Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 65
‘Do you think… You know I hate that vicar.’
They had had this discussion before. Lilian had been waging a vendetta against the trendy Lipton vicar since he’d arrived. Fortunately, he seemed completely unaware of this fact.
‘After the war,’ said Lilian, ‘after I lost Ned and Henry… well, I thought, that’s about it for God. You don’t need to be a starving child in Africa being eaten alive by flies to think sod that for a game of soldiers.’
Rosie nodded.
‘But now,’ Lilian said, ‘oh, wouldn’t it be nice? Hmm? Just to fall asleep, set these aching bones to rest. And wake up in Henry’s arms, all young and strong and splendid like we were? And we’d be somewhere warm where it never snowed, and we’d be together and we could grow the garden we never grew.’
‘My father’s house has many mansions,’ murmured Rosie, because she had heard it once and thought it sounded comforting.
‘I think I will suddenly believe,’ said Lilian decidedly. ‘I think maybe I’ll believe Catholic. They do that nice thing at the end, don’t they? They did it to Henry, put stuff on his head and basically said, whatever you’ve done, don’t worry about it, you’re all fine and that’s a guarantee. Can I have that?’
‘I’m not sure that’s how it works,’ said Rosie.
‘Oh of course it must be. God would know I was doing it for the right reasons, wouldn’t he? He knows I’m not a bad person.’
‘I think God would be far too scared not to let you into heaven,’ said Rosie.
‘Quite. Okay, Catholic it is, then. Do they let women be priests?’
‘There is nothing wrong with women being priests,’ said Rosie.
‘Yes, well, I’ll see what God says about that when I see him,’ said Lilian severely.
‘You’ll see what God says about that in thirty years’ time,’ said Rosie. ‘On your way to Buckingham Palace to pick up your award for longest-living woman in Britain. But now you can shush up and have a bath if you like. I’ve left the water on for you.’
‘Do I need a bath? Do I smell of old lady?’
‘No, you smell of Tweed, like you always do, and it’s lovely.’
‘Yes,’ said Lilian. ‘From Paris, you know.’
Rosie smiled. Lilian was gazing at the fire again.
‘I don’t want thirty years, Rosie. Thirty years of feeling cold and being too slow and not being able to hear a damn thing and playing more bridge, and worrying about falling over and not being able to read because I can’t bloody see, and day after day with nothing to look forward to.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Okay, some things to look forward to.’ She gave Rosie a shrewd look. ‘Getting you off my hands one way or another. But not as much as the one thing I am really looking forward to.’
She looked straight at Rosie, completely serious now.
‘I found him at last,’ she said. ‘And now I want to see him again.’
‘Don’t you even think it,’ said Rosie, also deadly serious. ‘Don’t you even dare.’
There was silence, then Lilian glanced wryly at her empty glass and lightened the mood.
‘Okay, come on, home,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re sure you won’t stay?’
‘It’s kippers and kedgeree and champagne for breakfast,’ said Lilian. ‘Can you compete with that?’
‘No,’ said Rosie, picking up the car keys. Pip had lent her the hire car.
‘Where’s Stephen?’ asked Lilian.
‘Out,’ said Rosie, unwilling to have that conversation just now.
‘I’d like to see him.’
‘Well that’s too bad. You’ve had a tough day. You need to sleep.’
Lilian let herself be led out to the car.
‘I’ll see him in my dreams, you know,’ she said to Rosie. ‘I’ve always seen him there. Now I know for sure. He’s waiting for me. And of course, his hair is as brown as a nut.’
Rosie returned alone and sat in front of the blazing fire.
So here it was, she thought. Merry Christmas. The Christmas she had once been looking forward to so much; in her head, the groaning table, the delighted children, not one of them addicted to their Nintendos, as she and Stephen together put on a wonderful spread, and everyone was happy and smiling and it was everything she’d ever dreamed of, and then Stephen would maybe have hushed everyone, still with a party hat on his head, and said he hoped they didn’t mind, but he wanted to ask Rosie something…
Ugh, stupid, stupid, stupid. She was completely stupid. She had misjudged just about everything it was possible to misjudge. Worst of all, she had not realised that everything she had of Stephen was all he had to give.
