Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 40
‘One three times a day with meals,’ she said. ‘I’m going to talk to Mrs Laird and make her pop in every five minutes if I have to.’
‘Please don’t do that,’ said Stephen. ‘I need some time to myself.’
Rosie thought that was the precise opposite of what he needed.
‘And you have to finish the packet,’ she said. ‘If you don’t, it’s pointless, and it makes antibiotics weaker and less likely to work. That means, now you’ve started the course, that you have to finish it, or you’re basically killing future generations with invisible bugs.’
‘Is that so?’ said Stephen, with a twinge of his former sarcasm.
‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘And also, it takes five seconds for infections to take hold in poor-healing wounds, of which you undoubtedly have one. And if you want to be alone, you don’t want an infected wound. Because you will be spending months lying in a bed surrounded by old men telling you their prostate problems and coughing all night every night.’
Rosie listened to the quiet of the house for a second, took in the small piles of books around the room.
‘I just don’t think you would like it.’
Stephen sat still, and Rosie took the plates over and put them in the dishwasher, as he made a half-hearted attempt to tell her not to do that. Then she picked up her bag. Once again, she got the feeling that, although he couldn’t possibly articulate it, he would rather she didn’t go – better a bossy, judgemental presence in his kitchen than no one at all.
Rosie turned towards him, just at the same moment as he turned towards her, and they found themselves in awkward proximity. It had looked like Stephen was about to say something, but instead Rosie took a step back and he stopped himself. So she leaned towards him instead.
‘This … hiding up here,’ she said, softly but clearly. ‘It won’t make it go away, you know. There are ways to make it go away, and I can help you with them, but you’re going to have to reach out to somebody. At some point.’
Even as she said it, she didn’t quite know why; after all, she’d be gone in a few weeks, once she’d sorted out the shop and got someone else to run it. Lilian was looking better already. Gerard needed her … Well, maybe not needed her exactly, but missed her. She missed her home. She needed to go home, not waste time here.
Anyway, it hardly mattered, as Stephen didn’t bother to reply.
Chapter Nine
There is no doubt about it, with the possible exception of rock, which is unpleasant in any case and only truly useful as a sword substitute for small boys, peanut brittle is the worst killer as far as teeth are concerned. Which would be absolutely all right, if it wasn’t such an average slice of confectionery. Its continued existence in a world of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, possibly the only good invention to come out of America since the potato, remains a mystery, perhaps a nostalgic throwback to pre-decimal money. The crunchiness of the toffee is liable to send shards into the gums, or at least make the experience painful, while the peanuts have the ability to root in between the teeth and nest there, attracting bacteria like a coral reef, for weeks on end. Peanut brittle, as well as being slightly unpleasant to eat, is probably responsible for more dental visits than any other sweet, with the possible exception of the unwisely bitten molar-cracking gobstopper. Still, what is life without a little danger?
1943
If there were a worse way, a worst possible way for Lilian to see Henry Carr again, she couldn’t begin to imagine it. It was gruesomely, disgustingly horrible; the connection forever in her mind between the man she loved and the brother she had lost would, whenever she looked back on it, make her burn with shame.
Three days after the telegram, the shop was still shut, the drapes down. The people of Lipton, whether they had a penny to rub together or not, had been by, leaving pies and cabbages on their doorstep; letters and notes of condolence were arriving. Alerting Gordon and Terence junior was a horrible task made worse by an army bureaucracy that, despite having to do the same thing thousands of times a day, still endeavoured to make it as soul-sapping and difficult as possible. Finally, from the private phone box at the post office, she spoke to a kindly woman who promised to link her message through to Tripoli, where Gordon was stationed with a tank unit, but had less luck with Terence, shepherding the merchant fleet on the Atlantic, impossible to contact in any way. After an hour, Lilian stumbled out into the street, shocked, suddenly, to find the town the same as always; the same villagers going about their business, when she had been trying to connect to an entire world; a whole world in torment and disarray. Of course Lipton was affected by the war. They all were. But until now, it had been possible to carry on, to take up the slack left by the men, to husband the land, to feel the sun on your face, to think about the normal, everyday events of living.
Until now. Now everything was rotten and stupid and changed and no one appeared to be paying the least bit of attention. Didn’t they know? Didn’t they know there was a war on and anyone could die and anything could happen, and everything was awful? Suddenly, in the middle of the street, without thinking how it would look, Lilian burst into heart-rending sobs.
Henry was the first to notice. He had seen her in the post office and had hovered, long past his dinner hour, to see her when she came out. Ned and he had been in the same class at school; Ned had always laughed at his jokes and pranks, joined in good-naturedly at sports and been completely even-handed whether he won or lost, sharing his good fortune – his pre-war hearty collection of sweets and chocolate – happily with winners and losers alike. Henry had liked him without knowing him very well; he couldn’t imagine how Lilian, who had already lost a parent, could cope with his loss.
And there she was, sinking to her knees in the middle of the square; passers-by looking uncomfortable at the sight of a young woman displaying emotion so publicly. Although most people knew the family, it was still an awkward situation. After all, everyone had sons at war.
Unthinkingly, and furious, Henry rushed forward, appalled no one was looking after the girl.
‘Darling,’ he said, putting a strong arm around her and leading her away. ‘Darling. Hush.’
Lilian barely knew who had picked her up or where they were going, till she found herself behind the churchyard, where the village shaded into the woods. Henry had thoughtfully kept them well clear of the graveyard, and she found herself on a shady knoll, underneath a huge spreading oak, away from the main street and the post office and kindly but distant women doing their best on the far end of a telegraphic wire, and guns and mortars and sweet boys who got out of trucks at the wrong moment. She threw herself into Henry’s strong arms, and wept and wept and wept.
