Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 28
‘So … so you can’t come up this weekend then?’ she said, hating herself for sounding like she was begging.
Gerard sighed. ‘Let me see,’ he grunted, desperate to get off the phone and back to sleep.
Hanging up, Rosie felt very alone. She and Gerard hardly ever had a cross word, or so she thought. Maybe, it struck her now, they just hadn’t been paying attention. She wished he would propose to her, so she could stop panicking about this kind of thing. Feel secure. Now she felt she was careering round the countryside, covered in mud, without a clue what she was doing. She hadn’t even had the chance to tell him she was off for the day with a handsome doctor on his rounds, so there.
Dimly, Rosie wondered if Moray thought this was some kind of a date. He wouldn’t, surely? Although of course she’d arrived on her own, and she wasn’t wearing a ring … Just in case, she would have to disabuse him. On the other hand, if he was telling the truth and it was just a professional outing, then that would be the most embarrassing thing ever and probably quash any hopes of them becoming mates. She decided to play it by ear. And at least stop dressing like a bedraggled lamb.
She was going to look pretty, and elegant, and friendly, but not sluttish or desperate. Outside it was partly sunny, partly cloudy, but if it was at all wet or messy today, Rosie was determined to stay inside the car. Making interesting conversation with a new friend. Who happened to be pleasingly tall and had a calm manner and a rather naughty smile. But that wasn’t important either and of course she hadn’t even noticed. She sighed.
‘Lilian, do you have an ironing board?’ she called downstairs.
‘Are you making yourself up to look slack?’ came the imperious tones. The new soft diet didn’t seem to be softening up her aunt’s tongue any, Rosie noticed.
‘No!’
‘Well, darling, of course I have an ironing board. Do you know what it’s for?’
Lilian had been sitting in her chair, daydreaming.
1942
The centre of the hall was, if anything, even hotter, and at first, among the bright, excited faces and sparkling eyes, Lilian hadn’t been sure she’d be able to spot him. Margaret was waving gaily and smiling at people she even vaguely recognised, sipping her punch and whispering that she thought some of the hay boys had brewed their own beer, and should she try and get some for them. But Lilian said nothing, and had gone stock still, for there, in the far corner, not dancing but engaged in what was clearly some very serious chat, were two heads, one curly and brown, one blonde, a particular thick, corn-coloured shade that Lilian would never come to like.
Lilian found herself gripping her cup so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She felt a furious flush start at her chest and climb up her neck, to the very tips of her ears; her entire body was suffused with burning heat, that she was sure must be attracting stares. The noise and clatter around her suddenly sounded like so many squawking birds, and her chest tightened up and made it difficult to breathe. At that exact moment, Henry Carr looked up and saw her stricken face. No expert in the moods of women, he wondered what was wrong with her. Then, when he tried a cheery smile and received nothing in return, he wondered if it might be something else.
‘I’m just going out … to get a breath of air,’ Lilian managed to gasp to Margaret, who was already entertaining the affections of a young, very short soldier who had teeth not dissimilar to her own.
‘Ooh, are you going to get the beer?’ said Margaret. ‘Get some for us, will you?’
The young man smiled at her agreeably, but not before Ida Delia had marched up to the party.
‘Lilian,’ she said, ‘are you all right? You look very high-coloured.’ Her voice was dripping with fake concern. ‘It’s not Henry, is it?’
At that moment Lilian knew that Ida Delia had set her cap at Henry precisely because she knew Lilian liked him; that it had greatly increased his attraction for her. And what Ida Delia wanted – like the lovely green print dress with its tiny bird motif – Ida Delia got.
‘I mean, there’s nothing wrong? It’s just every time you see us together you seem to go all queer!’
She laughed a little tinkly laugh that sounded like someone crushing glass.
‘Henry! Come say hello to Lilian.’ Ida waved in a way that implied that Henry was her devoted slave, following solely at her whim.
‘I’m just going out to get some air,’ Lilian managed to choke out again, her eyes stinging.
