Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop

by Jenny Colgan

  “You know who he reminds me of . . . ?” said Ida Delia, but a sharp glance from Lilian reminded her that, although it was many, many decades ago, the tall man they had once both loved, and lost, was not up for discussion.

  “His hair still curls,” said Ida Delia quickly. Indeed, the patrician figure with the stick, his back still straight despite his great age, did make a good impression.

  “How much dementia?” said Lilian. “Like, out of ten.”

  “You two,” said Cathryn with a warning note in her voice. Then she stepped forward.

  “Mr. Boyd,” she said kindly, holding out her hand. The old man took it.

  “Nice . . . nice to meet you,” he said in a voice that, though quavering, was still surprisingly deep. “Call me James.”

  “Welcome to our home.”

  “Delighted.”

  Edward beamed, happy that his father was having one of his more lucid moments.

  “Now, would you like me to show you around?”

  “It’s nice and warm in here . . . I think I can take off my coat.”

  Edward took it and hung it neatly on a hook by the door.

  “Come through and I’ll show you some of the facilities,” said Cathryn. “Could you wipe your feet, please?”

  James did so.

  “I think he’s fine,” said Ida Delia.

  “I saw him first,” said Lilian, an out-­and-­out lie.

  The man looked up and saw them both. It was as if he froze for a second. And without warning, a tear began to fall from his eye.

  “Dad?” said Edward, desperate that this wouldn’t go wrong. “I’m sorry,” he said to Cathryn. “He’s been much better recently.”

  “New surroundings can be upsetting.”

  “You,” said James, but it wasn’t at all clear who he meant or who he was pointing at.

  “Come and sit down and have a cup of tea,” said Cathryn. “And you two, SHOO. I mean it.”

  Lilian and Ida Delia headed off to watch television together. They had a shared loathing for everyone who took part in scripted reality shows, and thus absolutely had to watch all of them together in order to better anatomize and discuss the faults of the young ­people taking part in them and therefore of today’s society in general. They felt this was important work that often required tea and Smarties.

  JAMES RECOVERED QUITE a lot once he’d sat down and had a cup of tea. He was almost voluble.

  “I am finding things difficult,” he said haltingly. “My brain . . . it just won’t . . . the words won’t appear in my hands. No, not my hands. My mouth.”

  Cathryn nodded.

  “I understand. It’s upsetting.”

  “And I know, I know I was born in Halifax, and I grew up there, but I don’t remember it, not at all. I just remember strange things all the time, like nothing makes any sense.”

  “I won’t lie to you,” said Cathryn, taking in Edward too. “This is a horrible illness. We will do everything we can here to make things comfortable and easy for you. When it’s not snowing, a lot of ­people like to work in our garden.”

  “I used to shear sheep,” said James suddenly. “Do you have sheep?”

  “He didn’t have anything to do with sheep,” said Edward sotto voce. “He managed a printing company. He gets confused.”

  “No, we don’t have sheep at the moment,” she said. Then turning to Edward, “We find it is often easier to agree with clients about what they think is happening. When it’s unimportant, it avoids unnecessary stress.”

  Edward nodded.

  “Okay.”

  “We might get sheep later and you can help us, okay?”

  “Yes, yes, I could still do that,” said James. “You never forget. Well, I forget. Ha. I forget. Can I have some tea?”

  “There’s your tea,” said Edward, pointing to the cup already poured. James turned around and immediately knocked it to the ground, then stared at it as if he had no idea what he’d just done. Cathryn leapt forward to take care of it immediately and summoned one of the care assistants to mop up while she comforted both of the men. James was very upset.

  Suddenly Edward’s eyes, too, filled with tears.

  “I can’t . . .” he choked. “I don’t . . . I mean, to leave him here.”

  “He’ll be in safe hands,” said Cathryn reassuringly. She had taken to Edward. He would pay his bills, visit his father, and appreciate the kindnesses done rather than complain about the occasionally mismatched furniture or worn wall coverings.