‘Please don’t do that,’ said Stephen. ‘I need some time to myself.’
Rosie thought that was the precise opposite of what he needed.
‘And you have to finish the packet,’ she said. ‘If you don’t, it’s pointless, and it makes antibiotics weaker and less likely to work. That means, now you’ve started the course, that you have to finish it, or you’re basically killing future generations with invisible bugs.’
‘Is that so?’ said Stephen, with a twinge of his former sarcasm.
‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘And also, it takes five seconds for infections to take hold in poor-healing wounds, of which you undoubtedly have one. And if you want to be alone, you don’t want an infected wound. Because you will be spending months lying in a bed surrounded by old men telling you their prostate problems and coughing all night every night.’
Rosie listened to the quiet of the house for a second, took in the small piles of books around the room.
‘I just don’t think you would like it.’
Stephen sat still, and Rosie took the plates over and put them in the dishwasher, as he made a half-hearted attempt to tell her not to do that. Then she picked up her bag. Once again, she got the feeling that, although he couldn’t possibly articulate it, he would rather she didn’t go – better a bossy, judgemental presence in his kitchen than no one at all.
Rosie turned towards him, just at the same moment as he turned towards her, and they found themselves in awkward proximity. It had looked like Stephen was about to say something, but instead Rosie took a step back and he stopped himself. So she leaned towards him instead.
‘This … hiding up here,’ she said, softly but clearly. ‘It won’t make it go away, you know. There are ways to make it go away, and I can help you with them, but you’re going to have to reach out to somebody. At some point.’
Even as she said it, she didn’t quite know why; after all, she’d be gone in a few weeks, once she’d sorted out the shop and got someone else to run it. Lilian was looking better already. Gerard needed her … Well, maybe not needed her exactly, but missed her. She missed her home. She needed to go home, not waste time here.
Anyway, it hardly mattered, as Stephen didn’t bother to reply.
Chapter Nine
There is no doubt about it, with the possible exception of rock, which is unpleasant in any case and only truly useful as a sword substitute for small boys, peanut brittle is the worst killer as far as teeth are concerned. Which would be absolutely all right, if it wasn’t such an average slice of confectionery. Its continued existence in a world of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, possibly the only good invention to come out of America since the potato, remains a mystery, perhaps a nostalgic throwback to pre-decimal money. The crunchiness of the toffee is liable to send shards into the gums, or at least make the experience painful, while the peanuts have the ability to root in between the teeth and nest there, attracting bacteria like a coral reef, for weeks on end. Peanut brittle, as well as being slightly unpleasant to eat, is probably responsible for more dental visits than any other sweet, with the possible exception of the unwisely bitten molar-cracking gobstopper. Still, what is life without a little danger?
1943
If there were a worse way, a worst possible way for Lilian to see Henry Carr again, she couldn’t begin to imagine it. It was gruesomely, disgustingly horrible; the connection forever in her mind between the man she loved and the brother she had lost would, whenever she looked back on it, make her burn with shame.
Three days after the telegram, the shop was still shut, the drapes down. The people of Lipton, whether they had a penny to rub together or not, had been by, leaving pies and cabbages on their doorstep; letters and notes of condolence were arriving. Alerting Gordon and Terence junior was a horrible task made worse by an army bureaucracy that, despite having to do the same thing thousands of times a day, still endeavoured to make it as soul-sapping and difficult as possible. Finally, from the private phone box at the post office, she spoke to a kindly woman who promised to link her message through to Tripoli, where Gordon was stationed with a tank unit, but had less luck with Terence, shepherding the merchant fleet on the Atlantic, impossible to contact in any way. After an hour, Lilian stumbled out into the street, shocked, suddenly, to find the town the same as always; the same villagers going about their business, when she had been trying to connect to an entire world; a whole world in torment and disarray. Of course Lipton was affected by the war. They all were. But until now, it had been possible to carry on, to take up the slack left by the men, to husband the land, to feel the sun on your face, to think about the normal, everyday events of living.
Until now. Now everything was rotten and stupid and changed and no one appeared to be paying the least bit of attention. Didn’t they know? Didn’t they know there was a war on and anyone could die and anything could happen, and everything was awful? Suddenly, in the middle of the street, without thinking how it would look, Lilian burst into heart-rending sobs.
Henry was the first to notice. He had seen her in the post office and had hovered, long past his dinner hour, to see her when she came out. Ned and he had been in the same class at school; Ned had always laughed at his jokes and pranks, joined in good-naturedly at sports and been completely even-handed whether he won or lost, sharing his good fortune – his pre-war hearty collection of sweets and chocolate – happily with winners and losers alike. Henry had liked him without knowing him very well; he couldn’t imagine how Lilian, who had already lost a parent, could cope with his loss.
And there she was, sinking to her knees in the middle of the square; passers-by looking uncomfortable at the sight of a young woman displaying emotion so publicly. Although most people knew the family, it was still an awkward situation. After all, everyone had sons at war.
Unthinkingly, and furious, Henry rushed forward, appalled no one was looking after the girl.
‘Darling,’ he said, putting a strong arm around her and leading her away. ‘Darling. Hush.’
Lilian barely knew who had picked her up or where they were going, till she found herself behind the churchyard, where the village shaded into the woods. Henry had thoughtfully kept them well clear of the graveyard, and she found herself on a shady knoll, underneath a huge spreading oak, away from the main street and the post office and kindly but distant women doing their best on the far end of a telegraphic wire, and guns and mortars and sweet boys who got out of trucks at the wrong moment. She threw herself into Henry’s strong arms, and wept and wept and wept.
