Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 81
‘Hello,’ said a busty lady with tiny spectacles on the end of her nose, coming to the door. ‘You’re Lilian’s girl, aren’t you? Did you want to come in and look at our autumn specials? We have some truly spectacular kilts.’
Rosie smiled as nicely as she knew how. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘No thank you.’
It was true. She wasn’t ready quite yet. Not ready at all. Other people were getting on with their lives. She had to too. She couldn’t hide away up here for ever. Otherwise her life was going to slip through her fingers.
‘How are you doing, Lil?’ she said, sitting next to the old lady on the bed, sharing the freshest baps from the baker’s. Lilian had deliberately requested corned beef, which Rosie privately thought was disgusting.
‘I miss Chewits,’ grumbled Lilian. ‘And don’t call me Lil.’
‘Oh well, mustn’t grumble,’ said Rosie. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘Tina might buy the shop. What would you think about that?’
‘Hmm,’ said Lilian, feigning lack of interest.
‘The thing is,’ said Rosie, ‘I have to go back to London. At some point. I do. I have a whole life there … well, I don’t really. I have the ruins of a life there. I’m not explaining this very well. But the thing is I need to go home. At some point. Some time.’
Lilian looked at her. ‘Well, people do leave,’ she said, faintly.
‘I wouldn’t be “leaving” leaving,’ said Rosie. ‘I wouldn’t want to do that. I’d want to come up and make sure you were OK, and pop in and check on the sweetshop and that.’
Lilian fixed her with a gimlet eye.
‘Mmm-hmm.’
Rosie took a bite of her bap and chewed thoughtfully.
‘I mean, I can’t stay here for ever. And you need proper care. I thought I might hire a car, and maybe we could travel around a bit and look at some … some homes.’
Lilian was silent.
‘Some … some old people’s homes,’ she said finally. ‘Lilian, you are old.’
‘My body is a bit rubbish,’ said Lilian. ‘But I’m not old old.’
‘You’re eighty-seven.’
‘Not old in my head,’ said Lilian defiantly.
‘How old are you in your head?’ said Rosie, genuinely curious.
Lilian stared out of the window. In her head, for ever, she was seventeen. And there was a handsome young man coming down the lane at the end of the day. And even though there was an ache in her heart, an ache for Ned, still, when she saw this young man, his curls lightened in the evening sun, then her heart would soar, and leap, and even though he was tired, he would rub down the back of his neck, and come towards her, his handsome face full of concern and tenderness, and they would walk to their special place round the back of the churchyard and …
Lilian smoothed down her coral-pink nightgown carefully.
‘I feel … I feel young,’ she said. ‘Just like everyone else.’
‘I see,’ said Rosie. They sat in silence for a while.
‘The thing is,’ said Rosie, not sure how she could broach this. ‘The problem is, well … Lilian, you need someone to look after you. And I know this is selfish, and I do … I am really, really fond of you …’
‘It’s all right,’ said Lilian. ‘I know. You’re young. You really are.’
‘I don’t feel it,’ said Rosie.
‘Can I take it that that young … gentleman was not the man for you?’
Rosie smiled ruefully. ‘Yes. You can take it like that. Yes. I suppose. And …’
The sentence lingered in the air.
‘And I kind of feel … I kind of feel, at some point, that I need to get back to London. Sort my life out a bit. I sometimes feel that everyone else is moving on miles ahead of me, that they all know what they’re doing while I’m just floundering on in the slipstream. Do you ever feel like that?’
Lilian squinted at her.
‘All my bloody life,’ she said.
She sat herself up to be more comfortable.
‘I know,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’m being selfish, you can’t stay and devote your life to a silly old woman. You have to go. I realise that. I’ll go …’ She looked very tiny in the bed. ‘I’ll go wherever you like. I don’t suppose it matters.’
Rosie felt awful.
‘I won’t … I mean, we’ll get the best price possible. Even if I have to sell to that dentist arsehole,’ she vowed. ‘And you’ll go to the nicest room in the nicest place with the nicest people … or if you like you can come down to London and I’ll find a lovely home there and I can come and see you all the time and when Angie comes home you can meet your hideous great-nieces and …’
Lilian patted her hand.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘You find your own life, and live it.’
‘But it’s in London,’ said Rosie.
‘London, London, London,’ said Lilian. ‘Now darling, if I have a little mid-afternoon nap do you promise not to call an ambulance?’
‘If you nap now you’ll get grumpy tonight when you can’t sleep,’ threatened Rosie.
‘Then I shall listen to the shipping forecast,’ said Lilian. ‘Everyone needs a hobby.’
Rosie kissed her soft white cheek. ‘Sleep well then. And if you feel the least bit strange …’
Lilian patted the panic button on her chest.
‘I know, I know. I’m tempted to let this off in the middle of the night. Just to keep you on your toes.’
‘They’re going to love you in the home,’ said Rosie, smiling sadly.
She turned out the light.
‘Oh,’ said Lilian, turning over in bed. ‘I almost forgot. The postman came for you.’
‘For me?’ said Rosie, puzzled. Nobody had her address but Gerard, and he was almost certain to be currently wrapped around the burnished form of Yolande Harris.
The large cream-coloured envelope was lying on a little table by the entrance to the sitting room that normally bore keys; Rosie realised she must have been very deep in thought coming in to miss it. It was made of thick paper, properly stiff. On the front, in old-fashioned script written with a fountain pen in slightly faded blue ink, it was addressed to ‘Miss Rosemary Hopkins, The Sweetshop Cottage, Lipton’. That was all. And a stamp, at perfect right angles to the top right-hand corner.
