Clementine Rose and the Best News Yet

by Jacqueline Harvey

  ‘Okay, but you have to keep everything a secret,’ Clementine said twisting to and fro in her chair. ‘You can’t tell anyone, or it won’t be a surprise.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.

  Clementine picked up her notebook, walked over to sit beside the boy on the bed and showed him the double page with her list. Will’s eyes widened as he read the text. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘All the things I’m getting for the baby,’ Clementine said. ‘And the people who are helping me – except I think some of them have forgotten and everyone else is away on holiday. So I need to make some calls to remind them, or nothing will be ready in time.’

  Will chuckled. ‘Really? You’ve organised all this?’

  Clementine turned and glared at the boy. ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Because the baby won’t be able to use any of this stuff for ages,’ Will said. ‘Babies need nappies and dummies and blankets, not tutus and ballet shoes and wagons that Lavender can pull in a harness.’ He laughed again, though he had to admit that he loved the drawing of the pig pulling a little trolley with the toothless, waving baby inside.

  Clementine could feel the heat rising up into her cheeks. ‘Says who?’

  ‘Everyone,’ Will said.

  Clementine slammed the book shut and pushed herself off the bed. She stormed to her desk and thumped it down.

  ‘They’re cool things, Clemmie – but you know the baby won’t do anything except eat and sleep and cry for a long time,’ Will said.

  ‘No one cares about the baby as much as I do,’ Clementine huffed. ‘It doesn’t even have a bed yet because the cot’s still flat in a box on the floor in the nursery – which is a big mess too. If the baby comes tomorrow it will have to sleep in a drawer like Mr Smee showed us happened in the olden days.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ Will said. ‘Dad’s going to put everything together when he gets home at the end of the week. And it’s not true that you’re the only one who cares about the baby. I can’t wait – it’s going to be awesome.’

  Will slid off the bed.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone about this,’ Clementine said, wishing she hadn’t shared her plans. She’d put a lot of thinking time into the items on her list, and they were perfect for the baby. Will was being a stinky stupid brother. She hoped the baby was a girl more than ever.

  ‘It’s your secret,’ he said. ‘But you should look at those gifts again. All that stuff is a bit of a waste.’

  Clementine’s nose wrinkled. ‘It is not!’

  ‘Whatever you say, Clemmie,’ Will said and stalked out of the room.

  Clementine laid on the bed and looked at her notes. Will didn’t know any more about babies than she did. She ran her finger down the list of names. Mr and Mrs Mogg, Father Bob, Mrs Tribble, Ana, Mr Smee, Pierre, Odette, Sebastian Smote and Mrs Bottomley. After what had happened with Father Bob, it was probably a good idea she remind everyone that there wasn’t much time left before the baby arrived. Her mother had a special book downstairs with important telephone numbers – Clementine would borrow it and make her calls, and then she’d go to see if Mrs Mogg was home yet. Satisfied with her plan, Clementine wandered out into the hall and spotted Uncle Digby with a skyscraping pile of towels.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ he said, peeking around the tower.

  Clementine shook her head. ‘Not really. Did you take Granny some tea and toast?’

  Digby shook his head as well. ‘No, I’ve decided to leave her be this morning.’

  ‘Mr Popov kissed Granny’s hand yesterday when they arrived and he told her she was beautiful,’ Clementine blabbed, then wished that she’d kept quiet when she saw the forlorn look on Uncle Digby’s face.

  ‘Well, he’s a very charming man and your grandmother is stunning. I can understand why he would tell her that.’ Uncle Digby replied with a note of sadness in his voice. ‘What have you got planned for this fine day?’

  ‘I’m going to see Mrs Mogg,’ Clementine said.

  Uncle Digby frowned. ‘I’m afraid she and Mr Mogg have had to make a dash to see Mrs Mogg’s sister. The poor woman has taken ill. That’s why the shop was closed yesterday.’

  ‘Who’s there today?’ Clementine asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Uncle Digby said.

  ‘Then I need to go to Highton Mill instead,’ Clementine said. ‘Can you take me?’

