Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 58
‘And then something happened and I lost him, and that was a bad business, and then he went away to war and I never saw him again.’
She leant in close to him.
‘Henry, my love,’ she whispered. ‘Was that you?’
For a moment in the churchyard all was silent and white, the snow falling without a noise, a great hush on the world. Rosie was holding one of the old man’s hands and was trying to rub some life back into it.
Then something: a twitch, a quiver of the eyelids. Then the eyes blinked, slowly, a film of tears on them.
‘Well done,’ said Moray. ‘Well done. Up you come.’
He struggled to sit up, Moray putting his anorak between him and the cold wet ground.
‘My name,’ the old man croaked, ‘is Henry Ishmael Carr.’
‘I know,’ said Lilian.
Rosie’s mouth dropped open.
Then all was commotion and bright lights as the search party charged into the churchyard, and a great thundering noise cut across the sky and the sweeping beams of the helicopter poured over them, bathing everything in boiling yellow light, and no one could hear a thing after that, and Henry gently closed his eyes again.
I should get a flat in this bloody hospital, thought Rosie. She’d brought Lilian in the next morning, as soon as they’d got the news that Henry had woken up and was ready for visitors. She had a stonking hangover, seeing as how once Henry had been dispatched and the old people returned to the home, there seemed to be only one thing to do, which was for everyone to decamp to the Red Lion to chew over the astounding events of the day. Dorothy Isitt and Ida Delia had been informed, which would be interesting, as well as Edward Boyd. For once, quiet, tranquil Lipton, where nothing ever happened, had turned into a soap opera, and no one could quite believe it.
All the way back to the home, Rosie had just stared at Lilian.
‘But how did you know?’ she asked. ‘How could you possibly know?’
Lilian shrugged.
‘I recognised him straight away.’ she said. ‘So, naturally, I thought it was me who was going completely insane. As if Henry Carr would walk back into my life. I thought I wasn’t long for this world.’
Rosie shook her head.
‘It’s not possible.’
Then something struck her.
‘Oh my God, is that why you kept mentioning Australia? Encouraging me to go?’
Lilian nodded.
‘You seemed to miss your mother, and yes, I didn’t think I had long, with all the hallucinations and whatnot. I reckoned I was going gaga and I’d soon be so scatty I wouldn’t even notice you were gone.’
‘It’s amazing.’
‘Remind me of how you came across him again?’
Rosie thought back.
‘Well, he was driving through the village, and had a funny turn when he saw the shop.’
‘Hmm. Why do you think that was?’
‘Amazing,’ said Rosie. ‘I mean, just incredible.’
‘It’s not in the least bit amazing,’ said Lilian. ‘He could have driven through this village at any time in the last sixty bloody years, prompted his memory and we could have taken it from there. Did you know he’s been a widower for thirty years? I could do a swear!’ But the excitement in her eyes gave away her happiness.
Rosie had asked Moray if the old man was going to be all right, and he had shrugged and said he didn’t know, but stranger things had happened.
‘Not much stranger, though,’ he’d mused on his third glass of Les’s very indifferent red wine.
Stephen had intended to go to the pub, but had been at home looking up something online when he’d come upon the window Rosie had (intentionally? he wondered) left open on the laptop they shared. Quarantine arrangements for taking dogs to Australia. He had stared at it for a long time, then picked up Mr Dog from his comfy position in front of the fire and hugged him.
Then he’d grabbed a jacket, left a terse note, jumped in the Land Rover and headed for London.
Rosie had read the note in pain and confusion. What did ‘London’ mean? His horrible posh society friends and gruesome blondes and all sorts… Well, she thought grimly. Clearly they’d both been thinking about their lives.
Now, the following morning, she was at the hospital, trying to get Lilian into Henry’s room. He had a private one because he needed the warming bath and electric anti-hypothermia blankets, plus there was a lot of media interest in his story – he was something of a hospital celebrity. It was just as well; he needed the space. Crowded into the little room painted that odd shade of yellowy beige of hospitals everywhere were Moray, Rosie and Lilian; a whey-faced Edward with his wife and their son, Ian; Ida Delia, insisting on a chair and prominently flaunting her wedding ring on her left hand, rather than the right where it had resided for the past sixty years; and a thin-lipped Dorothy Isitt, Peter as ever a silent and reassuring presence at her side. There were also several interested medical personnel. A psychiatrist, trying not to look too gleeful, had set up a tape recorder by the side of Henry’s bed.
Moray looked grave; he’d had a word with the consultant, and nobody liked the noise Henry’s lungs were making. He seemed, though, mentally, to have made the most tremendous breakthrough.
‘I was born in Lipton on the ninth of August 1922. My mother’s name was Peggy and my father was Henry too, and we lived on Isitt’s farm and I worked in the fields. And I knew a girl called Lilian Hopkins.’
There was total silence in the room. The old man sounded completely clear and unclouded, his vision fixed on something far, far away. The psychiatrist double-checked that the little machine was taping properly.
‘I liked it when she would wear the little green-sprigged dress and sometimes sit on the front of my bicycle. My dog was called…’
‘Penn,’ said Lilian and Henry together. ‘Penn,’ said Henry again, wonderingly. ‘He was a beautiful dog.’
‘He was,’ said Lilian.
‘This isn’t happening,’ said Edward.
‘What about his… James’s parents?’ asked Rosie.
‘They died… he was an orphan. He met my mother after the war and he would never talk about it. We knew he’d suffered head injuries, that was all. What if…’
‘What if they got the wrong man?’
