Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Read online

  She cleaned up and down the rest of the house and put out soap, toothpaste, towels and washing powder that had been tidily placed in the larder cupboard. From her rucksack she brought out two pints of milk, thankfully not frozen, some Weetabix, tea, coffee (there were jars of stuff in the cupboard, given that Stephen hadn’t officially moved out yet, but Rosie wasn’t entirely convinced of their provenance) and bread. She didn’t light the Aga—­she could do that tomorrow.

  She glanced around. It still seemed so cheerless, somehow. It was such a basic, unloved home. Stephen had stayed there when he was ill, so he hadn’t wanted much cheer around him. It needed something—­just to bring the place to life a little, make the children not regret flying all the way around the world.

  Slade was singing loudly about hanging up the stockings on the wall when she got an idea. She grabbed the torch that was always kept charged up in the boot room next to the back door and went up to the upstairs hall, standing on a chair and grabbing the string that opened the attic trapdoor. She had to leap out of the way to avoid the cascading ladder that came down. She’d never been up there before, though Stephen had gone once when there was a bird trapped in the rafters who’d flown in somehow under the eaves and then made a hearty racket, scaring her half to death.

  If it was cold downstairs in the house, up here it was arctic. Wind whistled through the gaps in the tiles. Rosie shivered, her fingers going into tight knots. She was sure you could get a government grant for insulation now; this was absolutely ludicrous. Lady Lipton probably thought getting a grant for insulation was too left wing or something.

  It wasn’t that dark in the attic, which made Rosie worry about holes in the roof and patching and all sorts, but she shone the torch around anyway. There were piles of boxes everywhere; a large steamer trunk with S.F.L stamped on it, which Rosie correctly took to have belonged to Stephen’s grandfather; various cardboard boxes and books that smelled musty and looked damp; an old-­style tennis racket in a wooden press; old skis with rope bindings and boots that looked left over from a war. But Rosie couldn’t linger; it was far too cold for that. In the far corner, she found what she was looking for: a brown box with XMAS stenciled on it.

  THE KITCHEN, WITH the radiators slowly heating up, felt like a greenhouse after the loft, and Rosie put on the kettle for tea and washed her dusty hands. Then she sat down to review her treasure. She knew that before Stephen had lived in Peak House, the family had used it for storage, family and guest overspill, and occasional staff, and she’d guessed there might be something like this up there. It quickly became clear from the crude little initials scratched on the old Christmas decorations that these had belonged to Stephen and Pamela—­Stephen’s sister who had a job in New York and only came home once in a blue moon to have a massive and cathartic shouting match with her mother about primogeniture, then stormed off again, a state of affairs that Rosie privately thought was hugely enjoyable for both of them—­and were a collection built up over years: a wobbly angel with wool hair here, a nobbled cardboard Santa Claus there, an oddly touching decorated cigarette lighter. Rosie assumed they didn’t make those at school anymore. There was tinsel too, which she could hang, and a large dried holly wreath that she could stick on the front door, but it was the children’s things that intrigued her most.

  At the bottom of the box she found a letter, badly spelled and with some of the letters a little wonky.

  Dear Mr. Santa,

  I have bin mostly good this year except father says “SULEN” but I don’t know what that is. Culd I have please:

  books

  a new fountin pen as I have lost mine but not told Mother

  a train like a real one with steam please

  a transformer. I do not know what this is but everyone at school has them

  Panini football cards ditto.

  Thank you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Stephen Felix Lakeman (7)

  ROSIE BIT HER lip, her crossness and irritation washed away. She sipped her tea, then took a photo of the letter on her telephone to send to Stephen when she had a signal. Then she folded the letter very carefully and put it back in the box.

  She changed the radio to Classic FM so she could listen to “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and belted it out as she stuck up tinsel all around the kitchen and on the mantelpiece in the sitting room, where she could build a fire tomorrow night. She added baubles at random and lined up all the little cardboard Santas and carved bits and pieces across the mantelpiece. Then, feeling an excess of energy, she went out into the kitchen garden, where she found, behind the wall, a great shimmering holly bush and, with some cursing at the damage it did to her fingers, managed to snip off several great bunches to line every remaining surface in the house. Then she saw mistletoe too and did the same with that.

  By the time she had finished, the sky was black and icy cold, the stars far and distant and from outside, the house, lit up, was far far cozier than it had been earlier. Rosie felt rather pleased with herself and was over her earlier mood in the way that only a day’s really hard work could sort out. She loaded the empty bag back into the Land Rover and texted Stephen to tell him she’d pick up fish and chips. She prayed he was home. Then she would let him be cross until, hopefully, it burnt itself out and she could apologize enough. Thank goodness he was back at school; she could entertain the visitors during the day and . . . well, the rest of the time would sort itself out, wouldn’t it? Yes. Yes. It would be fine.

  She juggled the hot fish suppers wrapped in paper as she got out of the car. Yes, surely it would be okay.

  There was a light on in the window. Well, at least he was there. That was okay. She knocked on the door tentatively, then felt completely stupid because it was her house.

