The Christmas Surprise Page 16

  ‘So can we go and visit our African school?’

  The questions at Lipton Primary hadn’t got any less relentless. Stephen had described for them the hope and the poverty and had even managed to find a video Faustine had of the children of the village singing.

  The Lipton children now were completely obsessed, particularly with buying them shoes. Various events for fund-raising had been suggested, including Chloe Carr-Beckley doing a sponsored silence, and various boys volunteering to sit in a bath of baked beans for anything up to a year. Stephen managed to get them back to their quiet morning work, but at lunchtime he allowed them to stay in – it was filthy wet outside, although this didn’t seem to bother most of them, country children as they were, and the playground was a sea of red and black parkas – and several of them followed him to the new music and art room, where he smiled and acquiesced and promised to teach them an African song, then, accompanying them in a clunky fashion on the piano, videoed them singing ‘Jerusalem’ to send back to Faustine. She might be able to show it to the village children on her phone.

  So he was in a bouncy mood, despite everything, as he marched back up the cobbled street in the gloom, to be greeted by Rosie telling him about Joy.

  ‘She said what?’

  ‘Um, she said she was coming back.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say. Just that she needs to check us all out. And Ap probably can’t come to work with me.’

  ‘Screw that, of course he can. That’s what babies have been doing for thousands of years.’

  ‘And she doesn’t like the sleeping arrangements.’

  ‘Well she can eff off and live in a hut in Kduli,’ said Stephen. ‘And I’ll tell her that when I see her.’

  Rosie winced. He would too.

  ‘What? What’s the problem? You want me to kowtow to the social worker, tell her she’s right about everything and can Nazi into our lives and pass judgement on everything we say and think and do?’

  ‘Um, kind of,’ said Rosie. ‘Just for a bit, till she leaves us alone.’

  ‘What’s she going to do?’ said Stephen, some of his old hauteur resurfacing. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously, she could take the baby away,’ said Rosie. ‘Lilian says they do that all the time.’

  ‘Yes, but Lilian only reads newspapers sanctioned by fascists,’ said Stephen. ‘It’s nonsense.’

  ‘Just in case it’s not nonsense—’ began Rosie, sensing she was on dangerous ground but not quite sure where to stop. Also she had to tell Stephen about the house.

  Suddenly there was a sharp rapping on the door. Rosie and Stephen looked at each other.

  ‘Heil!’ said Stephen.

  ‘Shut up!’ hissed Rosie. The last thing she needed was Joy walking in on a domestic.

  ‘Jawohl, mein Führer,’ said Stephen, and Rosie gave him the feud eyes, but it didn’t seem to make any difference at all. Stephen picked up Apostil defensively whilst Rosie strode over and opened the door.

  To her surprise, it wasn’t Joy standing there, clipboard at the ready, but Pamela, who, on seeing Rosie, immediately burst into noisy tears.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘What’s up?’ said Rosie, ushering her into the cosy sitting room.

  Pamela sat down.

  ‘Can I smoke in here?’

  ‘No!’ said Rosie.

  Pamela looked straight at the fire.

  ‘That fire is smoking.’

  ‘Well it’s not choking the baby.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘You can go out the back door!’ said Stephen.

  ‘Oh, thanks. Family!’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ said Rosie tactfully, glancing over to Lilian’s drinks cupboard.

  ‘Yes. Can I have a martini?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said Rosie. ‘Is that the one with gin and stuff?’

  Stephen marched over.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  Pamela nodded gratefully and took the outstretched glass, complete with maraschino cherry. Lilian was never without them.

  ‘What’s up, sis?’ Stephen said, standing with his bad leg nearest the fire, Rosie noticed. The long spells of cold weather did it no good.

  ‘Oh GOD, our FRICKING mother.’

  Rosie and Stephen glanced at one another. Had Henrietta changed her mind?

  ‘What’s up now?’

  ‘Oh GOD. Heritage tours this. Roof repairs that. She never stops banging on.’

  Stephen nodded sagely.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘I’m a banker, for God’s sake. Why do I want to talk to some dweeb from the National Trust?’ She took a large gulp of her drink. ‘Oh GOD, it’s just so TEDIOUS.’

