Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop (5 page)

“Well, of course we want a DOG,” said Stephen. “This isn't a DOG. It's a MOP.”

Rosie held out her hand. The tiny thing crept out to sniff at it, and she smiled at it encouragingly. Stephen braced himself against the door frame and opened the wine bottle with a loud popping noise.

“She said it was one of Bran's. She didn't say she hadn't studded him. He's obviously got some tarty mongrel bitch up the duff. This dog can't work, it's completely useless. My mother is such a witch.”

But alas, it was too late. Rosie had scooped the ball of fluff into her arms and buried her nose in it. The puppy was wriggling and squirming with pleasure.

“Who's a big beautiful boy, then? Hm? Who's a lovely boy?”

“Just as well you don't want a dog,” said Stephen, pouring two large glasses. “Mother said you were dead against it.”

“But it didn't stop her,” muttered Rosie, completely entranced by the little creature.

“It would be nice to have had one of Bran's offspring,” said Stephen. “Not this one though. He's useless.”

Rosie clutched him.

“What on earth are you talking about? He's gorgeous.”

The puppy obligingly licked her hand.

“I'll get mother to take him back.”

“You will not,” said Rosie crossly.

Stephen looked at her with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

“But you don't even want a dog, and this is a rubbish dog!”

“Ssh,” said Rosie, putting her hands over his tiny silken ears. “He can hear you.”

“You said you didn't know what a dog would do all day.”

“Guard the shop?”

“Please!”

“Stay out in the garden?”

“I don't think so. I'll take it back.”

“NO!” Rosie felt the little rough pink tongue licking her hand. “No. We'll think of something.”

She realized this was one of the many, many things she was adding to her list of things to sort out in her head later, but she didn't care.

They sat down. Rosie ate one-­handed while stroking the dog on her lap.

“We'll need a name for him.”

“You know you can't eat with a dog on your lap. It's unhygienic and will give him bad habits.”

“He's not a dog! He's a tiny little baby”

The dog whined obligingly, and Rosie gave him a little bit of stew.

“Rosie Hopkins, put that dog down immediately! You're both filthy animals!”

“Shan't!” said Rosie.

“In that case I'm going to have to do things to you that aren't appropriate in front of minors.”

Rosie squealed and jumped up as Stephen attempted to smack her bum from the other side of the table, hopping nimbly out of his way.

“I can't believe our entire life together is predicated on your trying to hit me with that stick,” she said as she went through to put the tea on. “It's like
Fifty Shades of Earl Grey
.”

L
ATER
,
SHE
MADE
up a little bed for the dog, still unnamed—­Rosie was finding it hard to resist the urge to call him Fluffy or Rainbow, and Stephen would narrow his eyes at her and say that if they absolutely had to keep the common mongrel mutt, there was nothing wrong with Monty or Archibald, and they hadn't managed to agree yet, so Rosie was calling him Mr. Dog in the interim. He whined a little, but as she wrapped around him the old red blanket that she'd stolen off a holiday flight a long time ago in the distant past when she used to take actual holidays, he quieted down and was off to sleep in his little doggy way.

“I want to congratulate you on putting up with the awful, terrible concept of having a dog,” said Stephen as they went up to bed.

“I still can't believe you were just going to go ahead and get a dog when you knew I didn't want one,” grumbled Rosie sleepily.

“Because I don't actually know you at all and thus took you completely at your word when you were so adamant that you didn't want one.” He gently slung his arm around her neck, which was his way of pretending it wasn't useful to him to have a little help going up the narrow pull-­down stair to their room.

“Oh,” said Rosie, feeling his chest against hers, and wondered if this moment, as he nuzzled her neck, when they were so very close, would be the right time to drop the bomb that six of her very, very noisy relatives were descending on their little idyll for Christmas. Oh, it was weeks away, she thought. Plenty of time.

