My Name Is Rose by Sally Grindley Read Free Book Online

pillows. I haven’t done anything wrong , she decided. Why should he be cross with me just because I wasn’t asleep? She had looked out of the window and seen him smoking, that was all. Except that it wasn’t all. What she had seen was that he was able to walk perfectly normally – that all the limping and groaning was a sham. So what? she thought. He wants people to feel sorry for him. He wants attention .
    Uncle Aleksandar could be like that, Rose remembered Esme saying. Uncle Aleksandar could describe a minor stomach discomfort as a major digestive problem and have poor Aunt Mirela running around after him with lotions and potions until she was ready to drop, while he, when she wasn’t looking, would indulge himself with multiple bars of chocolate and too much home-brewed ale. He loved the attention and sympathy his wife gave him, but Esme said that Aunt Mirela knew exactly what he was about and didn’t mind playing the game with him.
    â€˜She loves him, that’s the fact of it,’ said Esme. ‘She’ll do anything for him. And if he makes a song and dance about things from time to time, so what?’
    Rose found it easy to understand why Aunt Mirela loved him. Uncle Aleksandar was big and loud and funny and full of beans – at least when he wasn’t full of ale, which tended to make him soppy. He played the cello to Nicu’s violin, and what he lacked in talent he made up for in melodrama. During ballads he swayed from side to side, drawing his bow across the strings with exaggerated sweeps and pulling such sad faces that he looked as if he would dissolve into tears, which indeed he seemed to when, at the end, he wiped a handkerchief across his brow and dabbed at his eyes. During jigs and reels he rocked on his seat and tapped his feet, nodding his head furiously at the same time and grinning from ear to ear. He couldn’t sing, though occasionally he tried to join in, until Nicu shot him a warning look, but he still hummed and whistled and clicked his tongue.
    He was a boxer too, one of the best in his day, Esme told her, before his waistline gave in to his appetite. He still liked to think he could hold his own against the young pretenders who wanted to challenge him, but Aunt Mirela protected him by sending them away.
    â€˜We all know you were the best,’ she tutted. ‘You don’t have to keep proving it. And you know if you do insist you’ll be laid up for days.’
    â€˜I could whip the pants off any of those whipper­snappers,’ Uncle Aleksandar snorted, jumping from his seat and throwing punches at the air. But his protests were hollow. He quickly settled back down to whittling wood or swapping channels on his treasured television.
    Aunt Mirela certainly loved him, and he loved her too. Just as Esme and Nicu had loved each other. Rose was convinced that Mr Luca didn’t love his wife, and she couldn’t understand how his wife could possibly love him. She had never met anyone so disagreeable, nor anyone who so shamelessly used and abused people.
    He had hidden himself away for the remainder of the afternoon, catching up on business matters, he said, until dinner was served, when he complained about the food being too salty and cold. The only person who seemed to escape his ill humour was his daughter. She indulged him nauseatingly and was indulged in return.
    Mrs Luca had spent the afternoon slowly showing Rose around the house and gardens, saying, ‘We’ll take it very steadily, and you must let me know if it’s too tiring for you. We can’t have you overdoing things the minute you arrive.’
    Rose was flabbergasted that one family could live all alone in such an abundance of wealth and space, and wondered why they needed so many rooms for themselves. When she was shown to her own room, she could only stand in the doorway and stare. The bed was big enough for six people! There was a dressing table with three