Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 75
There were wooden walkways, thankfully, round the perimeter of the field, and Rosie stuck to those, as carefully as she could, looking for the tombola stand. Plenty of people nodded at her as she passed and she smiled back politely and tried to say hello to everyone, while clopping along like a particularly ridiculous mare. She peered into tents – there was one full of different types of jam, and some very serious-looking people sniffing and tasting them; one with huge, ridiculous vegetables that looked like they were on steroids; a baking tent, where she would have liked to spend a little bit more time, till she overheard the PA bellow that the tombola draw was about to take place in Tent A. Tent A was, of course, all the way back round the field again, but Rosie decided not to risk cutting through the parade of lambs in her silly shoes, and walked the entire circumference, feeling flustered in the process. When she passed Mrs Isitt, the woman simply looked at her feet and made a loud harrumphing noise, as if you couldn’t expect anything else from a townie like her. Fortunately, just after her came Mr Isitt, walking so much better he was like a different person. As Mrs Isitt stalked into the jam section (Rosie pitied anyone who dared to enter against her), Peter drew her to one side. ‘My tomatoes,’ he said. ‘Best ever.’
Rosie grinned, finding it miraculous that something she had planted – well, mostly Jake, but she had been involved too – had actually grown.
‘That’s brilliant!’ she said.
‘It’s because of unseasnly high temechurs,’ came a voice from her side. ‘Mr Isitt, do you know about the terrible threat of globa warmin?’
‘We must dash,’ said Rosie, smiling. ‘But you are looking so much better.’
‘Reckon,’ said Peter.
‘Mr Isitt!’ came a voice from inside the tent. ‘Mr Isitt, get in here!’
‘Back to normal,’ said Peter Isitt.
‘Yes,’ said Rosie, looking after him as he followed the summons inside the marquee.
Finally, they made it to the right tent, and she crashed in, holding up the enormous box of chocolates, just as the tub was beginning to spin.
‘Here it is!’ she yelled. ‘Don’t start without us!’
The entire room turned to look at her. Of course, standing up on the stage, wearing her magnificently large coat and with a rather haughty expression on her face – slightly more haughty, Rosie found herself thinking, than you might expect in someone drawing a ticket out of a spinning box in a draughty tent in a hill village – was Hetty. Lady Lipton herself.
Rosie immediately glanced around for Stephen. Hetty saw her do it, and smirked. Chrissie, Anton’s wife, immediately approached her and took the large red-velvet box off her with sincere thanks, as Hetty drew the first ticket out of the box and announced to a red-faced farmer that he had won – he looked absolutely delighted – a free fifteen-minute dental check-up at Roy Blaine’s. The farmer’s face went from delight to sadness all at once.
Rosie hauled out the raffle tickets Lilian had made her buy earlier and handed them to Edison to watch for her, but as the prizes came and went – a large ginger cake; an hour of free gardening; a fishing rod – she realised she wasn’t about to get lucky, even as Lady Lipton conferred effusive congratulations on the winner. Finally it came to the large box of chocolates, and a roar of applause went up as the winner was found to be Anton.
‘Now,’ said Lady Lipton, ‘I’m afraid Anton can’t have his prize, as his wife is on the committee.’
‘Everyone’s wife is on the committee,’ said Anton in shock, his lower lip wobbling.
‘And,’ said Lady Lipton, ‘we’d like you here next year to play again. Do I have your permission to donate these to the local children’s home?’
‘No,’ said Anton.
‘Yes!’ said his wife, and jumped up on stage before he could stir himself. She shook Hetty firmly by the hand.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, in what was meant to be a quiet aside, but was picked up on the ear-shattering PA.
‘And finally,’ said Hetty, ‘our top prize.’
There was a murmur throughout the room, with many people checking and rechecking their tickets. The tombola twirled round, but Rosie barely paid attention; she was busy thanking Anton, who looked pink, but not pleased, at being complimented on all sides for his generosity. So at first when Hetty called out the number Rosie missed it completely, and Hetty was required to repeat herself.
‘Yellow 197! Yellow 197!’
Gradually Rosie became aware of a tugging at her sleeve.
‘What is it now, Edison?’ she asked, suddenly aware that she would probably have to take him to the toilet at some point, and wishing his mother hadn’t dumped him on her in such an insouciant fashion. Sure enough, the boy was hopping up and down.
‘Do you need to go to the loo?’
Edison shook his head. ‘No. Oh, yes I do now. But, look! Look!’
He waved the ticket in the air. It was yellow, number 197.
‘There it is!’ shouted one of the farmers behind her. ‘She’s got it!’
There was a general outburst of clapping, and much chat. Rosie glanced around, looking confused.
‘Up you go,’ said Chrissie. ‘Go and collect it. I’ll keep the boy.’
‘Go and collect what?’ said Rosie, but before she could think, Hetty was beckoning her up on stage. The man from the local paper crouched down in front of her to take a photo, and the room applauded as Rosie, feeling extremely confused, was handed a very small, very pink, very curious-looking piglet.
‘What … what’s this?’ she said. The camera flashed, capturing, Rosie suspected, the most gormless look in the history of Lipton, which would be saying something.
