Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop (23 page)

Rosie ran out briefly into the snow to kiss Edward, who looked completely drained, and make him promise to keep in touch. As soon as the police had heard the story, and about Henry's death, they had dismissed the entire case, and the lorry driver could spend Christmas without it hanging over him. He had, of course, lost his job; Edward had promised to see if he could find something for him at the building society that didn't involve any driving.

Rosie was on the point of inviting him in; then she looked at Lilian, curled up like a child in the back seat, so fragile and delicate looking, and decided against it. They would meet again at the funeral, of course . . . oh, there was so much to arrange. Well, she would worry about that when the time came. Now her priority was her great-­aunt.

She half-­carried, half-­coaxed Lilian into the cozy sitting room, where she had the fire roaring high. There was a stew slow-­cooking on the stove, something easy and digestible, but Lilian didn't want anything to eat. Rosie carefully set her down and got her a medicinal glass of red wine. Unusually for Lilian, she hadn't said anything. Rosie sat next to her and patted her on the shoulder, giving her time.

After she'd finished the wine, Lilian looked into the fire for a long time. Eventually, she sighed. Then she said,“Well, that's that.”

Rosie nodded. Lilian turned her ancient eyes on her. They looked even older today somehow, their pale blue getting paler and softer; her lovely soft skin was whiter and as thin as paper.

“Do you think . . . . You know I hate that vicar.”

They had had this discussion before. Lilian had been waging a vendetta against the trendy Lipton vicar since he'd arrived. Fortunately, he seemed completely unaware of this fact.

“After the war,” said Lilian, “after I lost Ned and Henry . . . well, I thought, that's about it for God. You don't need to be a starving child in Africa being eaten alive by flies to think sod that for a game of soldiers.”

Rosie nodded.

“But now,” Lilian said, “oh, wouldn't it be nice? Hmm? Just to fall asleep, set these aching bones to rest. And wake up in Henry's arms, all young and strong and splendid like we were? And we'd be somewhere warm where it never snowed, and we'd be together and we could grow the garden we never grew.”

“My father's house has many mansions,” murmured Rosie because she had heard it once and thought it sounded comforting.

“I think I will suddenly believe,” said Lilian decidedly. “I think maybe I'll believe Catholic. They do that nice thing at the end, don't they? They did it to Henry, put stuff on his head and basically saying, whatever you've done, don't worry about it, you're all fine and that's a guarantee. Can I have that?”

“I'm not sure that's how it works,” said Rosie.

“Oh, of course it must be. God would know I was doing it for the right reasons, wouldn't he? He knows I'm not a bad person.”

“I think God would be far too scared not to let you into heaven,” said Rosie.

“Quite. Okay, Catholic it is then. Do they let women be priests?”

“There is nothing wrong with women being priests,” said Rosie.

“Yes, well, I'll see what God says about that when I see him,” said Lilian severely.

“You'll see what God says about that in thirty years' time,” said Rosie. “On your way to Buckingham Palace to pick up your award for longest-­living woman in Britain. But now you can shush up and have a bath if you like. I've left the water on for you.”

“Do I need a bath? Do I smell of old lady?”

“No, you smell of Tweed, like you always do, and it's lovely.”

“Yes,” said Lilian. “From Paris, you know.”

Rosie smiled. Lilian was gazing at the fire again.

“I don't want thirty years, Rosie. Thirty years of feeling cold and being too slow and not being able to hear a damn thing and playing more bridge, and worrying about falling over and not being able to read because I can't bloody see, and day after day with nothing to look forward to.”

“Nothing?”

“Okay, some things to look forward to.” She gave Rosie a shrewd look. “Getting you off my hands one way or another. But not as much as the one thing I am really looking forward to.”

She looked straight at Rosie, completely serious now.

“I found him at last,” she said. “And now I want to see him again.”

“Don't you even think it,” said Rosie, also deadly serious. “Don't you even dare.”

There was silence, then Lilian glanced wryly at her empty glass and lightened the mood.

“Okay, come on, home,” said Rosie. “You're sure you won't stay?”

