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  Well, it was grown-up, she supposed. It wasn’t quite what she’d expected – she hadn’t remembered the meeting where she’d volunteered to do all the housework, but he did earn more money. And the fact that it was so tiny, with no prospect of a move on the horizon.

  Still, that was adult life, wasn’t it? And she and Gerard were settled now. A bit too settled. But settled. She could, it was true, do without all her girlfriends eyeing her deliberately when that Beyoncé song played. They’d been telling her for ages that if he didn’t put a ring on her finger by their second anniversary, he wasn’t serious and in it for the long term. She had closed her ears and chosen not to believe them – Gerard was cautious, and safe, and didn’t make big decisions lightly, and that was one of the reasons why she liked him.

  But still, at the end of that long, long day, when her mother had called, she couldn’t deny that she was annoyed, cross, feeling hard done by, backed into a corner and emotionally blackmailed – and a teeny tiny part curious.

  Their last night had been sweet and sad all at once.

  ‘It’s only six weeks or so,’ she’d reminded Gerard.

  ‘Yes, so you say,’ he said. ‘You’ll be round-the-clock caring from now till the end of time. And I shall stay in London and waste away.’

  Gerard rarely looked like he was going to waste away. Round of head and tummy, he had a cheery countenance, like he was always on the verge of a laugh or a joke. Or a sulk, but only Rosie got to see those.

  Rosie sighed. ‘I wish you’d come. Just for a bit. A long weekend?’

  ‘We’ll see, we’ll see,’ said Gerard. He hated any change to his routine.

  Rosie looked at him. They’d been together so long now she could barely remember when they first met. He’d been at her very first hospital, when she was just out of a nearly all-female nursing college and dizzy with excitement at having a little money and a job. She’d hardly noticed the small, jolly pharmacist, who turned up occasionally when drugs were late, or rare, or urgent, and always had a quip, although she saw he was kind to the patients. He’d make silly remarks to her and she dismissed them as standard banter, until one night he’d joined them on a work night out and made it clear that he was actually a bit more serious than that.

  The other, more experienced nurses had giggled and nudged each other, but Rosie hadn’t minded about that. She was young, she’d had some pink wine and she was open to new people, and at the end of the night, when he offered to walk her to her tube stop, then tentatively took her hand, she suddenly felt alive with possibility, excited that someone could be so clear about fancying her. She’d often found that kind of thing confusing before; crushing helplessly on men who were out of her league, ignoring chaps with whom she later realised she might have had a chance.

  Rosie often felt that she’d missed a meeting every other girl in the world had had, when they were about fourteen, in which they’d learned how the boyfriend-and-girlfriend thing actually worked. Maybe the PE teacher had taken everyone aside, like she did with the period-and-BO talk, and briefed them all thoroughly. This is how to tell who fancies you. This is how to talk to a guy you like without making a complete idiot of yourself. This is how to politely leave a one-night stand and find your way home. It was all a bit of a mystery to Rosie, and everyone else seemed to find it so easy.

  Meeting Gerard at twenty-three seemed like the answer to her prayers – a real, proper boyfriend with a good job. At least it would get her mum off her back for once. And right from the start he’d been keen. She was a bit taken aback to learn he was twenty-eight and still lived with his mother, but hey, everyone knew how expensive London was. And she enjoyed, at least to begin with, having someone to look after; it made her feel grown-up to buy him shirts, and to cook. When, after two years, he suggested they get a place together, she’d been absolutely delighted.

  That had been six years ago. They’d bought a tiny grotty flat that they both felt too tired to do up. And since then, nothing. They were, if she was totally honest, in something of a rut, and perhaps a little separation might just … She felt disloyal for even thinking it. Even if her best friend Mike was always rolling his eyes. But still. It might just shake them up a little bit.

  The bus driver grunted. Rosie jumped up, reaching for her bag, and followed his beard, which he’d nodded in the direction of a tiny pinpoint of light, far away. Rosie realised this must be the village, and that they must be at the top of a big hill. Cripes, where were they, the Alps?

