Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 75
‘Oh, the Reverend goes to such ludicrous lengths to make it inclusive, I feel obliged to humour him,’ said Moray, rolling his eyes. ‘Plus I can diagnose some poorly folk without getting called out, AND —’
One of the upper land farmers came over cheerily.
‘Moray. Thought I’d find you here,’ he said. ‘Thanks for all your help with the old piles.’
‘Not at all,’ said Moray, lying through his teeth as always. ‘I didn’t even remember what you came in for.’
‘I can’t believe they still fall for that,’ said Rosie, but she smiled appreciatively at the bottle of sloe gin that had just been handed over.
‘Where are you having lunch?’ she said.
Moray smiled shyly.
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
‘WHAT?’
‘Well, it may just be that a certain young house officer in Carningford…’
‘It’s on again? Fantastic.’
‘Christmas brings out that side of people. But anyway, he’s Jewish, so I don’t even have to eat Christmas dinner. We’re having Chinese! Oh, thank you so much,’ he said, accepting a large bottle of champagne from a tiny old lady.
‘Prolapse,’ he whispered loudly to Rosie.
‘You can’t say that in church,’ she scolded. Moray always cheered her up.
‘Can I say that once you’ve found a Jewish man, you won’t go back?’ said Moray mischievously, till Rosie kicked him on the shins.
‘Ow! No sloe gin for you. Or…’ He glanced at the label. ‘Petrus. OOH, very nice, thanks so much, Mrs Hamilton.’
‘Amazing,’ said Rosie, and went back to where Hetty was sitting (in the front pew, of course) to join in the opening carol, ‘Good King Wenceslas’, skipping only slightly on the line about it being the feast of Stephen.
Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know not how;
I can go no longer.
The children sang loudly, the sound reaching the rafters, as Hetty glanced around anxiously for her son. Was he sitting alone at Peak House? En route back to London? The worry and the care of having a child – she glanced at Rosie’s nephew and nieces beside her – well, it didn’t leave you at three and it didn’t leave you at thirty-five.
Afterwards, the vicar looked on, his fat face smiling benevolently, as the entire village greeted one another, wishing each other a merry Christmas. The children all asked after Stephen, and Rosie and Hetty deflected their questions as best they could, as well as also deflecting the vicar on the subject of Henry’s funeral. They weren’t entirely sure what Edward and Ida Delia – still legally his wife – were planning together, and both were reasonably certain Lilian would want a hand in it too. There was a family plot in the churchyard, but the hospital was yet to release the body, so that would have to wait.
Pip had parked the car a little way away from the church, which gave Shane time to do some sledging with his new mates, all of whom looked energised, happy, joyful, and without a screen in sight. The weather was far too hideously freezing for them to stand around for long, though, so they took some photos and bundled the children back into the car, and headed home, carols still ringing in their ears, for their Christmas lunch.
Stephen couldn’t see. He had no idea where he was or how long he’d been out there. Something was telling him his left leg was in serious trouble, but he used his right, pulling one in front of the other, one in front of the other, over and over again, through the white blindness, along what he thought was the road but which was now so covered over with snow and swirling flakes it could be anything. He had stopped shivering now, his entire body one last clenching of pure will. I can’t go on… I’ll go on rang through his head; from a poem he had once read. But when his life had had poetry in it, he could barely recall. I can’t go on… I’ll go on.
And then, finally, in the distance, he heard the dogs barking.
Rosie and Angie were shaking the snow off the children and rubbing life back into hands that had got raw from throwing snowballs in wet woollen mittens when they heard the dogs going crazy. Suddenly Mr Dog hurtled out of the back door like a tiny plump cannonball, galloping across the snow.
‘Where’s he going?’ said Angie, shading her eyes against the flurries. ‘I’ve never seen that dog move so fast. I hope Shane didn’t stick a cracker up his arse.’
Rosie turned round slowly. There was a figure looming perilously slowly out of the terrible storm. A grey figure, nothing she could make out; eerie in the distance.
Then, gradually, one side resolved itself, and she could make out the shape of a stick.
Chapter Twenty-Two
They all hauled him in together, gracelessly depositing him in a heap in front of the fire. Angie stepped back to let Rosie in, and shepherded the children away. Hetty was staring at him, her hand in front of her mouth.
‘What has that ridiculous boy been up to now?’ said Lilian, puzzled.
‘Tea. Blankets,’ barked Rosie shortly, before bending down and pulling off his too-thin coat. His skin was as pale as marble. She dragged him closer to the fire, and opened his damp shirt to his chest, then, unable to think of a better idea, wrapped a blanket round the both of him, until they were close together.
Lilian and Hetty were exchanging wildly overt glances and looks and coughs, until finally Hetty said, ‘We MUST see how lunch is getting on.’ Meridian’s voice could be heard outside complaining loudly, ‘But I want to see Uncle Stephen as a snowman,’ but gradually all the voices faded away as they crossed the wide hallway into the dining room, and finally they were alone.
Rosie felt their hearts beating together, his so slow. His eyes opened, and started to blink, as they sat together in front of the fire, Rosie willing the heat of her body into his.
‘Rosie,’ he said finally, and she let out a full sigh of relief and laid her head on his shoulder.
After a while, she moved away, and fetched him a glass of whisky. As she handed it to him, he started to shake uncontrollably.
‘That’s a good sign,’ she whispered.
Mr Dog tiptoed forward, licked Stephen and then took up residence on Rosie’s lap. Stephen was still a deathly colour, but there was life in his eyes as he sat up. He took a sip of the whisky, but it choked him rather and he had to cough and drink a little water. Then he turned to look at her.
