The Christmas Surprise
Page 37
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Rosie had listened patiently to little else but this wedding for about ten months, and couldn’t help feeling desperately for Tina.
‘But fortunately nobody was injured,’ put in Moray, and Rosie shushed him.
‘What am I going to do?’ said Tina.
‘Is the shop just shut then, or what?’
‘Moray, I think I saw someone tripping over a paving stone,’ said Rosie pointedly.
She sat Tina down on one of the ornamental benches next to a plaster urn.
‘Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks,’ she said just as there was an enormous crash that sounded like a chandelier falling down.
Tina looked up at her.
‘Oh Rosie, you know what this meant to me.’
‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ve had it in the diary for a year. Circled in red!’
‘What are we going to do? There’s nowhere else.’ She sniffed. ‘Well, I mean …’
Rosie got a sudden awful lurch in her stomach. She knew what was coming. Oh no.
‘I mean, there is one other place that does weddings …’
Lipton Hall did occasionally host weddings, but big society weddings, with helicopters, and expensive caterers from Leeds, and three hundred guests, and Bentleys and doves and gold Portaloos and stilt-walkers and hundreds of Chinese lanterns that Stephen wanted to ban because the ducks in the pond kept eating them. It was the only way Lady Lipton could keep the lights on in the wintertime, but because she absolutely abhorred having people in the house (especially when lots of them wanted to meet ‘the real lady’ and cornered her to ask her stupid questions about Downton Abbey), she only let it happen two or three times a year, charged a frankly outrageous amount of money, and suffered it in a not very silent silence. It wasn’t for the village people; nobody would ever dare hire Lady Lipton’s own house for one of their gatherings. It simply wasn’t done; it would be an insult. As well as a long way beyond Tina and Jake’s humble means.
All of this flashed through Rosie’s mind in a milli-second, as well as her own precarious position vis-à-vis her future mother-in-law. But all she said, of course, stroking Tina’s hair, was ‘There, there. Don’t worry. We’ll sort something out.’
Chapter Twelve
By the time Rosie got home, Stephen already knew the gossip. Oddly, it seemed to have cheered him up.
‘Insurance job!’ he announced, pulling open the door with Apostil in his left arm. Rosie thought how carefully they had handled the brand-new baby, just weeks ago, whereas now they hauled him everywhere. In fact, he loved being jiggled up and down and thrown about; he would giggle when Stephen pretended to drop him. Rosie would inwardly wince a little bit but wouldn’t let it show. She knew children needed to be toughened up by their dads. And after all, she was the one who’d nearly dropped him up at Lipton Hall.
‘I can’t believe how quickly gossip passes through this town,’ grumbled Rosie.
‘Well, aren’t you pleased nobody was hurt?’
‘Someone was, actually,’ said Rosie, explaining Tina’s meltdown. Stephen’s brow furrowed when he heard, and Rosie couldn’t bear to mention Tina’s idea, not right now. They’d had about a bellyful already. Tonight they were going to put Apostil to bed nice and early, cuddle up and do their best not to think about practicalities, or families, or anything other than the joy and warmth of being together, their baby sleeping peacefully, their own little world small, cosy and safe.
The next week passed peacefully enough – they didn’t see Henrietta or Pamela at all. But the cottage was growing colder and colder every day. It simply wasn’t suitable. Rosie started looking at houses online in Derby. The ones in their price range were pretty grim – long terraces on busy roads – but they had three bedrooms and central heating. She didn’t dare mention it to Stephen again. They were going to have to make some very tough decisions. An estate agent came over from Carningford to have a look at the cottage, and made some very approving noises about saleability and weekenders, which Rosie did not enjoy one bit and certainly wasn’t going to mention to Lilian. But he mentioned too that he could quite possibly rent it out for the summer season, which she thought might be more attractive. Not quite so devastating for her great-aunt as selling the only home she had ever known; her last remaining link to what had once been a busy little place, with her brothers thundering up and down the little steps; her father, tending the roses; Lilian herself, a funny, angular little thing, skinny and dark, running the sweetshop, looking after the house after her mother died, never marrying. Rosie didn’t want to sell any more than Lilian would.
One morning in early December, the children came rushing to the school gates to meet Stephen as he walked down the hill with his cane. Mr Dog liked to accompany him about halfway, then go and have a sniff around Malik’s Spar shop, in the unlikely event that Malik was throwing out any unwanted sausages. After that he would pad back home on his own.
Normally, particularly on clear sunny mornings like this one, when their breath blew cloudy on the frosty air, the children would be charging about at full pelt in the playground, cheeks pink, wrapped up in huge duvet coats that turned them into tiny Michelin men, the occasional stray mitten hung up on the climbing frame, the sound of laughter and hubbub in the air cheering the farmers passing through the village, who had already been up in the cold and the dark for several hours, and who required a steaming cup of tea, sixty-five pence from the bakery, before making their way up to Rosie’s for some mint cake to see them through.
Today, however, they were lining the gates, and as soon as Stephen hove into view they yelled his name.
‘Mr Lakeman! Mr Lakeman!’
Stephen looked at them enquiringly.
‘We got pictures! We got pictures from our other school!!!’
Stephen walked straight into the classroom, letting the children follow for once, even though the bell hadn’t rung. Sure enough, up on the wall were photographs.
Mrs Baptiste put her head round the classroom door.
‘Hello!’ she said. ‘I hoped to get these done for you as a surprise before you came in. Unfortunately, SOME nosy parkers’ – Clover Lumb, the nosiest girl in the school, looked totally unbowed – ‘peered through the window and made it impossible. We got an email from your friend with the funny name …’
‘But fortunately nobody was injured,’ put in Moray, and Rosie shushed him.