  Rosie covered up the pile of estate agents’ listings she’d received. The brochures did their best, but there was only so much you could do with tired patterned carpets, aubergine bathrooms, and tiny scrubby back gardens pressed up against one another in long rows. She blinked and crossed her fingers. Maybe Pamela was going to go back to the US and give up on all this nonsense.

  ‘I’ve made a decision,’ Pamela said.

  Rosie and Stephen moved imperceptibly closer together.

  ‘I’m just going to ignore all her advice. And the so-called historical experts. I’m just going to do it my way. Make Peak House fabulous, worry about the rest of it later. It’s peaceful up there. I like it.’

  ‘So,’ said Rosie, refreshing Pamela’s drink. She tried to keep her tone conversational. ‘Not heading back to New York?’

  ‘You know,’ said Pamela, swirling her drink, ‘I am totally going to stay a while. Work online for a bit. Calm down. Get in touch with my family.’

  ‘Fired,’ said Stephen quietly. Pamela rolled her eyes.

  ‘Everyone gets fired, darling,’ she said. ‘You’re nothing if you haven’t been fired. Fucking regulators.’

  ‘Don’t swear in front of the baby!’ said Rosie.

  ‘But he’s a fucking baby.’

  Stephen gave Pamela a filthy look until she backed down and apologised. She stayed for another half an hour, talking about how she had all these decent interior designers coming up from London to sort out ‘that freezing shithole’. She seemed not to notice how quiet Rosie and Stephen were. Rosie went off and gave Apostil his bath and put him to bed, a little fan heater – which was doing nothing for their power bill – blowing hard in his bedroom, keeping the temperature above arctic. But only just.

  ‘Well,’ said Stephen, sitting down heavily in the armchair by the fire, as Rosie finished taking the dishes into the kitchen. ‘WELL.’

  Rosie came back and sat on his lap – the good side. She kissed him on the side of the head.

  ‘What’s that for?’ he asked, stroking her hair, pleased.

  ‘For not being like your sister,’ she said.

  ‘Poor old Pam,’ said Stephen. ‘But she always felt pushed out … because she wasn’t the boy.’

  ‘You’re the one they sent away to school.’

  ‘Oh, they sent us both away,’ said Stephen. ‘I swear my parents were the kindest dog breeders you can possibly imagine. And they ran the nicest, cleanest, most loving stables in three counties. I just do not know what on earth they thought they were doing when the time came for them to have children.’

  Rosie shook her head.

  ‘Well, you turned out all right.’

  ‘And you, dear girl,’ said Stephen, kissing her, ‘are just about the only person on earth who thinks that.’

  ‘Lilian likes you.’

  ‘She does, but I wouldn’t say she’s blind to my flaws, or anybody else’s come to that.’

  ‘She wants us to sell the house. And keep some of the money.’

  ‘No,’ said Stephen, his eyes flying open. ‘No she doesn’t. Not her lovely cottage.’

  ‘She was insistent. Said it’s only stuff.’

  Stephen shook his head.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  Rosie looked dow
n. ‘Well, we could …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I mean … if we were going to be spending a lot of time at the hospital … and houses are much cheaper there. I mean, much.’

  ‘Move to the city?’ said Stephen, looking horrified. ‘Seriously? Move into a smoky, cramped city?’

  ‘Bits of it are lovely,’ said Rosie loyally. She came from a city, she wasn’t quite as anti the idea as everyone else out here.

  Stephen stared straight ahead, as if imagining a different life.

  ‘Maybe a cute little terrace?’ said Rosie. ‘Near the hospital.’

  Stephen’s jaw looked stiff.

  ‘Oh yes, that unavoidable place where we’re so desperate to shove Apostil to get chopped up.’

  ‘We can talk about it later,’ said Rosie, anxious not to wind him up. It had been a stressful day all round. There was time to decide. They had a lot of adjustments to make; all of them, basically.

  ‘It does slightly suck not having any money,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Rosie, who had never had any, nor any expectation of having any, so didn’t think the same way.

