Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams Page 23

  It crossed her mind, as she paid for the drinks (about half, she always noticed, what she paid in London), that perhaps if she had been completely happy, she’d have refused to come here at all.

  ‘I think maybe I want the steak and ale pie,’ said Gerard when she got back. ‘Can you tell them?’

  ‘You tell them!’ said Rosie in exasperation. A good turn for the conversation, she felt, would have been for him to say something along the lines of ‘I’ve really been missing you’ or ‘You look great’ or ‘Tell me about setting up the shop.’

  ‘Can’t you?’ said Gerard. ‘You’re the local.’

  Why were they being so snippy with each other? Normally she found Gerard cute. She tried to remember how sweet he’d been with Edison earlier. It was nearly helping. He was already halfway down his fresh pint. Sighing slightly, she got up out of her seat and was heading to the bar again, pinkly conscious of all the faces in the room following her, when the door of the lounge bar crashed open and all eyes turned.

  1943

  ‘No, no, it’s not you.’

  Henry looked half-crazed, completely wild-eyed, as they stood, heart to heart, both of them breathless and panting.

  ‘It’s not you. It’s never you. It’s always been you.’

  Henry was holding her shoulders now, though Lilian felt that if she didn’t kiss him again, right now, she was going to explode. She could barely breathe. What was he saying to her? She couldn’t take it in at all.

  ‘Kiss me again,’ she said, suddenly emboldened by the great moon, and the smell of him, and the feel of being wrapped so tightly in his arms; she had to feel it again, she had to.

  Instead, Henry wrenched himself free, with a huge effort of will, and gradually lowered her arms, holding her thin wrists in his huge hands.

  ‘I don’t …’ Lilian’s voice sounded strange, even to herself, like a child talking. She couldn’t keep the wobble out of it. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Henry turned his head away. Lilian wanted to force him to look at her.

  ‘What is it?’

  Then from his mouth came the worst words, the words she was dreading hearing, in a voice so low she had to strain to catch it above the rustle of the trees.

  ‘It’s Ida,’ he muttered. ‘From months back. She’s only up the bloody pole.’

  Lilian had forced her arms from his as if they were on fire.

  ‘What?’ she said, thinking it was possible she’d misunderstood.

  Henry crouched down at the side of the road and put his hands over his head. Then he pulled himself together and stood up. He had a look on his face that Lilian recognised from her brothers when they’d received their call-up papers; that of condemned men.

  ‘I … I,’ he started. ‘Me and Ida … that night. That night at the dance. I came looking for you and I couldn’t find you and … oh, I were so stupid, but she was all over me and I thought that would be it, you know. I mean, I wanted to see you so badly and I thought …’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve messed up, Lilian. I’ve messed up, right badly.’

  Lilian thought about Gertie Fanshawe last year, who’d been spirited away from town and came back about five months later. Her mother insisted it had been a bad bout of influenza and she’d been on a rest cure. Nobody said anything about it, of course they didn’t. It would be unthinkably rude, to Gertie and her family, to bring it up at all. But Lilian remembered Gertie at school: wild, and funny, and uncontrollable; smart as a whip, but she only really loved her horses down at the Fanshawe place. Lilian remembered seeing her, flying across hedgerows whenever she got five minutes off from working the farm – which wasn’t often – her long hair in the wind behind her; one time, even, with her feet bare. People talked, but Lilian had never thought Gertie cared; thought she was deaf to town gossip, only wanted to be free.

  When she returned, she didn’t ride any more. She was hardly seen. When Lilian saw her she was shocked at how thin she’d become, how meek. No more cutting remarks or the yearning looks she’d always given to the classroom window. It was as if something vital inside her had vanished; something had died.

  Six weeks after she returned to her family, Gertie Fanshawe had left without a word and no one had ever seen her again.

  ‘I … I have to marry her,’ stuttered Henry. ‘You know. I have to. Remember …’

  Lilian nodded. ‘I do. I do remember.’

