Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams

by Jenny Colgan

  There was a long drive down a heavily wooded track, where the trees blocked out much of the light. Rosie began to feel a touch of excitement; perhaps, like the great white house she’d glimpsed, this was something else out of a story. It felt as if anything could be at the end of the tunnel of trees: a fantastical castle, a great waterfall, a giant beanstalk.

  Instead, as the Land Rover emerged into the open, Rosie found herself looking at a road that led straight to the edge of a cliff. At the end, perched right at the top, and absolutely deserving of its name, was Peak House.

  At first glance, Rosie thought it was indeed from a fairy tale: the giant’s castle. It was a flat-fronted edifice of grey local stone; its forbidding aspect stopped it from being beautiful. It was a little too large, with rows of sash windows, unlit, facing into the late afternoon, where the sun was already leaving and a chill wind had begun to blow. Rosie made a mental note, as she stepped out of the unheated car, to buy one of those really unattractive down-filled parkas. It would make her look like a waddling penguin, but keep her warm in all weathers. Moray smiled gratefully.

  ‘You just stay there and enjoy yourself,’ said Rosie, starting the long walk towards the front door.

  ‘You just get us inside,’ said Moray, ‘with your exceptional charm. I’ll be, uh, right behind you.’

  Rosie stuck her tongue out at him and trudged on. It was a long way to the huge front door; once red, it had faded badly. The entire building looked a bit run-down, in need of care and attention. There was a bell, a proper old-fashioned clanging one, by the door. She couldn’t be meant to pull that, could she? Tentatively, she knocked. There was no answer. He could be very deaf of course. Many of her more elderly clients were.

  ‘Hello?’ She tried cautiously, then louder. ‘Hello?’

  No response. There was nothing for it. Biting her lip, she gave the bell pull a tug. The ringing erupted; in the silence of the high hills, it was deafening.

  Still no reply. Rosie started to worry. This did happen on the job, of course – sometimes old people, left alone too much, with no friends or relatives living close by, simply fell asleep in their armchairs and never woke up again. The older nurses who came to give lectures would tell them horror stories – of bodies fused to sofas, of terrible decomposition. It couldn’t happen to her, though, Moray wouldn’t let it. Surely? She glanced behind her, but the Land Rover, parked underneath a tree, was almost completely out of sight. But, Rosie thought, looking up at the big house again as shadows lengthened over the valleys, if it was going to happen anywhere, it would be up here …

  Telling herself not to be so stupid, it was just a spooky old house with possibly a dead person somewhere in it and no mobile connection, Rosie pushed at the door. Sure enough, it wasn’t locked. The door creaked as if auditioning for a part in a horror movie. Rosie sighed. In her head she could hear her friend Mike saying, ‘Yeah, Rosie, now go down to the cellar. Watch out for the axe,’ and tried to tell herself to calm down. But the sight of the unlit corridor in front of her, dusty wood parquet on the floors and Victorian paintings on the walls, did nothing to still her heart. Rosie sniffed, tentatively. No scent in the air apart from a little dust. Well, that was something. Unless, of course, there was already a skeleton.

  ‘Get a grip,’ she said to herself, out loud. ‘HELLO! HELLO!’

  Nothing. Rosie took a step into the building. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears.

  ‘HELLO!’

  The first door on her right revealed a large sitting room with two high-backed chairs around an empty fireplace. There were books on a shelf and pictures on the wall, but apart from that, no signs of human habitation at all.

  She closed the door and reversed back into the hall. Stepping forward again, she nearly screamed, then realised she had caught sight of her own reflection in a large, dull mirror.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. This was ridiculous. She marched forwards as quickly as she could, past the staircase and on towards the back of the house; the kitchen was always the warmest, so that was the most likely place for anyone … or anything … to be.

  Rosie pushed open the door, loudly and too forcefully, so that it crashed into the wall. Facing away from her was the silhouette of a man, sitting stock still. All the breath went out of her body. As she gasped, staring at the form in front of her, suddenly it twisted round and let out a high-pitched yelp of its own.

