Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 31
‘Yes,’ said Anton, nodding his head, which was oddly elongated by all the bulbous chins underneath it. ‘Yeah, we do. All of them.’
‘But you don’t think to do any of the things they say?’ said Rosie.
‘Oh yes,’ said Anton.
‘Yes,’ said his wife. ‘We’re going to fill in the forms. They come and give you a haircut and all sorts of things.’
‘Well,’ said Rosie, ‘even if you don’t actually appear on the shows, I’m sure there’s plenty of useful tips you could take from them.’
‘Oh, I’ll get on the show,’ said Anton proudly. ‘I had four bacon butties this morning. Four! That should do it.’
Rosie shot a look at Moray, whose face betrayed nothing.
‘But if you followed what they say about fruit and vegetables and exercise, you wouldn’t need to go on the show! You could move around much more easily instead!’
Anton looked confused, then glanced at his wife and back at Rosie again.
‘Are you going to have those violet creams when you reopen your shop?’
Rosie looked surprised. ‘I hadn’t thought of it. Do you think there’s much call? Violet creams are a bit out of fashion these days.’
‘Not with me,’ said Anton. ‘I love my creams, don’t I, love?’
His wife beamed proudly.
‘Violet are the best, but I’m not that fussy really. Coffee. Raspberry.’
‘I bet you do well at Christmas,’ said Rosie. ‘Loads of people hate them.’
‘I know,’ said Anton. ‘It’s my party trick.’
‘What is?’
‘I can tell you which Revel is which … without even touching them!’
‘Wow,’ said Rosie. ‘Maybe we could get you down to the shop to do that!’
‘Hmm,’ said Anton.
‘No, I’m serious … if you manage to get yourself together and walk down, we’ll have a display event and people can bet against you. It’ll be great.’
Anton’s eyes lit up.
‘That would be great. I could hustle them a bit, just to get them started. Mix up a peanut and a raisin.’
‘Which is a rube’s error,’ said Rosie seriously.
‘Right …’
Moray harrumphed and, as they finished up, handed over large bottles of emollients with instructions to Anton’s wife on how to apply them.
‘This is the only cream I want you anywhere near,’ he said, pointedly. ‘Is it worth giving you this for the bath?’ He was looking critically at a big white bottle of bath salts. The woman shook her head.
‘Me in a bath?’ said Anton. ‘They’d never get me out again! We’d need to call the fire brigade!’
He and his wife started to chuckle. They were still giggling as Moray and Rosie left the house, which did indeed smell of bacon.
Moray took the hilltop road. ‘So we see one patient who’s eating himself to death and you suggest he eats more?’
‘I did not, in fact, suggest anything of the sort,’ said Rosie. ‘I dangled a carrot … OK, a carrot made of icing, but none theless. I have tempted him with something that involves getting out of the house. And getting out of the house is the first step in this. Trust me. I’ve worked on bariatrics. I’ve cleaned stuff out of crevices I thought was starting a new civilisation.’
Moray shot her a look.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Maybe you can occasionally be useful when I’m not digging you out of ditches.’
That didn’t sound much like a date, Rosie thought. Useful wasn’t a word you used about a date. It was a word you used about a stapler. No. Good. Best to put the whole thing behind her.
‘It’s hard,’ said Moray. ‘I can’t yell at Anton. We are the whole support team out here, but we’re not the police. It’s not illegal to overeat.’
‘That’s what we used to say when they brought in the same drug addicts four times a week,’ said Rosie. ‘Of course, drugs are illegal, but the same principle applies. Do what you can, keep moving on. Patch and dispatch.’
‘Are you sure you want to open a sweetshop?’ said Moray. ‘Because you still sound a lot like a nurse to me.’
‘Do you know how many people turn up at sweetshops covered in blood?’asked Rosie pleasantly.
‘Almost none?’ ventured Moray.
‘Almost none. With a small subsection of skinned knees. Anyway, I’m not opening up a sweetshop. I’m selling a sweetshop. Very different.’
‘And then you’re going back to all the drug addicts and the tube tickets and the mess and the people, are you?’
‘London’s a wonderful town.’
‘Mmm.’
As they rose higher and higher the Land Rover clung to the road, effortlessly cresting the switchbacks and steep gradients. Now the clouds had cleared away, Rosie could take a proper look around at where she’d ended up. At the very top of the crags, Moray stopped suddenly. The road was deserted. Rosie could see for miles to her right and behind her; on her left was the top of the hill.
‘Spot of lunch?’ asked Moray, and they both got out of the car.
There was no denying it: it was stunning up here. Obviously there were people down there, working and ploughing and shouting at Jake and so on – but up here, the grey sky was broken with weak beams of sun; shadow and light passing through the valleys and over the softly rolling moors, all divvied up by ancient stone walls so it looked like a gently shaded eiderdown, with the oranges and greens and browns merging into one another.
Sheep were dotted around, but all Rosie could hear was the caw of a circling bird; in fact, she felt as if she were seeing the landscape the way a bird would see it, without human concerns. Except for over in the far corner, tucked under the next set of hills, like a beautiful woman wearing a plain white T-shirt out of politeness, not to dazzle the rest of us, was a magnificent mansion. It stood four-square, with a tower on each corner and all manner of twiddly bits around its millions of windows, as if just waiting for Mr Darcy to roll up. It was extraordinary.
Rosie realised that the landscape she was looking at, although it felt entirely natural, was in fact manmade – a lake just there, where it could be seen from the house; an orchard of fruit trees and acres and acres of land that no doubt belonged to whoever lived in that pile, or had lived, once upon a time. It had been designed by men, which didn’t make it any less beautiful. It was like something out of a fairy tale.
