Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop (11 page)

“No, it wouldn't,” she said, her voice slightly trembly. She wasn't at all used to contradicting her employer. “No, it wouldn't. I'd get my church rota up here.”

Hetty stared at her.

“Are you telling me you clean the church in your
spare time
?” she asked in amazement.

“I like things nice,” said Mrs. Laird. “I think . . . I think everyone in Lipton would like things to be nice for the children, after the shock they've had. Those schools in Carningford . . . they're pretty tough. It's too long a day for our little ones. I think . . . I think we owe them.”

Both Hetty and Rosie were silent after this little speech. Rosie mouthed “thank you” behind Lady Lipton's back. Lady Lipton shook her head.

“I'm sure I won't be able to get it through,” she said slowly.

“But you'll try?” said Rosie eagerly.

“There's an emergency meeting tomorrow. To talk about the buses.”

“We don't need the buses!”

“All right, all right, hold your horses. A week, okay? I'll take them in for a week, for heating money. After that, it'll be off my hands.” Rosie felt like kissing her but wisely did not.

“And now I'm going to church. You should come to church. Everyone thinks you're a heathen.”

“I am a total and utter heathen,” said Rosie. “But I'd pray quite a lot if it would help the school.”

R
OSIE
LEFT
AFTER
repeating her thanks so often that she realized she was in danger of becoming very annoying. Lady Lipton kept also saying that it probably wouldn't happen, that it was a terrible idea and that it would leave the house even more of a wreck than it was already. After Rosie had retrieved Mr. Dog from his pile of brothers and cousins—­he wouldn't come when called; Hetty had stood there and sniffed and suggested she get him trained immediately—­she picked him up, took him out of his ridiculous jacket, for which he licked her face massively in gratitude, and said goodbye one final time.

“Honestly,” said Hetty. “Between you, Mrs. Laird, Stephen and bloody Lilian bugging me to let the school thing happen, I haven't had a second to myself. Bloody phone hasn't stopped ringing.”

Rosie stopped in her tracks.

“What?” she said, sure she'd misheard. “Stephen called you?”

Hetty rolled her eyes.

“I might have known you two would cook up something like this between you.”

“Really? Ha! HA!” she said. The ridiculous lightness in her shoulders suddenly made her realize how much her disagreement with Stephen had been weighing her down. “Really? That's amazing. Amazing.”

And before the older woman could object, she darted forward and kissed her quickly on the cheek.

 

Chapter 9

“T
HANK
YOU
.”

“It's still a ridiculous idea.”

“I know. Thank you, though.”

“I have to turn my phone off.”

“Stop being annoyed with yourself that you did a nice thing.”

“I didn't do anything. I reflected on the logic of the position.”

“You did a good thing, Stephen Lakeman.”

“Could you stop bothering me on this number, please, whoever you are?”

“I'll pick you up tomorrow after the council meeting.”

“If you're still dressing that dog up in ballgowns, please don't bother.”

“I cannot believe how much gossip gets around this town.”

“You've made him a laughingstock.”

“He likes it.”

“Right.”

“Good night, you.”

“Are you in bed?”

“Maybe.”

“Is that dog there?”

“Awroa,” said Mr. Dog.

“Okay, could you remove the dog, then tell me what you're wearing?”

Rosie looked down at her tartan flannel pajama bottoms and thermal top.

“He's gone,” she lied, putting her hand over his muzzle.

“Go on then.”

“Um, I'm wearing a push-­up Agent Provacateur bra, with my breasts kind of spilling out the top of it . . .”

“Go on.”

“I hope you're not doing something naughty in the hospital.”

“I'm not, actually,” said Stephen. “It's still too bloody painful. I feel like my skin is going to rip every time I move my arms. But I find it soothing to hear you talk to me.”

“Wouldn't you rather hear a story?”

“Yes,” said Stephen. “A story about the imaginary underwear you're wearing while you pretend you don't have the dog in the bed.”

“Okay,” said Rosie, smiling. “Well, I'm just unwrapping the long silken ties at the side of my navy satin French knickers trimmed with red lace . . .”

“Awroa,” said Mr. Dog, settling himself down comfortably on his duvet, and Rosie continued to talk on the phone, and outside the snow fell again until she could tell by the breathing at the other end of the line that Stephen was finally asleep.

I
RONIC
ALLY
,
THE
COUNCIL
meeting was usually held in the schoolhouse, which was still surrounded by police tape. They had adjourned instead to the Red Lion, the pub's convivial atmosphere slightly marred by the tension evident in the room. Rosie had to sit outside until the matter of the school came up on the agenda. She was surprised when she was called in to see no sign of Hye. Roy, on the other hand, was looking at her with an unpleasant sneer on his face.

“Ah, MISS Hopkins.”

He emphasized the “miss.” Rosie had heard Roy was married, but she steadfastly refused to believe it. She also didn't believe he could go out in direct sunlight, eat garlic or touch a cross.

