Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 69
She felt, suddenly, as if she was waiting for the off. It was like being at the top of a rollercoaster, the second before it plummeted.
‘When do you want to collect your stuff?’ he asked.
Rosie bit her lip. Of course. All of that.
‘We’ll need to figure it out,’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ said Gerard. ‘Because you haven’t only fucked up my personal life, you’re going to fuck up where I live as well.’
Rosie swallowed hard. She couldn’t deny it. She had thrown a big bomb into his life. For Gerard, who hated even walking a hundred metres to the tube station and consequently drove everywhere, it was horrible to think about having to do lots of work.
‘I … I haven’t quite thought about it,’ she said. ‘I might … I can maybe buy you out, or you could buy me out, own the whole thing outright.’
She crossed her fingers at the awful lie. Skint and unemployed … surely she’d think of something?
‘Oh great,’ said Gerard. ‘You leave me and charge me thousands of fucking pounds for the privilege.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t even want to think about that now.’ He grunted. ‘If I leave now I can get back to Mum’s before the Arsenal friendly. I wouldn’t want to hang around this shithole anyway.’
Rosie smiled apologetically.
Gerard shook his head. ‘Well,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rosie. It sounded so pathetic and weak.
Gerard started getting his stuff together – despite being in the room less than twelve hours, he’d already contrived to make an almighty mess – and she sat on the bed and watched him. Rosie suddenly felt panicked. Eight years couldn’t just vanish like this, could it? Not just get thrown away so fast? They couldn’t have finished talking, could they? Desperately, she searched for something to say.
‘Can I ask one thing?’ said Rosie. ‘Just so as I know?’
Gerard shrugged. Rosie took a deep breath.
‘Were you ever going to pop the question? Did you ever see us together for ever?’
He shrugged again. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I’d never really thought about it.’
‘Really?’ said Rosie, wondering if this was bravado. ‘What, all those weddings we went to and you never once thought about it?’
‘I liked things as they were,’ said Gerard. ‘I didn’t have a problem with it. I thought you were cool too.’
‘So did I,’ said Rosie, shaking her head. It had never even crossed his mind. ‘So did I.’
They gazed at each other in mutual incomprehension.
They even managed an awkward, difficult embrace as he left; a little, social kind of kiss that Gerard tried to turn into something else.
‘I can’t believe I didn’t even get a farewell shag,’ he said, which Rosie thought was encouraging. That was the thing about Gerard: his irrepressible cheerfulness. She didn’t think he’d be down for too long. But for now, prodding her heart carefully to feel the truth of the matter, it was undeniable, as she heard him gently closing the bedroom door, then the front door, which squeaked, and heard the thrum of his beloved Alfa Romeo start up, however much she might regret it later, even if Gerard was her very, very last chance, she could still feel it.
Relief.
‘That was an awful lot of door-banging,’ observed Lilian at breakfast, pained to see how pale and stressed Rosie looked. She had that slightly drained skin she’d had when she arrived, which a few weeks of outdoor living, early nights and good food had put paid to. She tried to remind herself that this was the evil family stranger who was here to take all her money and dump her in a home, but she couldn’t help being concerned for the girl.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Rosie, dourly frying up eggs. The smell made her feel slightly sick, even though they had been waiting on the doorstep and the vicar’s hens had laid them just a few hours before.
Lilian raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, better get ready for a busy day then,’ she said.
1944
You couldn’t ever really dislike a child, Lilian knew. It wasn’t right or fair. But still it did seem incredible that any offspring of two such attractive specimens as Henry Carr and Ida Delia Fontayne could be so badly favoured. Dorothy’d had a difficult birth, Lilian had heard, with Henry advancing with the Allies through Italy, and Ida Delia in labour for three days yelling like a stuck pig. People told her this as if she’d be pleased – everyone knew everything, of course – but Lilian took no pleasure in it. Dorothy had been undersized and bright red, slightly boiled-looking. She always appeared irritated when pushed about in the smart perambulator that had been sent for, uncomfortably trussed up in several layers of bright yellow wool that gave her a jaundiced look, festooned with bows and frills and with two tiny feet desperately trying to kick their way out, and a howl or a scowl on her little features.
One day, Lilian had been cycling down to the drapers when she’d spied them, Ida Delia having trouble getting the enormous perambulator up off the cobbles. Lilian had searched within herself and made a decision. She’d dropped the bike, which made a hell of a clatter and instantly started the baby screaming, and run over to help.
Ida Delia, looking older than her nineteen years, her yellow hair unbrushed and tied back with a rag, lurched the perambulator away from her.
‘I don’t want your help, thank you,’ she said.
‘Ida …’ started Lilian.
‘I don’t speak to people who try and steal other people’s lads,’ said Ida. ‘He’s mine now. You stay away. I know you wanted his brat. Well, I got her.’ She made an ugly sniffing noise, halfway between a laugh and a snort. ‘So. You can keep away from our family, thank you.’
‘But I … I … Well, I just wanted to say congratulations,’ said Lilian, as humbly as she could.
‘Well, any time you want to come round and boil some cloths, just say the word,’ said Ida Delia bitterly. The baby’s cries grew louder.
‘Can I …’
‘You’ll just encourage her,’ said Ida, and finally managed to get the pram mounted on the pavement. The two women looked at each other. ‘Just stay away,’ said Ida, her tone full of menace. Lilian couldn’t know it, but the sight of the trim, youthful, energetic Lilian cycling freely down the street had filled Ida – whose letters from Henry were so infrequent and so stiff, and he never passed a forty-eight-hour leave without managing, somehow, to bring the conversation round to the Hopkins family – had filled her with absolute terror.
