Forever Rose Read online

  Of all the places I would not like to visit at Christmas the Zoo is the one I would not like to go to most. It is utterly dreary in wintertime, miles and miles of damp gritty paths, and all the animals asleep or invisible.

  I made a speech to Class 6 explaining this. ‘Vote for London!’ I urged.

  ‘If I have to go all the way to London on a coach I will be sick,’ said Molly. ‘I always am. Travel sickness tablets do not work on me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ agreed several people.

  ‘All the Christmas lights will be on!’ I said. ‘And nobody need worry about being sick. Mr Spencer will take a bucket. The teachers always do.’

  Mr Spencer overheard this remark, and looked so utterly revolted that I could see if we got to London it would be over his dead body. So I changed my tactics and started pleading for the pantomime instead.

  Kiran wanted the pantomime too. That was her first choice. She had a cousin who had already been with her school and she had told Kiran all about it. Sweets had been hurled by the bucketful down from the stage to the audience and a new and very rude version of ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’ had been learned. Best of all, two rats and the Cat had personally invaded the audience and hauled the teachers on stage to help bake a very messy wedding cake.

  ‘They used real eggs and flour and shaving foam,’ said Kiran, ‘and all the teachers got covered but it didn’t matter because they’d made them put on coloured wellies and rain hats and Teletubby bibs.’

  I should have loved to see Mr Spencer on stage in coloured wellies and a rain hat and a Teletubby bib, but somehow I could not imagine it happening. Nor could I see him on skates, even though the Ice Rink was the first choice of nearly all the boys. As Mr Spencer listened to our discussions his face had become more and more unreadable, set like concrete into a bland empty smile. Kai told a story about melting ice and fractured skulls and he did not even flinch.

  I thought, Mr Spencer has decided.

  It is not going to be London; no way will he deal with that bucket. And it is not going to be the pantomime either. Might it be the Ice Rink? Might he have a secret talent for skating without fracturing his skull or losing his dignity in a puddle?

  Maybe.

  But.

  I have a very gloomy feeling that it will be the Zoo.

  We voted at break this afternoon and Mr Spencer counted up the votes and announced the result himself and then he hurried away (with all the voting papers) to book the coach and the tickets before we could argue.

  It is the Zoo.

  We have been swizzed! Mr Spencer has rigged the vote so that he does not have to go up on stage or skate or supervise the sick bucket all the way to London and back.

  Boo. Hiss.Throw him to the lions.

  However, Molly is very pleased, and on the way home she told me and Kiran the very naughty thing that she did.

  Molly put the Zoo on the list!

  There were three things originally; Molly added a fourth.

  Molly!

  ‘But why?’ demanded Kiran and I.

  ‘Because,’ said Molly, ‘I have always wanted…I have always wanted…Do you remember on Saturday when you promised you would help me with that thing I have always wanted to do?’

  ‘Yes,’ we said (suspiciously).

  ‘Good,’ said Molly.

  ‘But you never said what it actually was.’

  ‘Just something,’ said Molly, skipping off towards her house. ‘Don’t worry! It won’t be boring! I have got it nearly all worked out. Biscuits. Torches. Space blankets…See you tomorrow!’

  ‘Space blankets!’ repeated Kiran and me to each other, and I said, ‘Kiran, do you think Molly really has thought of something?’

  ‘No,’ said Kiran. ‘Not Molly.’

  ‘She thought of the Zoo.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Kiran, and then after a while she added, ‘So she did.’

  Friday 8th December

  Mothers

  Today Mummy (nagged into it by Saffy and Indigo) went to the doctors’. They gave her some antibiotics which they told her should make her feel slightly better in two days, and completely better in seven. ‘So, superb,’ she croaked, waving the bottle at us. ‘Nothing to worry about for a week and I went shopping on the way home.’

  Shopping was more muffins and more apples and lots of frozen pizza and boxes of herbal teas but I was most interested in the antibiotics because I had thought Mummy was nearly better.

  I followed her to the shed to check this out.

