Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories (35 page)

Christmas was the smell of newly peeled tangerines, and bacon and eggs for breakfast. It was walking to church in the bitter, frosty air, and singing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” which was Jenny’s favourite. And talking to people outside the church, after the service, and rushing home to see to the turkey and light all the fires.

And then, when everything was ready, Dad said, “Ready, steady, go,” and that was when they were allowed to fall on the presents piled beneath the tree.

Natasha’s present had posed something of a problem—how to wrap up a theatre. In the end, Jenny had made a sort of tea-cosy of holly paper, put this over the theatre and carried it carefully downstairs, then placed it on the sideboard where nobody would walk on it.

But, for the moment, she forgot about the theatre in the excitement of her own presents. A new lamp for her bicycle, a Shetland sweater in pinks and blues, and a pair of black patent shoes that she had been yearning for for weeks. From Natasha, a book. From her god-mother a china mug with her name in gold. And from Granny … a large square parcel, wrapped in red-and-white-striped paper. Sitting on the floor, surrounded by the detritus of ribbons and packages and cards, Jenny undid it. The paper fell away, disclosing a large white box. More tissue paper. Skating boots.

Beautiful, new, white skating boots, the blades shining steel, and exactly the right size. Jenny gazed at them with a mixture of delight, because they were so fantastic, and apprehension at the thought of what she was expected to do with them.

“Oh.
Granny.
”

Granny was watching her. Jenny scrambled up off the floor to go and hug her. “They’re … they’re
wonderful.
”

Granny’s eyes met her own. Granny’s eyes were old but very bright. They never missed a trick. Granny said, “You can’t possibly skate in boots that don’t fit you. I bought them yesterday, because I couldn’t bear to think of you missing all the fun.”

“We’ll go skating this afternoon,” Natasha announced firmly. “You’ve
got
to give it another try.”

“Yes,” said Jenny meekly. And at that moment remembered the theatre, the only gift still unopened. “But now you’ve got to open your present from me.”

The grown-ups sat back in some anticipation. In truth, they could scarcely wait to see what Jenny had been constructing in the secrecy of her bedroom over the last few weeks.

Crouching, Jenny put the plug into the hot-plate socket. “Now, Natasha, you’ve got to take the paper off the
moment
I turn on the switch, otherwise it might catch fire.”

“Heavens,” said Granny in some dismay. “Do you suppose it’s a volcano?”

“Now,”
said Jenny, and turned on the switch. Natasha whisked off the paper tea-cosy, and there it was. With the lights twinkling on all the sparkley bits of glitter; shining back from the mirror pond, gleaming on the satin-ribbon skirts of the miniature ballerinas.

For a satisfactory space of time there was total silence. Then Natasha said, “I don’t believe it,” and everybody started to exclaim.

“Oh, darling. It’s the cleverest thing. The prettiest…”

“Never seen anything so enchanting…”

“Is
that
what you wanted the wine box for?”

They rose from their chairs, came to inspect, to stand back, to wonder and admire. No audience could have been more appreciative. As for Natasha, for once she seemed to be lost for words. Finally, she turned to her sister and hugged her. “… I shall keep it, always and always.”

“It’s not a real ballet. I mean it’s not
La Fille Mal Gardée,
or anything like that.”

“I like it better that way. My very own winter ballet. I simply love it. Oh, thank you, Jenny. Thank you.”

By four o’clock Christmas dinner was finished, and finally cleared away. Over for another year. The crackers pulled, the nuts cracked. Jenny’s parents and her grandmother were in the sitting-room, enjoying coffee before taking a little necessary exercise in the outdoor air. Natasha had already gone, her skates in her hand.

“Come on, Jenny. I’m ready,” she had called up the stairs.

“I’ll be there in a moment.”

“What are you
doing?
”

Jenny was sitting on her bed. “Just tidying up.”

“Shall I wait?”

“No. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Promise?”

“Yes. I promise. I’ll come.”

“All right, then. See you later!”

The door banged shut, and she had gone, running down the path to the gate. Jenny was alone. She had been given skates, and she wished she hadn’t been, because she couldn’t skate. It wasn’t that she didn’t
want
to, but she was frightened. Not so much of falling and hurting herself, but of making an idiot of herself; of other people laughing at her; of having to come home and admit the usual utter failure.

I want to be like Natasha, she thought. But she knew that this was impossible, because she could never be like Natasha. I want to float over the ice, and have long blonde hair and long slender legs and have everybody admire me, and want to skate with me.

But
poor old Jenny
they would say, as she hit the ice yet another time.
Bad luck. Have another go.

She would have given her soul simply to stay where she was; to curl up on her bed and read the new book that Natasha had given her. But she had promised. She picked up the skates and went out of her room and down the stairs, slowly, one step at a time, as though she had only just learned how to walk.

They were talking in the sitting-room. She heard Granny’s voice, quite clearly, through the closed door.

“… such a talented child. The hours she must have spent constructing that little masterpiece. And the thought and invention that went into it.”

“She’s always been good with her hands. Creative.” That was Dad. And they were talking about her. “Perhaps she should have been born a boy.”