  ‘God,’ Stephen said suddenly. ‘You know, Pamela’s planning to spend all that money she earned – all of it, tons of it, enough to run six thousand schools in Africa, or redo Mum’s roof a hundred times – on ridiculously expensive curtains she saw in a magazine. She has never offered to share a penny of it. Not that I want it, but. You know.’

  Rosie nodded.

  ‘But she doesn’t seem too happy. Whereas Lilian was positively cheerful.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Stephen. ‘Are you giving a moral lecture, by any chance?’

  Rosie smiled.

  ‘Would you like to balance it up by doing something extremely immoral to me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘Before that baby wakes up and we all have to move into the Land Rover, I really think I would.’

  The next day in the shop passed slowly, with occasional hiccups from Tina. At three, the bell above the door jangled with unseemly force, and Lady Lipton pushed her way inside. Rosie started nervously.

  ‘Um, hello,’ she said.

  ‘Have you seen my daughter?’ demanded Henrietta without so much as a good afternoon.

  ‘Isn’t she at Peak House?’

  ‘She isn’t answering her bloody phone. She can’t just go knocking down walls, she needs proper surveyors and stuff.’

  ‘Lady Lipton?’ said a quiet voice. ‘Um, excuse me, Lady Lipton?’

  Henrietta looked round from where she was examining the Fry’s Chocolate Creams, as if she’d been summonsed by a mouse. Finally her gaze rested on Tina.

  ‘What?’ she snapped.

  ‘Um …’ Tina’s face was a picture of misery as she twisted her fingers in her apron. ‘Um, ma’am … I was … I was supposed to be getting married in the Hyacinth …’

  Lady Lipton raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Insurance job. Don’t you think, Rosie?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ said Rosie hurriedly.

  ‘And I was wondering …’ went on Tina. ‘It’s … it’s in two weeks and … Well, I was wondering if …’

  ‘Spit it out, girl.’

  ‘If we could maybe use your house … I mean, just a bit of it … I mean …’

  ‘Oh. No,’ said Lady Lipton, handing over money for the chocolate bar.

  ‘She was just wondering if you might be able to help with an alternative,’ said Rosie, stung by her rudeness. ‘She was only asking.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘And I’m only saying. No. She can’t. Weddings are a big pain at the best of times, without half the local farming establishment getting their muddy boots on my chesterfields. I’ve no heating, no loos, no catering … It’s bad enough having to think about my own son’s wedding.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Rosie quickly, startled.

  ‘And of course we’re having the christening on Christmas Day.’

  ‘Are we?’

  Henrietta looked at Rosie over the top of her glasses.

  ‘It’s already sorted with the church. He can wear Stephen’s christening gown.’

  Over my dead body, thought Rosie.

  ‘So as you can see, I have quite enough on my plate. I would have thought you all did. Good day.’

  And she swept out of the shop in her usual imperious fashion, like a galleon cutting through stormy seas.

  Tina collapsed in tears yet again. Rosie put her arms around her.

  ‘Hush,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Don’t worry? I’ve got a hundred people turning up in two weeks’ time!!! And a church service and no reception!’

  Rosie gave her a cuddle.

  ‘Look, if we have to have it round your mum’s, we will.’

  ‘It’s a three-bed semi!’ said Tina, still in floods.

  Another thought struck Rosie.

  ‘Oh, we could have had it at Peak House … if Stephen still had Peak House,’ she finished lamely.

  ‘That place is cold,’ said Tina.

  ‘Hey!’ said Rosie. ‘Trying to help here. Can’t you cancel?’

  ‘We’ve paid the deposit for the photographer and the flowers and everything,’ said Tina, snivelling. ‘There’s a juggler and mime artistes, and a lighting operator …’

  ‘Seriously?’ said Rosie. ‘A lighting operator?’

  ‘For ambience,’ sniffed Tina. ‘You can’t really have a wedding without it.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rosie. ‘I wasn’t aware of that.’

  They sat in silence for a while, punctuated by occasional sniffles from Tina. Then the bell tinged again, and Edison came in.

  Rosie took a while to clock that it was him.

  ‘Um, hello, Edison.’

