Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams

by Jenny Colgan

  She hardly heard the Land Rover pull up beside her, till it honked loudly.

  ‘OK, OK,’ she said, trying to pull the bike off the muddy ruts to the side of the road. ‘I’m moving! I’m moving! Bloody hell.’

  Moray leaned out of the window. ‘Need a lift?’

  Even though she would have liked nothing better than to tip the damn thing on to the path and leave it there, Rosie shook her head.

  ‘I have this gigantic bike,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, uhm, I can see that,’ said Moray. ‘Sling it in the back.’

  Sure enough, the Land Rover was about the size of a truck. Rosie tried to fling it in casually, but the damn bike swung round and knocked her on the shin. Muttering darkly, she manhandled it in upside down, taking the milk out and putting it on the side.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Moray when she clambered into the front seat, ‘are you always either soaking wet or covered in straw?’

  ‘Have you always lived in a world of rain and mud, even when everyone else followed the industrial revolution and moved?’ said Rosie. ‘Look, it’s clouding over again.’

  This was true. Ominous black clouds had appeared out of nowhere.

  ‘How do they even do that?’ Rosie complained.

  Moray glanced at her as they continued bumping up the pitted track.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he asked finally. ‘Is this some kind of alternative to prison?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, I think so. It’s not easy coming to stay somewhere new.’

  ‘No,’ said Moray. ‘No. It isn’t.’

  ‘Everyone thinks I’m some kind of city type that knows nothing about country ways.’

  ‘Is that mud on your nose?

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Rosie crossly, looking to change the subject. ‘I’m going home soon.’ Then she thought back to the farm. ‘How’s that old man’s hip? He didn’t look too happy.’

  ‘Week five,’ said Moray.

  Rosie squinted. ‘He should be moving better than that. He’s mobile, but he’s obviously wincing.’

  Moray glanced at her again. ‘I agree. I think that old witch … ahem, I mean, his wife … is forcing him back into stuff he’s not ready for. Jake helps out, but I think she’s pushing it too far. A little exercise is good …’

  ‘Like digging a vegetable garden,’ said Rosie, regretfully.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Moray. ‘But I think she’s got him on full-time hoofing, and it’s not doing him any favours.’

  ‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘Maybe if you drew up a plan? One of those ones on official-looking paper, that mentions the word “insurance”? Those are always handy. And have a word with Jake, see if there’s some way Mr Isitt could look like he was working without actually having to move the wrong way?’

  Moray raised his eyebrows. ‘That might work.’ He was pulling up in front of Lilian’s house.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Rosie. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

  She got out of the car. Moray jumped out and helped her with the bicycle.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rosie. ‘Now I shall take it into the garden and ceremoniously burn it.’

  Moray smiled. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘if you like … it’s always useful to have a nurse’s eye around the place. We have a district nurse, but she’s quite frightening and marches about looking for things to vaccinate … Well, anyway, if you like, I could take you out on my rounds tomorrow. Show you around a little bit. To say thanks for your help yesterday. And for, well, inadvertently getting me to check in on Peter Isitt. He wouldn’t come to the surgery in a million years.’

  Rosie thought about it. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Will I get absolutely soaking and mucky?’

  ‘Not normally,’ said Moray. ‘But seeing as it’s you, I expect so.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Lilian said, pushing at her soup with her spoon.

  ‘It’s more vegetable soup,’ said Rosie firmly. ‘With plenty of cream. And eat lots of bread. Good bread.’

  ‘I would rather,’ said Lilian, in a dignified fashion, ‘have a tutti frutti.’

  ‘Well, you can’t,’ said Rosie. ‘You have to build up your strength. I think we need to get back to work on the shop. Formulate your way ahead for when I go back to London.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Lilian. ‘And when are we starting? Tomorrow?’

  ‘You’re not starting at all. You’re getting your strength back.’

  ‘And you? Tomorrow?’

  ‘Uh, no, not exactly,’ said Rosie. ‘Actually, uhm, the local doctor asked me out tomorrow. To, er, show me around. Show me how nice it is here.’