  “Hello?” She peered through the window.

  His head turned slowly, still stiff and painful. Rosie held up the fish and chips. His expression didn’t change.

  He opened the door.

  “Peace offering?”

  “Of course,” he said, doing his best to smile, even though he truly didn’t feel like it. “Stop looking so scared. Am I a very terrifying person?”

  “No,” said Rosie. “A bit.”

  “I didn’t know you’d be so late,” he said. “Tina locked up early.”

  “I know. I asked her to,” said Rosie.

  Stephen slowly fetched plates and ketchup from the little kitchen.

  “So,” he said. “Just take me through it . . . your mum is coming?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “My brother.”

  “Lovely!”

  “And his wife.”

  “Yes.”

  “And their children . . .”

  “Do they have many children?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know absolutely everything about it,” said Rosie. “This is pure torture and nothing else.”

  “I would have loved not having everyone know everything before me,” he said quietly.

  “I know,” said Rosie. “I am so, so sorry. Truly sorry. With everything that was happening. . . .”

  “What, you decided I was going to be really awful about it?”

  “No!” said Rosie. “But I didn’t know . . .” She could barely get the words out. “After . . . after the accident . . .”

  Stephen’s dark blue eyes seemed to be boring into her.

  “I was worried . . . I thought you might retreat again. I thought it might bring on your PTSD. I didn’t want to add to any mental stress I thought you might be under.”

  “Because that would be awful?”

  “Yes . . . no. I mean . . . I mean, are you okay?”

  For a moment, Stephen considered telling her. How every time he heard a car backfire, he thought he was going to have a heart attack. How every time he fell asleep he thought he could sme
ll the dust and smoke going back into his lungs. How when he heard the children playing in the playground, all he could hear were screams.

  But he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t go back to where they were last year. He couldn’t handle the nursing, the sense that Rosie was there for him and he wasn’t there for her; that he was an invalid; that he wasn’t up to loving her, to playing his part, to being a proper man. He couldn’t bear the disappointment on her face, the tiptoeing around him that everyone would inevitably start doing. No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

  All he said was,“I’m fine. Okay? I’m fine. I’m not that same guy, remember?”

  “No, you’re not,” said Rosie. “You’re not. I’m sorry that I thought you were.”

  And Stephen took that as enough.

  “We should eat before it gets cold.”

  Rosie unwrapped her fish and chips, realized belatedly that she’d skipped lunch and was absolutely starving. She dived in without thinking.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re so upset and apologetic you’re off your food,” he observed. She smiled at him, overwhelmed with relief that at last it was out in the open and everything was going to be fine.

  Stephen couldn’t eat at all but did his best to look as if he was.

  “Did you get my message on your phone?” she asked suddenly.

  “Oh, no. Bloody signal,” said Stephen.

  ROSIE TOOK ANOTHER bath—­she was pretty mucky from Peak House—­and heard Stephen go quietly to bed before her. She jumped in to join him, but he seemed to be asleep already.

  A beeping woke her in the depths of the night; the moon was shining strongly through the window. The mobile signal was patchy all through the village. Sometimes, very rarely, it would swing in and out of the cottage, but it couldn’t be relied on. But it was the bing of Stephen’s iPhone she had heard. He wasn’t in bed. She looked blurrily around the room. He was sitting in the big old armchair, just under the window, gazing at the screen. She could see, just about, that it was the letter to Santa she had sent him. He was sitting very still. She decided it was better not to say anything; she had done enough today. So instead, she turned back over gently in the bed and dropped back into an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter 11

  IT HAD SNOWED a little in the night, but not enough to trouble the salt trucks too much. Rosie was opening up in the morning, but Tina would take over for the rest of the afternoon while she drove to the airport. She took Stephen to work. Lady Lipton was standing out in front of the great house, looking mutinous. “Oh, Lord,” said Stephen.

  “Tell her our being in Peak House will stop the pipes from freezing,” suggested Rosie.

  “Yeah, until she gives them one of her looks,” said Stephen. He kissed her on the cheek and hauled himself out of the car. Rosie watched him walk toward his mother, his resignation obvious.

  She’d planned it so that she had a little time to kill before she drove to the airport and was pleased to be able to spend it sitting at Edison’s bedside. She’d brought a copy of Little Women, the closest thing to a child’s book Lilian had in the house, and started reading softly as Hester went for a quick lie-­down in the day room. Technically it was light outside, but the skies were so low and heavy it didn’t quite feel like that, and apart from the gentle beeps and whirls of the equipment, the ward was quiet.

  “ ‘Christmas won’t be Christmas without presents,’ grumbled Jo, lying on the rug,” Rosie began. “ ‘It’s so dreadful to be poor,’ sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress . . .”

  After about five minutes she became aware of a doctor and nurse, standing behind her, listening.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “No, it was nice,” said the doctor. “Makes a change from being sworn at by drunks. Um, is Hester about?”

  “She’s just having a nap,” said Rosie. “I can go fetch her.”

  The doctor came over and patted Edison’s cheek. “Little man,” she said. “Today’s the day.”

