Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams

by Jenny Colgan

  Jake rolled his eyes. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Bad as ever?’ Lilian asked.

  ‘She’s a … she’s a …’

  Jake looked like he was about to say something harsh. Then, as if realising he was in the presence of two ladies, he checked himself.

  ‘OK. Here you go. Good as new.’ He righted the bike and held it up by the saddle.

  1942

  The village hall was wreathed in smoke under the lights, and perfume, mixed with a hint of illicit alcohol and sweat, and absolutely packed with people, young boys and giggling young girls. These were the boys down to work the harvest, along with the land girls, whom the local girls roundly shunned, seeing them, with some accuracy, as competition for the few remaining menfolk. Lilian had tried to chat to the land girls in the shop; she found them fascinating, with their confident ways and different accents, but they kept themselves to themselves too. Soldiers home on leave had come from all the towns around. There was an overheated atmosphere engendered by the warm night and the transient population; Lilian felt not just the excitement of looking for someone she desperately wanted to see, but also the sense she rarely had of being young and free, not tied down – although, of course, she was, in so many ways. For the first time in her life, it felt, she was walking into this hall without knowing every single person in there. With all the seventeen-year-old confidence she could muster, she thought that this just might be the most important night of her life.

  Margaret was in flirt overload, her eye wandering furiously, as they parked up their bikes and sidled in. The noise level was overwhelming. On the raised platform at the end the band were perspiring in their cheap shirts to keep up with the dancers, who seemed hell bent on squeezing as much fun out of the night as they could; as if they couldn’t predict when the next entertainment would be.

  Lilian paid the small ticket price on the door, and left her cardigan on her bicycle. She might not be wearing the most fashionable dress, she noted, but it was light, and cool in the hot sticky room, and her shoes weren’t smart with a heel, but they were comfortable. If, of course, anyone asked her to dance. She was almost too scared to scan the room, just in case he wasn’t there, and kept her head down as she followed Margaret to the fruit-punch stand. Hanging out by the punch was a good place to start and figure out who was where; it was at least better than immediately giving yourself up to being a wallflower, like Merry Foxington, whose spots were so awful Lilian was impressed she’d come out at all, and made a mental note to go and say hello.

  Clutching their paper cups nervously, Margaret and Lilian smiled at each other – which was about all that was possible through the noise – and looked around. This was definitely an unusual night for Lipton. The uniformed men were sitting down, looking handsome, with a couple of girls nearby. They were laughing with each other and playing the big men; telling stories about bravery, and beating ten men, and skirmishes in the sky and at sea. On the opposite wall, eyeing them up, were the harvest boys: those too young to enlist; the travelling groups who fought for no one; the farmers’ boys too important to go off to war. They were sunburned, not smartly dressed in uniforms, and looked awkward. There were no girls hovering around them. Lilian sensed there might be trouble later.

  Out on the dance floor the girls’ dresses shone like parachute silk; there was not much around, but they had made the best of what they had. Cyan blue, primrose yellow; the girls flashed and twirled around the floor to the enthusiastic farmers’ band, who were doing their very best Glenn Miller with a double bass, a banjo, an oil drum, two trumpets and a harmonica; laughing over-exuberantly, tossing back (Lilian noticed bitterly) perfectly coiled hair, as the Brylcreemed boys threw them about the floor, showing off their moves, sweating and nervous too.

  ‘We have to get a lumber,’ whispered Margaret in a state of high excitement. ‘We have to tonight. I haven’t seen so many men since we went to the parade.’

  Lilian didn’t answer. She wasn’t interested in too many men. She wasn’t interested in being whisked off by a navy man from Scarborough, or toyed with by a slumming-it officer down from Harrogate. There was only one boy, one mop of unruly nut-brown hair, one pair of laughing nut-brown eyes, that was of the faintest interest to her.

  Suddenly, she saw him at the other end of the hall.

  Rosie looked at Jake the bicycle fixer, and did her best to smile at him. She didn’t want a bicycle as good as new. She didn’t want a bicycle at all.