  The man set the towels down on the sideboard. ‘I’m afraid I don’t think I’ll have time, sweetheart. I’ve got to do the rooms and some washing. Why do you want to go there?’

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ Clementine said. She planned to visit Mrs Bottomley and Mr Smee, but Uncle Digby couldn’t know that.

  ‘Sorry, Clemmie, not today. And your mother is up to her elbows in baking downstairs and I’d like her to have a rest this afternoon before the guests arrive back for their afternoon tea, so please don’t ask her, either.’

  Clementine sighed. ‘Could you help me get the nursery ready when you’ve finished your jobs instead?’ Surely there was something useful she could do for the baby today, even if she couldn’t collect her gifts.

  Digby shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I have to go out.’

  Clementine didn’t like the sound of that one bit. ‘Where?’ she asked.

  But the man changed the subject. ‘It’s funny, but I remembered after breakfast that you used to have a rabbit almost the same as little Niki’s.’

  Clementine wrinkled her nose. ‘Really? Did I throw tantrums when someone tried to take it off me?’

  Digby chuckled. ‘Not that I can remember.’

  ‘Where is it now?’ Clementine asked.

  ‘It might have gone out to a charity when your mother was having a clean-up, or I think there’s still a box of your old toys up in the attic.’ The man smiled. ‘You loved that rabbit more than anything until Lavender came along.’

  Uncle Digby picked up the pile of towels. ‘I’d better get this lot done,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you do some craft, Clemmie, or a painting?’

  Clementine wrinkled her nose. Now that her plans for the day were ruined and Will was being annoying, she had to find something to pass the time. Craft was boring. But painting . . . Uncle Digby had given her the best idea. Painting was exactly what she’d do!

  Clementine waited until Uncle Digby had gone downstairs, then gathered up all her paints and brushes, and some pencils too.

  The nursery was in a small bedroom next to her mother and Drew’s room. It used to be full of junk, but Drew had cleared it out when they found out that the baby was on its way, then painted the horrible brown walls to make the room a warm shade of white. Her mother had planned to paint a line of African animals circling the walls, to match the bed linen Mrs Mogg had made for the cot, but they’d never got around to finishing the room off. This was Clementine’s chance to be helpful.

  Clementine studied one of the pillowcases, then she unscrewed the lids of her paints and squirted an array of blobs into the plastic paint tray.

  She looked at the wall and decided that chin height would be just about right. That would be her guide so that everything was level. Clementine dipped her brush into the black paint and within a minute or so a zebra adorned the wall. It was a little wonky, but not bad for her first attempt.

  ‘What do you think, Lavender?’ she asked the little pig, who was investigating the paint pots.

  There was no reply. Clementine took this as a compliment – Lavender could be a harsh critic at times.

  ‘Next, I’m going to do an elephant with a long trunk.’ Clementine swished her brush in the jar of water she’d filled in the bathroom sink, and dried it before dipping it into the sunflower yellow paint.

  ‘Wow!’ Clementine exclaimed a few moments later. ‘That looks amazing.’ She picked up another brush and painted the eyes, mouth, nose and whiskers in black.

  Her next animal was a giraffe, then a monkey. She planned to repeat the pattern over and over all the way round the room.r />
  ‘I’m not painting any crocodiles, because they’re too scary,’ the girl told Lavender. ‘I don’t want the baby to think they’re going to be chomped in their sleep.’

  Clementine wiped her brow. Painting was harder work than she expected, especially when she had to concentrate so much to make sure that it was level. She didn’t realise she’d left a blob of red paint on her cheek. Clementine stepped back to admire her handiwork. The monkey was a bit low, but maybe she could paint a little vine to make it look like he was hanging down on purpose. Her stomach grumbled. She’d finish the frieze later – it was almost lunchtime, and she still had her phone calls to make. She’d do that first then think about something to eat.

  Clementine put her paints in the corner of the room and dipped the dirty brushes into the water. She protected the tray with a special plastic cover so the paints wouldn’t dry out and no one would step on them by accident. They would be safe there until she came back, but with everyone so busy, she thought she could finish it off before anyone discovered her masterpiece. She was beginning to feel much better – everything was going to be perfect for the baby. She just knew it.