“Here for the good of the town's children as usual, I suppose?”

“Always,” said Rosie. She looked around. Lady Lipton was chairing. An empty seat where she guessed Hye was meant to be. Roy, and his lawyer brother, looking ponderous in a gray suit. The nice woman from the bakery. The fat Reverend, looking cheery as ever at the prospect of a free cup of tea, and both Dorothy and Peter Isitt, who ran the farm across the way. Dorothy had never liked Rosie ever since she accidentally ruined her vegetable patch. She eyed Rosie balefully.

Rosie was tempted to make a speech, but it wasn't really the right time to do it, so she decided to just focus on the most important thing.

“This is best for the children,” she said. “It's clearly the best. They've had a fright. Sending them away is a terrible idea.”

Roy showed off his ghastly teeth.

“I believe what's best for the children is the best educational environment. Not a draughty, unsuitable room, but a state-­of-­the-­art primary facility with a running track and a new playground, as well as professional teachers in the best of health.”

“Yes, but it's an hour away,” said Rosie.

“Added to this, the money the town would save busing the children would allow much-­needed repairs and work required in the village for the benefit of everyone.”

“There won't be a village if you shut the school,” begged Rosie. “It'll just turn into some chocolate-­box second-­homers' place, full of retired ­people and just pointless.”

“I didn't realize you thought Lipton was pointless,” said Roy. “No doubt you'll be wishing to shoot right back to London then, your ‘first' home.”

Rosie bit her lip. This wasn't going well at all. She looked at Lady Lipton imploringly, but Hetty was having none of it.

“The money we save,” said Roy, “could do so much. And the buildings here were old anyway. They needed any number of improvements we simply can't fund. For so few children it simply doesn't make economic sense.”

“But it makes our kind of sense,” said Rosie, hot-­faced and tongue-­tied. “It makes emotional sense. It's just right to have our own school for our own children.”

“It's not about keeping our children here,” said Roy. “It's about what's best for them, remember? And I don't think what's best for them is letting a lorry plow through the middle of them.”

Rosie bit her lip at the harshness of his words. He then pulled out a long list of figures. There was absolutely no denying they made terrible reading. It would save a huge proportion of the budget to shut down the school. Rosie thought of Tina having to give up her job because she'd have to drive hours every day just to get Kent and Emily to school. How long before she jacked it in and moved? She thought of Stephen, and what he would do without a job—­or would he commute, too? She hated this idea. Stephen wasn't made for sitting in a car. He was made for striding happily with his stick in a town where everyone knew him, teaching his own way—­Mrs. Baptiste let him get on with things—­instead of stuck in endless meeting and marking sessions. He would be miserable in Carningford, with its chain stores and fast-­food outlets and 2-­for-­1 drinks nights, lit up by neon signs. Saturday night in town was an absolute no-­go area unless you wanted to get into a fight. She sighed. But the figures . . .

After everyone had had a chance to properly digest them, and a few more ­people had pontificated one way or the other, it came time for the vote. Roy was looking smug, confident that his economic talk would prevail. And then the hands went up.

“All those in favor of moving the children to Carningford, active immediately?”

Roy, his brother and Dorothy Isitt raised their hands.

Roy looked annoyed.

“And against?”

The woman from the bakery, Lady Lipton and, to Rosie's surprised delight, Peter Isitt raised their hands. He'd be in trouble with Dorothy tonight. She was already shooting him rude looks across the table.

“Well, Hye agrees with me,” said Roy immediately and fussily. “He told me already, we can't afford it.”

“But Hye's not here,” said Lady Lipton.

“But he would vote against! He told me already.”

“Unfortunately, Hye's not here,” repeated Lady Lipton. “And as chairman of the council, I'm afraid I have the casting vote. Which means I have to welcome an enormous bunch of the little brats into my own home. I can't believe what I was thinking of.”

Rosie had leapt up excitedly.

“Yay!”

Roy looked absolutely furious.

“But Hye—­”

“It's too late!” said Rosie, resisting the temptation to add, ‘in your face.' “The vote's binding, isn't it?”

The woman from the bakery was already excitedly typing up the minutes.

“And Stephen gets home tonight!” said Rosie excitedly. “He can start back practically straightaway!”

Roy was still staring at his page of figures, stabbing it with a pen.

“Can you leave us while we get on with other business?” said Lady Lipton to Rosie, who bounced up before anyone tried to change their mind. She winked at Peter Isitt, who blushed and looked down at his hands.

R
OSI
E
SWUNG
BY
the doctor's office.

“Can't stop,” said Moray, dashing into the waiting room. “I'm rushed off my feet today. Shorthanded.”

“Because Hye . . .”

“Food poisoning,” said Moray, his handsome face totally smooth and unreadable. “Poor chap. Something he ate disagreed with him.”

Rosie stared at him.

“Of course you would never—­”

“What on earth are you implying?” said Moray. “I hope you wouldn't be making dreadful medical and legal slurs against me.”

