Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams Page 9

  Her father poured them all a small glass of wine. He knew other fathers worried about their daughters, but if anything he wished he could worry more about Lilian. And with three sons in the war – they’d said Gordon didn’t have to go, could stay and mind the shop, but his headstrong youngest son was having none of it – he had enough to worry about. But he knew it wasn’t easy for her, the one left behind, and the only girl. When the boys came back on leave and told their stories of the big cities and the shows and the lights, he felt sad for Lilian, stuck here with the shop. But what else could they do? A living was a living, even in wartime. Still, she could do with a bit of fun. She wasn’t a daft piece of stuff like Margaret, or a sly little number like Ida Delia Fontayne; Lilian was a decent sort, and he’d like her to meet a decent chap. Before the war took ’em all, he thought glumly, and drained his glass.

  Feeling warm and jolly, and just about over the hair incident, Lilian and Margaret rattled off on their bicycles towards the village hall, Lilian’s heart thumping in her chest, her cheeks flushed without the need of make-up, eyes sparkling. The late-summer air was warm for once, clear and gentle, the stars just starting to come out overhead. Even missing a hank of hair, Lilian felt as close as she ever had to beautiful.

  Rosie was determined to start the next day afresh. She smiled at her aunt, who was coming to the table and trying not to look over-curious about the porridge with wild honey, full cream and fresh blueberries Rosie had made for her.

  ‘Lilian,’ she said, ‘did you ever take legal advice about your book?’

  Lilian looked shifty. ‘I can’t talk about that,’ she said, pursing her lips, and sat herself down. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s to …’ Rosie nearly said ‘fatten you up’ before realising that was unlikely to go down well.

  ‘It’s the fashion breakfast,’ she said. ‘It’s what the models eat.’

  Lilian sniffed. Today she was wearing a cerise shift dress with a bright red scarf tied at the neck. It could have looked a bit peculiar, but with her silver hair nicely done at the back, it was actually rather chic.

  ‘Where did you get the cream?’ said Lilian.

  ‘Uhm, the Spar,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Well, don’t. The Isitts have a perfectly good dairy farm down the road. Just don’t get put off …’

  ‘Put off by what?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Lilian. ‘That’s where you go. It’s two miles out the village, turn left, down the hill. Can’t miss it. Milk too. Take the empty bottles back.’

  ‘You want me to walk two miles with empty milk bottles?’

  Lilian raised her eyebrows. ‘No, of course not. You can take the bike.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, there’s a problem with that.’

  Lilian made her step out into the bright golden morning. Rosie didn’t trust it, though, and was leaving nothing to chance. Although the shops in the village seemed only to sell those waxed jackets, they’d come to look increasingly attractive in the light of how her H&M shearling was bearing up, i.e., not at all. Plus she was, as she reflected, absolutely brassic. She followed her great-aunt out behind the little cottage and into the dreamy garden.

  ‘In there,’ said Lilian, indicating a small shed. Just the walk round into the garden had puffed her out.

  ‘Seriously?’

  Lilian nodded her head towards the door, and Rosie finally did as she was bid, heaving and straining just to open the rusty bolts.

  Inside was a huge black metal spider of a thing, a ton weight. Rosie popped her head back out.

  ‘You’re not serious,’ she yelled.

  ‘Are you here to help me or not?’

  Rosie hauled it out. It was the size of a small tank. She leaned it against the wall. They both stared at it.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, finally.

  Lilian looked at her in consternation. ‘That’s my bike! I’m going to let you use it. It’s not that I can’t because of my hip or anything, it’s just that I don’t want to.’

  The bike was very old, solid, with a huge basket on the front. It looked like something the witch rode in The Wizard of Oz.

  ‘Yes, well, I can’t ride a bike.’

  Lilian’s substantial eyebrows shot up. ‘You can’t?’

  Rosie metaphorically backpedalled furiously. ‘Well, of course I can … I mean, I did when I was younger. Obviously.’

  Her mother had occasionally taken her and Pip to the park and sat having a flask of tea and a fag while they wheeled their second-hand bikes around, then dumped them to play on the climbing frames. Rosie wasn’t sure this really counted.

