Forever Rose Page 3

So.

  I always loved Christmas at school. Christmas at school felt safe. Until now, nothing had ever gone wrong enough to stop it. Nothing has ever gone wrong enough to stop Christmas at home either, but you can’t help wondering if one year it will. Especially when it doesn’t snow, and Daddy rings from London to say there is another party he can’t not go to, and the decorations won’t stay up and we all know, even though she never says, how much Mummy is dreading the turkey.

  I don’t even know who will be at our house for Christmas this year.

  But Christmas at school was always reliable, one long lovely very crowded very decorated party that went on for days and days.

  Until Mr Spencer said No.

  I told the lollipop lady about Mr Spencer saying no to Christmas because I had no one else to moan to.

  ‘Cheer up,’ said the lollipop lady. ‘There are children starving in Africa.’

  LIKE THAT IS SUPPOSED TO CHEER ME UP.

  Big Problem No 2: When David Said, ‘Where Will I Keep My Drum Kit?’ He Did Not Mean ‘Where Will I Keep My Drum Kit?’

  When I got home from school this afternoon I had a big surprise. Our kitchen was full of bags of food. Enough to last for days and days. All my favourite things were there. Honey, tomato soup, tinned meatballs and spaghetti, oaty biscuits and apples. Everything.

  Mummy was in the bathroom having a very hot disinfectant bath that smelled right down the stairs.

  ‘I am obliterating germs, Rose darling!’ she snuffled through the bathroom door. ‘And I’m sure all that food is perfectly safe because I wore disposable gloves and a scarf over my face all the way round the supermarket.’

  ‘Didn’t people stare?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh well, maybe,’ admitted Mummy, splashing a bit. ‘Do you think you could unpack for me, Rosy Pose?’

  I was very happy to unpack, and I loaded all the food in neat patterns on the store cupboard shelves.

  I unpacked: cheese (two large packets of ready grated) apples (twenty-four) honey jars (three) spaghetti and meatball tins (eleven) tomato soup (one four-pack) oaty cookies (four packets) Family Size Farmhouse Fresh Frozen Chicken Pies (three) eggs (two dozen) milk (twelve litres which took up the whole of the bottom of the freezer) headache tablets (six boxes) paper hankies (six boxes) disinfectant spray (four tins) Stayfresh Muffins (forty-eight) instant hot chocolate (two big tubs) pink and white marshmallows (two packets).

  From Mummy’s shopping I deduced:

  1. That she had rushed round the supermarket scooping up whole armloads of the same thing at a time.

  2. That she wasn’t planning on getting better overnight.

  I showed off my unpacking to Mummy when she came downstairs with her head wrapped round in a towel and her nose as red as Rudolph’s.

  ‘Now I can stop worrying,’ she said, admiring from an uncontaminating distance. ‘You won’t starve. Shall you be all right, darling, if I buzz off to the shed now? I’d love to stay and chat but I don’t want to breathe on you too much…Horrible if you caught this. Not that it’s anything.’

  She bent to hug me like she always does, and then remembered and backed away. ‘After I’m better I’ll hug you twenty times to make up,’ she said. ‘Meanwhile, back to my stony tower…Aren’t I lucky so many people want my pictures? Think how I’d worry if they didn’t.’

  ‘Like Daddy,’ I agreed, because all this year Daddy has remarked how Bad Things Have Become At The Top.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Mummy, ‘there is no comparison. Why don’t you make yourself some hot chocolate, you used to love it when you were little?’

  So, I did, and I put marshmallows on top, enough to melt and make a gooey pink and white marsh with the chocolate oozing through like swamp water. I offered to make some for Mummy too, but she said, ‘Please, please, no!’ and held her stomach and hurried out to the shed with a fresh box of tissues and a new disinfectant spray.

  Poor Mummy.

  But at least she was very clean.

  I only noticed after she had gone that it was dark again.

  I am not scared of the dark; I just don’t like it. I don’t like the black reflections it makes in the windows, and I don’t like the way it makes sudden noises louder, and I don’t like the way it gets into your head, so you think things you wouldn’t dream of thinking if it was daylight.

  And it stops you wanting to move from room to room.

