Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop

by Jenny Colgan

  “Ah, MISS Hopkins.”

  He emphasized the “miss.” Rosie had heard Roy was married, but she steadfastly refused to believe it. She also didn’t believe he could go out in direct sunlight, eat garlic or touch a cross.

  “Here for the good of the town’s children as usual, I suppose?”

  “Always,” said Rosie. She looked around. Lady Lipton was chairing. An empty seat where she guessed Hye was meant to be. Roy, and his lawyer brother, looking ponderous in a gray suit. The nice woman from the bakery. The fat Reverend, looking cheery as ever at the prospect of a free cup of tea, and both Dorothy and Peter Isitt, who ran the farm across the way. Dorothy had never liked Rosie ever since she accidentally ruined her vegetable patch. She eyed Rosie balefully.

  Rosie was tempted to make a speech, but it wasn’t really the right time to do it, so she decided to just focus on the most important thing.

  “This is best for the children,” she said. “It’s clearly the best. They’ve had a fright. Sending them away is a terrible idea.”

  Roy showed off his ghastly teeth.

  “I believe what’s best for the children is the best educational environment. Not a draughty, unsuitable room, but a state-­of-­the-­art primary facility with a running track and a new playground, as well as professional teachers in the best of health.”

  “Yes, but it’s an hour away,” said Rosie.

  “Added to this, the money the town would save busing the children would allow much-­needed repairs and work required in the village for the benefit of everyone.”

  “There won’t be a village if you shut the school,” begged Rosie. “It’ll just turn into some chocolate-­box second-­homers’ place, full of retired ­people and just pointless.”

  “I didn’t realize you thought Lipton was pointless,” said Roy. “No doubt you’ll be wishing to shoot right back to London then, your ‘first’ home.”

  Rosie bit her lip. This wasn’t going well at all. She looked at Lady Lipton imploringly, but Hetty was having none of it.

  “The money we save,” said Roy, “could do so much. And the buildings here were old anyway. They needed any number of improvements we simply can’t fund. For so few children it simply doesn’t make economic sense.”

  “But it makes our kind of sense,” said Rosie, hot-­faced and tongue-­tied. “It makes emotional sense. It’s just right to have our own school for our own children.”

  “It’s not about keeping our children here,” said Roy. “It’s about what’s best for them, remember? And I don’t think what’s best for them is letting a lorry plow through the middle of them.”

  Rosie bit her lip at the harshness of his words. He then pulled out a long list of figures. There was absolutely no denying they made terrible reading. It would save a huge proportion of the budget to shut down the school. Rosie thought of Tina having to give up her job because she’d have to drive hours every day just to get Kent and Emily to school. How long before she jacked it in and moved? She thought of Stephen, and what he would do without a job—­or would he commute, too? She hated this idea. Stephen wasn’t made for sitting in a car. He was made for striding happily with his stick in a town where everyone knew him, teaching his own way—­Mrs. Baptiste let him get on with things—­instead of stuck in endless meeting and marking sessions. He would be miserable in Carningford, with its chain stores and fast-­food outlets and 2-­for-­1 drinks nights, lit up by neon signs. Saturday night in town was an absolute no-­go area unless you wanted to get into a fight. She sighed. But the figures . . .

  After everyone had had a chance to properly digest them, and a few more ­people had pontificated one way or the other, it came time for the vote. Roy was looking smug, confident that his economic talk would prevail. And then the hands went up.

  “All those in favor of moving the children to Carningford, active immediately?”

  Roy, his brother and Dorothy Isitt raised their hands.

  Roy looked annoyed.

  “And against?”

  The woman from the bakery, Lady Lipton and, to Rosie’s surprised delight, Peter Isitt raised their hands. He’d be in trouble with Dorothy tonight. She was already shooting him rude looks across the table.

  “Well, Hye agrees with me,” said Roy immediately and fussily. “He told me already, we can’t afford it.”

  “But Hye’s not here,” said Lady Lipton.

