Beautiful, new, white skating boots, the blades shining steel, and exactly the right size. Jenny gazed at them with a mixture of delight, because they were so fantastic, and apprehension at the thought of what she was expected to do with them.
“Oh. Granny.”
Granny was watching her. Jenny scrambled up off the floor to go and hug her. “They’re … they’re wonderful.”
Granny’s eyes met her own. Granny’s eyes were old but very bright. They never missed a trick. Granny said, “You can’t possibly skate in boots that don’t fit you. I bought them yesterday, because I couldn’t bear to think of you missing all the fun.”
“We’ll go skating this afternoon,” Natasha announced firmly. “You’ve got to give it another try.”
“Yes,” said Jenny meekly. And at that moment remembered the theatre, the only gift still unopened. “But now you’ve got to open your present from me.”
The grown-ups sat back in some anticipation. In truth, they could scarcely wait to see what Jenny had been constructing in the secrecy of her bedroom over the last few weeks.
Crouching, Jenny put the plug into the hot-plate socket. “Now, Natasha, you’ve got to take the paper off the moment I turn on the switch, otherwise it might catch fire.”
“Heavens,” said Granny in some dismay. “Do you suppose it’s a volcano?”
“Now,” said Jenny, and turned on the switch. Natasha whisked off the paper tea-cosy, and there it was. With the lights twinkling on all the sparkley bits of glitter; shining back from the mirror pond, gleaming on the satin-ribbon skirts of the miniature ballerinas.
For a satisfactory space of time there was total silence. Then Natasha said, “I don’t believe it,” and everybody started to exclaim.
“Oh, darling. It’s the cleverest thing. The prettiest…”
“Never seen anything so enchanting…”
“Is that what you wanted the wine box for?”
They rose from their chairs, came to inspect, to stand back, to wonder and admire. No audience could have been more appreciative. As for Natasha, for once she seemed to be lost for words. Finally, she turned to her sister and hugged her. “… I shall keep it, always and always.”
“It’s not a real ballet. I mean it’s not La Fille Mal Gardée, or anything like that.”
“I like it better that way. My very own winter ballet. I simply love it. Oh, thank you, Jenny. Thank you.”
By four o’clock Christmas dinner was finished, and finally cleared away. Over for another year. The crackers pulled, the nuts cracked. Jenny’s parents and her grandmother were in the sitting-room, enjoying coffee before taking a little necessary exercise in the outdoor air. Natasha had already gone, her skates in her hand.
“Come on, Jenny. I’m ready,” she had called up the stairs.
“I’ll be there in a moment.”
“What are you doing?”
Jenny was sitting on her bed. “Just tidying up.”
“Shall I wait?”
“No. I’ll be there in a moment.”
“Promise?”
“Yes. I promise. I’ll come.”
“All right, then. See you later!”
The door banged shut, and she had gone, running down the path to the gate. Jenny was alone. She had been given skates, and she wished she hadn’t been, because she couldn’t skate. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, but she was frightened. Not so much of falling and hurting herself, but of making an idiot of herself; of other people laughing at her; of having to come home and admit the usual utter failure.
I want to be like Natasha, she thought. But she knew that this was impossible, because she could never be like Natasha. I want to float over the ice, and have long blonde hair and long slender legs and have everybody admire me, and want to skate with me.
But poor old Jenny they would say, as she hit the ice yet another time. Bad luck. Have another go.
She would have given her soul simply to stay where she was; to curl up on her bed and read the new book that Natasha had given her. But she had promised. She picked up the skates and went out of her room and down the stairs, slowly, one step at a time, as though she had only just learned how to walk.
They were talking in the sitting-room. She heard Granny’s voice, quite clearly, through the closed door.
“… such a talented child. The hours she must have spent constructing that little masterpiece. And the thought and invention that went into it.”
“She’s always been good with her hands. Creative.” That was Dad. And they were talking about her. “Perhaps she should have been born a boy.”
“Oh, really, John, what a thing to say.” Granny sounded quite irritated by him. “Why shouldn’t girls be good with their hands?”
