Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop

by Jenny Colgan

  “Can’t you do it? Now?”

  “Not that quick,” said Moray. “And no, I’m not trained. And you should probably discuss this with Rosie, you know?”

  Stephen put up his hand. “I don’t want to worry her. She has enough on her plate.”

  Moray scribbled something down. “This is the name of the therapy, and a local practitioner, but you can find it anywhere. If you want me to refer you, I can.”

  Stephen took it.

  “I’ll let you know,” he said.

  And that, thought Moray, was better than nothing. He hoped that just knowing it was a solvable problem might cheer up his gloomy friend.

  Stephen turned at the doorway, his hand twisting the knob.

  Here it comes, thought Moray. He’s going to beg me for drugs or mention something else or start swearing . . . Patients notoriously didn’t tell him what was really the matter until they were turning the doorknob on the way out.

  Instead, Stephen paused.

  “Thank you,” he said. Then he was gone. Moray remained surprised all the way through Crystal Harris’s bum rash.

  ROSIE TRIED TO put the umbrella up when they got outside the hotel in the driving rain and wind, but it kept turning inside out, so they just made a run for the car in the end. The weather was absolutely vicious. She dropped everyone off at Peak House after having been given a full rundown of the entire experience of sledding from the point of view of a three-­year-­old (punctuated every five minutes by Kelly saying, “No, it wasn’t like that, Meridian”), then turned around and headed for home. Stephen was there already, lighting the fire. For a moment, going in, she felt her emotions flood up through her: part softness, watching his strong form bending down to fling in the wood, conscious, always, of his leg; part crossness at his lack of commitment.

  Could she give it up? Or should she take all he could offer, even when it wasn’t much, because of her love for him? Should she carry on down that road? After all, she thought, thinking of Gerard, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice . . . Was it too much for her? she wondered. Was getting married and having a family just going to be one of those things that passed her by? Was she going to follow in Lilian’s footsteps, living a quiet, sheltered life, always dreaming of the past?

  And what about Lilian? She couldn’t leave Lilian, could she? Although a little voice inside her reminded her of how preoccupied Lilian had been recently, how involved in the politics and social life of the old ­people’s home, surrounded by friends and ­people who cared about her. And Lilian, however crusty, wanted Rosie to be happy. She knew that for a fact.

  “Hey,” said Stephen, distracted. “How’s it going?”

  Rosie shrugged.

  “You know.”

  She moved in toward the kitchen.

  “I was thinking . . . I mean, I know it’ll be expensive, but I’ve been trying to save a bit of money . . .”

  “Mmm?”

  “What if I went to Australia next year? Maybe February, when it’s still really cold here?”

  Stephen looked at her.

  “How long for?”

  “Well, just for a visit, you know. I . . . I do miss them.”

  Stephen nodded.

  “Well, yes, of course.”

  He didn’t even ask, thought Rosie miserably. He didn’t even ask what I was thinking, if I thought I’d be happier there, if I missed them too much. He doesn’t want to come with me, and he doesn’t even care.

  Good, thought Stephen, a holiday for Rosie. Maybe that’s what she needs to perk her up a bit. And get her away from me bringing her down, he thought darkly. He wouldn’t want to be around him right now either.

  “I thought I might go down and see the guys in the Red Lion tonight. Is that all right?”

  “Of course,” said Rosie. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Chapter 16

  THE DAY OF the school carol concert dawned, thankfully, white and sunny. Stephen was counting on a good turnout. It had taken a lot to persuade his mother to let ­people into the house at all. She had made sniffy remarks about its not being a National Trust Open Day, but on the other hand the children had already ruined practically everything in their estate, so it barely mattered. If they sold a lot of tickets at the door, that would be a good thing. Rosie was also doing a little stand, manned by Tina, so ­people could buy sweets to eat afterward, and Mrs. Laird was going to do tea, coffee and mulled wine. Nothing had yet been decided about the fate of the school, but the council had not voted to release the funds, and things looked ominous. If this was to be the last-­ever Lipton School carol concert, Mrs. Baptiste was very keen that it be a good one.

