Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams (18 page)

Hanging up, Rosie felt very alone. She and Gerard hardly ever had a cross word, or so she thought. Maybe, it struck her now, they just hadn’t been paying attention. She wished he would propose to her, so she could stop panicking about this kind of thing. Feel secure. Now she felt she was careering round the countryside, covered in mud, without a clue what she was doing. She hadn’t even had the chance to tell him she was off for the day with a handsome doctor on his rounds, so there.

Dimly, Rosie wondered if Moray thought this was some kind of a date. He wouldn’t, surely? Although of course she’d arrived on her own, and she wasn’t wearing a ring … Just in case, she would have to disabuse him. On the other hand, if he was telling the truth and it was just a professional outing, then that would be the most embarrassing thing ever and probably quash any hopes of them becoming mates. She decided to play it by ear. And at least stop dressing like a bedraggled lamb.

She was going to look pretty, and elegant, and friendly, but not sluttish or desperate. Outside it was partly sunny, partly cloudy, but if it was at all wet or messy today, Rosie was determined to stay inside the car. Making interesting conversation with a new friend. Who happened to be pleasingly tall and had a calm manner and a rather naughty smile. But that wasn’t
important either and of course she hadn’t even noticed. She sighed.

‘Lilian, do you have an ironing board?’ she called downstairs.

‘Are you making yourself up to look slack?’ came the imperious tones. The new soft diet didn’t seem to be softening up her aunt’s tongue any, Rosie noticed.

‘
No!
’

‘Well, darling, of course I have an ironing board. Do you know what it’s for?’

Lilian had been sitting in her chair, daydreaming.

1942

The centre of the hall was, if anything, even hotter, and at first, among the bright, excited faces and sparkling eyes, Lilian hadn’t been sure she’d be able to spot him. Margaret was waving gaily and smiling at people she even vaguely recognised, sipping her punch and whispering that she thought some of the hay boys had brewed their own beer, and should she try and get some for them. But Lilian said nothing, and had gone stock still, for there, in the far corner, not dancing but engaged in what was clearly some very serious chat, were two heads, one curly and brown, one blonde, a particular thick, corn-coloured shade that Lilian would never come to like
.

Lilian found herself gripping her cup so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She felt a furious flush start at her chest and climb up her neck, to the very tips of her ears; her entire body was suffused with burning heat, that she was sure must be attracting stares. The noise and clatter around her suddenly sounded like so many squawking birds, and her chest tightened up and made it difficult to breathe. At that exact moment, Henry Carr looked up and saw her stricken face. No expert in the moods of women, he wondered what was wrong with her. Then, when he tried a cheery smile and received nothing in return, he wondered if it might be something else
.

‘I’m just going out … to get a breath of air,’ Lilian managed to gasp to Margaret, who was already entertaining the affections of a young, very short soldier who had teeth not dissimilar to her own
.

‘Ooh, are you going to get the beer?’ said Margaret. ‘Get some for us, will you?’

The young man smiled at her agreeably, but not before Ida Delia had marched up to the party
.

‘Lilian,’ she said, ‘are you all right? You look very high-coloured.’ Her voice was dripping with fake concern. ‘It’s not Henry, is it?’

At that moment Lilian knew that Ida Delia had set her cap at Henry precisely because she knew Lilian liked him; that it had greatly increased his attraction for her. And what Ida Delia wanted – like the lovely green print dress with its tiny bird motif – Ida Delia got
.

‘I mean, there’s nothing wrong? It’s just every time you see us together you seem to go all queer!’

She laughed a little tinkly laugh that sounded like someone crushing glass
.

‘Henry! Come say hello to Lilian.’ Ida waved in a way that implied that Henry was her devoted slave, following solely at her whim
.

‘I’m just going out to get some air,’ Lilian managed to choke out again, her eyes stinging
.

Henry grinned at her optimistically. ‘One dance?’ he said
.

Just then the ramshackle band struck up a fast-moving jitterbug
.

‘Oh no, I can’t,’ said Lilian, covered in humiliation. She had waited for him, was expecting him … but there was Ida Delia, smothered in the perfume she insisted came from Paris, her perfectly ringleted blonde hair set tight against her forehead. She barely disguised the look she gave Lilian as Henry asked her to dance
.

‘Yes, you should dance with him,’ she said to Lilian in a superior manner. ‘He’s a very good dancer. Could teach you a thing or two.’