  “But he would vote against! He told me already.”

  “Unfortunately, Hye’s not here,” repeated Lady Lipton. “And as chairman of the council, I’m afraid I have the casting vote. Which means I have to welcome an enormous bunch of the little brats into my own home. I can’t believe what I was thinking of.”

  Rosie had leapt up excitedly.

  “Yay!”

  Roy looked absolutely furious.

  “But Hye—­”

  “It’s too late!” said Rosie, resisting the temptation to add, ‘in your face.’ “The vote’s binding, isn’t it?”

  The woman from the bakery was already excitedly typing up the minutes.

  “And Stephen gets home tonight!” said Rosie excitedly. “He can start back practically straightaway!”

  Roy was still staring at his page of figures, stabbing it with a pen.

  “Can you leave us while we get on with other business?” said Lady Lipton to Rosie, who bounced up before anyone tried to change their mind. She winked at Peter Isitt, who blushed and looked down at his hands.

  ROSIE SWUNG BY the doctor’s office.

  “Can’t stop,” said Moray, dashing into the waiting room. “I’m rushed off my feet today. Shorthanded.”

  “Because Hye . . .”

  “Food poisoning,” said Moray, his handsome face totally smooth and unreadable. “Poor chap. Something he ate disagreed with him.”

  Rosie stared at him.

  “Of course you would never—­”

  “What on earth are you implying?” said Moray. “I hope you wouldn’t be making dreadful medical and legal slurs against me.”

  “No,” said Rosie quickly. “Not at all.”

  “If a man guzzles his body weight in oysters and foie gras at the golf club every night, statistics say it’s bound to catch up with him sooner or later.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  And she waltzed up the high street to tell Tina the wonderful news.

  ROSIE WAS TERRIFIED of driving home in the dark on the snow-­covered road. Having an irritable passenger behind her wasn’t particularly helping.

  “Watch out for that,” Stephen was saying. He was, ridiculously, lying along one of the sideways seats in the back of the Land Rover, piled high with blankets. Rosie felt as if she were driving a mission in the Second World War. But sitting up was still a little too painful even though the doctors had said his wounds were healing faster than anyone they’d ever known. He could stand and move around perfectly well, but sitting was more difficult.

  “They should have fitted you with a robot bum,” Rosie had said, and Stephen had ignored her in front of the consultant. He had made a ­couple of remarks about missing the painkillers, but seemed quite chipper on the whole. Only Rosie could tell from the clench of his jaw that he was still in a lot of pain.

  “Watch out for deer on the road.”

  “Deer?” said Rosie. “Oh for goodness’ sake. I slightly have my hands full watching out for snow, ice, darkness, great big horrible lorries, hedges and schools. And I can’t see any of those things. And someone is distracting me from the back.”

  Stephen flopped back on the bench seat. Rosie checked out his strong profile in the rearview mirror. He was biting his lip distractedly. She had to force herself to keep her eyes on the road, he looked so handsome. They hadn’t seen another car in miles; it felt as if they were alone in the universe. The moon shone full in a cloudless sky and lit up the frost
ed countryside all around, so it was barely dark at all, despite Rosie’s complaining. One by one, the bright yellow stars popped out, and the moon gave off a cold light so that the outline of the distant hills was visible. The cold and stillness gave them the feeling of being on an alien planet.

  Stephen gazed out the window, steeling himself. This time he was not going to fall into his old trap of getting caught up in his head. He would not close his eyes and see, again and again and again, the shape of the huge lorry pushing a hole through the classroom; he would not hear the roar of the engine and the sharply rushing wind. He blinked and focused on the distant stars.

  Rosie put on the radio. A young choir boy was singing “Do You See What I See?” very slowly and sweetly. It was incredibly beautiful. They both listened to it in silence. When it had finished, Rosie noticed Stephen surreptitiously wiping his eye.

  “Are you CRYING, Lakeman?” she said, reaching back and squeezing his hand.