  That agency day, Rosie had been looking at the pepperoni pizza box and wondering for the thousandth time how she could expand Gerard’s diet. She liked to cook but he complained that she didn’t make anything quite like his mum did, so they ate a lot of takeaways and ready meals. She was also thinking about her job.

  She had absolutely loved working in A&E as an auxiliary nurse. It was busy and exhausting and sometimes emotional, but she was never bored and always challenged; occasionally ground down by working at the sharp end of the NHS, but often inspired. She loved it. So of course they closed the unit. Only temporarily, then they were going to reopen it as something called a Minor Injuries Unit, and she was offered the chance either to stay on for that, which didn’t sound very exciting, or to relocate, which would mean a longer commute. She’d suggested to Gerard that they move, but he wanted to be close to his own hospital, which was fair enough. Even though an extra bedroom, maybe a little bit of outdoor space, might be … Gerard didn’t like change, though. She knew that about him.

  So, in the meantime, she was doing agency work, filling in for sick or absent auxiliaries wherever she was required, often at only minutes’ notice. It had a reputation of being easy money, but Rosie knew now that it was the opposite. It was a grind – everyone used the agency staff to do the absolutely crappiest jobs that they might ordinarily have had to do themselves – the travelling was murder, she often worked double shifts with no days off in between, and every day was like the first day at school, when everyone else knew where things were and how everything worked, and you were left scrabbling in their wake, desperately trying to catch up.

  Then, that day, the phone rang.

  ‘Darling!’

  Rosie’s mother Angie – there was only twenty-two years between them, so sometimes she was Mum and sometimes she was Angie, depending on whether Rosie felt like the younger or the older person in the conversation – still, after two years, found it difficult sometimes to coordinate telephone calls from Australia.

  When Rosie called, early in the morning was usually best, but sometimes she caught her mum and her younger brother Pip at the thin end of a long afternoon’s barbecuing and beer-drinking in the sunshine, and the children would be yelling down the phone too. Rosie felt sorry for them – she’d only seen Shane, Kelly and Meridian once and they were constantly forced to make conversation with their auntie Rosie, who for all they knew might have a huge wart and grey hair – and it was tricky to chat. But now, with Gerard having his pudding, a large bowl of Frosties, it wasn’t a bad time at all.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  Four, Rosie had recently found herself thinking darkly. Four. That’s how many of her friends had met someone and got married during the period she and Gerard had been dating, before they’d even moved in together. And she’d ignored every single alarm bell. She’d been young and carefree when they met, it seemed now (though at the time she’d been desperate to meet someone). Looking at it today, from the wrong side of thirty, the idea that all that time and all that love might not be leading anywhere sometimes gave her vertigo.

  Rosie had heard her family all talk about the good life down in Oz, the swimming pools in the back gardens and the lovely weather and the fresh fish. Her mother, whose patience was constantly stretched by Pip’s three children, and whose unflattering opinions on Gerard (not Gerard himself, he was perfectly pleasant, but his seeming unwillingness to marry, provide for and impregnate her only daughter, preferably all by last Thursday) she rarely hesitated to sha
re, was always trying to persuade her down under for a year or so, but Rosie loved London. Always had.

  She loved its bustling sense of being in the middle of things; its people, all nationalities, hugger-mugger on the crowded streets; theatre and exhibition openings (although she never went to any); great historic monuments (although she never visited them). She had absolutely no desire to give up her life and move halfway around the world to where, she was sure, cleaning old people’s bums was much the same and cleaning her nieces’ bums for free would be thrown in.

  ‘Darling, I have a proposition for you.’

  Angie sounded excited. Rosie groaned mentally.

  ‘I can’t work down under, remember? I don’t have the qualifications or the points or whatever it is,’ she’d said.

  ‘Ha, oh well, who cares about that,’ said her mother, as if there was no connection between her dad leaving and her failing half her A levels that year. ‘Anyway, it’s something else.’

