Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 18
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‘Uhm, no, the other one.’
Lilian’s eyebrows went up. ‘Were you quite so damp at the time?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Rosie.
Lilian glanced briefly at the glamorous portraits of herself as a younger woman but didn’t say anything. Rosie sniffed and marched upstairs to run the bath, trying not to glance in the bathroom mirror. Her hair had widened to twice its normal size, like a loaf of bread proofing by a stove.
‘I have a boyfriend, you know.’
‘Boyfriends, schmoyfriends,’ said Lilian. ‘I don’t see him here.’
‘I’m going to make you lunch,’ said Rosie. ‘And you are going to eat it. And then you’re going to get out of that chair, it’s not doing you any good.’
‘OK,’ she said, coming down warm and dry forty-five minutes later. She had only one jumper. That, she probably needed to rectify. Lilian was still sitting in her armchair listening to Radio 4 and staring into the fire. Rosie was tempted to join her, but she was here for a reason.
She heated up the thick vegetable soup she’d grabbed from the Spar, ignoring the looks and whispers of the other shoppers at her dripping state.
‘Eat this. And the bread.’
‘This is oozing with butter,’ said Lilian, looking disgusted.
‘It is,’ said Rosie. ‘And if you don’t want me to make you eat two slices, I’d get on with it. Unless you want me to dissolve it in milk.’
Lilian made a face, but started in on the soup. As she did so, she felt a little spurt of worry; how long had it been since she’d had hot food? Hetty popped in and warmed something up now and again but even she complained about her not having one of those new oven things that heated up things so fast. Lilian didn’t trust the idea of them, and anyway, she’d always got along fine without.
‘We need to get you a microwave,’ said Rosie. ‘You know. If you want to keep living here.’
‘Ugly things,’ murmured Lilian. ‘So many modern things are so ugly.’
Rosie tried not to take this as a personal slight, but didn’t quite know how to respond.
‘Have you lived in Lipton all your life?’ she asked.
‘Well, I’ve travelled,’ said Lilian crossly. It was none of this girl’s business. ‘I’ve been to York … Scarborough of course … Scotland once.’
‘London?’
‘I have no idea why the entire world seems so fixated on London,’ said Lilian. ‘I thought it was absolutely crammed full of unspeakable people, incredibly noisy and totally filthy.’
Rosie grinned. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘All of those things. That’s what makes it so amazing.’
‘Well, if you like hooligans, I suppose.’
‘Didn’t you ever want to travel any further?’ said Rosie. ‘New York? Paris?’
‘Not particularly,’ sniffed Lilian. ‘I knew what I liked. And I had the shop. And I might go, still.’
A silence descended, and the atmosphere grew stiff. Neither of them could quite say it. That there was no ‘still’. That what Rosie was here to do was not going to result in any trips to Paris. Lilian sniffed and turned away, refusing to touch her lunch.
Afterwards, Rosie insisted on examining her aunt’s hip. Lilian would have liked to refuse, but realised she was in no position to do so.
Sure enough, the wound was a little nasty and sticky round the edges, but nothing Rosie couldn’t sort out. Lilian, for her part, was a bit more impressed than she let on at Rosie’s cool hands and efficient manner as she changed the dressing. After that, Rosie figured there was no point in pussyfooting around any longer.
‘Let’s have a look at the business then.’
Lilian looked guilty. ‘Well, since I hurt my hip …’
‘It’s fine,’ said Rosie. ‘Honestly. I’ve seen it.’
There was a silence.
‘But didn’t you ever want to sell up before? Retire? Go see Paris?’
Lilian’s expression turned mutinous.
‘You retire,’ she said.
Rosie bit her lip, hard.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Can I have the keys?’
With some difficulty Lilian picked up the large set of ancient brass keys from the mantelpiece.
‘Come on then,’ said Rosie. ‘Let’s go and have a look.’
The key twisted reluctantly in the old lock on the red-painted wooden door with nine panels of bevelled glass. With a horrible squeak Rosie managed to click it round.
‘There’s a knack to it,’ murmured Lilian.