  “He was . . . I mean he was a good dad,” said Edward, holding his father’s grip tightly. “He wasn’t demonstrative, we knew that—­he was distracted, and busy a lot of the time. But we knew he loved us. And when he got upset about the war . . . well we knew he liked us to be near.”

  His voice choked again.

  “And now we’re dumping him.”

  “Ssh,” said Cathryn. “Ssh. You are lucky, both of you. Edward, to have a father who you love and who loves you, and James, to have a son who is willing to take the very best care of you, right to the end. But it’s not the end, I promise. Many of our residents—­well, you have met a ­couple. But many of them flourish here. When Miss Hopkins came to us, she was so weak she could barely walk; and now she has found a completely new lease on life tormenting Mrs. Carr. And you will get your nights back, and sleep again, and stop worrying constantly about what James is doing and how he’s being looked after, so you’ll be happier too, and you can visit him and sit with him whenever and for as long as you like. I won’t tell you how much money I’ve been offered to go to run large health-­care home groups, and big chains of institutions, Mr. Boyd, but I won’t. I think it’s wrong. I think we do better on a small, local level where ­people know each other. And I give you my solemn word that we will all do the very best we can for your father.”

  It was as if a weight had been lifted from Edward’s shoulders. Suddenly, he looked like a younger man.

  “Thank you” he said. “Thank you. I’ll have to talk it over with Doreen, but . . .”

  Cathryn Thompson smiled at that. She knew, in the end, it was always the women who were the least sentimental. And who did the most laundry. She didn’t think Edward would have the slightest difficulty convincing Doreen.

  Chapter 10

  FOR THE FIRST two seconds after she awoke, Rosie felt almost completely happy. She was buried under the blankets up to her neck, like a rabbit in a hole, warm as toast. She could feel Stephen next to her, finally sleeping soundly, breathing quietly—­he had found it hard to settle and get comfortable. The familiarity of him back in her bed filled her with a great sense of security and happiness and peace, of the world being as it should be, and the snow on the window ledge felt as if it had always been there. She stretched out her toes luxuriantly, putting off as long as possible the second when she’d have to roll out of bed onto the icy floor. She kissed Stephen’s head gently so as not to wake him . . .

  Then she remembered. And groaned. It was Wednesday, two days after the council meeting. Mrs. Laird and all her ladies had been working around the clock to get two rooms ready for the children and install the infamous luxury Portaloos Lady Lipton hired in for her hunt ball. Rosie had even heard that a chimney sweep had come in and cleared the great fireplace in the hallway, but that couldn’t be true, could it? Health and safety would have a fit. A fire officer had checked the place out, everything was moving for once at super-­fast speed. Rosie tried to imagine this happening in London. She couldn’t. Everything would have to go through ninety-­five levels of complicated management meetings and take about nine months. Here, however, they had called it an emergency protocol and everything was fine. She supposed, when she thought about it, that Carningford probably hadn’t been too keen on taking fifty new, slightly traumatized children either and had been only too happy to hand back the problem.
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  She hopped up and started to fill up the tub. The water steamed in the chilly bathroom. Water was much cheaper up here, and the pressure was fantastic, flowing down from the mountains. Rosie did not miss her spindly little shower in the old London flat, and she luxuriated in the bath every time she had a moment, which wasn’t that often. She nipped downstairs and turned on the coffee machine, stoked up the stove, and glanced at the time. She had twenty-­five minutes, plenty. It was pretty cool not to have a commute.

  But. But. She wasn’t as relaxed as she normally was sinking into the tub because she knew. Somewhere on the other side of the world, right now, six ­people were getting on a plane. Ready for the holiday of their lives. And she had done nothing to sort it out. This was awful. No more excuses. Nothing. It had to be done.

  “What are you looking so thoughtful about?” asked Stephen, groaning and holding his back a little as he came in the bathroom door.

  “Sorry, sweetie,” said Rosie. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Well, you probably shouldn’t have charged up and down the steps like a baby elephant then.”