  Clementine was surprised to find the kitchen empty, but at least she could borrow her mother’s telephone book without anyone being the wiser.

  ‘Come on, Lavender,’ Clementine said, picking up the little black book.

  The pair walked out through the swinging kitchen door and down the hall to the rear of the house. Clementine could hear Uncle Digby whistling upstairs and she spotted her mother cutting roses in the garden outside. That was good – she’d be able to talk in private.

  Clementine entered the library, then climbed up on the green leather chair that had belonged to her grandfather many years before. She wriggled onto her knees to be able to see over the desk properly and reached for the telephone. Clementine opened the book to the letter ‘s’ and dialled the number for Mr Smee.

  ‘Hello, it’s Clementine Rose Appleby,’ she said when the man answered, and took off to explain the situation in a rush. She wanted everything to be just right for the baby, and she was hoping to get the present Mr Smee had promised to make for her because it was getting so close now and no one else seemed in a hurry to get anything ready, but if the baby came early they were in trouble.

  Her teacher chuckled and promised that he had almost finished; he would bring the soccer goals out on the weekend. The girl insisted that it would be better if he came before then, just in case.

  Unbeknownst to Clementine, Will had been curled up in the big brown armchair, facing the window reading a comic when she entered the room. Now he was listening intently to Clementine’s conversation, grinning to himself and thinking that it would be ages before their little brother or sister could walk, let alone play soccer. But the idea of it was kind of cute.

  Clementine hung up the phone.

  ‘Well, I’m pleased that someone has remembered,’ she said to Lavender, who was rolling about under the desk scratching her back on the floor.

  Clementine called Mrs Bottomley next, but the woman didn’t answer. She left her a long and detailed message.

  Sebastian Smote said he was too busy to talk when she called him, and when the girl reminded him what he’d promised, the man made a pffling sound and told her that he really didn’t have time. He had a wedding this weekend and was dealing with a disaster the likes of which he’d never seen before.

  She hung up the phone and sighed sadly. ‘Honestly, Lavender, why do I even bother?’

  Will frowned. Poor Clementine – she really was trying hard. It didn’t seem fair that things weren’t exactly working out, and he felt quite mean for having laughed at her earlier.

  ‘I’m starving, Lavender,’ the girl said and hopped down from the chair. She shooed the pig outside and the pair hurried back to the kitchen where Clarissa was arranging the roses into several crystal vases.

  ‘Hello, darling, what have you been up to?’ the woman asked, concentrating on clipping thorns from stems.

  Clementine returned the black book to the sideboard before her mother noticed she’d had it, and skipped to the pantry where she retrieved a loaf of bread.

  ‘A surprise,’ the child said. ‘But it’s not finished yet, so don’t ask me anything else.’

  Clarissa was intrigued, but she hoped that – whatever it was – Clementine’s plan wouldn’t go sideways. She was too tired to deal with the unexpected, and she was still worried about Uncle Digby and Aunt Violet. She’d tried to speak to her aunt earlier and was told to mind her own business. The last thing the family needed was a rift.

  ‘Well, when you head back upstairs to your surprise can you take those shirts over there and hang them up in Uncle Digby’s room, please?’ Clarissa asked.

  ‘Okay,’ Clementine said.

  The child made herself a honey sandwich, feeding half to Lavender before charging upstairs with the shirts.

  She knocked on Uncle Digby’s bedroom door, but there was no answer, so Clementine pushed her way inside. She had hung the shirts on the little rack Uncle Digby called a valet and turned to leave when she spotted the man’s suitcase lying open on the armchair by the side of the bed.

  Clementine gasped. Uncle Digby was packing? That could only mean one thing: Aunt Violet had got her way and the man was leaving.

  Clementine could see underwear and trousers and shirts, and there was even a pair of pyjamas. This was a disaster. Something in the corner of the case caught her eye. Clementine reached in and picked up a small black box. She was about to take a peek inside when the doorknob turned.

