Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop (21 page)

“No, it's another hospital,” said Lilian patiently, patting him.

“Has there been another bomb?”

“No, darling. You're safe”

“I'm bloody freezing. I can't wait to get back to my Lilian . . . Are you the nurse? You look a lot like her.”

“Yes,” said Lilian.

“Except I lost her, you know. Like I lost my dog tag. By being an idiot. Such an idiot.”

His old shoulders started to shake. Lilian rang the bell for the nurse.

R
OSIE
CAUGHT
UP
with Moray and flung her arms around him.

“It's amazing! I mean it's just amazing!”

Moray didn't look as delighted as she did.

“I mean, to go through your whole life.”

“Mmm” said Moray. “I don't want to . . . I don't want to be a total downer, Rosie, but his . . . I mean, his lungs. They aren't good.”

“But he's talking! He sounds so clear! He knows where he is! It's all come back to him!”

“Yes,” said Moray. “You know there are lots of documented cases of this happening . . . just before . . . I mean . . . I don't know, there may be another miracle in there for him. But . . . I wouldn't count on it.”

Rosie stopped suddenly, hearing the tone of his voice.

“Really?”

“I don't know if you want to share it with Lilian or not but . . . there's a lot of fluid on his lungs. His body can't really fight the infection . . . the consultant thinks that it's only a matter of time.”

Rosie clasped her hand to her mouth. Then she shook her head.

“Well, everything's a matter of time” said Rosie, cross at the euphemism. “How much time?”

“Short of a second miracle . . . days,” said Moray, then, as she gasped again, drew her into his arms to hold her tight.

E
DWARD
WAS
ON
the phone with a journalist who was pinning him down to dates.

“You mean to say, he had a freak-­out going through the village? When he remembered it?”

“I wouldn't call it a freak-­out exactly,” said Edward stiffly. “Well, yes, a freak-­out, I suppose. He grabbed the steering wheel.”

“When was this?” said the journalist, then glanced idly at his computer. “Oh, that's the same day Lipton school got hit by that lorry.”

The color drained out of Edward's face.

“The what?” he said.

“Oh, you didn't hear? A lorry knocked the school down.”

“Oh my God, was anyone hurt?”

“Yes, one little boy broke his neck”

Edward couldn't say anything else; he just put the phone down in silence. Everything had suddenly become too much.

“Doreen,” he moaned. “Oh Doreen, something really bad has happened.”

S
EEING
AS
SHE
was here, thought Rosie, in Carningford with its vast twenty-­four-­hour supermarket, she might as well do her Christmas food shopping, get it over with. She took Pip with her.

“Well, I thought you lived a quiet life here, sis,” he said.

“Me too,” said Rosie, hauling out the trolley. “Get those for me, will you?”

Pip jumped to help.

“Ha,” she said. “You're well trained. When we were little, you'd never do anything I asked.”

Pip smiled. “I like a quiet life. Unlike you.”

“True,” said Rosie.

It was very odd, she found, traveling among the laden aisles, stocking up with all sorts of things—­dates, brandy butter, marzipan—­that she couldn't really imagine eating any other time of year, how normally everybody else was behaving, having arguments in the wine aisle, bickering about crackers, exhausted-­looking mothers hurling lollipops at children to keep them quiet while they got the damn thing done. She and Pip chose a large turkey, some stuffing, plenty of chipolatas for the children, fizzy wine, cola, lots of potatoes for roasting . . .

It was good to have her brother there. She couldn't allow herself to think whether or not Stephen was coming back. They would have Christmas lunch up at Peak House and she'd make up some kind of excuse about him for everyone and then straight after Christmas, she supposed . . . well, she supposed everyone would go. But for now she wanted to chat about his children, especially Meridian, and he liked to talk about them. It was odd, she thought, that her little brother was the grown-­up now, with the well-­paid job and the family and everything . . . everything she might have liked. She wondered if Lilian had felt the same about her little brother Gordon.

“You are . . . you are happy, aren't you, Pip?” she asked as they queued. Pip looked at her.

“Honestly, R?” he weighed up what he was about to say, as if unsure.

“Yes?”

“I wouldn't . . . I mean, even for a bloke like Stephen, right? I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't miss out on having a family for anything, okay?”

Rosie fell silent.

“Not for the world, R. Even when Desleigh is shouting at me and Shane won't put his bloody DS down and everyone's shrieking and stuff gets left everywhere and spilled everywhere . . . I wouldn't change a bit of it. Don't let it pass you by. And you know, we would love you to come out there . . . Mum especially.”

R
OSIE
WAS
SILE
NT
all the way back. Either way, she couldn't see the right way forward. The future was not an appealing prospect.

The pain of not seeing Stephen, not being with him, felt unbearable. She had always feared this; she had spent years in a relationship where she was not “the one,” and she couldn't go through it again if nothing she could do and nothing she could change about herself would change the immutable facts. He was the one for her, but if it wasn't returned, she would live a life as full of disappointment as her great-­aunt had. And she didn't think she could bear it.

