Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 14
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There was no doubt about it, Rosie thought, the place was definitely pretty. She popped into the bakery and said a cheery good morning to the woman behind the counter, who smiled back. She looked pink and exhausted. Must have been up early, thought Rosie, wondering if the sweetshop shouldn’t be open early too. There was a queue out the door of children buying doughnuts for the breaktime snack, and men who looked like farm workers and labourers stocking up on pies and sandwiches for lunch. She chose a cheese and onion pasty, bought a cup of tea from the vending machine and took it outside. The tea was horrible. Next to the war memorial was a green wooden bench, and from there she had a good view of the little town coming and going around her.
A dapper young man with a briefcase bounced up the steps of the doctor’s surgery with a large set of keys; a rather chubby vicar emerged from the beautiful square-topped Norman church across the road and looked around, confusedly. A postie wearing shorts and riding an ancient bicycle freewheeled down one of the hill roads. The Land Rovers – they seemed to be the only type of car allowed around here – nudged through the narrow road, followed by a truck containing a large and mutinous-sounding group of sheep. By the pond, on a small patch of green outside the church, two geese honked loudly in response. By the time she saw the two large ladies on horseback, Rosie was half expecting Windy Miller to arrive from somewhere. She phoned Gerard.
‘Hey?’ he said. He sounded groggy.
‘What are you doing?’ said Rosie, in mock annoyance. ‘I’ve been gone five minutes and you’re already having big celebration nights out?’
‘Course not,’ said Gerard easily. ‘Just me and the lads, you know. Friday nights out. Like the old days. Plus I’ve got to eat somewhere.’
‘Hmm,’ said Rosie.
‘So, how’s the old witch?’
‘She’s very run-down, bit weak … and a grumpy old witch.’
Rosie said this to make Gerard laugh, but it felt a bit disloyal.
‘She managed to make two rude remarks about my shoes as soon as I walked in the door.’
‘What, those big Cornish pasties you wear?’
‘Don’t you start.’ She paused. ‘No, she’s all right. Just lonely, I think. Sad.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Well,’ said Rosie. ‘Well. It’s a bit weird-looking. And there isn’t a Starbucks.’
‘Oh. My. God,’ said Gerard. ‘You won’t last the week. Have you been arrested and charged with witchcraft yet?’
‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘But nobody has met me yet. Do you know, they even have a vicar.’
‘Cor,’ said Gerard. ‘Watch out for him. They’re always the worst pervs, vicars.’
‘That’s your medical opinion, is it?’
‘No,’ said Gerard. ‘Scientific fact.’
‘It’s pretty,’ said Rosie. ‘You’ll like it. You should come visit.’
‘I will, love, I will,’ said Gerard, stifling a yawn. ‘But first, I think I have to get to Starbucks.’
However pretty the scene, and however many people gave her inquisitive looks – which was odd; in London nobody ever looked at you at all; you could have two heads for all anybody cared – before too long her pasty was finished and her tea had been poured on the ground, and Rosie was beginning to feel as if she was in London again, a spectator of other people’s lives – other people’s happy, perfect lives, which always looked so effortless from where she was standing. When she got to the bit where she was working out whether the mothers with children were older or younger than she was, she decided something had to be done.
Although a couple of clouds were gathering in the sky, it was still a bright summer’s day. Larks were circling and, beyond the grey stone buildings opposite, the rich brown loamy fields were being ploughed. A tractor trundled up a little road towards the gentle hills in the distance, and hedgerows marked out the sprawling fields. It was lovely. Rosie decided to explore. She knew she should be getting back, making plans, sitting down with Lilian and figuring everything out, but this idea was not appealing. A quick walk around, just to familiarise herself with her surroundings, that was what she needed. That would be fine.
She passed by the tiny, traditional red-brick primary school with hopscotch drawn out in the playground. After the sign thanking people for driving slowly through Lipton came a long avenue of trees without a pavement. Fortunately there was little traffic, and Rosie marched along the ditch side, remembering as she did so how uncomfortable wellingtons were to wear for any length of time and feeling her feet begin to sweat. Then she turned into a side road that was little more than a muddy path. Here, tracks left by farm machinery had ploughed up the earth, and she found herself sinking into deep trenches. It was harder to see the fields from out here, and as she continued down the long, solitary track, just the quiet cries of birds sounding in the distance, Rosie began to feel her optimistic mood draining away, particularly as the wispy clouds she’d noticed earlier had changed their minds and were massing greyly above her head. Rosie started to wonder where she was going. In all senses. But she trudged on, turning into smaller and smaller tracks, sometimes sheltered by trees, sometimes barely a path before popping out on to what seemed like a road again.
After about half an hour, she reached the crest of a small hill, but turning round realised she could hardly see back down; the clouds were closing in much more quickly than she’d expected. Just at that moment, the first drops started hitting her head, and she realised that, a) she didn’t have an umbrella with her, b) she couldn’t remember which way she had come and now she couldn’t see it either, and c) she was wearing her shaggy H&M shearling, which, while stylish, and relatively forgiving to her lumpy bits, was also made of thin wool and thus if the rain got any heavier would prove totally and completely useless.
The rain got substantially heavier.
