by Jenny Colgan
“Look at you, exactly the right kind of person to be in charge of a sweetshop. What happened, eat too many of the lime sours?”
Rosie explained while frantically rearranging fudge.
“I’m not sure what you’re saying here,” said Moray, absentmindedly helping himself to one of the golf balls. “Are you trying to tell me that Stephen is a stubborn old git?”
“YES,” moaned Rosie.
“Oh my God, let me phone CNN,” said Moray. “Well, you knew this. Hang on—ha! Did you think you’d be able to soften him up and change his mind? “
Rosie shrugged.
“No!”
“And make him do what you want? Ha! This isn’t just about the school, is it? It’s about your personal reputation as the only woman who can get Stephen to do something he doesn’t want to do.”
“It is not,” said Rosie. “Except a bit.”
“Ahh,” said Moray. “Oh, you’re so cute when you’re cross. So, what are you going to do?”
“Wait for him to come around.”
“Got two years, have you?”
“Bollocks,” said Rosie. “He’s not going to come around, is he? He just won’t talk to his bloody mother.”
“I would say,” said Moray, “that anything he can do for anyone, he would always do for you.”
Rosie half-smiled.
“You’re going to need more of those golf balls.”
“Oh, yes. So . . . ,” said Moray.
“So you’re saying . . .”
“If you want to save the school . . .”
“Into the lion’s den,” said Rosie unhappily. “Lady Lipton.”
“The council is taking the vote on Monday. They can have the buses out by Wednesday.”
“Dammit!” said Rosie. “Damn damn damn. Will you support me?”
“Hmm, what do you want me to do?” said Moray. “I’m not on the council. I could make several subtle poisons with which to dispose of Hye and no one would ever suspect a thing, but I think I would probably have done that already.”
“Just talk me up,” said Rosie. “Tell people.”
“I’ve been talking you up since you got here,” said Moray. “Then you go and let me down by wearing ridiculous clothes and pulling unlikely people. What’s that?”
He spied a parcel by the till and grabbed at it. It was a tiny ruffled red coat with a tartan trim.
“You’re not?” he said.
“Ssh,” said Rosie. “It’s freezing outside.”
Moray continued staring at it in disbelief.
“If you seriously start dressing up your dog, you’ll be dead in this town.”
EARLY THE NEXT morning, after a long evening with still no word from Stephen apart from a depressing exchange of formal text messages in which they’d both ascertained that the other person was “all right” but with no further discussion of the matter in hand, Rosie woke up and decided enough was enough. And she was going to cycle. No snow was actually falling right at this moment, so it was as good a day as any: she was going stir crazy without any exercise.
She left her bike by the gates at Lipton Hall and started trudging up the snowy driveway. Mr. Dog had had his final injections, so she’d decided to take him out on a long run, albeit wearing the very snazzy new red dog jacket, in the full and angry knowledge that Stephen would find it absolutely appalling.
The big house looked ominous and dark ahead, its chimney stacks cold and empty, its windows blank. Rosie had only been here once before, the previous year, for the hunt ball. Then it had been all lit up and glittering, cleaned up for the occasion, a glamorous outpost of light and dressed-up people getting drunk and dancing. Now, in the bleak snowy light it looked slightly sad; unloved and deserted.
Rosie had been in the country long enough to know that nobody opened their front door, you had to go round the back, but it didn’t matter; as soon as he got close enough, Mr. Dog set up a delighted howling as three other dogs, clearly related to him in some way—but much smarter—came tearing out from the courtyard around the back and gave him a hero’s welcome. All four of them rolled about together in the snow in delight. Rosie wasn’t sure, but it looked as if Mr. Dog was trying to pull off his coat. None of the other dogs had coats.
“View halloo!” shouted Hetty, stalking around to the side gate. She was wearing, as usual, a bizarre collection of gardening clothes and ridiculously expensive cashmere that was full of holes.
“Um, hello,” said Rosie. She’d wanted to practice a speech, but she’d ended up so cross at Stephen that she hadn’t had time, spending half the evening mentally continuing her argument with him instead. She took a deep icy breath to gather her thoughts.
“Have you got time for tea?”
Hetty scratched Mr. Dog’s neck.
“Hello, you lovely chap. What is this awful travesty you’ve been wrapped in then? Is she trying to make you gay? Are you trying to make your dog GAY?”
Rosie screwed up her eyes and reminded herself to keep calm.
“I thought he might be cold,” she said.
“Nonsense!” said Hetty. “He’s part lurcher, part . . .” She looked a bit doubtful. “Well, anyway. That’s ridiculous. Next you’ll be letting him sleep inside.”
Rosie didn’t explain that she had to let him sleep inside, on her bed, otherwise she’d freeze to death.
“And have you got a name for him yet, huh? What about Monty? Monty’s a fine name for a dog. Or Ludo.”
“Not yet,” said Rosie. “Mostly we just call him Mr. Dog.”
Hetty looked at her.
“Does Stephen call him that?”
“No,” admitted Rosie. Stephen called him the most lovely gorgeous boy in the whole wide world, but she didn’t want to explain that to Hetty.