“It's kippers and kedgeree and champagne for breakfast,” said Lilian. “Can you compete with that?”

“No,” said Rosie, picking up the car keys. Pip had lent her the hire car.

“Where's Stephen?” asked Lilian.

“Out,” said Rosie, unwilling to have that conversation just now.

“I'd like to see him.”

“Well, that's too bad. You've had a tough day. You need to sleep.”

Lilian let herself be led off to the car.

“I'll see him in my dreams, you know,” she said to Rosie. “I've always seen him there. Now I know for sure. He's waiting for me. And of course, his hair is as brown as a nut.”

R
OSIE
R
ETURNED
ALONE
and sat in front of the blazing fire.

So here it was, she thought. Merry Christmas. The Christmas she had once been looking forward to so much. In her head, the groaning table, the delighted children, not one of them addicted to their Nintendos, as she and Stephen together put on a wonderful spread, and everyone was happy and smiling, and it was everything she'd ever dreamed of and then Stephen would maybe have hushed everyone, still with a party hat on his head, and said he hoped they didn't mind, but he wanted to ask Rosie something . . .

Ugh, stupid, stupid stupid. She was completely stupid. She had misjudged just about everything it was possible to misjudge. Worst of all, she had not realized that everything she had of Stephen was all he had to give.

She had disregarded all the warnings—­that he was difficult, that his childhood had been hard—­and thought that it was all right, she could fix him. But fixing someone wasn't a relationship. Fixing someone was what nurses did. And once you'd fixed ­people up, then off they went again. But she'd thought . . . she'd thought that with Stephen it was different. That the way they cared for one another, how they were together . . . She bit her lip. She had played her hand. She had nothing left to give, nothing up her sleeve that would suddenly make him think, oh yes, that is the one I cannot live without. And that was that.

You couldn't face a life being someone's second best, someone's “Oh well, you'll do for now.” Well, you could—­she had, once before, with Gerard. And look how that had turned out. She certainly wasn't doing it again.

She felt such a fool. So precious about everything, so sure. Oh yes, tra la, I'm just throwing up my entire life in London and my flat and all my friends to move to the countryside. Of course I know what I'm doing.

Well, she didn't know what she was doing. Not a bit of it, obviously. The sweetshop was barely ticking over; she was making less than she had as a nurse, which wasn't a lot. She was going to be single in a town where there were substantially more sheep than single men with their own teeth, where she had no family, few friends and where she'd be treated as an outsider for at least another twenty years.

Sniveling, she poured herself another glass of sherry. The radio was softly playing carols, and they only reminded her of the children singing and made her cry harder. She had a lot of gifts to wrap; she supposed she'd better get to it. And a busy day tomorrow. At least she'd see Pip's children. And then, the day after Boxing Day, they'd be off too, off on tour to see things, then back to Oz. She was going to miss them so much, even little fussbudget Kelly. She remembered Shane sledding down the hill, his head thrown back laughing, looking so much like Pip as a small boy that it was ridiculous. Desleigh filming the whole thing. Rosie had grown to rather appreciate her sister-­in-­law's stolid calmness; now she saw how unstressed she was with her children and her life and in return how that suited the family and Pip. Of course Angie, as usual, could do all the worrying for everybody.

She wrapped up the special Spiderman activity set for her little Meridian, tears dropping onto the paper. Well, she would miss her most of all. She had never thought being an aunt would be such a pleasure.

As if he knew what she was thinking, Mr. Dog got out of his basket and came and plopped his head on her lap, looking up at her with infinite compassion.

“You still love me, don't you, Mr. Dog?” she said, absent-­mindedly feeding him a bit of mince pie. “Because I give you mince pie even though it's very bad for dogs.”

Mr. Dog made a groaning sound.

“Yes, and because you love me for myself. I forgot about that.”