A fresh start, in a warm, sunny land full of friendly ­people and spectacular food and beaches and swimming pools and barbecues and well-­paid nursing jobs . . . that, on the other hand, made a ton of sense. To be close to her mum, and watch the little ones grow up. . . .

It was a hard solution, but it was almost certainly the right one.

U
P
AT
P
EAK
House she relayed the news about Henry to a breathless Angie and Desleigh, who were rapt. “Never a dull moment around here,” as Angie pointed out. “Where are the children?” she asked. Normally Meridian was stuck to her side like a limpet.

“It's amazing,” said Desleigh. “Seriously, they're changed kids.”

Rosie went to the window. All three were in the garden, building an igloo together. The girls weren't squabbling, and Rosie wouldn't put money on it, but she thought Kelly had lost a little weight. Shane's DS was nowhere to be seen. Instead, they were chatting, laughing, co-­operating.

“It's a good place here,” said Desleigh.

Rosie swallowed. She couldn't answer.

B
ACK
WORK
ING
AT
the sweetshop, she smiled at every child who came in, all of them bursting with secrets for her about what Santa was bringing them; all enraptured by the tiny train in the window; little cheeks rosy, eyes bright and round; parents tired but happy. She knew everyone now, and they knew her, Miss Rosie, up at the sweetshop. She would miss them too, terribly, as she wrapped boxes of chocolates, marzipan fruit and Turkish delight for the big day.

 

Chapter 20

I
T
WAS
OBVIOUS
to everyone at the hospital now that things were slipping. And slipping quickly. Not even Lilian could continue in denial now. So it was all about spending as much time with Henry as possible without wearing him out. He relied very heavily on the oxygen mask, so he couldn't speak very well or very quickly, but it was very rare that he phased out or didn't appear to be following what went on. Of course they had to share him. Ida Delia liked to talk about him a lot, and swank about the man who was, after all, her husband, but alone in the room with him—­his papery skin bordering on translucent; the smells and the plastic tubes and the dryness of the once luxuriant hair—­she found it unpleasant and creepy and a reminder of what was coming for all of them in the end. She also found, as ever, that she had nothing much to say to him.

Dorothy, on the other hand, didn't want to say anything. She wanted to hold his hand and wanted him to cuddle her and basically bestow upon her all the masculine affection she had felt so desperately lacking from her cold childhood. Edward, in contrast, had to talk; had to rush to assure himself that Henry's other life as James Boyd hadn't been a waste, or something to be forgotten. He wanted to talk about seaside trips, about building a model railway, and days out and even about arguments they had had during Edward's very brief flirtation with punk in adolescence. This was important to him, and Henry did his best to oblige.

But it was Lilian he really looked forward to seeing every day. She looked as pretty and quirky to him as she ever had. And she liked to talk to him, and he just liked to listen, and he enjoyed it all. Anyone overhearing it who was not in love would think it insane nonsense; the nattering on of two very old ­people. Anyone who
was
in love would recognize it straightaway as the kind of castles-­in-­the-­air building of two ­people mad about one another. The only difference was that it wasn't about the future. They played a little game—­safer than the shifting sands of their real memories—­of let's pretend, making up a past they had never had.

“I think probably about 1955, we moved into one of the large houses on the high street,” Lilian would say, and Henry would nod.

“The children used to get scared of the outside loo, do you remember?”

“Yes!” Lilian would say. “Little Henry thought there was a bat, do you remember? And we thought he was just being funny and then Batman came along and we thought we'd have made a lot of money if we'd just written it down.”

“I liked our twenty-­fifth wedding anniversary party,” Henry would say. “Hetty let us have it up at the house, do you remember? And I wreathed your hair with flowers.”

“And I was so cross because it ruined my new hairdo!” said Lilian. “Ha, and we had that big fight in front of everyone.”

Henry smiled.

“I could never stay cross with you for long.”

“That,” said Lilian, “was just as well.”

O
N
THE
MORNING
of Christmas Eve, Moray brought Lilian down to the village early. Rosie looked up, surprised. Lilian was wearing a very old, faded dress with green sprigs. She had gotten so thin again, Rosie noticed. Excitement and no sleep, no doubt. She didn't guess for a second that Lilian had been doing it on purpose so she could get into her oldest dress again, the one he had loved her in, the one that had been nestling at the bottom of the wardrobe all these years.

“A half pound of caramels, please,” said Lilian, her face made up lightly, the dress dated but still oddly pretty on her girlish figure.

“Off to the hospital?” said Rosie. “Won't you freeze?”

“No,” said Lilian. “I'm from around here, not some vulgar interloper like you. Hello, Spiderman.”

Meridian had been playing in a box behind the counter.

“I NOT SPIDERMAN! I'M ROBOT! GOOD ROBOT,” she clarified.

“Glad to hear it,” said Lilian. She cast an eye over the shelves.

“You're low on pineapple chunks.”

“I know,” said Rosie. “There's been a run on them for Christmas. No new deliveries until the new year.”

“Well, that won't help when someone wants some.”

“I'll direct them to the grapefruit suckers,” said Rosie. “We'll battle through.”

