Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘I agree,’ said Rosie.

  ‘But if I’d been better suited to the army, I’m sure I’d have got over it a lot quicker.’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘You know, when I was in A&E, we got a lot of poor sods and drunks in. Half the broken-down creatures we saw in there were ex-military men. They feel it too. They’re just not allowed to show it.’

  ‘Whereas because I’m a spoilt sissy with a free house, I am?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosie. Then she tried to put the piglet down again. ‘I wish all old soldiers were.’

  The fête was quietening down outside, the overloud PA system finally silent. Stephen looked miles away.

  ‘Akibo,’ he said, ‘and his brother, Jabo. Akibo was really serious, all the time. Had a million questions about all sorts of things. Was obsessed with Manchester United. There was one TV in the village, but it didn’t show the football of course. But sometimes I could get up to town and go to an internet caff, and I’d check out the scores for him. He was delighted. Once a charity sent us down some clothes, and I looked the shirt out for him. It was like I’d got the whole team to stop by and do a kickabout with him.’

  ‘Probably better,’ said Rosie. ‘They’re not that nice.’

  ‘He was thrilled. Didn’t have a clue really, what it meant, or what it was. Just something to be obsessed by.’

  ‘I think I know someone he’d have got on with,’ said Rosie. Edison was playing a very complicated game involving leaf spaceships divebombing over the cacti.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘I bet. And Jabo was just the most beautiful child ever. So cute. All he wanted to do was whatever Akibo was doing. He’d sit with a piece of paper and a stone and pretend he was writing letters. And you’d say, “Are you doing your sums, Jabo?” and he’d say, “Yessuh! Nine! Seven! Sixty!”’

  Rosie smiled.

  ‘Akibo wanted to come with me to get – God, of all the stupid things. A frog. I was going to dissect a frog with them. I wasn’t meant to, but I thought it would be a useful exercise, something good to do. I’d learned all the parts and everything. And Akibo came to help because he was useful for that kind of thing, knew a lot. And Jabo came because … because Jabo did whatever Akibo did.’

  He stuttered.

  ‘There wasn’t … I don’t know. But I don’t think there would have been enough left for their mother to bury.’ Suddenly there was a shriek from the opening to the tent.

  ‘What is going on here? What are you doing with my gladioli?’ came the high, strident tones of Mrs Isitt. Behind her, in marched Roy Blaine.

  ‘Those are my cacti,’ he said, enunciating very clearly. ‘Grown in the unique sterile environment of my dental surgery. They are not a toy.’

  Edison jumped up, quivering with fear.

  ‘Are you responsible for this child?’ said Mrs Isitt.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’

  Mrs Isitt let out a sniff.

  ‘Can I pay for the damage?’

  ‘Can you go to one of your fancy-schmancy London shops and just buy your way out of trouble, you mean?’ said Mrs Isitt. ‘Those took a year of hard work.’

  Rosie felt pink and confused. She stood up. As she did so, the piglet gave a scream and went tearing towards Mrs Isitt’s ankles.

  ‘Call your pig off!’ she screamed. ‘Call it off!’

  Rosie looked helplessly at Stephen, who finally, it seemed, had a smile back on his face.

  ‘So you see,’ he said, ‘why I was so desperate to get back here.’

  ‘Can you sort this out?’ she asked him desperately. ‘Can you talk to your mum?’

  ‘She doesn’t know anything about catching pigs,’ said Stephen, looking puzzled.

  ‘I don’t mean the blooming pig, you divot,’ said Rosie. ‘I mean you.’

  Rosie went back to the house. Peter Isitt, thank God, had offered to take the pig away and look after it for her, and Rosie had seen a spark in Mrs Isitt’s eye that made her think the pig must be worth something. She crept back through what was now substantial rainfall and early dusk, with a lovely set of lamb chops she had felt only momentarily squeamish about buying from the butcher’s tent – perhaps she was turning into a country girl after all – and some new potatoes, green beans and fresh mint from the produce stands, the potatoes still covered in earth. Edison’s mother picked him up at the gate and thanked Rosie.

  ‘I know adults enjoy his company. He’s so intellectually stimulating, so far beyond the boys his own age.’

