Free My Name Is Rose by Sally Grindley Page B

whiteboard and asked Rose to copy them into a notepad. Rose didn’t even pick up a pencil. She sat in her chair with her eyes lowered.
    â€˜Copy what I’ve written, please, Anna,’ Mrs Conta instructed.
    When she saw that Rose was making no attempt to do as she was told, the teacher sat down next to her.
    â€˜What’s going on here, then?’ she said. ‘Do I have a disobedient child in front of me? Do I have a child who doesn’t want to learn? Do I have a child who is too unhappy to be bothered? Or do I have a child who, quite simply, can’t write?’ She watched Rose carefully. ‘Look at me, Anna,’ she said gently.
    When she said it for a second time, Rose looked at her.
    â€˜Why are you crying?’ Mrs Conta asked. ‘A child who’s being disobedient doesn’t cry. A child who doesn’t want to learn doesn’t cry. But a child who is unhappy, or a child who’s frightened to admit that she can’t do what she’s being asked to do might cry. Which is it, Anna, or is it both things?’
    She took Rose’s hand. ‘Squeeze my hand once if you’re unhappy, twice if the writing is the problem, or three times if it’s both.’
    Rose squeezed the teacher’s hand once, paused, squeezed again, almost imperceptibly, then hesitated, before pulling her hand away.
    â€˜If that’s the problem, then it’s a problem we can do something about. I will teach you how to write,’ Mrs Conta said brightly. ‘And I won’t tell, if that’s what you’re worried about, though I can’t guarantee your secret won’t be found out.’
    Rose was so grateful, but she was anxious as well. Writing had always seemed such a strange thing to do and she wasn’t sure she could master it, especially since a lot of her Roma friends and family were unable to write. What if not being able to write is in my blood?
    She picked up the pencil and held it in her hand the way she had been shown in the past and the way Mrs Conta was demonstrating now. For the next half an hour, she copied shapes and lines until she could keep the pencil from wobbling and had stopped gouging deep furrows into the paper. Occasionally, she wanted to hurl the pencil across the room, frustrated at the constant repetition and at being confined indoors for so long, but when she had mastered the letters r , o , s and e and carefully consigned them to her memory, she was happy with her achievement. I’ll always be Rose if I can write my name .
    â€˜You’re lucky your name has only two different letters in it,’ Mrs Conta had said at the beginning of the lesson. ‘You’ll master it in no time.’
    It was true. Rose was soon able to write anna , though she had no more emotional attachment to the word than to luca .
    She liked Mrs Conta. The teacher was kind without being treacly, firm without being harsh. She seemed to understand Rose’s needs. She didn’t probe, but responded sympathetically whenever Rose appeared distant or sad. She didn’t ask Rose to write down what she was feeling, even when she was proficient enough to be able to express herself on the page.
    Rose began to look forward to her lessons. The whole process of sitting still, listening and learning was alien to her, and she had to get used to being closeted in a room for hours on end, but she found herself becoming hungry to learn more. She especially enjoyed discovering about England’s history. When she heard there was a queen who lived in a huge palace, she wanted to go and see her.
    â€˜Is she beautiful?’ she wrote using words and pictures.
    â€˜She has a kind face and she works very hard for her people,’ said the teacher. ‘Perhaps one day Mrs Luca might take you to London to see the palace, but very few people meet the queen.’
    Rose had visions of looking up and catching a glimpse of the queen framed by one of the palace