  Lilian’s eyebrows shot up. ‘That young whippersnapper. Hmm.’

  ‘What?’ said Rosie. ‘It’s nothing. He’s just being friendly. He’s not after me. He’s only ever seen me covered in muck. It’s just friendliness, that’s all. And I have a boyfriend.’

  ‘So you say,’ said Lilian. Rosie chose to ignore her.

  ‘You’ll get yourself a reputation in the village,’ said Lilian, thickly smearing butter on her bread.

  ‘I think I’m doing that already,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I think you are too,’ said Lilian primly. Then they lapsed into silence once more.

  Chapter Seven

  You would have to be very ill indeed to consider a lozenge any kind of a treat.

  ‘Come home if you don’t like it.’

  Rosie couldn’t believe Gerard had another hangover. He sounded a bit surly, not at all like himself. She’d really wanted to touch base with him just to reassure herself. She had been startled by how daft and girlish she’d been yesterday when Moray and Jake had been helping her up, and wanted to get back in touch with the man she really wanted, and her real life, which wasn’t all mucky and covered in cow. But she’d woken Gerard up on his day off, and it didn’t sound like he was best pleased to hear from her.

  ‘You’ve only been there a few days.’

  It sounded like he thought she was whingeing at him continuously, rather than the truth: Rosie had never lived anywhere other than the city and neither had Gerard. She might as well have moved to Timbuktu. She wished he could be just a little bit more supportive.

  ‘So … so you can’t come up this weekend then?’ she said, hating herself for sounding like she was begging.

  Gerard sighed. ‘Let me see,’ he grunted, desperate to get off the phone and back to sleep.

  Hanging up, Rosie felt very alone. She and Gerard hardly ever had a cross word, or so she thought. Maybe, it struck her now, they just hadn’t been paying attention. She wished he would propose to her, so she could stop panicking about this kind of thing. Feel secure. Now she felt she was careering round the countryside, covered in mud, without a clue what she was doing. She hadn’t even had the chance to tell him she was off for the day with a handsome doctor on his rounds, so there.

  Dimly, Rosie wondered if Moray thought this was some kind of a date. He wouldn’t, surely? Although of course she’d arrived on her own, and she wasn’t wearing a ring … Just in case, she would have to disabuse him. On the other hand, if he was telling the truth and it was just a professional outing, then that would be the most embarrassing thing ever and probably quash any hopes of them becoming mates. She decided to play it by ear. And at least stop dressing like a bedraggled lamb.

  She was going to look pretty, and elegant, and friendly, but not sluttish or desperate. Outside it was partly sunny, partly cloudy, but if it was at all wet or messy today, Rosie was determined to stay inside the car. Making interesting conversation with a new friend. Who happened to be pleasingly tall and had a calm manner and a rather naughty smile. But that wasn’t important either and of course she hadn’t even noticed. She sighed.

  ‘Lilian, do you have an ironing board?’ she called downstairs.

  ‘Are you making yourself up to look slack?’ came the imperious tones. The new soft diet didn’t seem to be softening up her aunt’s tongue any, Rosie noticed.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, darling, of c
ourse I have an ironing board. Do you know what it’s for?’

  Lilian had been sitting in her chair, daydreaming.

  1942

  The centre of the hall was, if anything, even hotter, and at first, among the bright, excited faces and sparkling eyes, Lilian hadn’t been sure she’d be able to spot him. Margaret was waving gaily and smiling at people she even vaguely recognised, sipping her punch and whispering that she thought some of the hay boys had brewed their own beer, and should she try and get some for them. But Lilian said nothing, and had gone stock still, for there, in the far corner, not dancing but engaged in what was clearly some very serious chat, were two heads, one curly and brown, one blonde, a particular thick, corn-coloured shade that Lilian would never come to like.

  Lilian found herself gripping her cup so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She felt a furious flush start at her chest and climb up her neck, to the very tips of her ears; her entire body was suffused with burning heat, that she was sure must be attracting stares. The noise and clatter around her suddenly sounded like so many squawking birds, and her chest tightened up and made it difficult to breathe. At that exact moment, Henry Carr looked up and saw her stricken face. No expert in the moods of women, he wondered what was wrong with her. Then, when he tried a cheery smile and received nothing in return, he wondered if it might be something else.

