Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop (7 page)

“I'm afraid there's been an accident.”

H
ESTER
WAS
ASTONISHING
, Rosie thought, as she sat, upright and dignified, completely silent, in the back of the police car as they prepared to take her to the hospital over at Carningford. The helicopter was transporting Edison; apparently there wasn't a second to lose. She fetched a bag for Hester from inside, adding her phone, her handbag, a sweater, and a toothbrush and pajamas; she didn't think Hester would be back for a while.

“When's the baby due?” she had asked gently, but Hester had shaken her head. One awful experience at a time. So instead, Rosie gently took her hand in the police car, checking her phone every two seconds. Still no signal. Moray needed to phone her about Stephen . . . and Edison. Oh, Edison.

A choking noise escaped Hester's mouth suddenly, and her hand flew to her mouth.

“He's so . . . he's just so . . .
special,
” said Hester suddenly. And Rosie, who had long thought that Edison was terribly mollycoddled, that his parents were trying to turn him into something he wasn't, with awful consequences for his popularity at school and his social standing, saw with real clarity that of course he was. That they all were, but Edison . . .

it was slow going on the whited-­out roads. With the mobile signal so patchy, it was the longest ride of Rosie's life. She kept flashing in and out of those moments in the dark and terrible ripped-­apart cabin, searching; the sight of Stephen blown across the room, the boy's contorted body . . . she realized she was shaking and tried to force herself to calm down.

The kindly WPC in the front seat turned around to them with a large flask.

“I'm sorry, it's all I have,” she said, pouring them a large cupful of hot tea to share. “We hope it won't be long.”

Rosie took it gratefully and forced Hester to drink some. There were few cars on the road on such a dreadful day and only the odd tractor. Every time she saw a lorry, Rosie winced. They were so dangerous on these little roads. So dangerous. She grasped Hester's hand and held on to it tightly, as much, she realized, for herself as for Hester.

Finally they made it to the bypass, and the roundabouts began on the entrance to Carningford, a large town on the other side of the dales from Lipton. Liptonites called it the big town, but to Rosie it was embarrassingly small; it didn't even have a Topshop. But it did have a hospital.

The driver put the siren on, and they sped through the heavier traffic. The snow not quite as thick here in town, but it was still driving along on the heavy wind.

Rosie closed her eyes for a few moments and tried to take a few deep breaths. The last thing she needed to do was go into shock; it was already quite hard enough for everyone else. She was fine. She was fine. She was going to have to be.

 

Chapter 6

T
HEY
BO
TH
RAN
through the emergency doors. The waiting room, full of bored ­people who had slipped on icy walks or overindulged at their firm's Christmas lunch, looked up, interested in the distraction. The nurse on duty bustled them through, and Rosie and Hester were separated. Rosie gulped. Did this mean Stephen was worse than she thought?

“He's heavily sedated,” said the nurse.

“Is he going to be all right?” asked Rosie desperately. “He seemed . . . he seemed like he would be okay.”

The nurse put her hand gently on her shoulder.

“He will,” she said. “He'll be okay.”

“Edison Felling-­Jackson,” said Rosie immediately. “What about the little boy?”

The nurse's face darkened.

“I can't . . .”

“I'm his . . .” Rosie couldn't work it out. “Oh.”

Fortunately, Moray came dashing up to her from the waiting room. They hugged briefly.

“How's Edison?” she barked quickly.

Moray bit his lip.

“It's . . . well, he's in theater. They're having a look. He's pretty knocked up, Rosie.”

Rosie stared at the ground.

“His neck?”

“They're checking. He's in good hands.”

They stood apart.

“Fuck,” said Rosie, staring at the floor.

“It's early days,” said Moray.

Rosie looked at him.

“I know. Fuck,” said Moray.

“Did you want to see Mr. Lakeman?” said the nurse to Rosie.

“Of course,” said Rosie. Moray hung back.

“He's all right?”

“Going to be. Thank God.” Rosie's face relaxed slightly. “But oh, Moray.”

Moray shook his head.

“Come over later and we'll get drunk,” he said.

Rosie nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I'll need to talk to Lilian”

“I'm sure she doesn't mind you getting drunk once in a while.”

“No, I'll need to tell her everything.”

Moray rolled his eyes. “You're joking, aren't you?. That place is like a telephone exchange. She'll know. But yes, check in and call by later.”

Rosie nodded.

“How do I look?” she said.

Even in the midst of everything that was going on, Moray still felt a smile.

“Apart from the dust covering your hair and the black smudges and the scrape on your cheek?” he said.

“Oh, bloody hell!” said Rosie.

“Rose, he'll be off his tits on morphine. He'll think you're Cameron Diaz. Don't worry about it.”

Rosie rubbed her face quickly but decided to take him at his word.

“Okay. Later. Text me as soon as you know anything about Edison.”

