Forever Rose Read online

When he is not at our house.

  Drumming.

  That was the sound that woke me up this Saturday morning. Very quiet (although not quiet enough) drumming. It sounded very much like the drumming of someone who hopes you will get up and say to them, ‘I loved my surprise. My forest. You were so kind. Thank you.’

  Hmmm.

  However (good news) I am not in an awful mood any more! I am in a Very Happy One. Nothing is going to spoil today because it is Christmas Tree Day.

  I do not really want a Six-Foot Deluxe Fibre-Optic Norwegian Fir. I would be just as pleased with one of the chunky little real trees they sell on the Saturday market. They have roots on, and if you look after them carefully they will really grow. Sarah’s family have one that they bring in every year. It has become so large that the only place it will fit is at the foot of the stairs in the hall. While it is there a sweet green smell fills the house.

  Lovely.

  I was all ready for our Christmas tree. I had emptied out a big tub that used to hold guinea-pig food for it to stand in, and I had found a set of fairy lights and tested them and they still all worked. On my way home from school on Thursday I bought silver and gold angel hair. (Angel hair reminds me of Caddy.)

  The boxes of decorations were waiting in the living room, together with a roll of red-and-gold striped paper for covering the guinea-pig tub. My only trouble was that nothing was going to happen until two o’clock in the afternoon, and it was only just after nine in the morning and David was drumming in the next room and I was stuck here in my bedroom and I had nothing to do.

  If I owned a mobile phone I could have called Kiran or Molly. They each have their own (lucky things). They do not have to borrow other people’s and get moaned at for using all the credit and flattening the battery and changing the ringtones.

  But I didn’t have a phone and the nearest place one might be was the kitchen and I was not going to get up and hunt for it and risk being caught by David. Anyway, I guessed Kiran and Molly were busy. Kiran was probably at the library, looking for a book about identifying animals by the roars. And Molly had probably gone with her. Molly is a very library kind of person. She has had her own library ticket since she was three months old.

  I wish Molly and Kiran had seen my forest bedroom before David ruined it. The lighter the morning grew, the more I could not help seeing the destruction of my lovely winter trees.

  I thought this was supposed to be a good day.

  Quick, think of something to do!

  What can you do when you are trapped in bed in a room with unbearable walls?

  No communication with the outside world.

  Imprisoned (unless you can make up your mind to get up and Be Nice) by the Drummer in the Next Room.

  Obvious.

  Read a book.

  I had a book. I had had quite a lot of books lately. Following her huge success with Where the Wild Things Are Sarah had become very excited and increased her efforts. Recently she had produced:

  The Wind in the Willows

  ‘More wild things,’ said Sarah when she pulled it out of her bag. ‘Mum thought you would love it. Lovely pictures.’

  I looked at a lovely picture.

  A large rat in an old-fashioned suit looked scornfully back at me.

  Oh dear, rodents. Dressed or caged, they are not for me.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Sarah, taking it back again. ‘Dad said it wouldn’t do. He sent this instead; he bought it specially for you.’

  It was called How to Paint Quite Like Michelangelo. The first page was a list entitled Absolutely Vital Equipment. It began: Scaffolding. Large bare-ceilinged chapel. Commission from the Pope. On the back cover it said, ‘You will weep with laughter when you read this book.’

  ‘Rose,’ remarked Saffron, reading this, ‘neither weeps nor laughs to order.’

  ‘Right, give it back!’ said Sarah. ‘Poor old Dad! Never mind. I saved this till last because it is perfect.’

  Camelot Nights

  ‘I thought it might renew your Arthurian fixation,’ said Sarah, but it didn’t.

  ‘It is not a real book,’ I explained when I returned it. ‘It is a copy of another, much better book, called Le Morte D’Arthur written by a man called Thomas Mallory more than five hundred years ago.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were a scholar of Medieval Literature,’ said Sarah, and took away the glossy new Camelot Nights and gave me instead a very tatty paperback called The Once and Future King.

  ‘It is too thick and the print is too small,’ I protested.

