Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 52
She weighed and twisted until she got the hang of it, and gave change for small bags and big bags. One huge box of heart-shaped chocolates was borne away by a newly married young man to his bride, seeing as, he admitted somewhat shamefacedly to Rosie, they had had to spend their honeymoon on the harvest even though she’d wanted to go to Malaga. This charming gesture (she couldn’t remember anyone ever bringing her a box of chocolates, though Gerard brought home pizza from time to time, when he was feeling really romantic) immediately made her knock five pounds off the price.
To be honest, she hadn’t really expected to sell much. But here they were, inundated. Novelty factor. It must be the novelty factor. Everyone would pop in for a couple of days, then it would go back to normal. Which meant, Rosie thought, measuring out a small bag of Parma violets, which immediately filled the shop with their sharp, slightly astringent odour and made two small children ask for the same thing, that she should probably get it on the market as soon as possible. That would be the right thing to do.
Rosie bent down and offered a small purple sweet to each of the children. They looked up at her, wide-eyed, then glanced at the woman standing by the door, who nodded indulgently.
‘I like your shop,’ said the little boy.
‘I’m glad,’ said Rosie.
‘Wass your name?’
‘I’m Rosie,’ said Rosie, smiling.
‘Heyo Miss Rosie. Mah name is Kent.’
‘Hello, Kent,’ said Rosie. ‘And what about you?’
But the little girl, obviously Kent’s sister, was struck dumb with awe and stared at Rosie with her eyes and mouth wide open.
‘She’s very shy,’ said the woman in the doorway. She was slender, young and, incongruously in Lipton apart from Lilian, beautifully dressed, in yummy mummy style, in a soft pink cashmere pullover and expensive-looking draped trousers. ‘But I think she likes your shop. This is Emily.’
‘That’s great,’ said Rosie.
‘I like it too,’ said the woman, peering in. ‘You’ve done a lovely job. It looks just like a proper old-fashioned place.’
‘Oh well, it is,’ said Rosie. ‘This is all genuine. I didn’t change a thing, just polished it up a bit.’
The woman smiled. ‘Well, I like it. I hope it does really well. I’m Tina, by the way. Tina Ferrers.’
‘Hi,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m Rosie Hopkins.’
The woman had very neat white teeth, Rosie noticed. ‘Oh, I know who you are,’ she said. ‘The whole town knows who you are.’
‘Hmm,’ said Rosie. ‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Oh, they all know me too,’ said Tina, rolling her eyes. ‘It’s the country. It’s just how it is. Come on, Kent, come on, Emily. We should have coffee some time and you can tell me about this place,’ she said to Rosie as they dinged their way out of the shop, and Rosie tried to pretend she wasn’t pleased that someone was being friendly without her having to save a dog first. And Tina seemed interested in the shop. That could be useful.
The entire morning passed busily, although at one point Rosie was a bit shocked to look up and see Mrs Isitt peering at her through the tiny panes of glass. She did not come in. Rosie made a mental note to herself to deliver a portion of coconut ice to Mr Isitt as soon as was humanly possible.
1943
There was no denying that it helped, none at all. Gordon had a week’s leave from the North African front and had fought his way home over seventy-two hours, hitching rides on supply boats and trucks and, finally, had pootled over the hills from Derby in a slow-moving green single-decker bus, his kitbag on his knee, in time for Saturday lunch. Lilian could see it in her father’s eyes; the first spark that had been there for a long time. She reflected, briefly, on the fact that she hadn’t been the one to put it there.
The two men did not hug – they didn’t do that in their family – but her da held Gordon’s hand for a long time, and clasped his shoulder, with water in his eyes. Gordon seemed older, more grown-up, but he still had a look of mischief about him, although he was crumpled and weary. The men sat in near-silence at the table as Lilian served up two weeks’ meat ration of chops; but she could tell that, although they merely muttered and made remarks about army food, both of them were happier than they had felt in a long time. And so, inside, was she. Every time she thought about Henry, her insides lit up with a nervous, excited kind of joy; her guts twisted up in disbelief. She had planned to steal away that night to meet up with him, but now Gordon was back maybe … just maybe it might be time to bring him home.
‘So what’s the talk of the town tonight, sister of mine?’ asked Gordon. ‘You know, I visited that Piccadilly Circus in London.’
Lilian bit her lip. She would love to see it. Maybe one day she and Henry … but that was such an impossible dream she brushed it off immediately, and pressed Gordon on the lights. He was far keener on telling them about how one of the privates had had his trousers and his money nicked by a vagabond in London; and about Tangiers, the shimmering hot city of sand and bazaars and little children who ran after you shouting, ‘Charlee Chaplin! Charlee Chaplin!’ It was so many worlds away. Gordon told them funny stories about his commanding officers, and how clueless they were, and how their equipment broke down, but when Da asked him about any skirmishes he went quiet for a while. Lilian thought about Ned and turned away. But Gordon couldn’t keep his natural ebullience down for long. After a pause he looked up and remarked, ‘Da, I was scared out of my bally wits.’
Lilian’s dad let out a huge guffaw, the first Lilian had heard from him in months.
‘Ha,’ he said. ‘Ha. Yes. Exactly. It’s exactly like that. Ha.’ And he laughed so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye, and resettle himself in the old wooden chair. ‘You are,’ he said, ‘you are a tonic, son. It’s good to see you.’
Lilian had never heard anything so effusive from her dad before.