  You couldn’t ride a bike on the roads where she had grown up – well, some kids were allowed, but not them – and you couldn’t ride them to school or they’d get nicked, so Rosie had never really got in the habit. Who thought success in adult life would depend on whether or not you could ride a bicycle, anyway?

  ‘You know,’ said Lilian, ‘you’re in luck; I’ll get Jake Randall round. He fixes bikes for the kids in the village. I’ll send him round when we’re done and he’ll fix it up for you pronto. He’ll do anything for some Highland Toffee.’

  Rosie sighed and headed back indoors again.

  ‘I’m supposed to be looking after you,’ she said as a parting shot.

  ‘You will be,’ retorted Lilian, ‘when you pick up the milk and cream. And do notice which of us is wearing pyjamas in the street … Hello, vicar!’ she called out to the passing man in the dark suit. Rosie scarpered up the stairs.

  And there wasn’t even any point, Rosie thought, in getting dressed up today, given the horrible job of emptying out the shop, so she was steeled for the arched eyebrows by the time she came back downstairs in her old jeans and a fleece, her bouncing black curls forced up in a floral scarf. Lilian glanced over.

  ‘So Angie says you have kind of a boyfriend?’ she enquired, as Rosie filled a large bucket with soapy water and grabbed a scrubbing brush from under the white butler’s sink.

  ‘Why did I ever think you were a quiet, frail old lady when you used to visit us? You’re actually really nosy.’

  ‘Because,’ said Lilian dramatically, ‘I only ever came to your house in London when I was recovering. From adventures.’

  ‘What sort of adventures?’

  ‘I’m not just an old lady who runs a sweetshop, you know.’

  ‘Well,’ said Rosie. ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Lilian, picking up the empty breakfast bowls. Rosie noticed Lilian’s had been scraped clean. ‘It’s nearly time for The Archers.’

  ‘Well, I won’t have time to tell you about Gerard then.’

  ‘Gerard? What kind of a name is that? Sounds very modern.’

  ‘Yes, amazingly the man I’m going out with isn’t a hundred years old.’

  Lilian looked expectant.

  ‘Well,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s little and cute …’

  ‘Sounds like a squirrel,’ sniffed Lilian.

  ‘He’s a pharmacist,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Not a doctor then?’

  ‘No, it’s completely different,’ said Rosie, not revealing that Gerard had never quite got over applying and failing to get into medical school. ‘It’s a very responsible job, he’s really good at it.’

  ‘Putting bum cream in paper bags?’ said Lilian.

  ‘If you’re going to be rude we don’t have to talk at all,’ said Rosie. ‘In fact, I want to get started anyway.’

  She picked up the heavy brass keys from the sideboard.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Lilian suspiciously. ‘Get started on what?’

  ‘One of the things I came here to do,’ said Rosie in a tone that, on the wards, would brook no arguments. Her mild-mannered mother and brother had always wondered aloud where she’d got it from. Rosie was beginning to figure out the answer. ‘Sort out your shop.’

  Lilian had a radio in the shop too, and Rosie retuned it from Radio 4 to Radio 1, and hauled out a
roll of huge black binbags. There was nothing for it; a lot of this stuff simply had to go. There wasn’t a dishwasher in the little cottage, so she was going to have to wash out all the glass jars by hand too, and they weighed an absolute ton. Still, thanks to a strict matron and a steady training programme at St Mary’s, if there was one thing Rosie knew how to do, it was scrub things down; ideally, so thoroughly that every germ within a five-mile radius would run cowering in terror. The sun shone again through the grubby windows, making her job easier as she could spot every line and smear; every age-old fingerprint and trodden-in line of treacle or caramel. She started at the top and worked down, lining up all the glass jars, sampling everything and checking for sell-by dates. Any chocolate with white spots was binned instantly.

  She washed the dusty old shelves with lemon cleanser till they smelled and looked fresh; blew the dust off the top of the huge red-velvet boxes of vintage chocolates and decided that although their contents were past saving, she would clean up the boxes and keep them for display purposes; their classic styles were hard to find these days. Likewise the tins of travel sweets with images of exotic places printed on the lids, of the Côte d’Azur and great train journeys through the Alps. With a little bit of spit and polish they would make a lovely display, and in case someone actually did want some travel sweets, although Rosie tended to think that the idea of offering sweets to someone with motion sickness had rather gone away, given the amount of vomit doing so tended to produce, she would order some in and stock them in the storeroom.