  He was wearing a slightly skew-whiff beret, a blue shirt with buttons done up and badges on the arm, and a tight belt. He appeared to be carrying a rolled-up flag.

  ‘Uh, what are you doing?’

  In answer, Edison clicked his heels together and saluted.

  ‘Boys’ Brigade, ma’am.’

  Rosie broke into a smile.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am! Atten-HUT!’

  ‘But isn’t that …’

  ‘It’s quas-miltree,’ nodded Edison, blinking through his glasses as if he’d anticipated the question. ‘Hester is furious.’

  ‘That’s a new development,’ said Rosie. ‘So why are you going?’

  ‘Dr Moray says I need the drills,’ said Edison. ‘Good for spinal development.’

  ‘Does he now?’ Rosie smiled to herself. It sounded exactly like Moray, trying to give Edison some kind of a normal social life outside the world of school, the social rules of which he found somewhat difficult to follow.

  ‘And my dad thinks it’s a good idea.’

  ‘I like your dad,’ said Rosie. ‘Are you enjoying it?’

  Edison’s brow furrowed and he lowered his voice.

  ‘Some of the mean boys at school … they laugh at my uniform.’

  ‘Well don’t wear it to school,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Hester says if I want to be a warmongo I need to show everyone.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ said Rosie. ‘Edinburgh rock?’

  Edison nodded fervently. He was unswervingly loyal to his favourite brand.

  ‘And then can you sponsor me?’

  Poor old Rosie had, of course, sponsored every child in the village. As, to be fair, had everybody else. They had all gone into fund-raising for the African school with a will. Cars were being cleaned on a daily basis, grass cut and errands run; and everyone was getting pleasantly used to mass silences, and the sight of clusters of children dressed up as bears. Rosie tried to keep it economical as she signed Edison’s raggedy sheet for sponsored marching.

  ‘Is this Boys’ Brigade too? Where is it held?’ she asked as she put away her purse, then fetched the glass jar of Edinburgh rock she kept within easy reach. ‘Is it at the church?’

  ‘No, t
hat’s Beavers,’ said Edison. ‘We hate Beavers and will shoot them with our muskets.’

  Rosie looked at him.

  ‘You know, I wonder if Hester hasn’t got a point.’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Tina, in a voice slightly brighter than before.

  ‘At the scout hut,’ said Edison, his voice muffled by the insertion of a large stick of rock into his mouth. ‘Down the other side of the village.’

  The girls both fell silent.

  ‘They still use that place?’ said Tina, sounding slightly out of breath.

  ‘Hang on, that place Lilian used to go to dances?’ said Rosie. ‘It must be falling down.’

  ‘It lets in a lot of rain,’ said Edison. ‘Helps us pretend to be REAL soldiers on a deadly battleground. Where it is raining.’

  Rosie and Tina swapped significant looks.

  ‘I think we may be down to look at that later,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I think we may,’ said Tina.

  They left Jake with the twins and marched forward into the frosty Lipton night, Apostil wrapped up papoose style on Rosie’s chest, his little fists clenched tightly.

  They walked down the main street, their boots clicking on the cobbles, their breath steaming in the cloudy air. They waved to Malik as they passed, who waved back cheerily, still open for another few hours until everyone was home and nobody needed anything – there was almost nothing he didn’t stock, and he was very generous with his change when they were in a tight spot. Past Mrs Manly’s boutique, which was showing for winter a stupendously large purple quilted coat, embroidered with a picture of a wolf howling at the moon. It was hundreds of pounds and so completely a one-off that Rosie was desperate for someone to buy it, which she felt was rather cruel of her.

  Past the Red Lion, where a couple of farmers were anxiously swapping tips about the cold snap, and how to stop sheep from lambing too early if they got a brief thaw; two dogs ran about having a tussle before being called to heel by their masters.

  Past the market cross, and the bakery, which opened early and closed after lunch, or whenever they’d sold the last jam doughnut of the day, when perky, round-cheeked Mrs Arknop would disappear mysteriously at the same time as the milkman, Joe Longbottom. Both of them were well into their fifties, but, Rosie’s doings aside, sometimes the village could be a little low on gossip.