Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 14
Lost in thought, he didn’t realise that his father had abruptly awoken and was eyeing the bag of chocolate caramels that was sitting on the dashboard. Suddenly, as he took a tricky bend in the gloom, a massive flare of headlights half blinded him. At the exact same moment his father made a grab for the sweets, startling Edward. The car jackknifed on the road, the truck suddenly on them, honking with all its might as it skidded and slid for purchase across the white ground.
‘JESUS CHRIST!’ screeched Edward, pulling the wheel sharply to the left, what he presumed to be his last wish just that his father should feel nothing; that it would be only a flash and a bang and then silence.
‘“To you in David’s town this day is born of David’s line”,’ trilled Stephen’s class as he nodded them on furiously whilst trying to (badly) accompany them on the slightly out-of-tune piano. ‘“A saviour who is Christ the Lord and this shall be the sign”.’
Then the handbells came in. The challenge was to make them not too enthusiastic with the bells, as they forgot to sing. Except the very little ones. Pandora Esten was only four and a half; it seemed unfair to get in her way.
‘SWEET BELLS!’ (Chime, clamour.) ‘SWEET CHIMING SILVER BELLS!’ (Chime, clatter as one of the bells dropped to the floor.)
‘SWEET BELLS!’ (Chime.) ‘SWEET chiming Christmas bells…’ (Slight fading off as the class collectively attempted to remember the next, slightly tricky line.)
Kent and Emily always got it right, however.
‘They CHEER us ON our HEAVEN-lee WAY, Sweet CHI-ming BELLS!’
The left-hand side of the Astra sluiced down into the ditch and bounced along the hedge, Edward trying to force the wheel to the right and not close his eyes, his breath choking in a shriek in his mouth. Amazingly, the car kept on going, found, eventually, its footing again and righted itself.
Edward found himself dripping with sweat, unable to stop or remove his hands from the wheel, panting hard. He caught a glimpse of red tail lights in the mirror behind him but couldn’t think about that; couldn’t think about anything more than the pounding of his heart and his need to get back to the motorway, and on home, as fast as he possibly could. Beside him his father was making puzzled noises, and he forced himself to say, ‘There, there, Dad. It’s all right. It’s all right.’ He would never, he vowed grimly to himself, ever leave the house again.
The truck, however, was not all right. The cab was knocked off its axle and the driver suddenly found the steering listing terrible. His own nerves – he was normally a calm sort, fond of his wife and a cooked breakfast – suddenly started to fray at the edges. He couldn’t see in his rear-view mirror to figure out if anything had happened to the car. He’d had the radio playing loudly and hadn’t heard a bang or seen any lights, but it didn’t mean they weren’t upside down in a ditch somewhere. But he couldn’t stop here, it was a deadly single-track hairpin. He wasn’t even meant to be out on deliveries in this weather, but his boss had insisted it was a special customer, so he’d volunteered. And now this. He cursed. He’d stop at the next town, get them to send someone out to have a look at his steering. Bugger it. Bugger bugger bugger. He pulled the great lorry up the hill, praying that he’d make it, cursing the local councils, who had all cut down on their street lighting so much they didn’t light any roads at all if they could help it, even in these conditions. He was nearly there… nearly there…
It was cresting the hill that did it. There was a slight bump on the road at the entrance to Lipton, just past the churchyard, and as he felt the cab head up over it and heard the ominous crack, he knew that this was bad news. But the acceleration he’d had to use to get the truck over the top of the hill was still with it, powering it forward far too fast, the vehicle suddenly transformed into a huge weapon beyond his control. Slowly, incredibly slowly, he tried to steer it away from the building on his right, but the steering wheel was nowhere close to obeying his instructions, and he watched in horror as the great stern of the truck pulled closer and closer. At the last minute, he grabbed hold of his seat belt, ducked, covered his eyes and prayed.
‘They CHEER us ON our…’
The throaty, roaring, crashing noise was slow, and undercut the tremendous tumult of thirty little hands clanging bells all at once. The back of the jackknifed lorry pulled down the wall and ripped through the side of the Portakabin that held the art and music classes. Its headlights were suddenly beaming through the open air, the storm whipping into the hot little room, flurries of snowflakes dancing in the light. An open-mouthed scream went up and the children automatically shrank back, mindlessly obeying the loud voice that immediately shouted, ‘GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!’, then a figure hurled itself forward, a cane clattering to the ground, throwing itself on top of the boy singing the solo, standing apart from the others, his dirty glasses already slipping down his face from the force of the inrushing wind, the air pushed ahead of the great machine.
The noise shook the village. Then everything went dark.
Chapter Five
‘What was that?’ said Rosie. The lights had all flickered out, then on again. ‘Was it an earthquake?’
Tina and Anton looked confused. Rosie let Anton sit down in Lilian’s special chair (normally he wasn’t allowed to; Rosie was trying to keep him mobile for the sake of his veins).
The great glass jars had wobbled on their shelves, but apart from a row of mints and a couple of the chocolate boxes propped up for display, nothing had fallen. Rosie dashed out into the street. She could see other people emerging from their homes, looking bewildered. The day was still so overcast and gloomy it felt like the middle of the night. She ran down to Malik’s shop. The fruit and veg he kept outside had tumbled to the ground, but he wasn’t paying any attention to that. Instead, he was gazing down the hill, eyes wide open, pointing. Rosie followed his finger, and her hand flew to her mouth.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Oh my God.’
He was pointing at the school.
