Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 19
Rosie nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, he’s going to be fine.’ She had to believe it.
‘And if he isn’t,’ said Moray, ‘we’ll do what I wanted to do last time and get a posse to go and kick him up the arse.’
They clinked glasses.
‘You look like hell,’ observed Lilian usefully the next morning when Rosie popped in to see her en route to the hospital (she had woken ridiculously early, and knew that people got up early at the nursing home too).
‘That’s because I’ve just been through the most traumatic day of my life,’ said Rosie indignantly.
‘Oh. Because it looks like a hangover.’
Rosie didn’t answer.
‘They should never let lorries through the village,’ said Lilian. ‘Bloody awful big things.’
‘I know.’
‘I wonder what they’ll do about the school now?’ said Lilian, musingly. She was cosy in a chic woollen top and a little beret, even though they were inside.
‘What do you mean?’ said Rosie. ‘They’ll patch it up and it’ll be good as new.’
Lilian raised her eyebrows.
‘They’ve been trying to shut that school for years. Bus all the children to Carningford.’
Rosie looked horrified that the rumours might be true.
‘But they can’t! It’ll kill the village!’
Lilian nodded.
‘I know. It’ll be the end of us, to be sure.’
Rosie felt a hand of fear clutch at her heart.
‘They wouldn’t close the school?’
‘Well, it’s obviously dangerous… and enrolment has been falling.’
‘But parents move here for the small class sizes!’
‘Then they move right away again when their children get to secondary. It’s not really sustainable. And Manly’s too.’
‘What about Manly’s?’ Manly’s was the defiantly unfashionable boutique in the village.
‘Well, she does all the school uniforms, doesn’t she? She stops supplying those, she’s really in trouble. It’s not like anyone wants her size eighteen fuchsia cocktail dresses, and once you’ve bought one waxed jacket, that’s pretty much all you need for the rest of your life… You need a waxed jacket, by the way.’
‘Thank you, Lilian,’ said Rosie, but her brain was whirring. They wouldn’t shut the school, would they? Lipton was so proud it had managed to hang on to its post office, its Spar, its pub, its chippy – it even had a bus service, of sorts. But losing the school would rip the heart from them.
‘It’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘There’s no way the council could be that evil.’
‘No,’ said Lilian. ‘Elected officials never work in a disgusting way.’
‘Are you talking about democracies, Lilian?’ came an imperious voice. ‘Awful things, never bloody work.’
Rosie bit her lip as Lady Lipton bustled into the room, looking as usual a combination of ridiculous – she was wearing far too many slightly holed clothes – and rather magnificent – her cheekbones and gait rendered her dignified whatever the circumstances. It was, Rosie had ascertained, slightly arrogant and slightly habitual the way she dressed, as if she simply didn’t care (she obviously didn’t), but also as if the reason she didn’t care was that she felt so socially superior to everybody else. It was almost a way of showing off – ‘My house has so many rooms I can’t possibly heat it so I need to wear four cardigans that have been in the family for several generations.’
‘Lilian, I swear you are too young to be in here.’
‘I know,’ said Lilian complacently. ‘It’s nice for the others.’
Rosie stood up.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘What have you done to my boy now?’ said Lady Lipton, without smiling. Rosie was so surprised by this she forgot to close her mouth.
‘What on earth do you mean?’ she said. She hadn’t, to be fair, slept as much as she would have liked.
‘Well, you persuaded him into that school.’
‘I did not! He was desperate to do it.’
Lady Lipton gave Lilian a sideways look. She thought Stephen’s job should be with her, running the crumbling estate. Having a son who was a primary school teacher seemed to her to be some kind of admission of failure, particularly after all the money they’d spent on his education, as she announced from time to time.
‘And he’s a wonderful teacher,’ Rosie went on crossly.
‘Oh, don’t get wound up,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘A teacher and a shop girl, perfect combination really. Now, Lilian, have you heard how awful it all was? Shall we go through it again?’
‘It was awful,’ said Rosie, honestly. ‘It’s a miracle no one was killed. It’s going to take Edison a long time to get back on his feet as it is.’
‘Well, you’ve got Stephen back where you want him,’ said Henrietta, which was such a vicious thing to say that Rosie was on the point of walking out.
Instead, and fired up by the last twenty-four hours, she drew herself up and said, ‘As you well know, Stephen only goes where he wants to go. Amazing it’s never with you, isn’t it?’
Then she left, feeling wildly guilty and a bit pleased. And then guilty again. And then happy. And then she remembered that whatever she thought, this was still Stephen’s mother, so she had a duty of politeness, and making Lady Lipton think the worst of her didn’t help anything. So by the time she got back to the shop she was cursing.
She hated driving Stephen’s old Land Rover. It was a temperamental beast he’d inherited from his father, so it was about forty years old. It had no proper heating, no power steering and was a vehicle of last resort, but at the moment she had no choice. She packed Mr Dog into the front seat, wrapped up in a blanket, then remembered that hospitals weren’t too hot on the whole dog thing, and if she left him outside in the car he’d probably freeze to death, so decided to drop him off at Tina’s house, with a huge bag of jellies for Kent and Emily.
‘Hello!’ said Tina. The children were romping around, still in their pyjamas, playing bears with Jake, Kent keeping his cast well up in the air.
‘Oh look at you guys,’ said Rosie, genuinely pleased. ‘You’re like a Christmas advert in here.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, he’s going to be fine.’ She had to believe it.