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Sarah. ‘If you can read Morte D’Arthur for goodness’ sake, you can read that. Stop moaning and get on with it.’

  I cannot read Morte D’Arthur and never could: the bits I knew about had been read to me by Indigo. Still, I had to do something to pass the long long stretch of morning before it was time to go Christmas tree shopping. So I picked The Once and Future King and found the first page.

  Kay was there, and Arthur and Sir Ector. They were talking and I could hear. It was like walking into a strange room and finding it unexpectedly full of your friends.

  It was hours later when I put that book down again, and the drumming had stopped and the telephone was ringing and my brain had the sort of dazed feeling you get when you wake from a very vivid dream.

  So that’s what they were talking about, Saffy and Sarah, and Kiran and Molly and Miss Farley and Daddy and Indigo and Sarah’s parents and even the Unlovable Mr Spencer.

  Reading!

  The person on the telephone was David’s mother, and she was in her usual very grumpy mood. It had been summer in the ancient greenwood, but it was definitely winter here.

  ‘Where’s David?’ she demanded, with no preliminary hellos or how are yous, or anything like that. ‘What’s he been doing?’

  ‘Earlier he was drumming,’ I said, ‘but now he is Out. Would you like me to give him a message?’

  ‘Message indeed!’ said David’s mother, and then there was a bit of silence and then she said,

  ‘I suppose he thinks he’s clever!’

  (Whatever mad delusions David has had I am pretty sure they do not include thinking he is clever, but I did not argue.)

  ‘I suppose he thinks I don’t know he’s hiding over there!’

  (Good grief! Can she know about the attic camp?)

  ‘Skulking round at yours…’

  (No. She doesn’t know. Phew!)

  ‘Yes, you can give him a message, if you please. You can tell him we want that key back. His grandad’s key. He knows the one. We’ve not forgot he’s got it. There’s new people coming in.’

  Oh dear. That’s terrible. Poor old David.

  ‘And while you’re passing on messages you may as well tell him that we’ve booked Spain for Christmas…’

  Spain! Spain for Christmas! Oh, lucky, lucky David! Why did I ever waste a second being sorry for him?

  ‘Oh, it will be lovely!’ I exclaimed. ‘Oh, I wish it was me! Will there be sea? Will it be sunny?’

  ‘That’s what we’re paying for,’ she agreed, slightly less grumpily.

  ‘David will absolutely love it!’

  Whether David would love it or not, said David’s mother, is neither Here Nor There, it is no affair of his, he has made his bed and must lie on it and anyway money doesn’t grow on trees.

  In other words, he is not invited.

  ‘I have heard of people like you on the News!’ I shout at David’s mother.

  Which does not help.

  David’s mother does not love him. Or if she does, it is in a very strange way, more strange than any way I have ever known myself. Not that mothers do not love their children in some pretty weird ways, I have noticed. For instance, Kai’s mother. She loves him by making him make public apologies to the emergency services. And Molly’s is even weirder. Molly’s mother loves her by education: school lessons, swimming lessons, ballet lessons, music lessons, computer club, gym club, library club and (most impo
rtant, see Monday 18th December) Brownies. (Molly’s mother is an actual Brownie leader which is called a Brown Owl – nothing to do with Harry Potter.) Molly has files of certificates to prove that she can do things like turn one-handed cartwheels, remember arpeggios up to Grade 3, write 500 words on My Favourite Book and pick up a rubber brick from the bottom of the swimming pool in a depth of more than 1.5 metres.

  And yet poor Molly thinks she is boring. Which is not fair. I cannot do any of those things (I can do a cartwheel but not one handed) and yet I do not think I am boring.

  I said this once to Molly, and I told her that whenever she felt particularly boring she should go and read her certificates.

  ‘But don’t you think,’ asked Molly anxiously, ‘that would be quite a boring thing to do, Rose?’

  Kiran does not have certificates because her mother loves her by cleanness. Kiran is fantastically clean. She has a bath and hair wash every night, and a shower every morning and three sets of clean clothes a day: school clothes, playing clothes and pyjamas. It gives her a look of sparkling purity. But anyone who spends more than half an hour with Kiran finds out that although she may give the appearance of radiating white light, in reality she should be covered in warning signs.

