Rose in Bloom Page 2

  ‘I want to wear pantaloons.’ She remembered her news and excitedly told Aunt Alice all about the team and the cricket game. And the dreaded permission letter.

  ‘I’d love to come and watch,’ Aunt Alice said, ‘but I’ll be working at the school. Why don’t you ask your father to sign the note?’

  ‘He doesn’t know yet. I couldn’t say anything at dinner. If Mother stops me playing, I think I’ll just want to … die.’

  ‘Hmmm. Perhaps if you go along with the new dress, she’ll look more kindly on the cricket game. It’s not as if you’re going to be playing against boys, are you?’

  ‘No.’ Rose thought about her aunt’s suggestion. That meant she’d have to learn that darned poem, too, then. Surely that would be enough to keep her in Mother’s good books?

  The next morning, she went to Miss Capstan before class and explained what Mother expected of her.

  ‘Of course,’ Miss Capstan said, as if she were asked to help out with reciting poems every day. ‘What about a Shakespearian sonnet?’

  Rose groaned. ‘I’m not very good with Shakespeare.’

  ‘No, I have to say I agree. Have you got a favourite poem, Rose?’

  Rose thought about it. ‘What about The Charge of the Light Brigade? I like that one.’ It was by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and had lots of action. Much better than a soppy love poem!

  Miss Capstan thought for a moment. ‘It’s certainly an easy poem to learn, because of the repetition.’ She closed her eyes and recited dramatically, ‘Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do or die, Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred.’

  The poem sounded wonderful, very dark and stirring. Rose knew she wouldn’t sound quite like Miss Capstan, but she’d give it a jolly good go!

  ‘First you must learn it off by heart.’ Miss Capstan found a book of Tennyson’s poetry on the shelf behind her desk and gave it to Rose. ‘When you have it perfect, come back and we’ll work on your recitation skills.’

  Rose skipped off with the book, determined to learn the poem quickly. She re-read it at every opportunity, and then Abigail helped her, prompting when she forgot a line. Within three days, Rose knew the poem from beginning to end, and returned to Miss Capstan.

  When Rose recited the poem with great gusto, Miss Capstan bit her lip and said, ‘Rose, I don’t think you need any help from me, to be honest. Only, perhaps you should be a little quieter?’

  ‘But it’s all about cannons firing and sabres slashing and horses charging.’

  ‘Nevertheless … you’ll be in a drawing room, I gather. Not the Town Hall.’

  Rose frowned. ‘You don’t think Mother would approve of my being too loud, then.’

  ‘Probably not.’ Miss Capstan smiled. ‘But it is lovely, all the same, to see you so enthusiastic about poetry. Maybe we could ask you to recite it for the class?’

  ‘I … I suppose it would be good practice.’

  But when she stood up in front of her class, Rose felt as though her heart was going to leap right out of her chest and thump onto the floor in front of her. She swallowed hard, took a deep breath and began. She stumbled over the title and the poet’s name, but the first lines caught her up. ‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of death rode the six hundred.’ The girls in front of her sat completely still, listening, open-mouthed. At the finish, they burst into loud clapping.

  ‘Was that all right?’ Rose asked Miss Capstan.

  ‘Very good,’ Miss Capstan said, her face pink.

  Rose had a feeling she was about to say more, but instead she told the class to get out their notebooks for history. When Rose sat down, Abigail whispered, ‘You were excellent!’ Rose grinned at her, and whispered back, ‘I hope I won’t be too nervous.’

  ‘You’ll be brilliant,’ Abigail said.

  ‘You should see the hideous new dress I have to wear,’ Rose said. ‘I look like a tree.’

  ‘At least you have a new dress,’ Abigail said, suddenly busying herself with her nib.

  Rose’s brow puckered. Maybe if Abigail saw the horrid dress, she’d understand how bad it was.

  3

  Dinner Dramas

  ON the morning of the dinner, Mother made Rose try on her new dress. It was a dark brown, with brown lace and a brown ribbon around the waist. The weather was still very warm for the end of February, and the long sleeves made Rose feel like a trussed chicken. As it was, when she looked in the mirror she couldn’t help but mutter, ‘I’m a walking tree.’

