Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 16
She couldn’t help it. She turned round and shot back through the hole.
‘Moray!’ she shouted. Now that the fire brigade were setting up big arc lights outside that could cut through the dust, it was even harder to see in the gloom. ‘Where…where…’
Her voice choked, her lungs filled with dust. She tried to collect herself for a moment in the swirling dark.
‘Here,’ came the voice, quick and clipped.
She could see what had happened right away. The clothes were ripped from Stephen’s back in a line. He had obviously dived right on top of the boy who even now Moray was crouched over, trying to save. She knelt down, but straight away she could tell that, thank God, he was breathing; his back was a mess, but it was not bleeding extensively, it was just going to hurt like absolute buggery when he woke up. But he would, she knew even as she looked at him, broken and twisted on the ground, wake up. If they got him out in time. The air was filled with the smell of spilled petrol.
‘Here!’ she shouted desperately to the rescuers behind them. ‘Here!’ And she grabbed Stephen’s hand tightly.
Lying there on the ground beside them, Edison was a different matter. Moray had cleared his airways and checked his breathing; he was in the recovery position but completely unconscious. His face was a mess, his little body horribly contorted where it lay. Moray was gently trying to protect his spine. Rosie looked at the GP’s filthy face, but it was absolutely unreadable.
‘He’s a doctor,’ she said to the paramedics now fighting their way through.
‘Who are you?’ barked one of them back at her.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Rosie, and she knelt down between Stephen and Edison, and refused to move until the stretcher was lifted and she felt Stephen grimace and painfully and briefly come to.
‘You do go,’ she managed to say chokily, as she felt his eyes rest upon her, and saw the relief in them as they did so, ‘to quite ridiculous lengths to try and get the attention of a nurse.’
Outside, the fire brigade was training its foam hoses on the big lorry, which no longer had smoke coming from it. The driver had been brought out, a little concussed but otherwise perfectly well. He was standing by the barrier, crying. A policeman was talking to him in a serious, low tone of voice. The street looked like a film set of a war zone, lit up with huge arc lights, surrounded by people in uniform. Many of the children had been spirited away home, but some of the adults remained, gripped, chatting and comforting each other. Mrs Baptiste stood to the side, stiff and covered in dust, and Rosie led her to a St John’s ambulance to get her some tea. Then she looked around for the heavily pregnant form of Edison’s mother and saw, with a terrible pang of horror, that she was not there. The family lived in a tiny cottage set in the forest at the far end of the village. Hester didn’t like to mix much; she had very strong views on almost everything and had moved to Lipton to try and raise her son in a pure way. She disliked the efforts of everyone else to live a normal life, with cable television and ready meals.
Rosie raised Stephen’s hands to her lips and kissed them, fiercely wiping a tear from her eye. Over by the ambulance they were still working on Edison. She swore furiously to herself, kissed him one more time, then ran to fetch her bicycle.
It was the hardest trip she had ever made, through the pummelling snow, visibility almost to nothing. She realised only subsequently that she didn’t even have a coat on, she’d run out of the shop so fast. She’d remembered to bring blankets for everyone else in case of shock; she hadn’t realised that she would suffer it too.
Hester ’s house was set in a little glade at the end of the lane. It was beautiful, like a tiny fairy-tale cottage, planted with neat rows of organic vegetables. Say what you like about Hester, Rosie had often thought, but she walked the walk. Wood smoke was rising from the chimney pot, so at least she was home. Someone must have called though, surely. Somebody must have.
Hester , her bump fully formed now and pendulous, answered the door calmly. Rosie saw at a glance that she didn’t know. She didn’t seem to notice Rosie’s dishevelled state, which on some level reminded Rosie that she had to sort out her wardrobe.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I was just performing my sun salutations.’
Edison’s father did something important at a university in Derby and was often away during the week.
‘Didn’t… has nobody phoned you?’ said Rosie, the words tumbling out.
Hester looked confused.
‘I keep my phone off when I’m doing my meditations, of course,’ she said. ‘Why… why?’ A tone of steel entered her voice as she finally noticed that Rosie was covered in ash and filth, her hands scraped and bloody. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Oh, Hester,’ said Rosie. She heard the noise of a car behind her and realised it must be the police. She needed to be there with her.
‘Can you… can we go inside and sit down?’
‘What’s happened?’ repeated Hester. All the earth mother calm had drained from her face.
Rosie had dealt with people this way before. Sometimes they wanted to sit down, to be held, to have small decisions taken away to give them scope to deal with the new landscapes of their lives. And sometimes they were defiant, determined to meet it head on, to conquer it through will alone, like Hester was now.
‘Is it Edison?’
And Rosie had to say the words she hadn’t said in so long; that took her back to her very hardest days of A&E nursing: the pastel room, the crumpled faces, the shattered lives. But this time, about somebody she knew.
‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’
Hester was astonishing, Rosie thought. She sat, upright and dignified, completely silent, in the back of the police car as they prepared to take her to the hospital over at Carningford. The helicopter was transferring Edison; there wasn’t a second to lose apparently. Rosie fetched a bag for Hester from inside, adding her phone, her handbag, a jumper and a toothbrush and pyjamas; she didn’t think Hester would be back for a while.
‘When’s the baby due?’ she asked gently, but Hester shook her head; one awful experience at a time. So instead Rosie gently took her hand, checking her phone every two seconds. Still no signal. Moray needed to phone her about Stephen… and Edison. Oh, Edison.
A choking noise escaped Hester ’s mouth suddenly and her hand flew to her face.