  My mother loves us by living in the shed to save us from germs and by staying friends with Daddy.

  Sarah’s mother loves Sarah by keeping the freezer full of food for her friends and having tantrums about her piercings (ears, nose and – wicked, wicked Sarah – tummy button).

  But I don’t think that David’s mother loves him in any way at all and I told Mummy this when we had Saturday breakfast-lunch together (Sugar Puffs and pizza for me, orange juice and antibiotics for Mummy).

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Mummy, not seeming at all jealous of even Christmas in Spain (even though she herself, between illness and work, will probably be spending Christmas in the shed). ‘Poor thing. I can’t imagine how she must feel.’

  ‘What about poor David?’ I asked indignantly.

  ‘It is terrifically hard work being a mother,’ said Mummy.

  Oh really! I have vacuumed twice this week, and I unpacked all that shopping! And Saffy and Indigo have done nearly all the cooking lately.

  Huh.

  ‘What are you doing this afternoon, Rose?’ asked Mummy, dragging herself up to go back to her cosy shed.

  ‘Shopping for Christmas trees with Saffy.’

  ‘Trees?’ asked Mummy. ‘I think one will be enough. Do try not to pick a too big one, won’t you, darling?’

  ‘What’s too big?’

  ‘Suppose we say, no taller than you?’

  No taller than me! What kind of a Christmas tree is no taller than me?

  ‘They so often seem OK outside and then look enormous when you get them indoors,’ explained Mummy.

  Since when was I enormous? And what if all the trees for sale turn out to be taller than me?

  ‘Oh,’ said Mummy. ‘It would not matter too much. I am sure there is a very nice little white tinsel one up in the attic somewhere.’

  I know she is ill, but this is not the reply a perfect mother should make. A perfect mother should say, ‘Then buy an enormous one, and we will move out a chair or two to make room.’

  ‘Small is beautiful,’ said Mummy, unperfectly. ‘Anything very big would be as bad as another drum kit.’

  ‘It has to be big enough to get the presents underneath,’ I said crossly.

  ‘Well, darling…’ said Mummy vaguely, ‘that need not be huge, need it? I wouldn’t have supposed…’

  And I bought her that lovely mug! Saying WORLD’S BEST EVER MOTHER.

  I feel like changing it.

  Sunday 17th December

  I am ENEMIES With ALL My Family

  and also

  The Ridiculous Events of Late Last Night

  I am ENEMIES With All My Family

  The first thing that anyone coming into our house would notice is that there is

  NO CHRISTMAS TREE

  This morning (Sunday) Caddy telephoned. She said, ‘What is absolutely your most favourite name in the world?’

  ‘It is all very well for you!’ I yelled at her and banged down the phone.

  Ever since I can remember Caddy has been asking that question. Parades of hamsters and guinea pigs have passed through this house, all of them honoured with Absolutely Most Favourite Names in the World chosen at solemn meetings at the kitchen table, the Nameless One on a newspaper in the middle, apprehensively awaiting the verdict.

  Joseph, Blossom, Balthazar, Merry, Pippin and Frodo. Tiffany, Cocoa, Fudge and Smudge. Darcey Bussell the guinea pig who spun in circles (it was something wrong with her brain), Sebastian, Clover and Madeline.

  ‘Gosh, Rose!’ said Caddy, ringing back. ‘I only asked—’

  ‘S’not like you ever took any notice of anything I want, anyway!’ I shouted. ‘Same as the rest of my useless horrible family. All you care about is beastly horrible rodents! So. Goodbye.’

  Bang again.

  The last hamster had been nearly bright yellow, but would she call it Buttercup?

  No.

  She said Buttercup was a cow’s name.

  I might as well just not exist around here.

  ‘Darling, darling, Rose!’ said Caddy (calling again). ‘Of course I take notice of what you say…’

  ‘Buttercup,’ I growled, ‘and don’t say it’s a cow’s name because so was Clover and you didn’t mind that. Buttercup. Buttercup. Buttercup.’

