Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 20
She did remember, though, how the feeling of being nice to their teacher and being praised for their generosity would stay with her all day, long after the fizzle of the sherbet bombs mixed with the heavy fondant of the orange creams had faded from her tongue.
She poked her head out of the storeroom. She wanted to know what that woman was nattering to her aunt about. Plus, she couldn’t help it. She was fascinated. She’d never met anyone with a title before.
‘Do you live in a big house?’ she asked, not realising how rude it sounded till it had come out of her mouth; almost like an accusation. Lilian laughed in a way that sounded as if she was trying to excuse her gauche London scruff of a niece, which made Rosie feel a bit hot and prickly.
‘Well, that very much depends what you think of as big,’ said Lady Lipton, busying herself with something on the counter. Rosie correctly interpreted this to mean ‘yes, ginormous’.
‘Doesn’t it get freezing?’
Both women stared for a moment. Then Lilian burst out laughing.
‘It certainly does,’ she said. ‘That’s why Hets is down here all the time.’
‘It most certainly is not,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘I’m being charitable.’
Lilian snorted. ‘You’re being cosy. Look at her,’ she ordered Rosie, and lifted the edge of the woman’s Barbour jacket with her stick. Underneath was a gigantic man’s pullover, patently ancient, and the holes in the wool showed evidence of another underneath.
‘And it’s still summer,’ cackled Lilian. ‘You wait till November, she’ll be camping out in her front room.’
‘You overheat your house dreadfully,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘It’s not good for you.’
‘She’s strong as an ox,’ interjected Rosie, who’d witnessed Lilian hurling logs on to the fire already that afternoon.
‘Apparently I’m as strong as an ox,’ said Lilian. ‘And she’s a nurse, she ought to know.’
‘Auxiliary nurse,’ said Lady Lipton and Rosie made a quick note not to underestimate her. ‘And what exactly is an ox?’ she added.
‘It’s a gigantic cow. A boy cow,’ Rosie said, flushing, with a sudden stab of panic in case it was the one where you cross a donkey and a horse.
The two women laughed.
‘Well, enjoy your stay,’ said Lady Lipton, sweeping out.
Rosie watched her go. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘After I saved her dog and everything.’
Lilian chuckled. ‘Oh, that’s just Hetty’s way.’
‘Ugh,’ said Rosie. ‘I hate it when people say, “Oh, they’re just like that.” If someone is rude and not very nice, they shouldn’t be like that. Everyone else shouldn’t have to make allowances just because they’re Lady Snot-a-Lot. Anyway, she needn’t worry. I won’t be going near her stupid road again.’
Chapter Six
Dolly mixtures, like chocolate buttons, are often considered a training sweet, to be discarded when the adult teeth arrive. This is a shame; taken together, or separately, dolly mixtures are a fiendishly clever mix of jelly, pastes and the highly covered, and coveted, cube sweet, coming in purple, reddish pink or green (green being the least popular, naturally). The natural resilience of the cube, when taken with the softer fondant of the layered rectangle, the inner tube, and of course the sugared jelly, combines to form an entirely satisfactory trinity, together or separately. Although the advent of the ‘giant’ packet (and the encroaching hegemony of those filthy all future reference to which has been removed on legal advice) has mostly been a bad thing, producing both sweet exhaustion and obesity, a cudlike, bovine chewing without tasting in front of forty-two-inch televisions pumping out garbage twenty-four hours a day, ruining our children and all future generations, here an exception can be made.
In the case of dolly mixtures, the move to the larger packets, or indeed anything which reminds the more mature sweet buyer of their delicate, balanced triangle of excellence, can only be commended.
1942
Lilian’s father looked at her with a quizzical expression on his face. ‘So, just a night out with your friend, is it?’ he asked, poking at his bacon and eggs. They kept a few layers out the back still, like most people, supplementing their rations, and the vegetable garden had been there as long as the cottage itself.
Lilian looked again at the little pot of rouge Margaret had given her. She wasn’t exactly sure what to do with it. Sometimes she thought life had dealt her an unfair hand, not just in losing her mother – there were plenty of motherless and fatherless children among her aquaintance – but in having three big brothers and no big sisters, meaning there was no one to give her the merest hint of feminine insight. She could talk to Neddy about just about anything, but not boys. Terence was far too strait-laced, and Gordon was a grub, that much was obvious.
Her friend Margaret tried to help, but Margaret was daft as a brush and boy-mad and only wanted to get married and do winching, and Lilian was never quite sure whether to follow her advice or not. She dabbed a little rouge on her cheeks.
‘Ah, now you look like you’ve been hauling in the fields all day,’ said her father, realising as he did so that it was exactly the wrong thing to say to his only daughter, sharp, clever Lilian, whom he loved dearly but didn’t even pretend to understand.
Lilian sniffed, and pulled down last year’s sprigged cotton dress. Its sleeves now looked dated, and the waist was dropped too low to show off her pretty figure; she looked like a stick, she thought, all up and down. Still, at least Margaret could do her hair. And sure enough, here came Margaret now, clattering along on her bicycle, her hair tightly lacquered and her bright eyeshadow and dress as tight as modesty allowed, almost disguising the slight cast of her eye. Margaret never mentioned her eye, but hated her front snaggletooth and would often spend the entire evening with her hand positioned directly in front of it. Despite this, she was funny and loyal and daft and Lilian loved her.
‘Come on, you,’ said Margaret. ‘Let’s be having you.’
‘Well, you look like you’re going to kill them fellas tonight,’ said Lilian’s father, who found Margaret much more the type of straightforward girl he could get a handle on.
