Rose Rivers Page 11

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Rose, must you burst in on us like this?’ Mama said angrily.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama, but this is an emergency. I simply have to tell you. Nurse Budd is forcing Beth to eat in such a cruel way, and now she’s crying. Can’t you hear her? You have to stop Nurse Budd, she’s making Beth so unhappy. I’ve told Nurse, but she says she can’t do anything.’

  ‘Please calm down, Rose. Really! This is hardly an emergency,’ said Mama. ‘Nurse Budd is an excellent professional and knows best how to care for Beth. Now, I think we’ve bored Mr Walker long enough with nursery matters. Run along, please!’

  Run along! As if I were Clarrie’s age! I hate Mama at times. And I hate, hate, hate it that Paris Walker was smiling at her.

  WHEN PAPA CAME home, I told him about Nurse Budd. He winced when I described the belt restraining Beth, the hand clamping her shoulder, the spoon clanking against her teeth. He went to see Beth for himself, and then he had a long talk with Nurse Budd. I lurked nearby, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying, just the tone of his voice, very calm but very serious. We all know we are in trouble when Papa talks to us like that. We’d sooner he shouted. It wouldn’t make us feel so bad.

  I hoped he’d actually dismissed Nurse Budd. When he emerged, I said I would devote myself to Beth’s care from now on, and I was sure we’d muddle along somehow.

  ‘You’re a very sweet sister, Rose, but that won’t be necessary,’ said Papa. ‘Nurse Budd and I have had a long talk. She’s explained her regime very carefully, and I can see that she’s only trying to help Beth behave. Her methods might look a little harsh, but apparently she gets excellent results. She’s assured me that in this short space of time she’s grown to love Beth like her own child.’

  ‘Are you sure she means it, Papa?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m absolutely certain,’ he said. ‘Now, you mustn’t worry about it any more. Your old pa has taken care of everything.’

  Poor gullible Papa. Much later, when everyone was asleep, Nurse Budd crept into my room.

  ‘Night night, Miss Rose. You mustn’t worry your little head about my methods. You will find I only want the best for Miss Beth. Don’t go troubling your poor papa any more. You don’t want to worry him. You do understand me, don’t you?’

  I understood her all right. She was making a veiled threat. I’m going to make it my mission to spend as much time in Beth’s room as I can so that I can protect her.

  ‘Don’t forget I’m here, Beth. I’m on your side against Nurse Budd. If she starts doing anything you don’t like, just shout for me and I’ll come running,’ I whispered to her.

  Beth doesn’t seem grateful at all. She sometimes even seems to like Nurse Budd. She looks at her expectantly and tries to please her. But when I approach her, she cowers away, as if I’m the cruel one.

  Next week Rupert will be back for his half term, but I don’t suppose I can count on him to help me protect Beth. He will probably be at the Feynsham-Joneses, visiting Pamela. I wonder how many letters he has written to her. He still sends Mama and Papa a short, dutiful letter every Sunday, telling them about sport and lessons and meals, and his friends Hardy and Martin. Those are their surnames. These chaps don’t seem to have Christian names, though one has a Latin appendage: Robinson Minor. There’s also Mackinley, who treats Rupert like his personal servant. It’s ridiculous and demeaning – I can’t understand why Rupert goes along with it.

  Each time he sends me a paltry postscript. It’s usually Say hello to Rose or, slightly more affectionately, Give my love to Rose. In his last letter I got two sentences: Send my love to Rose. Why hasn’t she written to me recently?

  I’ll tell you why, Rupert Rivers. You haven’t written a single letter to me since you went to that wretched school, yet you’re writing pages and pages to that simpering girl and signing each one Your loving friend, Rupert.

  Well, you’re not my friend any more, and you’re not loving. You don’t care a jot about me. I’m not sure Mr Walker does either.

  I wish I could sketch him adequately. I’ve tried a dozen times, but I can never make it look right. I pulled the drawings out of my sketchbook and tore them into shreds. I kept just one, hidden inside the precious copy of Robinson Crusoe that sat in my bookcase.

  The next morning I didn’t go to the studio. I couldn’t face it after Mama had excluded me like a little girl. I didn’t go the following day, or the one after that. Mama didn’t comment. She was very happy to have Mr Walker all to herself.