“Well, quite. The dog needs a name, it’s undignified.”
Rosie noticed, however, that she was giving him a massive cuddle.
“Sorry, what did you want, tea?”She made it sound as if this were the most ridiculous demand she’d ever heard. Maybe it was, reflected Rosie.
“Hmph. Well we’ll see if Mrs. Laird has anything.”
Rosie was led through the back way for the first time. She was surprised by how cozy it was. A little kitchen, dated but immaculate, led on to what had obviously once been the big kitchen—it was a massive room with a huge table down the middle—but that now functioned as the kitchen diner. There was ample room down at the other end for a faded little three-piece floral suite and a small old-fashioned television; a massive, terrifying-looking Aga bathed the entire room in friendly warmth.
“Oh, it’s lovely in here,” said Rosie spontaneously.
“Hello, Rosie,” said Mrs. Laird, who bought a pound of orange creams every Saturday night to watch her shows with and wouldn’t have confessed in a million years that, contrary to all the town gossip about the London upstart, she thought Rosie was the best thing ever to happen to Stephen. She’d been the one who’d tried to look after him when he got back from Africa in such a state, and like everyone else, she’d failed until this girl had come along.
“I’ve just made some mince pies, would you like one?”
“Yes!” said Rosie. “It has been so long since someone offered me anything to eat, I can’t tell you. I’m ravenous. Do you have lots?”
Mrs. Laird set out the tea things. On the rough-hewn old kitchen table, the sight of an incongruously perfect, utterly beautiful gold-rimmed fine china tea service, complete with milkmaid jar, a plate of lemon slices, and sterling sugar silver tongs seemed very strange, but neither Hetty nor Mrs. Laird seemed to notice a thing.
“It is lovely here,” said Rosie, looking through the massive sash windows at the lazily falling snow. The dogs had followed them in and sniffed their way around the mince pies before being shoved o
ut again to frolic in the snow.
“You should try upstairs,” said Lady Lipton. “That’ll put hair on your chest.”
She set down her tea cup.
“So. Is this a social call?”
“Um.” Rosie was halfway through a magnificent mince pie. She tried to swallow it as quickly as possible without coughing up too many crumbs.
“Um, kind of.”
Hetty sighed.
“Spit it out then”
“The school,” said Rosie.
“Never used it.”
“Didn’t you go there?”
Hetty looked at her incredulously.
“Of course not. I had a governess. Gerda Skitcherd. Do you remember her, Mrs. Laird?”
Mrs. Laird nodded. “First woman in town to get a divorce.”
“That’s right! Poor little Maeve.”
“The receptionist at the doctor’s?” asked Rosie in amazement.
“Oh yes,” said Hetty. “That’s right. Well, it turned out for the best then.”
“She’s lovely.”
“She is, but SUCH a scandal.”
They enjoyed their mince pies in a slightly more leisurely way after that, trying to bond over gossip, even if it was forty years old.
“So, the school,” prodded Rosie gently.
“Yes. When are they going to fix it?”
“Well. That’s the thing. They don’t want to fix it.”
“What do you mean, they don’t want to fix it?”
“They want to bus all the children out of the village. Take them all to Carningford.”
“Oh, that’s dreadful,” said Mrs. Laird, who had two grandchildren at the school. “Poor mites. They need their school.”
“And if the school goes . . .” said Rosie.
“Well, the town will go,” said Lady Lipton. “It’s a dreadful shame.”
“Yes,” said Rosie. “Yes, it is. Which is why I was thinking . . .”
Lady Lipton made an enquiring face. Suddenly it seemed to Rosie that she was suggesting the most ridiculous idea ever.
“Um, I was thinking . . .”
“Yes? Spit it out, dear.”
“Um, maybe we could have the school here.” The last bit came out in a bit of a mumbled rush.
“The what?”
“The school. Just until they get it fixed, have it here.”
“In this kitchen?”
“No, but in this building.”
Lady Lipton looked around in horror.
“I mean, you’ve got the space, and . . . it wouldn’t be for long. We could make the council fix it . . . tell them we don’t need their buses . . .”
“But you can’t just turn a house into a school,” said Lady Lipton. “This place is protected.”
“Yes, but for special measures . . . or they could be your guests. Just as a temporary measure. We’d only need two rooms.”
“But what about the cleaning? And the toilets? Children throw up almost constantly in my experience. And the heating?”
“Well, the funds that aren’t being used to heat the school right now would have to come to you,” said Rosie. “We’d just need to talk to the council.”
“And you think Blaine will go for that, do you?”
“You’re on the council though,” said Rosie quietly. “And I think if anyone could talk other people into things, it would be you.”
“Would it?” said Hetty, a small smile playing around her mouth. “Looks like it’s also something you like trying your hand at. But honestly, Rosemary, it’s just not practical.”
“Of course it’s not practical” said Rosie. “Practical would be sending in some builders to fix the school. THAT would be practical. If the bloody council would actually do it.”
“You know we’re responsible for more than just Lipton,” said Hetty.
“Yes,” said Rosie stubbornly. “But this is the place you really care about.”
