Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 35
‘So?’
‘If you ask me,’ said Moray, pulling on to the main street again, ‘I reckon the silly bugger blew himself up by accident and is too embarrassed to tell anyone.’
‘Are you making kissing noises?’ Rosie asked crossly. ‘You can’t make them very well.’
‘My teeth hurt,’ said Lilian grumpily. She was sitting on the sofa and most annoyed to be disturbed from her nap. Sleeping was her favourite thing these days. In her dreams she was always as strong as a horse and there was nothing wrong with her. And she knew, deep down, that having an afternoon nap would keep her awake at night, but she couldn’t do anything about that.
‘So how was your date? Are you getting him on your side so you can have me committed to a mental institution?’
She couldn’t help it; she was interested in this girl. Determined and awkward, she reminded her of herself when young. Although, of course, they’d been very different in ages. But still, there was definitely something there. And she didn’t think much of this fella in London who hadn’t bothered to drive her up or phone the house to check she was all right; who hadn’t put a ring on her finger or even sent a postcard. She didn’t think much of him at all.
‘Do you want to go to a mental institution?’
‘All those old people’s homes are mental institutions.’
‘I’m sure some of them are lovely,’ said Rosie. ‘And I’m sure they don’t all serve lollipops for supper.’
‘You’d think at the end of someone’s life you’d get a chance to eat some sweets and enjoy yourself,’ grumbled Lilian, ‘without being pestered every five minutes.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Rosie. ‘Now eat your banana and honey. How can that not be sweet enough for you?’
Lilian stuck out her tongue like a small child. ‘Bleurgh. I hate do-gooders.’
‘I’ll get over it,’ said Rosie.
‘And how was your day out with the young chap?’
‘Ha,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s nothing like that at all.’
‘Oh no?’
‘Well, put it this way. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world that I was wearing that bloody horse coat.’
Rosie couldn’t shake it, lying in bed that night. For the first time since she’d arrived, when everything had been so strange and new, she wasn’t absolutely exhausted, out like a light as soon as her head hit the pillow. It was as if her not-a-date with Moray had sent her head bursting, because now, ludicrously, she found she couldn’t stop thinking about Stephen Lakeman. She wondered if his behaviour was just what people did up here. Where life was more old-fashioned, maybe they had more of the stiff upper lip. Look at her great-aunt. So bottled up, so cross. Obviously a bit of a beauty in her day, there was no way she hadn’t had intrigues, hadn’t had romance in her life. But did she ever mention it? Did she ever talk about her life, or even think about it? Never. It was all locked up and she had thrown the key away decades ago, and if this boy didn’t sort himself out, the exact same thing might happen to him.
There was still no mobile signal. Rosie cursed, then remembered that there was a telephone next to her bed. It was a lovely old thing, and she’d assumed it was just an ornament, but as she picked it up she could hear the hum.
How, she wondered, had people ever been able to dial all these numbers? It took half an hour; her fingers kept slipping off the keys. Finally, she got through, and finally it rang. And rang. And rang.
She tried another number.
‘Yes?’ said Mike. She could tell straight away this wasn’t a good time. Giuseppe was muttering crossly in the background.
‘Don’t tell him it’s me,’ she said quickly. ‘He hates me.’
Mike snorted. ‘He hates everyone. Because you hate yourself! Perche mi odio!’ he hollered away from the phone. The flood of invective continued, only slightly muffled.
‘Uhm, yes?’ he said.
‘Never mind,’ said Rosie quickly. ‘Just … have you seen Gerard about?’
There was a tiny pause. Rosie assumed Giuseppe was making rude gestures behind him.
‘Well, yes,’ said Mike eventually, with a tiny shade of reluctance.
‘Oh,’ said Rosie. ‘How’s he looking?’
‘You really want to know?’ said Mike warily.
‘Yes,’ said Rosie, suddenly feeling fearful. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, OK,’ said Mike. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘What?’