  ‘I can’t … I can’t let that happen to Ida. It’s inhuman. She’d be ruined.’

  Lilian shook her head. Her hands were still shaking, but she was, she knew, practical, sensible Lilian. Always ready to help. Always with her feet on the ground. That’s what everybody thought.

  What she felt inside was, get me pregnant too then. Get me pregnant too.

  All she said was, ‘Her mother is going to make your life a living hell.’

  Henry looked up at her from the roadside.

  ‘At the moment, that couldn’t be any worse than how I feel.’

  ‘Henry?’ a familiar voice screeched down the road. It sounded exasperated. ‘Henry? Darling? Where are you? Where are you?’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Lilian quickly, her mind working. This didn’t need to be any worse than it already was. Henry looked at her with desperate eyes.

  ‘I don’t … I don’t want you to go,’ he said, furious with himself; bitter, and ashamed, and choked up with emotion. ‘I never ever wanted to let you go. Ever.’

  ‘If only …’ Lilian wasn’t going to say that sentence, although she would dwell on it for a long, long time. If only she had let her feelings be known earlier. If only she had swallowed her stupid pride when he’d asked her to the dance. If only she’d been bolder, stronger, more of a woman. If only, if only, if only.

  The voice was getting closer. Henry stiffened, and stood up to his full height, trying to look stoic in the face of what lay ahead. Lilian saw, suddenly, a glimpse of what he would look like in uniform, but it was only a trick of the moonlight, and the wind waving through the trees. Then, quick as a flash, she turned and took the back way through the woods, running until she felt as if her heart would burst; running because she wanted her heart to burst, wanted it to burst its very banks, and carry her away, and let her drown in it all.

  The door to the pub banged back against the stained-glass siding, and everyone turned to look as cooler air whooshed in from outside. Standing silhouetted against the dark street, white as a piece of paper, listing to the left, was Stephen. Rosie leapt forward, and Moray jumped up from the far table.

  Stephen looked straight at Rosie and managed to say, ‘I think … I think I need …’ before his head started to loll to the side.

  ‘Quick, someone help me!’ shouted Rosie, rushing to his side. Gerard stayed put, annoyingly, but Moray was already there and they helped Stephen to a nearby chair and put his head between his knees until he could stabilise his breathing. His left leg was an absolute waterfall of red. Moray and Rosie looked at each other with worried expressions, and the landlord indicated they could carry him into the back room. Even as thin as he was, his large frame was heavy to man-handle and the landlord had to help. Finally, out of the hubbub of the lounge – at least, Rosie thought in passing, she and Gerard would no longer be the main topic of conversation – they could get some peace and quiet.

  Stephen was looking around him blearily as Rosie fetched a glass of water. He was still bleeding, and Moray rushed off to fetch his medical kit. The landlord made himself scarce once he’d worked out there was nothing more he could do to help, and knowing there was little better than a minor misadventure to bring out the thirst in his customers. Stephen and Rosie were alone.

  ‘What the hell did you do?’ said Rosie, close to his ear. She tied together two bar towels to make a tourniquet.

  Stephen shook his head. ‘Nothing. Nothing. Accident.’

  ‘What kind of an accident?’

  Stephen gulped down some more water. His face was very white indeed.

  ‘Stupid bloody
step … Tripped.’

  ‘You are bleeding out, for goodness’ sake,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m calling an ambulance.’

  ‘Take too long,’ said Stephen. ‘Durn’t matter.’

  His breathing was shallow, and his eyes were having trouble focusing.

  ‘Why didn’t you call us?’

  Stephen shook his head. ‘Forgot to pay the bloody landline bill. And no mobile reception.’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘Ah, this bloody countryside.’

  ‘I am very cold,’ announced Stephen quietly. Rosie covered him in a tablecloth, the nearest thing to hand, and checked her tourniquet. It was holding it, but he was in a very bad way indeed. Rosie knelt close to try and keep him conscious.

  ‘It’s all right, it’s going to be all right,’ she said, her heart racing. Where was Moray? She clasped Stephen’s freezing fingers between her own. ‘Just hold on.’