 

Chapter 4

B
UT
THERE
W
AS
not, as it turned out, plenty of time at all. Two things happened in Lipton—­one small, one big—­that were to change things faster than any of them had ever thought possible.

First, two weeks later, the snow still hadn't stopped falling. All the online shopping places stopped delivering, which was agitating, Rosie realized, because her winter wardrobe, even in her second winter in Lipton, was still inadequate. In London, after all, you were never really more than two minutes from a boiling hot tube journey or a bus. Last year she'd eventually been forced to shell out for a parka that had made Moray laugh, hard, for longer than was strictly necessary and tell her she looked like a small child playing at being a Dalek. This year she really needed gloves and a scarf and a hat that actually matched, given that she was going to be wearing them for a reasonable proportion of the day, every day. And suddenly Malik's principle of stocking the Spar with as much tinned food as possible made a lot of sense. Stephen made them buy a great supply of tins, as well as bottled water in case the pipes froze up, which Rosie thought was very over the top and quite exciting even though Stephen warned her that it absolutely wasn't, at all.

Rosie shook her head.

“No,” she said. “Me and Mr. Dog take it very seriously indeed, don't we, Mr. Dog?”

And she made his little head shake.

“Put that dog down,” said Stephen. “You'll turn him into a lapdog and he'll get too big. And give him a proper name, like Ludo.”

“Ludo is not a proper name!” said Rosie. “It's the name of some ghastly little dweeb whose father shoots grouse and wants to bring back hanging.”

Stephen sighed as he stomped out, the road clearers had just been, but in their gritted path, new flakes were already beginning to fall. There were fewer children at school every day; it was simply too risky to bring the children down in the morning from the more remote farms and outposts if they couldn't be absolutely sure they could get picked up again at night. Tina already had a spare room made up, and Rosie likewise made sure Lilian's bed was ready in case they were faced with any stranded waifs and strays.

Cough sweets and comfits—­anything long lasting—­had gone through the roof in the shop. Nobody wanted fondants or pastel colors; that felt like sunshine. Even the chewy ice creams had fallen completely out of favor. And, Rosie noticed, the boxed chocolates had started to sell. That was a slightly worrying sign because it meant Christmas was approaching. Her email was full of jolly messages from her mother, telling her how much the kids were looking forward to seeing snow and playing out in the garden, and Rosie didn't know what to say, apart from telling her she should make sure they were properly dressed. But if you'd grown up in a hot climate as the children had, how would they even believe her? It was impossible to imagine one climate when you were in another, and how on earth did you tell a small child there could be such a thing as too much snow?

Rosie was worrying about exactly this when Edison came in. Just once, she thought, just once she'd like to see him march downtown like the other children did, the girls in pairs with linked arms, admiring each other's snow boots, and the boys in great groups, hurling snowballs and making a huge cacophony.

“Hello, Edison,” she said. Edison eyed Mr. Dog warily.

“Oh, don't be silly,” she said. “He's only a puppy.”

There was, at the back, a connecting run between the shop and the cottage. Stephen had decreed that that was where the dog was going to go; he had brought home a smart new kennel (Rosie had noticed that even though they didn't have a lot of money to spare, it was absolutely top of the line. Nothing more had been said about giving their supposedly below-­par dog back to Stephen's mother) and lined it with straw and a blanket. The puppy was meant to run about there until he was old enough to get taken outside on a lead and taught how to behave, but he didn't spend much time there. Rosie washed her hands frantically and used plastic gloves when serving, but nobody seemed to mind at all. Dogs were, Rosie now realized, everywhere in Lipton. The lawyer had his in his office; the barber's dog strolled around the place making friendly enquiries of clients; and the Red Lion of course was full of them, partaking liberally of the water provided for them outside, snoozing gently under their owners' stools at the bar and occasionally guiding them as they meandered home slightly wobbly. So nobody batted an eyelid about Rosie's puppy, and the children, on the whole, adored him.

“Strange dogs are dangerous,” said Edison.