‘When do you want to collect your stuff?’ he asked.
Rosie bit her lip. Of course. All of that.
‘We’ll need to figure it out,’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ said Gerard. ‘Because you haven’t only fucked up my personal life, you’re going to fuck up where I live as well.’
Rosie swallowed hard. She couldn’t deny it. She had thrown a big bomb into his life. For Gerard, who hated even walking a hundred metres to the tube station and consequently drove everywhere, it was horrible to think about having to do lots of work.
‘I … I haven’t quite thought about it,’ she said. ‘I might … I can maybe buy you out, or you could buy me out, own the whole thing outright.’
She crossed her fingers at the awful lie. Skint and unemployed … surely she’d think of something?
‘Oh great,’ said Gerard. ‘You leave me and charge me thousands of fucking pounds for the privilege.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t even want to think about that now.’ He grunted. ‘If I leave now I can get back to Mum’s before the Arsenal friendly. I wouldn’t want to hang around this shithole anyway.’
Rosie smiled apologetically.
Gerard shook his head. ‘Well,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rosie. It sounded so pathetic and weak.
Gerard started getting his stuff together – despite being in the room less than twelve hours, he’d already contrived to make an almighty mess – and she sat on the bed and watched him. Rosie suddenly felt panicked. Eight years couldn’t just vanish like this, could it? Not just get thrown away so fast? They couldn’t have finished talking, could they? Desperately, she searched for something to say.
‘Can I ask one thing?’ said Rosie. ‘Just so as I know?’
Gerard shrugged. Rosie took a deep breath.
‘Were you ever going to pop the question? Did you ever see us together for ever?’
He shrugged again. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I’d never really thought about it.’
‘Really?’ said Rosie, wondering if this was bravado. ‘What, all those weddings we went to and you never once thought about it?’
‘I liked things as they were,’ said Gerard. ‘I didn’t have a problem with it. I thought you were cool too.’
‘So did I,’ said Rosie, shaking her head. It had never even crossed his mind. ‘So did I.’
They gazed at each other in mutual incomprehension.
They even managed an awkward, difficult embrace as he left; a little, social kind of kiss that Gerard tried to turn into something else.
‘I can’t believe I didn’t even get a farewell shag,’ he said, which Rosie thought was encouraging. That was the thing about Gerard: his irrepressible cheerfulness. She didn’t think he’d be down for too long. But for now, prodding her heart carefully to feel the truth of the matter, it was undeniable, as she heard him gently closing the bedroom door, then the front door, which squeaked, and heard the thrum of his beloved Alfa Romeo start up, however much she might regret it later, even if Gerard was her very, very last chance, she could still feel it.
Relief.
‘That was an awful lot of door-banging,’ observed Lilian at breakfast, pained to see how pale and stressed Rosie looked. She had that slightly drained skin she’d had when she arrived, which a few weeks of outdoor living, early nights and good food had put paid to. She tried to remind herself that this was the evil family stranger who was here to take all her money and dump her in a home, but she couldn’t help being concerned for the girl.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Rosie, dourly frying up eggs. The smell made her feel slightly sick, even though they had been waiting on the doorstep and the vicar’s hens had laid them just a few hours before.
Lilian raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, better get ready for a busy day then,’ she said.
1944
You couldn’t ever really dislike a child, Lilian knew. It wasn’t right or fair. But still it did seem incredible that any offspring of two such attractive specimens as Henry Carr and Ida Delia Fontayne could be so badly favoured. Dorothy’d had a difficult birth, Lilian had heard, with Henry advancing with the Allies through Italy, and Ida Delia in labour for three days yelling like a stuck pig. People told her this as if she’d be pleased – everyone knew everything, of course – but Lilian took no pleasure in it. Dorothy had been undersized and bright red, slightly boiled-looking. She always appeared irritated when pushed about in the smart perambulator that had been sent for, uncomfortably trussed up in several layers of bright yellow wool that gave her a jaundiced look, festooned with bows and frills and with two tiny feet desperately trying to kick their way out, and a howl or a scowl on her little features.
One day, Lilian had been cycling down to the drapers when she’d spied them, Ida Delia having trouble getting the enormous perambulator up off the cobbles. Lilian had searched within herself and made a decision. She’d dropped the bike, which made a hell of a clatter and instantly started the baby screaming, and run over to help.
Ida Delia, looking older than her nineteen years, her yellow hair unbrushed and tied back with a rag, lurched the perambulator away from her.
‘I don’t want your help, thank you,’ she said.
‘Ida …’ started Lilian.
‘I don’t speak to people who try and steal other people’s lads,’ said Ida. ‘He’s mine now. You stay away. I know you wanted his brat. Well, I got her.’ She made an ugly sniffing noise, halfway between a laugh and a snort. ‘So. You can keep away from our family, thank you.’
‘But I … I … Well, I just wanted to say congratulations,’ said Lilian, as humbly as she could.
‘Well, any time you want to come round and boil some cloths, just say the word,’ said Ida Delia bitterly. The baby’s cries grew louder.
‘Can I …’
‘You’ll just encourage her,’ said Ida, and finally managed to get the pram mounted on the pavement. The two women looked at each other. ‘Just stay away,’ said Ida, her tone full of menace. Lilian couldn’t know it, but the sight of the trim, youthful, energetic Lilian cycling freely down the street had filled Ida – whose letters from Henry were so infrequent and so stiff, and he never passed a forty-eight-hour leave without managing, somehow, to bring the conversation round to the Hopkins family – had filled her with absolute terror.