  Rosie, who was undoubtedly fond of Edison, still bristled at the concept that Hester was doing her an enormous favour.

  ‘Well, a boy still needs friends,’ she said. Then she knelt down. ‘It was lovely to see you, Edison.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the grave little boy.

  ‘Can I give you a hug or would that be inpropreet?’

  Edison glanced at his mother.

  ‘Best not, eh?’ said Hester in a jaunty tone. And Rosie was left staring after them as they walked off, shaking her head in disbelief.

  Tina had not only scrubbed the whole shop from top to bottom, she’d helped the sweetshop have its best day ever, and cashed up perfectly. Rosie couldn’t believe it, and insisted on paying her. Tina looked at the money.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘It’s like having a real job again.’

  Rosie looked around. Tina had moved the chocolate teddies right to the very front, near the till. It was a good strategy. Few small hands could resist a chocolate teddy, and few grandparents could resist buying one.

  ‘You know,’ said Rosie, ‘there have been expressions of interest …’ She thought again of Roy Blaine’s terrifying image of rows of gleaming gnashers. ‘But why don’t you see … talk to the bank or someone?’

  She looked round the softly lit sweetshop, at the ancient jars; the neatly stacked piles of candy-striped paper bags that needed to be pulled off a piece of string, then looped over, twice, to make a secure carrier; the big brass scoops for the shards of cough candy that reflected the lights through the jar and turned them into a kaleidoscopic prism.

  ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘if anyone has to take it over, I’d really like it to be you.’

  The second she walked in the house, unlocked as ever, she knew. Not a light was on; neither was the perpetually-tuned-to-Radio-4 wireless. The fire wasn’t lit and there was an odd smell in the air.

  Rosie rushed to the bedroom, cursing herself for being absent for so long. Her great-aunt was sitting up, shaking and staring straight ahead. There was something wrong with the left side of her face, Rosie saw with a sinking heart. And there wasn’t a second to lose.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Barley Sugar

  Barley sugar is nature’s way of making sure you don’t feel too guilty when you are unwell and want to eat sweets. The concept of barley as a healthful, life-giving cereal, albeit found in confectionery as more of a trace element, should help lift your mood. And under the circumstances, when you’re feeling poorly, the best possible remedy is to improve your mental attitude, which means that eating a sweet which feels on some level as if it might be good for you is surely the way forward.

  Plus as long as you suck and don’t bite (as a qualified professional, may I repeat that you should no more bite hard candy than you should shut yourself into a wardrobe), the barley sugar will release a comforting, slow-burning sweetness that will raise your spirits, make you feel cosy and safe and set you on the road to health again. Frankly they should prescribe it with aspirin.

  ‘So you’re her carer?’ the snappy nurse had asked, not very kindly. Rosie couldn’t blame her. She of all people knew that when someone had a stroke – or a mini-stroke, as seemed likely; Lilian had come round and although a little confused seemed basically all right – speed was of the essence. Moray had helped her give Lilian aspirin then driven them the long, long way to the hospital, and now Lilian was being eased into a robe. Rosie had packed her aunt’s favourite nightgowns,
delicate shades of lilac and pink, and unearthed a soft, practical, unattractive dressing gown that still had Merry Christmas ’04, love Angie on a card attached to the bag. She didn’t want Lilian confused and frightened, in a strange place with her bum hanging out.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘But I have to look after her business as well.’ She was feeling horribly guilty in the pit of her stomach, knowing she had taken the afternoon off. If she hadn’t, if she’d been just next door … Maybe that would have made a difference. Maybe not. She’d tried to interest Lilian in a mobile phone, but Lilian had looked at her as if she’d suggested she started carrying a shark in her pocket, so she hadn’t insisted. And she had a panic alarm but hadn’t used it, for whatever reason. It was entirely possible, Moray had assured Rosie, that if she’d been in the shop all day, rushed off her feet, she wouldn’t have got there any faster. It didn’t really help.

  ‘She needs someone watching her all the time,’ scolded the nurse. ‘If you can’t look after her, she should be in a place where people can.’

