Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 23

Before she got started on the windows, she took a packet of chocolate caramels and a glass of water, wondering how her aunt would feel about their installing a coffee machine somewhere. The village, in Rosie’s opinion, could be improved twenty times by the simple installation of a Starbucks. She sat down on the large grey stone step outside the shop, to polish up the original brass scales and watch the world go by. A couple of smart-looking ladies clopped by on horses with shopping bags in their hands. Rosie wondered what it would be like to go shopping on a horse. Probably less awful than having to go and get it on a bike, she reflected gloomily, watching the horses clip-clop down the road. One of them stopped to have an enormous poo. The ladies ignored it and continued chatting. There was no doubt about it, the countryside certainly was different, Rosie reflected. She watched them down the quiet cobbled road as they continued on their way, then picked up her scrubbing brush again.
‘What’s this?’
The voice was snappy, with a heavy local accent. It did not sound happy. Rosie looked up, squinting in the sunlight. It was hard to make out the silhouette of the man standing over her, but from what she could see he was bald and exceptionally thin.
‘Hello,’ she said, scrambling up. ‘I’m Lilian Hopkins’ niece. I’m here to help her out with the shop.’
The man took a step back. He wore little round glasses and had peculiarly red lips, which he licked, quickly and nervously, displaying a sharp little tongue and extremely white teeth that glinted obtrusively. Rosie wondered if they were false. He wasn’t as tall as Rosie had thought from the step; when he wasn’t looming over her, they were about the same height.
‘What do you mean, help her out with it? You mean you’re going to reopen it?’
‘I haven’t decided,’ said Rosie, staring at him. What was it with his tone? This wasn’t any of his business. She thought people were supposed to be nice and friendly in the countryside and that it was London that was cold and unwelcoming. Well, not so far. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Well, I don’t like that,’ said the man. ‘Best thing that happened to this town, that place closing down.’
What kind of weirdo is happy when a sweetshop closes down? wondered Rosie.
‘Roy Blaine,’ said the man. He didn’t extend his hand for a shake, just waved it in her general direction. ‘Town dentist.’
‘Oh,’ said Rosie, understanding. ‘Ah. Hah. Well.’
The man peered in the windows, unsmiling.
‘Actually, I would have thought a sweetshop would be good for business.’ Rosie risked a joke, but the man didn’t smile.
‘It’s a bloody disgrace,’ he said.
‘Uhm, it’s only sweets,’ said Rosie. ‘I think you’ll find the Spar sells the same kind of stuff. Except they sell lots of fizzy drinks too. Which are far worse.’
Roy Blaine looked at her with the expression of a man who understood far more of the sufferings of the world than she ever would.
‘It’s a bad business,’ he said. ‘A damn bad business.’
‘We’ll promote good dental hygiene,’ promised Rosie suddenly. ‘We’ll put signs up reminding children to brush their teeth after eating a sweetie. And we sell small portions. And we’ll sell chewing gum!’ Then she suddenly remembered that one of the chapters in her aunt’s book was entitled ‘Why Chewing Gum is Death’. ‘Well, maybe not chewing gum. But we’ll be responsible!’
She realised as she said this that she wasn’t actually meant to be opening the shop up again the way she wanted it; just readying it to be sold.
Roy Blaine sniffed. ‘Nobody cares,’ he said. ‘Nobody cares about the infants with rotting mouths howling and dying in agony. From sweets.’ He hissed the last word, as if it pained him even to say it.
Rosie shot him a look. ‘Would you like me to fetch my aunt?’
Roy Blaine backed off.
‘No. Oh no, no, don’t do that. No.’ And he walked off down the road, muttering.
Lilian had painfully come to the door to see what the commotion was.
‘Was it that shyster Roy Blaine? That scrubber. Worst dentist this side of the Pennines. Not that I would know,’ she added proudly. ‘I never go.’
‘You never … Lilian!’ said Rosie in despair. ‘Anyway, I told him we’d promote good oral hygiene. And maybe sell chewing gum.’
‘Never,’ said Lilian, turning on her heel and slamming the door. Rosie sat down again.
‘Get back to bed,’ she called out feebly, but without much hope.
Rosie returned to her scrubbing rather crossly after that. She wasn’t here to make enemies, and really, how passionately could one fight against a sweetshop? They weren’t pretending to be healthy. It was a place for treats, for somewhere to come excitedly clutching your pocket money, to look forward to. They didn’t pretend to be selling orange juice that turned out to be full of preservatives and sugar, or making healthy ready meals that were stuffed with saccharine and salt. They sold honest-to-goodness, upfront sweets, wrapped in pink and green paper bags …
Rosie realised suddenly that she’d drifted away, and that she had taken on the shop’s identity as her own. She didn’t even know what type of bags they used. She used to get pink and green bags in Mrs McCreadie’s shop, on the corner of Blackthorne Road. She wondered where you bought them wholesale. Then she told herself off. She was just here to help out for a little bit. Set her great-aunt up. Obviously Lilian would never again be up for a whole day serving behind the counter, but clearly all her marbles were there; if the shop could pay its way and make a little extra, that could mean a bit of care for her aunt and someone to run the business, then everyone would be happy.
‘Penny for ’em,’ came a gruff voice. She looked up, squinting in the sun, and was greeted by a friendly smile, showing off strong white teeth.
‘You Lilian’s girl?’ he said, his country accent made thicker by a deep voice.
Rosie scrambled up, suddenly wishing she wasn’t wearing crappy old trousers and a fleece, of all things. Maybe she could take off the fleece. Then she remembered that underneath it she’d pulled on her faded Race for Life T-shirt which had breast cancer written all over it. Maybe not.
‘I’m Jake,’ he said, holding out a strong, calloused hand. His hair was the colour of straw, some bits lightened by the sun; his face a walnut brown, the kind of brown that came from working outside all day, not lying by a swimming pool wearing flipflops. Round his eyes were creases, but his eyes shone out of them, a very bright blue. ‘Something about fixing a bike?’