  ‘I’ve replaced the tyres, oiled the chain, fixed the brakes and raised the saddle … no disrespect, Miss Hopkins.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Lilian, sitting on the sun chair. ‘It is ridiculous that I keep getting shorter. The most appalling design flaw. Among the many, many shocking design flaws that accompany the act of getting older.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Still, I’m sure this is being passed into good hands,’ said Jake.

  That, Rosie was not sure about at all.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Rosie said, hoping Jake would simply leave the bike against the shed and stay for a cup of tea. Then, when they needed some of her aunt’s precious milk supply, she would just call a taxi.

  Jake was still standing there.

  ‘Well, let’s be having you then, I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m going to … in a minute …’

  ‘Come on, I need to see if the seat is the right height.’

  He shook the bike in what was obviously meant to be an encouraging fashion.

  Her heart in her throat, Rosie slowly stepped forward. This bike was huge, and weighed a ton. She held it up to herself, tentatively.

  ‘Well, this seems fine,’ she said brightly. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Come on, lass,’ said Jake again. ‘Let’s be having you.’

  With a sigh, Rosie threw up her leg, and tried to mount as if she was getting on a horse, all the while conscious of his eyes on her. Once in the saddle, her feet only just touching the ground, she set a foot to one of the pedals, telling herself fiercely that no one ever forgot how to ride a bicycle. Obviously this motto was invented on the assumption that you’d properly learned how to ride one in the first place, but still. Taking a deep breath, Rosie pushed the pedal forward.

  In her defence, she nearly made it. She pitched, and wobbled, and almost, almost got going, and would have too, if she’d managed to put her other foot on the pedal before starting to move, rather than flailing about with her right leg trying to find it.

  As it was, Rosie did a graceless soar across the right-hand side of the handlebars, straight into the flower bed, hitting her right shoulder before landing, winded, on her back, staring at the tiny clouds puffing across the sky.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Miss, would you like a hand?’

  Jake’s friendly face loomed over her, but actually, for the moment, Rosie felt she was almost more comfortable lying in the flower bed.

  ‘All right,’ she said finally, standing up and shaking herself like a dog. Her shearling coat was not standing up well to country life. She looked down regretfully at the flower bed.

  ‘Sorry about your lovely flowers,’ she said sadly, twisting her shoulder round to check for pain, but it was more her pride that was hurt.

  Lilian sniffed. ‘I don’t know what Angie was thinking of, not teaching you to ride a bicycle.’

  ‘She was mostly thinking of us not being squashed flat beneath the wheels of an enormous truck,’ said Rosie, conscious of being very pink in the face. Lots of her curls were escaping from the floral scarf that was meant to hold them back.

  ‘I’ll just go call a taxi,’ Rosie mumbled. Jake and Lilian looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  ‘That’s right, darling,’ said Lilian. ‘You’ll find it just beside Fortnum and Mason, opposite Le Caprice and near the National Gallery. There’s a whole rank of them. And some unicorns.’

  Jake smiled uncertainly and glanced at his watch.

  ‘Loo
k,’ said Lilian, ‘Jake has to get back. Go cycling with him, he’ll help you out.’

  Rosie rolled her eyes, but, with the sense that the day was getting away from her, she allowed herself to be led back to the bicycle. This time, Jake held the end patiently, disregarded her complaints and made her go a little way, then a little further, until finally Rosie turned her head and realised that she was moving and he wasn’t holding on at all! And it felt amazing; the wind blew in her hair as she started to pick up speed.

  ‘Easy now,’ yelled Jake, but Rosie couldn’t believe she’d never wanted to do this. Riding a bike was great! Confidently she took the alleyway at the side of the house. She hadn’t, though, realised it was on a downward slope and concrete instead of grass, so the bike moved very quickly. Before she knew it she was charging out into the street, completely unable to help herself.

  Thankfully there wasn’t any traffic coming down the road at that moment. Instead, marching down the street was the young doctor from the day before, carrying a heavy leather bag. Rosie attempted an insouciant wave and smile as she sailed past, but that made her wobble alarmingly and a slightly concerned look crossed Moray’s face.