‘Bugger!’ shouted Rosie out loud at the sky, hoping this would make her feel better. It did, but not for long. Where was she? Where the hell? She took out her phone. Of course there was no signal. Who would need a signal out here, cows calling for home-delivery grass?
The sky was nearly completely black; you could see so bloody far in the country. She could certainly see far enough not to get her hopes up as to the weather changing in the next five minutes or so.
A dapper young man with a briefcase bounced up the steps of the doctor’s surgery with a large set of keys; a rather chubby vicar emerged from the beautiful square-topped Norman church across the road and looked around, confusedly. A postie wearing shorts and riding an ancient bicycle freewheeled down one of the hill roads. The Land Rovers – they seemed to be the only type of car allowed around here – nudged through the narrow road, followed by a truck containing a large and mutinous-sounding group of sheep. By the pond, on a small patch of green outside the church, two geese honked loudly in response. By the time she saw the two large ladies on horseback, Rosie was half expecting Windy Miller to arrive from somewhere. She phoned Gerard.
‘Hey?’ he said. He sounded groggy.
‘What are you doing?’ said Rosie, in mock annoyance. ‘I’ve been gone five minutes and you’re already having big celebration nights out?’
‘Course not,’ said Gerard easily. ‘Just me and the lads, you know. Friday nights out. Like the old days. Plus I’ve got to eat somewhere.’
‘Hmm,’ said Rosie.
‘So, how’s the old witch?’
‘She’s very run-down, bit weak … and a grumpy old witch.’
Rosie said this to make Gerard laugh, but it felt a bit disloyal.
‘She managed to make two rude remarks about my shoes as soon as I walked in the door.’
‘What, those big Cornish pasties you wear?’
‘Don’t you start.’ She paused. ‘No, she’s all right. Just lonely, I think. Sad.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Well,’ said Rosie. ‘Well. It’s a bit weird-looking. And there isn’t a Starbucks.’
‘Oh. My. God,’ said Gerard. ‘You won’t last the week. Have you been arrested and charged with witchcraft yet?’
‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘But nobody has met me yet. Do you know, they even have a vicar.’
‘Cor,’ said Gerard. ‘Watch out for him. They’re always the worst pervs, vicars.’
‘That’s your medical opinion, is it?’
‘No,’ said Gerard. ‘Scientific fact.’
‘It’s pretty,’ said Rosie. ‘You’ll like it. You should come visit.’
‘I will, love, I will,’ said Gerard, stifling a yawn. ‘But first, I think I have to get to Starbucks.’
However pretty the scene, and however many people gave her inquisitive looks – which was odd; in London nobody ever looked at you at all; you could have two heads for all anybody cared – before too long her pasty was finished and her tea had been poured on the ground, and Rosie was beginning to feel as if she was in London again, a spectator of other people’s lives – other people’s happy, perfect lives, which always looked so effortless from where she was standing. When she got to the bit where she was working out whether the mothers with children were older or younger than she was, she decided something had to be done.
Although a couple of clouds were gathering in the sky, it was still a bright summer’s day. Larks were circling and, beyond the grey stone buildings opposite, the rich brown loamy fields were being ploughed. A tractor trundled up a little road towards the gentle hills in the distance, and hedgerows marked out the sprawling fields. It was lovely. Rosie decided to explore. She knew she should be getting back, making plans, sitting down with Lilian and figuring everything out, but this idea was not appealing. A quick walk around, just to familiarise herself with her surroundings, that was what she needed. That would be fine.
She passed by the tiny, traditional red-brick primary school with hopscotch drawn out in the playground. After the sign thanking people for driving slowly through Lipton came a long avenue of trees without a pavement. Fortunately there was little traffic, and Rosie marched along the ditch side, remembering as she did so how uncomfortable wellingtons were to wear for any length of time and feeling her feet begin to sweat. Then she turned into a side road that was little more than a muddy path. Here, tracks left by farm machinery had ploughed up the earth, and she found herself sinking into deep trenches. It was harder to see the fields from out here, and as she continued down the long, solitary track, just the quiet cries of birds sounding in the distance, Rosie began to feel her optimistic mood draining away, particularly as the wispy clouds she’d noticed earlier had changed their minds and were massing greyly above her head. Rosie started to wonder where she was going. In all senses. But she trudged on, turning into smaller and smaller tracks, sometimes sheltered by trees, sometimes barely a path before popping out on to what seemed like a road again.
After about half an hour, she reached the crest of a small hill, but turning round realised she could hardly see back down; the clouds were closing in much more quickly than she’d expected. Just at that moment, the first drops started hitting her head, and she realised that, a) she didn’t have an umbrella with her, b) she couldn’t remember which way she had come and now she couldn’t see it either, and c) she was wearing her shaggy H&M shearling, which, while stylish, and relatively forgiving to her lumpy bits, was also made of thin wool and thus if the rain got any heavier would prove totally and completely useless.
The rain got substantially heavier.
‘Bugger!’ shouted Rosie out loud at the sky, hoping this would make her feel better. It did, but not for long. Where was she? Where the hell? She took out her phone. Of course there was no signal. Who would need a signal out here, cows calling for home-delivery grass?
The sky was nearly completely black; you could see so bloody far in the country. She could certainly see far enough not to get her hopes up as to the weather changing in the next five minutes or so.