  Papa had finished his sketches of street children, so he went to his studio again, working on the design for the book cover. At least he noticed my absence.

  ‘Have you got tired of drawing, chickie?’ he asked. ‘Well, I dare say Miss Rayner is glad to have her star pupil back in the schoolroom.’

  She wasn’t at all. I’d become too much of a liability. She tried to set me challenging work – mostly arithmetic, not my favourite lesson. Sometimes it was so difficult, I couldn’t work it out at all. Miss Rayner told me all the correct answers, but only because she had the little crib book to hand. When I asked her to show me the workings of each sum, she blustered for a bit, but she didn’t have any idea and we were both embarrassed.

  She also set me a project on riding because she thought I wanted to learn. She gave me a little book on how to sit side-saddle. It was very kind of her, so I had to pretend to be pleased, and drew several boring sketches of saddles and stirrups and Lord knows what else.

  Papa didn’t seem to care that I’d stopped sketching. He’d become interested in Sebastian’s lurid paintings now. Sebastian had discovered a picture of a pretty male saint being shot full of arrows, and was delighted to discover that he was his namesake. He took the Winsor & Newton paints and used up a lot of Yellow Ochre for St Sebastian’s long hair, and nearly all the Crimson Lake for the blood dripping from his arrow wounds. Miss Rayner didn’t think the subject matter quite suitable, but Papa was amused and gave Sebastian high praise.

  Algie borrowed the paintbox next, and painted little Crimson Lake spots all over Montmorency. He meant them to look like arrow wounds, but poor Montmorency just looked as if he had measles. He didn’t like being cleaned with a damp cloth, and made a sudden dash for freedom.

  It caused chaos because Edie is ludicrously scared of mice and refused to come out of her attic room all day in case she encountered him. Mama threatened to dismiss her without a reference, but Edie said she didn’t care, she wasn’t having no mouse running up her skirts, not for love nor money. Then Jack Boots bestirred himself and stamped around the house on a mouse hunt. He might have stamped on Montmorency himself if he’d actually spotted him.

  Luckily Montmorency had the sense to take refuge in Beth’s room and make himself a cosy little nest in Marianne’s silk skirts. She was back from her stay in the doll’s hospital and looked as good as new, her eyes properly in place, but Papa had wasted his time and money. Beth wouldn’t go near her. She wouldn’t even let me introduce Marianne to Marigold.

  ‘But you love Marianne!’ I said. ‘Don’t be frightened of her.’

  ‘Frightened of her,’ said Beth.

  Perhaps it was because Marianne’s eyes wouldn’t shut any more. She stayed sitting in the corner, staring resolutely ahead, while Beth whispered to Marigold. Montmorency wasn’t discovered until Nurse Budd decided to put Marianne away in the nursery toy cupboard that evening. Montmorency panicked and ran up Nurse Budd’s starched skirts. She shrieked her head off.

  We found this tremendous fun. Even Nurse chuckled happily. Sebastian retrieved Montmorency and took him back to his cage, stroking and scolding him alternately.

  Algie and Clarrie took it in turns to be Nurse Budd. Algie was particularly clever at imitating her flapping hands.

  ‘You’re a card, Algie,’ I said, laughing at him.

  But I didn’t feel like laughing the next day, when I discovered that he hadn’t just painted Montmorency. He’d also coloured in the pictures in Robinson Cruso
e, and now the first few pages were stuck together with blotches of paint. It had been Papa’s book when he was a little boy, and he’d given it to Rupert and me when we were six. Nurse tried to read it to us, but she stumbled over the words. She said reading such a long book made her throat hurt, and why couldn’t we be content with Struwwelpeter? We loved Struwwelpeter because the rhymes were so funny, though the red-legged Scissorman gave us both nightmares.

  But we still wanted to read Papa’s book, so we started doing it together, taking turns with each chapter. It became our special desert island world. While Nurse was busy with Beth and Sebastian and Algie and Clarrie, we acted out the stories. Rupert insisted on being Robinson Crusoe. I was Man Friday. Rupert occasionally commanded me to be Robinson’s dog, or even his pet parrot. We constructed our own ship from upturned chairs, while the nursery rug was our island. It was green rather than yellow like sand, but Rupert decided that it was a tropical forest.