  ‘Of course I’m better,’ promised Mummy. ‘I have a slight secondary infection which the doctor told me is so common it is hardly worth treating. In fact he has a big notice on his door saying DO NOT COME IN IF YOU HAVE ANY OF THESE SYMPTOMS and then a list of everything I’ve got.’

  ‘Then why did you go in?’ I asked.

  ‘I was trapped,’ explained Mummy. ‘Because I had made an appointment and they have another notice up saying MISSED APPOINTMENTS ARE NOT JUST EXPENSIVE BAD MANNERS and then a list of all the trouble that missed appointments cause. So I went in. The Expensive Bad Manners poster was bigger than the Do Not Come In one, so it won. I am afraid I am out of my element at the doctors’. I find the whole experience totally confusing starting with the car park where you are not allowed to park…’

  She was trying very hard to make me laugh, and so I did. This perked her up tremendously and she began reading the instructions on her antibiotics.

  ‘No alcohol,’ she remarked. ‘That will be interesting. I have stockpiled on herbal teas to compensate. I shall make some straight away. What are you looking at, Rose darling?’

  I was looking at the pictures scattered all over the table, a dozen versions of St Matthew’s and its tombstones slipping and sliding across unnatural looking skies.

  ‘Just roughs,’ said Mummy, spraying tea tree oil around and coughing. ‘Horrible old St Matthew’s, it is so not me. At college I was happiest with nudes but whether there is a local demand is a very moot point…’

  We both looked towards the window, black rain splattering against black glass, the bare branches of the fig tree outlined like long bony arms against the light from the kitchen.

  ‘Not obvious nude territory…’ said Mummy, and this time I could not help laughing for real.

  ‘…but perhaps in spring I will give it a trial! Off you go now, Rosy Pose. Back to the house and keep cosy. I will pop across and see you at bedtime.’

  She was sounding much better, and sipping her herbal tea (fennel and honey) as if she really liked it. So I went. But I looked back towards the window when I got to the house. Mummy was drooping over her table with the fennel and honey mug pressed against her chest. When she saw me looking she waved her antibiotics and smiled.

  I was glad she was coming to see me at bedtime.

  Quite late in the evening David had turned up. Indigo was out and Saffron was upstairs doing her homework so I got stuck with him. I gave him the job of finishing up the getting-old muffins and he did it very quickly without even the aid of chocolate spread. There was something a bit odd about David that night. First he said he had come to see if his drum kit was all right, and then that he had a little favour to ask Indigo, and then he said it did not matter. He was very jumpy and he kept wandering about, peering behind things until at last it dawned on me that he was looking for his drums. I thought that was very funny and I let him carry on hunting until Saffy came down and told him that they were stuck in her bedroom and the sooner he took them away the better she would be pleased. It seemed to surprise David that we had not wanted to keep them in our living room, but he did not complain, except to say, ‘I shan’t be able to practise then?’

  ‘No!’ said Saffy, very firmly indeed.

  Not long after that Saffron answered a very odd telephone call. It was from David’s mother.

  ‘Have you got David there?’ she asked in a very unfriendly way (Saffron told us).

  ‘Yes,’ said Saffron. ‘He has been here for some
time. And so has his drum kit.’

  ‘Ho,’ said David’s mother, ‘I knew it!’ and was gone.

  David was very pleased indeed when he heard about this phone call. He said, ‘That’ll put her off.’

  Mummy did not come in for ages and ages after I went to bed, but at last I heard her on the stairs. She opened my door very quietly and whispered, ‘Sweet dreams, darling.’

  Then I let myself go to sleep.

  Saturday 9th December

  Twelve Shopping Days Until Christmas

  I woke up this morning with a panicky feeling that it was much later than usual. I was out of bed and hunting for socks before I remembered that it was the weekend at last.

  Snores were coming from Indigo’s room (very unusual for a Saturday) and coughs from Mummy’s, but Saffy’s door was wide open and her room was scattered with the sort of stuff people leave around when they are rushing away to brighter places. Open books, a smell of perfume, styling tongs still warm.

