Rose Rivers

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘I don’t see the point.’

  ‘You could give the finished picture as a little Christmas gift.’

  ‘No one would want my stupid stuff,’ I said, determined to feel sorry for myself.

  ‘I would,’ said Paris. ‘In fact, you can give me the picture as my Christmas present.’

  ‘Dear Mr Walker! You’re so kind to humour the child,’ Mama murmured.

  I started drawing and Paris started painting. Mama talked the whole time. She’d heard that Lady Robson was giving a party on Christmas Eve and was upset because we hadn’t been invited. Mama insisted that Christmas Eve was a ridiculous day to hold a party, and said it should be family time. We should gather round the piano together and sing carols. She ignored the fact that, even though we have a piano, none of us can play it adequately. I have failed again as the eldest daughter of the house. I have no musical ability whatsoever.

  We’re not very good at singing together either. Mama says she is a natural soprano, but she has such a high, affected voice you can barely hear her. Papa sings very loudly and in a jolly manner, but he is so off-key it makes painful listening. Rupert had a reasonably pure voice, but it’s started to crack. Sebastian won’t sing at all because he says it disturbs Montmorency. Algie can sing a little, but he generally substitutes rude words for the proper ones and then snorts at his daring. Clarrie forgets the words completely and makes do with la-la-la-ing.

  Beth is the only one who sings really beautifully. She used to have piano lessons and did well, though she played with her head down, crooning to herself. The teacher insisted that she should sit up properly, and tried to lift her chin. This frightened Beth and she threw such a tantrum that her piano lessons ended there and then.

  Mama convinced herself that our family Christmas Eves were the Eighth Wonder of the World, and suddenly invited Paris to join us.

  ‘Why didn’t I think of it before? You will have such fun, dear boy. And why not stay the night and spend Christmas Day with us? Cook makes the most marvellous Christmas dinner, and we have a slap-up tea too! I dare say I shall scarcely fit into this dress afterwards.’ Mama scarcely fits into it now, and every seam strained as she described our Christmas revels. ‘It will be such fun playing Charades, Mr Walker! You’ll enjoy the chance to dress up and act.’

  ‘My dear Mrs Rivers, you are quite right, I do enjoy acting,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t join you and your family for Christmas, much as I’d like to. I have to be with my mother. She is still rather an invalid.’

  I admired his quick thinking – but Mama was swift with her own response.

  ‘Why not bring the dear lady too? If she is still frail, she can recline on my chaise longue. We have a trained nurse on the premises, should she need medical attention.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you, Mrs Rivers, but I think the travelling would be too much for her, and any company tires her, no matter how congenial. She leads a very quiet life now,’ said Paris.

  Mama was silenced for only a few seconds. ‘Then I have a better idea. Join our family for New Year’s Eve instead. I’m sure your mother will understand, as she will wish to spend it quietly. We always have a splendid ball up in Scotland, you know – a true Hogmanay. My parents have a country estate in Angus, and we have such a jolly time. Our parties are legendary. Oh, you must come, Mr Walker! And, as an artist, you will be inspired by our grand Scottish scenery. My husband finds it immensely stimulating. Please say you will come!’

  ‘You’re too kind, Mrs Rivers,’ said Paris. He didn’t say yes, but he clearly couldn’t think of any more excuses.

  Mama sat back triumphantly, sure she had won. I wondered if Paris would come! I doubted it, but it would be such fun if he did! Mama wasn’t exaggerating about the ball. Grandmama organizes it, with a piper, and a band for dancing the Eightsome Reel and the Dashing White Sergeant, much more exciting than prim ballroom dancing. Papa used to say he fell in love with Mama as he twirled her around in the Gay Gordons. I pictured them: Mama a slender girl of eighteen in a white dress with a tartan sash, Papa older but still trim and gallant, leaping about in a borrowed kilt.

  There’s an age gap of twelve years between them. As I worked on my Christmas picture I realized that there was a similar age gap between Paris and me. I couldn’t help feeling that this was significant.

  When it was time for lunch I snapped my sketchbook shut.

  ‘Aren’t you going to show me?’ asked Paris.

  ‘It’s not finished yet,’ I protested.

