Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 29
As the dance ended, their hands lingered, unwilling to let go. Ida Delia of course was there, clucking over them like a mother hen.
‘Well, there you go,’ she said to Lilian. ‘Did you enjoy that? I told you he was a good dancer.’
She slipped her hand through Henry’s arm like she owned him.
‘Now come on, get me a drink,’ she whispered to him. Henry looked at Lilian askance. Lilian was confused. After the way they’d danced … he wasn’t going to let Ida Delia drag him off, was he?
Henry was confused. This girl was all over him. All he wanted to do was dance more with Lilian. But even as he looked at her, she was retreating, with that anxious face again. When they’d danced, she had glowed; she had looked straight at him and it had felt … well, it had felt like nothing he’d ever felt before. But now she looked awkward, uncomfortable, like she didn’t want to be there with him at all. Even now, she reversed into a table full of half-discarded cups – and suddenly upended it, without realising.
Ida Delia erupted into high-pitched peals of laughter. Henry leapt forward to clean up the mess, and hush the expostulations of the soldiers who’d been sitting there. But Lilian, horror-struck, looked at the catastrophe, turned around and fled.
Outside, in the quiet and the coolness of the air, Lilian marched to the end of the field, past the already paired-off couples, breathing in deeply the fresh meadow grass and honeysuckle until she reached the fence at the far end. When the music of the band had fallen behind her and the smoke had left her nostrils, and she could hear the lambs calling for their mothers in the hills, she grabbed on to the wire and waited for her heart to slow down. She felt, for the first time, unbelievably and dramatically stupid.
The mess, the fuss. He must think she was such a fathead. Going all gooey over one dance, then making an idiot of herself. Looking at the huge stars dripping from the sky above her, she cursed herself over and over. Then, even though she hated herself for doing it, she turned round. Just in case. Just in case he had seen her, and understood, and come after her. Like David Niven would have done.
There was nobody there. Not even Margaret. Lilian rubbed furiously at the ridiculous rouge she had painted on her face and vowed never to come to a dance again, and went to find her bike.
By the time Henry had calmed everyone down, finished clearing up the spilled punch and gone into the field to find her, she was gone.
Rosie presented herself for inspection, her bouncy dark curls washed and hanging loose around her face; mascara, a touch of blusher to give her the pretty pink glow she was still waiting for the countryside to bestow on her; a black sprigged skirt with opaque tights and a black jumper.
‘Can’t you girls wear a bit of colour?’ sniffed Lilian. ‘So much more flattering to the skin. Look at me, for instance.’
It was true; today Lilian was wearing a lilac top underneath a very pale pink pinafore with heavy silver jewellery. It should, Rosie reflected, make her look like a four-year-old. Instead, the effect was charming.
‘You look lovely,’ said Rosie. ‘Not sure it would suit me, though.’
Lilian harrumphed, as a hearty voice yelled out, ‘View halloooo!’ and pushed through the back door without knocking. It was Hetty.
‘Oh good, you’re up,’ she announced, looking around expectantly and taking off her gloves.
‘How cold was it last night?’ asked Lilian.
‘A three-dogger,’ said Hetty, incomprehensibly to Rosie’s ears. ‘Stick the kettle on, will you, toots?’
Rosie belatedly realised this meant her and jumped next door.
‘Rosie has been getting up Roy’s nose,’ said Lilian by way of conversation.
‘Oh good,’ said Hetty. ‘I don’t hold with dentists anyway. Ridiculous bourgeois convention.’
Rosie peeked her head round the door. Sure enough, Hetty had long, strong-looking yellow teeth, exactly like a horse.
‘Nothing wrong with the teeth God gave you. When are you opening up?’
‘Well, our Rosie has got herself a date today, so she can’t work,’ said Lilian mischievously.
‘I have not,’ said Rosie, feeling her face go hot as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘And you’re not having tea, by the way, you’re having Bovril. And a peanut butter and banana sandwich.’
‘I don’t eat American things,’ said Lilian. ‘They were too late entering the war.’
Rosie rolled her eyes and ignored her.
‘It’s that young Dr Moray,’ said Lilian to Hetty. ‘Taking her out in his car.’
‘And you accepted?’ said Hetty, looking amused.
‘Yes!’ said Rosie, suddenly cross. ‘Because it’s not 1895, and because I’m not fourteen. So you can mind your own business!’
Hetty and Lilian exchanged another look.
‘No,’ said Hetty. ‘Obviously you are not even vaguely like a fourteen-year-old.’
Rosie stomped back into the kitchen to finish making the tea.
‘Of course,’ said Lilian, her voice carrying effortlessly through the cottage’s thick stone walls, ‘you know why he’s asking her?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Hetty cryptically. She harrumphed. ‘Well, I wish them luck with that. But – and I know she’s your niece – but. Really. I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Rosie, furiously pink, as she set down the tray. The women looked at her.
‘Talking to us again, are you?’ said Lilian.
‘Oh, you’ll find out,’ said Hetty, just as they heard a car horn honk outside.
‘Tell me!’ said Rosie, cutting Lilian’s sandwich into small pieces. Although she always protested about the food, Rosie had noticed, she did tend to scoff the lot when Rosie wasn’t around.
‘Well, I shall just wish you good luck,’ said Hetty. ‘I wonder if you can succeed where so many others have failed.’
‘Are you going out like that?’ demanded Lilian. ‘You can’t.’
Rosie was wearing a large cardigan.
‘Oh darling, you’ll catch your death.’
‘It’s lovely outside! It’s summer!’
Hetty sighed. ‘You are never going to get the hang of this, are you?’
‘And I look nice.’
Hetty shook her head, then picked up her huge waterproof mackintosh with the flaps that came off the shoulders and made her look like a particularly hefty ruddy-cheeked velociraptor.
