Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 57
Right at that moment, she would have given a lot to be on an Australian beach.
Stephen marched out behind the house, completely furious, beside himself. He picked up a stick and battered it against the side of a tree. A massive clump of snow fell out and landed on the back of his neck. This was so stupid, he thought; he had to get a grip on himself.
He thought of the sadness and pain in Rosie’s eyes. How could he have hurt her like that? It wasn’t unreasonable of her, after all, was it? But did she really know what she was asking of him?
All his life he’d bucked against doing the expected thing, settling down in the path his family had been treading for hundreds of years. He wanted to travel the world, inspire young minds, not worry and fret about heating bills and gardening staff and spend his life dealing with his bloody mother, in stifling little Lipton where everybody had known him since he was a little boy.
But Rosie didn’t stifle him, did she? When she wasn’t being all funny about everything…
He shone his torch on the ground. Fresh snow was falling, but it hadn’t covered the ground just yet, and tracks from birds and dogs were clearly visible. Nothing human, though, so he headed over to the outbuildings.
Suddenly a horrible thought struck him. She couldn’t… When she had mentioned visiting Australia, she couldn’t possibly mean for a long time, could she? She wouldn’t leave?
All his conflicting feelings about settling down, about having to follow the family path, suddenly paled into utter insignificance. Rosie in Australia… It was like a punch to the gut. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t leave him. Surely not. God, he just needed to get out of bloody Lipton for a bit.
The search took on a new level of intensity. The howling wind was absolutely freezing.
Down in the village, the local constable, Big Pete, was trying to co-ordinate matters. He looked serious.
‘Is he wearing a coat?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Cathryn was trying her best to maintain a calm atmosphere.
‘We’re going to fan out and search every back street, every back garden, knock on every door, okay?’
The men of the village, already tired from their night’s work at the school, looked haggard in the arc lights still set up from the building work, but set to with a will. ‘James!’ could be heard on every breath of wind, echoing up and down the street, the old stone houses looking empty and inhospitable in the chill of the night.
Moray, with Lilian in the car, picked Rosie up at the bottom of the driveway. She looked beside herself, and her teeth were chattering.
‘We’ll find him,’ said Moray, although he was more worried than he let on. James was a very old, confused, senile man. In this weather, even if they found him, bronchitis, pneumonia… the complications were frightening, painful and distressing. Well, they would deal with that as and when. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added, squeezing her gently.
The car’s warmth was welcome, but it made Rosie want to start crying, and she didn’t have time for that.
‘Why did you leave the house?’ she asked Lilian crossly. ‘You shouldn’t be out on a night like this.’
She squinted.
‘And are you wearing fur?’
‘Yes. Things were different then,’ sniffed Lilian. ‘Better. And in answer to your ridiculous question, two reasons. One, because Hetty’s house is colder on the inside than the outside. And two, because I know where he is.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Rosie.
‘I know where he is.’
‘James?’
‘His name isn’t James,’ said Lilian. ‘Really, nobody ever pays attention to the old.’
Moray glanced at her.
‘Where am I going then?’
‘The churchyard, please.’
The search party hadn’t yet reached the churchyard. Lilian stepped out of the car, seeming to barely notice the cold. Moray followed her with his big heavy-duty country torch. Rosie followed dumbly behind.
‘Once upon a time,’ said Lilian, striding confidently ahead, sprightly for a woman of her age. The moon had risen, and she hardly needed the light from the torch. ‘Once upon a time, there was a woman called Lilian Hopkins.’
‘That’s a coincidence,’ said Moray, then shouted: ‘JAMES!’
‘Sssh. And she was in love with a young man called Henry Carr.’
Rosie and Moray traded looks.
‘But he got some slapper up the duff.’
‘Ida Delia,’ said Rosie. Lilian sniffed.
‘Then he got called up.’
‘But he died,’ said Rosie, gently, suddenly terrified that her great-aunt’s mind had turned. ‘He died, Lilian. A long time ago. In North Africa, remember.’
‘There was a lot of confusion in the war,’ said Lilian, a touch of steel in her voice. ‘Lots of things got mixed up. Don’t forget that.’
She made a sharp turn to the left, then right again, then left.
‘Aha,’ she said. ‘Yes.’
And there, in the shade of the old churchyard tree where they had once spent hours together, kissing, and talking, and planning for a future that would never come, lay nestled the long body and white head of an old, old man.
Moray pulled out his phone immediately to alert the authorities, and call in the helicopter. Rosie tore off her coat and put it round the old man, and Moray shouted harshly for Big Pete to bring blankets and hot tea. Then he knelt down. There was a faint pulse, very slow. He put his arm round the man, Rosie too.
‘Come on, old fella,’ said Moray. ‘Come on.’
Lilian – very carefully and painfully, due to her dodgy hip – knelt down.
‘When I was young,’ she went on, in the same eerily calm tone of voice, ‘which was yesterday, or last week or thereabouts, I knew a boy with curly hair. He used to tease me mercilessly. He worked in the fields with the sheep, and the back of his neck was brown as a nut, and his nose took freckles in July when the sun shone all day.
‘When I was sad, because my brother had died, he held me every day and did his best to make everything better, and when we were happy, we walked the lanes and the fields of Lipton together and he would hold my hand and tickle me with a wheat sheaf, and we would talk about the cottage we were going to have, with the white roses, because I like white roses, even though they are neglected most horribly by my great-niece, after all the trouble I went to cultivate them round the bower gate.