  Rupert insisted, Rupert commanded, Rupert decided – and I did what he wanted. He refused to play with me if I didn’t stick to his rules. That’s the way it’s always been. I simply got into the habit of doing what he wanted, right up until the beginning of September.

  After he’d left for school I went up to my room and cradled the large red volume, remembering all our childhood games. When Nurse persuaded me to come and have bread and milk with the others in the nursery, I took Robinson Crusoe with me, and slept with it under my pillow that night, though it gave me a terrible crick in the neck.

  Now it lives on my bookshelf, head and shoulders above the other stories. It was my most precious book, and now it was spoiled. I felt like throttling Algie. Nurse had taken all the young ones out for their afternoon walk, so I had to wait to get hold of him.

  I was sitting on the window seat halfway up the stairs, shaking my head over the ruined pages, when Mr Walker and Mama came out of the dining room. Mama said goodbye in a very gushing manner, even holding Alphonse up to give Mr Walker a ‘kiss’. Then she went off to the drawing room, the dog under her arm. Mr Walker took his old jacket off the hook in the hall – and then looked up and spotted me.

  ‘There you are, Rose!’ he said, coming up the stairs. ‘Where have you been? I’ve missed you! I asked your mama and she said you’d become tired of drawing. Is that right?’

  I didn’t dare look up at him in case I blushed. He’d missed me!

  ‘I’m not really any good at drawing,’ I said, staring hard at the ruined page in Robinson Crusoe, too bashful to look him directly in the eye.

  ‘Well, you’re certainly not that great at painting,’ he said, looking at the splodged page and sitting down beside me.

  ‘My little brother Algie decided to do some colouring,’ I said ruefully. ‘You know what children are like.’

  ‘Children! So what are you, an old lady?’ said Mr Walker, smiling.

  ‘Don’t tease me,’ I said.

  ‘So how old are you, Rose? Twelve?’

  ‘Thirteen!’

  ‘Still a little girl, but only just.’

  ‘I’m not little,’ I said indignantly. ‘Do I seem it?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Mr Walker. ‘And sometimes you seem as old as the hills.’

  All at once I heard cries coming from Beth’s room. ‘Oh dear. That’s my sister Beth again.’

  ‘Yes. She’s an invalid, isn’t she?’ Mr Walker asked delicately.

  ‘She can’t manage to be like other people,’ I said. ‘Some hateful people call her an imbecile, but she’s not – she’s very clever.’

  ‘I’m sure she is.’

  ‘I’d better go to her,’ I said.

  ‘You’re such a good sister,’ said Mr Walker (though this isn’t true). ‘And I’m positive you’re good at drawing too. Please come back for the morning sessions. We miss you.’

  We miss you? He surely couldn’t mean Mama! I knew she’d be enjoying having him all to herself. But it meant so much that he’d said it – twice.

  I rushed upstairs to rescue Beth. I was sure I’d find her tied to a chair again, but she was sitting on the floor in the corner, scratching herself. She does this sometimes when she’s very agitated, and it looks so sad and horrid.

  ‘Please don’t do that, Beth, you’ll hurt yourself,’ I said, kneeling beside her.

  I looked at Nurse Budd. ‘Why is she crying?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘Because she’s having a little paddy, bless her,’ said Nurse Budd. ‘She’s got to learn that she can’t always have what she wants.’

  ‘What do you want, Beth?’

  ‘Want! Want! Want!’ Beth said, but she wouldn’t tell me.

  ‘She’ll calm down soon enough, won’t you, Miss Beth?’ said Nurse Budd. ‘I wouldn’t pay her any attention, Miss Rose. You’re only making her worse.’

  I took no notice and tried to hold Beth’s hands to stop her scratching. Beth shouted and wrenched them free.

  ‘You see?’ said Nurse Budd.

  I got as near Beth as I could. ‘Is Nurse Budd mean to you, Beth?’ I whispered. ‘Does she smack you?’

  But Nurse Budd had sharp ears. ‘Oh, Miss Rose,’ she said sorrowfully. ‘I’d never smack any of my charges! Miss Beth, Nurse Budd never smacks, does she?’

  ‘Never smacks, does she?’ Beth mumbled between sobs. Her nose was running unattractively.

  ‘Here, Beth darling, let’s wipe your nose,’ I said, pulling my handkerchief out from my sleeve. I tried to mop her face but she wouldn’t let me. She started rocking backwards and forwards.