She had disregarded all the warnings – that he was difficult, that his childhood had been hard – and thought that it was all right, she could fix him. But fixing someone wasn’t a relationship. Fixing someone was what nurses did. And once you’d fixed people, then off they went again. But she’d thought… she’d thought that with Stephen it was different. That the way they cared for one another, how they were together… She bit her lip. She had played her hand. She had nothing left to give; nothing up her sleeve that would suddenly make him think, oh yes, that is the one I cannot live without. And that was that.
You couldn’t face a life being someone’s second best, someone’s ‘oh well, you’ll do for now’. Well, you could – she had once before, with Gerard. And look how that had turned out. She certainly wasn’t doing it again.
She felt such a fool. So precious about everything, so sure. Oh yes, tra la, I’m just throwing up my entire life in London and my flat and all my friends to move to the countryside. Of course I know what I’m doing.
Well she didn’t know what she was doing. Not a bit of it, obviously. The sweetshop was barely ticking over; she was making less than she had as a nurse, which wasn’t a lot. She was going to be single in a town where there were substantially more sheep than eligible men with their own teeth, where she had no family, few friends and where she’d be treated as an outsider for at least another twenty years.
Snivelling, she poured herself another glass of sherry. The radio was softly playing carols, and they only reminded her of the children singing and made her cry harder. She had a lot of gifts to wrap; she supposed she’d better get to it. And a busy day tomorrow. At least she’d see Pip’s children. And then, the day after Boxing Day, they’d be off too, off on tour to see things, then back to Oz. She was going to miss them so much, even little fuss-budget Kelly. She remembered Shane sledging down the hill, his head thrown back, laughing, looking so much like Pip as a small boy it was ridiculous, Desleigh filming the whole thing. Rosie had grown to rather appreciate her sister-in-law’s stolid calmness; now she saw how unstressed she was with her children and her life and in return how that suited the family and Pip. Of course Angie, as usual, could do all the worrying for everybody.
They had had this discussion before. Lilian had been waging a vendetta against the trendy Lipton vicar since he’d arrived. Fortunately, he seemed completely unaware of this fact.
‘After the war,’ said Lilian, ‘after I lost Ned and Henry… well, I thought, that’s about it for God. You don’t need to be a starving child in Africa being eaten alive by flies to think sod that for a game of soldiers.’
Rosie nodded.
‘But now,’ Lilian said, ‘oh, wouldn’t it be nice? Hmm? Just to fall asleep, set these aching bones to rest. And wake up in Henry’s arms, all young and strong and splendid like we were? And we’d be somewhere warm where it never snowed, and we’d be together and we could grow the garden we never grew.’
‘My father’s house has many mansions,’ murmured Rosie, because she had heard it once and thought it sounded comforting.
‘I think I will suddenly believe,’ said Lilian decidedly. ‘I think maybe I’ll believe Catholic. They do that nice thing at the end, don’t they? They did it to Henry, put stuff on his head and basically said, whatever you’ve done, don’t worry about it, you’re all fine and that’s a guarantee. Can I have that?’
‘I’m not sure that’s how it works,’ said Rosie.
‘Oh of course it must be. God would know I was doing it for the right reasons, wouldn’t he? He knows I’m not a bad person.’
‘I think God would be far too scared not to let you into heaven,’ said Rosie.
‘Quite. Okay, Catholic it is, then. Do they let women be priests?’
‘There is nothing wrong with women being priests,’ said Rosie.
‘Yes, well, I’ll see what God says about that when I see him,’ said Lilian severely.
‘You’ll see what God says about that in thirty years’ time,’ said Rosie. ‘On your way to Buckingham Palace to pick up your award for longest-living woman in Britain. But now you can shush up and have a bath if you like. I’ve left the water on for you.’
‘Do I need a bath? Do I smell of old lady?’
‘No, you smell of Tweed, like you always do, and it’s lovely.’
‘Yes,’ said Lilian. ‘From Paris, you know.’