The sound of ownership in her voice was so distinct, Lilian immediately felt back in the pecking order at school, when everyone took their cue from Ida. Almost unable to say no, she let Henry take her by the hand and lead her to a tiny uncongested spot on the busy dance floor. Young red-faced soldiers still in heavy tweed trousers were jitterbugging furiously, trying to chat up ladies who were enjoying the unusual situation of being outnumbered
.

Instead of attempting all the silly new moves, Henry simply took her in a dance hold and led her around, nimbly keeping to the rhythm. Ida Delia had been right; he was a good dancer. Lilian gradually found her body relaxing, as she let him lead her wherever he wanted to go
.

Emboldened, he attempted a spin or two; she flunked the first one but managed the second, and suddenly felt herself swept up in the music; they hit every beat, and as Henry bent her back, both of them laughing into each other’s eyes, she forgot, for possibly the first time in her life, to be self-conscious. She didn’t worry about who was watching; didn’t think about anything other than the person regarding her, twirling her around the floor as if it was the Christmas ball at the great house (which she had never visited, of course), rather than Lipton scout hall and social club on a Saturday evening with a crowd of military boys on leave. The brash bare bulbs overhead dissolved to shimmering chandeliers; the tin cups next to the punch became crystal goblets full of the finest wine; the plank walls seemed hung with tapestries and thick plush curtains, her skimpy, dull dress a full, swinging gown. And her partner the handsomest, kindest, most charming prince she had ever imagined
.

As the dance ended, their hands lingered, unwilling to let go. Ida Delia of course was there, clucking over them like a mother hen
.

‘Well, there you go,’ she said to Lilian. ‘Did you enjoy that? I told you he was a good dancer.’

She slipped her hand through Henry’s arm like she owned him
.

‘Now come on, get me a drink,’ she whispered to him. Henry looked at Lilian askance. Lilian was confused. After the way they’d danced … he wasn’t going to let Ida Delia drag him off, was he?

Henry was confused. This girl was all over him. All he wanted to do was dance more with Lilian. But even as he looked at her, she was retreating, with that anxious face again. When they’d danced, she had glowed; she had looked straight at him and it had felt … well, it had felt like nothing he’d ever felt before. But now she looked awkward, uncomfortable, like she didn’t want to be there with him at all. Even now, she reversed into a table full of half-discarded cups – and suddenly upended it, without realising
.

Ida Delia erupted into high-pitched peals of laughter. Henry leapt forward to clean up the mess, and hush the expostulations of the soldiers who’d been sitting there. But Lilian, horror-struck, looked at the catastrophe, turned around and fled
.

Outside, in the quiet and the coolness of the air, Lilian marched to the end of the field, past the already paired-off couples, breathing in deeply the fresh meadow grass and honeysuckle until she reached the fence at the far end. When the music of the band had fallen behind her and the smoke had left her nostrils, and she could hear the lambs calling for their mothers in the hills, she grabbed on to the wire and waited for her heart to slow down. She felt, for the first time, unbelievably and dramatically stupid
.

The mess, the fuss. He must think she was such a fathead. Going all gooey over one dance, then making an idiot of herself. Looking at the huge stars dripping from the sky above her, she cursed herself over and over. Then, even though she hated herself for doing it, she turned round. Just in case. Just in case he had seen her, and understood, and come after her. Like David Niven would have done
.

There was nobody there. Not even Margaret. Lilian rubbed furiously at the ridiculous rouge she had painted on her face and vowed never to come to a dance again, and went to find her bike
.

By the time Henry had calmed everyone down, finished clearing up the spilled punch and gone into the field to find her, she was gone
.

Rosie presented herself for inspection, her bouncy dark curls washed and hanging loose around her face; mascara, a touch of blusher to give her the pretty pink glow she was still waiting for the countryside to bestow on her; a black sprigged skirt with opaque tights and a black jumper.

‘Can’t you girls wear a bit of colour?’ sniffed Lilian. ‘So much more flattering to the skin. Look at me, for instance.’

It was true; today Lilian was wearing a lilac top underneath a very pale pink pinafore with heavy silver jewellery. It should, Rosie reflected, make her look like a four-year-old. Instead, the effect was charming.

‘You look lovely,’ said Rosie. ‘Not sure it would suit me, though.’

Lilian harrumphed, as a hearty voice yelled out, ‘View halloooo!’ and pushed through the back door without knocking. It was Hetty.