Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Page 8

  “What do you mean?” said Rosie. “They’ll patch it up and fix it.”

  Lilian raised her eyebrows.

  “They’ve been trying to shut that school for years. Bus all the children to Carningford.”

  Rosie looked horrified.

  “But they can’t! It’ll kill the village!”

  Lilian nodded.

  “I know. It’ll be the end of us, to be sure.”

  Rosie felt a hand of fear clutch at her heart.

  “They wouldn’t close the school?”

  “Well, it’s obviously dangerous . . . and enrollment has been falling.”

  “But parents move here for the little class sizes!”

  “Then they move right away again when their children get to secondary. It’s not really sustainable. And Manly’s too.”

  “What about Manly’s?”

  Manly’s was the defiantly unfashionable boutique in town.

  “Well, she does all the uniforms, doesn’t she? She stops supplying those, she’s really in trouble. It’s not like anyone wants her fuchsia size 18 cocktail dresses, and once you’ve bought one waxed jacket, that’s pretty much all you need for the rest of your life . . . You need a waxed jacket, by the way.”

  “Thank you, Lilian,” said Rosie, but her brain was whirring. They wouldn’t shut the school, would they? Lipton was so proud it had managed to hang on to its post office, its Spar, its pub, its chippy—­it even had a bus ser­vice, of sorts. But losing the school would rip the heart from them.

  “It’ll be fine,” she said. “There’s no way the council could be that evil.”

  “No,” said Lilian. “Elected officials never work in a disgusting way.”

  “Are you talking about democracies, Lilian?” came an imperious voice. “Awful things, never bloody work.”

  Rosie bit her lip as Lady Lipton bustled into the room, looking as usual a combination of ridiculous—­she was wearing far too many slightly holed clothes—­and rather magnificent—­her cheekbones and gait rendered her dignified whatever the circumstances. It was, Rosie had ascertained, slightly arrogant and slightly habitual, the way Lady Lipton dressed, as if she simply didn’t care (she obviously didn’t), but also as if the reason she didn’t care was that she felt so socially superior to everybody else. It was almost a way of showing off—­“My house has so many rooms I can’t possibly heat it so I need to wear four cardigans that have been in the family for several generations.”

  “Lilian, I swear you are too young to be in here.”

  “I know,” said Lilian complacently. “It’s nice for the others”

  Rosie stood up.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “What have you done to my boy now?” said Lady Lipton, without smiling. Rosie was so surprised by this that she forgot to close her mouth.

  “What on earth do you mean?” she said. She hadn’t, to be fair, slept as much as she would have liked.

  “Well, you persuaded him into that school.”

  “I did not! He was desperate to do it.”

  Lady Lipton gave Lilian a sideways look. She thought Stephen’s job should be with her, running the crumbling estate. Having a son who was a primary school teacher seemed to her to be some kind of admission of failure, particularly after all the money they’d spent on his schooling, as she announced from time to time.

  “And he’s a wonderful teacher,” Rosie went on crossly.

  “Oh, don’t get wound up” said Lady Lipton. “A teacher and a shop girl, perfect combination really. Now, Lilian, have you heard how awful it all was? Shall we go through it again?”

  “It was awful,” said Rosie honestly. “It’s a miracle no one was hurt worse. It’s going to take Edison a long time to get back on his feet as it is.”

  “Well, you’ve got Stephen back where you want him,” said Henrietta, which was such a vicious thing to say that Rosie was on the point of walking out.

  Instead, and fired up by the last twenty-­four hours—­which included a sleepless night—­Rosie drew herself up and said, “As you well know, Stephen only goes where he wants to go. Amazing it’s never with you, isn’t it?”

  Then she left, feeling wildly guilty and a bit pleased. And then guilty again. And then happy. And then she remembered that whatever she thought, this was still Stephen’s mother so she had a duty of politeness, and making Lady Lipton think the worst of her didn’t help anything. So by the time she got back to the shop she was cursing.

