Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 18
‘All right, Mr Lakeman. We’re going to prep you.’
For a moment Stephen’s drug haze seemed to lift, and he looked Rosie right in the eye.
‘I can’t believe I’m here again,’ he said, his face clouded with pain. Rosie took his hand.
‘Because you’re brave,’ she whispered. ‘And you can be brave again.’
He half smiled.
‘Now, go get your bum transplant. Tell them not to change the shape. I like it as it is.’
She squeezed his hand once more and they took him away.
At five o’clock, hours and hours later – she had neither eaten nor drunk a thing all day, and didn’t even notice – Rosie was sitting next to Hester in a private waiting room when Arthur came running in. He was a tall, very thin man with glasses and pale hair; Edison was his absolute double. She tried to give them privacy, but they could barely talk to one another. Every so often Arthur would get up and try to harass any passing medical staff into giving them information, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t. Eventually Rosie got some coffee for everyone from the vending machine. It was utterly foul, but it gave their hands something to do as the clock ticked on.
It was strange, Rosie thought – and had often thought when she’d worked in A&E – the hands of time in hospital always moved far too fast, or far too slowly, and everyone watching the clock was locked in their own private universe of pain, or misery, or the joy of recovery. The idea that outside somewhere not very far away there was life going on – jobs and shopping and marriages and holidays and nights out and lunch breaks – when you were waiting in hospital for news, the idea that the world just went on its merry way seemed incomprehensible; unlikely and thoughtless. Rosie had been wondering about buying a Christmas tree. The idea that she had had that mild, useless, amiable thought in her head now seemed stupid and pointless.
She envied the people she had often seen in hospitals who were able to pray. Rosie had seen too many young lives cut short; too much potential lost to accident and disease to be very good at praying. But not Edison. Surely not.
At long last, a silhouette appeared at the venetian blinds. A surgeon. He was taking off his hat. Rosie eyed him fiercely, feeling her heart pound. Hester and Arthur clutched hands, the strain evident on their white faces.
He entered the room, a heavy-set man.
‘Mr and Mrs Felling-Jackson?’ he said gravely. He looked at Rosie.
‘I’ll leave,’ she said straight away.
‘No,’ said Hester. ‘No. You stay.’
Rosie felt she was going to be sick.
The surgeon sat down.
‘We think… we’re not sure, but we think… that Edison has broken his neck…’
Hester immediately burst into enormous choking sobs and grasped Rosie’s hand painfully tightly. Rosie squeezed back. The doctor gave her a few moments, then carried on.
‘But there are several ways to do this. At the moment, the indications seem to be that Edison has a C7 break, here.’ He indicated high up on the right-hand side of his neck.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Arthur. But Rosie let out a gasp. She knew.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Oh my God.’
The doctor nodded at her.
‘I know.’
Hester gazed at them both, her eyes dry and wide.
‘WHAT? Tell us!’
‘It means,’ said the doctor, ‘that we think Edison might have been very, very lucky.’
It was only then that Rosie was able to cry, as she explained to Moray later in the Red Lion. They were on their second bottle of white – on a week night, but needs must. They were also the focus of attention, as everyone whispered and speculated on the awful thing that had happened to their little school. It was, they all said, a miracle that nobody had been killed. Edison would have a long, slow recovery, much of it in a full-body cast, but there was every reason to suppose that he would get completely well again. The bricks from the wall had struck his vertebrae and thoracic cord, but Stephen had protected him from the rest of the blast. Stephen was out of surgery, but they wouldn’t say much more to Rosie on the phone, except that he was fast asleep and she was welcome to visit in the morning.
Little Kent had fractured his wrist, and was sporting both a massive cast and people all around him mentioning how brave he had been and how he deserved a medal, so on balance he was feeling pretty pleased with himself, although he slightly wished his mother would stop collapsing in tears every five minutes. Rosie had finally got back to find the sweetshop door still unlocked, but of course not a thing had been taken. She locked up, carefully, and wondered if it would be mawkish to put up a picture of Edison.
‘What’s happened to the bloke driving the lorry?’ asked Moray. Valiant work by the fire brigade – some of whom were now reliving their day in the corner of the bar – had removed the lorry, goodness knows where, and news teams had descended to report on the incident, though many had retreated as the weather got nasty.
‘He’s in custody in Carningford,’ said someone. ‘He’ll have to go to prison. He could have killed all those kids!’
Rosie shook her head.
‘Oh my goodness, that poor man.’
Moray looked at her.
‘Don’t give me that. It’s not like the school ran into the road. If they find out he was texting or on his phone or something, I’ll pull the lever myself.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s just, I can’t help thinking about everyone waking up this morning, thinking it was going to be just another normal day…’
‘Sssh,’ said Moray. ‘I know. I know. It’s awful. But it’s going to be okay.’
Inside, Rosie wasn’t so sure.
‘You know what Stephen went through last year,’ she said quietly.
Moray eyed her.
‘Rosie, if you’d wanted an easy life, you’d have stuck with that fat bloke you used to go out with.’
Rosie smiled.
‘True,’ she said. ‘But… you know…’
When Stephen had returned, injured, from Africa, he had shut himself away from the world, brooding. It had, the town agreed, taken Rosie to bring him out of himself. This might set him back again.
‘Look at it this way,’ said Moray. ‘This time he did save the child. He did it right. And it’s only a bit of skin off his arse. So.’