  “NO,” said Stephen, forcing himself to buck up. “It’s so flipping cold in here my eyes are watering.”

  “That’s right. You’re not at all crying.”

  “No.”

  “ ‘A star, a star . . . dancing in the night . . . with a tail as big as a kite,’ ” sang Rosie tunelessly.

  “ ‘And is it true?’ ” quoted Stephen, looking out at the night sky. “ ‘And is it true?’ For if it is . . .”

  “Are you going pious on me in my old age?” said Rosie.

  “No,” said Stephen. “But on a night like this . . . so silent . . .”

  “Yes!” said Rosie. “Almost like, you know, some kind of SILENT NIGHT.”

  Stephen laughed, finally.

  “Do you ever feel that things are meant to happen in a certain way, Rosebud?”

  Rosie didn’t take her eyes off the road.

  “Of course not,” she said.

  “You don’t think you and I were meant to meet? I mean, we wouldn’t normally.”

  “What, because you’re posh and I’m common as muck?”

  “Yes,” said Stephen.

  “Oh,” said Rosie. “Well, anyway, no, of course I don’t.”

  “Nobody’s up there guiding us?”

  “Nobody was guiding those rebels in Africa, no,” said Rosie softly. “It’s rubbish. The idea that somehow some benevolent deity sends an angel to watch over whether American football players will win a match but wants every third baby in Liberia to die. It’s disgusting. That God would bother about whether we fell in love but wouldn’t bother that there are kids in India whose eyes get eaten by worms while they’re still alive. Okay, you know, I don’t THINK so.

  “It’s just us, my love. Making the best of the here and now.”

  Stephen was silent for a bit.

  “Okay,” he said. “Gosh, I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it.”

  “Try working in A and E,” she said. “Anyway, you of all ­people know life isn’t fair.”

  “I know,” said Stephen with a sigh. “Just, on a night like tonight . . . so beautiful . . . and I’m on my way home, and Edison is getting better . . . No, you’re right, of course.”

  He was still gazing out the window.

  “Well, whatever gets you through the night,” said Rosie. “If it makes you happy.”

  “I think I’m just so relieved,” said Stephen. “I’m coming home, all fine, nice and cozy, and we’re going to have a lovely quiet Christmas and not go out at all, apart from to my bloody mother’s every day, but at least I’ll be working . . . and Mrs. Laird can bake us things, and we’ll have Christmas just the two of us in front of the fire, all to ourselves, and not get dressed all day and it’s going to be amazing. . . . It’s not been easy, Rosie. But it makes me happy now.”

  Rosie glanced at him one last time.

  OH GOD, she thought in despair. I HAVE to tell him Angie’s coming. I MUST.

  But looking at his beautiful face, no longer screwed up in pain, or irritable or cross, just tired and homesick, she found she was too drained—­or, to be strictly honest with herself, too much of a coward—­to tell him QUITE yet. She would, she would, she would.

  “All I Want for Christmas Is You” came on the radio.

  “Now THIS is my religion,” said Rosie quickly, whacking up the volume, and they bopped home along the bumpy road to Lipton.

  EARLIER THE MAN had walked around the care home on his own. Matron had been welcoming but a little puzzled.”

  “So he’s outside?”

  “Yes, he’s in the car,” said Edward Boyd. “We’re looking at homes . . . you’re quite far away, but we heard really good things about you.”

  Cathryn Thompson raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, that’s nice”

  Edward, whose car had barely a scratch on it, and who had not a clue about what had happened with the lorry, had emailed Moray after the incident in Rosie’s shop, and Moray had obligingly sent back a list of decent homes that could cope with dementia. He’d made it entirely clear that Cathryn’s was quite the best he’d seen, and Moray had seen them all.

  “It’s a bit of a drive, but nothing we don’t mind making.”

  Cathryn looked at him. “Does he still know it’s you?”

  Edward shrugged.