  ‘I’m just going out … to get a breath of air,’ Lilian managed to gasp to Margaret, who was already entertaining the affections of a young, very short soldier who had teeth not dissimilar to her own.

  ‘Ooh, are you going to get the beer?’ said Margaret. ‘Get some for us, will you?’

  The young man smiled at her agreeably, but not before Ida Delia had marched up to the party.

  ‘Lilian,’ she said, ‘are you all right? You look very high-coloured.’ Her voice was dripping with fake concern. ‘It’s not Henry, is it?’

  At that moment Lilian knew that Ida Delia had set her cap at Henry precisely because she knew Lilian liked him; that it had greatly increased his attraction for her. And what Ida Delia wanted – like the lovely green print dress with its tiny bird motif – Ida Delia got.

  ‘I mean, there’s nothing wrong? It’s just every time you see us together you seem to go all queer!’

  She laughed a little tinkly laugh that sounded like someone crushing glass.

  ‘Henry! Come say hello to Lilian.’ Ida waved in a way that implied that Henry was her devoted slave, following solely at her whim.

  ‘I’m just going out to get some air,’ Lilian managed to choke out again, her eyes stinging.

  Henry grinned at her optimistically. ‘One dance?’ he said.

  Just then the ramshackle band struck up a fast-moving jitterbug.

  ‘Oh no, I can’t,’ said Lilian, covered in humiliation. She had waited for him, was expecting him … but there was Ida Delia, smothered in the perfume she insisted came from Paris, her perfectly ringleted blonde hair set tight against her forehead. She barely disguised the look she gave Lilian as Henry asked her to dance.

  ‘Yes, you should dance with him,’ she said to Lilian in a superior manner. ‘He’s a very good dancer. Could teach you a thing or two.’

  The sound of ownership in her voice was so distinct, Lilian immediately felt back in the pecking order at school, when everyone took their cue from Ida. Almost unable to say no, she let Henry take her by the hand and lead her to a tiny uncongested spot on the busy dance floor. Young red-faced soldiers still in heavy tweed trousers were jitterbugging furiously, trying to chat up ladies who were enjoying the unusual situation of being outnumbered.

  Instead of attempting all the silly new moves, Henry simply took her in a dance hold and led her around, nimbly keeping to the rhythm. Ida Delia had been right; he was a good dancer. Lilian gradually found her body relaxing, as she let him lead her wherever he wanted to go.

  Emboldened, he attempted a spin or two; she flunked the first one but managed the second, and suddenly felt herself swept up in the music; they hit every beat, and as Henry bent her back, both of them laughing into each other’s eyes, she forgot, for possibly the first time in her life, to be self-conscious. She didn’t worry about who was watching; didn’t think about anything other than the person regarding her, twirling her around the floor as if it was the Christmas ball at the great house (which she had never visited, of course), rather than Lipton scout hall and social club on a Saturday evening with a crowd of military boys on leave. The brash bare bulbs overhead dissolved to shimmering chandeliers; the tin cups next to the punch became crystal goblets full of the finest wine; the plank walls seemed hung with tapestries and thick plush curtains, her skimpy, dull dress a full, swinging gown. And her partner the handsomest, kindest, most charming prince she had ever imagined.

  As the dance ended, their hands lingered, unwilling to let go. Ida Delia of course was there, clucking over them like a mother hen.

  ‘Well, there you go,’ she said to Lilian. ‘Did you enjoy that? I told you he was a good dancer.’

  She slipped her hand through Henry’s arm like she owned him.

  ‘Now come on, get me a drink,’ she whispered to him. Henry looked at Lilian askance. Lilian was confused. After the way they’d danced … he wasn’t going to let Ida Delia drag him off, was he?