  ‘GRRRAAAAARGH!’

  For a second, they stared at each other, absolutely paralysed with fear. Finally, some oxygen made its way to Rosie’s brain, and she understood that she was looking at, a) a person; b) a living person; c) quite a young person, not entirely ugly, as it happened, and d) it was wearing headphones.

  As her brain computed this, the man, looking shaken, took the headphones out of his ears.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said, incredibly loudly. ‘And what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?’

  Chapter Eight

  While all sweets are not born equal, there are many on the layered shelves that perhaps escape the notice given to the more flashy of the species, such as the attention-seeking bumblebee stripes of the humbug, or the actual experience of pain that accompanies a red devil or a Wham Bar.

  Take, for example, the Refresher. It may seem nothing to you, a passing fizz, or a consolation prize for when one’s funds fail to rise to the challenge of a Toblerone. But the Refresher is, in itself, a work of art.

  Marvel at the colours: that delicate duck-egg blue; the palest powder-pink; lemon sorbet and eau de nil. Wonder at the hours of effort and experimentation that went into balancing the light sugar crunch with the faint but never intrusive fruity fizz upon the tongue. Admire the smart 1930s art deco striped packet and font, which has never needed to be changed or improved upon in its lifetime. Anyone who dreamed up anything as beautiful and wondrous as a Refresher, that has given so much joy to so many, really deserves a statue.

  Rosie was shaken up, there was no denying it. She gave him a Paddington Bear hard stare, but it had absolutely no effect at all; he was still staring at her furiously.

  ‘Oh,’ he said finally, his voice at a more normal register now he was used to his headphones being off. His eyes fixed on her bag. ‘What are you? Some nurse?’

  ‘I’m not some nurse,” Rosie said, trying to recover herself. She’d had a bad fright, at the end of an extremely demanding couple of days, and was finding it hard to control her emotions. ‘I’m here to help. And I stood outside for half an hour ringing your bell, actually.’

  He glared at her. ‘Why didn’t you come round the back door?’ he said, indicating a glass half-door at the back of the kitchen.

  ‘Because I’m not looking for a job as an under-housemaid,’ Rosie said. ‘I didn’t know where your back door was. What, you’d rather I poked all round the back of your house?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘You’re very grumpy for a nurse,’ said the man eventually.

  ‘Auxiliary nurse,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Oh well, that explains it,’ said the man sarcastically.

  ‘And you yelled at me,’ Rosie said, justifiably she felt.

  The man rolled his eyes. ‘I reserve the right to yell at anyone who materialises in my kitchen. You’re lucky I didn’t throw a golf club at you.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I feel right now,’ Rosie said. ‘Really, really lucky.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘I’ll just go get the doctor.’

  ‘That spiv?’ said the man. ‘Fuck off.’

  Rosie raised her eyebrows, and stuck Moray’s bag up on the scrubbed kitchen table. She’d brought it in for him just in case.

  ‘OK,’ Rosie said, ‘let’s take a look at you. Stephen … can I call you Stephen?’

  ‘As opposed to what – Patricia?’

  Rosie looked up at him. He hadn’t moved out of the chair to greet her. Behind him, leaning up against a kitchen range that was blazing merrily – it was substantially wa
rmer in here than it had been in the rest of the house – was a walking stick. He had very broad shoulders and a large head, with a thick brush of black hair. His brows were currently furrowed, but it was easy to follow the lines in his forehead and see that this was often his expression. His eyes were a surprisingly bright blue, given the blackness of his hair. He was sitting upright, and she noticed that his left leg was set out at a stiff angle, held away from the rest of him.

  ‘So, it’s your leg,’ Rosie said, taking out her blood pressure sac.

  ‘Good work, Sherlock,’ said Stephen. ‘Actually, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I don’t need anyone to come in any more.’

