Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 22
The bike was very old, solid, with a huge basket on the front. It looked like something the witch rode in The Wizard of Oz.
‘Yes, well, I can’t ride a bike.’
Lilian’s substantial eyebrows shot up. ‘You can’t?’
Rosie metaphorically backpedalled furiously. ‘Well, of course I can … I mean, I did when I was younger. Obviously.’
Her mother had occasionally taken her and Pip to the park and sat having a flask of tea and a fag while they wheeled their second-hand bikes around, then dumped them to play on the climbing frames. Rosie wasn’t sure this really counted.
You couldn’t ride a bike on the roads where she had grown up – well, some kids were allowed, but not them – and you couldn’t ride them to school or they’d get nicked, so Rosie had never really got in the habit. Who thought success in adult life would depend on whether or not you could ride a bicycle, anyway?
‘You know,’ said Lilian, ‘you’re in luck; I’ll get Jake Randall round. He fixes bikes for the kids in the village. I’ll send him round when we’re done and he’ll fix it up for you pronto. He’ll do anything for some Highland Toffee.’
Rosie sighed and headed back indoors again.
‘I’m supposed to be looking after you,’ she said as a parting shot.
‘You will be,’ retorted Lilian, ‘when you pick up the milk and cream. And do notice which of us is wearing pyjamas in the street … Hello, vicar!’ she called out to the passing man in the dark suit. Rosie scarpered up the stairs.
And there wasn’t even any point, Rosie thought, in getting dressed up today, given the horrible job of emptying out the shop, so she was steeled for the arched eyebrows by the time she came back downstairs in her old jeans and a fleece, her bouncing black curls forced up in a floral scarf. Lilian glanced over.
‘So Angie says you have kind of a boyfriend?’ she enquired, as Rosie filled a large bucket with soapy water and grabbed a scrubbing brush from under the white butler’s sink.
‘Why did I ever think you were a quiet, frail old lady when you used to visit us? You’re actually really nosy.’
‘Because,’ said Lilian dramatically, ‘I only ever came to your house in London when I was recovering. From adventures.’
‘What sort of adventures?’
‘I’m not just an old lady who runs a sweetshop, you know.’
‘Well,’ said Rosie. ‘Tell me about them.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Lilian, picking up the empty breakfast bowls. Rosie noticed Lilian’s had been scraped clean. ‘It’s nearly time for The Archers.’
‘Well, I won’t have time to tell you about Gerard then.’
‘Gerard? What kind of a name is that? Sounds very modern.’
‘Yes, amazingly the man I’m going out with isn’t a hundred years old.’
Lilian looked expectant.
‘Well,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s little and cute …’
‘Sounds like a squirrel,’ sniffed Lilian.
‘He’s a pharmacist,’ said Rosie.
‘Not a doctor then?’
‘No, it’s completely different,’ said Rosie, not revealing that Gerard had never quite got over applying and failing to get into medical school. ‘It’s a very responsible job, he’s really good at it.’
‘Putting bum cream in paper bags?’ said Lilian.
‘If you’re going to be rude we don’t have to talk at all,’ said Rosie. ‘In fact, I want to get started anyway.’
She picked up the heavy brass keys from the sideboard.
‘What are you doing?’ said Lilian suspiciously. ‘Get started on what?’
‘One of the things I came here to do,’ said Rosie in a tone that, on the wards, would brook no arguments. Her mild-mannered mother and brother had always wondered aloud where she’d got it from. Rosie was beginning to figure out the answer. ‘Sort out your shop.’
Lilian had a radio in the shop too, and Rosie retuned it from Radio 4 to Radio 1, and hauled out a roll of huge black binbags. There was nothing for it; a lot of this stuff simply had to go. There wasn’t a dishwasher in the little cottage, so she was going to have to wash out all the glass jars by hand too, and they weighed an absolute ton. Still, thanks to a strict matron and a steady training programme at St Mary’s, if there was one thing Rosie knew how to do, it was scrub things down; ideally, so thoroughly that every germ within a five-mile radius would run cowering in terror. The sun shone again through the grubby windows, making her job easier as she could spot every line and smear; every age-old fingerprint and trodden-in line of treacle or caramel. She started at the top and worked down, lining up all the glass jars, sampling everything and checking for sell-by dates. Any chocolate with white spots was binned instantly.
She washed the dusty old shelves with lemon cleanser till they smelled and looked fresh; blew the dust off the top of the huge red-velvet boxes of vintage chocolates and decided that although their contents were past saving, she would clean up the boxes and keep them for display purposes; their classic styles were hard to find these days. Likewise the tins of travel sweets with images of exotic places printed on the lids, of the Côte d’Azur and great train journeys through the Alps. With a little bit of spit and polish they would make a lovely display, and in case someone actually did want some travel sweets, although Rosie tended to think that the idea of offering sweets to someone with motion sickness had rather gone away, given the amount of vomit doing so tended to produce, she would order some in and stock them in the storeroom.
After all, she was meant to be selling this place as a going concern. But, actually, the previous night a thought had struck her. Rather than get rid of everything and sell on a soulless shell, what if – what if – she returned Hopkins’ Sweets and Confectionery to its glory days just as it was; almost like a museum, with the origin al fixtures and fittings? After all, they were all still here.
Rosie had been so excited by this idea she’d called Gerard from the top of the house (if you leaned out of the window you could just about get a signal). When he said he was at his mum’s watching Midsomer Murders and could they talk tomorrow, Rosie called Angie, who said do what she liked as long as she sorted it all out. This left Rosie feeling rather alone with her plan. But she still thought it was a good one.