  His eyes were drooping.

  ‘How … how did you get down the hill in the dark?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘Mm?’ said Stephen. ‘Oh. Oh, they left … they left some stupid old thing … stupid really. Stupid.’

  At that moment, the door burst open and Moray came in with a large black bag, and the landlord close behind him carrying what looked like a quadruple brandy.

  ‘There’s no time for that now,’ scolded Rosie.

  ‘Not for me, for him,’ said Moray.

  ‘You don’t keep a full medicine cabinet?’

  ‘Someone never sorted it out after the dog thing,’ panted Moray, glancing back into the bar. Hye hadn’t bothered to come through to see what was going on.

  Stephen looked around him in confusion. ‘Where’s that shyster doctor gone? Has he been drinking again?’

  Rosie knelt down, holding both his hands as Moray scrubbed up at the sink.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, turning his face so he could see her. She didn’t like his condition, not at all. ‘Moray is going to stitch you up, and the landlord’s called the ambulance. You need a blood transfusion really really quickly. What type are you?’

  Stephen couldn’t answer.

  ‘OK, well, fine, I’ll make sure they bring whatever they have. But listen. Moray’s going to stitch you now. But I’m afraid there’s no anaesthetic. There’s just …’

  Moray was holding up a packet of Nurofen.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Rosie. She took the brandy off the barman. ‘Drink this,’ she said.

  Together, they managed to get most of it down his neck, along with a couple of tablets. Then Moray ripped off the last of Stephen’s trouser leg. The wound was a horrible, livid thing against the stark white of his leg.

  ‘OK,’ said Moray, breathing out.

  ‘So, Stephen,’ said Rosie, ‘you have to trust me. You have to trust me, OK?’ She turned quickly to Moray. ‘Do you think the tourniquet would hold till the ambulance arrived?’

  ‘I don’t know when that might be,’ said Moray. ‘So, no.’

  Rosie nodded.

  ‘Just keep looking at me,’ she said, and moved to the side to let Moray work.

  Stephen’s eyes didn’t waver from hers for a moment, although they closed, briefly, when the needle went in for the first time.

  ‘It hurts,’ he breathed, quietly, his grip on Rosie’s hands strengthening.

  ‘I know,’ said Rosie, as if she were speaking to a child. ‘You’re being very brave.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie.’

  ‘I know. I know. You doof, if you hadn’t been such a stubborn arse, you’d have had this done under a lovely local anaesthetic.’

  The violet shadows under his eyes gave him a haunted look as he winced.

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Rosie glanced at Moray, urging him to work faster, but he was making a careful job of it. He caught her eye.

  ‘This appears to be our new hobby.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Rosie. Then she concentrated again on Stephen. Later, he would remember very little of it. Nothing but a tight hold on his hands that did not falter, even when he was gripping them in agony like his life depended on it, and a pair of grey eyes that refused to let him look away.

  In reality, stitching Stephen’s leg took just over ten minutes. To everyone in the room it felt like a million years. Stephen fell silent, the only sign he was conscious a tear he could not prevent falling from the corner of his eye. Rosie could not remove her hands from his to wipe it away, but moved their hands together, gently, to brush it from his cheek. Then she tried to focus on their breathing; taking deep breaths, holding them and exhorting Stephen to do the same; to breathe in time with her to relieve the pain; to keep the oxygen moving, until their breath was going in and out at the same time and Rosie, briefly, had the oddest sensation of being unable to tell quite where Stephen ended and she began.

  Moray worked away accurately and intently, the only sign of pressure a bead of sweat on his forehead. The landlord brought in another brandy and announced that there was no sign of the ambulance yet, and that everyone was worried. Rosie concentrated on trying to somehow propel herself into Stephen’s body; to keep him with her, stop him nodding off, or his blood pressure dropping too far. She tried to beam energy into him through her eyes, even though she knew this was ridiculous; willing him away from looking down, or contemplating what was being done to him.

