Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams (47 page)

‘Oh, you know what he’s like,’ said Mike. ‘He’s been doing all the running. I think he just wore her down in the end.’

Rosie swallowed hard. She did know what he was like. When he turned on the charm full beam, when he brought out the romantic gestures and the love poems and the … well. It was a long time ago now.

‘She’ll eat him for breakfast,’ said Mike.

‘I hope she’ll make him breakfast,’ said Rosie, a little stutter in her voice. ‘Otherwise he’ll starve to death.’

‘Darling, I’m sorry,’ said Mike, who was in a relationship with the histrionic Italian Giuseppe and always gave the impression that if plates weren’t being thrown and people weren’t being devastatingly kissed in airports, it didn’t really count as a relationship at all.

‘No, it’s all right,’ said Rosie, meaning it. ‘It’s good that … it’s good I know. It means I can stop worrying about him.’

‘You think? You know Yolande though, right? If anything, this is just the start of his problems.’

‘Good,’ said Rosie, feeling miles away. Mike kept on talking, something about a birthday party for Giuseppe that she absolutely couldn’t miss, but she had drifted off and was barely listening, even when Mike insisted she come back and spend a weekend in London before they rescinded her Oyster card.

Rosie blinked as she hung up. It was odd how these things could affect you, quite unexpectedly. She hadn’t thought about Gerard, not really, not with Stephen’s injury and her aunt getting ill and all the work of the shop. But it was obvious that he had been not-thinking-about-her a lot more than
she’d been not-thinking-about-him, and that hurt her terribly. As well as, she reflected grimly, giving her nowhere to live, no home to go back to. She gazed at her reflection in Manly’s window. Was this it now? Might she just as well give up and start dressing like a fisherman?

And she felt a stab of crossness too. It wasn’t exactly easy for her, was it? The nicest man in the village was gay, and the grumpiest one hadn’t called her or been in contact at all since she’d told him to speak to his mother. From which she could only wonder if they’d had some enormous falling out and were furious with each other, and her too.

‘Hello,’ said a busty lady with tiny spectacles on the end of her nose, coming to the door. ‘You’re Lilian’s girl, aren’t you? Did you want to come in and look at our autumn specials? We have some truly spectacular kilts.’

Rosie smiled as nicely as she knew how. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘No thank you.’

It was true. She wasn’t ready quite yet. Not ready at all. Other people were getting on with their lives. She had to too. She couldn’t hide away up here for ever. Otherwise her life was going to slip through her fingers.

‘How are you doing, Lil?’ she said, sitting next to the old lady on the bed, sharing the freshest baps from the baker’s. Lilian had deliberately requested corned beef, which Rosie privately thought was disgusting.

‘I miss Chewits,’ grumbled Lilian. ‘And don’t call me Lil.’

‘Oh well, mustn’t grumble,’ said Rosie. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘Tina might buy the shop. What would you think about that?’

‘Hmm,’ said Lilian, feigning lack of interest.

‘The thing is,’ said Rosie, ‘I have to go back to London. At some point. I do. I have a whole life there … well, I don’t really. I have the ruins of a life there. I’m not explaining this very well. But the thing is I need to go home. At some point. Some time.’

Lilian looked at her. ‘Well, people do leave,’ she said, faintly.

‘I wouldn’t be “leaving” leaving,’ said Rosie. ‘I wouldn’t want to do that. I’d want to come up and make sure you were OK, and pop in and check on the sweetshop and that.’

Lilian fixed her with a gimlet eye.

‘Mmm-hmm.’

Rosie took a bite of her bap and chewed thoughtfully.

‘I mean, I can’t stay here for ever. And you need proper care. I thought I might hire a car, and maybe we could travel around a bit and look at some … some homes.’

Lilian was silent.

‘Some … some old people’s homes,’ she said finally. ‘Lilian, you are old.’

‘My body is a bit rubbish,’ said Lilian. ‘But I’m not
old
old.’

‘You’re eighty-seven.’

‘Not old in my head,’ said Lilian defiantly.

‘How old are you in your head?’ said Rosie, genuinely curious.

Lilian stared out of the window. In her head, for ever, she was seventeen. And there was a handsome young man coming down the lane at the end of the day. And even though there was an ache in her heart, an ache for Ned, still, when she saw this young man, his curls lightened in the evening sun, then her heart would soar, and leap, and even though he was tired,
he would rub down the back of his neck, and come towards her, his handsome face full of concern and tenderness, and they would walk to their special place round the back of the churchyard and …

Lilian smoothed down her coral-pink nightgown carefully.

‘I feel … I feel young,’ she said. ‘Just like everyone else.’

‘I see,’ said Rosie. They sat in silence for a while.