“Ofsted won’t allow it,” said Lady Lipton.
“Ofsted wouldn’t deny you anything, not after all the press. It’s for two weeks.” Rosie played her trump card. “And Stephen gets out tomorrow. . . . He’ll be here. Every day. ”
Her voice faltered a little as she said it.
Lady Lipton paused, then started in again.
“It would be torturous,” said Lady Lipton. “The noise. It would upset the dogs. And it would be too much work.”
Mrs. Laird was cleaning up the cups and saucers.
“No, it wouldn’t,” she said, her voice slightly trembly. She wasn’t at all used to contradicting her employer. “No, it wouldn’t. I’d get my church rota up here.”
Hetty stared at her.
“Are you telling me you clean the church in your spare time?” she asked in amazement.
“I like things nice,” said Mrs. Laird. “I think . . . I think everyone in Lipton would like things to be nice for the children, after the shock they’ve had. Those schools in Carningford . . . they’re pretty tough. It’s too long a day for our little ones. I think . . . I think we owe them.”
Both Hetty and Rosie were silent after this little speech. Rosie mouthed “thank you” behind Lady Lipton’s back. Lady Lipton shook her head.
“I’m sure I won’t be able to get it through,” she said slowly.
“But you’ll try?” said Rosie eagerly.
“There’s an emergency meeting tomorrow. To talk about the buses.”
“We don’t need the buses!”
“All right, all right, hold your horses. A week, okay? I’ll take them in for a week, for heating money. After that, it’ll be off my hands.” Rosie felt like kissing her but wisely did not.
“And now I’m going to church. You should come to church. Everyone thinks you’re a heathen.”
“I am a total and utter heathen,” said Rosie. “But I’d pray quite a lot if it would help the school.”
ROSIE LEFT AFTER repeating her thanks so often that she realized she was in danger of becoming very annoying. Lady Lipton kept also saying that it probably wouldn’t happen, that it was a terrible idea and that it would leave the house even more of a wreck than it was already. After Rosie had retrieved Mr. Dog from his pile of brothers and cousins—he wouldn’t come when called; Hetty had stood there and sniffed and suggested she get him trained immediately—she picked him up, took him out of his ridiculous jacket, for which he licked her face massively in gratitude, and said goodbye one final time.
“Honestly,” said Hetty. “Between you, Mrs. Laird, Stephen and bloody Lilian bugging me to let the school thing happen, I haven’t had a second to myself. Bloody phone hasn’t stopped ringing.”
Rosie stopped in her tracks.
“What?” she said, sure she’d misheard. “Stephen called you?”
Hetty rolled her eyes.
“I might have known you two would cook up something like this between you.”
“Really? Ha! HA!” she said. The ridiculous lightness in her shoulders suddenly made her realize how much her disagreement with Stephen had been weighing her down. “Really? That’s amazing. Amazing.”
And before the older woman could object, she darted forward and kissed her quickly on the cheek.
Chapter 9
“THANK YOU.”
“It’s still a ridiculous idea.”
“I know. Thank you, though.”
“I have to turn my phone off.”
“Stop being annoyed with yourself that you did a nice thing.”
“I didn’t do anything. I reflected on the logic of the position.”
“You did a good thing, Stephen Lakeman.”
“Could you stop bothering me on this number, please, whoever you are?”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow after the council meeting.”
“I cannot believe how much gossip gets around this town.”
“You’ve made him a laughingstock.”
“He likes it.”
“Right.”
“Good night, you.”
“Are you in bed?”
“Maybe.”
“Is that dog there?”
“Awroa,” said Mr. Dog.
“Okay, could you remove the dog, then tell me what you’re wearing?”
Rosie looked down at her tartan flannel pajama bottoms and thermal top.
“He’s gone,” she lied, putting her hand over his muzzle.
“Go on then.”
“Um, I’m wearing a push-up Agent Provacateur bra, with my breasts kind of spilling out the top of it . . .”
“Go on.”
“I hope you’re not doing something naughty in the hospital.”
“I’m not, actually,” said Stephen. “It’s still too bloody painful. I feel like my skin is going to rip every time I move my arms. But I find it soothing to hear you talk to me.”
“Wouldn’t you rather hear a story?”
“Yes,” said Stephen. “A story about the imaginary underwear you’re wearing while you pretend you don’t have the dog in the bed.”
“Okay,” said Rosie, smiling. “Well, I’m just unwrapping the long silken ties at the side of my navy satin French knickers trimmed with red lace . . .”
“Awroa,” said Mr. Dog, settling himself down comfortably on his duvet, and Rosie continued to talk on the phone, and outside the snow fell again until she could tell by the breathing at the other end of the line that Stephen was finally asleep.
IRONICALLY, THE COUNCIL meeting was usually held in the schoolhouse, which was still surrounded by police tape. They had adjourned instead to the Red Lion, the pub’s convivial atmosphere slightly marred by the tension evident in the room. Rosie had to sit outside until the matter of the school came up on the agenda. She was surprised when she was called in to see no sign of Hye. Roy, on the other hand, was looking at her with an unpleasant sneer on his face.