“No,” said Rosie quickly. “Not at all.”

“If a man guzzles his body weight in oysters and foie gras at the golf club every night, statistics say it's bound to catch up with him sooner or later.”

“Okay, okay.”

And she waltzed up the high street to tell Tina the wonderful news.

R
OSIE
WAS
TERRIFIED
of driving home in the dark on the snow-­covered road. Having an irritable passenger behind her wasn't particularly helping.

“Watch out for that,” Stephen was saying. He was, ridiculously, lying along one of the sideways seats in the back of the Land Rover, piled high with blankets. Rosie felt as if she were driving a mission in the Second World War. But sitting up was still a little too painful even though the doctors had said his wounds were healing faster than anyone they'd ever known. He could stand and move around perfectly well, but sitting was more difficult.

“They should have fitted you with a robot bum,” Rosie had said, and Stephen had ignored her in front of the consultant. He had made a ­couple of remarks about missing the painkillers, but seemed quite chipper on the whole. Only Rosie could tell from the clench of his jaw that he was still in a lot of pain.

“Watch out for deer on the road.”

“Deer?” said Rosie. “Oh for goodness' sake. I slightly have my hands full watching out for snow, ice, darkness, great big horrible lorries, hedges and schools. And I can't see any of those things. And someone is distracting me from the back.”

Stephen flopped back on the bench seat. Rosie checked out his strong profile in the rearview mirror. He was biting his lip distractedly. She had to force herself to keep her eyes on the road, he looked so handsome. They hadn't seen another car in miles; it felt as if they were alone in the universe. The moon shone full in a cloudless sky and lit up the frosted countryside all around, so it was barely dark at all, despite Rosie's complaining. One by one, the bright yellow stars popped out, and the moon gave off a cold light so that the outline of the distant hills was visible. The cold and stillness gave them the feeling of being on an alien planet.

Stephen gazed out the window, steeling himself. This time he was not going to fall into his old trap of getting caught up in his head. He would not close his eyes and see, again and again and again, the shape of the huge lorry pushing a hole through the classroom; he would not hear the roar of the engine and the sharply rushing wind. He blinked and focused on the distant stars.

Rosie put on the radio. A young choir boy was singing “Do You See What I See?” very slowly and sweetly. It was incredibly beautiful. They both listened to it in silence. When it had finished, Rosie noticed Stephen surreptitiously wiping his eye.

“Are you CRYING, Lakeman?” she said, reaching back and squeezing his hand.

“NO,” said Stephen, forcing himself to buck up. “It's so flipping cold in here my eyes are watering.”

“That's right. You're not at all crying.”

“No.”

“ ‘A star, a star . . . dancing in the night . . . with a tail as big as a kite,' ” sang Rosie tunelessly.

“ ‘And is it true?' ” quoted Stephen, looking out at the night sky. “ ‘And is it true?' For if it is . . .”

“Are you going pious on me in my old age?” said Rosie.

“No,” said Stephen. “But on a night like this . . . so silent . . .”

“Yes!” said Rosie. “Almost like, you know, some kind of SILENT NIGHT.”

Stephen laughed, finally.

“Do you ever feel that things are meant to happen in a certain way, Rosebud?”

Rosie didn't take her eyes off the road.

“Of course not,” she said.

“You don't think you and I were meant to meet? I mean, we wouldn't normally.”

“What, because you're posh and I'm common as muck?”

“Yes,” said Stephen.

“Oh,” said Rosie. “Well, anyway, no, of course I don't.”

“Nobody's up there guiding us?”

“Nobody was guiding those rebels in Africa, no,” said Rosie softly. “It's rubbish. The idea that somehow some benevolent deity sends an angel to watch over whether American football players will win a match but wants every third baby in Liberia to die. It's disgusting. That God would bother about whether we fell in love but wouldn't bother that there are kids in India whose eyes get eaten by worms while they're still alive. Okay, you know, I don't THINK so.

“It's just us, my love. Making the best of the here and now.”

Stephen was silent for a bit.

“Okay,” he said. “Gosh, I didn't realize you felt so strongly about it.”

“Try working in A and E,” she said. “Anyway, you of all ­people know life isn't fair.”

“I know,” said Stephen with a sigh. “Just, on a night like tonight . . . so beautiful . . . and I'm on my way home, and Edison is getting better . . . No, you're right, of course.”

He was still gazing out the window.

“Well, whatever gets you through the night,” said Rosie. “If it makes you happy.”

“I think I'm just so relieved,” said Stephen. “I'm coming home, all fine, nice and cozy, and we're going to have a lovely quiet Christmas and not go out at all, apart from to my bloody mother's every day, but at least I'll be working . . . and Mrs. Laird can bake us things, and we'll have Christmas just the two of us in front of the fire, all to ourselves, and not get dressed all day and it's going to be amazing. . . . It's not been easy, Rosie. But it makes me happy now.”