Margaret giggled and squeaked at him and told him to hold his tongue, heating up the rollers by the fire and ordering Lilian to sit still, even when the smell of singed hair was rising up through the little kitchen.
She poked her head out of the storeroom. She wanted to know what that woman was nattering to her aunt about. Plus, she couldn’t help it. She was fascinated. She’d never met anyone with a title before.
‘Do you live in a big house?’ she asked, not realising how rude it sounded till it had come out of her mouth; almost like an accusation. Lilian laughed in a way that sounded as if she was trying to excuse her gauche London scruff of a niece, which made Rosie feel a bit hot and prickly.
‘Well, that very much depends what you think of as big,’ said Lady Lipton, busying herself with something on the counter. Rosie correctly interpreted this to mean ‘yes, ginormous’.
‘Doesn’t it get freezing?’
Both women stared for a moment. Then Lilian burst out laughing.
‘It certainly does,’ she said. ‘That’s why Hets is down here all the time.’
‘It most certainly is not,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘I’m being charitable.’
Lilian snorted. ‘You’re being cosy. Look at her,’ she ordered Rosie, and lifted the edge of the woman’s Barbour jacket with her stick. Underneath was a gigantic man’s pullover, patently ancient, and the holes in the wool showed evidence of another underneath.
‘And it’s still summer,’ cackled Lilian. ‘You wait till November, she’ll be camping out in her front room.’
‘You overheat your house dreadfully,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘It’s not good for you.’
‘She’s strong as an ox,’ interjected Rosie, who’d witnessed Lilian hurling logs on to the fire already that afternoon.
‘Apparently I’m as strong as an ox,’ said Lilian. ‘And she’s a nurse, she ought to know.’
‘Auxiliary nurse,’ said Lady Lipton and Rosie made a quick note not to underestimate her. ‘And what exactly is an ox?’ she added.
‘It’s a gigantic cow. A boy cow,’ Rosie said, flushing, with a sudden stab of panic in case it was the one where you cross a donkey and a horse.
The two women laughed.
‘Well, enjoy your stay,’ said Lady Lipton, sweeping out.
Rosie watched her go. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘After I saved her dog and everything.’
Lilian chuckled. ‘Oh, that’s just Hetty’s way.’
‘Ugh,’ said Rosie. ‘I hate it when people say, “Oh, they’re just like that.” If someone is rude and not very nice, they shouldn’t be like that. Everyone else shouldn’t have to make allowances just because they’re Lady Snot-a-Lot. Anyway, she needn’t worry. I won’t be going near her stupid road again.’
Chapter Six
Dolly mixtures, like chocolate buttons, are often considered a training sweet, to be discarded when the adult teeth arrive. This is a shame; taken together, or separately, dolly mixtures are a fiendishly clever mix of jelly, pastes and the highly covered, and coveted, cube sweet, coming in purple, reddish pink or green (green being the least popular, naturally). The natural resilience of the cube, when taken with the softer fondant of the layered rectangle, the inner tube, and of course the sugared jelly, combines to form an entirely satisfactory trinity, together or separately. Although the advent of the ‘giant’ packet (and the encroaching hegemony of those filthy all future reference to which has been removed on legal advice) has mostly been a bad thing, producing both sweet exhaustion and obesity, a cudlike, bovine chewing without tasting in front of forty-two-inch televisions pumping out garbage twenty-four hours a day, ruining our children and all future generations, here an exception can be made.
In the case of dolly mixtures, the move to the larger packets, or indeed anything which reminds the more mature sweet buyer of their delicate, balanced triangle of excellence, can only be commended.
1942
Lilian’s father looked at her with a quizzical expression on his face. ‘So, just a night out with your friend, is it?’ he asked, poking at his bacon and eggs. They kept a few layers out the back still, like most people, supplementing their rations, and the vegetable garden had been there as long as the cottage itself.
Lilian looked again at the little pot of rouge Margaret had given her. She wasn’t exactly sure what to do with it. Sometimes she thought life had dealt her an unfair hand, not just in losing her mother – there were plenty of motherless and fatherless children among her aquaintance – but in having three big brothers and no big sisters, meaning there was no one to give her the merest hint of feminine insight. She could talk to Neddy about just about anything, but not boys. Terence was far too strait-laced, and Gordon was a grub, that much was obvious.
Her friend Margaret tried to help, but Margaret was daft as a brush and boy-mad and only wanted to get married and do winching, and Lilian was never quite sure whether to follow her advice or not. She dabbed a little rouge on her cheeks.
‘Ah, now you look like you’ve been hauling in the fields all day,’ said her father, realising as he did so that it was exactly the wrong thing to say to his only daughter, sharp, clever Lilian, whom he loved dearly but didn’t even pretend to understand.
Lilian sniffed, and pulled down last year’s sprigged cotton dress. Its sleeves now looked dated, and the waist was dropped too low to show off her pretty figure; she looked like a stick, she thought, all up and down. Still, at least Margaret could do her hair. And sure enough, here came Margaret now, clattering along on her bicycle, her hair tightly lacquered and her bright eyeshadow and dress as tight as modesty allowed, almost disguising the slight cast of her eye. Margaret never mentioned her eye, but hated her front snaggletooth and would often spend the entire evening with her hand positioned directly in front of it. Despite this, she was funny and loyal and daft and Lilian loved her.
‘Come on, you,’ said Margaret. ‘Let’s be having you.’
‘Well, you look like you’re going to kill them fellas tonight,’ said Lilian’s father, who found Margaret much more the type of straightforward girl he could get a handle on.
Margaret giggled and squeaked at him and told him to hold his tongue, heating up the rollers by the fire and ordering Lilian to sit still, even when the smell of singed hair was rising up through the little kitchen.
