One day, when Rosie was about ten, Mama sent her out to fetch her latest order of cloth from the draper’s. Rosie hated the draper: she was forever fussing about Rosie, telling her how adorable she was and suggesting the most vile floral patterns for her dresses (which Mama usually agreed to). Rosie picked up the cloth, but wouldn’t stay long enough for the draper to wrap it.
Rosie had been aching to go to the river, which ran through the city. She wasn’t allowed alone, and here was the perfect opportunity. She had just reached the river when a fold of the cloth she was holding broke out of her grasp and ballooned on the breeze. That gave her an exciting idea. She’d always wanted to sail, just like Peter, and there was the perfect piece of wood, washed up on the bank, and the awful flower fabric would make a lovely sail.
She managed to wedge a stick in a crevice in the board and tie the fabric to the stick. She stood back to admire it: it looked like a proper boat.
It was time for the maiden voyage.