Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 67
‘That’s right,’ said Angie. ‘Oh yes, I know that.’
‘So…’
‘Yup,’ said Angie. ‘I think we’re going to get her to come back with us.’
Desleigh and Angie chinked glasses. There was the sound of loud screeching from upstairs.
‘Muuum!’ shouted Pip. ‘Can you come and settle these bloody buggers?’
Desleigh watched Angie go upstairs with much satisfaction. Having Auntie Rosie on hand would make things even easier. After all, she thought, refilling her glass, it took a village to raise a child.
Chapter Nineteen
Rosie awoke with a start. At first she didn’t know where she was. Then she realised she must have fallen asleep. The fire was burning low in the grate and the room was turning cold. The television was showing late-night comedians making fun of the royal family, and she looked at the empty sherry glass crossly.
Then she realised what had woken her: the house phone was ringing. It stopped, then seconds later started again. She glanced at her watch; it was 2 a.m. Her heart skipped a beat; it must be Stephen. She grabbed the phone and answered it.
‘Hello?’
‘Rosie?’
The voice was masculine, but, she realised, it wasn’t Stephen. Gradually it filtered through her sleep-fuddled head that it was Moray’s soft tones.
‘What?’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘Are you sober?’
‘What are you talking about? Of course I’m sober. Well. I had two glasses of sherry… five hours ago.’
‘Fine, fine, that’ll do.’
She heard the slight tension in his voice.
‘What is it?’
‘Only bloody Hester.’
Rosie blinked a few times before she realised who he meant.
‘Edison’s mother… Oh Christ, the baby.’
‘Yes, the bloody baby. Deciding to make an appearance on the night when there are no doctors, no ambulances, two feet of bloody snow, midwife en route but not sounding overconfident, and muggins here on call.’
Rosie struggled to her feet, looking round for her thick down coat. ‘I’m here… Can you pick me up?’
‘Do you need time to get dressed?’
‘No,’ snapped Rosie, then, ‘Don’t ask. Where’s Hye?’
‘Bahamas,’ said Moray crossly. ‘Something about winter locality coverage payments.’ He sniffed loudly. ‘See you in two.’
Rosie threw some water on her face and tried to comb her hair, then gave it up as a pointless job. It was hardly as if she was going to a photo shoot. It had been three years since she’d assisted at a birth, but hopefully it would come back to her.
‘At least Hester’s all into this natural birth stuff,’ said Moray cheerfully in the car. ‘I don’t know how we’d get an anaesthetist out here. I got the midwife to read her records over the phone, and the baby’s fine, presented, turned the right way. I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly in the mood for performing an emergency section.’
‘Jesus,’ said Rosie.
‘I’m joking,’ said Moray. ‘Calm down. We’d get the helicopter out again. Three times in a month; they’ll love us.’
Rosie half smiled, her heart beating fast, and checked her phone again. There was nothing from Stephen. Where the fuck was he? He could be dead in a ditch as far as she knew. He’d taken some clothes, so she figured he was lying low for a while. But how long was that supposed to be? Or maybe he’d actually moved to London, and was so damned posh he didn’t need his stuff. She sighed.
‘Seriously, I was joking,’ said Moray. ‘I’m sure it’s going to be fine. I’ve done this before, you know. See a bit of it in rural practice in the winter. It’s like being a vet.’
‘That totally makes me feel better, James Herriot,’ said Rosie. ‘No, it’s… Oh God. It’s Stephen.’
‘Is he being… difficult?’
‘He’s… taking some time to figure things out.’
‘Mmm,’ said Moray. He knew that Rosie wanted him to call Stephen an arsehole to make her feel better, but he couldn’t now.
Rosie sighed. The car drew up outside the pretty little eco house marooned among the trees. Rosie thought back to the dreadful day she’d had to tell Hester the news about Edison. Thank God that boy was home for Christmas.
Inside, all the lights were on. Arthur was trying to fill up a leaking rubber paddling pool, which Rosie belatedly realised, after wondering whether this was a good time for paddling, was meant to be the birthing pool.
‘Hello, Rosie,’ said Edison happily from his chair. He was wearing bright red pyjamas with Santas on them. ‘Are you here to sperience the miracle of natril birth?’
‘Apparently, yes,’ said Rosie. ‘Can I boil the kettle?’
Hester was upstairs, holding on to the side of the reclaimed bed, her huge belly seeming to move on its own. She was swearing like a trooper.
‘Thank fuck,’ she said. ‘Fuck this for a fucking game of fucking soldiers.’
‘Hush, hush,’ said Rosie, jumping into practical nurse mode with barely any effort. ‘Come on, let’s get Moray to take a look at you, see where we’re at.’
Hester eyed her balefully.
‘Fuck off,’ she said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want this fucking baby.’
Moray popped his head back outside.
‘Arthur,’ he yelled. ‘How long has your wife been in labour?’
‘Four years,’ shouted Arthur. ‘Oh, sorry. About twelve hours, I think.’ He straightened up from the pool. ‘She was really mellow to begin with. Lots of yoga and stuff. Breathing and the rest of it. Then I think we… moved out of that stage.’
Rosie tried to help Hester back on to the bed, but Hester was having none of it.
‘Why didn’t you call us before?’ Rosie said gently.
‘Get to fuck,’ said Hester.
‘I think maybe just keep Edison downstairs?’ said Moray, quickly scrubbing up. ‘Right. You. Sweary Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy. On the bed.’
They managed to move Hester, moaning and grimacing and occasionally shrieking, to the bed, where Moray finally got to examine her without being kicked.
‘This is where I wish I’d gone into small animal work,’ he said briefly, then found what he was looking for. ‘Oh, excellent,’ he said to Hester. ‘Eight centimetres. You’re nearly there.’