  ‘Really?’ Rosie said. ‘What happened to you then?’

  Stephen snorted. ‘You can tell you’re new around here.’

  ‘How are you finding getting around?’

  ‘I’m entering the Olympic gymnastics,’ said Stephen. ‘Honestly, I’m fine. Tell that horse’s arse Moray he can stop these visits.’

  Rosie gave him a look. ‘Could you make me a cup of tea please?

  ‘No,’ said Stephen rudely.

  ‘Well, could you get me a glass of water please?’

  ‘The glasses are in the cupboard behind you.’

  Rosie stared him out. With a heavy sigh, eventually Stephen pulled himself out of his seat. Rosie watched him closely. His arms were heavily muscled. It was patently obvious how he was getting around, and it wasn’t by using his leg. One leg was significantly thinner than the other. Stephen lugged himself to the cupboard.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve changed my mind,’ Rosie said. Stephen looked at her crossly, but it was with clear relief that he dropped back into the chair.

  ‘Are you going to let me take a look at it?’

  ‘No.’

  Rosie made some rapid notes on a piece of paper.

  ‘What are you writing down?’

  ‘Well, I’ll need to tell Moray to set up a plan for when they have to do the amputation.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Stephen. ‘It’s fine. It’s OK. I’m OK.’

  Rosie put the pad down with a sigh.

  ‘You’re nowhere near OK,’ she said. ‘You won’t even let me see it, you won’t put weight on it, I see no evidence that you’re doing your exercises, and you’re clearly depressed.’

  ‘I am not depressed.’

  Rosie was too quick for him and snatched up his iPod.

  ‘Leonard Cohen? This Mortal Coil?’

  ‘So that’s what they teach you at nursing university? Diagnosis by pop music?’

  Rosie looked around. The kitchen was clean and tidy, at least, and a lingering scent of toast hung in the air.

  ‘Who’s feeding you?’

  Stephen shrugged. ‘Mrs Laird comes in.’

  Rosie made a mental note to track down this Mrs Laird.

  ‘And she thinks you’re all right, does she?’

  Stephen looked as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. ‘I suppose. She normally doesn’t bother to wake me.’

  ‘And apart from that you’re here all alone?’

  ‘I like it.’

  Rosie glanced out of the large kitchen window. There were views right across the darkening valleys, down to the white mansion below.

  ‘Lovely views.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Which is why you were facing the other way when I came in.’

  ‘Look, nursey, I don’t mean to be rude, but could you go now please?’

  ‘I am at least going to check your blood pressure. You’ve certainly raised mine.’

  Rosie came round and took his left arm, which was extremely muscular. The band would hardly fit round it. She fumbled a little as she did it, nervous around his truculence and aware that she was off her turf. He was wearing baggy cord trousers that were patently too big. Stephen said nothing, sitting as still as a statue. Rosie was peculiarly aware of him so close up.

  She checked the dial: ninety over sixty. Low.

  ‘Well, that’s fine.’

  ‘Thank you, nurse,’ said Stephen.

  ‘What about eating?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Physio?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

  ‘Sleep?’

  For the first time, when he paused, Rosie glimpsed a crack in his armour. His voice, which before had sounded confident, if peeved, faltered a little.

  ‘Uh. I …’

  Rosie waited him out. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded hoarse.

  ‘I never sleep at all.’

  Rosie looked at him, then made a few more notes on her pad.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ Rosie said. She packed her kit away.

  ‘You’re going now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But I’m coming back.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Well, either I’m coming back or the ambulance is, when they have to take that leg off after all because of neglect.’

  Stephen looked her straight in the face.

  ‘Nurse …’

  ‘Rosie,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Rosie,’ said Stephen. ‘You know nothing about neglect. Believe me.’

  Then he picked up his iPod again, clicking it round and round like a sullen teenager and refusing to look at her.