  After all, she was meant to be selling this place as a going concern. But, actually, the previous night a thought had struck her. Rather than get rid of everything and sell on a soulless shell, what if – what if – she returned Hopkins’ Sweets and Confectionery to its glory days just as it was; almost like a museum, with the origin al fixtures and fittings? After all, they were all still here.

  Rosie had been so excited by this idea she’d called Gerard from the top of the house (if you leaned out of the window you could just about get a signal). When he said he was at his mum’s watching Midsomer Murders and could they talk tomorrow, Rosie called Angie, who said do what she liked as long as she sorted it all out. This left Rosie feeling rather alone with her plan. But she still thought it was a good one.

  Before she got started on the windows, she took a packet of chocolate caramels and a glass of water, wondering how her aunt would feel about their installing a coffee machine somewhere. The village, in Rosie’s opinion, could be improved twenty times by the simple installation of a Starbucks. She sat down on the large grey stone step outside the shop, to polish up the original brass scales and watch the world go by. A couple of smart-looking ladies clopped by on horses with shopping bags in their hands. Rosie wondered what it would be like to go shopping on a horse. Probably less awful than having to go and get it on a bike, she reflected gloomily, watching the horses clip-clop down the road. One of them stopped to have an enormous poo. The ladies ignored it and continued chatting. There was no doubt about it, the countryside certainly was different, Rosie reflected. She watched them down the quiet cobbled road as they continued on their way, then picked up her scrubbing brush again.

  ‘What’s this?’

  The voice was snappy, with a heavy local accent. It did not sound happy. Rosie looked up, squinting in the sunlight. It was hard to make out the silhouette of the man standing over her, but from what she could see he was bald and exceptionally thin.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, scrambling up. ‘I’m Lilian Hopkins’ niece. I’m here to help her out with the shop.’

  The man took a step back. He wore little round glasses and had peculiarly red lips, which he licked, quickly and nervously, displaying a sharp little tongue and extremely white teeth that glinted obtrusively. Rosie wondered if they were false. He wasn’t as tall as Rosie had thought from the step; when he wasn’t looming over her, they were about the same height.

  ‘What do you mean, help her out with it? You mean you’re going to reopen it?’

  ‘I haven’t decided,’ said Rosie, staring at him. What was it with his tone? This wasn’t any of his business. She thought people were supposed to be nice and friendly in the countryside and that it was London that was cold and unwelcoming. Well, not so far. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like that,’ said the man. ‘Best thing that happened to this town, that place closing down.’

  What kind of weirdo is happy when a sweetshop closes down? wondered Rosie.

  ‘Roy Blaine,’ said the man. He didn’t extend his hand for a shake, just waved it in her general direction. ‘Town dentist.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rosie, understanding. ‘Ah. Hah. Well.’

  The man peered in the windows, unsmiling.

  ‘Actually, I would have thought a sweetshop would be good for business.’ Rosie risked a joke, but the man didn’t smile.

  ‘It’s a bloody disgrace,’ he said.

  ‘Uhm, it’s only sweets,’ said Rosie. ‘I think you’ll find the Spar sells the same kind of stuff. Except they sell lots of fizzy drinks too. Which are far worse.’

  Roy Blaine looked at her with the expression of a man who understood far more of the sufferings of the world than she ever would.

  ‘It’s a bad business,’ he said. ‘A damn bad business.’

  ‘We’ll promote good dental hygiene,’ promised Rosie suddenly. ‘We’ll put signs up reminding children to brush their teeth after eating a sweetie. And we sell small portions. And we’ll sell chewing gum!’ Then she suddenly remembered that one of the chapters in her aunt’s book was entitled ‘Why Chewing Gum is Death’. ‘Well, maybe not chewing gum. But we’ll be responsible!’

  She realised as she said this that she wasn’t actually meant to be opening the shop up again the way she wanted it; just readying it to be sold.