Lilian wasn't listening, though. She was taking a long look around the little room, its dark red shelves repainted in the same shade they'd always been; the little mullioned windows, the tall glass jars, the ancient brass scales.

“I'll miss this place,” said Lilian.

“Who says it's going anywhere?” said Rosie stoutly.

“Well, things change,” said Lilian. ­“People . . . leave.”

“Even if I did leave,” said Rosie, “Tina would still be here. The sweetshop would still be here.”

“Nothing lasts forever,” said Lilian.

“ROBOTS LAST FOREVER,” came a little voice. Rosie smiled instinctively. Lilian looked at her carefully.

“I must get on,” she said. “Moray's waiting. Oh, and a quarter pound of golf balls, please.”

“ . . . It's a ‘small bag,' Lilian. We can't serve imperial anymore.”

“I think,” said Lilian, getting out her little snap-­clasp purse and insisting on paying, “you can to me.”

H
ENR
Y
HAD
DETERIORATED
fairly swiftly during the night. Now he was being moved to full life support—­the same bed, coincidentally, that Edison had vacated so recently. Mutterings were being made, though, about perhaps the family wanted to come in. This was entirely unnecessary. Everyone was there. No one knew quite what to do, and there was a lot of offering to get coffee and “after yous” and politeness. Edward was not looking forward to his day. On top of the terrible news from the hospital, he was having lunch with Dorothy to very politely and generously tackle necessary changes to the will. He didn't know Dorothy very well. Then he had an appointment with a police officer. He had been utterly aghast to find out what had happened, but his lawyer had advised him to be reasonably confident that the police would not file charges against his father for distracting a driver. He just wanted the strain lifted off the lorry driver before Christmas; the poor man was out on bail. He went in to the hospital first. Cathryn was there too, still anxious.

“I can't . . . I can't say how sorry I am,” she said, grabbing Edward in the hallway. She had a terrible fear that the family were going to get very difficult—­and quite rightly. If she hadn't been so distracted by the children's beautiful singing, she wouldn't have taken her eye off him. But she had been, and she had.

Edward turned to her. He looked tired but, somehow less anxious.

“Cathryn,” he said. “Listen to me. I don't blame you, okay? He wandered off of his own accord. He is ninety-­one years old. I think we knew this day was going to come. But it's not even that. Whatever else happened to my father out there, it brought him back. He has had the chance to be himself—­his real self, the person I never knew. I can't . . . It's the best thing that could have happened. If he'd been at home, we never would have had him back again. If he'd stayed at the care home, I don't think . . . I think this had to happen. I think he had to come home.”

. . . Cathryn swallowed.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

“You are doing wonderful things up there,” said Edward. “Don't stop, please.”

Cathryn bit her lip.

“Are they letting you take him home?”

Edward shook his head.

“No. Too risky to move him, they said. And he seems comfortable here, so maybe it's best . . .”

At that moment, his daughters and Ian, unusually smartly dressed, appeared to say their goodbyes. They looked embarrassed, worried that they would get it wrong. Edward wished he could tell them that there was no right or wrong with what they were doing; everyone was equally awkward. He smiled at them instead.

“I must go,” he said.

“Of course,” said Cathryn. “Oh, and Edward . . . if it helps. None of us ever really know our parents.”

Edward paused for a moment.

“You know,” he said. “I think it does.”

E
D
WARD
FOUND
,
ONCE
in the room, that he couldn't say what he wanted to say. He wished suddenly that he'd written it down. But the reality of his father in front of him was so odd and strange that he couldn't get the words out. Something about seeing Mum again . . . but did he believe that? Oh, he wanted to. And that would be enough.

He sat down. Henry had an oxygen mask on and struggled to take it off. Edward helped him. Henry sounded very choky and as if he couldn't find the words, so Edward put it back on again and felt too hot in the stuffy space.

“So,” said Edward. He glanced at his watch. “I'm . . . I'm just going to change your will, okay? To add something in Dorothy's favor? I'm sorry. I know this is awkward”

Henry nodded. “That's fine,” he managed to rasp. “You are good to share.”

Edward smiled and patted Henry's hand. He'd had power of attorney for four years now and wanted to do what was right.

“So I'm going to do that and come right back, okay?”

“Yes, son. That's grand.”

They sat in silence, neither knowing what to say. Then Edward got up to go.

“Um,” he started quickly. “You've been a good dad.”

Henry blinked several times.

“You . . . you've been a good son,” he croaked. And that was that.

L
ILIA
N
DIDN
'
T
SAY
anything. She simply took off her coat and saw that he recognized her dress; saw how pleased he was to see it again; to simply have an awareness of where he was, in his own skin. She smiled. A friendly nurse helped her up onto the bed and checked Henry's morphine levels.

Then Lilian took out the large bag of caramels and carefully removed his mask. She put the bag under his nose so he could smell them, and then took a tiny piece that had separated from the rest and put it into his mouth. Then, very slowly, another. And Henry took hold of her hand and squeezed it until he couldn't squeeze any more, and then when he could not squeeze, she held him. And then when there was no Henry left to hold any more, she kissed him gently on the forehead and wished her boy goodnight.