‘He was looking …’ Mike searched for the words carefully. ‘He was looking … ironed.’
There was a long silence. Rosie sighed.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Mike, to the accompaniment of a door slamming. ‘I know.’
‘I can’t … I mean, I really thought …’
‘I know.’
‘I can’t believe he’s moved back in with his mum. I just left.’
‘She’s got him tucking his shirts back in.’
They were both quiet. Mike loved Rosie and didn’t want to rub it in by talking about it.
‘Sometimes,’ said Rosie, ‘sometimes I wonder … if he can’t look after himself, he’s never going to want to look after me, is he? Or …’
The silence continued.
‘I’m sure he was just hungry,’ said Mike, optimistically.
‘Yes, for fish fingers and beans done just the way he likes them with lots of ketchup in front of Formula 1,’ said Rosie. ‘Bollocks.’
Mike started to get a bit twitchy. ‘Listen, I’d better go after Giuseppe … you know what he’s like.’
‘He’s a crazy person,’ said Rosie. ‘But at least he doesn’t live with his mother.’
‘She’s even worse,’ said Mike. ‘Chin up, sweets.’
The next morning, still cross, Rosie took to scrubbing with a gusto that would have surprised Angie very much if she’d seen it; taking apart the glass cabinets and washing them, removing every sticky smudge and trace, until they were restored to a pristine condition except for a few scratches. She threw away boxes and boxes of sweets (hiding the bin bags from Lilian) that were past their best, including toffees, a very iffy-looking Marathon bar and some potentially radioactive Wham Bars (she did eat a packet of Spangles herself very quickly just for the nostalgia rush). The hard manual labour, accompanied by the radio, actually worked a little to up her mood; the day was warm and fine and about lunchtime she was considering trying to figure out where Moray had bought that sandwich, when she heard a noise and turned round. Coming up the road into the village was a large party of people, starting with a coach pulled by horses and a huge crowd around it. Rosie wiped her face, which was a little pink, and stood up to get a better look.
‘If you ask me,’ said Moray, pulling on to the main street again, ‘I reckon the silly bugger blew himself up by accident and is too embarrassed to tell anyone.’
‘Are you making kissing noises?’ Rosie asked crossly. ‘You can’t make them very well.’
‘My teeth hurt,’ said Lilian grumpily. She was sitting on the sofa and most annoyed to be disturbed from her nap. Sleeping was her favourite thing these days. In her dreams she was always as strong as a horse and there was nothing wrong with her. And she knew, deep down, that having an afternoon nap would keep her awake at night, but she couldn’t do anything about that.
‘So how was your date? Are you getting him on your side so you can have me committed to a mental institution?’
She couldn’t help it; she was interested in this girl. Determined and awkward, she reminded her of herself when young. Although, of course, they’d been very different in ages. But still, there was definitely something there. And she didn’t think much of this fella in London who hadn’t bothered to drive her up or phone the house to check she was all right; who hadn’t put a ring on her finger or even sent a postcard. She didn’t think much of him at all.
‘Do you want to go to a mental institution?’
‘All those old people’s homes are mental institutions.’
‘I’m sure some of them are lovely,’ said Rosie. ‘And I’m sure they don’t all serve lollipops for supper.’
‘You’d think at the end of someone’s life you’d get a chance to eat some sweets and enjoy yourself,’ grumbled Lilian, ‘without being pestered every five minutes.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Rosie. ‘Now eat your banana and honey. How can that not be sweet enough for you?’
Lilian stuck out her tongue like a small child. ‘Bleurgh. I hate do-gooders.’
‘I’ll get over it,’ said Rosie.
‘And how was your day out with the young chap?’
‘Ha,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s nothing like that at all.’
‘Oh no?’
‘Well, put it this way. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world that I was wearing that bloody horse coat.’