‘Oh yes?’ said Rosie. ‘What’s that then?’
‘You get Rob the butcher to do it.’
Rosie shook her head in disbelief, pushing over stacked mail on the mat. ‘I can’t believe this has been going on for so long,’ she said. She moved into the middle of the tiny shop and turned round 360 degrees. The afternoon sun was struggling to penetrate the tiny windows.
‘Wow,’ was all she could say.
First off, there was no denying it, the place was filthy. There were cobwebs in the corners. The windows were covered in grime. Things were toppled over, grey and crumpled. The antique till still had shillings and pence on its ancient keys. The scales, burnished and at an awkward angle, stood there as if the last seven decades had hardly touched them. It was a museum.
And there, too, inside, every square inch of the little shop was covered – in sweets, in posters, in things Rosie hadn’t seen for years. There were little tins of travel sweets and jujubes, neatly piled up in pyramids; great glass bowls full of striped candy canes tied with bows; huge slabs of dark red Bournville chocolate and neatly stacked alternating boxes of Dairy Milk and Black Magic. On the very highest shelves were the most enormous, elaborate boxes of chocolates, in red velvet heart-shaped boxes with huge ribbons, completely covered in dust. An old ladder was attached to sliding rails, as at a library, to allow the higher sweets to be removed from the shelves. Then, like an old apothecary’s shop, the back three walls were lined with shelves that held great bulbous glass jars filled with every imaginable sweet: neat pastel chunks of Edinburgh rock; haphazard slabs of peanut brittle; bright green gobstoppers and sharp little wrapped packets of Hubba Bubba; chocolate frogs and ladybirds; dolly mixtures and rainbow drops and cough sweets and bouncing fat pastel marshmallows and four different flavours of sticky, icing-sugar-coated Turkish delight. And tucked neatly by the old-fashioned black pop-up till, the classics, in neat and tidy rows: Mars Bar. Kit Kat. Aero. Fry’s Chocolate Cream. Crunchie. Twix. Oddly, the smell wasn’t too terrible; a sweet mustiness rather than a horrible decay.
Lilian’s eyebrows went up. ‘Were you quite so damp at the time?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Rosie.
Lilian glanced briefly at the glamorous portraits of herself as a younger woman but didn’t say anything. Rosie sniffed and marched upstairs to run the bath, trying not to glance in the bathroom mirror. Her hair had widened to twice its normal size, like a loaf of bread proofing by a stove.
‘I have a boyfriend, you know.’
‘Boyfriends, schmoyfriends,’ said Lilian. ‘I don’t see him here.’
‘I’m going to make you lunch,’ said Rosie. ‘And you are going to eat it. And then you’re going to get out of that chair, it’s not doing you any good.’
‘OK,’ she said, coming down warm and dry forty-five minutes later. She had only one jumper. That, she probably needed to rectify. Lilian was still sitting in her armchair listening to Radio 4 and staring into the fire. Rosie was tempted to join her, but she was here for a reason.
She heated up the thick vegetable soup she’d grabbed from the Spar, ignoring the looks and whispers of the other shoppers at her dripping state.
‘Eat this. And the bread.’
‘This is oozing with butter,’ said Lilian, looking disgusted.
‘It is,’ said Rosie. ‘And if you don’t want me to make you eat two slices, I’d get on with it. Unless you want me to dissolve it in milk.’
Lilian made a face, but started in on the soup. As she did so, she felt a little spurt of worry; how long had it been since she’d had hot food? Hetty popped in and warmed something up now and again but even she complained about her not having one of those new oven things that heated up things so fast. Lilian didn’t trust the idea of them, and anyway, she’d always got along fine without.
‘We need to get you a microwave,’ said Rosie. ‘You know. If you want to keep living here.’
‘Ugly things,’ murmured Lilian. ‘So many modern things are so ugly.’
Rosie tried not to take this as a personal slight, but didn’t quite know how to respond.
‘Have you lived in Lipton all your life?’ she asked.
‘Well, I’ve travelled,’ said Lilian crossly. It was none of this girl’s business. ‘I’ve been to York … Scarborough of course … Scotland once.’