  I often wonder what it must be like to be Saffron. I will never know, Saffy says, because I am useless at multitasking. Kiran agrees that this is true, but she says it does not matter, she is good enough for both of us. Kiran is good at everything except Art, but (hurray!) I am good enough for both of us at that. So we make a great team, and when we are grown up we plan to live together and I will earn a lot of money and Kiran will do all the work. She is going to be my very expensive PA.

  I like to have a chat with my PA (at present she does not charge) on Saturday mornings, but when I telephoned her home there was no one in. Instead I got a new answerphone message, recorded by Kiran.

  ‘We are sorry we cannot take your call right now. Everyone has gone Christmas shopping. (By the way did you know there are only twelve shopping days left till Christmas?) If you would like to leave a message please keep it short and ROSE do not start speaking until after the tone.’

  The message I left must have sounded like a howl. Twelve shopping days left till Christmas! I don’t think my family realise that. I am sure no one in this house has done any Christmas shopping except me.

  I think I should warn them how close we are to disaster.

  I do this by going very quietly downstairs and writing TWELVE SHOPPING DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS in magic marker felt pen on the face of the kitchen clock.

  That made me feel very much better and after I had done it I went back up to my bedroom to gloat over my own Christmas shopping which I bought ages ago in September the day after I got my birthday money.

  Here is a List of My Christmas Shopping

  KIRAN: Invisible ink pen to write me secret messages.

  MOLLY: Cat and rabbit shaped cookie cutters.

  SARAH: Pirate bandana.

  SAFFY: Book called 1001 Jokes for Intellectuals.

  MUMMY: A lovely mug that says WORLD’S BEST EVER MOTHER.

  DADDY: Another lovely mug that says WORLD’S BEST EVER DAD because I don’t want him to be upset if he sees Mummy’s.

  MICHAEL: A key ring like a tiny snowstorm with a place to put in a photo (I put in Caddy).

  CADDY: Another key ring, just the same only with Michael’s photograph.

  TOM MY BRILLIANT GUITAR-PLAYING FRIEND IN AMERICA: (I do not have this present to gloat over any more because I posted it two weeks ago. Maybe it is in New York right now, where it will be only five in the morning and he will still be asleep).

  I bought Tom a new strap for his guitar. Indigo came with me to help choose. It was very hard to pick the best; there were loads of good ones, there was even one with roses on. I looked and looked, and at last I chose the most expensive of all. It was woven to look like gorgeous red and yellow flames.

  ‘He’d like the roses even better,’ said Indigo, grinning at me. ‘Go on, Rosy Pose!’

  I had wanted to buy the rose one right from the beginning.

  ‘Look what he sent you for your birthday!’ urged Indigo.

  He sent a tiny silver guitar, threaded on to a guitar string instead of a chain. (When I lost it two weeks later and cried he sent another.)

  So I bought the rose strap, and later I went back and got the flame one for Indigo. I had just enough money, although it wouldn’t have mattered if I hadn’t because I could have got him a mug saying WORLD’S BEST EVER BROTHER.

  Which would have been true.

  But

  I have two worries:

  1. How can I give Caddy her present if I don’t know where she is?

  2. Should I really give Michael a present at all?

  Last year I didn’t, and then felt awful because he sent one to me, a lovely silky bag, all the way from Italy. But this last year, since he came home, I have not spoken to him once. When he drives past in his driving instructor car he never sees my waves and he must have found a new place to live – the birthday card I sent came back with a note on the envelope saying ADDRESS NOT KNOWN.

  Michael has become a mystery. Did Caddy find him when she disappeared on her wedding day with all the postcards he had ever sent me? She intended to, and I think she must have, there came a time when she stopped mentioning him in her telephone calls.

  Perhaps it was a sad finding.

  A long time ago Michael and I went shopping together. We bought a diamond and platinum engagement ring for Caddy. I have it now. Michael asked me to look after it until he and Caddy needed it again.