  She hated driving Stephen’s old Land Rover. It was a temperamental beast he’d inherited from his father, so it was about forty years old. It had no proper heating, no power steering and was a vehicle of last resort, but at the moment she had no choice. She packed Mr. Dog into the front seat, wrapped up in a blanket, then remembered that hospitals weren’t too hot on the whole dog thing, and if she left him outside in the car, he’d probably freeze to death, so she decided to drop him off at Tina’s house, with a huge bag of jellies for Kent and Emily.

  “Hello!” said Tina. The children were romping around, still in their pajamas, playing bears with Jake, Kent keeping his cast well up in the air.

  “Oh, look at you guys,” said Rosie, genuinely pleased. “You’re like a Christmas advert in here.”

  Tina took her to one side.

  “It’s all fake,” she said quickly to Rosie. “I keep wanting to throw up. I’ve never felt so terrified in my whole life.”

  “I know,” said Rosie, giving her a quick hug. “I know.”

  “When I stood outside that school and every other kid came out except mine . . .”

  “You can’t think like that,” said Rosie. “I know. You just have to think that it didn’t happen. It didn’t.”

  “I can’t sleep a wink,” said Tina.

  “Me neither.”

  Rosie nodded into the sitting room. “It looks like someone’s being helpful.”

  Tina lost her anxious look for just a second.

  “Yes,” she said, “he’s been amazing. And the children, they’ve kind of forgotten all about it, except for Kent being this massive hero. He’s happy as Larry. Jake’s just carrying on being sweet. I’m the only one who’s become a complete basket case.”

  “I know I don’t have first hand experience apart from Mr. Dog,” said Rosie. “But I think that might just be motherhood.”

  She thought briefly of Lady Lipton.

  “Well, most motherhood.”

  Tina nodded.

  “You’re medical and know this stuff. Will it stop?”

  Rosie heard the squeals of delight as Mr. Dog plucked up the courage to leave her side and join the revels next door.

  “If it doesn’t, you go see Moray and he’ll recommend someone for you to talk to,” she said. “But between you and me, yes, it will. It might take a while, but for most ­people, they pick up again. Okay? You’re being totally normal.”

  Tina smiled.

  “Totally normal.”

  “Yes.”

  “Crying in the bath?”

  “Check.”

  “Not letting them out of my sight.”

  “Check.’

  Tina shook her head.

  “Fine.”

  Rosie peered back into the happy scene.

  “It seems to me someone is very happy to help you with everything you’re going through.”

  Tina colored prettily.

  “I know,” she said. “I’m very lucky. I’m so . . . so . . . Oh, I’m going again.”

  The tears started down her face.

  “Let it out,” said Rosie, giving her a cuddle. “I’ll pick up Mr. Dog later, okay? Thanks.”

  “Not at all,” said Tina. “Look at them. They’ve forgotten all about it.”

  “Children are very resilient,” said Rosie. “And so are you. I pro
mise.”

  ROSIE DROVE AS slowly as she dared along the snowy winding roads. Would it ever stop? She was nervous now too; nervous of a huge lorry, out of control, looming out of nowhere, smashing everything in its path with a terrible devastation. She inched her way to Carningford, and to the hospital.

  She’d made a special effort tonight, after yesterday. Her hair was washed, she’d reapplied lipstick in the car and she was carrying an enormous bag of mixed bonbons, and some grapes for vitamin C.

  Stephen had been moved to a side room and she had to scrub up to avoid giving him an infection. The hospital was quiet, so he had the room to himself. She knocked, feeling suddenly nervous, then feeling that was utterly ridiculous. They’d lived together for nearly a year; it was absurd to be worried

  But she knew him; she knew how his earlier experiences had affected him. Being proud and sensitive was such a tough combination. Please, please let him not be too upset. She thought about what had happened in Africa. He’d been working out there as a teacher and had accompanied his class on a field trip. One of his children had strayed off the track and stepped on a landmine. Two boys, brothers, had died, and Stephen had suffered severe wounds—­both physical and mental. It had taken meeting Rosie for him truly to come back to himself, something his high-­handed mother, who found communicating with her wayward son extremely difficult had never forgiven her for.