One of the upper land farmers came over cheerily.
‘Moray. Thought I’d find you here,’ he said. ‘Thanks for all your help with the old piles.’
‘Not at all,’ said Moray, lying through his teeth as always. ‘I didn’t even remember what you came in for.’
‘I can’t believe they still fall for that,’ said Rosie, but she smiled appreciatively at the bottle of sloe gin that had just been handed over.
‘Where are you having lunch?’ she said.
Moray smiled shyly.
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
‘WHAT?’
‘Well, it may just be that a certain young house officer in Carningford…’
‘It’s on again? Fantastic.’
‘Christmas brings out that side of people. But anyway, he’s Jewish, so I don’t even have to eat Christmas dinner. We’re having Chinese! Oh, thank you so much,’ he said, accepting a large bottle of champagne from a tiny old lady.
‘Prolapse,’ he whispered loudly to Rosie.
‘You can’t say that in church,’ she scolded. Moray always cheered her up.
‘Can I say that once you’ve found a Jewish man, you won’t go back?’ said Moray mischievously, till Rosie kicked him on the shins.
‘Ow! No sloe gin for you. Or…’ He glanced at the label. ‘Petrus. OOH, very nice, thanks so much, Mrs Hamilton.’
‘Amazing,’ said Rosie, and went back to where Hetty was sitting (in the front pew, of course) to join in the opening carol, ‘Good King Wenceslas’, skipping only slightly on the line about it being the feast of Stephen.
Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know not how;
I can go no longer.
The children sang loudly, the sound reaching the rafters, as Hetty glanced around anxiously for her son. Was he sitting alone at Peak House? En route back to London? The worry and the care of having a child – she glanced at Rosie’s nephew and nieces beside her – well, it didn’t leave you at three and it didn’t leave you at thirty-five.
Afterwards, the vicar looked on, his fat face smiling benevolently, as the entire village greeted one another, wishing each other a merry Christmas. The children all asked after Stephen, and Rosie and Hetty deflected their questions as best they could, as well as also deflecting the vicar on the subject of Henry’s funeral. They weren’t entirely sure what Edward and Ida Delia – still legally his wife – were planning together, and both were reasonably certain Lilian would want a hand in it too. There was a family plot in the churchyard, but the hospital was yet to release the body, so that would have to wait.
Pip had parked the car a little way away from the church, which gave Shane time to do some sledging with his new mates, all of whom looked energised, happy, joyful, and without a screen in sight. The weather was far too hideously freezing for them to stand around for long, though, so they took some photos and bundled the children back into the car, and headed home, carols still ringing in their ears, for their Christmas lunch.
Stephen couldn’t see. He had no idea where he was or how long he’d been out there. Something was telling him his left leg was in serious trouble, but he used his right, pulling one in front of the other, one in front of the other, over and over again, through the white blindness, along what he thought was the road but which was now so covered over with snow and swirling flakes it could be anything. He had stopped shivering now, his entire body one last clenching of pure will. I can’t go on… I’ll go on rang through his head; from a poem he had once read. But when his life had had poetry in it, he could barely recall. I can’t go on… I’ll go on.
And then, finally, in the distance, he heard the dogs barking.
Rosie and Angie were shaking the snow off the children and rubbing life back into hands that had got raw from throwing snowballs in wet woollen mittens when they heard the dogs going crazy. Suddenly Mr Dog hurtled out of the back door like a tiny plump cannonball, galloping across the snow.
‘Where’s he going?’ said Angie, shading her eyes against the flurries. ‘I’ve never seen that dog move so fast. I hope Shane didn’t stick a cracker up his arse.’
Rosie turned round slowly. There was a figure looming perilously slowly out of the terrible storm. A grey figure, nothing she could make out; eerie in the distance.
Then, gradually, one side resolved itself, and she could make out the shape of a stick.
Chapter Twenty-Two
They all hauled him in together, gracelessly depositing him in a heap in front of the fire. Angie stepped back to let Rosie in, and shepherded the children away. Hetty was staring at him, her hand in front of her mouth.
‘What has that ridiculous boy been up to now?’ said Lilian, puzzled.
‘Tea. Blankets,’ barked Rosie shortly, before bending down and pulling off his too-thin coat. His skin was as pale as marble. She dragged him closer to the fire, and opened his damp shirt to his chest, then, unable to think of a better idea, wrapped a blanket round the both of him, until they were close together.
Lilian and Hetty were exchanging wildly overt glances and looks and coughs, until finally Hetty said, ‘We MUST see how lunch is getting on.’ Meridian’s voice could be heard outside complaining loudly, ‘But I want to see Uncle Stephen as a snowman,’ but gradually all the voices faded away as they crossed the wide hallway into the dining room, and finally they were alone.
Rosie felt their hearts beating together, his so slow. His eyes opened, and started to blink, as they sat together in front of the fire, Rosie willing the heat of her body into his.
‘Rosie,’ he said finally, and she let out a full sigh of relief and laid her head on his shoulder.
After a while, she moved away, and fetched him a glass of whisky. As she handed it to him, he started to shake uncontrollably.
‘That’s a good sign,’ she whispered.
Mr Dog tiptoed forward, licked Stephen and then took up residence on Rosie’s lap. Stephen was still a deathly colour, but there was life in his eyes as he sat up. He took a sip of the whisky, but it choked him rather and he had to cough and drink a little water. Then he turned to look at her.