  I have looked after it for a long time.

  I would like to give it back.

  Pause.

  My pause ended with hunger and I went back to the kitchen to hunt for food, and while I was there I had the very good idea of taking Mummy breakfast in bed. Microwave porridge and orange juice. I made enough for both of us.

  ‘Goodness!’ said Mummy when she saw it. ‘What a treat! I don’t know when I last had breakfast in bed. Porridge! My favourite!’

  ‘Eat it then,’ I said, and she did, every bit. I watched her.

  I had my breakfast sitting on the end of her bed to keep her company. This bothered Mummy because she thought I would breathe in germs. To stop her worrying I opened the bedroom window as far as it would go and breathed fresh air from that direction. It was very fresh indeed, gusty and wild-smelling and scattered with snowflakes. It flung the curtains into loops and scattered clothes on the floor and rocked the pots and vases on the windowsill and I felt as if I had let a winter poltergeist into the house.

  ‘Isn’t it exciting?’ I said.

  ‘It is like having breakfast on the roof!’ agreed Mummy, huddling her dressing gown around her, ‘or the deck of a ship, or the side of a mountain! What are you going to do with yourself this morning, Rosy Pose?’

  ‘Probably wrap up my Christmas presents again.’ (I have wrapped them several times already but I can never resist the temptation to have One Last Look.)

  ‘Thank goodness I don’t have to bother with All That,’ said Mummy in a most unChristmassy way. ‘But I must get those pictures of St Matthew’s finished somehow. I’d better stop wallowing in comfort, get back to my solitary cell…’

  ‘You said it was a stony tower before,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Stony tower, cell or dungeon, it is all the same,’ said Mummy, getting out of bed and staggering as the wind hit her. ‘One of those places where you need a knight in shining armour to come galloping by…’

  Then she wobbled off towards the bathroom, holding on to doors and walls and things like she really was on the deck of a ship, and I wrestled the window closed and took the plates downstairs. There (bad surprise, bad surprise) I found David, furtively reading the porridge box.

  I did not ask David to explain himself, but he seemed to feel he should.

  David was at our house all night, asleep on Indigo’s ancient Jungle Book bedside rug.

  (Those were the snores I had heard!)

  Indigo went out to his Saturday job ages ago. He knows.

  (I suppose he does. I should think it would be pretty hard not to notice something the size of David mak
ing a loud noise on the floor.)

  David has left his home for ever. It is not as if he ever liked it.

  (Oh dear.)

  He hasn’t been back for days. Friends have allowed him to sleep on bits of floor, Josh and Marcus and Patrick and now us.

  (I hope this story is going to have a happy ending?)

  David’s mother’s last words to her son were ‘Go and see if your so-called-artistic-hippy friends will take you in!’

  (Meaning us!)

  And, thanks to Saffy’s remarks on the phone last night she probably thinks he has been here all the time. Not that she will be bothered, she does not give a toss! She is not like our mum, and if she was he wouldn’t have had to get away. Also his mum’s boyfriend will be dead chuffed he is out of the house at last and school will never know a thing about it, as long as he keeps turning up and causes no trouble.

  Said David.

  Today he is going to sort out a really good place where he can settle down for a bit.

  Here?

  Not here.

  Phew!

  But he wouldn’t mind some porridge, if that would be all right.

  Of course it is all right! Almost anything is all right, so long as he doesn’t move in!

  ‘As soon as I am dressed I will make you as much porridge as you like,’ I told David. ‘I can do hot chocolate too, if you want.’

  ‘Oh no, oh no,’ said David, sounding very shocked. ‘I didn’t mean you had to get it, Rose!’

  David can cook!

  He made porridge for himself, and then he made lovely omelettes with bits of tomato in for both of us, and afterwards a special chocolate milkshake for me. And to finish this truly spectacular performance he washed all the messy plates, wiped the surfaces free of crumbs, emptied the bin, scrubbed out the sink, swept the floor, and put everything away.