  “Sometimes. He spends a lot of time talking about his boyhood. . . . It’s odd because when I was little, he never mentioned growing up at all. He was badly injured in the war, and we knew better than to ask him. But now he talks about it a lot.”

  “That’s very common,” she said. ­“People lose their recent memories but retain their old ones—­especially youth. For some reason, adolescence writes itself ridiculously strongly on the brain, which, given what an awkward time it is in most ­people’s lives, is a bit annoying. But it means that those memories stay, even when ­people can’t recognize their nearest relatives. Your mother?”

  “Breast cancer,” said Edward. “It was . . . it was a long time ago now.”

  “And your father was fine?”

  “No, he was heartbroken. But then he got over it, and he seemed all right.”

  “Did he meet anyone else?”

  “He never did,” said Edward. “We were really surprised, to be honest, he was only sixty, and a really handsome man.”

  He grimaced. “I take after my mother’s bald chunky side of the family, I’m afraid. My father had a wonderful head of hair.”

  Cathryn nodded politely.

  “But no, he was just a one-­woman man, I think. He always kept himself to himself rather. I don’t even know what happened to him in the war, not properly. Then in the last five years . . .”

  Cathryn nodded.

  “It’s difficult to watch.”

  Edward looked out the window. He’d had to leave the engine running to ensure that his father didn’t freeze.

  “Money isn’t a problem” he said. “It’s just . . . oh, it’s hard to say goodbye.”

  Lilian and Ida Delia were earwigging furiously through a partially open door.

  “Is it a man?” came Lilian’s voice finally.

  Cathryn turned around. “Get back inside, you two,” she said.

  “Don’t listen to them,” she added to Edward. “They’re boy-­crazy.”

  “We just need a man to make up the . . . men contingent,” said Ida Delia. “It’s really not fair.”

  “Also apparently he’s handsome,” added Lilian.

  “Have you been listening at the door all this time?”

  Edward couldn’t help smiling. The other homes he’d seen—­the one his mother-­in-­law had ended up in—­had been places of sadness and despair, simply waiting rooms for death. This seemed rather more like a nice country house hotel.

  Of course that was reflected in the price, but they’d sold his father’s house when he’d moved
in and kept the money safe for exactly this, and, well, they were doing all right, had a bit put by. Of course they wouldn’t inherit anything, and his dad probably wouldn’t notice if they stuck him in the Ritz or a jail cell, but that didn’t matter. It was about doing the right thing.

  Edward believed very strongly in doing the right thing. He sometimes saw himself as being part of a thin line preventing the world from being overrun by texting hordes of terrifying hoodies. This meant he occasionally found the modern world a rude and uncertain place. But it also meant that when it came down to the wire, doing the right thing meant a lot to him, and he was bloody well going to do it now.

  He eyed the two women.

  “Are you the troublemakers around here?” he asked with a smile.

  “They most certainly are,” said Cathryn.

  “We most certainly aren’t,” said the slender one in the dainty peach day dress, which was beautifully ironed. “We’re just sick of dancing with each other.”

  “She leads,” explained the one with the long blond hair, incongruous against the old face, the blue eyes milky and nearly buried, but still valiantly lined with violet eyeliner.

  “I have to lead, I’m tallest.”

  “Not anymore, you’ve shrunk. When we were ELEVEN, you were tallest. And looked like a boy.”

  “Compared to you looking like a tart.”

  “Jealousy will get you nowhere.”

  “Jealous? Of you?”

  “Ladies!” Cathryn stepped in.

  “You know, we probably could do with a few more men here, now you come to mention it,” she said to Edward. “Let me see what we can do.”

  “Well, that would be wonderful.”

  “But you’re sure you wouldn’t want to bring him in to have a look?”

  “I’ll try,” said Edward, sighing.

  The old man, after some cajoling and some sweets, agreed to come up the steps. Lilian and Ida Delia watched excitedly through the window.

  “Ooh,” said Lilian. “He’s tall. I like a tall man.”