“No mobiles in hospital,” said the nurse automatically. Rosie and Moray exchanged glances. Rosie took one last deep breath and marched confidently into the side bay.

Stephen was propped up on his side, which made him look oddly nonchalant. He looked sleepy and a little strained, and Rosie's heart skipped out of her chest in relief and love.

“Darling,” she said softly. Stephen, even drugged up, seemed to relax at the sound of her voice.

“R?” he said.

She ran across the room to him.

“Careful!” he said. “They gave me some nice stuff . . . very nice stuff actually. It was very nice. I can't remember what I was saying. Oh yes. My back. It's still very —­”

“Ssh,” said Rosie, burying her nose in his thick, curly dark hair. It too still held traces of dust and a faint smell of burning. Her eyes were dry, but she felt a huge sense of relief.

“They're going to do a skin graft,” said the nurse. “When there's a theater free.”

“Really? That bad?” said Rosie, lifting her head. She looked at Stephen. “Did you just get your arse blown off?”

Stephen found this quite funny but the nurse shook her head.

“Just a little. On his side and shoulder. He jumped on top of the child and took the brunt of it.”

“Hear that?” said Rosie. “You're a hero.” She kissed him tenderly. Stephen shook his head.

“Too late,” he said, suddenly looking stricken. “Too late.”

“Hush,” said the nurse, glancing at her watch. “Don't get agitated.”

A doctor came in, followed by two porters.

“All right, Mr. Lakeman. We're going to prep you.”

For a moment Stephen's drug haze seemed to lift, and he looked Rosie right in the eye.

“I can't believe I'm here again,” he said, his face clouded with pain. Rosie took his hand.

“Because you're brave,” she whispered. “And you can be brave again.”

He half-­smiled.

“Now, go get your bum transplant. Tell them not to change the shape. I like it as it is.”

She squeezed his hand once more, and they took him away.

A
T
FIVE
O
'
CLOC
K
, hours and hours later—­she had neither eaten nor drunk a thing all day and didn't even notice—­Rosie was sitting next to Hester in a private waiting room when Arthur came running in. He was a tall, very thin man with glasses and pale hair; Edison was his absolute double. She tried to give them privacy, but they could barely talk to one another. Every so often Arthur would get up and try to harass any passing medical staff into giving them information, but they couldn't or wouldn't. Eventually, Rosie got some coffee for everyone from the vending machine. It was utterly foul, but it gave their hands something to do as the clock ticked on.

It was strange, Rosie thought, and had often thought when she'd worked in A and E: the hands of time in the hospital always moved far too fast, or far too slowly, and everyone watching the clock was locked in their own private universe of pain, or misery, or the joy of recovery. The idea that outside somewhere not very far away there was life going on—­jobs and shopping and marriages and holidays and nights out and lunch breaks—­when you were waiting in hospital for news, the idea that the world just went on its merry way seemed incomprehensible; unlikely and thoughtless. Rosie had been wondering about buying a Christmas tree. The idea that she had had that mild, useless, amiable thought in her head now seemed stupid and pointless.

She envied the ­people she had often seen in hospitals who were able to pray. Rosie had seen too many young lives cut short, too much potential lost to accident and disease, to be very good at praying. But not Edison. Surely not.

At long last, a silhouette appeared at the venetian blinds. A surgeon. He was taking off his hat. Rosie eyed him fiercely, feeling her heart pound. Hester and Arthur clutched hands, the strain evident on their white faces.

He entered the room, a heavyset man.

“Mr. and Mrs. Felling-­Jackson?” he said gravely. He looked at Rosie.

“I'll leave,” she said straightaway.

“No,” said Hester. “No. You stay.”

Rosie felt she was going to be sick.

The surgeon sat down.

“We think . . . we're not sure, but we think . . . that Edison has broken his neck . . .”

Hester immediately burst into enormous, choking sobs. She grasped Rosie's hand painfully tightly. Rosie squeezed back. The doctor gave her a few moments, then carried on.

“But there are several ways to do this. At the moment, the indications seem to be that Edison has a C7 break, here.”

He indicated high up on the right-­hand side of his neck.

“What does that mean?” asked Arthur. But Rosie let out a gasp. She knew.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.”

The doctor nodded at her.

“I know.”

Hester gazed at them both, her eyes dry and wide.

“WHAT? Tell us!”

“It means,” said the doctor, “that we think Edison might have been very, very lucky.”

I
T
WAS
ONLY
then that Rosie was able to cry, she explained to Moray later in the Red Lion. They were on their second bottle of white—­on a week night, but needs must. They were also the focus of attention as everyone was whispering and speculating on the awful thing that had happened to their little school. It was, everyone said, a miracle that nobody had been killed. Edison would have a long, slow recovery, much of it in a full-­body cast, but there was every reason to suppose that he would get completely well again. The bricks from the wall had struck his vertebrae and thoracic cord, but Stephen had protected him from the rest of the blast. Stephen was out of surgery, but they wouldn't say much more to Rosie on the phone, except that he was fast asleep and she was welcome to visit in the morning.