  ‘Oh, Rose, stop being so childish!’ said Mama. ‘Let us both see. You’ve certainly been very absorbed all morning, hunched up over that drawing. Did you know that your tongue sticks out when you’re concentrating? It looks quite comical.’

  Mama certainly wouldn’t find my picture comical. I’d drawn our family sitting around the dining-room table eating Christmas dinner. I’m afraid I’d pictured Mama bursting right out of her dress, but still gobbling away. Papa was sliding slowly under the table, a large glass of wine in his hand.

  Rupert had some wine too, and was nibbling a chicken drumstick in a supercilious way. I sat beside him, scowling. I drew Beth sitting with her back to everyone. Sebastian was feeding Montmorency from his plate. Algie was on all fours under the table, snipping hems and boot buttons with a pair of scissors. Clarrie was being sick into a plant pot. Nurse was in the background holding Phoebe, who was howling. Nurse Budd and Clover were having a fist fight in a corner – and Clover was winning. The rest of the servants were slyly helping themselves to the desserts on the sideboard.

  I spent the afternoon in my room colouring my picture in festive reds and greens with my Winsor & Newton paints. At first glance it looked like a gay and happy scene, the kind you find on a tuppenny Christmas card. I was pleased with the effect.

  When the paint was dry, I turned the page over and wrote lightly in pencil: Happy Christmas, Paris. See what a treat you have missed!

  I spent a good ten minutes wondering how to sign myself. On cards for my family I put: With love from Rose. I wrote the same on Paris’s picture, but then wondered if this was too forward. I rubbed it out, and simply signed my name with a tiny drawing of a rose.

  Then I wrapped it in decorative paper and secured it with my best hair ribbon. As soon as the picture was hidden I started to worry about it, wondering if it was too sharply satirical. But I’d taken such pains with the ribbon I couldn’t bear to open it up and check.

  I decided that I was getting in a state about nothing. Paris had clearly been joking when he asked for my drawing as a Christmas present. He would forget all about it. How could I give it to him anyway? He wasn’t coming back till after Christmas.

  But on Christmas Eve he appeared with a basket of gifts!

  ‘I should have grown a large belly and a white beard overnight, and then I could be Father Christmas,’ he said.

  He’d brought a huge tin of sugar plums for the children, a bottle of claret for Papa, and two slender boxes – one for Mama and one for me!

  Mama opened her present immediately. It was a little silver pencil studded with blue beads, with a silky blue tassel at the top.

  ‘Oh my Lord, Mr Walker, what a dear little pencil!’ she cried. She gushed about it for a full five minutes, but I think she was disappointed. Perhaps she’d hoped the box might contain jewellery.

  ‘I saw it in the shop and thought of you. The blue is the exact shade of your dress,’ said Paris. ‘I thought you could use it to keep the score when you play Bridge with your friends.’

  ‘What a charming thought,’ said Mama, though she never plays Bridge and has few friends. ‘You must open your box now, Rose.’

  ‘I’d sooner wait till Christmas Day,’ I said. I was sure it was another pencil.

  I ran to fetch my present for Paris and shyly gave it to him.

  ‘Thank you, Rose,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Open it now, Mr Walker. I’d love to see what Rose has drawn
for you,’ said Mama. Then she whispered, ‘It was so sweet of you to get the child a present so she wouldn’t feel left out.’

  ‘Bless you, Mrs Rivers. However, I’d sooner save my present for Christmas Day too,’ said Paris, tucking my sketch into his portfolio.

  I haven’t been able to wait for Christmas Day. I opened my present in my room and discovered that it wasn’t a pencil at all. It was a small dipping pen with a rose-red stem and its own tiny bottle of black ink. There was a message too, tucked inside the box.

  For your artwork!

  CHRISTMAS EVE WAS surprisingly jolly. Mama made a big effort for once. She organized an early supper and then summoned everyone to the drawing room – all the servants, and the children in their nightgowns, even Beth. She seemed half asleep, so that Nurse Budd had to steer her into the room, but when she saw the Christmas tree with all its candles lit she became entranced and stood in front of it, head raised in awe. Her eyes shone, reflecting the candles. My heart turned over and I longed to go and give her a hug, but I knew she was better left alone.

