew he was paying good money just for you to learn the alphabet.’
Rose moved to the door.
‘Don’t worry, though, Anna. It can be our big secret, can’t it?’
Rose fled to her bedroom. She still couldn’t understand why Victoria was always so obnoxious to her, though she could appreciate that it must be difficult suddenly having to share her life with a new ‘sister’. ‘I didn’t ask to be here, either,’ Rose wanted to tell her. ‘If I had a choice, I’d be back home with my family in Romania.’ The older girl seemed to go out of her way to goad her, yet Rose did nothing to encourage it. It made Rose more determined not to allow Victoria to ruin the few opportunities that came her way to enjoy herself. Tomorrow was her treat and she was going to make the most of it, even if she wasn’t sure how she would react to being turned upside down high up in the air.
Now, as she walked back towards the house, Crumble scampering at her heels, Rose remembered what Victoria had said about nothing ever making Mrs Luca feel better. What does that mean? What’s wrong with Mrs Luca? she wondered. There were so many things about this family that perplexed her. Perhaps this was always the way with gadje families.
Rose pushed it out of her mind, went through the back door of the house, dried Crumble’s feet and poured some biscuits into his bowl. She was about to go from the utility room into the hall, when Mrs Luca appeared.
‘Ah, there you are, Anna. Goodness me, child, you’re soaked through. Why didn’t you put on a coat?’
She didn’t wait for a reply, but continued, ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news. Victoria has an upset tummy, so we won’t be able to go to the theme park today. I can’t possibly abandon her when she’s feeling so unwell. You do understand, don’t you? And judging by the weather, it wouldn’t have been ideal anyway. But we’ll celebrate your birthday here and I know you’ll love the present we’ve got you.’
Her words came out unnaturally fast and Rose could tell that Mrs Luca was as disappointed as she was.
‘Victoria is very sorry to have spoilt your treat, of
course, and I know she was looking forward to it too. I’m sure we can rearrange it for another day. Now, go and get some dry clothes on and then come and see what we’ve bought you. And if the weather clears, perhaps you and I could take the horses out later.’
Rose trudged upstairs. It was never going to be a perfect day, but anything would have been better than staying in the house and trying to look as though she was enjoying herself. She might have guessed Victoria would find a way to ruin things for her. She wanted to lock herself in her bedroom and stay there until the next morning. She didn’t want this birthday. It wasn’t real, and now it would be worse than a normal day. Reluctantly, she dried her hair and changed her clothes. She took as long as she could, until she heard Mrs Luca calling her and braved herself to go back downstairs.
Mr and Mrs Luca were waiting for her in the dining room. Mr Luca wished her a happy birthday over the top of his newspaper. Mrs Luca ushered her to a chair at the top of the table and called for Marina, who appeared with a mountainous breakfast of cold meats and cheeses and fruit and pastries.
‘Tuck in, Anna,’ said Mrs Luca. ‘And a very happy birthday to you – the first of many with us.’
Rose attempted a smile, but felt so awkward that her appetite deserted her. Mrs Luca urged her to take more than she wanted, and encouraged her to clear her plate.
‘Go on, enjoy every last mouthful,’ she said. ‘I want this to be a very special day!’
Mr Luca raised his eyebrows and tutted, but Mrs Luca ignored him.
My Name Is Rose Page 8