‘Come on,’ said Gordon, after he’d had a bath and a nap. ‘If there’s nothing doing down the church hall, we might as well go to the Red Lion. I’ll take you to the lounge bar.’
Lilian snuck a glance at her father, who just waved his hand. ‘Aye, on you go, young ’uns,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in the morn. Behave yourselves.’
To be honest, she hadn’t really expected to sell much. But here they were, inundated. Novelty factor. It must be the novelty factor. Everyone would pop in for a couple of days, then it would go back to normal. Which meant, Rosie thought, measuring out a small bag of Parma violets, which immediately filled the shop with their sharp, slightly astringent odour and made two small children ask for the same thing, that she should probably get it on the market as soon as possible. That would be the right thing to do.
Rosie bent down and offered a small purple sweet to each of the children. They looked up at her, wide-eyed, then glanced at the woman standing by the door, who nodded indulgently.
‘I like your shop,’ said the little boy.
‘I’m glad,’ said Rosie.
‘Wass your name?’
‘I’m Rosie,’ said Rosie, smiling.
‘Heyo Miss Rosie. Mah name is Kent.’
‘Hello, Kent,’ said Rosie. ‘And what about you?’
But the little girl, obviously Kent’s sister, was struck dumb with awe and stared at Rosie with her eyes and mouth wide open.
‘She’s very shy,’ said the woman in the doorway. She was slender, young and, incongruously in Lipton apart from Lilian, beautifully dressed, in yummy mummy style, in a soft pink cashmere pullover and expensive-looking draped trousers. ‘But I think she likes your shop. This is Emily.’
‘That’s great,’ said Rosie.
‘I like it too,’ said the woman, peering in. ‘You’ve done a lovely job. It looks just like a proper old-fashioned place.’
‘Oh well, it is,’ said Rosie. ‘This is all genuine. I didn’t change a thing, just polished it up a bit.’
The woman smiled. ‘Well, I like it. I hope it does really well. I’m Tina, by the way. Tina Ferrers.’
‘Hi,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m Rosie Hopkins.’
The woman had very neat white teeth, Rosie noticed. ‘Oh, I know who you are,’ she said. ‘The whole town knows who you are.’
‘Hmm,’ said Rosie. ‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Oh, they all know me too,’ said Tina, rolling her eyes. ‘It’s the country. It’s just how it is. Come on, Kent, come on, Emily. We should have coffee some time and you can tell me about this place,’ she said to Rosie as they dinged their way out of the shop, and Rosie tried to pretend she wasn’t pleased that someone was being friendly without her having to save a dog first. And Tina seemed interested in the shop. That could be useful.
The entire morning passed busily, although at one point Rosie was a bit shocked to look up and see Mrs Isitt peering at her through the tiny panes of glass. She did not come in. Rosie made a mental note to herself to deliver a portion of coconut ice to Mr Isitt as soon as was humanly possible.
1943
There was no denying that it helped, none at all. Gordon had a week’s leave from the North African front and had fought his way home over seventy-two hours, hitching rides on supply boats and trucks and, finally, had pootled over the hills from Derby in a slow-moving green single-decker bus, his kitbag on his knee, in time for Saturday lunch. Lilian could see it in her father’s eyes; the first spark that had been there for a long time. She reflected, briefly, on the fact that she hadn’t been the one to put it there.
The two men did not hug – they didn’t do that in their family – but her da held Gordon’s hand for a long time, and clasped his shoulder, with water in his eyes. Gordon seemed older, more grown-up, but he still had a look of mischief about him, although he was crumpled and weary. The men sat in near-silence at the table as Lilian served up two weeks’ meat ration of chops; but she could tell that, although they merely muttered and made remarks about army food, both of them were happier than they had felt in a long time. And so, inside, was she. Every time she thought about Henry, her insides lit up with a nervous, excited kind of joy; her guts twisted up in disbelief. She had planned to steal away that night to meet up with him, but now Gordon was back maybe … just maybe it might be time to bring him home.
‘So what’s the talk of the town tonight, sister of mine?’ asked Gordon. ‘You know, I visited that Piccadilly Circus in London.’
Lilian bit her lip. She would love to see it. Maybe one day she and Henry … but that was such an impossible dream she brushed it off immediately, and pressed Gordon on the lights. He was far keener on telling them about how one of the privates had had his trousers and his money nicked by a vagabond in London; and about Tangiers, the shimmering hot city of sand and bazaars and little children who ran after you shouting, ‘Charlee Chaplin! Charlee Chaplin!’ It was so many worlds away. Gordon told them funny stories about his commanding officers, and how clueless they were, and how their equipment broke down, but when Da asked him about any skirmishes he went quiet for a while. Lilian thought about Ned and turned away. But Gordon couldn’t keep his natural ebullience down for long. After a pause he looked up and remarked, ‘Da, I was scared out of my bally wits.’
Lilian’s dad let out a huge guffaw, the first Lilian had heard from him in months.
‘Ha,’ he said. ‘Ha. Yes. Exactly. It’s exactly like that. Ha.’ And he laughed so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye, and resettle himself in the old wooden chair. ‘You are,’ he said, ‘you are a tonic, son. It’s good to see you.’
Lilian had never heard anything so effusive from her dad before.
‘Come on,’ said Gordon, after he’d had a bath and a nap. ‘If there’s nothing doing down the church hall, we might as well go to the Red Lion. I’ll take you to the lounge bar.’
Lilian snuck a glance at her father, who just waved his hand. ‘Aye, on you go, young ’uns,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in the morn. Behave yourselves.’
