Rose Rivers Read online

  ‘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