‘London?’
‘I have no idea why the entire world seems so fixated on London,’ said Lilian. ‘I thought it was absolutely crammed full of unspeakable people, incredibly noisy and totally filthy.’
Rosie grinned. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘All of those things. That’s what makes it so amazing.’
‘Well, if you like hooligans, I suppose.’
‘Didn’t you ever want to travel any further?’ said Rosie. ‘New York? Paris?’
‘Not particularly,’ sniffed Lilian. ‘I knew what I liked. And I had the shop. And I might go, still.’
A silence descended, and the atmosphere grew stiff. Neither of them could quite say it. That there was no ‘still’. That what Rosie was here to do was not going to result in any trips to Paris. Lilian sniffed and turned away, refusing to touch her lunch.
Afterwards, Rosie insisted on examining her aunt’s hip. Lilian would have liked to refuse, but realised she was in no position to do so.
Sure enough, the wound was a little nasty and sticky round the edges, but nothing Rosie couldn’t sort out. Lilian, for her part, was a bit more impressed than she let on at Rosie’s cool hands and efficient manner as she changed the dressing. After that, Rosie figured there was no point in pussyfooting around any longer.
‘Let’s have a look at the business then.’
Lilian looked guilty. ‘Well, since I hurt my hip …’
‘It’s fine,’ said Rosie. ‘Honestly. I’ve seen it.’
There was a silence.
‘But didn’t you ever want to sell up before? Retire? Go see Paris?’
Lilian’s expression turned mutinous.
‘You retire,’ she said.
Rosie bit her lip, hard.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Can I have the keys?’
With some difficulty Lilian picked up the large set of ancient brass keys from the mantelpiece.
‘Come on then,’ said Rosie. ‘Let’s go and have a look.’
The key twisted reluctantly in the old lock on the red-painted wooden door with nine panels of bevelled glass. With a horrible squeak Rosie managed to click it round.
‘There’s a knack to it,’ murmured Lilian.
‘Oh yes?’ said Rosie. ‘What’s that then?’
‘You get Rob the butcher to do it.’
Rosie shook her head in disbelief, pushing over stacked mail on the mat. ‘I can’t believe this has been going on for so long,’ she said. She moved into the middle of the tiny shop and turned round 360 degrees. The afternoon sun was struggling to penetrate the tiny windows.
‘Wow,’ was all she could say.
First off, there was no denying it, the place was filthy. There were cobwebs in the corners. The windows were covered in grime. Things were toppled over, grey and crumpled. The antique till still had shillings and pence on its ancient keys. The scales, burnished and at an awkward angle, stood there as if the last seven decades had hardly touched them. It was a museum.
And there, too, inside, every square inch of the little shop was covered – in sweets, in posters, in things Rosie hadn’t seen for years. There were little tins of travel sweets and jujubes, neatly piled up in pyramids; great glass bowls full of striped candy canes tied with bows; huge slabs of dark red Bournville chocolate and neatly stacked alternating boxes of Dairy Milk and Black Magic. On the very highest shelves were the most enormous, elaborate boxes of chocolates, in red velvet heart-shaped boxes with huge ribbons, completely covered in dust. An old ladder was attached to sliding rails, as at a library, to allow the higher sweets to be removed from the shelves. Then, like an old apothecary’s shop, the back three walls were lined with shelves that held great bulbous glass jars filled with every imaginable sweet: neat pastel chunks of Edinburgh rock; haphazard slabs of peanut brittle; bright green gobstoppers and sharp little wrapped packets of Hubba Bubba; chocolate frogs and ladybirds; dolly mixtures and rainbow drops and cough sweets and bouncing fat pastel marshmallows and four different flavours of sticky, icing-sugar-coated Turkish delight. And tucked neatly by the old-fashioned black pop-up till, the classics, in neat and tidy rows: Mars Bar. Kit Kat. Aero. Fry’s Chocolate Cream. Crunchie. Twix. Oddly, the smell wasn’t too terrible; a sweet mustiness rather than a horrible decay.