  Cathryn was sending the old ­people in a minibus. Mrs. Baptiste had offered to take the concert to them, but Cathryn believed in ­people getting out and about, to have something to look forward to and a bit of variety, even if, as she explained, they only complained about it afterward, so she was sending a minibus. The turnout should be massive after everything the children had been through and given the fact that it might be their last carol concert ever. Stephen nervously counted and rechecked the rows of chairs to make sure everything was set. Peter Isitt was also there, due to come on at the end dressed as Santa Claus with gifts for all the children.

  The little ones were jittery with excitement. All had freshly washed hair, neatly pressed shirts and sweatshirts with the words LIPTON PRIMARY still proudly emblazoned on them—­for now. Emily was wearing a special new red velvet ribbon in her blond hair. Stephen told them to relax, all the time anxiously scanning the horizon for the first of the cars before they kicked off at three o’clock.

  THIS WAS SURPRISING, thought Rosie. She’d turned up nice and early to help Tina with the stall—­they’d shut the shop for the afternoon, as she couldn’t believe anybody would be left in the village. But the great ballroom wasn’t filling up quite as quickly as she’d expected. Obviously some of the mums were there, but not a lot of the dads—­couldn’t they take a bit of time off for their children’s concert? It was winter, after all, not the busiest time of year for farmers. She couldn’t even see Moray. The minibus arrived from the old ­people’s home and she popped out to help them down and bring them in as close to the miserly fire as possible. She’d hoped that having lots of bodies in the room would warm things up a bit, but it wasn’t nearly as busy as she’d expected. She’d texted Cathryn to tell her to bring extra blankets, and Cathryn texted her back to say thank you but they’d been to Lipton Hall before and had already loaded the blankets, hot-­water bottles and flasks.

  “I’m looking forward to being caterwauled at,” said Lilian, waving away Rosie’s offer of help as she descended regally from the bus. “Is there real wine in the mulled wine?”

  “Yes,” said Rosie. “So go easy.”

  “And you’re selling sweets?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good for you. You should bump the prices up a bit, you’ve got a captive audience.”

  “Lilian!” said Rosie, but she wasn’t really shocked. Meridian appeared from nowhere and hurled herself around Rosie’s legs. Desleigh weakly reminded her not to run across car parks. Kelly smugly held her mother’s hand.

  “Hello, Spidey,” said Rosie. “Did you say hello to your great-­great-­aunt?”

  “That makes me sound disgustingly old,” said Lilian, but she gave Meridian a broad smile and handed her a little lollipop. “I brought my own,” she confided. “I didn’t want to get price gouged.”

  Rosie rolled her eyes.

  “Can I sit with you, Auntie Rosie?” asked Meridian.

  “Of course,” said Rosie, kissing her. “Just give me a minute, okay, sweetie?” Meridian skipped off to show her big sister her lollipop. Kelly immediately stuck out her bottom lip and tugged on her mother’s arm. Desleigh led them all off to the sweet trolley.

  Lilian regarded Rosie sh
rewdly.

  “You’ve got rather attached to that one.”

  “Well, she is clearly the cutest three-­year-­old ever,” said Rosie defensively. Lilian smiled. “Oh, all three-­year-­olds are like that,” she said. “I’ve known them all. No, you like that one specially. I used to have a niece I liked specially like that.”

  She looked at Angie with pride. “If I had another chance . . . You know, I’m sad I missed so much of all of your childhoods.”

  Rosie looked at Lilian, wondering what she was getting at.

  “Parents aren’t allowed to have favorites,” she said slyly to Rosie. “But aunts ALWAYS can. Now. Sit me between the fire and ‘James Boyd.’ ”

  “Why are you saying his name like that?”

  But Lilian sniffed and looked mysterious and refused to answer.

  “Tell me about going to Australia,” she said. And that truly made Rosie’s eyebrows lift.