  But could something like this set him back?

  She didn’t hear a reply, so she pushed open the heavy door. She paused for a second, then stepped into the room.

  Stephen was lying on his front, which at first gave him the aspect of a sullen teenager, but Rosie realized immediately that it was of course to avoid pressure on his scar. He could barely lift his head.

  “Hello,” he said glumly.

  “Hello,” she said. “You look like you’re going surfing.”

  He didn’t raise a smile.

  “Please,” he said. “Cresta Run.”

  Rosie went over and kissed his head.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” he said. “I look stupid”

  Rosie glanced at his back; his side was swathed in bandages, but the muscles, bare in the overheated hospital room, still stood out.

  “Actually,” she said, “you look surprisingly hot for someone who’s just had a bum transplant.”

  Stephen tried to force a smile.

  “I think I preferred things a lot more yesterday when I was monged off my face on all the drugs.”

  “Did you not get any drugs today?”

  She flipped through his chart.

  “I did,” said Stephen. “But not the really good ones like yesterday.”

  Rosie raised her eyebrows. “They gave you diamorphine?”

  “Mmmm,” said Stephen.

  “Yes, well, no wonder, that’s basically heroin.”

  “Oh,” said Stephen suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Only I thought I wrote a song and it was brilliant. But that was probably the heroin, wasn’t it?”

  “I must hear your song,” said Rosie instantly.

  “Um, no.”

  “Was it about me?”

  Stephen winced and smiled again.

  “Seriously, I thought it was going to change the shape of music forever.”

  “Was it to the tune of ‘Agadoo’?”

  “Now you come to mention it . . .” He winced again.

  “Is it awfully painful?

  “Skin is REALLY SORE,” said Stephen. “It’s all right when it’s your insides. ­Peoples’ appendices don’t feel a thing, do they? It’s that skin thing that will really do for you. I wish I hadn’t seen Prometheus.”

  “Everyone wishes that,” said Rosie reassuringly.

  “Have you seen Edison?”

  “I’m going to see him when I get bored with hanging out with you.”

  “Is he going to . . .”

  Stephen tried to twist his neck around. It looked painful.

  “I think so,” said Rosie. “It’s going to be a long road, a really long road, but it looks like . . . he should walk again. Moray thinks so.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Oh, dear Jesus,” said Stephen finally. “Thank God.” A single tear ran down his cheek.

  “Can you get that?”

  Rosie leapt up with a tissue; he really couldn’t move.

  “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “Yes,” said Stephen. “But I only believed it coming from you.”

  Rosie put her arms around his neck.

  “Are you going to be okay about this?” she demanded.

  He knew immediately what she meant. Stephen’s brusqueness could sometimes mask a real fragility, and Rosie was worried about this more than anything else.

  She moved her hands to his face

  “My love,” she said.

  He cast his eyes down.

  “I . . . I . . . You know, at the moment, they’re giving me things to make me sleep, so I don’t really have to think about it . . .”

  “There’s nothing to think about,” said Rosie fiercely. “There was a terrible accident. You saved a child. You got the rest out. It would have been much, much worse without you. What happened before wasn’t an accident, it was evil. They are not the same.”

  “I know,” said Stephen.

  There was a pause.

  “But the smell. And the dust, and the noise and the darkness. That was all exactly the same.”

  ROSIE SPENT AN hour with him reading him stories about celebrities out of the newspaper until he begged for mercy. Then they came to change his bandages, and she went upstairs.

  Intensive Care was very quiet. There was no bustle, no patients making demands, just the squeak of rubber-­soled white shoes on highly polished floors, and the steady beep of monitors and the decompression of breathing apparatus. It felt disconnected from the rest of the hospital, a bustling ship.