  ‘Oh, Beth, you look so unhappy,’ I said helplessly. I tried to put my arms right round her to rock with her. I used to do that when Clarrie had a tantrum, and it often made her stop crying and snuggle close.

  But Beth went rigid and struggled away from me.

  ‘There now! Please stop it, Miss Rose. You’re not helping the little lamb,’ said Nurse Budd.

  I couldn’t argue with her. I wasn’t helping at all. I gave up on poor Beth and went to my own room. I felt so sad about my sister – and yet I was still so happy, happy, happy that Paris Walker really seemed to like me.

  I started to draw yet another sketch of him. Perhaps it might work better from memory than observation.

  Then I suddenly remembered!

  I leafed through all the pages of Robinson Crusoe, easing apart the ones that were stuck together with paint, tearing several in my hurry. I’d hidden my best sketch of Mr Walker there – and now it was missing!

  I RAN TO the nursery and peered under Algie’s pillow, inside his toy fort, in his own torn books, looking for my sketch without success. I thought of his desk in the schoolroom. I was surprised to discover Miss Rayner still there, though she was only employed till one o’clock.

  ‘Hello, Rose dear! I’m trying to work out how to do those fiendish sums I set you,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I’m not making much progress!’

  ‘Could I just take a peep inside Algie’s desk, Miss Rayner?’

  ‘Oh dear. Has the little scamp been up to no good?’ she asked sympathetically.

  ‘He’s coloured in some of the illustrations in my Robinson Crusoe. He’s ruined it. The pages are all stuck together now.’

  ‘I’m so sorry! I should have kept a better eye on him,’ said Miss Rayner, looking horrified.

  ‘And there was a little drawing tucked inside my book – homework set me by Mr Walker. I wonder if he’s put it in here?’ I said, opening Algie’s desk.

  It was in a terrible mess, books and pencils and broken toys and spilled ink and apple cores.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, I should check it more often and try to help Algie be tidier,’ said Miss Rayner.

  ‘It’s really not your fault, Miss Rayner. We both know how messy Algie can be,’ I said as I scrabbled through all the clutter. There was no sign of my drawing. ‘It’s not here. Oh, Algie, you little beast, what have you done with it?’

  ‘He’s a naughty little chap, but he’s got such winning ways. I can’t help laug
hing at him,’ said Miss Rayner, shaking her head.

  ‘I don’t know how you put up with us all, Miss Rayner,’ I said. ‘We’re such an unruly bunch. Don’t you ever feel tempted to go and find a more rewarding set of children to teach?’

  ‘Oh, Rose, you and your brothers and sisters are like my family,’ she said, beaming at me.

  I felt ashamed. None of us thought of poor Miss Rayner as family. Was that why she hung around half the afternoon even though she was only employed for the morning? Did she wish she lived with us? I realized I had no idea where she actually lived. I decided to ask her.

  She seemed startled by such a direct question. ‘In Clerkenwell, dear,’ she said.

  ‘Clerkenwell? But isn’t that miles and miles away?’

  ‘I suppose it is. But if I’m tired I take the omnibus.’

  ‘But why do you live so far away? Do you have a house in Clerkenwell?’

  ‘Hardly, dear! But I have a very nice room,’ Miss Rayner said. ‘Really quite spacious.’

  I think she meant to reassure me, but I was shocked. A room? What did she mean? She lived and slept in the same room? And what about her meals?

  ‘Do you cook for yourself, Miss Rayner?’ I asked.

  ‘No, there are no private facilities for cooking. My landlady serves a bowl of porridge in the mornings and does a hot meal in the evening, quite simple, but I’m sure it’s nutritious,’ she said cheerfully.

  I looked at her. She was very large, barely contained by her corsets.

  Miss Rayner knew what I was thinking. ‘I sometimes buy myself little treats on the way home,’ she told me. ‘Especially if I happen to pass a baker’s. I can never resist a penny bun. Or an iced bun for that matter. Or a slice of cherry cake on a Saturday. And if it’s a very cold day I have been known to buy a bag of fried potatoes from a stall – I’m finding they’re much warmer than a pair of gloves!’ She giggled.

  ‘If you’re partial to cake, you must ask Cook to give you some of ours. There’s always some left over from teatime,’ I said.