‘And if he isn’t,’ said Moray, ‘we’ll do what I wanted to do last time and get a posse to go and kick him up the arse.’
They clinked glasses.
‘You look like hell,’ observed Lilian usefully the next morning when Rosie popped in to see her en route to the hospital (she had woken ridiculously early, and knew that people got up early at the nursing home too).
‘That’s because I’ve just been through the most traumatic day of my life,’ said Rosie indignantly.
‘Oh. Because it looks like a hangover.’
Rosie didn’t answer.
‘They should never let lorries through the village,’ said Lilian. ‘Bloody awful big things.’
‘I know.’
‘I wonder what they’ll do about the school now?’ said Lilian, musingly. She was cosy in a chic woollen top and a little beret, even though they were inside.
‘What do you mean?’ said Rosie. ‘They’ll patch it up and it’ll be good as new.’
Lilian raised her eyebrows.
‘They’ve been trying to shut that school for years. Bus all the children to Carningford.’
Rosie looked horrified that the rumours might be true.
‘But they can’t! It’ll kill the village!’
Lilian nodded.
‘I know. It’ll be the end of us, to be sure.’
Rosie felt a hand of fear clutch at her heart.
‘They wouldn’t close the school?’
‘Well, it’s obviously dangerous… and enrolment has been falling.’
‘But parents move here for the small class sizes!’
‘Then they move right away again when their children get to secondary. It’s not really sustainable. And Manly’s too.’
‘What about Manly’s?’ Manly’s was the defiantly unfashionable boutique in the village.
‘Well, she does all the school uniforms, doesn’t she? She stops supplying those, she’s really in trouble. It’s not like anyone wants her size eighteen fuchsia cocktail dresses, and once you’ve bought one waxed jacket, that’s pretty much all you need for the rest of your life… You need a waxed jacket, by the way.’
‘Thank you, Lilian,’ said Rosie, but her brain was whirring. They wouldn’t shut the school, would they? Lipton was so proud it had managed to hang on to its post office, its Spar, its pub, its chippy – it even had a bus service, of sorts. But losing the school would rip the heart from them.
‘It’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘There’s no way the council could be that evil.’
‘No,’ said Lilian. ‘Elected officials never work in a disgusting way.’
‘Are you talking about democracies, Lilian?’ came an imperious voice. ‘Awful things, never bloody work.’
Rosie bit her lip as Lady Lipton bustled into the room, looking as usual a combination of ridiculous – she was wearing far too many slightly holed clothes – and rather magnificent – her cheekbones and gait rendered her dignified whatever the circumstances. It was, Rosie had ascertained, slightly arrogant and slightly habitual the way she dressed, as if she simply didn’t care (she obviously didn’t), but also as if the reason she didn’t care was that she felt so socially superior to everybody else. It was almost a way of showing off – ‘My house has so many rooms I can’t possibly heat it so I need to wear four cardigans that have been in the family for several generations.’
‘Lilian, I swear you are too young to be in here.’
‘I know,’ said Lilian complacently. ‘It’s nice for the others.’
Rosie stood up.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘What have you done to my boy now?’ said Lady Lipton, without smiling. Rosie was so surprised by this she forgot to close her mouth.
‘What on earth do you mean?’ she said. She hadn’t, to be fair, slept as much as she would have liked.
‘Well, you persuaded him into that school.’
‘I did not! He was desperate to do it.’
Lady Lipton gave Lilian a sideways look. She thought Stephen’s job should be with her, running the crumbling estate. Having a son who was a primary school teacher seemed to her to be some kind of admission of failure, particularly after all the money they’d spent on his education, as she announced from time to time.
‘And he’s a wonderful teacher,’ Rosie went on crossly.
‘Oh, don’t get wound up,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘A teacher and a shop girl, perfect combination really. Now, Lilian, have you heard how awful it all was? Shall we go through it again?’
‘It was awful,’ said Rosie, honestly. ‘It’s a miracle no one was killed. It’s going to take Edison a long time to get back on his feet as it is.’
‘Well, you’ve got Stephen back where you want him,’ said Henrietta, which was such a vicious thing to say that Rosie was on the point of walking out.
Instead, and fired up by the last twenty-four hours, she drew herself up and said, ‘As you well know, Stephen only goes where he wants to go. Amazing it’s never with you, isn’t it?’
Then she left, feeling wildly guilty and a bit pleased. And then guilty again. And then happy. And then she remembered that whatever she thought, this was still Stephen’s mother, so she had a duty of politeness, and making Lady Lipton think the worst of her didn’t help anything. So by the time she got back to the shop she was cursing.
She hated driving Stephen’s old Land Rover. It was a temperamental beast he’d inherited from his father, so it was about forty years old. It had no proper heating, no power steering and was a vehicle of last resort, but at the moment she had no choice. She packed Mr Dog into the front seat, wrapped up in a blanket, then remembered that hospitals weren’t too hot on the whole dog thing, and if she left him outside in the car he’d probably freeze to death, so decided to drop him off at Tina’s house, with a huge bag of jellies for Kent and Emily.
‘Hello!’ said Tina. The children were romping around, still in their pyjamas, playing bears with Jake, Kent keeping his cast well up in the air.
‘Oh look at you guys,’ said Rosie, genuinely pleased. ‘You’re like a Christmas advert in here.’