  Walking would be the problem. The long skirt tugged at her ankles, and as well she had new brown shoes that were a little too big for her. Sally stuffed some newspaper in the toes, which helped a bit. As she was leaving Rose’s room, Mother said, ‘I do hope your recital is going to be word-perfect, Rose. I’m counting on you to make a good showing of yourself.’

  Rose kicked off the silly shoes, fuming, and changed into her comfortable pinafore. Maybe Tommy was free for some cricket – that would cheer her up.

  John let Tommy practise with Rose for half an hour, and Tommy watched her bowling closely. ‘I reckon you could get a mite more turn.’ He moved one of her fingers further over on the ball. ‘Now, when you let it go, turn your wrist the other way a bit more.’

  Rose tried what he said and was delighted to see the ball bounce and then spin right most unexpectedly. ‘That’s spiffing!’ she said, and set about practising over and over. Let Myrtle try and hit that!

  When it was time to get ready for the dinner, Rose put on the horrid dress and Aunt Alice helped her do up the buttons and tie the ribbon at the back. Mother had employed a lady’s maid for the evening to help with dressing and hair, and she pinned Rose’s curls up so tightly that she felt as if her face was being pinned back, too.

  Aunt Alice looked elegant in a dark-red silk dress and matching combs in her hair. But nobody could match Martha, whose dark-blue silk set off her pale face framed with glittering sapphire earrings.

  She looks like a princess, Rose thought. And here I am, a brown tree without even any nice green leaves.

  Rose watched from the window as carriages pulled up and people bearing birthday gifts climbed out. Soon the house was filled with chattering guests all dressed in dark colours. The talk was lively and Mother had hired a young man in a dinner suit to play the piano.

  At dinner, Rose was seated near the bottom of the table, next to Aunt Alice and Mother. At the other end, past all the candelabras and flowers, Rose could just see Martha, laughing with a young man next to her. Aha! Samuel Pennington. Rose still thought he had a big nose, but he did look rather jolly.

  As Rose ate all the delicious food, she wondered why adults talked such waffle. Mother went on and on about her Temperance Society, and how she really wished she could do more charity work. ‘But I just can’t risk my health again,’ she said.

  ‘You were so ill, dear,’ said a large woman with black feathers stuck in her hair. Rose thought she looked like a fat, black hen.

  Aunt Alice stabbed at the pheasant leg on her plate. ‘I have plenty of children at my school who need any kind of help they can get.’

  ‘I’m not able to teach,’ Mother said.

  ‘We don’t need teachers,’ Aunt Alice said. ‘We need money for scholarships.’

  ‘Oh! Are some of your poor pupils clever?’ the large woman asked.

  ‘Yes, very.’ Aunt Alice glared across the table. ‘And a scholarship would allow them to do wonderful things, perhaps even go to university one day. I have a boy who is already helping his uncle design a motor car engine. It’s not just the Germans who can build cars, you know.’

  Another woman with two black roses pinned on either side of her head leaned down the table towards Mother. ‘I think a scholarship fund is an excellent idea, Elizabeth. It would allow you to put on luncheons and recitals to raise money. I’d certainly help you.’

  ‘And so would I,’ added the large woman.

  Mother
’s mouth opened and closed a few times, and Rose sensed that Mother would like nothing better than to laugh off the idea and change the subject. But everyone was waiting on her reply, including Aunt Alice.

  ‘I, well, I think that sounds like a worthy cause indeed.’

  Aunt Alice let out a tiny snort, but then found all of the ladies waiting for her reply as well. She swallowed her surprise and said, ‘Why, thank you, Elizabeth. I’ll draw up a list of my best students first thing on Monday.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Mother said stiffly.

  Goodness, thought Rose. Mother and Aunt Alice working together – that’s a turn-up!

  She finished her pheasant and sat back in her chair, her fingers gripping each other, trying not to think about the recital. She was even too nervous to eat any of the frothy dessert studded with tiny chocolate birds.

  At nine o’clock, eating was over and they all went back to the double drawing room. Extra chairs had been brought in so everyone could sit down, and Martha played two tunes on the piano. Samuel clapped louder than anyone and presented her with a red rose he’d plucked out of a vase. Martha blushed so deeply that even her neck was bright pink.