Little Kent had fractured his wrist and was sporting a massive cast. ­People around him were talking about how brave he had been and how he deserved a medal, so on balance was feeling pretty pleased with himself, although he slightly wished his mother was stop collapsing in tears every five minutes. Rosie had finally gotten back to find the sweetshop door still unlocked, but of course not a thing had been taken. She locked up carefully and wondered if it would be mawkish to put up a picture of Edison.

“W
HAT
'
S
H
APPENED
TO
the bloke driving the lorry?” asked Moray. Valiant work by the fire brigade—­some of whom were now reliving their day in the corner of the bar—­had removed the lorry, goodness knows where. News teams had descended to report on the incident, but many had retreated as the weather got nasty.

“He's in custody in Carningford,” said someone. “He'll have to go to prison. He could have killed all those kids!”

Rosie shook her head.

“Oh my goodness, that poor man.”

Moray looked at her.

“Don't give me that. It's not like the school ran into the road. If they find out he was texting on his phone or something, I'll pull the lever myself.”

“I know, I know,” said Rosie. “It's just, I can't help thinking of everyone waking up this morning, thinking it was going to be just another normal day . . .”

“Ssh,” said Moray. “I know. I know. It's awful. But it's going to be okay.”

Inside, Rosie wasn't so sure.

“You know what Stephen went through last year,” she said quietly.

Moray eyed her.

“Rosie, if you'd wanted an easy life, you'd have stuck with that fat bloke you used to go out with.”

Rosie smiled.

“True,” she said. “But . . . you know . . .”

When Stephen had returned, injured, from Africa, he had shut himself away from the world, brooding. It had, the town agreed, taken Rosie to bring him out of himself. This might set him back again.

“Look at it this way,” said Moray. “This time, he did save the child. He did it right. So he's going to have to deal with that. And it's only a bit of skin off his arse. So.”

Rosie nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, he's going to be fine.”

She had to believe it.

“And if he isn't,” said Moray, “we'll do what I wanted to do last time and get a posse go and kick him up the arse.”

They clinked glasses.

“Y
OU
LOOK
L
IKE
hell,” observed Lilian usefully the next morning when Rosie popped in to see her en route to the hospital (she had woken ridiculously early and knew that ­people got up early at the nursing home too).

“That's because I've just been through the most traumatic day of my life,” said Rosie indignantly.

“Oh. Because it looks like a hangover.”

Rosie didn't answer.

“They should never let lorries through the town,” said Lilian “Bloody awful big things”

“I know.”

“I wonder what they'll do about the school now,” said Lilian, musingly. She was cozy in a chic woolen top and a little beret, even though they were inside.

“What do you mean?” said Rosie. “They'll patch it up and fix it.”

Lilian raised her eyebrows.

“They've been trying to shut that school for years. Bus all the children to Carningford.”

Rosie looked horrified.

“But they can't! It'll kill the village!”

Lilian nodded.

“I know. It'll be the end of us, to be sure.”

Rosie felt a hand of fear clutch at her heart.

“They wouldn't close the school?”

“Well, it's obviously dangerous . . . and enrollment has been falling.”

“But parents move here for the little class sizes!”

“Then they move right away again when their children get to secondary. It's not really sustainable. And Manly's too.”

“What about Manly's?”

Manly's was the defiantly unfashionable boutique in town.

“Well, she does all the uniforms, doesn't she? She stops supplying those, she's really in trouble. It's not like anyone wants her fuchsia size 18 cocktail dresses, and once you've bought one waxed jacket, that's pretty much all you need for the rest of your life . . . You need a waxed jacket, by the way.”

“Thank you, Lilian,” said Rosie, but her brain was whirring. They wouldn't shut the school, would they? Lipton was so proud it had managed to hang on to its post office, its Spar, its pub, its chippy—­it even had a bus ser­vice, of sorts. But losing the school would rip the heart from them.

“It'll be fine,” she said. “There's no way the council could be that evil.”

“No,” said Lilian. “Elected officials never work in a disgusting way.”

“Are you talking about democracies, Lilian?” came an imperious voice. “Awful things, never bloody work.”

Rosie bit her lip as Lady Lipton bustled into the room, looking as usual a combination of ridiculous—­she was wearing far too many slightly holed clothes—­and rather magnificent—­her cheekbones and gait rendered her dignified whatever the circumstances. It was, Rosie had ascertained, slightly arrogant and slightly habitual, the way Lady Lipton dressed, as if she simply didn't care (she obviously didn't), but also as if the reason she didn't care was that she felt so socially superior to everybody else. It was almost a way of showing off—­“My house has so many rooms I can't possibly heat it so I need to wear four cardigans that have been in the family for several generations.”