Henry grinned at her optimistically. ‘One dance?’ he said.
Just then the ramshackle band struck up a fast-moving jitterbug.
‘Oh no, I can’t,’ said Lilian, covered in humiliation. She had waited for him, was expecting him … but there was Ida Delia, smothered in the perfume she insisted came from Paris, her perfectly ringleted blonde hair set tight against her forehead. She barely disguised the look she gave Lilian as Henry asked her to dance.
‘Yes, you should dance with him,’ she said to Lilian in a superior manner. ‘He’s a very good dancer. Could teach you a thing or two.’
The sound of ownership in her voice was so distinct, Lilian immediately felt back in the pecking order at school, when everyone took their cue from Ida. Almost unable to say no, she let Henry take her by the hand and lead her to a tiny uncongested spot on the busy dance floor. Young red-faced soldiers still in heavy tweed trousers were jitterbugging furiously, trying to chat up ladies who were enjoying the unusual situation of being outnumbered.
Instead of attempting all the silly new moves, Henry simply took her in a dance hold and led her around, nimbly keeping to the rhythm. Ida Delia had been right; he was a good dancer. Lilian gradually found her body relaxing, as she let him lead her wherever he wanted to go.
Emboldened, he attempted a spin or two; she flunked the first one but managed the second, and suddenly felt herself swept up in the music; they hit every beat, and as Henry bent her back, both of them laughing into each other’s eyes, she forgot, for possibly the first time in her life, to be self-conscious. She didn’t worry about who was watching; didn’t think about anything other than the person regarding her, twirling her around the floor as if it was the Christmas ball at the great house (which she had never visited, of course), rather than Lipton scout hall and social club on a Saturday evening with a crowd of military boys on leave. The brash bare bulbs overhead dissolved to shimmering chandeliers; the tin cups next to the punch became crystal goblets full of the finest wine; the plank walls seemed hung with tapestries and thick plush curtains, her skimpy, dull dress a full, swinging gown. And her partner the handsomest, kindest, most charming prince she had ever imagined.
Gerard sighed. ‘Let me see,’ he grunted, desperate to get off the phone and back to sleep.
Hanging up, Rosie felt very alone. She and Gerard hardly ever had a cross word, or so she thought. Maybe, it struck her now, they just hadn’t been paying attention. She wished he would propose to her, so she could stop panicking about this kind of thing. Feel secure. Now she felt she was careering round the countryside, covered in mud, without a clue what she was doing. She hadn’t even had the chance to tell him she was off for the day with a handsome doctor on his rounds, so there.
Dimly, Rosie wondered if Moray thought this was some kind of a date. He wouldn’t, surely? Although of course she’d arrived on her own, and she wasn’t wearing a ring … Just in case, she would have to disabuse him. On the other hand, if he was telling the truth and it was just a professional outing, then that would be the most embarrassing thing ever and probably quash any hopes of them becoming mates. She decided to play it by ear. And at least stop dressing like a bedraggled lamb.
She was going to look pretty, and elegant, and friendly, but not sluttish or desperate. Outside it was partly sunny, partly cloudy, but if it was at all wet or messy today, Rosie was determined to stay inside the car. Making interesting conversation with a new friend. Who happened to be pleasingly tall and had a calm manner and a rather naughty smile. But that wasn’t important either and of course she hadn’t even noticed. She sighed.
‘Lilian, do you have an ironing board?’ she called downstairs.
‘Are you making yourself up to look slack?’ came the imperious tones. The new soft diet didn’t seem to be softening up her aunt’s tongue any, Rosie noticed.
‘No!’
‘Well, darling, of course I have an ironing board. Do you know what it’s for?’
Lilian had been sitting in her chair, daydreaming.