‘The thing is,’ said Rosie, not sure how she could broach this. ‘The problem is, well … Lilian, you need someone to look after you. And I know this is selfish, and I do … I am really, really fond of you …’

‘It’s all right,’ said Lilian. ‘I know. You’re young. You really are.’

‘I don’t feel it,’ said Rosie.

‘Can I take it that that young … gentleman was not the man for you?’

Rosie smiled ruefully. ‘Yes. You can take it like that. Yes. I suppose. And …’

The sentence lingered in the air.

‘And I kind of feel … I kind of feel, at
some
point, that I need to get back to London. Sort my life out a bit. I sometimes feel that everyone else is moving on miles ahead of me, that they all know what they’re doing while I’m just floundering on in the slipstream. Do you ever feel like that?’

Lilian squinted at her.

‘All my bloody life,’ she said.

She sat herself up to be more comfortable.

‘I know,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’m being selfish, you can’t stay and devote your life to a silly old woman. You have to go. I realise that. I’ll go …’ She looked very tiny in the bed. ‘I’ll go wherever you like. I don’t suppose it matters.’

Rosie felt awful.

‘I won’t … I mean, we’ll get the best price possible. Even if I have to sell to that dentist arsehole,’ she vowed. ‘And you’ll go to the nicest room in the nicest place with the nicest people … or if you like you can come down to London and I’ll find a lovely home there and I can come and see you all the time and when Angie comes home you can meet your hideous great-nieces and …’

Lilian patted her hand.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘You find your own life, and live it.’

‘But it’s in London,’ said Rosie.

‘London, London, London,’ said Lilian. ‘Now darling, if I have a little mid-afternoon nap do you promise not to call an ambulance?’

‘If you nap now you’ll get grumpy tonight when you can’t sleep,’ threatened Rosie.

‘Then I shall listen to the shipping forecast,’ said Lilian. ‘Everyone needs a hobby.’

Rosie kissed her soft white cheek. ‘Sleep well then. And if you feel the least bit strange …’

Lilian patted the panic button on her chest.

‘I know, I know. I’m tempted to let this off in the middle of the night. Just to keep you on your toes.’

‘They’re going to love you in the home,’ said Rosie, smiling sadly.

She turned out the light.

‘Oh,’ said Lilian, turning over in bed. ‘I almost forgot. The postman came for you.’

‘For me?’ said Rosie, puzzled. Nobody had her address but
Gerard, and he was almost certain to be currently wrapped around the burnished form of Yolande Harris.

The large cream-coloured envelope was lying on a little table by the entrance to the sitting room that normally bore keys; Rosie realised she must have been very deep in thought coming in to miss it. It was made of thick paper, properly stiff. On the front, in old-fashioned script written with a fountain pen in slightly faded blue ink, it was addressed to ‘Miss Rosemary Hopkins, The Sweetshop Cottage, Lipton’. That was all. And a stamp, at perfect right angles to the top right-hand corner.

It was the most beautiful envelope Rosie had ever received.

Carefully, she unstuck the back and pulled out a stiff cream card. At the top was a little golden crest and a coat of arms. Rosie gave herself a stern talking-to about how ridiculous it was to be impressed by this kind of thing. Nonetheless she couldn’t help it; it was pretty impressive.

Lady Henrietta Lipton

invites you to the Lipton Hunt Ball

Saturday 27th October 8pm

Lipton Hall

Carriages: 1am

Dress: black or regimental tie; hunting colours

Ooh, thought Rosie to herself. It was the first thing that had perked her up all day.

Chapter Eighteen

Liqueurs

Something unexpected on the inside is always welcome. This can go too far – witness the a chocolate noisette product clearly marketed for whores by whores and bought only by professional whores, or ‘sex workers’ as I believe we must call them these days (note to legal: this is not disrespectful to the brand. It’s disrespectful to whores, if anything).

But a liqueur chocolate, out of fashion since the young decided that the only way to sample alcohol was to drink nine bottles of blue synthetic gunk and hurl up their innards into the nearest hedge or, if that is not available, my doorstep, is an overlooked pleasure. For once the dark chocolate is appropriate, as it does not jar too strongly with the sharper taste of the alcohol within, both held back from one another by a delicate candied mesh that melts on the tongue then vanishes, allowing the inner warmth of the spirit and the outer of the chocolate to join one another in a transcendent depth and strength of flavour. Cherry is the best, followed by raspberry. Honey is to be avoided at all costs. If you can’t handle your drink, leave well alone.

The harvests were gathered in, great bales of corn sheathed in fields, just as the rains came tearing down the mountains from across the Irish Sea, freezing and soaking anyone unwise enough to step out of doors. Lilian’s garden was a sea of mud, the petals from the roses long since washed away, and getting down the street was a constant kicking of leaves.