  Then it was Rose’s turn.

  ‘Head up,’ Mother said, frowning, as Rose trudged towards the piano. ‘Shoulders back.’

  Father stepped forward and bent low to meet her. ‘You’ll be wonderful, Rosie,’ he whispered. ‘Just give it your best shot. Do I know the poem?’

  ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade,’ Rose said. She could hardly get the title out of her mouth. What on earth was the poem going to be like? Her throat felt so tight she was choking, and she had to cough several times and take deep breaths before she could face the audience.

  Father looked somewhat astonished, and Rose suddenly wondered if perhaps a poem about soldiers in battle wasn’t such a good choice for after dinner. But Father announced loudly to the room, ‘My youngest daughter, Rose, will recite a poem.’

  There was a smattering of applause at the front, but those at the back were still talking and taking no notice. Good, thought Rose, fewer to hear me make a fool of myself. She avoided looking at Mother and focused on Aunt Alice instead, who smiled at her and nodded encouragingly. Rose opened her mouth and began.

  ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.’ Her voice seemed too sharp and high at first, but as she fell into the rhythm of the poem, her tone settled and she spoke louder. ‘Cannon to the right of them, Cannon to the left of them …’ Even the men at the back were listening now, heads bobbing with the beat of the poem. ‘Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right thro’ the line they broke …’ On she went, thundering the words, almost seeing the soldiers and their horses charging through the valley.

  ‘They that had fought so well, Came thro’ the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell …’ Was that Mother gasping? Too bad, she was onto the last verse. ‘Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!’

  After the last word, there was a stunned silence and Rose dared a glance at Mother. Oh no, her face was as dark as a thundercloud! Had Rose embarrassed her? Was the whole evening ruined?

  Then the applause started, lightly at first, building into loud clapping with some of the men growling, ‘Hear, hear!’ Father came forward and swept Rose into a big hug, and relief rushed through her.

  ‘Magnificent!’ he said. ‘Best I’ve ever heard.’

  Rose grinned from ear to ear as many of the guests congratulated her and Mother. ‘Such a talent, Elizabeth!’ Mother could do nothing but smile and say ‘Well done’ to Rose. Then someone else began singing and Rose was finally allowed to escape to her bedroom.

  As she climbed the stairs, she felt she could barely lift her feet to the next step. Performing had exhausted her.

  Then, halfway up, her too-big shoe caught in the hem of her too-brown dress and she tripped, falling forward and rolling sideways, her foot still caught. ‘Help!’ she cried. She rolled back down the stairs, arms flailing, trying to protect her head, all the way to the bottom. She screamed as a sharp pain stabbed through her ankle. ‘Help!’ she cried again, but her head was swirling and her voice was a whimper. ‘Anyone?’

  But the party went on, with glasses clinking and music and chatter. And nobody came.

  4

  Ankle Trouble

  ROSE tried to lift her head but stars burst in front of her eyes. Was no one ever going to find her? After what felt like forever, Sally passed by on her way back from the kitchen with a tray to collect glasses.

  ‘Miss Rose! Are you all right?’ Sally knelt beside her, tray thrown down, hands fluttering. ‘Can I help you up?’

  Rose was trying incredibly hard not to cry. ‘Can you find Aunt Alice, please?’

  A minute later, Sally was back, followed by Aunt Alice. Rose was too scared to move. Had she broken her ankle? She couldn’t bear to look.

  Aunt Alice helped her to slowly sit up, then examined her. ‘You have a lump on the side of your head.’

  ‘What about my ankle?’ Rose asked. ‘Is it broken?’

  Even though Aunt Alice lifted her foot gently, Rose cried out at the pain.

  ‘It might just be a bad sprain. We need to call the doctor. I’ll get your father.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Rose, your parents need to know you’ve been hurt.’ Aunt Alice’s face was creased with worry.

  ‘I can’t upset Martha’s dinner. Mother’s been planning it for weeks, and all these important people are here. If you tell them, the party will be ruined!’ She gripped her aunt’s hand. ‘Please. I’ll go upstairs and lie down, and I’ll feel better soon.’