  AT TEN PAST three, Stephen looked around at the half-­empty room and sighed. Well. Rosie had really done her best getting the school sent up here, but it was obviously not succeeding. Look at this. From the other end of the room, Rosie was thinking the exact same thing, with a grip of fear round her heart. If that was the best Lipton could do, they were doomed. No one cared about the school, or the children. It would have to go to Carningford . . . and after that . . . well.

  Meridian put her sticky arms around Rosie’s neck—­she weighed a ton—­and sighed with happiness.

  “I like being with you, Auntie Rosie.”

  “I like being with you too, Meridian.”

  “I AMNT MERIDIAN.”

  Rosie kissed the soft cheek and gave her a squeeze. Meridian retaliated by kissing her on the mouth.

  “LOOK AT MY BIG KISSES.”

  Rosie glanced at Tina, who was doing a miserable trade in soft chews for the old folk.

  “Is Jake not even here?” she said crossly.

  “He said he had an urgent repair down at the Isitts’,” said Tina. “You don’t want to get on the wrong side of Dorothy. Sorry.”

  Mrs. Baptiste was playing the piano. Unable to delay any longer, desperate not to disappoint the children, Stephen caught her eye and nodded, and she brought down her hands to start to play a rousing version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” as the children, starting with the biggest, filed onto the stage and lined up neatly, spotless in their school uniforms, singing their little hearts out to a half-­empty room.

  EDWARD LOOKED AT the email in shock and disbelief. Or rather, the attachment. This was the last one. He had sent emails off to every Boyd in Halifax who had served in the war—­and there were a lot. Most ­people had been extremely kind and very obliging, but none had been a lot of help. Then the regiment’s historian himself had gotten in touch, very kindly, and sent him everything he could to help. He couldn’t have been nicer. That very touching generosity made everything else somehow harder to bear.

  Edward sat down.

  “Doreen?” he called weakly. His wife came through, glancing over his shoulder.

  He scrolled down slowly, picture after picture, none of which he’d ever seen before. His father had come back from the war, according to his own account, with head injuries, and had never talked about his life before the war. He had gotten married very soon afterward, to Edward’s lovely mother, who had raised him and his brother, and even though their father was quiet, he wasn’t noticeably shyer than many of his friends’ dads from that era, who’d seen things and sustained injuries they never wanted their children to know about. He was just Dad, working at the printing company, occasionally ruffling their heads or telling silly jokes.

  The man in these pictures was James Edward Boyd, born April 5, 1921, 2nd Battalion Royal Fusiliers, honorable discharge 1944. All the dates matched, the regiment; there was even a faded copy of the telegram that had been dispatched to James’s brother, then acting as his guardian. It was undoubtedly the same man.

  This man was not Edward’s father.

  TINA’S EMILY WAS a very quiet child, but Stephen had discovered to his surprise that when she started to sing, she was possessed of quite a pair of lungs. She didn’t sing at home, she said, not really, and Stephen was amazed and vowed to have a word with Tina. . . . Then he’d thought it would work even better if he held on to it as a surprise. So when the little girl stepped forward on the final stanza of “In the Bleak Midwinter,” Tina’s gasp was entirely audible.

  “ ‘What can I give him? Poor as I am. If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb.’ ”

  Lilian glanced sideways. James Boyd was watching the girl sing, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  “Shepherd,” he said, barely audible.

  Lilian took his old wrinkled hand in hers and patted it.

  “Yes,” she said. “You’re a shepherd.”

  “I’m a shepherd.”

  AT THE BACK of the room, Tina and Rosie were both in bits as Emily’s pure, high voice cut through the room.

  “She’s amazing!” said Rosie

  “I know!” said Tina.

  “Ssh,” said Meridian. “I listening”

  STEPHEN SMILED IN glee as the rousing “Ding Dong Merrily on High” started up—­with the glorias as usual spinning wildly out of control. And then, to finish it off, one of the big boys, self-­conscious, sat down with his guitar, and suddenly, twenty-­four little sets of bells appeared from underneath chairs.