  You can whack a telephone down quite hard without smashing it.

  ‘Rose, darling, darling Rose, just listen. I can’t—’

  ‘Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup,’ I said angrily, crying all over the phone.

  ‘But Rose—’

  ‘Buttercup,’ I shouted, and did another bang with the receiver.

  Actually, I can see a crack.

  I waited and waited and waited for Saffron yesterday.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Until it became the longest wait of my life.

  And now I am utterly finished with Saffron for ever and ever.

  And that is that.

  Last night Indigo barged into my room and told me that I was being unreasonable.

  And he said if I wanted a Christmas tree NOW I could have the tinsel one out of the attic. OR I could wait a bit longer and he would take me out to get a real one ASAP. He said this quite pleasantly, but I was not pleasant back.

  So then Indigo got a bit ratty and looked around my bedroom walls and said, ‘I hope you said something nice to David about all this.’

  ‘Well I didn’t.’

  ‘Rosy Pose,’ said Indigo in such a quiet way that I felt even worse than ever.

  ‘I haven’t seen David today, anyway,’ I said crossly.

  ‘He came round to do some drumming.’

  ‘Yes, well, he went away again, before I was properly up. He doesn’t live here, even though he pretends to his rotten mother that he does.’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t,’ said Indigo. ‘Well, maybe he did that one night he stopped here but he’s back home again now.’

  ‘He’s not! And his mother wants his dead grandad’s key back and she’s going to Spain without him.’

  ‘How do you know all that?’ demanded Indigo.

  ‘She telephoned.’

  ‘And she thinks he’s staying here?’ asked Indigo, and then he said, ‘Where is he then?’ and hurried downstairs without waiting for an answer and started looking up the numbers of Patrick and Marcus and Josh, the people with whom he knew David had stayed before.

  So I went down too, and I said, ‘He’s at his grandad’s.’

  ‘What?’ said Indigo, and Mummy, who was in the room too, said, ‘Rose?’

  ‘He’s at his dead grandad’s, living in the attic.’

  ‘Say that again!’

  ‘David is at his dead granda
d’s house,’ I repeated, speaking as though they were being very stupid. ‘He is living in the attic and he has been there for days. He has a sleeping bag and a camp stove and candles. He cooks soup and plays the drums on empty boxes. He is perfectly all right.’

  ‘Perfectly all right?’ repeated Indigo, staring at me.

  ‘How long have you known that, Rosy Pose?’ asked Mummy, in a very shocked voice.

  ‘Ages and ages,’ I said.

  The Ridiculous Events of Late Last Night

  So then, even though it was nearly the middle of the night, and sleet was falling and Mummy’s chest was hurting and everyone was exhausted and David would have been perfectly OK where he was for a bit longer, we had to get into the freezing cold car and drive to his dead grandad’s house.

  ‘That poor boy,’ said Mummy, tears and other stuff streaming down her face. ‘We do not know how fortunate we are. And to think we worried about a Christmas tree, Rose!’

  We worried! What a cheek! Nobody worried except me.

  Afterwards Mummy said that David’s attic was the most desperate place she ever saw (that is good, coming from someone who lives in a shed). I don’t know why she said it. It looked perfectly all right to me. Very tidy. Cooking things and a loaf and some tins lined up on one side. A towel and socks and stuff hanging from a line strung between two roof joists. His sleeping bag and his drum boxes and a little pile of Christmas presents that he scuffled hastily out of sight. Candles. A bucket of water in case of fire.

  Everything you could possibly need.

  Although I must say it was not as cosy as it sounded when he described it to me.

  Well, it was not cosy at all.

  It was extremely cold.

  ‘It is freezing,’ wheezed Mummy, having clambered up the attic trap-door stairs. ‘I think it is even colder than outside. Come on, Rose! You and I will wait in the car while the boys collect the bits and pieces and lock up. Try to be quick, both of you!’

  Both of you! Didn’t we just come to check that he was OK? Mummy made it sound like we were taking him home.