  Still watching him, Rosie didn’t realise the bike was continuing to move, and she was about to hit an enormous rut on the other side of the road, where the cobbles ended and the mud began. Swerving to avoid it, she managed to get back on to another road which led downhill via a rutted track towards something marked Isitt’s Farm, past fields of cows who gazed at her as she passed by … Faster, Rosie realised, then faster still, as the inexorable slope made the bike pick up speed, with brakes that seemed to be doing nothing, her legs flying out akimbo, until all she could see in front of her was a gigantic barn and a grey stone farmhouse. She had only seconds to think how embarrassing it would be for Angie when her daughter was killed cycling into a wall on the second day of her new life, and to wonder in passing what Gerard would say in the eulogy at her funeral. How much would he regret not asking her to get engaged before she left London? It really was time to make a will, not that she had anything but debts to leave to anyone, but to specify absolutely and beyond a shadow of a doubt that her mother was getting nothing for insisting she move out to the ridiculous countryside solely in order to get killed.

  At the last moment, her adrenalised survival instincts finally kicked in and Rosie twisted the handlebar to the left, heading round the side of the house, through, to her utter horror, a perfectly maintained vegetable patch, with swedes and potatoes sprouting in neat rows, then swerving again, now losing speed on the level, until she ended up behind the barn, managed to turn a 180-degree semicircle and inelegantly let herself fall sideways, breathless, into a gigantic pile of straw in the middle of the Isitts’ farmyard.

  Staring at her from the side of the house were a stern-looking old woman and an old man leaning heavily on a walking frame. Both of them had their mouths open. Rosie tried to smile politely, as if crashing into someone’s farm was something she did every day. Her head hurt, and she felt a bit stunned, and her elbow had really taken a knock, even if it was in the straw. Suddenly, Rosie was overwhelmed with the desire to burst into tears. Instead, she seized on absolutely the last of her reserves of being-brave-moving-to-a-new-town, half smiled (it hurt) and said, ‘Hello.’

  The woman did not smile. ‘What the ’eck are you doing?’ she said, folding her arms and looking down at Rosie.

  Rosie was so fed up she was on the point of saying, ‘I’m from MI5 checking for sniper activity,’ when she heard two sets of running footsteps pounding round the side of the barn. She squinted and raised her head, and suddenly thought how much, however embarrassing a time she was having, however dishevelled and frankly unwell she appeared, she suddenly didn’t feel like an almost-engaged cohabiting type of person at all. Instead she felt a bit squeaky and slightly giggly. Because, as she dimly noted that a car was coming to a screeching halt outside, there, both looking concerned and out of breath, stood Jake and Moray.

  Rosie sat up as carefully as she was able, checking herself for broken bones. She could anticipate some pretty heavy bruising on her upper arms, never her favourite area at the best of times. She realised she was under the scrutiny of four people, and a cow.

  ‘Uhm, two pints of semi-skimmed?’ she said shakily, picking a piece of straw out of her hair.

  ‘Din you see what she did to Pa’s vegetable patch?’ shouted the woman. ‘Din you see?’

  The man didn’t look as upset as his wife. In fact, he didn’t seem too put out at all. He scratched his head.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ said Rosie. ‘The bike … must have malfunctioned.’

  Moray crouched down. ‘Well, you’re certainly making an impression,’ he muttered, as he peered professionally into her eyes with a tiny flashlight.

  ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ he asked her, and Rosie realised that she was quite dazed because she wasn’t actually focusing on his fingers at all, she was reflecting on how his eyes were a very unusual mix of blue and green, which probably meant she was concussed.

  ‘Uhm. Four,’ she said, snapping back. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘And are you drunk or under the influence of any substances …’ he asked, with a slight moue of amusement around his mouth.

  ‘Is that an offer?’ Rosie found herself saying before clutching her head in horror. ‘Sorry. Sorry. It’s been a big couple of days.’

  ‘So can I take that as a no?’ asked Moray, helping her to her feet.

  ‘Tragically, it is indeed a no,’ said Rosie, brushing herself down. She smiled at Jake, who was standing in the corner looking anxious. ‘You are the worst cycling teacher ever,’ she said.

