Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams (25 page)

Henry was the first to notice. He had seen her in the post office and had hovered, long past his dinner hour, to see her when she came out. Ned and he had been in the same class at school; Ned had always laughed at his jokes and pranks, joined in good-naturedly at sports and been completely even-handed whether he won or lost, sharing his good fortune – his pre-war hearty collection of sweets and chocolate – happily with winners and losers alike. Henry had liked him without knowing him very well; he couldn’t imagine how Lilian, who had already lost a parent, could cope with his loss
.

And there she was, sinking to her knees in the middle of the square; passers-by looking uncomfortable at the sight of a young woman displaying emotion so publicly. Although most people knew the family, it was still an awkward situation. After all, everyone had sons at war
.

Unthinkingly, and furious, Henry rushed forward, appalled no one was looking after the girl
.

‘Darling,’ he said, putting a strong arm around her and leading her away. ‘Darling. Hush.’

Lilian barely knew who had picked her up or where they were going, till she found herself behind the churchyard, where the village shaded into the woods. Henry had thoughtfully kept them well clear of the graveyard, and she found herself on a shady knoll, underneath a huge spreading oak, away from the main street and the post office and kindly but distant women doing their best on the far end of a telegraphic wire, and guns and mortars and sweet boys who got out of trucks at the wrong moment. She threw herself into Henry’s strong arms, and wept and wept and wept
.

‘So where have you been, fannying about all day?’ said Lilian.

‘Did you say fannying?’

‘It’s a perfectly normal word, thank you, been around for donkeys.’

Rosie boiled up the pasta and started grating the Parmesan cheese. Lilian was to get the larger portion. It seemed a bit unfair that her job at the moment seemed to be feeding everyone else up. And what had Stephen meant about her sweetshop figure? Rosie knew she wasn’t a supermodel, nor ever likely to qualify, but men had always complimented her curvy hips and little waist, and liked the fact that she was short, even though she hated it.

So, anyway. Less pasta for her, more for everyone else. She hoped Lilian appreciated it, as she led the old lady to the table.

‘Actually I’ve been seeing
yet another man
. All on his own! In his house!’ said Rosie in mock-shocked tones. ‘I am going to get a name for myself as the village tart, Great-aunt! You will have to call the vicar in to give me a stern talking-to.’

Lilian snorted. ‘That man makes you look like Julie Andrews. Liberal vicars.’

‘Why, what’s he done?’

‘What hasn’t he done? Oh, it’s all right, do this, disbelieve that, divorce that, marry your farmyard animal of choice.’

Rosie let her chunter on, as she put down the tea things then served up the bolognese.

‘Foreign food now, is it?’ said Lilian.

Rosie was so astonished that someone would think pasta
was foreign food that at first she couldn’t figure out what her aunt meant.

‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Do you not really like foreign food then?’

Lilian sniffed. ‘I have never,’ she announced, in a tone that suggested she was about to discuss her Nobel prize, ‘bought garlic in my life!’

‘Well done,’ said Rosie. ‘Doesn’t it grow out in your garden? Wild garlic is just amazing.’

‘Oh yes, there’s some. I usually throw it away.’

‘You do
not
?’

Lilian looked defiant.

‘OK,’ said Rosie, feeling pleased, ‘you are going to stop eating all the sweetshop stock, and I am going to introduce you to all sorts of good things.’

‘I won’t eat them,’ said Lilian.

‘No, I can see that,’ said Rosie.

Lilian had already scarfed up half of her spag bol. Rosie, watching her, realised for the first time how difficult life must be when you couldn’t even lift a pan of boiling water. How hard it made things. How, even when Lilian was being rude to her, it was better; a million times better than having no one to talk to at all.

‘So it’s not
so
bad I’m here, is it?’ she ventured.

‘Well, as long as you’re happy,’ sniffed Lilian, letting Rosie inwardly roll her eyes and remind herself that Lilian pretending she was here for her own good was all part of her getting better.

Suddenly, out of the blue, the telephone rang. It was an old-fashioned ringer, and made a noise like a fire alarm going off. Rosie jumped six feet.

‘Christ,’ she said when she came down.

‘Must be one of your admirers,’ said Lilian. ‘Darling, I know Angie didn’t raise you in a barn. Where are the napkins?’

She leaned over and picked up the telephone.

‘Lipton 453? Oh, hello, Angela darling. We were just talking about you.’

Rosie picked up some napkins from Lilian’s very tidy linen cupboard. Staying in Lilian’s house had made her resolve to be more organised at home. There wasn’t loads of space in the cottage but everything had its place, and it obviously made Lilian’s restricted life a lot easier when things were tidy and to hand. It remained a complete mystery to Rosie how her aunt managed it; all she seemed to do was eat and sleep. Rosie eavesdropped shamelessly on the conversation with her mother.

‘Yes, well, she seems to be doing all right,’ said Lilian. ‘She is slacking it up a little around the village, I will say. But young girls don’t mind getting a reputation these days, do they? Positively welcome it.’

Rosie harrumphed loudly. Lilian affected not to have heard.