‘Moray!’ she shouted. Now that the fire brigade were setting up big arc lights outside that could cut through the dust, it was even harder to see in the gloom. ‘Where…where…’
Her voice choked, her lungs filled with dust. She tried to collect herself for a moment in the swirling dark.
‘Here,’ came the voice, quick and clipped.
She could see what had happened right away. The clothes were ripped from Stephen’s back in a line. He had obviously dived right on top of the boy who even now Moray was crouched over, trying to save. She knelt down, but straight away she could tell that, thank God, he was breathing; his back was a mess, but it was not bleeding extensively, it was just going to hurt like absolute buggery when he woke up. But he would, she knew even as she looked at him, broken and twisted on the ground, wake up. If they got him out in time. The air was filled with the smell of spilled petrol.
‘Here!’ she shouted desperately to the rescuers behind them. ‘Here!’ And she grabbed Stephen’s hand tightly.
Lying there on the ground beside them, Edison was a different matter. Moray had cleared his airways and checked his breathing; he was in the recovery position but completely unconscious. His face was a mess, his little body horribly contorted where it lay. Moray was gently trying to protect his spine. Rosie looked at the GP’s filthy face, but it was absolutely unreadable.
‘He’s a doctor,’ she said to the paramedics now fighting their way through.
‘Who are you?’ barked one of them back at her.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Rosie, and she knelt down between Stephen and Edison, and refused to move until the stretcher was lifted and she felt Stephen grimace and painfully and briefly come to.
‘You do go,’ she managed to say chokily, as she felt his eyes rest upon her, and saw the relief in them as they did so, ‘to quite ridiculous lengths to try and get the attention of a nurse.’
Outside, the fire brigade was training its foam hoses on the big lorry, which no longer had smoke coming from it. The driver had been brought out, a little concussed but otherwise perfectly well. He was standing by the barrier, crying. A policeman was talking to him in a serious, low tone of voice. The street looked like a film set of a war zone, lit up with huge arc lights, surrounded by people in uniform. Many of the children had been spirited away home, but some of the adults remained, gripped, chatting and comforting each other. Mrs Baptiste stood to the side, stiff and covered in dust, and Rosie led her to a St John’s ambulance to get her some tea. Then she looked around for the heavily pregnant form of Edison’s mother and saw, with a terrible pang of horror, that she was not there. The family lived in a tiny cottage set in the forest at the far end of the village. Hester didn’t like to mix much; she had very strong views on almost everything and had moved to Lipton to try and raise her son in a pure way. She disliked the efforts of everyone else to live a normal life, with cable television and ready meals.
Rosie raised Stephen’s hands to her lips and kissed them, fiercely wiping a tear from her eye. Over by the ambulance they were still working on Edison. She swore furiously to herself, kissed him one more time, then ran to fetch her bicycle.
It was the hardest trip she had ever made, through the pummelling snow, visibility almost to nothing. She realised only subsequently that she didn’t even have a coat on, she’d run out of the shop so fast. She’d remembered to bring blankets for everyone else in case of shock; she hadn’t realised that she would suffer it too.
Hester ’s house was set in a little glade at the end of the lane. It was beautiful, like a tiny fairy-tale cottage, planted with neat rows of organic vegetables. Say what you like about Hester, Rosie had often thought, but she walked the walk. Wood smoke was rising from the chimney pot, so at least she was home. Someone must have called though, surely. Somebody must have.
Hester , her bump fully formed now and pendulous, answered the door calmly. Rosie saw at a glance that she didn’t know. She didn’t seem to notice Rosie’s dishevelled state, which on some level reminded Rosie that she had to sort out her wardrobe.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I was just performing my sun salutations.’
Edison’s father did something important at a university in Derby and was often away during the week.
‘Didn’t… has nobody phoned you?’ said Rosie, the words tumbling out.
Hester looked confused.
‘I keep my phone off when I’m doing my meditations, of course,’ she said. ‘Why… why?’ A tone of steel entered her voice as she finally noticed that Rosie was covered in ash and filth, her hands scraped and bloody. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Oh, Hester,’ said Rosie. She heard the noise of a car behind her and realised it must be the police. She needed to be there with her.
‘Can you… can we go inside and sit down?’
‘What’s happened?’ repeated Hester. All the earth mother calm had drained from her face.
Rosie had dealt with people this way before. Sometimes they wanted to sit down, to be held, to have small decisions taken away to give them scope to deal with the new landscapes of their lives. And sometimes they were defiant, determined to meet it head on, to conquer it through will alone, like Hester was now.
‘Is it Edison?’
And Rosie had to say the words she hadn’t said in so long; that took her back to her very hardest days of A&E nursing: the pastel room, the crumpled faces, the shattered lives. But this time, about somebody she knew.
‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’
Hester was astonishing, Rosie thought. She sat, upright and dignified, completely silent, in the back of the police car as they prepared to take her to the hospital over at Carningford. The helicopter was transferring Edison; there wasn’t a second to lose apparently. Rosie fetched a bag for Hester from inside, adding her phone, her handbag, a jumper and a toothbrush and pyjamas; she didn’t think Hester would be back for a while.
‘When’s the baby due?’ she asked gently, but Hester shook her head; one awful experience at a time. So instead Rosie gently took her hand, checking her phone every two seconds. Still no signal. Moray needed to phone her about Stephen… and Edison. Oh, Edison.
A choking noise escaped Hester ’s mouth suddenly and her hand flew to her face.