For a moment Stephen’s drug haze seemed to lift, and he looked Rosie right in the eye.
‘I can’t believe I’m here again,’ he said, his face clouded with pain. Rosie took his hand.
‘Because you’re brave,’ she whispered. ‘And you can be brave again.’
He half smiled.
‘Now, go get your bum transplant. Tell them not to change the shape. I like it as it is.’
She squeezed his hand once more and they took him away.
At five o’clock, hours and hours later – she had neither eaten nor drunk a thing all day, and didn’t even notice – Rosie was sitting next to Hester in a private waiting room when Arthur came running in. He was a tall, very thin man with glasses and pale hair; Edison was his absolute double. She tried to give them privacy, but they could barely talk to one another. Every so often Arthur would get up and try to harass any passing medical staff into giving them information, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t. Eventually Rosie got some coffee for everyone from the vending machine. It was utterly foul, but it gave their hands something to do as the clock ticked on.
It was strange, Rosie thought – and had often thought when she’d worked in A&E – the hands of time in hospital always moved far too fast, or far too slowly, and everyone watching the clock was locked in their own private universe of pain, or misery, or the joy of recovery. The idea that outside somewhere not very far away there was life going on – jobs and shopping and marriages and holidays and nights out and lunch breaks – when you were waiting in hospital for news, the idea that the world just went on its merry way seemed incomprehensible; unlikely and thoughtless. Rosie had been wondering about buying a Christmas tree. The idea that she had had that mild, useless, amiable thought in her head now seemed stupid and pointless.
She envied the people she had often seen in hospitals who were able to pray. Rosie had seen too many young lives cut short; too much potential lost to accident and disease to be very good at praying. But not Edison. Surely not.
At long last, a silhouette appeared at the venetian blinds. A surgeon. He was taking off his hat. Rosie eyed him fiercely, feeling her heart pound. Hester and Arthur clutched hands, the strain evident on their white faces.
He entered the room, a heavy-set man.
‘Mr and Mrs Felling-Jackson?’ he said gravely. He looked at Rosie.
‘I’ll leave,’ she said straight away.
‘No,’ said Hester. ‘No. You stay.’
Rosie felt she was going to be sick.
The surgeon sat down.
‘We think… we’re not sure, but we think… that Edison has broken his neck…’
Hester immediately burst into enormous choking sobs and grasped Rosie’s hand painfully tightly. Rosie squeezed back. The doctor gave her a few moments, then carried on.
‘But there are several ways to do this. At the moment, the indications seem to be that Edison has a C7 break, here.’ He indicated high up on the right-hand side of his neck.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Arthur. But Rosie let out a gasp. She knew.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Oh my God.’
The doctor nodded at her.
‘I know.’
Hester gazed at them both, her eyes dry and wide.
‘WHAT? Tell us!’
‘It means,’ said the doctor, ‘that we think Edison might have been very, very lucky.’
It was only then that Rosie was able to cry, as she explained to Moray later in the Red Lion. They were on their second bottle of white – on a week night, but needs must. They were also the focus of attention, as everyone whispered and speculated on the awful thing that had happened to their little school. It was, they all said, a miracle that nobody had been killed. Edison would have a long, slow recovery, much of it in a full-body cast, but there was every reason to suppose that he would get completely well again. The bricks from the wall had struck his vertebrae and thoracic cord, but Stephen had protected him from the rest of the blast. Stephen was out of surgery, but they wouldn’t say much more to Rosie on the phone, except that he was fast asleep and she was welcome to visit in the morning.
Little Kent had fractured his wrist, and was sporting both a massive cast and people all around him mentioning how brave he had been and how he deserved a medal, so on balance he was feeling pretty pleased with himself, although he slightly wished his mother would stop collapsing in tears every five minutes. Rosie had finally got back to find the sweetshop door still unlocked, but of course not a thing had been taken. She locked up, carefully, and wondered if it would be mawkish to put up a picture of Edison.
‘What’s happened to the bloke driving the lorry?’ asked Moray. Valiant work by the fire brigade – some of whom were now reliving their day in the corner of the bar – had removed the lorry, goodness knows where, and news teams had descended to report on the incident, though many had retreated as the weather got nasty.
‘He’s in custody in Carningford,’ said someone. ‘He’ll have to go to prison. He could have killed all those kids!’
Rosie shook her head.
‘Oh my goodness, that poor man.’
Moray looked at her.
‘Don’t give me that. It’s not like the school ran into the road. If they find out he was texting or on his phone or something, I’ll pull the lever myself.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s just, I can’t help thinking about everyone waking up this morning, thinking it was going to be just another normal day…’
‘Sssh,’ said Moray. ‘I know. I know. It’s awful. But it’s going to be okay.’
Inside, Rosie wasn’t so sure.
‘You know what Stephen went through last year,’ she said quietly.
Moray eyed her.
‘Rosie, if you’d wanted an easy life, you’d have stuck with that fat bloke you used to go out with.’
Rosie smiled.
‘True,’ she said. ‘But… you know…’
When Stephen had returned, injured, from Africa, he had shut himself away from the world, brooding. It had, the town agreed, taken Rosie to bring him out of himself. This might set him back again.
‘Look at it this way,’ said Moray. ‘This time he did save the child. He did it right. And it’s only a bit of skin off his arse. So.’