  Clover was almost as much in awe of the Christmas tree as Beth. She helped roast chestnuts in the fire, and both family and servants had their fill, though the children kept burning their fingers on the red-hot shells. Then Mama clapped her hands and called for us to sing Christmas carols, just as she’d boasted we’d do to Paris. We gave a very uncertain rendering of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, not sure of the tune, but then Mr Hodgson hurried off and returned with a mouth organ!

  He saved the day. We’d had no idea that he owned such an instrument, let alone that he could play it with such enthusiasm. The servants were more musical than us. Clover has a fine, pure voice, though she didn’t know all the words, and Jack Boots sang like a little choirboy.

  Beth ignored everybody at first, still staring at the Christmas tree, but when we started ‘Silent Night’ she joined in, her voice soaring above all the others.

  ‘Silent night, holy night,

  All is calm, all is bright

  Round yon virgin mother and child.

  Holy infant,

  So tender and mild,

  Sleep in heavenly peace

  Sleep in heavenly peace.’

  Beth was word perfect. She sang it effortlessly, like a nightingale. We were all near tears, and I could scarcely breathe.

  Rupert reached out and squeezed my hand. ‘Happy families, eh?’ he murmured.

  He seemed surprisingly relaxed when, at that very moment, the hateful Hardy might be approaching Pamela Feynsham-Jones at Lady Robson’s party. On the way up to bed I stopped him on the landing and gave him a quick hug.

  ‘Hey!’ he said, wriggling away, but he was smiling.

  ‘Oh, Rupe, do you think Hardy really is going to Lady Robson’s party? He isn’t just pretending?’

  ‘He’s going all right,’ said Rupert. ‘His grandmother is her first cousin once removed or some such nonsense.’

  ‘Then he really might say dreadful things to Pamela!’

  ‘Let him,’ said Rupert airily. ‘Don’t worry so, Rose.’

  ‘You were in a cold funk when you told me!’

  ‘Well, I’ve calmed down now. All is calm, all is bright, like the carol.’

  ‘It won’t stay calm and bright if Mrs Feynsham-Jones comes knocking at the door! And Mr Feynsham-Jones will be ready to horsewhip the young blade who’s been spreading such disgusting rumours about his precious daughter!’

  ‘Have you ever met Mr F-J? He’s a timid little man with a droopy moustache and a nervous cough. I’m hardly shaking in my shoes,’ said Rupert.

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously enough!’

  ‘I’ve sorted everything out, Rose. Where do you think I went yesterday? I went to see Pamela and confessed.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘Of course I did. Mrs Feynsham-Jones thought it so sweet of me to come calling by myself. Seeing as we’re old family friends she allowed Pamela to walk in the gardens with me unaccompanied,’ said Rupert.

  ‘And you actually told her that you’ve been saying all those things about her to your nasty little chums?’

  ‘They’re not my chums any more. And of course I didn’t put it like that. I simply said that the boys had started ragging me because they’d got hold of one of her letters. I said truthfully enough that Hardy had insulted her, and so I had defended her honour and hit him. I said that he’d blubbed like a baby—’

  ‘But that was you!’

  ‘Well, why would I want to admit such a thing to my sweetheart?’ said Rupert. ‘I warned her that Hardy hates me now, and might well say beastly things about me. Pamela was touchingly concerned. I think she’ll send Hardy off with a flea in his ear.’

  I stared at Rupert. ‘But you haven’t told her the truth!’

  ‘I’ve told her my version of the truth. Now go to bed and stop worrying so, Rose,’ he said.

  Of course I was worried. If Rupert’s ploy were successful, Hardy would hate him even more. I hoped Boxer Jack was a good teacher. Rupert would need to stand up for himself when he went back to school. And what was he going to do about Pamela now? He called her his sweetheart. Did he really think of her in that way?

  Perhaps one day I might have a sweetheart myself. Paris! Why not? When I am older, the age gap between us will seem insignificant. I knew he had a sweetheart – that dark girl – but I hoped she might be temporary. Artists led wild lives and had many sweethearts before they settled down.

  I imagined Paris and me together. Whatever would Mama say! I decided not to confide in Rupert. I knew he would mock me. I sometimes think the only person he really cares about is himself.