  Roy Blaine sniffed. ‘Nobody cares,’ he said. ‘Nobody cares about the infants with rotting mouths howling and dying in agony. From sweets.’ He hissed the last word, as if it pained him even to say it.

  Rosie shot him a look. ‘Would you like me to fetch my aunt?’

  Roy Blaine backed off.

  ‘No. Oh no, no, don’t do that. No.’ And he walked off down the road, muttering.

  Lilian had painfully come to the door to see what the commotion was.

  ‘Was it that shyster Roy Blaine? That scrubber. Worst dentist this side of the Pennines. Not that I would know,’ she added proudly. ‘I never go.’

  ‘You never … Lilian!’ said Rosie in despair. ‘Anyway, I told him we’d promote good oral hygiene. And maybe sell chewing gum.’

  ‘Never,’ said Lilian, turning on her heel and slamming the door. Rosie sat down again.

  ‘Get back to bed,’ she called out feebly, but without much hope.

  Rosie returned to her scrubbing rather crossly after that. She wasn’t here to make enemies, and really, how passionately could one fight against a sweetshop? They weren’t pretending to be healthy. It was a place for treats, for somewhere to come excitedly clutching your pocket money, to look forward to. They didn’t pretend to be selling orange juice that turned out to be full of preservatives and sugar, or making healthy ready meals that were stuffed with saccharine and salt. They sold honest-to-goodness, upfront sweets, wrapped in pink and green paper bags …

  Rosie realised suddenly that she’d drifted away, and that she had taken on the shop’s identity as her own. She didn’t even know what type of bags they used. She used to get pink and green bags in Mrs McCreadie’s shop, on the corner of Blackthorne Road. She wondered where you bought them wholesale. Then she told herself off. She was just here to help out for a little bit. Set her great-aunt up. Obviously Lilian would never again be up for a whole day serving behind the counter, but clearly all her marbles were there; if the shop could pay its way and make a little extra, that could mean a bit of care for her aunt and someone to run the business, then everyone would be happy.

  ‘Penny for ’em,’ came a gruf
f voice. She looked up, squinting in the sun, and was greeted by a friendly smile, showing off strong white teeth.

  ‘You Lilian’s girl?’ he said, his country accent made thicker by a deep voice.

  Rosie scrambled up, suddenly wishing she wasn’t wearing crappy old trousers and a fleece, of all things. Maybe she could take off the fleece. Then she remembered that underneath it she’d pulled on her faded Race for Life T-shirt which had breast cancer written all over it. Maybe not.

  ‘I’m Jake,’ he said, holding out a strong, calloused hand. His hair was the colour of straw, some bits lightened by the sun; his face a walnut brown, the kind of brown that came from working outside all day, not lying by a swimming pool wearing flipflops. Round his eyes were creases, but his eyes shone out of them, a very bright blue. ‘Something about fixing a bike?’

  By the shed, Rosie watched him work. He had the bike upside down and was gripping the front wheel between his legs as he did something to the gears. She wondered if she could pop off and put some lipstick on.

  ‘Want a cup of tea?’ she asked.

  ‘No, you’re all right, duck,’ said Jake.

  Rosie didn’t even notice her arriving, but suddenly Lilian was at her elbow.

  ‘Enjoying the view?’ said Lilian, chuckling to herself.

  ‘Did you do this on purpose?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lilian. ‘But I thought you’d have washed your hair.’

  ‘I know,’ groaned Rosie, as Jake flipped over the heavy bike as if it were nothing, pausing only to push a muscled arm through his thick straw hair. ‘Oh well, I’m sure he’s horrible.’

  ‘Jake’s a pussy cat,’ said Lilian firmly. ‘He does all the … I mean he very occasionally helps me out with the heavy lifting.’

  ‘All right, Miss Hopkins?’ said Jake, glancing up. ‘Don’t you ever oil this thing? It’s as stiff as a badger’s gate.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Rosie. Lilian told her to be quiet.

  ‘Thanks so much for fitting us in,’ said Lilian in a nice voice Rosie hadn’t encountered before. ‘We’ll sort you out with some peppermint ice. I know you’re very busy.’