‘So…’
‘Yup,’ said Angie. ‘I think we’re going to get her to come back with us.’
Desleigh and Angie chinked glasses. There was the sound of loud screeching from upstairs.
‘Muuum!’ shouted Pip. ‘Can you come and settle these bloody buggers?’
Desleigh watched Angie go upstairs with much satisfaction. Having Auntie Rosie on hand would make things even easier. After all, she thought, refilling her glass, it took a village to raise a child.
Chapter Nineteen
Rosie awoke with a start. At first she didn’t know where she was. Then she realised she must have fallen asleep. The fire was burning low in the grate and the room was turning cold. The television was showing late-night comedians making fun of the royal family, and she looked at the empty sherry glass crossly.
Then she realised what had woken her: the house phone was ringing. It stopped, then seconds later started again. She glanced at her watch; it was 2 a.m. Her heart skipped a beat; it must be Stephen. She grabbed the phone and answered it.
‘Hello?’
‘Rosie?’
The voice was masculine, but, she realised, it wasn’t Stephen. Gradually it filtered through her sleep-fuddled head that it was Moray’s soft tones.
‘What?’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘Are you sober?’
‘What are you talking about? Of course I’m sober. Well. I had two glasses of sherry… five hours ago.’
‘Fine, fine, that’ll do.’
She heard the slight tension in his voice.
‘What is it?’
‘Only bloody Hester.’
Rosie blinked a few times before she realised who he meant.
‘Edison’s mother… Oh Christ, the baby.’
‘Yes, the bloody baby. Deciding to make an appearance on the night when there are no doctors, no ambulances, two feet of bloody snow, midwife en route but not sounding overconfident, and muggins here on call.’
Rosie struggled to her feet, looking round for her thick down coat. ‘I’m here… Can you pick me up?’
‘Do you need time to get dressed?’
‘No,’ snapped Rosie, then, ‘Don’t ask. Where’s Hye?’
‘Bahamas,’ said Moray crossly. ‘Something about winter locality coverage payments.’ He sniffed loudly. ‘See you in two.’
Rosie threw some water on her face and tried to comb her hair, then gave it up as a pointless job. It was hardly as if she was going to a photo shoot. It had been three years since she’d assisted at a birth, but hopefully it would come back to her.
‘At least Hester’s all into this natural birth stuff,’ said Moray cheerfully in the car. ‘I don’t know how we’d get an anaesthetist out here. I got the midwife to read her records over the phone, and the baby’s fine, presented, turned the right way. I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly in the mood for performing an emergency section.’
‘Jesus,’ said Rosie.
‘I’m joking,’ said Moray. ‘Calm down. We’d get the helicopter out again. Three times in a month; they’ll love us.’
Rosie half smiled, her heart beating fast, and checked her phone again. There was nothing from Stephen. Where the fuck was he? He could be dead in a ditch as far as she knew. He’d taken some clothes, so she figured he was lying low for a while. But how long was that supposed to be? Or maybe he’d actually moved to London, and was so damned posh he didn’t need his stuff. She sighed.
‘Seriously, I was joking,’ said Moray. ‘I’m sure it’s going to be fine. I’ve done this before, you know. See a bit of it in rural practice in the winter. It’s like being a vet.’
‘That totally makes me feel better, James Herriot,’ said Rosie. ‘No, it’s… Oh God. It’s Stephen.’
‘Is he being… difficult?’
‘He’s… taking some time to figure things out.’
‘Mmm,’ said Moray. He knew that Rosie wanted him to call Stephen an arsehole to make her feel better, but he couldn’t now.
Rosie sighed. The car drew up outside the pretty little eco house marooned among the trees. Rosie thought back to the dreadful day she’d had to tell Hester the news about Edison. Thank God that boy was home for Christmas.
Inside, all the lights were on. Arthur was trying to fill up a leaking rubber paddling pool, which Rosie belatedly realised, after wondering whether this was a good time for paddling, was meant to be the birthing pool.
‘Hello, Rosie,’ said Edison happily from his chair. He was wearing bright red pyjamas with Santas on them. ‘Are you here to sperience the miracle of natril birth?’
‘Apparently, yes,’ said Rosie. ‘Can I boil the kettle?’
Hester was upstairs, holding on to the side of the reclaimed bed, her huge belly seeming to move on its own. She was swearing like a trooper.
‘Thank fuck,’ she said. ‘Fuck this for a fucking game of fucking soldiers.’
‘Hush, hush,’ said Rosie, jumping into practical nurse mode with barely any effort. ‘Come on, let’s get Moray to take a look at you, see where we’re at.’
Hester eyed her balefully.
‘Fuck off,’ she said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want this fucking baby.’
Moray popped his head back outside.
‘Arthur,’ he yelled. ‘How long has your wife been in labour?’
‘Four years,’ shouted Arthur. ‘Oh, sorry. About twelve hours, I think.’ He straightened up from the pool. ‘She was really mellow to begin with. Lots of yoga and stuff. Breathing and the rest of it. Then I think we… moved out of that stage.’
Rosie tried to help Hester back on to the bed, but Hester was having none of it.
‘Why didn’t you call us before?’ Rosie said gently.
‘Get to fuck,’ said Hester.
‘I think maybe just keep Edison downstairs?’ said Moray, quickly scrubbing up. ‘Right. You. Sweary Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy. On the bed.’
They managed to move Hester, moaning and grimacing and occasionally shrieking, to the bed, where Moray finally got to examine her without being kicked.
‘This is where I wish I’d gone into small animal work,’ he said briefly, then found what he was looking for. ‘Oh, excellent,’ he said to Hester. ‘Eight centimetres. You’re nearly there.’