  In case when you are opening the door a face is there, a huge enormous face, right opposite yours, and it shrieks WAAAAAH!!!!!

  I just don’t like the idea of that.

  What I really would have liked to do was telephone Kiran, but I couldn’t because the phone was in the kitchen and I was in the living room and I do not have my own mobile.

  In New York, where my friend Tom lives, it would not be dark at this time. It would only be early afternoon.

  When you are on your own you can do things that are not possible at any other time. For instance, you can groan.

  I quite like groaning on my own, so I did it for a while, and then I did something I have never done before.

  I lit the living-room fire.

  By myself.

  I copied exactly what Indigo had done, but it took much, much longer, and the room was foggy with smoke and my eyes were very sore before I finally got it going. But it did. And it blazed up properly and started to be warm and I thought how pleased everyone would be when they got home.

  I thought this for about one minute.

  And then I thought, If Indigo finds out I can light the fire by myself he will never have to come home and do it for me again.

  And then I thought, Put it out! Put it out! Put it out!

  So then I opened both windows to cool it down with cold outside air but that did not work, and it roared and smoked in the draught until I pulled them shut again.

  After that I poked it all to pieces with the poker and put coal dust on top and the smoke went all chokey but the fire still was not out. So then I forgot the WAAAAH! face and ran into the kitchen for water and I got a whole kettle full of cold and poured that on, and the fire went out then, but it went out hissing like a furious tiger and spitting out little pieces of coal. I trod on one of the spat-out bits of coal and it was red hot and sticking to the carpet and it was a job to get it back into the fire.

  But I managed. And I turned off the lights in case there were any more bits because I thought it would be easier to see them glowing in the dark. And it was while I was there in the dark grovelling round the floor groaning a little bit (because you might as well if it helps) I heard someone bang on our back door.

  The back door of our house leads straight into the kitchen. Of course, it was not locked. Why should it be locked? It was not really night and Mummy was not far away (although far enough. Would she hear, for instance, a scream, out there in her shed? Of course she would).

  My immediate thought, when I heard that bang, was to get behind the sofa and pretend there was no one home.

  That was what I did, and as soon as I had done it, I heard the back door open.

  But I hardly had time to be frightened for a moment, because a blurry voice called, ‘Hello! Hello?’ and straight away I recognised it.

  Bother oh bother oh bother oh bother.

  It was David.

  Indigo’s dopey, huge, kind, not-very-bright and very-easy-to-have-enough-of friend David.

  David, who is simultaneously in love with Saffron and Sarah and his drum kit and me.

  David, who never, ever knows when it is time to go home.

  I was very glad indeed that I had decided to get behind the sofa.

  ‘Hello, hello!’ called David again. His voice sounded different somehow; creaky. And then I heard him come into the living room, and of course it must have looked completely empty to him because I was quite well hidden between the sofa and the wall and there was no light except what came through the open door from the kitchen.

  ‘Oh!’ said David, obviously realising
how empty things were, and after that I heard a sort of sob and he plonked down on the sofa so hard it jerked backwards and bumped my head.

  Then the sobs grew helplessly worse.

  What a strange thing to do, to go to someone’s house, and sit in an empty room that is not yours, and make such a noise. I crawled out to have a look.

  Poor David. His face was in his dripping hands. He was crying and rubbing away tears, but not as fast as they poured down his big red cheeks. Poor poor David. I tried very hard to make myself care as much as I should. It was very difficult, because he looked such a mess.

  ‘Where’ll I keep my drum kit?’ he was blubbering, over and over again, and when I appeared before him he did not act a bit surprised, just said, ‘Rose, where’ll I keep my drum kit. Rose?’ and then lost his voice in a great bubbling choke.

  Oh dear.

  I moved my favourite green cushion out of reach of the flood. Caddy says animals do not cry; they put up with things until they are too unbearable to put up with, and then they die. Humans are the only creatures that truly cry, and I think they look very nasty doing it. No wonder, I said to myself, looking at David, that Noah concentrated on saving the animals when he built the ark.

  Burble, burble, burble, went David, sounding like a plug hole. ‘What’ll I do? Where’ll I keep my drum kit, Rose?’