‘It’s your pig,’ said Hetty. ‘Congratulations.’
‘My what?’
‘First prize in the raffle.’
‘A pig.’
‘Yes.’
‘Not a car?’
As Rosie held the pig, it started to pee on the straw and mud floor of the marquee. It didn’t stop for quite a while. There was much guffawing, particularly when the pee began to flood her already muddy River Island wedges.
Rosie decided just to stand still and pretend it wasn’t happening. Hetty was laughing her head off.
‘What am I supposed to do with a pig?’ she hissed.
Rosie grinned, finding it miraculous that something she had planted – well, mostly Jake, but she had been involved too – had actually grown.
‘That’s brilliant!’ she said.
‘It’s because of unseasnly high temechurs,’ came a voice from her side. ‘Mr Isitt, do you know about the terrible threat of globa warmin?’
‘We must dash,’ said Rosie, smiling. ‘But you are looking so much better.’
‘Reckon,’ said Peter.
‘Mr Isitt!’ came a voice from inside the tent. ‘Mr Isitt, get in here!’
‘Back to normal,’ said Peter Isitt.
‘Yes,’ said Rosie, looking after him as he followed the summons inside the marquee.
Finally, they made it to the right tent, and she crashed in, holding up the enormous box of chocolates, just as the tub was beginning to spin.
‘Here it is!’ she yelled. ‘Don’t start without us!’
The entire room turned to look at her. Of course, standing up on the stage, wearing her magnificently large coat and with a rather haughty expression on her face – slightly more haughty, Rosie found herself thinking, than you might expect in someone drawing a ticket out of a spinning box in a draughty tent in a hill village – was Hetty. Lady Lipton herself.
Rosie immediately glanced around for Stephen. Hetty saw her do it, and smirked. Chrissie, Anton’s wife, immediately approached her and took the large red-velvet box off her with sincere thanks, as Hetty drew the first ticket out of the box and announced to a red-faced farmer that he had won – he looked absolutely delighted – a free fifteen-minute dental check-up at Roy Blaine’s. The farmer’s face went from delight to sadness all at once.
Rosie hauled out the raffle tickets Lilian had made her buy earlier and handed them to Edison to watch for her, but as the prizes came and went – a large ginger cake; an hour of free gardening; a fishing rod – she realised she wasn’t about to get lucky, even as Lady Lipton conferred effusive congratulations on the winner. Finally it came to the large box of chocolates, and a roar of applause went up as the winner was found to be Anton.
‘Now,’ said Lady Lipton, ‘I’m afraid Anton can’t have his prize, as his wife is on the committee.’
‘Everyone’s wife is on the committee,’ said Anton in shock, his lower lip wobbling.
‘And,’ said Lady Lipton, ‘we’d like you here next year to play again. Do I have your permission to donate these to the local children’s home?’
‘No,’ said Anton.
‘Yes!’ said his wife, and jumped up on stage before he could stir himself. She shook Hetty firmly by the hand.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, in what was meant to be a quiet aside, but was picked up on the ear-shattering PA.
‘And finally,’ said Hetty, ‘our top prize.’
There was a murmur throughout the room, with many people checking and rechecking their tickets. The tombola twirled round, but Rosie barely paid attention; she was busy thanking Anton, who looked pink, but not pleased, at being complimented on all sides for his generosity. So at first when Hetty called out the number Rosie missed it completely, and Hetty was required to repeat herself.
‘Yellow 197! Yellow 197!’
Gradually Rosie became aware of a tugging at her sleeve.
‘What is it now, Edison?’ she asked, suddenly aware that she would probably have to take him to the toilet at some point, and wishing his mother hadn’t dumped him on her in such an insouciant fashion. Sure enough, the boy was hopping up and down.
‘Do you need to go to the loo?’
Edison shook his head. ‘No. Oh, yes I do now. But, look! Look!’
He waved the ticket in the air. It was yellow, number 197.
‘There it is!’ shouted one of the farmers behind her. ‘She’s got it!’
There was a general outburst of clapping, and much chat. Rosie glanced around, looking confused.
‘Up you go,’ said Chrissie. ‘Go and collect it. I’ll keep the boy.’
‘Go and collect what?’ said Rosie, but before she could think, Hetty was beckoning her up on stage. The man from the local paper crouched down in front of her to take a photo, and the room applauded as Rosie, feeling extremely confused, was handed a very small, very pink, very curious-looking piglet.
‘What … what’s this?’ she said. The camera flashed, capturing, Rosie suspected, the most gormless look in the history of Lipton, which would be saying something.
‘It’s your pig,’ said Hetty. ‘Congratulations.’
‘My what?’
‘First prize in the raffle.’
‘A pig.’
‘Yes.’
‘Not a car?’
As Rosie held the pig, it started to pee on the straw and mud floor of the marquee. It didn’t stop for quite a while. There was much guffawing, particularly when the pee began to flood her already muddy River Island wedges.
Rosie decided just to stand still and pretend it wasn’t happening. Hetty was laughing her head off.
‘What am I supposed to do with a pig?’ she hissed.