Rosie smiled as nicely as she knew how. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘No thank you.’
It was true. She wasn’t ready quite yet. Not ready at all. Other people were getting on with their lives. She had to too. She couldn’t hide away up here for ever. Otherwise her life was going to slip through her fingers.
‘How are you doing, Lil?’ she said, sitting next to the old lady on the bed, sharing the freshest baps from the baker’s. Lilian had deliberately requested corned beef, which Rosie privately thought was disgusting.
‘I miss Chewits,’ grumbled Lilian. ‘And don’t call me Lil.’
‘Oh well, mustn’t grumble,’ said Rosie. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘Tina might buy the shop. What would you think about that?’
‘Hmm,’ said Lilian, feigning lack of interest.
‘The thing is,’ said Rosie, ‘I have to go back to London. At some point. I do. I have a whole life there … well, I don’t really. I have the ruins of a life there. I’m not explaining this very well. But the thing is I need to go home. At some point. Some time.’
Lilian looked at her. ‘Well, people do leave,’ she said, faintly.
‘I wouldn’t be “leaving” leaving,’ said Rosie. ‘I wouldn’t want to do that. I’d want to come up and make sure you were OK, and pop in and check on the sweetshop and that.’
Lilian fixed her with a gimlet eye.
‘Mmm-hmm.’
Rosie took a bite of her bap and chewed thoughtfully.
‘I mean, I can’t stay here for ever. And you need proper care. I thought I might hire a car, and maybe we could travel around a bit and look at some … some homes.’
Lilian was silent.
‘Some … some old people’s homes,’ she said finally. ‘Lilian, you are old.’
‘My body is a bit rubbish,’ said Lilian. ‘But I’m not old old.’
‘You’re eighty-seven.’
‘Not old in my head,’ said Lilian defiantly.
‘How old are you in your head?’ said Rosie, genuinely curious.
Lilian stared out of the window. In her head, for ever, she was seventeen. And there was a handsome young man coming down the lane at the end of the day. And even though there was an ache in her heart, an ache for Ned, still, when she saw this young man, his curls lightened in the evening sun, then her heart would soar, and leap, and even though he was tired, he would rub down the back of his neck, and come towards her, his handsome face full of concern and tenderness, and they would walk to their special place round the back of the churchyard and …
Lilian smoothed down her coral-pink nightgown carefully.
‘I feel … I feel young,’ she said. ‘Just like everyone else.’
‘I see,’ said Rosie. They sat in silence for a while.
‘The thing is,’ said Rosie, not sure how she could broach this. ‘The problem is, well … Lilian, you need someone to look after you. And I know this is selfish, and I do … I am really, really fond of you …’
‘It’s all right,’ said Lilian. ‘I know. You’re young. You really are.’
‘I don’t feel it,’ said Rosie.
‘Can I take it that that young … gentleman was not the man for you?’
Rosie smiled ruefully. ‘Yes. You can take it like that. Yes. I suppose. And …’
The sentence lingered in the air.
‘And I kind of feel … I kind of feel, at some point, that I need to get back to London. Sort my life out a bit. I sometimes feel that everyone else is moving on miles ahead of me, that they all know what they’re doing while I’m just floundering on in the slipstream. Do you ever feel like that?’
Lilian squinted at her.
‘All my bloody life,’ she said.
She sat herself up to be more comfortable.
‘I know,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’m being selfish, you can’t stay and devote your life to a silly old woman. You have to go. I realise that. I’ll go …’ She looked very tiny in the bed. ‘I’ll go wherever you like. I don’t suppose it matters.’
Rosie felt awful.
‘I won’t … I mean, we’ll get the best price possible. Even if I have to sell to that dentist arsehole,’ she vowed. ‘And you’ll go to the nicest room in the nicest place with the nicest people … or if you like you can come down to London and I’ll find a lovely home there and I can come and see you all the time and when Angie comes home you can meet your hideous great-nieces and …’
Lilian patted her hand.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘You find your own life, and live it.’
‘But it’s in London,’ said Rosie.
‘London, London, London,’ said Lilian. ‘Now darling, if I have a little mid-afternoon nap do you promise not to call an ambulance?’
‘If you nap now you’ll get grumpy tonight when you can’t sleep,’ threatened Rosie.
‘Then I shall listen to the shipping forecast,’ said Lilian. ‘Everyone needs a hobby.’
Rosie kissed her soft white cheek. ‘Sleep well then. And if you feel the least bit strange …’
Lilian patted the panic button on her chest.
‘I know, I know. I’m tempted to let this off in the middle of the night. Just to keep you on your toes.’
‘They’re going to love you in the home,’ said Rosie, smiling sadly.
She turned out the light.
‘Oh,’ said Lilian, turning over in bed. ‘I almost forgot. The postman came for you.’
‘For me?’ said Rosie, puzzled. Nobody had her address but Gerard, and he was almost certain to be currently wrapped around the burnished form of Yolande Harris.
The large cream-coloured envelope was lying on a little table by the entrance to the sitting room that normally bore keys; Rosie realised she must have been very deep in thought coming in to miss it. It was made of thick paper, properly stiff. On the front, in old-fashioned script written with a fountain pen in slightly faded blue ink, it was addressed to ‘Miss Rosemary Hopkins, The Sweetshop Cottage, Lipton’. That was all. And a stamp, at perfect right angles to the top right-hand corner.