  She found Hester and Arthur by the farthest bed, closest to the window.

  “Hello,” she whispered. There was no real need to whisper, nobody was napping, but it felt right somehow. Hester was standing up, despite her pregnancy; her face held none of the full-­moon glow of women preparing to give birth, but was pale and drawn and sleepless.

  They acknowledged her but didn’t respond. Rosie decided not to take out the Edinburgh rock she’d brought, Edison’s favorite.

  “What are they saying?” she asked. Hester gazed at her as if she wasn’t there, but Arthur looked grateful.

  “They’ve put him in this coma,” he said.

  Edison’s body on the bed looked absolutely tiny; he seemed younger without his dirty glasses on, and very pale. He was breathing peacefully, tubes everywhere, like an aberration; something foreign in the little body.

  “It’s to stop him moving his head. They need to keep him absolutely still for as long as possible. Give him the best possible chance.

  Rosie nodded.

  “That makes sense.”

  “Then they’re going to put a cast on him. . . . He’s going to be on his back here, then they’ll keep turning him . . .”

  He swallowed, deeply upset at having to talk about his only son in this way.

  “It’s for the best.”

  Hester sniffed loudly. Arthur motioned Rosie away.

  “She’s taking it very hard,” he said.

  “Of course she is,” said Rosie. “Of course she is. Can’t you get her to sit down?”

  “She won’t. She hates modern medicine and all it stands for.”

  “Even now?” said Rosie.

  “She hates giving up,” said Arthur, looking slightly sheepish.

  “Well, she wouldn’t be able to treat this with herbs, would she?” said Rosie, then
felt ashamed of her harsh tongue.

  “No,” said Arthur. “But it makes it very difficult, having to interact with doctors and so on.”

  “She doesn’t have to interact” said Rosie. “She just needs to say thank you.”

  Arthur smiled nervously, and Rosie instantly felt awful and harsh. To change the subject, she indicated the large pile of paper next to the bed.

  “What’s this?”

  Hester looked at it dully.

  “Oh, Mrs. Baptiste dropped it off,” said Arthur. Rosie went over and looked. It was a huge pile of cards and letters, drawn by all the children in the class.

  “We miss you, Edison,” said one. Another had a very clear drawing of a stick man with a massive head and dirty glasses.

  “I think they’ve caught him,” said Rosie, smiling.

  ‘We MISS YOU DOING ALL THE TAKING IN CLAS,” said another. They were all colorful and beautifully drawn, many with a Christmas theme.

  “Oh, these are wonderful!” said Rosie. “We have to get these strung up so they’re the first thing he sees. How fond ­people are of him and how much they miss him.”

  Hester glanced up briefly.

  “Would you like me to put them up?” asked Rosie, desperate to be useful. “I’ll bring some tape tomorrow. I’m in every day anyway, to see Stephen, you know,”

  Hester nodded blankly. Rosie wondered if she even knew that it was Stephen who’d saved her son. If she did, she didn’t seem very interested. But then, she obviously had a lot more on her mind than that.

  Rosie kissed Edison gently on the cheek. It was as cold as a marble statue.

  “Oh, little man,” she said. “I miss your prattle.”

  And then it was back on the long lonely journey to an empty house with accounts to be done and stock to be counted, where the fire was unlit, and dinner was unmade, and it was so cold and empty without Lilian or Stephen there, and Rosie was so anxious and exhausted that, after she finished her work, she had a single glass of water and took herself unhappily to bed.

  Chapter 7

  ROSIE HAD EXPECTED the school to reopen the next day—­there were still another three weeks before the Christmas break—­but it didn’t. She opened the shop as usual, as much to let the gossip come to her as to sell sweets. Although she sold plenty of those; lots of children were getting terribly spoiled after their big fright, and she was completely sold out of Edinburgh rock for Edison; he could probably build his own full-­sized rock out of it by now. Which would, she mused, have been just the kind of project that would have appealed to him.