Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 44
She was deranged by grief, and threw herself on Lilian as a fellow passenger on this ghost train, this awful ride into oblivion, where everyone else was on another track, but you were shunted off into a siding that went nowhere. Lilian couldn’t bear that either.
Henry, though, did nothing, and it was everything. He didn’t say anything, didn’t mention Ned, didn’t engage her in conversation. He just came away as often as he could from the farm, at lunch or in the evening, and let her lie there, her head on his shoulder or sometimes by his knees like a child, and weep till it was out. Then she could go home, and make supper, and try to get her father to eat, and answer questions from the ministry and fill in papers and orders and sometimes – not often, but sometimes – get some sleep.
One morning, just before the dawn, she lay there trying not to think about Ned, sleepless, her eyes gritty, her head feeling like it was on an endless loop; the same thoughts, the same fears going round and round again, until she couldn’t think straight; such a mess of exhaustion and fear and horror and gloom she wanted to black herself out completely; felt like hitting her head against the narrow iron bedstead, just to get it to stop for five minutes. As she turned under her hot bedspread once more, she heard the rattle of a little stone against her window.
At first she got a shock of terror; she had been thinking so strongly about her brother that she thought it was he, summoning her. But as she jumped up, heart pounding, and went towards the front dormer, she saw in the early light a figure wearing brown canvas trousers held up with braces, one of which, she noticed, was missing a button; a collarless shirt which was open at the neck and had been washed so often the thin stripe had faded to almost nothing. His throwing hand held the back of his sunburned neck, the other supporting his bike. Nothing else stirred in the village, except far away over the hills, where a kite circled lazily.
He looked up at her with that heart-meltingly shy smile, and put his finger to his lips to shush her, then beckoned her down.
She dressed in an instant, throwing water from the ewer over her face and rinsing out her mouth, then put on her plain, old-fashioned day dress. She’d lost all interest in clothes anyway, though she noticed even this plain old gingham was getting too big for her. She tried pulling a comb through her hair, but without much luck, then crept downstairs through the silent house.
Henry refused to accept her demurral, insisting, all the time in silence, that she get on the bike seat. Worried that someone would see her creeping out of the house, Lilian couldn’t do much else but spring on.
He pedalled off powerfully in the direction of his farm. The early morning mists of the dew ascending turned the village and the fields beyond into something out of a dream, as if they were moving through the clouds. As Henry picked up speed, Lilian began to feel a tiny change; a slight lifting; a sense that there was something within her that wasn’t just bleak and gone and empty. They went effortlessly uphill, then there was a long stretch down into the valley where the Carrs farmed and where they kept their sheep.
As the bike picked up speed downhill Lilian exhaled and felt the tension leave her; the resilience of youth bouncing back in her, if only for a moment. Sitting behind Henry, watching his strong back, his hair whipping back from his head, hanging on round his waist as they bounced through the damp grass, the first stabs of light through the hills promising another hot English day and a cloudless sky. Momentarily she closed her eyes.
‘All right now,’ said Henry, as they clattered to a halt. He was pink in the face from the exertion. ‘Here. I have to pen them this morning, they need marking. But I have a problem.’
Lilian looked at him, uncomprehending.
Henry whistled, and Parr, his dog, shot out of one of the distant outbuildings like a black and white flash, arriving seconds later with his characteristic panting grin. He nestled his head under Lilian’s hand, and she gave him a good scratch. Henry frowned. He didn’t approve of petting working dogs. Lilian knew that of course, but did it anyway. Parr was a lovely dog by anybody’s standards.
‘Come by, Parr,’ said Henry. With another two short whistles, Parr bounded off to do his duty, Henry about to follow him.
‘Why do you need me?’ asked Lilian, timidly.
Henry took a bottle of milk from his pocket. It was frothy and warm; the cows had been turned out already.
‘We’ve got one … She was very late,’ he said. ‘Her mother got caught on the wire. Bloody stupid buggers, sheep. Tore her own bloody throat open. And the little one … she’s not adapting well. Needs a bit o’ help.’