  I didn’t tell Clover any of this. For a girl from a slum she’s got a firm moral sense, though she doesn’t think much of church-going. Our family attend the morning service, while the servants go in the afternoon.

  ‘I don’t generally listen to the vicar though. I don’t like him very much,’ said Clover. ‘He is forever judging us and finding us wanting. We sing that hymn about the rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate. He definitely looks down on the poor.’

  ‘He judges us too. And his sermons are interminable,’ I said. ‘The children get so bored they fall asleep and tumble off the pew. I yawn and wriggle and stretch until Mama pokes me in the ribs.’

  ‘I stare at the beautiful coloured-glass windows. I like it when the sun shines through and makes a pattern. I fancy it’s Megs up in Heaven saying hello to me,’ said Clover.

  ‘You won’t go all pious on me, will you?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘I don’t think so. Mr Dolly doesn’t approve of religion – he says it makes people bigoted,’ she said. ‘Oh, Rose, it was so lovely, lovely, lovely to see dear Mr Dolly again!’

  Papa had reunited Clover with her dear friend and protector when he went to choose another doll for Beth. Clover was terrified that her stepmother, Mildred, might spot her, but Papa dressed her in my green coat with the furry collar. She tucked her hair up inside the big matching hat and pulled it down past her eyebrows so that hardly any of her face showed, but she was still anxious.

  ‘But I didn’t see Mildred or anyone else who knows me – just dear Mr Dolly,’ she went on. ‘When he saw me, he gave a little cry and swept me up into his arms. I hugged and hugged him. He’s a very small man and rather crooked, so I very nearly toppled him over! It was wonderful to see him. We’ve missed each other so much. He let me paint a doll’s face while your papa was choosing a Christmas present for Beth! If only Mr Dolly didn’t live so near Cripps Alley. Then I could work for him and be a doll-maker too!’

  I was happy for Clover but couldn’t help feeling a little jealous. I’d hoped that she would feel so happy here that she wouldn’t dream of going back to her old life. I couldn’t understand why this funny old man meant so much to her. She seemed far fonder of him than she was of me.

  Papa has a more generous spirit. He must have been touched by Clover’s relationship with
the old doll-maker because he invited him to our house for Christmas tea.

  ‘Wasn’t that wonderful of him!’ Clover exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ I said, proud that Papa had acted so kindly, though I was sure Mama would object. ‘So he’s coming?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. He’s already been invited to spend Christmas Day with Jimmy Wheels and his mother,’ said Clover.

  I wondered if that poor lame boy minded being called Jimmy Wheels. We call our servant boy Jack Boots. What would my nickname be …? Rose Sharp-tongue?

  ‘Your papa says Mr Dolly must come to tea another day instead, perhaps in January. And meanwhile he’s invited another guest for Christmas tea – his friend Miss Sarah Smith. He illustrates her children’s books. She’s my Miss Smith who runs her Home for Destitute Girls. I don’t love her the way I do Mr Dolly, but she’s been very kind to me,’ said Clover.

  I looked forward to meeting Miss Smith. I read her book, which Papa is illustrating, and I liked it, though Mama doesn’t think it suitable reading material because Miss Smith writes about street children. She also does good works, running this home for girls, and is a governor of the Foundling Hospital. Perhaps this is the sort of work I could do if I don’t marry.

  But perhaps one day I’ll marry Paris! We’d probably be very poor, but I wouldn’t mind living in a garret with him. He would paint and I would draw, and whenever we sold some work we’d holiday in France …

  ‘Are you asleep already, Rose?’ Clover whispered.

  ‘No, of course not! Though it must be after midnight now. Happy Christmas, Clover!’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Rose!’

  ‘What’s Beth’s new doll like? Is she as grand as Marigold?’

  ‘Well, she’s very beautiful. Mr Dolly is experimenting with wax dolls now. Your father chose a life-size baby doll. It has little wisps of real hair and eyelashes. It’s a work of art. You really could mistake it for a real baby. I think it looks a bit too real for Beth.’

  ‘I don’t think Beth really cares for babies,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t seem to like Phoebe very much. She always covers her ears when she starts crying.’