  “ ‘While shepherds watched their flocks by night all seated on the ground, an angel of the Lord came down, and glory shone around . . . SWEET BELLS!’ ”hollered the children, thrashing the bells with vast enthusiasm. “ ‘SWEET CHIMING SILVER BELLS! SWEET BELLS! SWEET CHIMING CHRISTMAS BELLS! THEY CHEER US ON OUR HEAVENLY WAY, SWEET CHIMING BELLS!’ ”

  It was uproarious, and the applause raised the roof. Stephen looked rather overcome by the success of the music. He came out to general applause, looking pink-­faced and proud. Rosie stole a glance at Hetty. She had her gaze firmly fixed on the mulled wine. Ugh, that dreadful woman.

  “And now,” Stephen announced loudly, with a grin. He had been hoping to do this proudly in front of the entire village—­a bit schmaltzy, but it was Christmas—­but this would have to do.

  “We have two very special guests!”

  “Santa!” went a muffled buzz among the children, now sitting cross-­legged in front of the stage. Stephen smiled and hushed them. Mrs. Baptiste started up a rousing tune.

  “Ta dah!” said Stephen. And on came Peter Isitt, done up in a proper St. Nick’s outfit, with a long cloak and black boots and a big white beard.

  “He had to get a CRB check for this,” whispered Tina. But then she fell silent as she saw who was beside him. Waving madly, in a wheelchair decorated with tinsel, pushed by his proud father, was Edison.

  Even in a half-­empty room, the cheer shook the foundations of the old house and the children all rang their bells.

  Edison’s face was wreathed in smiles. He’d never been so popular in his entire life. One by one, all the adults got to their feet. Rosie was totally choked up and clapped her hands together so hard they hurt.

  Edison was wearing, as well as his shiny new gold-­rimmed glasses, a small elf’s hat, and Peter let him read out the name on every gift and pass it over to the appropriate child. Being Edison, of course, he insisted on embellishing it and shaking every child’s hand formally as he handed over the book-­shaped parcels, congratulating them on being nice rather than naughty. Mrs. Laird moved into position behind the big vats of mulled wine and hot chocolate on the far table, and Tina and Rosie helped themselves to wine gratefully. Tina blushingly accepted compliments about Emily. She had been such a quiet little thing—­it had gotten so much worse since the accident—­and there she was, singing her little heart out. Tina’s own heart swelled with pride.

  “Amazing,” said Rosie. “Now I
must go and see Edison. Um, and Stephen.”

  But before she could thread her way through the crowd to the makeshift stage, there was more of a commotion at the front door. Her head shot around.

  “What is this?” Hetty said very loudly, filled with horror at the idea of normal ­people coming in the front rather than the back door.

  Tina twisted her head around too. It was Jake, absolutely filthy.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Have we missed it?” said Jake. There were a ­couple of men behind him, equally mucky. Rosie spotted Moray among them.

  “What on EARTH is going on?” said Hetty, and for once Rosie wanted to say exactly the same thing.

  “Damn, we’ve missed it,” said Jake. “Bloody weather held us up. Oh well . . . follow us.”

  “What?”

  “Everyone in your cars,” said Moray, smiling. “Come on, follow us. We have something to show you.”

  “Certainly not,” said Cathryn, but Rosie and Tina started forward.

  “What on earth are you up to?” hissed Rosie.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” said Moray. “Everyone in their cars.”

  CATHRYN KEPT THE old ­people inside, but the rest of them piled into the various Land Rovers and SUVs parked around the front of Lipton Hall; they made an odd procession going down the street. Rosie had no idea what was up now.

  After ten minutes down the high street, they stopped. Rosie gasped. Most ­people were so stunned by what they saw that they couldn’t even park.

  Newly painted, freshly done, Lipton Primary School stood exactly as it had before.

  “What the . . .”

  Rosie stepped out, completely gobsmacked.

  “How . . . what the hell?”

  Jake laughed at her face. Rosie turned to Stephen, who, Pied Piper–like, was leading a small crocodile of children out of a minivan.

  “Did you know about this?”

  “Know about it? He was here with us till four o’clock this morning.”

  “I thought you were on the piss at the Red Lion.”