She didn’t have to knock up Moray, he was already running, trying to pull on his jacket at the same time, which made Rosie curse as she dashed back to her own home for blankets. They would need them. Please God, they would need them. All the time her heart was panicking. She ran past parents, mothers, all of them fleeing down the hill, all of them thinking one thought, she knew: ‘Please let it not be mine. Please let it not be mine.’
‘JESUS CHRIST!’ screeched Edward, pulling the wheel sharply to the left, what he presumed to be his last wish just that his father should feel nothing; that it would be only a flash and a bang and then silence.
‘“To you in David’s town this day is born of David’s line”,’ trilled Stephen’s class as he nodded them on furiously whilst trying to (badly) accompany them on the slightly out-of-tune piano. ‘“A saviour who is Christ the Lord and this shall be the sign”.’
Then the handbells came in. The challenge was to make them not too enthusiastic with the bells, as they forgot to sing. Except the very little ones. Pandora Esten was only four and a half; it seemed unfair to get in her way.
‘SWEET BELLS!’ (Chime, clamour.) ‘SWEET CHIMING SILVER BELLS!’ (Chime, clatter as one of the bells dropped to the floor.)
‘SWEET BELLS!’ (Chime.) ‘SWEET chiming Christmas bells…’ (Slight fading off as the class collectively attempted to remember the next, slightly tricky line.)
Kent and Emily always got it right, however.
‘They CHEER us ON our HEAVEN-lee WAY, Sweet CHI-ming BELLS!’
The left-hand side of the Astra sluiced down into the ditch and bounced along the hedge, Edward trying to force the wheel to the right and not close his eyes, his breath choking in a shriek in his mouth. Amazingly, the car kept on going, found, eventually, its footing again and righted itself.
Edward found himself dripping with sweat, unable to stop or remove his hands from the wheel, panting hard. He caught a glimpse of red tail lights in the mirror behind him but couldn’t think about that; couldn’t think about anything more than the pounding of his heart and his need to get back to the motorway, and on home, as fast as he possibly could. Beside him his father was making puzzled noises, and he forced himself to say, ‘There, there, Dad. It’s all right. It’s all right.’ He would never, he vowed grimly to himself, ever leave the house again.
The truck, however, was not all right. The cab was knocked off its axle and the driver suddenly found the steering listing terrible. His own nerves – he was normally a calm sort, fond of his wife and a cooked breakfast – suddenly started to fray at the edges. He couldn’t see in his rear-view mirror to figure out if anything had happened to the car. He’d had the radio playing loudly and hadn’t heard a bang or seen any lights, but it didn’t mean they weren’t upside down in a ditch somewhere. But he couldn’t stop here, it was a deadly single-track hairpin. He wasn’t even meant to be out on deliveries in this weather, but his boss had insisted it was a special customer, so he’d volunteered. And now this. He cursed. He’d stop at the next town, get them to send someone out to have a look at his steering. Bugger it. Bugger bugger bugger. He pulled the great lorry up the hill, praying that he’d make it, cursing the local councils, who had all cut down on their street lighting so much they didn’t light any roads at all if they could help it, even in these conditions. He was nearly there… nearly there…
It was cresting the hill that did it. There was a slight bump on the road at the entrance to Lipton, just past the churchyard, and as he felt the cab head up over it and heard the ominous crack, he knew that this was bad news. But the acceleration he’d had to use to get the truck over the top of the hill was still with it, powering it forward far too fast, the vehicle suddenly transformed into a huge weapon beyond his control. Slowly, incredibly slowly, he tried to steer it away from the building on his right, but the steering wheel was nowhere close to obeying his instructions, and he watched in horror as the great stern of the truck pulled closer and closer. At the last minute, he grabbed hold of his seat belt, ducked, covered his eyes and prayed.
‘They CHEER us ON our…’
The throaty, roaring, crashing noise was slow, and undercut the tremendous tumult of thirty little hands clanging bells all at once. The back of the jackknifed lorry pulled down the wall and ripped through the side of the Portakabin that held the art and music classes. Its headlights were suddenly beaming through the open air, the storm whipping into the hot little room, flurries of snowflakes dancing in the light. An open-mouthed scream went up and the children automatically shrank back, mindlessly obeying the loud voice that immediately shouted, ‘GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!’, then a figure hurled itself forward, a cane clattering to the ground, throwing itself on top of the boy singing the solo, standing apart from the others, his dirty glasses already slipping down his face from the force of the inrushing wind, the air pushed ahead of the great machine.
The noise shook the village. Then everything went dark.
Chapter Five
‘What was that?’ said Rosie. The lights had all flickered out, then on again. ‘Was it an earthquake?’
Tina and Anton looked confused. Rosie let Anton sit down in Lilian’s special chair (normally he wasn’t allowed to; Rosie was trying to keep him mobile for the sake of his veins).
The great glass jars had wobbled on their shelves, but apart from a row of mints and a couple of the chocolate boxes propped up for display, nothing had fallen. Rosie dashed out into the street. She could see other people emerging from their homes, looking bewildered. The day was still so overcast and gloomy it felt like the middle of the night. She ran down to Malik’s shop. The fruit and veg he kept outside had tumbled to the ground, but he wasn’t paying any attention to that. Instead, he was gazing down the hill, eyes wide open, pointing. Rosie followed his finger, and her hand flew to her mouth.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Oh my God.’
He was pointing at the school.
She didn’t have to knock up Moray, he was already running, trying to pull on his jacket at the same time, which made Rosie curse as she dashed back to her own home for blankets. They would need them. Please God, they would need them. All the time her heart was panicking. She ran past parents, mothers, all of them fleeing down the hill, all of them thinking one thought, she knew: ‘Please let it not be mine. Please let it not be mine.’