  ‘And I don’t want to … be a nanny.’

  According to comprehensive emails from her mum, Shane was a thug, Kelly was a princess and Meridian was developing an eating disorder at the age of four. And since she’d moved in with Gerard and they’d got a mortgage, Rosie hadn’t been able to save even the tiniest bit of her salary. She couldn’t afford the ticket in a million years.

  ‘I don’t think so. Mum, I’m thirty-one! I think it’s time I stood on my own two feet, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, it’s not that,’ Angie said. ‘This is something else. Something quite different. It’s not us, darling. It’s Lilian.’

  Chapter Two

  Fudge

  The facts are that fudge (and its northern, crunchy variant, tablet) appears to be an addictive substance and should be handled with extreme care. Overconsumption will result in illness and premature death.* There are those who say that eating a tangerine or other citrus fruit when one first starts to become nauseous will freshen the digestive system and allow it to consume yet more fudge: these people are pushers and enablers and should be avoided. Fudge should also be eaten in private, as the ideal method of consumption (inserting three large pieces into the left-hand, right-hand and central areas of the mouth simultaneously, then allowing them to warm and melt there) is considered impolite in many societies.

  Here are the acceptable flavourings for fudge: none. Are you talking nonsense? Fudge as a flavour is one of the most divine creations in the pantheon of human endeavour. Would you colour in a Picasso? Would you add a disco beat to Fauré’s Requiem? No? So keep out the vanilla and, heaven help us, raisins. There is a time and a place for a raisin. It is called ‘in the bin’. As for liqueur fudge, it is an aberration of a level undreamed of …

  1942

  Lilian Hopkins charged over the meadow slightly nervously, past shadows lengthening from the golden haystacks on the other side, and the gently waving avenue of elms. She wasn’t sure if young Isitt’s bull was in his shed or not, and didn’t want anyone to see her running. He was an easygoing old thing, everyone said so. She just didn’t like the way he blew smoke out of his nose and swerved unpredictably, that was all.

  Her heart sank as she saw a familiar outline sitting on the stile smoking and openly staring at her, and she picked up her skirts crossly. He didn’t put out an arm to help her up, which was annoying, because if he had she could have made a remark about his impertinence. This was actually rather more impertinent, but she certainly wasn’t going to point that out.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, lifting the pail. ‘I need to get on.’

  Henry didn’t budge an inch.

  ‘I think I’d like to watch you climb over the stile.’

  ‘You will do nothing of the sort,’ said Lilian, flushing.

  ‘Why were you walking so strangely out there anyway?’

  ‘I was not.’

  ‘You was. I saw you.’

  ‘Well, stop spying on folks then.’

  ‘I don’t spy on folks,’ said Henry infuriatingly. ‘Anyone walks that strangely over a field, half the place is going to notice. You’re not scared of young Isitt’s bull?’

  ‘No!’

  Henry smiled, then his face changed to sudden shock. ‘Oh here he comes now, right galloping fury.’

  Lilian leapt up on to the stile and spilled half the contents of her pail. ‘Where?’

  But Henry had nearly toppled back off the stile with glee, and, chuckling, headed off down the lane towards the village, leaving her in the empty field, crossly climbing the stile alone and muttering to herself about rude herd boys all the way to the shop.

  He was in on Saturday too, while she was serving. The children were in with their ration cards and tightly clutched tuppences. They liked to take their time to choose, marvelling at the glass jars reflecting the light through the small windows, the colours of the humbugs and the twisted golden barley sugar. The young farm men would come in, sleeves rolled up to show off brown arms and ruddy necks, scrubbed and shaved for the village dance, spending their wages on the velvet-trimmed heart-shaped boxes for their sweethearts. At sixteen, Lilian felt it was well past time for her to find a sweetheart. Not one of the village boys though, with their mucky boots and teasing. Hugo Stirling, the largest farmer’s son, perhaps, when he came back from college. He was the handsomest boy in the village. She smiled wryly. By the time he got back from York, it wasn’t very likely he’d be looking for a shop girl. More likely Margaret Millar, whose father owned the next farm over. It would make much more sense to join up the land, even if Margaret had one eye that looked at you and one that looked at the floor, and had even worn a pair of spectacles that hadn’t improved a thing, and was always trying to put her hand on her forehead like you wouldn’t notice anything. She wore the most expensive dresses and told everyone how much they cost and how her mother had had them made up for her in Derby, rather than going to Mrs Coltiss like everyone else.