“It’s funny…” Jenny’s mother, now, sounding thoughtful. “That two daughters should be so different. Natasha finding everything so easy. And Jenny…” Her voice trailed to nothing.
“Natasha finds everything easy to do that she wants to do.” Granny again, at her most brisk. “Jenny is not Natasha. She is a different child. I think that you should respect that, and treat her as such. After all, they’re not a pair of identical twins. Why should Jenny have to dance, just because Natasha sees herself as a budding ballerina? Why should she even have to go to dancing classes? I think that you should let her talents lead her in her own direction.”
“Now, what do you mean by that, Mamma?”
“I listened to her when we were singing carols last night. It seems to me that she has almost perfect pitch. I think she is musical. It is strange that her teachers at school have not already realized this. Have you ever thought of piano lessons?”
There was a long pause, and then Jenny’s father said, “No.” He didn’t say it crossly, rather as though he had never thought of such a thing, but couldn’t think why he hadn’t.
“Dancing, Jenny will never do more than galumph about with a tambourine. Let her learn the piano, see how she does.”
“You think she’d like that? You think she’d be good at it?”
“A child so talented could do anything she tried if she set her heart to it. She just needs confidence. I think, if you change your tack with her, she’ll surprise us all.”
The voices stopped. A silence fell. At any moment, her mother would start setting the empty coffee-cups on the tray. Not wishing to be discovered, Jenny tip-toed down the last of the stairs, and let herself out through the front door, making no sound. Down the path, through the gate, out onto the road.
She paused.
Have you ever thought of piano lessons? Let her learn the piano.
No more dancing classes. Just herself, on her own, making music.
A child so talented could do anything she tried if she set her heart to it.
If Granny thought she was as clever as that, perhaps she could. As well, she had gone to much trouble and expense to buy Jenny the skating boots for Christmas. The least Jenny could do was to have another try.
The orange sun was dipping down over the rim of the hills. From afar, across the frosty stillness of Christmas afternoon, she could hear the laughter and the voices from the village green. She began to walk.
When she got there, she didn’t look for Natasha. She knew what she had to do, and she wanted to do it on her own.
“Hello, Jenny. Happy Christmas.”
It was a school friend, with a sledge. Jenny borrowed the sledge to sit on. She took off her rubber boots and put on the beautiful new white skating boots. They felt soft and supple, and when she laced them, hugged her ankles like old friends. She stood up, on the frozen grass, and took a step or two. No wobbles. She reached the ice.
Remembered Natasha’s instructions. Put your feet in third position, and push off. A bit unsteady, but she kept her balance. Now. Third position. A big breath for courage. She could do anything if she set her heart to it. Push. All right. Now the other foot …
It worked. She was away. She wasn’t falling or waving her arms abou
t. One, two. One, two. She was skating.
“You’re doing it! You’ve got it.” Natasha, all at once, materialized at her side. “No, don’t look at me, keep concentrating. You mustn’t fall over. Look, take my hands and we’ll go together. Well done! You remembered what I told you to do. It’s easy. The only reason you couldn’t do it before was because of those stupid old boots…”
They were skating together. Two sisters, with hands clasped and the icy air burning their cheeks. Sailing over the ice. It was like having wings on your feet. The sun was gone, but over in the east, like a pale eyelash, hung the crescent of a young new moon.
“The present you gave me was the best I had,” Natasha told her. “What was your best present?”
But Jenny couldn’t tell her. Partly because she hadn’t the breath to talk, and partly because she hadn’t had time to work it out for herself yet. She only knew that it had not come in a package wrapped in holly paper, and that it was something she was going to be able to keep for the rest of her life.
ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES BY ROSAMUNDE PILCHER
WINTER SOLSTICE
SLEEPING TIGER
ANOTHER VIEW
SNOW IN APRIL
THE END OF SUMMER
THE EMPTY HOUSE
THE DAY OF THE STORM
FLOWERS IN THE RAIN AND OTHER STORIES
UNDER GEMINI
WILD MOUNTAIN THYME
VOICES IN SUMMER
THE BLUE BEDROOM AND OTHER STORIES
THE CAROUSEL
THE SHELL SEEKERS
SEPTEMBER
COMING HOME
CRITICAL PRAISE FOR ROSAMUNDE PILCHER AND FLOWERS IN THE RAIN!
“Reading Rosamunde Pilcher is like slipping into an old robe, curling up on the sofa in front of a cheerful fire and sipping a nice hot cup of tea. She’s so comfortable.… She has an eye for rich detail. Her characters are ordinary people who lead ordinary lives. Best of all, they are likable.… Save this book for a rainy day. The author has such a lovely way with words.”
—CINCINNATI ENQUIRER
“Like a kinder and gentler Danielle Steele, Pilcher’s romantic stories invoke a compassionate fate. Heartwarming and sweet, they are set in an England of cozy teas, country estates and fine, crisp days; and telling of lives illuminated by the possibility of love or about the importance of living life to the fullest.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Time and again, Rosamunde Pilcher engages us with her life-sized, often indomitable characters and with the wry, compassionate intelligence of her observations.”
—SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
“A pleasure to read … Rosamunde Pilcher has a storytelling gift which manages to both charm and amuse.”
—ALPENA NEWS (MI)
“Ms. Pilcher has a superior talent for describing everyday life and feelings. Her appeal is absolutely understandable, and her spell, while you’re reading her, is unbreakable.”
—CLEVELAND PLAIN DEALER
“Sixteen wonderful gifts to the reader … each is peopled with characters you hate to see leave at the end of their story … Pilcher is an artist skilled at capturing the emotions in life that are meaningful and worth saving … Her special talent is making her one of the world’s most beloved storytellers.”
—BATON ROUGE ADVOCATE
“Pilcher’s mastery of understatement and her stunning insights into the human heart pack just as much velvet-gloved punch in her short stories as in her novels.”
—GRAND RAPIDS PRESS (MI)
“Filled with poignant scenes, romantic and bittersweet.”
—BOOKLIST
“Picture-perfect storytelling … These sixteen stories are triumphs … [They] flow with Pilcher’s special gift for hope, opportunity, positive change and courage … Has the special romanticism for which Pilcher is known.”
—SAN ANTONIO EXPRESS NEWS
“Her loyal following will enjoy this latest of her blossom-bedecked books.”
—ANNISTON STAR (TX)
“A uniformly fine collection … a rare opportunity to watch the intuitive artist at work within the confines of a more restricted, demanding form … Ms. Pilcher’s gentle vignettes may seem quite tame to readers accustomed to dark sensationalism. Hers are sensible, decent people who prefer to solve their problems without the aid of psychiatrists, chemical substances or guns. And what’s wrong with that?”
—ATLANTA JOURNAL & CONSTITUTION
The following stories were first published elsewhere:
“The Doll’s House,” as “The Gift of Love,” in Good Housekeeping, May 1986.
“The Blackberry Day,” in Ladies Home Journal, August 1991.
“A Girl I Used to Know,” as “The Valiant Heart,” in Good Housekeeping, March 1988.
“The Watershed,” as “The Anniversary Surprise,” in Redbook, February 1990.
“Marigold Garden,” as “Reunion with Julia,” in Good Housekeeping, November 1983.
“A Walk in the Snow,” as “Home for the Holiday,” in Good Housekeeping, December 1984.
“Cousin Dorothy,” as “Christmas Wedding,” in Good Housekeeping, December 1986.
“Whistle for the Wind,” in Good Housekeeping, July 1991.
“Skates” in Ladies Home Journal, December 1989.
FLOWERS IN THE RAIN AND OTHER STORIES
Copyright © 1991 by Rosamunde Pilcher.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-18237
ISBN: 0-312-92774-6
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition/September 1991
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition/July 1992
eISBN 9781250032225
First eBook edition: February 2013
Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories Page 28