  He wiped the mirror, then glanced at Rosie behind him. The bath had made her skin turn all pink.

  “You look nice,” he observed.

  “I can probably make space,” said Rosie.

  “Oh no, can you imagine? Can’t get it wet.”

  “You are really going to honk very shortly,” grumbled Rosie.

  “You can give me a bed bath, Matron,” said Stephen.

  “I will do that,” said Rosie. “You won’t enjoy it as much as you think you will. Are you going back to bed?”

  “No,” said Stephen. “If I do that, I just lie there thinking about how itchy I am. I’m going to limp up to the school actually. You know, just have a look.”

  “Are you sure? You’re on sick leave,” said Rosie. “You’re not well.”

  “I’m mending,” said Stephen. “Out and about is apparently the best way to mend. As I remember a certain someone telling me last year.”

  “They’ll be pleased to see you.”

  “I doubt that, back to school.”

  “They need stability right now. Even though you’ve just started, they need to see you. I’m glad you’re going.”

  “Me too,” said Stephen grudgingly,

  Tell him, Rosie said to herself. TELL HIM.

  But instead she heard herself say, “Would you like some poached eggs?”

  “Christ no,” said Stephen. “I mean, my doctor said they’re not advisable at this point.”

  “Oh,” said Rosie. “Okay, one, two, three.” And she leapt up, forcing herself out of the lovely bath into the frigid room. Stephen picked up one of the rough old towels they’d somehow inherited from Peak House and dried her, tickling her breathless.

  “Stop that!” she squealed.

  “Why, what will we do, wake the neighbors?” teased Stephen. “We are the neighbors.”

  “Stop it or . . . or I’ll touch your back,” said Rosie, a threat that worked sufficiently well for him to release her. She shimmied into a burgundy woolen dress and cardigan, thick tights and boots, ran a comb through her hair, put on a little lipstick and mascara and charged out the door. Then she stuck her head back in, still furious with herself.

  “We have to talk about something tonight,” she said.

  Stephen’s brow furrowed.

  “Can’t we talk about it now?”

  “No,” said Rosie. “It’s longer than now.’

  “Am I going to like it?”

  “Um. Not sure. But it’s not that bad.”

  “Okay,” said Stephen. “No, tell me now.”

  “Later.”

  His deep blue eyes caught hers.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  Rosie jumped back, almost as if she’d had an electric shock.

  “Oh, oh God. No. NO. Definitely not. Cripes. Is that what you thought?”

  She watched his face closely. She couldn’t tell if he was happy or unhappy.

  “No,” said Stephen quickly. “I saw you with the red wine bottle last night.”

  “Oh, yes, ha.” Rosie tried to laugh, but neither of them could quite manage it. Rosie’s mind started racing; they’d hardly been together that long or anything . . . on the other hand, she wasn’t as young as she used to be . . . but she’d just started the business . . . and she couldn’t tell if he thought it was a good idea or a terrible idea, the way he just sat there . . .

  Her head spinning, Rosie forgot all about her family.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Stephen, looking embarrassed. “Yes. Okay. See you later.”

  “Later. Yes.”

  STILL IN A daze, Rosie opened up the shop in the dark. Lights were already moving up and down the main street, and many ­people stopped outside to get the little ones an extra something for their first day at the big house.

  “How are you, Crystal?” Rosie said to one of her regular customers. Lilian had known the name of every single child she ever served, and Rosie saw that as good business too, but she wasn’t as practiced at it as Lilian was.

  Crystal shrugged and pointed to the alphabet letters. This wasn’t like her. Rosie glanced at her mother.

  “She thinks Lady Lipton is a witch who’s going to eat them,” whispered her mother.

  “No way,” said Rosie. “Do they all think that?”

  “They’re petrified.”

  Rosie clapped her head in her hands. “Oh my Lord, this is what’s called the Law of Unintended Consequences. Crystal, you know that Lady Lipton isn’t a witch?”