‘Well, there you go,’ she said to Lilian. ‘Did you enjoy that? I told you he was a good dancer.’
She slipped her hand through Henry’s arm like she owned him.
‘Now come on, get me a drink,’ she whispered to him. Henry looked at Lilian askance. Lilian was confused. After the way they’d danced … he wasn’t going to let Ida Delia drag him off, was he?
Henry was confused. This girl was all over him. All he wanted to do was dance more with Lilian. But even as he looked at her, she was retreating, with that anxious face again. When they’d danced, she had glowed; she had looked straight at him and it had felt … well, it had felt like nothing he’d ever felt before. But now she looked awkward, uncomfortable, like she didn’t want to be there with him at all. Even now, she reversed into a table full of half-discarded cups – and suddenly upended it, without realising.
Ida Delia erupted into high-pitched peals of laughter. Henry leapt forward to clean up the mess, and hush the expostulations of the soldiers who’d been sitting there. But Lilian, horror-struck, looked at the catastrophe, turned around and fled.
Outside, in the quiet and the coolness of the air, Lilian marched to the end of the field, past the already paired-off couples, breathing in deeply the fresh meadow grass and honeysuckle until she reached the fence at the far end. When the music of the band had fallen behind her and the smoke had left her nostrils, and she could hear the lambs calling for their mothers in the hills, she grabbed on to the wire and waited for her heart to slow down. She felt, for the first time, unbelievably and dramatically stupid.
The mess, the fuss. He must think she was such a fathead. Going all gooey over one dance, then making an idiot of herself. Looking at the huge stars dripping from the sky above her, she cursed herself over and over. Then, even though she hated herself for doing it, she turned round. Just in case. Just in case he had seen her, and understood, and come after her. Like David Niven would have done.
There was nobody there. Not even Margaret. Lilian rubbed furiously at the ridiculous rouge she had painted on her face and vowed never to come to a dance again, and went to find her bike.
By the time Henry had calmed everyone down, finished clearing up the spilled punch and gone into the field to find her, she was gone.
Rosie presented herself for inspection, her bouncy dark curls washed and hanging loose around her face; mascara, a touch of blusher to give her the pretty pink glow she was still waiting for the countryside to bestow on her; a black sprigged skirt with opaque tights and a black jumper.
‘Can’t you girls wear a bit of colour?’ sniffed Lilian. ‘So much more flattering to the skin. Look at me, for instance.’
It was true; today Lilian was wearing a lilac top underneath a very pale pink pinafore with heavy silver jewellery. It should, Rosie reflected, make her look like a four-year-old. Instead, the effect was charming.
‘You look lovely,’ said Rosie. ‘Not sure it would suit me, though.’
Lilian harrumphed, as a hearty voice yelled out, ‘View halloooo!’ and pushed through the back door without knocking. It was Hetty.
‘Oh good, you’re up,’ she announced, looking around expectantly and taking off her gloves.
‘How cold was it last night?’ asked Lilian.
‘A three-dogger,’ said Hetty, incomprehensibly to Rosie’s ears. ‘Stick the kettle on, will you, toots?’
Rosie belatedly realised this meant her and jumped next door.
‘Rosie has been getting up Roy’s nose,’ said Lilian by way of conversation.
‘Oh good,’ said Hetty. ‘I don’t hold with dentists anyway. Ridiculous bourgeois convention.’
Rosie peeked her head round the door. Sure enough, Hetty had long, strong-looking yellow teeth, exactly like a horse.
‘Nothing wrong with the teeth God gave you. When are you opening up?’
‘Well, our Rosie has got herself a date today, so she can’t work,’ said Lilian mischievously.
‘I have not,’ said Rosie, feeling her face go hot as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘And you’re not having tea, by the way, you’re having Bovril. And a peanut butter and banana sandwich.’
‘I don’t eat American things,’ said Lilian. ‘They were too late entering the war.’
Rosie rolled her eyes and ignored her.
‘It’s that young Dr Moray,’ said Lilian to Hetty. ‘Taking her out in his car.’
‘And you accepted?’ said Hetty, looking amused.
‘Yes!’ said Rosie, suddenly cross. ‘Because it’s not 1895, and because I’m not fourteen. So you can mind your own business!’
Hetty and Lilian exchanged another look.
‘No,’ said Hetty. ‘Obviously you are not even vaguely like a fourteen-year-old.’
Rosie stomped back into the kitchen to finish making the tea.
‘Of course,’ said Lilian, her voice carrying effortlessly through the cottage’s thick stone walls, ‘you know why he’s asking her?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Hetty cryptically. She harrumphed. ‘Well, I wish them luck with that. But – and I know she’s your niece – but. Really. I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Rosie, furiously pink, as she set down the tray. The women looked at her.
‘Talking to us again, are you?’ said Lilian.
‘Oh, you’ll find out,’ said Hetty, just as they heard a car horn honk outside.
‘Tell me!’ said Rosie, cutting Lilian’s sandwich into small pieces. Although she always protested about the food, Rosie had noticed, she did tend to scoff the lot when Rosie wasn’t around.
‘Well, I shall just wish you good luck,’ said Hetty. ‘I wonder if you can succeed where so many others have failed.’
‘Are you going out like that?’ demanded Lilian. ‘You can’t.’
Rosie was wearing a large cardigan.
‘Oh darling, you’ll catch your death.’
‘It’s lovely outside! It’s summer!’
Hetty sighed. ‘You are never going to get the hang of this, are you?’
‘And I look nice.’
Hetty shook her head, then picked up her huge waterproof mackintosh with the flaps that came off the shoulders and made her look like a particularly hefty ruddy-cheeked velociraptor.
