Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 30
‘Here, take this. I’ve got the stockman’s in the car.’
Rosie stared at it. ‘I can’t take that.’
‘Course you can,’ said Lilian. ‘It’ll be pouring by eleven. You’ll be drenched through.’
‘I need a new coat,’ muttered Rosie to herself.
‘Yes, you do,’ said Hetty. ‘But until then, this will be perfectly adequate.’
‘No!’ said Rosie, struggling, but resistance was useless. Hetty forced her into the enormous overcoat, which smelled of hay and dog. Rosie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the fireplace. She looked like a murderous fisher man.
‘I’m sure I’m …’
‘Not a word,’ said Hetty in a regal voice that brooked no argument. Was she, Rosie found herself wondering, actually in charge? Were you legally obliged to do what the lady of the manor said? She’d have to check up on it.
‘Off you go now!’
‘And tell us everything when you get back!’ pealed Lilian, who was obviously finding all of this hilarious, and the arrival of Rosie clearly some huge entertainment package on a par with Sky Plus.
Moray stared at the figure emerging from the cottage with that same twitch of amusement around his mouth. Rosie wasn’t sure whether to find it charming or irritating.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, leaning against his Land Rover with his arms folded. He was wearing a well-worn tweed jacket that looked slightly too big for him, a checked shirt and a green tie. ‘I was looking for a new girl. You, it is clear, have been here for generations.’
‘Shut up,’ said Rosie. ‘It was Lady Lipton’s fault.’
‘That’s her coat?’ said Moray. ‘She is grateful we saved Bran.’
‘It’s a loan. Can I take it off and put it in the back?’
‘If you like,’ said Moray. ‘But it’s going to hose it down in about forty minutes. You may want to keep it close by.’
‘But it smells absolutely horrible.’
‘Does it?’
‘You are such a country lubber! Of course it does! Look!’
Rosie picked out a piece of hay from the pocket. Moray glanced at it.
‘Oh look,’ he said. ‘A tube ticket.’
‘We don’t have tube tickets any more,’ said Rosie loftily.
‘Oh yes? Have they stopped charging you for ramming you in like slaughterhouse cattle and making you stick your nose in a stranger’s armpit for two hours a day?’
Rosie didn’t consider this worthy of a response.
‘So, what’s this in aid of?’ she said.
‘Well, I thought you might like to ride along,’ said Moray carefully. ‘Show you a bit of the town and so on.’
‘So you won’t be needing my professional opinion?’ said Rosie, smiling. ‘What happens round here anyway? Goat bites?’
Moray raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, let’s get the morning calls out of the way first.’
They popped in on a heavily pregnant young woman without a car, who demanded to know if Rosie had children. When Rosie said she didn’t, she ignored her.
Then they went to see Anton Swinley, who had hurt his back in a lorry-driving accident six years before and since then had made it his life’s ambition to become Britain’s fattest man. He had fallen well short of that, but he still had various medical conditions, not least a skin fungus that was a lot easier to cope with when two people were attending to it.
Moray looked at Rosie, a tad guiltily.
‘I’ve brought you lunch for later,’ he said.
Rosie looked back at him. ‘I hope it’s not pork scratchings,’ she said quietly, but readily put the rubber gloves on.
‘Ooh,’ Anton was saying, in a wheezy voice. Next to his bed was a large respirator that helped him sleep. ‘You’re going to reopen that sweetshop! I really love Lilian’s sweetshop. Chocolate caramels … fudge squares.’
‘Hmm,’ said Rosie, scrubbing away. She didn’t at all mind the unpleasant jobs – they were part of life. Bodies were bodies, and someone had to do it. She did, though, slightly mind the hunky doctor, who’d started at the bottom end, having to see her in such unromantic circumstances. She wasn’t looking for a man. Obviously not, she had a perfectly lovely man waiting at home. A perfectly lovely man, she tried to ignore a voice in her head saying, who seemed to have been out on the piss till all hours ever since she left and who’d started crashing at his mum’s. A perfectly lovely man who’d been very happy to move in with her so they could share an otherwise ungettable mortgage, while seemingly using it as a base from which to go out with his mates and … The man she loved, she told herself. The man she loved, in the flat she loved, in the city she loved, where her future lay, firmly laid out ahead of her.
On the other hand, it would be nice to know, whatever Lilian and Hetty appeared to think, that a man might perceive her as an attractive woman, as someone you might want to take out on a date. When she’d seen Moray, tall, handsome, humorous, leaning on his car that morning, her heart, however much she tried to deny it, had skipped. Just a tiny bit. Just a tiny bit to show there was a flicker of life in her yet. Just because she was taken, she told herself, didn’t mean she was dead.
Plus, also, it hardly mattered. It seemed more than likely that if you fancied someone, you wouldn’t take them on a first date to scrub down a morbidly obese man’s fungal skin folds. Yes. Pretty improbable. She’d been out of the game for a while now, but it was unlikely to have changed that much. So. Nothing to worry about at all. She should try to stop sneaking peeks at his eyes, to see if they really were that amazing mix of blue and green.
‘Doesn’t your health visitor have a word with you about how many sweets you can eat?’ Rosie asked.
Anton and Anton’s wife, a surprisingly petite woman, both shook their heads. The fact that she was petite was slightly less surprising than that he had a wife at all, thought Rosie. Maybe the man shortage was even worse than she’d realised.
‘A health what?’ said Anton.
‘Someone who could maybe discuss the effects of your, ahem, lifestyle choices on your health,’ said Rosie.
Anton and his wife looked at one another for a second.
‘Well,’ said the wife tentatively, ‘we watch those fat TV shows, don’t we?’