1942
The centre of the hall was, if anything, even hotter, and at first, among the bright, excited faces and sparkling eyes, Lilian hadn’t been sure she’d be able to spot him. Margaret was waving gaily and smiling at people she even vaguely recognised, sipping her punch and whispering that she thought some of the hay boys had brewed their own beer, and should she try and get some for them. But Lilian said nothing, and had gone stock still, for there, in the far corner, not dancing but engaged in what was clearly some very serious chat, were two heads, one curly and brown, one blonde, a particular thick, corn-coloured shade that Lilian would never come to like.
Lilian found herself gripping her cup so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She felt a furious flush start at her chest and climb up her neck, to the very tips of her ears; her entire body was suffused with burning heat, that she was sure must be attracting stares. The noise and clatter around her suddenly sounded like so many squawking birds, and her chest tightened up and made it difficult to breathe. At that exact moment, Henry Carr looked up and saw her stricken face. No expert in the moods of women, he wondered what was wrong with her. Then, when he tried a cheery smile and received nothing in return, he wondered if it might be something else.
‘I’m just going out … to get a breath of air,’ Lilian managed to gasp to Margaret, who was already entertaining the affections of a young, very short soldier who had teeth not dissimilar to her own.
‘Ooh, are you going to get the beer?’ said Margaret. ‘Get some for us, will you?’
The young man smiled at her agreeably, but not before Ida Delia had marched up to the party.
‘Lilian,’ she said, ‘are you all right? You look very high-coloured.’ Her voice was dripping with fake concern. ‘It’s not Henry, is it?’
At that moment Lilian knew that Ida Delia had set her cap at Henry precisely because she knew Lilian liked him; that it had greatly increased his attraction for her. And what Ida Delia wanted – like the lovely green print dress with its tiny bird motif – Ida Delia got.
‘I mean, there’s nothing wrong? It’s just every time you see us together you seem to go all queer!’
She laughed a little tinkly laugh that sounded like someone crushing glass.
‘Henry! Come say hello to Lilian.’ Ida waved in a way that implied that Henry was her devoted slave, following solely at her whim.
‘I’m just going out to get some air,’ Lilian managed to choke out again, her eyes stinging.
Henry grinned at her optimistically. ‘One dance?’ he said.
Just then the ramshackle band struck up a fast-moving jitterbug.
‘Oh no, I can’t,’ said Lilian, covered in humiliation. She had waited for him, was expecting him … but there was Ida Delia, smothered in the perfume she insisted came from Paris, her perfectly ringleted blonde hair set tight against her forehead. She barely disguised the look she gave Lilian as Henry asked her to dance.
‘Yes, you should dance with him,’ she said to Lilian in a superior manner. ‘He’s a very good dancer. Could teach you a thing or two.’
The sound of ownership in her voice was so distinct, Lilian immediately felt back in the pecking order at school, when everyone took their cue from Ida. Almost unable to say no, she let Henry take her by the hand and lead her to a tiny uncongested spot on the busy dance floor. Young red-faced soldiers still in heavy tweed trousers were jitterbugging furiously, trying to chat up ladies who were enjoying the unusual situation of being outnumbered.
Instead of attempting all the silly new moves, Henry simply took her in a dance hold and led her around, nimbly keeping to the rhythm. Ida Delia had been right; he was a good dancer. Lilian gradually found her body relaxing, as she let him lead her wherever he wanted to go.
Emboldened, he attempted a spin or two; she flunked the first one but managed the second, and suddenly felt herself swept up in the music; they hit every beat, and as Henry bent her back, both of them laughing into each other’s eyes, she forgot, for possibly the first time in her life, to be self-conscious. She didn’t worry about who was watching; didn’t think about anything other than the person regarding her, twirling her around the floor as if it was the Christmas ball at the great house (which she had never visited, of course), rather than Lipton scout hall and social club on a Saturday evening with a crowd of military boys on leave. The brash bare bulbs overhead dissolved to shimmering chandeliers; the tin cups next to the punch became crystal goblets full of the finest wine; the plank walls seemed hung with tapestries and thick plush curtains, her skimpy, dull dress a full, swinging gown. And her partner the handsomest, kindest, most charming prince she had ever imagined.