  “What?” said Rosie.

  “We’re going to try and wake him up. See how he’s doing. He seems to be healing pretty well . . . It helps to be young, although I’d have liked him to be a bit plumper.”

  “I can probably help with that,” said Rosie.

  “Well, we can let Hester sleep a little longer, but then we want to get started,” said the doctor.

  “Okay,” said Rosie. “I can stay a while.”

  “Can you read again?” said the nurse. “I loved that book.”

  “Of course,” said Rosie, and took up again. “The four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within . . .”

  ROSIE TOOK THE motorway to East Midlands Airport. Everywhere ­people were driving with Christmas trees strapped to their roofs, their boots piled high with boxes from toy shops and mysterious bicycle-­shaped packages; everyone looked flushed and happy. Rosie bit her lip. She hadn’t even started shopping yet, didn’t know when she would get a second. Well, she could take Angie and everyone into Derby one day and they could shop. Wouldn’t be a patch on the Sydney shops Angie went on about all the bloody time, she supposed, but they would do.

  And the kids would probably want video games, which was apparently all kids ever wanted these days, so that would be easy enough. . . . She had absolutely not the faintest idea what to get Stephen. He always managed to look great in really old clothes, some of which he’d inherited from his dad. He wore old tweed jackets and managed to look handsome and not daft; worn-­in cashmere sweaters, country checked shirts, soft moleskin trousers. Rosie thought, first of all, how ridiculous she would have thought that getup before she knew him and how much it suited him, and secondly how unlikely she was to get it quite right, whatever right was, if she bought him something to wear.

  She could try books, but he read so widely and so mercurially that it was hard to figure out what would catch his interest. It should probably, she thought, be something pretty damn good to make up for everything.

  The flight was running on time. She bought a coffee and wandered the concourse, idly looking through the shops for possible gifts and wondering if it was possible to do all your Christmas shopping at an airport and, looking around, figured that you could. That was basically all airports were—­malls for last-­minute Christmas shoppers, with planes attached.

  A Salvation Army band was playing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” loudly under a huge Christmas tree. It was basically having a fight with the bing-­bong of flight alerts and warnings about not leaving baggage unattended, and it made a lot of noise.

  Rosie sighed, tried to stop herself being so cynical, went to the loos and brushed her hair (otherwise she couldn’t be entirely sure Angie wouldn’t brush it for her in the middle of the concourse), then positioned herself along the arrivals barrier, kicking herself to get into a better mood. The last thing she wanted was to break down in floods of tears in front of her mum, confessing no one had known they were coming and that it was all complicated. No. It was fine.

  Most ­people, flying locally from within the UK, waltzed out with a pull-­along trolley on wheels. Rosie suspected, correctly, that her party would be last by the time they’d collected all the baggage, and the children, of course, were going to be exhausted and very ratty. She checked her watch and wondered if she had time to get another cup of coffee . . . when suddenly the double doors slid open, and there, her hair a frizzly blond shade never seen in nature, her bare arms walnut-­brown and stringy looking, her teeth oddly white, pushing a trolley with two children hopping on and off it, was her mum.

  And suddenly Rosie forgot everything—­forgot every worry about the shop, about Stephen, about Edison, about everything—­and just ran to the mummy she hadn’t seen in two years.

  THEY HELD ON to each other for a good minute or so before Rosie remembered that there were other
­people there too. She hugged Pip, then bent down to look at the children, all shyly holding on to Desleigh and Angie’s skirts.

  “Hello,” she said, smiling.

  Meridian, the littlest at three, still had a blankie clutched to her side and her thumb near her mouth just in case. Her big blue eyes blinked nervously. Desleigh nudged the other two—­nine-­year-­old Shane, who was grasping a DS, and seven-­year-­old Kelly, a chubby copy of her mother.

  Shane finally came forward and said, “G’day, Auntie Rosie.” And Rosie smiled, beamed in fact, particularly when she noticed Meridian’s black curly hair, so like her own.

  “Hi, you guys” she said, tears pricking at her eyes again. “Oh boy, I have been waiting such a long time to see you.”

  “Is it true?” asked Kelly. “Is it true you have a lolly shop?”

  “Well, we have lots of things besides lollies,” said Rosie.

  Pip smiled. “Lollies are just . . . well, everything in Australia. All sweets really.”

  “I see,” said Rosie. “Well, yes, I have a lolly shop. But here we call it a sweetshop.”

  And she brought out from her bag the things she’d ordered especially for their coming: three shiny red Christmas lollies with their names iced on them. Three pairs of eyes went wide at the sight.

  “There are,” said Rosie, “certain good things that come along with having an aunt who runs a sweetshop.”

  She felt a tiny hand steal its way into hers and, looking down, saw that Meridian had crept to her side.

  “They’re very well behaved,” said Rosie to Desleigh.

  Desleigh snorted. “That’s because they’re all bloody knackered.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Rosie to the children. “I think it’s because you’re all very good. Now, please tell me you’ve brought lots and lots and lots of sweaters.”