“Yes, but he's not a strange dog,” said Rosie patiently. “Is he? He's my dog. And he's not the least bit strange.”

“He could bite off my nose,” said Edison.

“He could lick off your nose, possibly,” said Rosie, laughing. “I promise, he doesn't bite. Look at his tiny teeth. You can barely see them.”

Edison sidled closer.

“When I am a pinering scientist, I will need to get used to things like this,” he said glumly to himself, straightening his glasses. “I'm not sure I want to be a pinering scientist.”

“What
do
you want to be, Edison?”

“A pinering scientist who will break new barriers in astrophicks for the good of mankind,” repeated Edison, clearly by rote.

“Not a vet, then?”

Edison shook his head fiercely.

“Animals are our friends,” he said. “I couldn't fix a pig to get eaten.”

Rosie tried to untangle this in her head.

“Well, what would you REALLY like to do?”

Edison looked around.

“I'd like to have a sweetshop just like you. Except without the black bombers.”

“Well, some ­people like black bombers.”

Edison shook his head. “Strange ­people.”

Rosie filled a bag with his beloved Edinburgh rock and sent him on his way.

T
HE
DAY
HAD
hardly gotten light with the heavy clouds and the flakes still coming down fiercely. Once the school and work rush had passed, Rosie set about refilling stock and cleaning seriously. Mr. Dog sat in the corner looking at a newspaper.

All of a sudden the bell tinged with some urgency, and a rather portly balding middle-­aged man rushed in, all in a panic. Rosie straightened up.

“Can I help you?”

“Could I . . . could I possibly have a glass of water?” said the man, out of breath. His voice was educated, and from Yorkshire, the next county along. Rosie had only just begun to be able to make the distinction. Up until very recently, the way Derbyshire ­people discussed Yorkshire ­people as a completely different species had been a total mystery to her.

“Of course,” she said. “What's up?”

The flustered man swallowed, glancing around nervously behind him, trying to see into his car, a gray Vauxhall Astra that he had parked outside.

“It's my dad,” he said. “He's having some kind of . . . a bit of a turn.”

“Bring him in,” said Rosie immediately. “It's okay, I'm a nurse. Auxiliary nurse. Bring him in. Let me take a look at him now.”

She pulled out the chair that Lilian sat in when she came to visit.The man darted out, and after a lot of cajoling, brought into the shop a tall, stooped figure, very thin, with white hair.

“Come on, Dad, sit down. Sit down,” he said.

Rosie brought a glass of water. The old man was muttering incomprehensibly. She helped him sip it and checked his heart rate.

“I'm just going to call our local doctor,” she said. “He's only down the road.”

“Are you sure that's necessary?” said the man. “He seems to be quieting down.”

The man was gesticulating and talking feverishly. Rosie couldn't understand a word he was saying.

“It's dementia,” said the son. “Sorry. He's not well.”

“I can see that,” said Rosie, speed-­dialing Moray. “Has this happened before?”

“All the time,” said the man, and as Rosie looked at him more closely, she saw the marks of strain around his eyes and mouth. “All the time, and getting worse. And this one came out of the blue. There is . . . there is no getting better.”

“I know,” said Rosie softly, hanging up the phone after talking to Moray's receptionist, Maeve. “He's on his way. Would you like a cup of tea?”

The man nodded, then glanced apprehensively out the window at the weather.

“Although maybe we should get on.”

The old man was moaning now, rocking himself back and forth. Rosie found the new blanket they'd bought for Mr. Dog and put it around his shoulders and gradually, with the man's arm around him, the old chap's breathing slowed, and he stopped jabbering, although not before a great tear had rolled down his cheek.

“It's a horrible disease,” said Rosie sympathetically. “A total pig.”

The man winced in agreement.

“Yes. Yes, it is rather.” He held out his hand. “Edward Boyd. And my father's James.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Rosie. “Rosie Hopkins.”

By the time Moray arrived, the kettle was whistling, and he gave the old man a thorough check over.