‘But you don’t think to do any of the things they say?’ said Rosie.
‘Oh yes,’ said Anton.
‘Yes,’ said his wife. ‘We’re going to fill in the forms. They come and give you a haircut and all sorts of things.’
‘Well,’ said Rosie, ‘even if you don’t actually appear on the shows, I’m sure there’s plenty of useful tips you could take from them.’
‘Oh, I’ll get on the show,’ said Anton proudly. ‘I had four bacon butties this morning. Four! That should do it.’
Rosie shot a look at Moray, whose face betrayed nothing.
‘But if you followed what they say about fruit and vegetables and exercise, you wouldn’t need to go on the show! You could move around much more easily instead!’
Anton looked confused, then glanced at his wife and back at Rosie again.
‘Are you going to have those violet creams when you reopen your shop?’
Rosie looked surprised. ‘I hadn’t thought of it. Do you think there’s much call? Violet creams are a bit out of fashion these days.’
‘Not with me,’ said Anton. ‘I love my creams, don’t I, love?’
His wife beamed proudly.
‘Violet are the best, but I’m not that fussy really. Coffee. Raspberry.’
‘I bet you do well at Christmas,’ said Rosie. ‘Loads of people hate them.’
‘I know,’ said Anton. ‘It’s my party trick.’
‘What is?’
‘I can tell you which Revel is which … without even touching them!’
‘Wow,’ said Rosie. ‘Maybe we could get you down to the shop to do that!’
‘Hmm,’ said Anton.
‘No, I’m serious … if you manage to get yourself together and walk down, we’ll have a display event and people can bet against you. It’ll be great.’
Anton’s eyes lit up.
‘That would be great. I could hustle them a bit, just to get them started. Mix up a peanut and a raisin.’
‘Which is a rube’s error,’ said Rosie seriously.
‘Right …’
Moray harrumphed and, as they finished up, handed over large bottles of emollients with instructions to Anton’s wife on how to apply them.
‘This is the only cream I want you anywhere near,’ he said, pointedly. ‘Is it worth giving you this for the bath?’ He was looking critically at a big white bottle of bath salts. The woman shook her head.
‘Me in a bath?’ said Anton. ‘They’d never get me out again! We’d need to call the fire brigade!’
He and his wife started to chuckle. They were still giggling as Moray and Rosie left the house, which did indeed smell of bacon.
Moray took the hilltop road. ‘So we see one patient who’s eating himself to death and you suggest he eats more?’
‘I did not, in fact, suggest anything of the sort,’ said Rosie. ‘I dangled a carrot … OK, a carrot made of icing, but none theless. I have tempted him with something that involves getting out of the house. And getting out of the house is the first step in this. Trust me. I’ve worked on bariatrics. I’ve cleaned stuff out of crevices I thought was starting a new civilisation.’
Moray shot her a look.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Maybe you can occasionally be useful when I’m not digging you out of ditches.’
That didn’t sound much like a date, Rosie thought. Useful wasn’t a word you used about a date. It was a word you used about a stapler. No. Good. Best to put the whole thing behind her.
‘It’s hard,’ said Moray. ‘I can’t yell at Anton. We are the whole support team out here, but we’re not the police. It’s not illegal to overeat.’
‘That’s what we used to say when they brought in the same drug addicts four times a week,’ said Rosie. ‘Of course, drugs are illegal, but the same principle applies. Do what you can, keep moving on. Patch and dispatch.’
‘Are you sure you want to open a sweetshop?’ said Moray. ‘Because you still sound a lot like a nurse to me.’
‘Do you know how many people turn up at sweetshops covered in blood?’asked Rosie pleasantly.
‘Almost none?’ ventured Moray.
‘Almost none. With a small subsection of skinned knees. Anyway, I’m not opening up a sweetshop. I’m selling a sweetshop. Very different.’
‘And then you’re going back to all the drug addicts and the tube tickets and the mess and the people, are you?’
‘London’s a wonderful town.’
‘Mmm.’
As they rose higher and higher the Land Rover clung to the road, effortlessly cresting the switchbacks and steep gradients. Now the clouds had cleared away, Rosie could take a proper look around at where she’d ended up. At the very top of the crags, Moray stopped suddenly. The road was deserted. Rosie could see for miles to her right and behind her; on her left was the top of the hill.
‘Spot of lunch?’ asked Moray, and they both got out of the car.
There was no denying it: it was stunning up here. Obviously there were people down there, working and ploughing and shouting at Jake and so on – but up here, the grey sky was broken with weak beams of sun; shadow and light passing through the valleys and over the softly rolling moors, all divvied up by ancient stone walls so it looked like a gently shaded eiderdown, with the oranges and greens and browns merging into one another.
Sheep were dotted around, but all Rosie could hear was the caw of a circling bird; in fact, she felt as if she were seeing the landscape the way a bird would see it, without human concerns. Except for over in the far corner, tucked under the next set of hills, like a beautiful woman wearing a plain white T-shirt out of politeness, not to dazzle the rest of us, was a magnificent mansion. It stood four-square, with a tower on each corner and all manner of twiddly bits around its millions of windows, as if just waiting for Mr Darcy to roll up. It was extraordinary.
Rosie realised that the landscape she was looking at, although it felt entirely natural, was in fact manmade – a lake just there, where it could be seen from the house; an orchard of fruit trees and acres and acres of land that no doubt belonged to whoever lived in that pile, or had lived, once upon a time. It had been designed by men, which didn’t make it any less beautiful. It was like something out of a fairy tale.