  The child recoiled and dropped the box, not noticing as it missed the suitcase and fell between the cushions on the chair, disappearing out of sight. She scurried to the valet and tried to look as if she’d just finished hanging the shirts.

  ‘Oh, hello, Clemmie.’ Uncle Digby walked into the room. ‘Thank you for bringing those up. I really have to get organised by this afternoon.’ He rubbed his head and sighed. ‘What’s that on your cheek?’

  Clementine spun around and glanced in the mirror on the dressing table, then quickly licked her finger and rubbed the paint off.

  ‘Nothing. Are you all right, Uncle Digby?’ Clementine asked, trying not to look in the direction of the suitcase.

  ‘Just a bit tired. Apart from the screaming last night that kept us awake, I’ve discovered that little Niki has left quite the trail of destruction downstairs. I’ve had a lot more cleaning than usual this morning,’ he said. ‘But I’m almost finished, and once I’ve set up the afternoon tea I’ll come back and deal with the packing, then I really have to get over to the cottage.’

  Clementine flinched. She couldn’t bear the thought of Uncle Digby moving out – he’d been part of her life forever and she loved him as much as her mummy, and Granny, and Drew, and Will and the new baby, even though it wasn’t born yet. Clementine’s mind was racing. There had to be a way to stop him before it was too late.

  Uncle Digby had asked Clementine if she wouldn’t mind heading downstairs to see if he’d left his feather duster in the sitting room. He was busy distributing vases of fresh flowers to the guest rooms and the child could run down and back in a flash – his knees weren’t what they once were. The clock in the entrance hall struck one. The Popovs wouldn’t return to the hotel for a couple of hours.

  Clementine stopped at the hall mirror to double check she’d got rid of all the paint, and noticed there was a line of tiny palm prints on the glass. Niki. Why did toddlers have to touch everything – especially with sticky fingers? Uncle Digby obviously hadn’t found every mess yet.

  ‘Uncle Digby,’ the girl shouted. ‘Uncle Digby, come quickly!’

  Clementine could hear the thudding of feet as the man ran along the upstairs hall. His red face appeared over the balustrade on the stairs.

  ‘Goodness, Clemmie, whatever’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘More jobs,’ she said, pointing to the mirror. ‘Would you like me to cle
an it?’

  Digby shook his head. ‘Please don’t touch it, Clemmie. I’ll do it. I just have to finish the flowers.’ The last time Clementine had tried to clean a mirror, she’d ended up making it ten times worse. Clearly Uncle Digby hadn’t forgotten.

  ‘At this rate, I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere,’ the man mumbled and disappeared back to the bedrooms.

  Clementine smiled to herself. That was the best news she’d heard all day, and it gave her an idea. If Uncle Digby had more jobs to do, then he couldn’t possibly leave.

  Clementine ran into the sitting room and mussed up the cushions on the chairs, then picked up the pot of ashes from the fireplace and poured its contents onto the rug. She found a tissue in her pocket and tore it to pieces before scattering it on the floor. Then she reached up and moved the paintings so they were at odd angles. Uncle Digby couldn’t stand it when the artwork wasn’t straight, sometimes using a spirit level to make sure that everything sat perfectly.

  A few minutes later the butler stalked down the stairs.

  ‘Uncle Digby!’ Clementine called from the sitting room.

  ‘What is it now?’ he said, and hurried to the doorway.

  ‘You’re not going to like this,’ the girl said.

  Digby frowned. ‘Oh, good heavens, that child is a monster!’

  Clementine felt a twinge in her tummy. She knew it was wrong to make it seem as if Niki was responsible for the chaos she’d created, but the boy had already made lots of mess – and if there was a little bit more and it stopped Uncle Digby from leaving, then was that really so bad?

  Niki had been mercifully silent last night, and Clementine had slept much better. She still felt bad about making all the messes for Uncle Digby to clean up, even though it did mean he hadn’t gone anywhere yet.

  Now, she stood back from the nursery wall and admired her work. Apart from a slightly wonky lion’s tail and a monkey with a cheesy grin, the animals were perfect. She’d got up early to finish the painting.