Rosie stared at it. ‘I can’t take that.’
‘Course you can,’ said Lilian. ‘It’ll be pouring by eleven. You’ll be drenched through.’
‘I need a new coat,’ muttered Rosie to herself.
‘Yes, you do,’ said Hetty. ‘But until then, this will be perfectly adequate.’
‘No!’ said Rosie, struggling, but resistance was useless. Hetty forced her into the enormous overcoat, which smelled of hay and dog. Rosie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the fireplace. She looked like a murderous fisher man.
‘I’m sure I’m …’
‘Not a word,’ said Hetty in a regal voice that brooked no argument. Was she, Rosie found herself wondering, actually in charge? Were you legally obliged to do what the lady of the manor said? She’d have to check up on it.
‘Off you go now!’
‘And tell us everything when you get back!’ pealed Lilian, who was obviously finding all of this hilarious, and the arrival of Rosie clearly some huge entertainment package on a par with Sky Plus.
Moray stared at the figure emerging from the cottage with that same twitch of amusement around his mouth. Rosie wasn’t sure whether to find it charming or irritating.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, leaning against his Land Rover with his arms folded. He was wearing a well-worn tweed jacket that looked slightly too big for him, a checked shirt and a green tie. ‘I was looking for a new girl. You, it is clear, have been here for generations.’
‘Shut up,’ said Rosie. ‘It was Lady Lipton’s fault.’
‘That’s her coat?’ said Moray. ‘She is grateful we saved Bran.’
‘It’s a loan. Can I take it off and put it in the back?’
‘If you like,’ said Moray. ‘But it’s going to hose it down in about forty minutes. You may want to keep it close by.’
‘But it smells absolutely horrible.’
‘Does it?’
‘You are such a country lubber! Of course it does! Look!’
Rosie picked out a piece of hay from the pocket. Moray glanced at it.
‘Oh look,’ he said. ‘A tube ticket.’
‘We don’t have tube tickets any more,’ said Rosie loftily.
‘Oh yes? Have they stopped charging you for ramming you in like slaughterhouse cattle and making you stick your nose in a stranger’s armpit for two hours a day?’
Rosie didn’t consider this worthy of a response.
‘So, what’s this in aid of?’ she said.
‘Well, I thought you might like to ride along,’ said Moray carefully. ‘Show you a bit of the town and so on.’
‘So you won’t be needing my professional opinion?’ said Rosie, smiling. ‘What happens round here anyway? Goat bites?’
Moray raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, let’s get the morning calls out of the way first.’
They popped in on a heavily pregnant young woman without a car, who demanded to know if Rosie had children. When Rosie said she didn’t, she ignored her.
Then they went to see Anton Swinley, who had hurt his back in a lorry-driving accident six years before and since then had made it his life’s ambition to become Britain’s fattest man. He had fallen well short of that, but he still had various medical conditions, not least a skin fungus that was a lot easier to cope with when two people were attending to it.
Moray looked at Rosie, a tad guiltily.
‘I’ve brought you lunch for later,’ he said.
Rosie looked back at him. ‘I hope it’s not pork scratchings,’ she said quietly, but readily put the rubber gloves on.
‘Ooh,’ Anton was saying, in a wheezy voice. Next to his bed was a large respirator that helped him sleep. ‘You’re going to reopen that sweetshop! I really love Lilian’s sweetshop. Chocolate caramels … fudge squares.’
‘Hmm,’ said Rosie, scrubbing away. She didn’t at all mind the unpleasant jobs – they were part of life. Bodies were bodies, and someone had to do it. She did, though, slightly mind the hunky doctor, who’d started at the bottom end, having to see her in such unromantic circumstances. She wasn’t looking for a man. Obviously not, she had a perfectly lovely man waiting at home. A perfectly lovely man, she tried to ignore a voice in her head saying, who seemed to have been out on the piss till all hours ever since she left and who’d started crashing at his mum’s. A perfectly lovely man who’d been very happy to move in with her so they could share an otherwise ungettable mortgage, while seemingly using it as a base from which to go out with his mates and … The man she loved, she told herself. The man she loved, in the flat she loved, in the city she loved, where her future lay, firmly laid out ahead of her.
On the other hand, it would be nice to know, whatever Lilian and Hetty appeared to think, that a man might perceive her as an attractive woman, as someone you might want to take out on a date. When she’d seen Moray, tall, handsome, humorous, leaning on his car that morning, her heart, however much she tried to deny it, had skipped. Just a tiny bit. Just a tiny bit to show there was a flicker of life in her yet. Just because she was taken, she told herself, didn’t mean she was dead.
Plus, also, it hardly mattered. It seemed more than likely that if you fancied someone, you wouldn’t take them on a first date to scrub down a morbidly obese man’s fungal skin folds. Yes. Pretty improbable. She’d been out of the game for a while now, but it was unlikely to have changed that much. So. Nothing to worry about at all. She should try to stop sneaking peeks at his eyes, to see if they really were that amazing mix of blue and green.
‘Doesn’t your health visitor have a word with you about how many sweets you can eat?’ Rosie asked.
Anton and Anton’s wife, a surprisingly petite woman, both shook their heads. The fact that she was petite was slightly less surprising than that he had a wife at all, thought Rosie. Maybe the man shortage was even worse than she’d realised.
‘A health what?’ said Anton.
‘Someone who could maybe discuss the effects of your, ahem, lifestyle choices on your health,’ said Rosie.
Anton and his wife looked at one another for a second.
‘Well,’ said the wife tentatively, ‘we watch those fat TV shows, don’t we?’