“He's stopped . . . he's stopped recognizing me at all,” said Edward, sadly. “He keeps shouting things that don't make sense.”

“That's very common,” said Moray, assessing his vital signs.“His pulse is a bit thready , but that might just be the shock. What caused him to react like that?”

“I've no idea,” said Edward, gratefully accepting the tea.

“I'll cool it down for your dad,” said Rosie quietly, adding cold water.

“I had to take a detour through this town because we normally take the Hiftown road, but it's shut . . . I don't even know where we are.”

“Lipton,” said Moray

Edward looked worriedly out the window. It was so overcast that it felt like night. “I'll need to get on.”

Rosie gave the old man his tea, holding the cup while he sipped it.

“Thank you,” said Edward again. “Okay, well, we drove into town and he got very, very agitated and took off his seatbelt and was all over the place.”

“Could he have been here before?” asked Rosie.

“I don't think so,” said Edward. “He was born and raised the other side of Halifax.”

They regarded James quietly. He now seemed perfectly happy and at home in the chair and was looking around approvingly.

“Does he live with you?” asked Moray. Edward turned to face him and, just for a second, Rosie caught sight of the tiredness and anguish behind the polite mask.

“Yes,” he said, his face stricken. Then he straightened up again. “I mean, yes, he does. It's fine, we have some home care, and of course my wife helps a lot, of course . . .”

“There's no shame,” said Moray quietly and kindly, “in getting someone the help they need. You know, after a certain point, many of the nicer homes won't take dementia patients.”

“He's my dad,” said Edward stoically and swallowed. Rosie decided that she liked this Edward Boyd. Lilian had had to go into a home after several falls and a minor stroke; Rosie couldn't look after her and work at the same time. She admired this man who had clearly tried to do both. And Lilian had kept her marbles, which made everyone's lives so much easier.

“Come on, Dad,” said Edward, looking at his watch. “It's time to go.”

James looked around confusedly, his hands gripping the sides of his chair.

“No!” he spat hoarsely. “No!”

His face was full of confusion and panic.

“Come on, Dad. We're going to go home. You can see Doreen, okay? We'll have vegetable soup for lunch. I know you like that.”

“NO!” said the old man, looking surprisingly strong. “I'm staying here!”

Moray and Rosie exchanged looks, but Edward just looked downtrodden and resigned.

“We have to go, Dad.”

James looked mutinous.

Finally, Moray stepped forward and took out his card.

“If you need someone to talk to,” he said, “ give me a call and I'll talk to your GP about making a referral, okay? It doesn't have to be like this.”

Edward looked down at the card as if he might cry.

“Thank you so much for your kindness. Oh, let me take some sweets, that might help tempt him out.”

“Of course! What does he like?” said Rosie.

“Mixed boiled usually,” said Edward.

“NO!” came the quavering but determined voice again. “Caramel!”

“You don't like caramel” said Edward. “It sticks to your teeth!”

“Caramel.”

“You can have caramels if you get in the car.”

“Don't want to,” said the old man.

“Caramels in the car?”

Rosie made up a bag, and Edward paid for them and once again thanked them profusely for their kindness. Then he led the old man, the caramels clutched in his hand, out of the shop and back to the car. As they left, Rosie noticed another tear rolling down the old man's cheek.

“That's it,” she said as she came back to pick up the tea cups. “I never want that to happen to me. Never. Honestly, I think I'd rather . . . I think I'd rather be
dead
.”

“Stephen will do it,” said Moray, waving his hand. “Doctors get into trouble for that kind of thing.”

Rosie shook her head. “How awful. It's just such a horrible thing. I wonder what set him off.”

“Probably nothing,” said Moray. “Stumbling across an old memory in the brain that just happened to coincide with passing by. It's a filthy disease, dementia. I see the guilty grown-­up children in my office all the time. They should really do what's for the best and get him somewhere nice. No point in everybody's life being ruined.”