Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 15
The scene of devastation, the fuel in the lorry already smoking, had clenched her heart, and she couldn’t let herself think about Stephen, or the children in the school, every single one of whom bought lollies and chocolate and ice cream and bonbons; every single one of whom she knew well: the guzzlers, the expectant choosers, the value-for-money buyers and the indecisive agonisers. She knew all of those children.
Tina was walking down the road in a trance, like a zombie. Her eyes were fixed on the school, but she wasn’t seeing it. Rosie threw herself into the house and snatched all the blankets from the linen cupboard. She was going to need more than this for shock… they’d have some down there… and tea, they’d need tea. She ordered her brain to behave itself. She’d worked in A&E for years. She needed to go into that mode now; not to think about who was there, just about what she needed to do. She knew Moray could do it; she could do it too. She had to.
Sirens filled the air – there was a fire station at Carningford – and already Mrs Baptiste, the head teacher, was filing children from the main building and into the street. Some looked dazed; others were crying, and some of the boys were rather excited. One by one they were fallen on by desperate, weeping parents, filled with guilty, overwhelming relief.
Moray was by the door of the cab, desperately trying to open it. Rosie screamed at him to stop being an idiot and leave it for the firemen, it could go up any second, and he looked at her confused, then realised the sense in what she was saying and jumped down.
They could hear the sirens in the far distance, but they weren’t here yet. And Mrs Baptiste was doing a wonderful job, but Rosie was scanning the lines of children who were being shepherded further and further away up the hill, and she didn’t see them.
She couldn’t see Stephen, and she couldn’t see Edison.
She glanced at Moray, both of them looking at the smoking, ruined wreck of the Portakabin.
‘We have to go in,’ she said. Mrs Baptiste was already running down the hill.
‘No, you’re right,’ said Moray. ‘We should wait for the fire brigade, it’s not safe. Mrs Baptiste, get away from there. Get away at once!’
The usually brusque grey-haired teacher looked up at him.
‘But they’re not all out,’ she said, her voice quavering.
‘You’ve done what you can,’ said Moray. ‘Get away, please.’
Mrs Baptiste glanced towards the awful sight of the Portakabin.
‘Now,’ said Moray, in a voice that brooked no argument.
He turned round.
‘EVERYONE GET BACK!’ he shouted. ‘BACK as far as Malik’s! We don’t know whether the truck is going to explode! Get back!’
As he said these words, a helicopter appeared over the side of the hill. A man with a loudspeaker leaned out. He too was shouting: ‘GET BACK! GET BACK! GET BACK!’ He clearly meant Moray and Rosie too, but they ignored him, glanced at each other, decided not to wait for the fire engine, and dived into the cabin.
Inside, it was like a vision of hell. Light came through the great rip in the wall, but it only showed a great big cloud of grey dust and shredded paper that made it near impossible to see. Rosie heard a whimper, but she couldn’t make out where it was coming from. She ripped her apron off and tied it round her mouth so she could breathe; she saw Moray do the same with his handkerchief.
‘Who’s there?’ she said.
Kneeling down, she saw Kent, Tina’s boy, cowering behind the piano, one eye shut and coloured black and purple, blood and scratches all over his hands.
‘Oh darling,’ she said. ‘Can you move?’
Kent looked up at her with his one open eye.
‘It hurts,’ he said, terrified. ‘It hurts.’
‘I know, my love,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m coming for you.’
She clambered over fallen chairs, sheet music floating through the air.
‘Come on,’ she said. He was a big boy, but she could still lift him. He winced in pain as she touched his arm, and she nodded.
‘I know it’s sore,’ she said. ‘The ambulance is going to be here soon and sort this out. But just for now I really, really have to get you out of here.’
Kent swallowed and nodded bravely.
‘I’ll try not to touch it, okay?’
‘Okay.’
She took him in a fireman’s hold round the waist, and as she did so, she started in surprise, for underneath him, crouching rolled up in a ball like a tiny hedgehog, was his twin sister, Emily, with barely a scratch on her.
‘Did you cover up your sister?’ she asked Kent, in shock.
Kent didn’t say anything, his bottom lip quivering with the pain.
‘Okay, okay, let’s get you out of here,’ Rosie said. ‘Emily, darling, can you walk?’
Emily’s eyes were huge and white.
‘Mummy!’ she said, in a wobbly voice.
‘Mummy’s outside,’ said Rosie, taking a quick glance through the rip in the wall, where the tanker was still smoking. ‘Mummy’s outside, darling, but we really have to go and find her quickly, okay? Quickly. Like, now. We’re going to Mummy, okay?’
The magic word ‘Mummy’ had its effect on the little girl paralysed with fear. Emily nodded carefully, and Rosie hoisted Kent over her shoulders. He cried out, then tried to stifle himself, but she could hear him weeping on her back as they moved in a slow, shambolic convoy towards the open door. Outside, Mrs Baptiste had point-blank refused to leave her post and helped them back towards a makeshift barrier that had been set up.
When Tina saw them, she simply sank to her knees in the middle of the wet snowy lane. Jake had come hurtling up the road from Isitt’s farm as fast as his legs could carry him and was there now, red-faced and puffing. He pushed past the barrier and picked Kent up like he weighed nothing, looking into his face with a tenderness that could not have given two figs for whose son this boy was. Emily had run to her mother and buried her face in her shoulder; Tina had taken her in her arms, but her eyes were wide open, staring straight ahead, as if still fixed on the possible alternative, gazing in horror on another life.
Finally the fire brigade were here; a man in full breathing apparatus stood in front of Rosie.
‘Stand aside now, please, ma’am, let us do our job.’