  Rosie nodded. The fact that she knew this was coming – it was, she supposed, inevitable – didn’t make up for the fact that she couldn’t bear, suddenly, to have to tell Lilian that she’d need to move. Move out of the cosy cottage, with its beautiful pictures and little ornate grate. The house, indeed, she’d been born in; the high attic room, and the garden. Her beautiful, beautiful garden. How could she tell her to give that up? What would Roy Blaine do to it? She knew the answer instantly of course: he would turn it into a car park.

  Oh God, why were things so complicated? Rosie rushed into the little side ward. Lilian was sitting up, looking around her.

  ‘Henry?’ she said as Rosie came through the door.

  ‘Uhm, no,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s me, Rosie. Who’s Henry?’

  Lilian shrugged, and her eyes blinked.

  ‘Rosie,’ she said. ‘What kind of a hellhole is this?’

  ‘Uhm, it’s the hospital,’ said Rosie. She didn’t think the cottage hospital was bad at all; she’d seen a lot worse.

  ‘It’s horrible. Can I go home? I’m hungry.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good sign,’ said Rosie. Behind her the nurse was shaking her head crossly. ‘You can’t go home quite yet, though. They have to check you over. But I’ll stay with you. We’ll play Scrabble, it’ll be good.’

  Lilian’s face looked perturbed.

  ‘But who’s going to mind the shop tomorrow?’ she asked. Rosie didn’t want to pick a vulnerable moment to remind her that before she’d arrived, the shop hadn’t been open for years.

  ‘Uhm,’ she said, taking out her phone. The nurse gave her a warning glance, but Rosie knew perfectly well that nothing was going to happen to the machines if she used it, so she scrolled through it defiantly. ‘I might have someone in mind.’

  The nurse sniffed. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you might have got away with it this time.’

  There was no doubt in Rosie’s mind, two days later, when she took a chastened, frightened Lilian home, exactly what she meant.

  Tina was absolutely delighted. And as soon as they got Lilian home, and comfortably ensconced, Rosie offered her a job. Rosie knew it was only a temporary solution, but she had placed a baby monitor next to Lilian, taken the other end into the shop, and scared Lilian half out of her wits by talking into it every so often to check she was OK. Lilian got her revenge by listening to Rosie advising customers on their sweet choice and then vigorously advising them some other way. It took a bit of getting used to, not least for the children who were startled by the disembodied voice, but after a while it became obvious to Rosie that Lilian was loving her involvement in the life of the shop and had started turning down Radio 4 (except for Gardeners’ Question Time) in order to take part.

  Tina dropped Kent and Emily at school, then worked a long lunch so Rosie could sit with Lilian, organise her prescriptions and run any errands, while Tina served the lunchtime rush and helped with stock control, product suggestions and some gentle marketing tips. Then she would leave at three and Rosie could finish up the day and make supper for Lilian, who, while technically recovered, was still rather wobbly.

  So life continued, the year moving deeper and deeper into autumn. It wasn’t like the city, where you hardly noticed the seasons come and go, merely adding or removing a jacket as needed, and complaining about the bits in between, where it wasn’t clear whether you could go bare-legged or not and ended up leaving the house in flipflops and a mackintosh.

  Here, the colours of the hills changed so magnificently; the whole world gone russet. Rosie woke one morning to the very first frost on the ground and, on the doorstep, a huge basket of apples. At first she was touched, until she started to receive, every couple of days, more apples and realised it was simply a bumper crop, sweetened by the Indian summer; too many for people to sell or eat. She made apple jam and apple pies and roast pork with apple sauce and compotes and juice until Lilian begged for mercy.

  Every morning now, as Rosie looked out of her window, she would see a mist curling off the grass, the precipitation of the night before turning to frost, then gradually melting under an occasional autumn sun. Some mornings, the skies ouside her window were black as pitch, and the rain and the wind howled down the vale. She could only just make out, in the far distance, tiny blobs of white that must be sheep, and knew that moving among them would be Jake, and Farmer Stirling: everyone out – the dairy boys out even earlier – on a morning when the only thing she wished to do was huddle under her duvet. Even the locals, coming in to pick up their white mice and Saturday night bonbons, talked of it as a shocker for the time of year, cold beyond memory. Which was how Rosie found herself, one lunchtime, as Tina was hand-crayoning their half-price offer on candyfloss, outside Lipton’s clothes shop.