  Crystal shrugged, eyes fixed on the floor. Finally, a very quiet voice:

  “Have you seen how she dresses, though?”

  Rosie laughed.

  “Oh, that’s just how posh ­people dress! Honestly. She’s not a witch.”

  “She lives in a haunted house.”

  “It’s just a big house.”

  Crystal stuck out her hand and took her sweets without saying thank you until her mum prompted her. This wasn’t like her at all.

  “Don’t worry,” said Rosie. “I’ve put some witch repellent in with your sweets, okay? If you share them out, you’ll all be safe.”

  Crystal perked up.

  “And, also, she’s not a witch!” Rosie added hurriedly as they left the shop with a ding. It was the same with every family that came in: nervous children somehow convinced that they were being driven to a terrible doom.

  “I can’t believe we thought we were doing them a favor,” Rosie said to Oliver, the baker’s husband, who’d brought in little Fraser-­James to buy him a chocolate Santa to stop him crying.

  “I know, I know.”

  “I’m going to phone Mrs. Baptiste. Tell her not to read them any Roald Dahl today.”

  AT 9:30, AS the morning rush slowed and Rosie started dusting and polishing the shelves, there was a ding at the door.

  “You’ve missed a bit,” came the unmistakable cranky voice.

  Rosie turned around.

  “Lilian!” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you today!”

  In truth, she was glad of the distraction. She was finding her own thoughts a bit overwhelming at the moment.

  “Let me get your chair. Tea?”

  “Moray ran me in. He was up seeing some old duffer upstairs.”

  “You really shouldn’t talk about the other residents that way.”

  “But they’re so old. Oh, we have someone new coming.”

  “Really? What’s she like?”

  “No! It’s a man! And he’s a dish.”

  Rosie filled the two cups from the newly boiled kettle.

  “Excellent,” she said.

  “That Ida Delia Fontayne has set her cap on him, b
ut I saw him first.”

  “Ida Delia would never get picked over you,” said Rosie scornfully, bringing in the tea from the tiny galley through the back.

  “Hmph,” said Lilian. “Well, not twice.”

  Rosie smiled. It amazed her how much Lilian still thought about Henry Carr. She put the tea down on the counter.

  “Okay, what will you have?”

  Lilian’s eyes sparkled and flew among the shelves, even after all these years.

  “Two flumps, two flying saucers and three soft vanilla fudge,” she said, quick as you like.

  “Coming up,” said Rosie cheerfully. “Oh, Lilian, I need your advice.”

  Little was more likely to make Lilian happy. Even if her advice normally involved ­people getting on with things and not making a fuss and going back to pre-­decimal currency and out of the European Union, which was apparently where everything bad had started.

  “Oh yes?” said Lilian, stirring two sugars into her tea. She stayed dainty as a mouse, Rosie often thought, because she ate nothing else at all. “You couldn’t possibly need advice from a useless old lady like me.”

  Rosie rolled her eyes.

  “Okay, okay.”

  She explained about Angie arriving the next day.

  “I was going to tell Stephen before,” she said. “But there was the awful business with the school, and I was so worried he was going to . . . react badly. And now, he just seems so happy that I hate to give him all this hassle and . . . well, it’s kind of gotten away from me.”

  Lilian sipped contemplatively.

  “Have you ever,” she said, “had a problem that got better by your ignoring it?”

  “Yes!” said Rosie. “All the time! Loads of problems go away by themselves. Look at that weird lump I had on my leg”

  “Well, all right. But this one won’t,” said Lilian. “Short of a plane crash.”

  “Let’s not wish for a plane crash, okay?”

  “That’s the problem with falling in love with those Mr. Darcy types,” said Lilian.

  “Hmm,” said Rosie. She sold some chewing gum to a gas man in a hurry.

  “But Rosie, you know you can’t expect someone just to love you when nice things are happening and everything’s cozy. If you dedicate yourself to making someone else’s life happy at the expense of your own . . . well, obviously, I’m only a silly old idiot, but I don’t believe either of you can be happy like that.”