A tear plopped onto his nose, and he licked it off, then licked her hand. She caressed his silken ears, then started wrapping Shane's new Nintendo game, which Desleigh had told her would be ideal, and a new dressing-­up princess outfit for Kelly, size “cheery child,” which Rosie had learned was secret shop code for “plump.” She had at the last minute added a very fancy tiara, which in turn had made her search all the shops in Derby until she got hold of a Spiderman mask for Meridian. No luck with James Bond merchandise—­another of Meridian's obsessions—­for a little girl quite so small, but she found a perfect little reproduction Aston Martin. Then she had to get something else for Kelly and Shane, so it was a ridiculous mound of gifts that now sat before her.

She had longed to go shopping for Stephen to find a beautiful sweater in a dark blue that would go with those eyes of his, or in black, which made him look so dramatic, like James Bond himself. And if the sales assistant had asked what she was looking for, she would have said, “Oh, I'm shopping for my boyfriend,” and they would have looked out something really special.

But in the end, she hadn't. It had seemed like bad luck. She couldn't shop for someone when she didn't even know where they were, when the last thing you'd heard them say was “I don't want to marry you.” So.

A beautiful cashmere cardigan for Lilian in her trademark color of soft violet that suited her coloring so well—­expensive, but worth it, definitely. And for Angie, a ridiculous dress, far too short and a bit too tight, in a bright orange, that she'd seen her sighing over in the shopping center. She'd bought a size 8. That would probably be wrong, but she'd erred on the safe side, so that should be pleasing. She must get on. On what should be one of the happiest nights of the year—­the snow still falling, the fire burning merrily in its grate, the Christmas TV, when she turned it on, full of snowmen and excitement and joy upon the earth—­Rosie sat wrapping her gifts, crying and crying and crying.

E
DWARD
AND
D
OREEN
lay in bed, hands tightly clasped together. They had written to the registrar and had vast amounts of paperwork to do, plus the hospital wanted an autopsy. They didn't even know when they would get to bury Edward's father. But somehow, although there was great sadness, there was also a sense of peace.

Edward's greatest fear, ever since James—­Henry—­was diagnosed all those years ago, was that he would die in anguish; in terrible pain and fear and confusion, not knowing who he was or where, upset and scared. But it had not happened like that. Even though there was a lot to process, his father's last hours had been spent safe, warm, in his bed, cared for, surrounded by ­people he both loved and recognized.

“I don't think,” Edward said, as the ever kind and patient Doreen stroked him gently on the forearm in the depths of the snowy night, “you can really ask for more than that, can you?”

“No,” said Doreen, who would never tell Edward that the idea of James living for another five or six years—­or, even more terrifying, ten or fifteen—­had always filled her with a terrible anxiety, about money, caring, basically everything. That, fond as she had been of her kind, quiet father-­in-­law, it was now time to go on a cruise—­a BIG cruise—­somewhere with absolutely no bloody snow.

P
IP
WAS
HAV
ING
not the slightest luck in putting the children to bed. They were leaping around Peak House, giggling and shrieking and dancing and insisting on waiting up for Santa. Angie and Desleigh had decided simply to ignore them and had retired to the kitchen, cozy from the Aga, and opened a bottle of wine.

“How are you doing?” said Desleigh. “I thought coming to the English bush was meant to be all quiet and everything?

“I know,” said Angie. “It's completely mad. You know, I never even knew Lilian had a boyfriend. Wasn't the kind of thing she ever mentioned. My dad said once, when I asked why she never got married, that she liked a boy who got killed in the war, but he was married to someone else, so I didn't think . . . I mean, I just thought it couldn't have been that serious, know what I mean?”

“I think it's romantic,” said Desleigh. “PIP! CAN YOU PUT THOSE BLOODY BUGGERS TO BED? THEY'RE DOING MY HEAD IN!”

“Yes,” said Angie, topping up their glasses. “So what do you think about our Rosie, then?”

Desleigh shook her head slowly.

“You know she's a lovely girl, Angie.”

“She is,” said Angie, proudly.

“But I don't think it's going to work with that one, do you know what I mean?”

Angie nodded soberly.

“I mean, we haven't seen hide nor hair of him for days . . . just disappearing like that, it's no good. And what he said about settling down?”