Rosie couldn’t shake it, lying in bed that night. For the first time since she’d arrived, when everything had been so strange and new, she wasn’t absolutely exhausted, out like a light as soon as her head hit the pillow. It was as if her not-a-date with Moray had sent her head bursting, because now, ludicrously, she found she couldn’t stop thinking about Stephen Lakeman. She wondered if his behaviour was just what people did up here. Where life was more old-fashioned, maybe they had more of the stiff upper lip. Look at her great-aunt. So bottled up, so cross. Obviously a bit of a beauty in her day, there was no way she hadn’t had intrigues, hadn’t had romance in her life. But did she ever mention it? Did she ever talk about her life, or even think about it? Never. It was all locked up and she had thrown the key away decades ago, and if this boy didn’t sort himself out, the exact same thing might happen to him.
There was still no mobile signal. Rosie cursed, then remembered that there was a telephone next to her bed. It was a lovely old thing, and she’d assumed it was just an ornament, but as she picked it up she could hear the hum.
How, she wondered, had people ever been able to dial all these numbers? It took half an hour; her fingers kept slipping off the keys. Finally, she got through, and finally it rang. And rang. And rang.
She tried another number.
‘Yes?’ said Mike. She could tell straight away this wasn’t a good time. Giuseppe was muttering crossly in the background.
‘Don’t tell him it’s me,’ she said quickly. ‘He hates me.’
Mike snorted. ‘He hates everyone. Because you hate yourself! Perche mi odio!’ he hollered away from the phone. The flood of invective continued, only slightly muffled.
‘Uhm, yes?’ he said.
‘Never mind,’ said Rosie quickly. ‘Just … have you seen Gerard about?’
There was a tiny pause. Rosie assumed Giuseppe was making rude gestures behind him.
‘Well, yes,’ said Mike eventually, with a tiny shade of reluctance.
‘Oh,’ said Rosie. ‘How’s he looking?’
‘You really want to know?’ said Mike warily.
‘Yes,’ said Rosie, suddenly feeling fearful. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, OK,’ said Mike. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘What?’
‘He was looking …’ Mike searched for the words carefully. ‘He was looking … ironed.’
There was a long silence. Rosie sighed.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Mike, to the accompaniment of a door slamming. ‘I know.’
‘I can’t … I mean, I really thought …’
‘I know.’
‘I can’t believe he’s moved back in with his mum. I just left.’
‘She’s got him tucking his shirts back in.’
They were both quiet. Mike loved Rosie and didn’t want to rub it in by talking about it.
‘Sometimes,’ said Rosie, ‘sometimes I wonder … if he can’t look after himself, he’s never going to want to look after me, is he? Or …’
The silence continued.
‘I’m sure he was just hungry,’ said Mike, optimistically.
‘Yes, for fish fingers and beans done just the way he likes them with lots of ketchup in front of Formula 1,’ said Rosie. ‘Bollocks.’
Mike started to get a bit twitchy. ‘Listen, I’d better go after Giuseppe … you know what he’s like.’
‘He’s a crazy person,’ said Rosie. ‘But at least he doesn’t live with his mother.’
‘She’s even worse,’ said Mike. ‘Chin up, sweets.’
The next morning, still cross, Rosie took to scrubbing with a gusto that would have surprised Angie very much if she’d seen it; taking apart the glass cabinets and washing them, removing every sticky smudge and trace, until they were restored to a pristine condition except for a few scratches. She threw away boxes and boxes of sweets (hiding the bin bags from Lilian) that were past their best, including toffees, a very iffy-looking Marathon bar and some potentially radioactive Wham Bars (she did eat a packet of Spangles herself very quickly just for the nostalgia rush). The hard manual labour, accompanied by the radio, actually worked a little to up her mood; the day was warm and fine and about lunchtime she was considering trying to figure out where Moray had bought that sandwich, when she heard a noise and turned round. Coming up the road into the village was a large party of people, starting with a coach pulled by horses and a huge crowd around it. Rosie wiped her face, which was a little pink, and stood up to get a better look.