  Aunt Alice still hesitated, then she said, ‘Very well, but you’re not going to walk. Sally, go and fetch John and he can carry Rose up.’

  It wasn’t long before Rose was lying on her bed, and Aunt Alice had wrapped her ankle in a cold, wet cloth. ‘How is your head?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Rose lied.

  In fact, her head and ankle throbbed like two agonising drumbeats competing against each other as she listened to the guests leaving, doors slamming and voices and laughter, the crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel, footsteps in the hallway. Aunt Alice came back to check on her, and then went downstairs again.

  A few minutes later, Father and Mother rushed in. ‘Rose, what on earth happened?’ Father asked.

  ‘I slipped on the stairs.’ Rose tried to smile but her chin trembled.

  ‘Someone should have called the doctor straight away,’ Mother said.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted. ‘I made Aunt Alice promise not to spoil things.’

  ‘Hmph.’ Mother bent and kissed Rose on the forehead, her lips cool. ‘Let’s see what the doctor says.’

  Rose didn’t want a fuss but she was relieved when the doctor bustled in and smiled at her, nodding to Mother, who had stayed by the bed.

  ‘Let’s sort you out, shall we?’ He examined her all over, listened to her heart, used a lamp to peer closely at the lump on her head and then wrapped her ankle tightly in bandages. Then he measured out a spoonful of awful brown liquid and Rose swallowed it down. ‘Mrs McCubbin, she needs to stay in bed for at least three days, and then keep off that ankle for three weeks.’

  ‘Three weeks?’ Rose cried. The cricket game was in less than a fortnight!

  ‘The minimum. If it still hurts after that, stay off it longer.’ He snapped his bag shut. ‘Good night, all.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Mother said. She bent over Rose. ‘Go to sleep. I’ll keep my door open and if you need me, just call.’

  ‘All right.’ Rose closed her eyes; the remedy was making her sleepy already. Her last thought was, I have to get better fast so I can play.

  Over the next few days, Rose wasn’t even able to go to school. What if they left her out of the cricket team after all?

  By Tuesday, she was allowed out of bed but could only hobble very slowly, leaning on someone’s arm. By Thursday, she was so bad-tempered and bored that Mother
said she could go back to school. ‘But no walking around on that ankle!’

  Sally wrapped it up for her and John carried her out to the buggy, and then into class when she arrived at school. Everyone stared, but Rose was so happy to be back with Abigail and her friends, and to be learning and having fun again, that she didn’t mind. Abigail helped her hop to the dining room for lunch, and that was where Miss Guilfoyle found her.

  ‘That’s very bad luck about your foot,’ she said. ‘You can play in the next match instead.’

  ‘I’ll be ready for this game, really I will,’ Rose said quickly. ‘My ankle is nearly better already. I know I can’t practise with the others, not right now, but I will be able to soon. Please don’t take me out of the team. Please?’

  Miss Guilfoyle didn’t look convinced. ‘Sprained ankles need special care. There’s no point making it worse.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Rose put on her best pleading expression. ‘Please wait and see how I am just before the game. I’ve been working on a new kind of twist on the ball.’

  ‘Have you now?’ Miss Guilfoyle smiled. ‘All right, we’ll wait until next Thursday and see how you are.’

  ‘Thank you!’ Rose beamed, and when Miss Guilfoyle had gone, she hugged Abigail. ‘I’m going to make sure my ankle is better by then.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Abigail half-shrugged, and Rose put her hand on Abigail’s arm.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ She shook Rose’s hand off.

  Abigail seemed out of sorts and Rose wanted to ask her more questions, but just then Myrtle went past and smirked. ‘What a pity about your ankle, Rose.’

  ‘I’ll be ready for the game, don’t worry,’ Rose said, and Myrtle glared.

  Before the weekend, Rose tried a couple of times to walk on her own, but pain jabbed through her ankle and she sat down again straight away, scared she’d make it worse. At school, Abigail seemed even less interested in Rose’s ankle and the cricket match, and sat in silence much of the time, barely responding to Rose’s chatter. Even when Rose tried to share some lollies with her, Abigail pushed her hand away. ‘Are you ill?’ Rose asked.