  She stared in the window. This was the place, on her first day here, she’d sworn never to enter. But she had been here a lot longer than expected, and hadn’t even heard from Gerard. For all she knew, he’d made a bonfire of her clothes on their tiny balcony. On a whim, she took out her mobile and called Mike, her best mate back at the hospital.

  ‘Yo!’ she said, checking her watch and hoping he wouldn’t be up to his elbows in something, or someone.

  It took Mike a second or two to figure it out. But when he did, his pleasure was gratifying.

  ‘Rose-oh!’ he yelled. ‘Where the hell have you been? You’ve just totally disappeared off the face of the planet.’

  ‘Off the face of London you mean,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mike. ‘The planet. Like I said. What are you up to, you lazy old witch?’

  ‘You won’t believe this place,’ said Rosie. ‘I get lunch breaks and everything.’

  ‘No way,’ said Mike. ‘And don’t tell me, no one ever pees at you or hollers abuse.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Rosie, reflecting. ‘Nope, I’m afraid there is both pee and hollered abuse.’

  ‘The world of sweets is more cut-throat than I thought,’ said Mike. His voice softened. ‘When are you coming home, love? We heard about you and Gerard.’

  Hmm, Rosie thought. They’d heard about it from Gerard. Which meant it probably didn’t reflect well on her. Still, that wasn’t really her business.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said …’ Mike paused.

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Oh, nothing. He said you’d gone a bit mental in the country.’

  ‘He said what?’

  ‘And that he thought maybe the sugar had gone to your head. And that you’re living with a mad old spinster lady and turning into her.’ Mike said the last bit in a rush, as if he were trying to get it all out.

  ‘OK, OK, that’s enough,’ said Rosie crossly, looking in the shop window. Everything in it seemed to be waxed, even the skirts. Or worsted. She sighed. ‘As it happens, my aunt is really quite ill.’

  ‘Duh,’ said Mike. ‘Surely you knew that before you went racing off?’

  Rosie considered it. ‘I �
�� I mean, sure, but I didn’t think it would be so long.’

  ‘Are you sure? Are you sure you didn’t just think it would be a convenient way of dumping Gerard?’

  ‘No!’ said Rosie, stung. She thought about it. ‘I thought it might be a convenient way of getting him to unload the dishwasher by himself. I think it kind of spiralled down from there.’

  ‘OK. Good,’ said Mike. ‘It didn’t sound like you.’

  Rosie sighed. ‘How is he?’

  She hoped he wasn’t moping too much. Well, maybe a bit, obviously. She didn’t want him to be dancing about, delighted to be free of her. On the other hand she hoped his natural exuberance was restored. Rosie bit her lip.

  ‘How does he seem?’

  Mike paused. Rosie didn’t really like the pause.

  ‘Uhm. You are totally over him, right?’

  ‘Well … you know, we’ve only been broken up – what, a month?’

  Standing shivering in the cold shop doorway, she found it hard to believe only a few weeks had passed since that sunny weekend.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mike.

  ‘Tell me!’

  Mike sighed. When Rosie left he’d thought she’d be back in five minutes, he’d never thought she was cut out for country life. Not only that but he didn’t think she could separate herself from that wee bloke she seemed so inexplicably keen on. The fact that she was handling both of these things he assumed was positive. Yes, she could take it.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I did see him.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘At the Bears.’

  That was the local hospital pub.

  ‘With his arm round the neck of Yolande Harris.’

  Rosie was so surprised she nearly tripped up. She couldn’t believe what a strong reaction she was having. After all, she’d dumped him, hadn’t she? It was she who had called it off?

  But really, how had he managed to get over her that fast?

  Rosie realised she wasn’t thinking about Gerard, specifically. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t him she was missing. It was the horrifying realisation that eight years, eight years, could be wiped out in a flash. And everything she had told herself – that he had loved her really, that they’d been in love and it just hadn’t worked out, instantly became meaningless in her eyes.