  I just stood there, wishing. I wished Indigo was with me to understand. Or Saffy to shake back her hair and diagnose. Or Mummy to not mind the splashes and the swampy tears, and hug.

  But they were not here, and neither was faraway Caddy, who would have cried in sympathy and asked useless questions. Nor Daddy, remarking, ‘Tears. Well. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, what’s the damage?’ feeling for his wallet, and trying not to say, or even think, that all this emotion was very, very exhausting and not exactly art.

  There was nobody there except me.

  And of course, poor David.

  With his drum kit problem.

  ‘Rose,’ squelched David, heaving himself to his feet, sniffing and blotting his face with his sleeve, and still nearly drowning in his own juice, ‘when I said “Where’ll I put my drum kit?” I didn’t mean “Where’ll I put my drum kit?” Do you understand? Do you understand that?’

  I cannot cope with everything – Mr Spencer, and Kai, and Molly’s gran’s dead budgie, and Christmas and the dark and Mummy in the shed, and Saffron saying not to let on I’m related to her, and Cheer up Rose, there are children starving in Africa, and now David, too.

  ‘Do you understand, Rose?’ asked David, very wetly indeed.

  So I said NO.

  Saturday 2nd December

  Three things that I found out this morning:

  1. Saffron and Sarah will be checking up on me (Saffy).

  2. Aromatherapy is a wonderful thing.

  3. When Molly said, ‘Promise you will help, please promise you will help!’ Kiran and I should not have said, ‘Of course we will!’ We should have said, ‘Help you with what?’

  Saffron and Sarah Will Be Checking Up On Me

  I woke up this morning thinking Oh I Cannot Bear Another Day of School and then I realised it was Saturday and I did not have to.

  That is the nicest way to wake up.

  The house was so quiet that I thought everyone must be asleep, but when I tiptoed out to do a bed inspection I found the rooms were all empty. So I stopped being unselfishly quiet and went downstairs as noisily as I liked.

  There were three notes on the kitchen table:

  Darling Rose – I have gone to Boots for something to inhale. Back Very Soon, Love Mummy PS Don’t go anywhere. PS again. The funny smell is disinfectant spray so you are quite safe.

  Rose, stay where you are. Sarah and I will be checking up on you, X Saffy

  Rosy Pose, please hang on here in case David turns up because I haven’t seen him for a week, Indigo

  AND IF HE DOES TURN UP BE NICE!!!

  So there I was, protected, organised, threatened and obviously not going anywhere.

  My family are always leaving me messages telling me not to go anywhere. Saffy says it is because if I stay put at home, then everyone knows where I am. They like to know where I am. Saffy says they don’t want always to have to be wondering, ‘Where is Rose?’

  This is not fair. I like to know where they are, and if they’d stayed put at home I would not always have to be wondering, ‘Where is everyone?’

  I grumbled a bit about all this in my head while I went on a breakfast hunt for anything except cereal because only Daddy can make me eat cereal (unless it is porridge). There was no bread but that did not matter because there are still forty-six muffins left, no one being very keen on muffins here except me. I did offer one to David last night, but he just shook his head and said ‘No, no, no’ and gathered himself up to leave, making me feel glad and guilty at the same time. Mostly glad, and I was able to get rid of the guilt by giving him a handkerchief with a pink rose in the corner to use to dab his eyes (I have a whole lot of rose handkerchiefs that I keep specially for crying with. I like to cry on something proper. It feels so sad and interesting, dabbing your eyes on a real white hanky. But they are no good for noses). I gave David the downstairs toilet roll for his nose (Economy Peach).

  As well as muffins I found half a box of breadsticks, three fun-sized Mars bars, two bananas and Saffy’s mobile phone. I carried all this back upstairs with me and had a very nice breakfast and then I texted Kiran (who was also in bed) and we began to play a game where we go pretend Christmas shopping with a million pounds each and every time we think of something new to buy we text each other to see what they think.