Sure enough, Lilian could see, just up the hill, that as the sheep trotted along in unison to Parr’s practised manouevres, there was one lamb, small for the time of year, trailing behind, its nose practically on the ground.
Lilian nodded. ‘All right.’
‘It will take all day to round them up otherwise,’ said Henry.
But he didn’t need to explain himself. Lilian understood, as she picked up the little lamb – it was easy enough to catch, trailing along, bleating piteously; underweight. She knew why Henry had thought of her when he saw it. She sat on a rock in the corner of the field and waggled the teat of the bottle under the lamb’s nose. At first it struggled and wriggled, anxious and frightened. Then it caught the scent of the milk, and sniffed, nervously. Its little body felt heavy and warm in Lilian’s arms, its white fleece still soft and pure. Finally, the lamb figured out what to do, and she felt its entire body relax as it grabbed hold of the teat and started sucking vigorously, and Lilian held it close as the sun came up, and the lamb drank the bottle, and Henry and Parr got on with their day’s work up the valley, and she felt, if not happy, then a tiny modicum of peace.
Rosie was whistling. She couldn’t help it. She’d woken up bright and early, and it was a glorious day. But more than that, yesterday she’d had her first delivery for the shop. And today she was unpacking it all. The smell, even through the cardboard boxes and packaging, was light and rosy, with tinges of mint and lavender; fruit and sweet caramel escaping through the shop. With the freshly cleaned windows, the sun shone straight in on the new, brightly polished jars, washing which had taken her all morning, two breakages and an entire bottle of washing-up liquid. And some swearing. But now they were perfect, clean, sparkling and new, and ready to be filled with humbugs and jujubes and cola cubes – black and red, Rosie had found herself adamant on this point, even though the red ones were very difficult to track down and had eventually been sourced from a small warehouse in Aberdeen. There were long red liquorice laces, to be pulled out two at a time, and striped candy canes, even though they were a bit Christmassy. Rosie felt strongly that you couldn’t call yourself a sweetshop if you didn’t have striped candy canes.
Henry, though, did nothing, and it was everything. He didn’t say anything, didn’t mention Ned, didn’t engage her in conversation. He just came away as often as he could from the farm, at lunch or in the evening, and let her lie there, her head on his shoulder or sometimes by his knees like a child, and weep till it was out. Then she could go home, and make supper, and try to get her father to eat, and answer questions from the ministry and fill in papers and orders and sometimes – not often, but sometimes – get some sleep.
One morning, just before the dawn, she lay there trying not to think about Ned, sleepless, her eyes gritty, her head feeling like it was on an endless loop; the same thoughts, the same fears going round and round again, until she couldn’t think straight; such a mess of exhaustion and fear and horror and gloom she wanted to black herself out completely; felt like hitting her head against the narrow iron bedstead, just to get it to stop for five minutes. As she turned under her hot bedspread once more, she heard the rattle of a little stone against her window.
At first she got a shock of terror; she had been thinking so strongly about her brother that she thought it was he, summoning her. But as she jumped up, heart pounding, and went towards the front dormer, she saw in the early light a figure wearing brown canvas trousers held up with braces, one of which, she noticed, was missing a button; a collarless shirt which was open at the neck and had been washed so often the thin stripe had faded to almost nothing. His throwing hand held the back of his sunburned neck, the other supporting his bike. Nothing else stirred in the village, except far away over the hills, where a kite circled lazily.
He looked up at her with that heart-meltingly shy smile, and put his finger to his lips to shush her, then beckoned her down.
She dressed in an instant, throwing water from the ewer over her face and rinsing out her mouth, then put on her plain, old-fashioned day dress. She’d lost all interest in clothes anyway, though she noticed even this plain old gingham was getting too big for her. She tried pulling a comb through her hair, but without much luck, then crept downstairs through the silent house.