Rosie smiled. Lilian was gazing at the fire again.
‘I don’t want thirty years, Rosie. Thirty years of feeling cold and being too slow and not being able to hear a damn thing and playing more bridge, and worrying about falling over and not being able to read because I can’t bloody see, and day after day with nothing to look forward to.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Okay, some things to look forward to.’ She gave Rosie a shrewd look. ‘Getting you off my hands one way or another. But not as much as the one thing I am really looking forward to.’
She looked straight at Rosie, completely serious now.
‘I found him at last,’ she said. ‘And now I want to see him again.’
‘Don’t you even think it,’ said Rosie, also deadly serious. ‘Don’t you even dare.’
There was silence, then Lilian glanced wryly at her empty glass and lightened the mood.
‘Okay, come on, home,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re sure you won’t stay?’
‘It’s kippers and kedgeree and champagne for breakfast,’ said Lilian. ‘Can you compete with that?’
‘No,’ said Rosie, picking up the car keys. Pip had lent her the hire car.
‘Where’s Stephen?’ asked Lilian.
‘Out,’ said Rosie, unwilling to have that conversation just now.
‘I’d like to see him.’
‘Well that’s too bad. You’ve had a tough day. You need to sleep.’
Lilian let herself be led out to the car.
‘I’ll see him in my dreams, you know,’ she said to Rosie. ‘I’ve always seen him there. Now I know for sure. He’s waiting for me. And of course, his hair is as brown as a nut.’
Rosie returned alone and sat in front of the blazing fire.
So here it was, she thought. Merry Christmas. The Christmas she had once been looking forward to so much; in her head, the groaning table, the delighted children, not one of them addicted to their Nintendos, as she and Stephen together put on a wonderful spread, and everyone was happy and smiling and it was everything she’d ever dreamed of, and then Stephen would maybe have hushed everyone, still with a party hat on his head, and said he hoped they didn’t mind, but he wanted to ask Rosie something…
Ugh, stupid, stupid, stupid. She was completely stupid. She had misjudged just about everything it was possible to misjudge. Worst of all, she had not realised that everything she had of Stephen was all he had to give.
She had disregarded all the warnings – that he was difficult, that his childhood had been hard – and thought that it was all right, she could fix him. But fixing someone wasn’t a relationship. Fixing someone was what nurses did. And once you’d fixed people, then off they went again. But she’d thought… she’d thought that with Stephen it was different. That the way they cared for one another, how they were together… She bit her lip. She had played her hand. She had nothing left to give; nothing up her sleeve that would suddenly make him think, oh yes, that is the one I cannot live without. And that was that.
You couldn’t face a life being someone’s second best, someone’s ‘oh well, you’ll do for now’. Well, you could – she had once before, with Gerard. And look how that had turned out. She certainly wasn’t doing it again.
She felt such a fool. So precious about everything, so sure. Oh yes, tra la, I’m just throwing up my entire life in London and my flat and all my friends to move to the countryside. Of course I know what I’m doing.
Well she didn’t know what she was doing. Not a bit of it, obviously. The sweetshop was barely ticking over; she was making less than she had as a nurse, which wasn’t a lot. She was going to be single in a town where there were substantially more sheep than eligible men with their own teeth, where she had no family, few friends and where she’d be treated as an outsider for at least another twenty years.
Snivelling, she poured herself another glass of sherry. The radio was softly playing carols, and they only reminded her of the children singing and made her cry harder. She had a lot of gifts to wrap; she supposed she’d better get to it. And a busy day tomorrow. At least she’d see Pip’s children. And then, the day after Boxing Day, they’d be off too, off on tour to see things, then back to Oz. She was going to miss them so much, even little fuss-budget Kelly. She remembered Shane sledging down the hill, his head thrown back, laughing, looking so much like Pip as a small boy it was ridiculous, Desleigh filming the whole thing. Rosie had grown to rather appreciate her sister-in-law’s stolid calmness; now she saw how unstressed she was with her children and her life and in return how that suited the family and Pip. Of course Angie, as usual, could do all the worrying for everybody.