  The first thing I bought was for Molly. It was a painted gypsy caravan with two nice grey donkeys to pull it. Molly has not had any pets since her cat Buttons got squashed. Her mother said never again, too draining, no more pets allowed ever because Molly was so upset she had to have two weeks off school (which is longer than you get for the death of a near relative) but I do not think that donkeys count as pets. No one has said Molly is not allowed transport.

  Kiran thought the gypsy caravan was a very good present and would probably cost around nine hundred pounds (five hundred for the caravan and two hundred each for the donkeys). So then I had one million take nine hundred pounds left and I sent Kiran a text to ask how much that was.

  Straight away she sent one back saying: u hv 999100 i hv bort Mr S sm v glam yot wiv rmt contr O in btm wich we cn activ8 mid Oshun wot do u fink

  I think it is a brilliant idea! Mr Spencer will never be able to resist the temptation of a small very glamorous yacht. But how would we be able to tell when he was mid ocean? It would be a waste to activate the hole within swimming distance of land.

  Kiran had the same worries, but she thought of a way to manage that sounded like it would work although it was not cheap.

  we wil hv 2 helicoptr monitr, Kiran wrote. wil u go 1/2s? u hv 499100 1ft if so cos I thk approx cost helicoptr 1000000.

  A million pounds! Goodness! Still, probably worth it to have Mr Spencer sunk mid ocean (and I suppose we would also have a helicopter to do what we liked with afterwards). But I did not get a chance to agree because it was just then that Saffron and Sarah pounced into my room without knocking and started checking up on me (as threatened).

  ‘We knew you would still be in bed!’ they said. ‘We’ve already been for a swim. Look at the crumbs and Mars wrappers! What are you doing? Whose phone have you nicked? Move up so we can sit down!’

  So I did and they did, Sarah on my feet and Saffy on a concealed banana.

  ‘Stop laughing!’ ordered Sarah, while Saffy picked ruined banana from her best Gap jeans. ‘This is serious. We’ve come all the way back here just to bring you a book.’

  ‘I can’t read books,’ I protested. ‘You know I can’t!’

  ‘You’ve been trying the wrong sort,’ said Sarah. ‘I brought you this!’

  Then she dropped on my legs a thing like a slab of concrete. ‘Go
mbrich. The Story of Art,’ she said smugly.

  ‘Perfect for you! Nothing like any reading scheme book you’ve ever seen and it’s full of stuff about people who draw on walls like you. It’s even got pictures, so get on with it.’

  ‘She never will,’ said Saffron.

  ‘She will.’

  Sarah is sixteen, nearly seventeen. She has a white face and dark eyes and black hair swinging in two points against her cheeks.

  ‘Here lies,’ she said, patting the bump my legs made under the quilt, ‘poor Rose.

  ‘Illiterate from head to toes.’

  ‘Dope,’ said Saffy, smiling at her.

  Soon after that they left, calling and laughing, flicking open tiny mirrors, pushing things in bags, scattering down the stairs and out of the back door.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ I asked, rolling out of bed at the last minute to rush downstairs and shiver on the doorstep in my pyjamas.

  ‘Oh,’ they said. ‘Out. Town. Shops. Library. Get inside before you freeze!’

  But I stayed to watch them go, Sarah waving from her wheelchair under a heap of bags and scarves and both their jackets, Saffron in her slightly banana-y jeans.

  Saffy’s hair made a blowing brightness in the grey of the street.

  Gone.

  Aromatherapy Is a Wonderful Thing

  I ran away once, to London. I did not mean to; I just got stuck in a train that was going that way. And I ended up in New York (where it will still be dark right now). (New York is where Tom lives.) London is where Daddy lives. It used to be his favourite place, but I don’t think it is any more. Daddy is Burned Out. He told me so last week. And London is losing its magic (says Daddy).

  I never knew it had any. I did not notice any magic when I was there. The only thing I really saw (apart from people and traffic) was scaffolding. Huge buildings held up by scaffolding.

  Not very magical.

  Daddy liked London too much to see the scaffolding. He had a lovely girlfriend there called Samantha, and a nice lady to clean his flat, and loads of friends, and he could visit Mummy and Caddy and Indigo and Saffy and me whenever he liked just by hopping on a train. Which was much easier than having to actually live with us. Because we put him off his Art.