Stephen marched out behind the house, completely furious, beside himself. He picked up a stick and battered it against the side of a tree. A massive clump of snow fell out and landed on the back of his neck. This was so stupid, he thought; he had to get a grip on himself.
He thought of the sadness and pain in Rosie’s eyes. How could he have hurt her like that? It wasn’t unreasonable of her, after all, was it? But did she really know what she was asking of him?
All his life he’d bucked against doing the expected thing, settling down in the path his family had been treading for hundreds of years. He wanted to travel the world, inspire young minds, not worry and fret about heating bills and gardening staff and spend his life dealing with his bloody mother, in stifling little Lipton where everybody had known him since he was a little boy.
But Rosie didn’t stifle him, did she? When she wasn’t being all funny about everything…
He shone his torch on the ground. Fresh snow was falling, but it hadn’t covered the ground just yet, and tracks from birds and dogs were clearly visible. Nothing human, though, so he headed over to the outbuildings.
Suddenly a horrible thought struck him. She couldn’t… When she had mentioned visiting Australia, she couldn’t possibly mean for a long time, could she? She wouldn’t leave?
All his conflicting feelings about settling down, about having to follow the family path, suddenly paled into utter insignificance. Rosie in Australia… It was like a punch to the gut. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t leave him. Surely not. God, he just needed to get out of bloody Lipton for a bit.
The search took on a new level of intensity. The howling wind was absolutely freezing.
Down in the village, the local constable, Big Pete, was trying to co-ordinate matters. He looked serious.
‘Is he wearing a coat?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Cathryn was trying her best to maintain a calm atmosphere.
‘We’re going to fan out and search every back street, every back garden, knock on every door, okay?’
The men of the village, already tired from their night’s work at the school, looked haggard in the arc lights still set up from the building work, but set to with a will. ‘James!’ could be heard on every breath of wind, echoing up and down the street, the old stone houses looking empty and inhospitable in the chill of the night.
Moray, with Lilian in the car, picked Rosie up at the bottom of the driveway. She looked beside herself, and her teeth were chattering.
‘We’ll find him,’ said Moray, although he was more worried than he let on. James was a very old, confused, senile man. In this weather, even if they found him, bronchitis, pneumonia… the complications were frightening, painful and distressing. Well, they would deal with that as and when. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added, squeezing her gently.
The car’s warmth was welcome, but it made Rosie want to start crying, and she didn’t have time for that.
‘Why did you leave the house?’ she asked Lilian crossly. ‘You shouldn’t be out on a night like this.’
She squinted.
‘And are you wearing fur?’
‘Yes. Things were different then,’ sniffed Lilian. ‘Better. And in answer to your ridiculous question, two reasons. One, because Hetty’s house is colder on the inside than the outside. And two, because I know where he is.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Rosie.
‘I know where he is.’
‘James?’
‘His name isn’t James,’ said Lilian. ‘Really, nobody ever pays attention to the old.’
Moray glanced at her.
‘Where am I going then?’
‘The churchyard, please.’
The search party hadn’t yet reached the churchyard. Lilian stepped out of the car, seeming to barely notice the cold. Moray followed her with his big heavy-duty country torch. Rosie followed dumbly behind.
‘Once upon a time,’ said Lilian, striding confidently ahead, sprightly for a woman of her age. The moon had risen, and she hardly needed the light from the torch. ‘Once upon a time, there was a woman called Lilian Hopkins.’
‘That’s a coincidence,’ said Moray, then shouted: ‘JAMES!’
‘Sssh. And she was in love with a young man called Henry Carr.’
Rosie and Moray traded looks.
‘But he got some slapper up the duff.’
‘Ida Delia,’ said Rosie. Lilian sniffed.
‘Then he got called up.’
‘But he died,’ said Rosie, gently, suddenly terrified that her great-aunt’s mind had turned. ‘He died, Lilian. A long time ago. In North Africa, remember.’
‘There was a lot of confusion in the war,’ said Lilian, a touch of steel in her voice. ‘Lots of things got mixed up. Don’t forget that.’
She made a sharp turn to the left, then right again, then left.
‘Aha,’ she said. ‘Yes.’
And there, in the shade of the old churchyard tree where they had once spent hours together, kissing, and talking, and planning for a future that would never come, lay nestled the long body and white head of an old, old man.
Moray pulled out his phone immediately to alert the authorities, and call in the helicopter. Rosie tore off her coat and put it round the old man, and Moray shouted harshly for Big Pete to bring blankets and hot tea. Then he knelt down. There was a faint pulse, very slow. He put his arm round the man, Rosie too.
‘Come on, old fella,’ said Moray. ‘Come on.’
Lilian – very carefully and painfully, due to her dodgy hip – knelt down.
‘When I was young,’ she went on, in the same eerily calm tone of voice, ‘which was yesterday, or last week or thereabouts, I knew a boy with curly hair. He used to tease me mercilessly. He worked in the fields with the sheep, and the back of his neck was brown as a nut, and his nose took freckles in July when the sun shone all day.
‘When I was sad, because my brother had died, he held me every day and did his best to make everything better, and when we were happy, we walked the lanes and the fields of Lipton together and he would hold my hand and tickle me with a wheat sheaf, and we would talk about the cottage we were going to have, with the white roses, because I like white roses, even though they are neglected most horribly by my great-niece, after all the trouble I went to cultivate them round the bower gate.
