Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 36
Then she went to the linen cupboard and made up the beds with practised hospital strokes, thrashing out her crossness with herself for not organising things earlier, not giving Stephen the opportunity to get used to the idea, being a coward about it; and with him for not being keener on it… although he had just got out of hospital and didn’t deserve all this, so clearly it wasn’t his fault, so it must be hers… Banging down pillows helped get rid of some of the cross energy, and the music did help perk her up a bit, but EURGH, why did everything have to be so exasperating?
Once she was done, and cleaned and hoovered the bedrooms, she opened the large rucksack she’d brought along on the bike then heaved into the Land Rover. Thank goodness for Tina and her online shopping addiction. Her colleague had kindly lent her spare covers she’d bought over the years for Kent and Emily. There was a Cars duvet that should do for Meridian, a football blanket for Shane and a princess blanket for Kelly. Once Rosie had spread these on top of the austere white counterpanes, they gave the large bedroom a much jollier, homelier outlook. It wasn’t much, she reflected, but it was a start.
She cleaned up and down the rest of the house and put out soap, toothpaste, towels and washing powder that had been tidily placed in the larder cupboard. From the rucksack she brought out two pints of milk, thankfully not frozen, some Weetabix, tea, coffee (there were jars of stuff in the cupboard, given that Stephen hadn’t officially moved out yet, but Rosie wasn’t entirely convinced of their provenance) and bread. Then she glanced around. Despite her efforts, it still seemed so cheerless, somehow. It was such a basic, unloved home. Stephen had stayed there when he was ill, so he hadn’t wanted much cheer around him. It needed something… just to bring the place to life a little, make the children not regret flying all the way around the world.
Slade were singing loudly about hanging up the stockings on the wall when she got an idea. She grabbed the torch that was always kept charged up in the boot room next to the back door, and went upstairs, standing on a chair and grabbing the string that opened the attic trapdoor. She had to leap out of the way to avoid the ladder that came cascading down. She’d never been up there before, though Stephen had gone once when there was a bird trapped in the rafters who’d flown in somehow under the eaves and then made a hearty racket, scaring her half to death.
If it was cold downstairs in the house, up here it was arctic. Wind whistled through the gaps in the tiles. Rosie shivered, her fingers going into tight knots. She was sure you could get a government grant for insulation now; this was absolutely ludicrous. Lady Lipton probably thought getting a grant for insulation was too left-wing or something.
It wasn’t that dark in the attic, which made Rosie worry about holes in the roof and patching and all sorts, but she shone the torch round anyway. There were boxes everywhere; a large steamer trunk with S.F.L. stamped on it which Rosie correctly took to be Stephen’s grandfather’s; piles of books that smelled musty and looked damp; an old-style tennis racquet in a wooden press, and ancient skis with rope bindings and boots that looked left over from a previous century. But Rosie couldn’t linger, it was far too cold for that. In the far corner she found what she had been hoping for: a brown box with ‘Xmas’ stencilled on it.
The kitchen, with the radiators slowly heating up, felt like a greenhouse after the loft, and Rosie boiled the kettle for tea and washed her dusty hands. Then she sat down to review her treasure. She knew that before Stephen had lived in Peak House, the family had used the place for storage, family and guest overspill and occasional staff, and had guessed there might be something like this up there. It quickly became clear from the crude little initials scratched on them that these were Stephen and Pamela’s – Stephen’s sister, who had a job in New York and only came home once in a blue moon to have a massive and cathartic shouting match with her mother about primogeniture, then stormed off again, a state of affairs that Rosie privately thought was hugely enjoyable for the both of them – old Christmas decorations, built up painfully over years: a wobbly angel with wool hair here, a nobbled cardboard Santa Claus there, an oddly touching decorated cigarette lighter; Rosie assumed they didn’t make those at school any more. There was tinsel too, which she could hang, and a large dried holly wreath which she could stick on the front door, but it was the children’s things that intrigued her most.
At the bottom of the box she found a letter, badly spelled and with some of the letters a little wonky.
Dear Mr Santa,
I have bin mostly good this year except Father says ‘SULEN’ but I don’t know what that is.
Culd I have please:
books
a new fountin pen as I have lost mine but not told Mother
a train like a real one with steam please
a transformer. I do not know what this is but everyone at school has them
Panini football cards ditto
Thank you.
Yours sincerely,
Stephen Felix Lakeman (7)
Rosie bit her lip, her crossness and irritation washed away. She sipped her tea, and took a photo of the letter on her phone to send to Stephen when she had a signal. Then she folded the page very carefully and put it back in the box.
She returned the radio to Classic FM so she could listen to ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ and belted it out as she stuck tinsel up all round the kitchen and on the mantelpiece in the sitting room, where she could build a fire tomorrow night. She added baubles at random, and lined up all the little cardboard Santas and the other bits and pieces across the mantelpiece too. Then, feeling an excess of energy, she went out into the kitchen garden, where she found, behind the wall, a great shimmering holly bush and, with some cursing at the damage it did to her fingers, managed to snip off several great bunches with which to line every remaining surface in the house. Then she saw mistletoe too and did the same with that.
By the time she had finished, the sky was black and icy cold, the stars far and distant, and from outside, the house, lit up, was far far cosier than it had been. Rosie felt rather pleased with herself, and over her earlier mood in the way that only a day’s really hard graft could sort out. She loaded the empty bag back into the Land Rover and texted Stephen to tell him she’d pick up fish and chips. She prayed he was home. Then she would let him be cross until, hopefully, it burnt itself out and she could apologise enough. Thank goodness he was back at school; she could entertain the visitors during the day and… well, the rest of the time would sort itself out, wouldn’t it? Yes. Yes. It would be fine.