Henry refused to accept her demurral, insisting, all the time in silence, that she get on the bike seat. Worried that someone would see her creeping out of the house, Lilian couldn’t do much else but spring on.
He pedalled off powerfully in the direction of his farm. The early morning mists of the dew ascending turned the village and the fields beyond into something out of a dream, as if they were moving through the clouds. As Henry picked up speed, Lilian began to feel a tiny change; a slight lifting; a sense that there was something within her that wasn’t just bleak and gone and empty. They went effortlessly uphill, then there was a long stretch down into the valley where the Carrs farmed and where they kept their sheep.
As the bike picked up speed downhill Lilian exhaled and felt the tension leave her; the resilience of youth bouncing back in her, if only for a moment. Sitting behind Henry, watching his strong back, his hair whipping back from his head, hanging on round his waist as they bounced through the damp grass, the first stabs of light through the hills promising another hot English day and a cloudless sky. Momentarily she closed her eyes.
‘All right now,’ said Henry, as they clattered to a halt. He was pink in the face from the exertion. ‘Here. I have to pen them this morning, they need marking. But I have a problem.’
Lilian looked at him, uncomprehending.
Henry whistled, and Parr, his dog, shot out of one of the distant outbuildings like a black and white flash, arriving seconds later with his characteristic panting grin. He nestled his head under Lilian’s hand, and she gave him a good scratch. Henry frowned. He didn’t approve of petting working dogs. Lilian knew that of course, but did it anyway. Parr was a lovely dog by anybody’s standards.
‘Come by, Parr,’ said Henry. With another two short whistles, Parr bounded off to do his duty, Henry about to follow him.
‘Why do you need me?’ asked Lilian, timidly.
Henry took a bottle of milk from his pocket. It was frothy and warm; the cows had been turned out already.
‘We’ve got one … She was very late,’ he said. ‘Her mother got caught on the wire. Bloody stupid buggers, sheep. Tore her own bloody throat open. And the little one … she’s not adapting well. Needs a bit o’ help.’
Sure enough, Lilian could see, just up the hill, that as the sheep trotted along in unison to Parr’s practised manouevres, there was one lamb, small for the time of year, trailing behind, its nose practically on the ground.
Lilian nodded. ‘All right.’
‘It will take all day to round them up otherwise,’ said Henry.
But he didn’t need to explain himself. Lilian understood, as she picked up the little lamb – it was easy enough to catch, trailing along, bleating piteously; underweight. She knew why Henry had thought of her when he saw it. She sat on a rock in the corner of the field and waggled the teat of the bottle under the lamb’s nose. At first it struggled and wriggled, anxious and frightened. Then it caught the scent of the milk, and sniffed, nervously. Its little body felt heavy and warm in Lilian’s arms, its white fleece still soft and pure. Finally, the lamb figured out what to do, and she felt its entire body relax as it grabbed hold of the teat and started sucking vigorously, and Lilian held it close as the sun came up, and the lamb drank the bottle, and Henry and Parr got on with their day’s work up the valley, and she felt, if not happy, then a tiny modicum of peace.
Rosie was whistling. She couldn’t help it. She’d woken up bright and early, and it was a glorious day. But more than that, yesterday she’d had her first delivery for the shop. And today she was unpacking it all. The smell, even through the cardboard boxes and packaging, was light and rosy, with tinges of mint and lavender; fruit and sweet caramel escaping through the shop. With the freshly cleaned windows, the sun shone straight in on the new, brightly polished jars, washing which had taken her all morning, two breakages and an entire bottle of washing-up liquid. And some swearing. But now they were perfect, clean, sparkling and new, and ready to be filled with humbugs and jujubes and cola cubes – black and red, Rosie had found herself adamant on this point, even though the red ones were very difficult to track down and had eventually been sourced from a small warehouse in Aberdeen. There were long red liquorice laces, to be pulled out two at a time, and striped candy canes, even though they were a bit Christmassy. Rosie felt strongly that you couldn’t call yourself a sweetshop if you didn’t have striped candy canes.