‘Yes, well, I can’t ride a bike.’
Lilian’s substantial eyebrows shot up. ‘You can’t?’
Rosie metaphorically backpedalled furiously. ‘Well, of course I can … I mean, I did when I was younger. Obviously.’
Her mother had occasionally taken her and Pip to the park and sat having a flask of tea and a fag while they wheeled their second-hand bikes around, then dumped them to play on the climbing frames. Rosie wasn’t sure this really counted.
You couldn’t ride a bike on the roads where she had grown up – well, some kids were allowed, but not them – and you couldn’t ride them to school or they’d get nicked, so Rosie had never really got in the habit. Who thought success in adult life would depend on whether or not you could ride a bicycle, anyway?
‘You know,’ said Lilian, ‘you’re in luck; I’ll get Jake Randall round. He fixes bikes for the kids in the village. I’ll send him round when we’re done and he’ll fix it up for you pronto. He’ll do anything for some Highland Toffee.’
Rosie sighed and headed back indoors again.
‘I’m supposed to be looking after you,’ she said as a parting shot.
‘You will be,’ retorted Lilian, ‘when you pick up the milk and cream. And do notice which of us is wearing pyjamas in the street … Hello, vicar!’ she called out to the passing man in the dark suit. Rosie scarpered up the stairs.
And there wasn’t even any point, Rosie thought, in getting dressed up today, given the horrible job of emptying out the shop, so she was steeled for the arched eyebrows by the time she came back downstairs in her old jeans and a fleece, her bouncing black curls forced up in a floral scarf. Lilian glanced over.
‘So Angie says you have kind of a boyfriend?’ she enquired, as Rosie filled a large bucket with soapy water and grabbed a scrubbing brush from under the white butler’s sink.
‘Why did I ever think you were a quiet, frail old lady when you used to visit us? You’re actually really nosy.’
‘Because,’ said Lilian dramatically, ‘I only ever came to your house in London when I was recovering. From adventures.’
‘What sort of adventures?’
‘I’m not just an old lady who runs a sweetshop, you know.’
‘Well,’ said Rosie. ‘Tell me about them.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Lilian, picking up the empty breakfast bowls. Rosie noticed Lilian’s had been scraped clean. ‘It’s nearly time for The Archers.’
‘Well, I won’t have time to tell you about Gerard then.’
‘Gerard? What kind of a name is that? Sounds very modern.’
‘Yes, amazingly the man I’m going out with isn’t a hundred years old.’
Lilian looked expectant.
‘Well,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s little and cute …’
‘Sounds like a squirrel,’ sniffed Lilian.
‘He’s a pharmacist,’ said Rosie.
‘Not a doctor then?’
‘No, it’s completely different,’ said Rosie, not revealing that Gerard had never quite got over applying and failing to get into medical school. ‘It’s a very responsible job, he’s really good at it.’
‘Putting bum cream in paper bags?’ said Lilian.
‘If you’re going to be rude we don’t have to talk at all,’ said Rosie. ‘In fact, I want to get started anyway.’
She picked up the heavy brass keys from the sideboard.
‘What are you doing?’ said Lilian suspiciously. ‘Get started on what?’
‘One of the things I came here to do,’ said Rosie in a tone that, on the wards, would brook no arguments. Her mild-mannered mother and brother had always wondered aloud where she’d got it from. Rosie was beginning to figure out the answer. ‘Sort out your shop.’
Lilian had a radio in the shop too, and Rosie retuned it from Radio 4 to Radio 1, and hauled out a roll of huge black binbags. There was nothing for it; a lot of this stuff simply had to go. There wasn’t a dishwasher in the little cottage, so she was going to have to wash out all the glass jars by hand too, and they weighed an absolute ton. Still, thanks to a strict matron and a steady training programme at St Mary’s, if there was one thing Rosie knew how to do, it was scrub things down; ideally, so thoroughly that every germ within a five-mile radius would run cowering in terror. The sun shone again through the grubby windows, making her job easier as she could spot every line and smear; every age-old fingerprint and trodden-in line of treacle or caramel. She started at the top and worked down, lining up all the glass jars, sampling everything and checking for sell-by dates. Any chocolate with white spots was binned instantly.
She washed the dusty old shelves with lemon cleanser till they smelled and looked fresh; blew the dust off the top of the huge red-velvet boxes of vintage chocolates and decided that although their contents were past saving, she would clean up the boxes and keep them for display purposes; their classic styles were hard to find these days. Likewise the tins of travel sweets with images of exotic places printed on the lids, of the Côte d’Azur and great train journeys through the Alps. With a little bit of spit and polish they would make a lovely display, and in case someone actually did want some travel sweets, although Rosie tended to think that the idea of offering sweets to someone with motion sickness had rather gone away, given the amount of vomit doing so tended to produce, she would order some in and stock them in the storeroom.
After all, she was meant to be selling this place as a going concern. But, actually, the previous night a thought had struck her. Rather than get rid of everything and sell on a soulless shell, what if – what if – she returned Hopkins’ Sweets and Confectionery to its glory days just as it was; almost like a museum, with the origin al fixtures and fittings? After all, they were all still here.
Rosie had been so excited by this idea she’d called Gerard from the top of the house (if you leaned out of the window you could just about get a signal). When he said he was at his mum’s watching Midsomer Murders and could they talk tomorrow, Rosie called Angie, who said do what she liked as long as she sorted it all out. This left Rosie feeling rather alone with her plan. But she still thought it was a good one.