  ‘Why didn’t you brake?’ he asked. ‘No, hang on, why did you throw yourself off a hill? This isn’t skiing.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t brake, could I? I’d just have gone arse over tit.’

  ‘Into our vegetable patch,’ said Mrs Isitt fiercely. ‘Oh no, you couldn’t, you’ve already ruined it.’

  ‘I am very sorry about that,’ said Rosie. ‘I really am. I’m new here.’

  Mrs Isitt flared her nostrils with a harrumph that made Rosie wonder if a horse had wandered into the barn.

  ‘While I’m here,’ said Moray, ‘Peter, let me take a look at that hip.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Mrs Isitt.

  ‘Yes, well, I’d still like to take a look. In passing,’ said Moray. ‘Seeing as we have no further casualties.’

  ‘Apart from …’

  ‘Yes, yes, the vegetable patch.’

  Rosie was still blushing from saying something so stupid to Moray, but Jake came up beside her, kindly asking, ‘Would you like me to get you the cream?’

  Rosie smiled gratefully. ‘I wouldn’t want to face Lilian without it.’

  Jake steered her towards the barn door.

  ‘You’ve got that silage to move,’ said Mrs Isitt huffily as he left.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Isitt,’ said Jake. ‘I’ll just sort this out.’

  Rosie followed him obediently.

  ‘You work for them?’

  Jake shrugged. ‘Times are hard,’ he said, in a tone of voice that indicated he didn’t want to talk about it any more. Rosie followed him quietly out into the dairy, a large, bare concrete area.

  ‘It smells funny,’ she said.

  ‘So do you, to a cow,’ said Jake. ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, where are you from?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘London! I’ve been to London!’

  ‘How did it smell?’

  ‘Terrible,’ said Jake. ‘Of frying grease, and noodles, and sweat and the exhaust from those great ruddy buses.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Rosie. ‘And takeaway coffee and Mexican food, and strange hair products and outdoor cigarettes and incense sticks and hot pavement …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jake sternly. ‘Ugh.’

  Rosie smiled, as Jake picked up two
plastic-capped water bottles, went to a large silver-metal vat and ladled them full of dense, freshly churned cream.

  ‘No charge today,’ he said. ‘But bring back those plastic bottles or else Mrs Isitt will have my guts for garters. And she will too.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘But how do I get back up the hill?’ she asked. Jake laughed.

  ‘Get a pedal on, girl,’ he said.

  ‘That is simply not possible,’ said Rosie severely. ‘You are kidding.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Jake. ‘I’ll send the helicopter.’

  ‘Jacob!’ came a shrill voice from outside the barn. ‘Are you getting on with that silage?’

  ‘I have to go,’ said Jake. ‘Bye now!’

  And he left Rosie standing there with her brimming bottles of cream, feeling more than a little dazed by the country life she’d expected to find so dull.

  The bike was absolutely fine, and someone had picked it up and propped it on the side of the barn. There was no one to be seen. Rosie looked longingly at the Land Rover parked outside the austere-looking farmhouse, but there seemed to be nothing else for it. She deposited the milk and cream in the ancient wicker basket at the front and started to push the heavy machine up the steep muddy track.

  It took for ever. At one point she was tempted to get up and try to ride again, but as soon as she did so she wobbled horribly and started to slip down the hill backwards, so she gave up and went back to trudging. The hill took a lot longer to get up than it had to get down, and while at some point she might have appreciated the view of the neat patchwork fields of the Isitts’ dairy farm, the cows roaming the green fields, eating in preparation for their evening milking, she didn’t care how it looked. A couple of fields, one brown and one red, were being ploughed up by a tractor. It was beautiful, thought Rosie, but she stamped uphill, red-faced, embarrassed, hot and cross. All she wanted was an Oyster card; a tube station; a sitdown in a coffee shop. To run into someone who didn’t appear to already know all about her. She glanced up the hill. Miles. Dammit. She was boiling hot, and incredibly thirsty and seriously pissed off and sick of being a laughing stock, and …