‘So, all in all she’s getting some colour back in her cheeks … It’s obviously doing her good to get away.’

Rosie stopped short. What on earth did Lilian mean? As soon as she could, she wrested the phone away from her aunt.

‘
Mu-um?
’ she said.

‘What?’ said Angie, sounding a bit distracted. In the background at least one fight was going on and two children were screeching their heads off.

‘Did you tell Lilian I needed to get away from London?’

‘Well, darling, I had to get her to accept some help, and—’

‘But did you think I needed to get away from London?’

There was, suddenly, a tiny fraction of a pause. Rosie felt wobbly.

‘But … but why? I mean, everything in London is great!’

‘No, no,’ said her mother. ‘It was just that Lilian needed someone. And you were between jobs. That was all it was. Definitely. That’s all.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Definitely,’ said her mum.

‘I mean, you like Gerard, don’t you?’

Gerard and her mother had met many times over the years. He had been cute and cuddly and flirtatious and delightful with her, just like he was with everyone. Everyone liked Gerard, of course they did. Although Angie had seemed immune.

‘This is a very bad line,’ said her mother. ‘Darling, Meridian needs me. I have to go now.’

True enough, a loud scream, all the way from Australia, was making its presence felt.

Rosie found she was a bit shaky, and handed the phone back to Lilian without complaint.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Bye.’

Sitting in the living room, trying to tune the ancient television, Rosie wondered what had her mother had meant. Surely it was just a sop to Lilian, to let the proud old bird stand on her own two feet, think she was taking care of her rather than vice versa. That must be it. It must be. On the other hand, Rosie vowed, she was going to get Gerard to come and visit sooner
rather than later. Then they could be back together, and still in love, and she wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. Not that she was worried. Definitely not.

Distracted, she hardly noticed the rap on the door. It came again, louder. Rosie got up, wondering if it was Hetty round to give her grief about something or other, but to her surprise it was Jake, looking a little pink from the sun.

‘There you are,’ he said.

‘Well, where else would I be?’ said Rosie.

Jake smiled. ‘Of course. I’ve just finished work. So, come on. Saddle up.’

‘I am
not
getting on that bicycle again,’ said Rosie. ‘No way.’

‘You need milk for the morning, don’t you? Old lady’s bones and all that.’

‘I do not have … Oh yes.’ Rosie saw what he meant. ‘Anyway, no. I’ll get it from the Spar. I do
not
want to run across Mrs Isitt again, thank you.’

‘Oh, she’s not so bad,’ said Jake. Then he reflected. ‘OK. She is very, very bad. But she’s had a hard life.’

‘Sitting in her big house drinking milk,’ said Rosie. ‘Yes. I see it.’

‘No, more than that …’ Jake’s voice tailed off. ‘Anyway, don’t worry about that. You have to come with me now. We have stuff to do.’

Rosie protested faintly. ‘But I’m …’ She turned her head towards the sitting room. From indoors came the mournful wavering tones of a soap opera theme. Outside, the sun was gently cresting pink over the hills, with the faintest touches of indigo just beginning to lick the very edges of the sky.

Jake looked at her with his eyebrows raised. ‘Yeah?’

‘I’ll get my coat,’ said Rosie, resignedly.

Jake went easy on her to begin with – he was completely amazed to find out she’d never had a ‘backie’ before – and rode up and down the streets a few times to get her used to it. Rosie sat on the saddle, the wind in her hair, the warm summer air hitting her skin, the sensation of travelling quickly exciting and new. She found herself starting to giggle, then laugh out loud as Jake went faster and faster (waving, she found herself noticing, in a friendly fashion to the vicar as he went past), then taking the slope down to the Isitts’ farm, gathering even more pace. But this time she had a clear sense that someone was in control, that Lilian’s old bike could cope with how fast they were going. Rosie tilted her head back and let out a happy yelp, amazed at herself – she certainly wouldn’t have done this at home – war-whooping down the rutted track.

Jake dismounted safely at the bottom, grinning widely.

‘Are you always that noisy?’ he said. Then he looked suddenly embarrassed, as if he’d asked something cheeky. Which of course he had. Rosie was saved from answering by the line of garden instruments up against the wall.

‘What are those for?’

‘For us,’ said Jake. ‘You hammered Peter’s vegetable garden. We have to put it back together. Or rather you do, but I figured if I left it to you you’d try sowing packets of crisps and chocolate cake and things.’

‘Ooh, a crisp tree,’ said Rosie. ‘That’s a wonderful idea.’

Jake didn’t say anything, but handed her a hoe and gave
her instructions on what to do with it. Together, in the fading sun of the day, they worked over the patch, raking it and setting it into tidy rows, whereupon Jake let her pop the seed in – for cabbages, potatoes and purple sprouting broccoli – at regular intervals. Rosie found to her surprise she rather enjoyed the neat work, setting up the strings and sticks to guide the growing patterns, then labelling each row. After an hour, the entire patch looked much better than it had before.

As the two of them stepped back to admire their handiwork, the last rays of the setting sun alighted on a heavy-set woman who was carrying out a tray from the house as if she held a grudge against it.