Once she was done, and cleaned and hoovered the bedrooms, she opened the large rucksack she’d brought along on the bike then heaved into the Land Rover. Thank goodness for Tina and her online shopping addiction. Her colleague had kindly lent her spare covers she’d bought over the years for Kent and Emily. There was a Cars duvet that should do for Meridian, a football blanket for Shane and a princess blanket for Kelly. Once Rosie had spread these on top of the austere white counterpanes, they gave the large bedroom a much jollier, homelier outlook. It wasn’t much, she reflected, but it was a start.
She cleaned up and down the rest of the house and put out soap, toothpaste, towels and washing powder that had been tidily placed in the larder cupboard. From the rucksack she brought out two pints of milk, thankfully not frozen, some Weetabix, tea, coffee (there were jars of stuff in the cupboard, given that Stephen hadn’t officially moved out yet, but Rosie wasn’t entirely convinced of their provenance) and bread. Then she glanced around. Despite her efforts, it still seemed so cheerless, somehow. It was such a basic, unloved home. Stephen had stayed there when he was ill, so he hadn’t wanted much cheer around him. It needed something… just to bring the place to life a little, make the children not regret flying all the way around the world.
Slade were singing loudly about hanging up the stockings on the wall when she got an idea. She grabbed the torch that was always kept charged up in the boot room next to the back door, and went upstairs, standing on a chair and grabbing the string that opened the attic trapdoor. She had to leap out of the way to avoid the ladder that came cascading down. She’d never been up there before, though Stephen had gone once when there was a bird trapped in the rafters who’d flown in somehow under the eaves and then made a hearty racket, scaring her half to death.
If it was cold downstairs in the house, up here it was arctic. Wind whistled through the gaps in the tiles. Rosie shivered, her fingers going into tight knots. She was sure you could get a government grant for insulation now; this was absolutely ludicrous. Lady Lipton probably thought getting a grant for insulation was too left-wing or something.
It wasn’t that dark in the attic, which made Rosie worry about holes in the roof and patching and all sorts, but she shone the torch round anyway. There were boxes everywhere; a large steamer trunk with S.F.L. stamped on it which Rosie correctly took to be Stephen’s grandfather’s; piles of books that smelled musty and looked damp; an old-style tennis racquet in a wooden press, and ancient skis with rope bindings and boots that looked left over from a previous century. But Rosie couldn’t linger, it was far too cold for that. In the far corner she found what she had been hoping for: a brown box with ‘Xmas’ stencilled on it.
The kitchen, with the radiators slowly heating up, felt like a greenhouse after the loft, and Rosie boiled the kettle for tea and washed her dusty hands. Then she sat down to review her treasure. She knew that before Stephen had lived in Peak House, the family had used the place for storage, family and guest overspill and occasional staff, and had guessed there might be something like this up there. It quickly became clear from the crude little initials scratched on them that these were Stephen and Pamela’s – Stephen’s sister, who had a job in New York and only came home once in a blue moon to have a massive and cathartic shouting match with her mother about primogeniture, then stormed off again, a state of affairs that Rosie privately thought was hugely enjoyable for the both of them – old Christmas decorations, built up painfully over years: a wobbly angel with wool hair here, a nobbled cardboard Santa Claus there, an oddly touching decorated cigarette lighter; Rosie assumed they didn’t make those at school any more. There was tinsel too, which she could hang, and a large dried holly wreath which she could stick on the front door, but it was the children’s things that intrigued her most.
At the bottom of the box she found a letter, badly spelled and with some of the letters a little wonky.
Dear Mr Santa,
I have bin mostly good this year except Father says ‘SULEN’ but I don’t know what that is.
Culd I have please:
books
a new fountin pen as I have lost mine but not told Mother
a train like a real one with steam please
a transformer. I do not know what this is but everyone at school has them
Panini football cards ditto
Thank you.
Yours sincerely,
Stephen Felix Lakeman (7)
Rosie bit her lip, her crossness and irritation washed away. She sipped her tea, and took a photo of the letter on her phone to send to Stephen when she had a signal. Then she folded the page very carefully and put it back in the box.
She returned the radio to Classic FM so she could listen to ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ and belted it out as she stuck tinsel up all round the kitchen and on the mantelpiece in the sitting room, where she could build a fire tomorrow night. She added baubles at random, and lined up all the little cardboard Santas and the other bits and pieces across the mantelpiece too. Then, feeling an excess of energy, she went out into the kitchen garden, where she found, behind the wall, a great shimmering holly bush and, with some cursing at the damage it did to her fingers, managed to snip off several great bunches with which to line every remaining surface in the house. Then she saw mistletoe too and did the same with that.
By the time she had finished, the sky was black and icy cold, the stars far and distant, and from outside, the house, lit up, was far far cosier than it had been. Rosie felt rather pleased with herself, and over her earlier mood in the way that only a day’s really hard graft could sort out. She loaded the empty bag back into the Land Rover and texted Stephen to tell him she’d pick up fish and chips. She prayed he was home. Then she would let him be cross until, hopefully, it burnt itself out and she could apologise enough. Thank goodness he was back at school; she could entertain the visitors during the day and… well, the rest of the time would sort itself out, wouldn’t it? Yes. Yes. It would be fine.