Henry looked at Edward.
She leant in close to him.
‘Henry, my love,’ she whispered. ‘Was that you?’
For a moment in the churchyard all was silent and white, the snow falling without a noise, a great hush on the world. Rosie was holding one of the old man’s hands and was trying to rub some life back into it.
Then something: a twitch, a quiver of the eyelids. Then the eyes blinked, slowly, a film of tears on them.
‘Well done,’ said Moray. ‘Well done. Up you come.’
He struggled to sit up, Moray putting his anorak between him and the cold wet ground.
‘My name,’ the old man croaked, ‘is Henry Ishmael Carr.’
‘I know,’ said Lilian.
Rosie’s mouth dropped open.
Then all was commotion and bright lights as the search party charged into the churchyard, and a great thundering noise cut across the sky and the sweeping beams of the helicopter poured over them, bathing everything in boiling yellow light, and no one could hear a thing after that, and Henry gently closed his eyes again.
I should get a flat in this bloody hospital, thought Rosie. She’d brought Lilian in the next morning, as soon as they’d got the news that Henry had woken up and was ready for visitors. She had a stonking hangover, seeing as how once Henry had been dispatched and the old people returned to the home, there seemed to be only one thing to do, which was for everyone to decamp to the Red Lion to chew over the astounding events of the day. Dorothy Isitt and Ida Delia had been informed, which would be interesting, as well as Edward Boyd. For once, quiet, tranquil Lipton, where nothing ever happened, had turned into a soap opera, and no one could quite believe it.
All the way back to the home, Rosie had just stared at Lilian.
‘But how did you know?’ she asked. ‘How could you possibly know?’
Lilian shrugged.
‘I recognised him straight away.’ she said. ‘So, naturally, I thought it was me who was going completely insane. As if Henry Carr would walk back into my life. I thought I wasn’t long for this world.’
Rosie shook her head.
‘It’s not possible.’
Then something struck her.
‘Oh my God, is that why you kept mentioning Australia? Encouraging me to go?’
Lilian nodded.
‘You seemed to miss your mother, and yes, I didn’t think I had long, with all the hallucinations and whatnot. I reckoned I was going gaga and I’d soon be so scatty I wouldn’t even notice you were gone.’
‘It’s amazing.’
‘Remind me of how you came across him again?’
Rosie thought back.
‘Well, he was driving through the village, and had a funny turn when he saw the shop.’
‘Hmm. Why do you think that was?’
‘Amazing,’ said Rosie. ‘I mean, just incredible.’
‘It’s not in the least bit amazing,’ said Lilian. ‘He could have driven through this village at any time in the last sixty bloody years, prompted his memory and we could have taken it from there. Did you know he’s been a widower for thirty years? I could do a swear!’ But the excitement in her eyes gave away her happiness.
Rosie had asked Moray if the old man was going to be all right, and he had shrugged and said he didn’t know, but stranger things had happened.
‘Not much stranger, though,’ he’d mused on his third glass of Les’s very indifferent red wine.
Stephen had intended to go to the pub, but had been at home looking up something online when he’d come upon the window Rosie had (intentionally? he wondered) left open on the laptop they shared. Quarantine arrangements for taking dogs to Australia. He had stared at it for a long time, then picked up Mr Dog from his comfy position in front of the fire and hugged him.
Then he’d grabbed a jacket, left a terse note, jumped in the Land Rover and headed for London.
Rosie had read the note in pain and confusion. What did ‘London’ mean? His horrible posh society friends and gruesome blondes and all sorts… Well, she thought grimly. Clearly they’d both been thinking about their lives.
Now, the following morning, she was at the hospital, trying to get Lilian into Henry’s room. He had a private one because he needed the warming bath and electric anti-hypothermia blankets, plus there was a lot of media interest in his story – he was something of a hospital celebrity. It was just as well; he needed the space. Crowded into the little room painted that odd shade of yellowy beige of hospitals everywhere were Moray, Rosie and Lilian; a whey-faced Edward with his wife and their son, Ian; Ida Delia, insisting on a chair and prominently flaunting her wedding ring on her left hand, rather than the right where it had resided for the past sixty years; and a thin-lipped Dorothy Isitt, Peter as ever a silent and reassuring presence at her side. There were also several interested medical personnel. A psychiatrist, trying not to look too gleeful, had set up a tape recorder by the side of Henry’s bed.
Moray looked grave; he’d had a word with the consultant, and nobody liked the noise Henry’s lungs were making. He seemed, though, mentally, to have made the most tremendous breakthrough.
‘I was born in Lipton on the ninth of August 1922. My mother’s name was Peggy and my father was Henry too, and we lived on Isitt’s farm and I worked in the fields. And I knew a girl called Lilian Hopkins.’
There was total silence in the room. The old man sounded completely clear and unclouded, his vision fixed on something far, far away. The psychiatrist double-checked that the little machine was taping properly.
‘I liked it when she would wear the little green-sprigged dress and sometimes sit on the front of my bicycle. My dog was called…’
‘Penn,’ said Lilian and Henry together. ‘Penn,’ said Henry again, wonderingly. ‘He was a beautiful dog.’
‘He was,’ said Lilian.
‘This isn’t happening,’ said Edward.
‘What about his… James’s parents?’ asked Rosie.
‘They died… he was an orphan. He met my mother after the war and he would never talk about it. We knew he’d suffered head injuries, that was all. What if…’
‘What if they got the wrong man?’
Henry looked at Edward.