  Lilian sighed. Derby. There were jobs up there, lots of them. Cotton and munitions and all sorts. Or even down south to London where her brothers had gone, though that was a bit too much, even for her. Her father didn’t like the thought of it, couldn’t bear the thought of her living away in rooming houses somewhere; he’d rather she stay and look after the shop, but she’d said just because the other three had grown up and moved away he needn’t start thinking he could pin it on her.

  ‘I was looking for some service,’ came the teasing voice intruding on her dreams. ‘But I can see I’ve come to the wrong place.’

  Lilian blinked and looked up. Henry was standing in front of her, a rough white shirt on. He looked unusually nervous.

  ‘Uhm, half a pound of lemon drops?’ he asked, as an old lady browsed beside him and two children bickered on the floor.

  ‘Have you your coupon?’

  Henry looked shifty.

  ‘Uhm, no. Thought you might slip me a couple, you know.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Lilian without giving it a second thought. ‘I would never do that.’

  In fact, Lilian, and her father too, had found it impossible not to slip a tiny piece of toffee or the odd gobstopper to some of the poorer village mites. But she certainly wouldn’t be telling him that.

  ‘No,’ said Henry, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Well, that’s all right. I don’t really like lemon drops.’ He glanced around. The old lady had left, and the two children were engrossed in their squabble. ‘I only wanted to ask … uhm, would you like to come to the dance tonight?’

  Lilian was so taken aback she instantly felt her face pinken up. Henry’s eyes darted around, seeing her confusion.

  ‘Uh no, of course. It doesn’t matter,’ he said, backing away from the counter. ‘It’s not …’

  ‘But …’ Lillian pulled herself together and tried to find the words. A bit of her would have liked to humiliate him, the way he made her feel when he cheeked her in the street, or pointed and nudged his mates when she saw them all together. But the look of embarrassed anguish on his face
made her change her mind.

  ‘Uhm, my dad probably won’t let me go.’

  ‘You’ve left school, ain’t you?’ said Henry, a touch sullenly. All his usual techniques when he liked a girl had come to nothing, which was annoying – most girls liked his wide smile and curly brown hair, but this one thought she was a cut above, obviously. Probably waiting for an airman in from Loughborough to swank around town with.

  Lilian hesitated, and they looked at each other. Then the two bickering children leapt up from behind the counter.

  ‘Treacle toffee!’ shouted one triumphantly, waving his penny in the air. The other looked like he’d been made to give in and stood sullenly to the side. Both watched very carefully as Lilian measured out the thick, sticky shards, making sure the packet came out to an even number. The first child held the bag in triumph as they marched out of the shop. By the time Lilian had closed the cash register, Henry had gone.

  Rosie shook her head, and turned another page of the book. ‘Sweets: A User’s Manual by Lilian Hopkins’ was inscribed on the front, along with the insignia of a small press. She glanced out of the window again. The bus showed no signs of slowing down or stopping, so she wasn’t feeling quite as nervous.

  There were lights dotted here and there around the valley now, tiny pinpoints that must be farms surrounded by great oceans of blackness. And was that a street down below? The light had a faintly odd glare to it. As she craned her neck for a better look, the bus turned a hairpin bend round the hill and everything disappeared once more.

  ‘Is it nice, Lipton?’ she ventured, then again in case the driver hadn’t heard her. The beard grunted slightly. She guessed that was all she was going to get. Then to her surprise, he turned round.