Rosie stared at him. She knew he was right, that he was the man to go into that awful dark space again, that it was unprofessional and downright dangerous of her to stand in his way. She had had to do the same thing herself many times: persuade panicking and desperate relatives to leave the professionals to get on with their jobs, that that would be best for everyone, the victims included.
Tina was walking down the road in a trance, like a zombie. Her eyes were fixed on the school, but she wasn’t seeing it. Rosie threw herself into the house and snatched all the blankets from the linen cupboard. She was going to need more than this for shock… they’d have some down there… and tea, they’d need tea. She ordered her brain to behave itself. She’d worked in A&E for years. She needed to go into that mode now; not to think about who was there, just about what she needed to do. She knew Moray could do it; she could do it too. She had to.
Sirens filled the air – there was a fire station at Carningford – and already Mrs Baptiste, the head teacher, was filing children from the main building and into the street. Some looked dazed; others were crying, and some of the boys were rather excited. One by one they were fallen on by desperate, weeping parents, filled with guilty, overwhelming relief.
Moray was by the door of the cab, desperately trying to open it. Rosie screamed at him to stop being an idiot and leave it for the firemen, it could go up any second, and he looked at her confused, then realised the sense in what she was saying and jumped down.
They could hear the sirens in the far distance, but they weren’t here yet. And Mrs Baptiste was doing a wonderful job, but Rosie was scanning the lines of children who were being shepherded further and further away up the hill, and she didn’t see them.
She couldn’t see Stephen, and she couldn’t see Edison.
She glanced at Moray, both of them looking at the smoking, ruined wreck of the Portakabin.
‘We have to go in,’ she said. Mrs Baptiste was already running down the hill.
‘No, you’re right,’ said Moray. ‘We should wait for the fire brigade, it’s not safe. Mrs Baptiste, get away from there. Get away at once!’
The usually brusque grey-haired teacher looked up at him.
‘But they’re not all out,’ she said, her voice quavering.
‘You’ve done what you can,’ said Moray. ‘Get away, please.’
Mrs Baptiste glanced towards the awful sight of the Portakabin.
‘Now,’ said Moray, in a voice that brooked no argument.
He turned round.
‘EVERYONE GET BACK!’ he shouted. ‘BACK as far as Malik’s! We don’t know whether the truck is going to explode! Get back!’
As he said these words, a helicopter appeared over the side of the hill. A man with a loudspeaker leaned out. He too was shouting: ‘GET BACK! GET BACK! GET BACK!’ He clearly meant Moray and Rosie too, but they ignored him, glanced at each other, decided not to wait for the fire engine, and dived into the cabin.
Inside, it was like a vision of hell. Light came through the great rip in the wall, but it only showed a great big cloud of grey dust and shredded paper that made it near impossible to see. Rosie heard a whimper, but she couldn’t make out where it was coming from. She ripped her apron off and tied it round her mouth so she could breathe; she saw Moray do the same with his handkerchief.
‘Who’s there?’ she said.
Kneeling down, she saw Kent, Tina’s boy, cowering behind the piano, one eye shut and coloured black and purple, blood and scratches all over his hands.
‘Oh darling,’ she said. ‘Can you move?’
Kent looked up at her with his one open eye.
‘It hurts,’ he said, terrified. ‘It hurts.’
‘I know, my love,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m coming for you.’
She clambered over fallen chairs, sheet music floating through the air.
‘Come on,’ she said. He was a big boy, but she could still lift him. He winced in pain as she touched his arm, and she nodded.
‘I know it’s sore,’ she said. ‘The ambulance is going to be here soon and sort this out. But just for now I really, really have to get you out of here.’
Kent swallowed and nodded bravely.
‘I’ll try not to touch it, okay?’
‘Okay.’
She took him in a fireman’s hold round the waist, and as she did so, she started in surprise, for underneath him, crouching rolled up in a ball like a tiny hedgehog, was his twin sister, Emily, with barely a scratch on her.
‘Did you cover up your sister?’ she asked Kent, in shock.
Kent didn’t say anything, his bottom lip quivering with the pain.
‘Okay, okay, let’s get you out of here,’ Rosie said. ‘Emily, darling, can you walk?’
Emily’s eyes were huge and white.
‘Mummy!’ she said, in a wobbly voice.
‘Mummy’s outside,’ said Rosie, taking a quick glance through the rip in the wall, where the tanker was still smoking. ‘Mummy’s outside, darling, but we really have to go and find her quickly, okay? Quickly. Like, now. We’re going to Mummy, okay?’
The magic word ‘Mummy’ had its effect on the little girl paralysed with fear. Emily nodded carefully, and Rosie hoisted Kent over her shoulders. He cried out, then tried to stifle himself, but she could hear him weeping on her back as they moved in a slow, shambolic convoy towards the open door. Outside, Mrs Baptiste had point-blank refused to leave her post and helped them back towards a makeshift barrier that had been set up.
When Tina saw them, she simply sank to her knees in the middle of the wet snowy lane. Jake had come hurtling up the road from Isitt’s farm as fast as his legs could carry him and was there now, red-faced and puffing. He pushed past the barrier and picked Kent up like he weighed nothing, looking into his face with a tenderness that could not have given two figs for whose son this boy was. Emily had run to her mother and buried her face in her shoulder; Tina had taken her in her arms, but her eyes were wide open, staring straight ahead, as if still fixed on the possible alternative, gazing in horror on another life.
Finally the fire brigade were here; a man in full breathing apparatus stood in front of Rosie.
‘Stand aside now, please, ma’am, let us do our job.’
Rosie stared at him. She knew he was right, that he was the man to go into that awful dark space again, that it was unprofessional and downright dangerous of her to stand in his way. She had had to do the same thing herself many times: persuade panicking and desperate relatives to leave the professionals to get on with their jobs, that that would be best for everyone, the victims included.