  Henry was confused. This girl was all over him. All he wanted to do was dance more with Lilian. But even as he looked at her, she was retreating, with that anxious face again. When they’d danced, she had glowed; she had looked straight at him and it had felt … well, it had felt like nothing he’d ever felt before. But now she looked awkward, uncomfortable, like she didn’t want to be there with him at all. Even now, she reversed into a table full of half-discarded cups – and suddenly upended it, without realising.

  Ida Delia erupted into high-pitched peals of laughter. Henry leapt forward to clean up the mess, and hush the expostulations of the soldiers who’d been sitting there. But Lilian, horror-struck, looked at the catastrophe, turned around and fled.

  Outside, in the quiet and the coolness of the air, Lilian marched to the end of the field, past the already paired-off couples, breathing in deeply the fresh meadow grass and honeysuckle until she reached the fence at the far end. When the music of the band had fallen behind her and the smoke had left her nostrils, and she could hear the lambs calling for their mothers in the hills, she grabbed on to the wire and waited for her heart to slow down. She felt, for the first time, unbelievably and dramatically stupid.

  The mess, the fuss. He must think she was such a fathead. Going all gooey over one dance, then making an idiot of herself. Looking at the huge stars dripping from the sky above her, she cursed herself over and over. Then, even though she hated herself for doing it, she turned round. Just in case. Just in case he had seen her, and understood, and come after her. Like David Niven would have done.

  There was nobody there. Not even Margaret. Lilian rubbed furiously at the ridiculous rouge she had painted on her face and vowed never to come to a dance again, and went to find her bike.

  By the time Henry had calmed everyone down, finished clearing up the spilled punch and gone into the field to find her, she was gone.

  Rosie presented herself for inspection, her bouncy dark curls washed and hanging loose around her face; mascara, a touch of blusher to give her the pretty pink glow she was still waiting for the countryside to bestow on her; a black sprigged skirt with opaque tights and a black jumper.

  ‘Can’t you girls wear a bit of colour?’ sniffed Lilian. ‘So much more flattering to the skin. Look at me, for instance.’

  It was true; today Lilian was wearing a lilac top underneath a very pale pink pinafore with heavy silver jewellery. It should, Rosie reflected, make her look like a four-year-old. Instead, the effect was charming.

  ‘You look lovely,’ said Rosie. ‘Not sure it would suit me, though.’

  Lilian harrumphed, as a hearty voice yelled out, ‘View halloooo!’ and pushed through the back door w
ithout knocking. It was Hetty.

  ‘Oh good, you’re up,’ she announced, looking around expectantly and taking off her gloves.

  ‘How cold was it last night?’ asked Lilian.

  ‘A three-dogger,’ said Hetty, incomprehensibly to Rosie’s ears. ‘Stick the kettle on, will you, toots?’

  Rosie belatedly realised this meant her and jumped next door.

  ‘Rosie has been getting up Roy’s nose,’ said Lilian by way of conversation.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Hetty. ‘I don’t hold with dentists anyway. Ridiculous bourgeois convention.’

  Rosie peeked her head round the door. Sure enough, Hetty had long, strong-looking yellow teeth, exactly like a horse.

  ‘Nothing wrong with the teeth God gave you. When are you opening up?’

  ‘Well, our Rosie has got herself a date today, so she can’t work,’ said Lilian mischievously.

  ‘I have not,’ said Rosie, feeling her face go hot as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘And you’re not having tea, by the way, you’re having Bovril. And a peanut butter and banana sandwich.’

  ‘I don’t eat American things,’ said Lilian. ‘They were too late entering the war.’

  Rosie rolled her eyes and ignored her.

  ‘It’s that young Dr Moray,’ said Lilian to Hetty. ‘Taking her out in his car.’

  ‘And you accepted?’ said Hetty, looking amused.

  ‘Yes!’ said Rosie, suddenly cross. ‘Because it’s not 1895, and because I’m not fourteen. So you can mind your own business!’

  Hetty and Lilian exchanged another look.

  ‘No,’ said Hetty. ‘Obviously you are not even vaguely like a fourteen-year-old.’

  Rosie stomped back into the kitchen to finish making the tea.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lilian, her voice carrying effortlessly through the cottage’s thick stone walls, ‘you know why he’s asking her?’