‘What am I going to do?’ said Tina.
‘Is the shop just shut then, or what?’
‘Moray, I think I saw someone tripping over a paving stone,’ said Rosie pointedly.
She sat Tina down on one of the ornamental benches next to a plaster urn.
‘Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks,’ she said just as there was an enormous crash that sounded like a chandelier falling down.
Tina looked up at her.
‘Oh Rosie, you know what this meant to me.’
‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ve had it in the diary for a year. Circled in red!’
‘What are we going to do? There’s nowhere else.’ She sniffed. ‘Well, I mean …’
Rosie got a sudden awful lurch in her stomach. She knew what was coming. Oh no.
‘I mean, there is one other place that does weddings …’
Lipton Hall did occasionally host weddings, but big society weddings, with helicopters, and expensive caterers from Leeds, and three hundred guests, and Bentleys and doves and gold Portaloos and stilt-walkers and hundreds of Chinese lanterns that Stephen wanted to ban because the ducks in the pond kept eating them. It was the only way Lady Lipton could keep the lights on in the wintertime, but because she absolutely abhorred having people in the house (especially when lots of them wanted to meet ‘the real lady’ and cornered her to ask her stupid questions about Downton Abbey), she only let it happen two or three times a year, charged a frankly outrageous amount of money, and suffered it in a not very silent silence. It wasn’t for the village people; nobody would ever dare hire Lady Lipton’s own house for one of their gatherings. It simply wasn’t done; it would be an insult. As well as a long way beyond Tina and Jake’s humble means.
All of this flashed through Rosie’s mind in a milli-second, as well as her own precarious position vis-à-vis her future mother-in-law. But all she said, of course, stroking Tina’s hair, was ‘There, there. Don’t worry. We’ll sort something out.’
Chapter Twelve
By the time Rosie got home, Stephen already knew the gossip. Oddly, it seemed to have cheered him up.
‘Insurance job!’ he announced, pulling open the door with Apostil in his left arm. Rosie thought how carefully they had handled the brand-new baby, just weeks ago, whereas now they hauled him everywhere. In fact, he loved being jiggled up and down and thrown about; he would giggle when Stephen pretended to drop him. Rosie would inwardly wince a little bit but wouldn’t let it show. She knew children needed to be toughened up by their dads. And after all, she was the one who’d nearly dropped him up at Lipton Hall.
‘I can’t believe how quickly gossip passes through this town,’ grumbled Rosie.
‘Well, aren’t you pleased nobody was hurt?’
‘Someone was, actually,’ said Rosie, explaining Tina’s meltdown. Stephen’s brow furrowed when he heard, and Rosie couldn’t bear to mention Tina’s idea, not right now. They’d had about a bellyful already. Tonight they were going to put Apostil to bed nice and early, cuddle up and do their best not to think about practicalities, or families, or anything other than the joy and warmth of being together, their baby sleeping peacefully, their own little world small, cosy and safe.
The next week passed peacefully enough – they didn’t see Henrietta or Pamela at all. But the cottage was growing colder and colder every day. It simply wasn’t suitable. Rosie started looking at houses online in Derby. The ones in their price range were pretty grim – long terraces on busy roads – but they had three bedrooms and central heating. She didn’t dare mention it to Stephen again. They were going to have to make some very tough decisions. An estate agent came over from Carningford to have a look at the cottage, and made some very approving noises about saleability and weekenders, which Rosie did not enjoy one bit and certainly wasn’t going to mention to Lilian. But he mentioned too that he could quite possibly rent it out for the summer season, which she thought might be more attractive. Not quite so devastating for her great-aunt as selling the only home she had ever known; her last remaining link to what had once been a busy little place, with her brothers thundering up and down the little steps; her father, tending the roses; Lilian herself, a funny, angular little thing, skinny and dark, running the sweetshop, looking after the house after her mother died, never marrying. Rosie didn’t want to sell any more than Lilian would.
One morning in early December, the children came rushing to the school gates to meet Stephen as he walked down the hill with his cane. Mr Dog liked to accompany him about halfway, then go and have a sniff around Malik’s Spar shop, in the unlikely event that Malik was throwing out any unwanted sausages. After that he would pad back home on his own.
Normally, particularly on clear sunny mornings like this one, when their breath blew cloudy on the frosty air, the children would be charging about at full pelt in the playground, cheeks pink, wrapped up in huge duvet coats that turned them into tiny Michelin men, the occasional stray mitten hung up on the climbing frame, the sound of laughter and hubbub in the air cheering the farmers passing through the village, who had already been up in the cold and the dark for several hours, and who required a steaming cup of tea, sixty-five pence from the bakery, before making their way up to Rosie’s for some mint cake to see them through.
Today, however, they were lining the gates, and as soon as Stephen hove into view they yelled his name.
‘Mr Lakeman! Mr Lakeman!’
Stephen looked at them enquiringly.
‘We got pictures! We got pictures from our other school!!!’
Stephen walked straight into the classroom, letting the children follow for once, even though the bell hadn’t rung. Sure enough, up on the wall were photographs.
Mrs Baptiste put her head round the classroom door.
‘Hello!’ she said. ‘I hoped to get these done for you as a surprise before you came in. Unfortunately, SOME nosy parkers’ – Clover Lumb, the nosiest girl in the school, looked totally unbowed – ‘peered through the window and made it impossible. We got an email from your friend with the funny name …’