  Rosie scanned him up and down. Then she felt in her pocket and withdrew a large pink-striped paper bag of cola cubes she’d brought with her from the shop in case she met any recaltricant children. Clearly, she had. She left it sitting on the table.

  Moray was hovering anxiously outside the car.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Uhm, probably not,’ said Rosie.

  ‘But you were in there for ages!’ said Moray.

  ‘Did you think he’d shot me with his gun?’

  ‘No! But you’ve done better than anyone else has. Better than me, better than Hywel.’

  ‘I didn’t really get anywhere,’ said Rosie. ‘His blood pressure is low though. Unhappily so.’

  ‘He let you take his blood pressure?’

  ‘Sorry, I know I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘No, no, that’s fine. That’s great.’

  Moray lapsed into silence as they bumped down the hill and Rosie reflected on what she’d just seen. This Stephen Lakeman was obviously in all kinds of pain, only about 20 per cent of it physical, she reckoned, but the most crucial thing was getting someone in to take a look at that leg.

  He couldn’t be up there all by himself, could he? Who lived like that? Where were his family? His siblings? His girlfriend?

  ‘What happened to him?’ she asked out loud.

  ‘God knows,’ said Moray. ‘Turned up with an injured leg, missing notes and an absolutely furious refusal to engage with anyone anywhere who might possibly be able to help him. Something about a military hospital.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Moray, pulling on to the main street again, ‘I reckon the silly bugger blew himself up by accident and is too embarrassed to tell anyone.’

  ‘Are you making kissing noises?’ Rosie asked crossly. ‘You can’t make them very well.’

  ‘My teeth hurt,’ said Lilian grumpily. She was sitting on the sofa and most annoyed to be disturbed from her nap. Sleeping was her favourite thing these days. In her dreams she was always as strong as a horse and there was nothing wrong with her. And she knew, deep down, that having an afternoon nap would keep her awake at night, but she couldn’t do anything about that.

  ‘So how was your date? Are you getting him on your side so you can have me committed to a mental institution?’

  She couldn’t help it; she was interested in this girl. Determined and awkward, she reminded her of herself when young. Although, of course, they’d been very different in ages. But still, there was definitely something there. And she didn’t think much of this fella in London who hadn’t bothered to drive her up or phone the
house to check she was all right; who hadn’t put a ring on her finger or even sent a postcard. She didn’t think much of him at all.

  ‘Do you want to go to a mental institution?’

  ‘All those old people’s homes are mental institutions.’

  ‘I’m sure some of them are lovely,’ said Rosie. ‘And I’m sure they don’t all serve lollipops for supper.’

  ‘You’d think at the end of someone’s life you’d get a chance to eat some sweets and enjoy yourself,’ grumbled Lilian, ‘without being pestered every five minutes.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Rosie. ‘Now eat your banana and honey. How can that not be sweet enough for you?’

  Lilian stuck out her tongue like a small child. ‘Bleurgh. I hate do-gooders.’

  ‘I’ll get over it,’ said Rosie.

  ‘And how was your day out with the young chap?’

  ‘Ha,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s nothing like that at all.’

  ‘Oh no?’

  ‘Well, put it this way. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world that I was wearing that bloody horse coat.’

  Rosie couldn’t shake it, lying in bed that night. For the first time since she’d arrived, when everything had been so strange and new, she wasn’t absolutely exhausted, out like a light as soon as her head hit the pillow. It was as if her not-a-date with Moray had sent her head bursting, because now, ludicrously, she found she couldn’t stop thinking about Stephen Lakeman. She wondered if his behaviour was just what people did up here. Where life was more old-fashioned, maybe they had more of the stiff upper lip. Look at her great-aunt. So bottled up, so cross. Obviously a bit of a beauty in her day, there was no way she hadn’t had intrigues, hadn’t had romance in her life. But did she ever mention it? Did she ever talk about her life, or even think about it? Never. It was all locked up and she had thrown the key away decades ago, and if this boy didn’t sort himself out, the exact same thing might happen to him.