  Finally Moray straightened up.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘That’ll hold it. But he needs blood. And he needs to be in hospital now.’ He eyed Stephen harshly. ‘If you’d got over yourself three months ago, we wouldn’t have had all that little drama, would we?’

  He went over to the sink and washed his hands, then looked around at the bloodied floor.

  ‘Sorry, Les,’ he called to the landlord.

  ‘Oh, I’ve seen worse,’ said Les.

  Rosie found she couldn’t put Stephen’s hands down. She was cramped, but barely felt it. It was as if the entire universe had contracted to the dark blue of his eyes, fringed with black; his shallow breathing and the fading tan on his shoulders.

  At last, the ambulance siren sounded, and as soon as the medics arrived everything exploded into noisy colour and action.

  ‘Did you find out his blood group?’ shouted a cross, stout paramedic at Rosie, who flushed, realising she hadn’t discovered even this most basic piece of useful information.

  ‘O-neg,’ said Stephen suddenly, as if from the bottom of his consciousness. ‘I’m O-neg.’

  A gurney was brought in through the back door of the pub; someone set up a drip, someone else checked the wound area. There was a lot of yelling and noise and the ambulance lights lit up the quiet street, attracting large numbers of curious onlookers. The entire pub was out on the road. In the back room, the stout paramedic turned to Rosie.

  ‘OK, you can go now, duck,’ she said. At first Rosie didn’t realise. Then she worked out that her left and Stephen’s right hand were still intertwined. Stephen looked at her.

  ‘Can you come with me?’

  Rosie suddenly remembered that she was in a pub, that she was meant to be here with her boyfriend whom she hadn’t seen for four weeks; that the hospital was an hour away over the dales and she didn’t even have her wallet. All of those things dissipated in a millisecond.

  ‘Of course,’ she found herself saying, as the pub door banged open again. There stood Lady Lipton.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marshmallows

  9 sheets leaf gelatine

  16 oz white sugar

  1 tbsp liquid glucose

  7 fl oz water

  2 large egg whites

  1 tsp vanilla extract

  icing sugar

  cornflour

  Lightly oil a shallow baking tray, about 12 × 9 inches, and dust it with sieved icing sugar and cornflour.

  Soak the gelatine in 5 fl oz cold water.

  Put the sugar, glucose and water into a heavy-based pan. Bring to the boil and continue cooking for about 12–15 minutes until
the mixture reaches 260ºF on a sugar thermometer. This is very hot indeed. Please do not be an idiot about this; these are only marshmallows and not worth risking hospital. I do not recommend allowing children to help in the cooking of marshmallows, only the eating.

  When the syrup is up to temperature, carefully slide in the softened gelatine sheets and their soaking water. Pour the syrup into a metal jug.

  Whisk the egg whites until stiff, pouring in the hot syrup from the jug. The mixture will become shiny and start to thicken. Add the vanilla extract and continue whisking for about 5–10 minutes, until the mixture is stiff and thick enough to hold its shape on the whisk.

  Pour the mix into the tin. Level off, and leave for two hours.

  Dust the work surface with icing sugar and cornflour. Loosen the marshmallow around the sides of the tray and turn it out on to the dusted surface. Cut into squares and roll in the sugar and cornflour. Leave to dry a little on a wire rack.

  1943

  ‘Down by the Salley Gardens,’ Lilian was humming repetitively to herself in her bedroom, finishing up the accounts for the shop. She found the singing distracted her. Since that awful night in the woods, she had decided to put everything behind her. Gordon had gone back to his regiment; Margaret, after begging her to come to Derby with her for the last time, had gone back to her life with her jug-eared young man. He’d managed barely a word in their three days’ leave, which was all Margaret needed to know to be sure they’d be together for ever apparently, and she’d already booked the church. She’d asked Lilian to be her bridesmaid. Lilian couldn’t think of anything she’d less like to do. She’d said yes, of course. But to stand within a consecrated space and hear about one person’s true love and commitment to another would taste like ashes, she knew.