“Oh, really, John, what a thing to say.” Granny sounded quite irritated by him. “Why shouldn’t girls be good with their hands?”

“It’s funny…” Jenny’s mother, now, sounding thoughtful. “That two daughters should be so different. Natasha finding everything so easy. And Jenny…” Her voice trailed to nothing.

“Natasha finds everything easy to do that she
wants
to do.” Granny again, at her most brisk. “Jenny is not Natasha. She is a different child. I think that you should respect that, and treat her as such. After all, they’re not a pair of identical twins. Why should Jenny have to dance, just because Natasha sees herself as a budding ballerina? Why should she even have to go to dancing classes? I think that you should let her talents lead her in her
own
direction.”

“Now, what do you mean by that, Mamma?”

“I listened to her when we were singing carols last night. It seems to me that she has almost perfect pitch. I think she is musical. It is strange that her teachers at school have not already realized this. Have you ever thought of piano lessons?”

There was a long pause, and then Jenny’s father said, “No.” He didn’t say it crossly, rather as though he had never thought of such a thing, but couldn’t think why he hadn’t.

“Dancing, Jenny will never do more than galumph about with a tambourine. Let her learn the piano, see how she does.”

“You think she’d like that? You think she’d be good at it?”

“A child so talented could do anything she tried if she set her heart to it. She just needs confidence. I think, if you change your tack with her, she’ll surprise us all.”

The voices stopped. A silence fell. At any moment, her mother would start setting the empty coffee-cups on the tray. Not wishing to be discovered, Jenny tip-toed down the last of the stairs, and let herself out through the front door, making no sound. Down the path, through the gate, out onto the road.

She paused.

Have you ever thought of piano lessons? Let her learn the piano.

No more dancing classes. Just herself, on her own, making music.

A child so talented could do anything she tried if she set her heart to it.

If Granny thought she was as clever as that, perhaps she could. As well, she had gone to much trouble and expense to buy Jenny the skating boots for Christmas. The least Jenny could do was to have another try.

The orange sun was dipping down over the rim of the hills. From afar, across the frosty stillness of Christmas afternoon, she could hear the laughter and the voices from the village green. She began to walk.

When she got there, she didn’t look for Natasha. She knew what she had to do, and she wanted to do it on her own.

“Hello, Jenny. Happy Christmas.”

It was a school friend, with a sledge. Jenny borrowed the sledge to sit on. She took off her rubber boots and put on the beautiful new white skating boots. They felt soft and supple, and when she laced them, hugged her ankles like old friends. She stood up, on the frozen grass, and took a step or two. No wobbles. She reached the ice.

Remembered Natasha’s instructions.
Put your feet in third position, and push off.
A bit unsteady, but she kept her balance. Now. Third position. A big breath for courage. She could do anything if she set her heart to it. Push. All right. Now the other foot …

It worked. She was away. She wasn’t falling or waving her arms about. One, two. One, two. She was skating.

“You’re doing it! You’ve got it.” Natasha, all at once, materialized at her side. “No, don’t look at me, keep concentrating. You mustn’t fall over. Look, take my hands and we’ll go together. Well done! You remembered what I told you to do. It’s easy. The only reason you couldn’t do it before was because of those stupid old boots…”

They were skating together. Two sisters, with hands clasped and the icy air burning their cheeks. Sailing over the ice. It was like having wings on your feet. The sun was gone, but over in the east, like a pale eyelash, hung the crescent of a young new moon.

“The present you gave me was the best I had,” Natasha told her. “What was your best present?”

But Jenny couldn’t tell her. Partly because she hadn’t the breath to talk, and partly because she hadn’t had time to work it out for herself yet. She only knew that it had not come in a package wrapped in holly paper, and that it was something she was going to be able to keep for the rest of her life.

ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES BY ROSAMUNDE PILCHER

WINTER SOLSTICE

SLEEPING TIGER

ANOTHER VIEW

SNOW IN APRIL

THE END OF SUMMER

THE EMPTY HOUSE

THE DAY OF THE STORM

FLOWERS IN THE RAIN AND OTHER STORIES

UNDER GEMINI

WILD MOUNTAIN THYME

VOICES IN SUMMER

THE BLUE BEDROOM AND OTHER STORIES

THE CAROUSEL

THE SHELL SEEKERS

SEPTEMBER

COMING HOME

CRITICAL PRAISE FOR ROSAMUNDE PILCHER AND
FLOWERS IN THE RAIN!

“Reading Rosamunde Pilcher is like slipping into an old robe, curling up on the sofa in front of a cheerful fire and sipping a nice hot cup of tea. She’s so comfortable.… She has an eye for rich detail. Her characters are ordinary people who lead ordinary lives. Best of all, they are likable.… Save this book for a rainy day. The author has such a lovely way with words.”

—C
INCINNATI
E
NQUIRER

“Like a kinder and gentler Danielle Steele, Pilcher’s romantic stories invoke a compassionate fate. Heartwarming and sweet, they are set in an England of cozy teas, country estates and fine, crisp days; and telling of lives illuminated by the possibility of love or about the importance of living life to the fullest.”

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