The Christmas Surprise
Page 40

‘Um, some.’
‘And anything he could pick up and choke on?’
Rosie thought of all the boiled sweets and gobstoppers and hard mints.
‘Well, he’s not really at the picking-up stage yet …’
They both looked at Apostil, who was making a bid for the buttons again. Joy’s face, which had seemed to be lightening up, darkened again like clouds moving in over the valley.
‘Well, you know,’ she said, ‘that will not do. That will not do at all.’
Rosie wanted to swear. She knew it wasn’t ideal, but until they got settled and knew where they were living, there was no point making arrangements or looking for childcare they couldn’t afford. Appy liked being with her and she could manage him and the shop. Not for ever, but whilst he slept for half the day, she couldn’t see the harm in it.
Joy made several marks on her iPad, then bid her a curt good day with an ominous ‘I’ll be back’-type remark. As Rosie opened the door, the vicar passed by, looking jolly and round of face as usual. He raised his hand to her.
‘Hello, Rosie! When are you coming in to sort out the christening, then?’
Rosie narrowed her eyes.
‘Um,’ she said.
‘Lady L says she’s got it all arranged.’
The hackles rose on the back of Rosie’s neck. They absolutely hadn’t discussed this.
‘Oh yes?’ said Joy. ‘It can be good, welcoming a baby properly into its community … as long as you introduce traditional elements of the child’s own background, if he is differently backgrounded.’
‘We’re discussing it,’ said Rosie. She didn’t necessarily mind the idea of a big party, but Appy had already been baptised. And she did rather mind the vicar and Lady Lipton getting together to cook the entire thing up.
‘Well, keep me posted,’ sniffed Joy.
Then she was gone, the sound of a little white Metro puttering off down the cobbled street.
Rosie kissed Apostil fiercely.
‘Oh Lord,’ she said, going back inside and closing the door against the cold wind.
‘Interfering old misery …’
Lilian was rifling through the box of Milk Tray that Rosie had brought her, flinging the ones she didn’t like into the bin with a force that belied her age. Several of the old ladies had stopped by to say hello to Apostil and lingered, obviously hoping to hear the latest juicy gossip of which, Rosie had long learned to accept, she was often the focus.
‘Coffee creme,’ Lilian sniffed. ‘Who would buy coffee creme? Why do they still make it? Quality Street don’t do it any more, you know. Because it’s revolting.’
‘It’s my favourite,’ said Rosie. ‘Give it to me, don’t throw it in the bin.’
‘I’m training your palate. What kind of a sweetshop owner are you?’
‘One that’s about to get done by the Health and Safety Executive, unfortunately.’
Lilian listened, puzzled.
‘But you take the dog in,’ she pointed out.
‘Yes, but they don’t know about that,’ said Rosie. ‘And anyway, I hide him out the back, so he doesn’t count.’
‘Right,’ said Lilian, who pretended she didn’t like Mr Dog then fed him cough drops on the sly.
She looked at Apostil, who was snoozing gently and occasionally opening a sleepy eye as he was handed round from old knee to old knee. It was strange to think that most of these women – these grandmothers, great-grandmothers even – had once been mothers, had once held tiny bundles of their own; whispered soft words in little shell-like ears; paced floors in the early hours; fumbled with bottles and worried about colic.
Now, with their earpieces and their thin white hair, and their thick glasses, it was hard to imagine the young mothers they’d once been. Ada Lumb had raised seven, all living, as she said proudly, five boys all alike, who had had their own children who looked alike too and at holiday times charged round the grounds of the home like a cloned army platoon. Ada pointed out cheerfully that the children shared the cost of the home, which was why she could end her days somewhere appreciably nicer than anywhere she’d ever lived before. Rosie, right at this moment, could see the point of that.
‘What about the house?’
Rosie stared at the floor and mumbled something.
‘What? Speak up, girl. I haven’t got a hearing aid like that deaf old post Effie McIntyre.’
‘I heard that,’ said Effie from across the room. ‘If you’re going to gossip like a washerwoman, Lilian Hopkins, at least choose your targets. Or maybe you’re going doolally as well as deaf.’
‘She was a terrible tart, that Effie,’ went on Lilian with equanimity. ‘Tried to run off with an American soldier, but he sent her straight back. NEVER MIND, EH, LOVE.’
Effie muttered something and went back to playing her internet Scrabble.
‘Well,’ said Rosie. ‘Stephen’s sister’s back.’
Half the room leaned forward appreciably.
‘Pamela?’ said Lilian, pretending she didn’t already know. ‘Well well well. That rarely fails to set the cat amongst the pigeons.’
Rosie looked around.
‘Can we go somewhere more private?’
‘Can we keep Apostil?’ said Ada. ‘For ever?’
‘I thought you’d have enough problems keeping up with your own grandkids,’ said Rosie, smiling. She glanced at the bell pull by Ada’s hand, and propped up a sleeping Apostil in the crook of her arm. Ada smiled a smile of pure happiness and whorled a curl on his warm little head.
‘I’ll be right outside,’ said Rosie. ‘Just holler or ring the bell if he gets too heavy, okay?’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Ada.
They found a quiet spot in the hallway by the fire, and Rosie explained all about Pamela coming back and Stephen giving up his inheritance.
‘You see,’ she said, ‘we were going to talk to you about … Well, we’re going to have to move. Probably. With the baby. And—’
‘To pay for me?’
‘We just need more space. We can rent your place out, you know, make sure we keep it for you.’
Lilian looked out the window.
‘Hetty stopped by.’ She looked at her niece. ‘You know, Pamela probably won’t stay at Peak House for ever.’