Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 26

The woman did not smile. ‘What the ’eck are you doing?’ she said, folding her arms and looking down at Rosie.
Rosie was so fed up she was on the point of saying, ‘I’m from MI5 checking for sniper activity,’ when she heard two sets of running footsteps pounding round the side of the barn. She squinted and raised her head, and suddenly thought how much, however embarrassing a time she was having, however dishevelled and frankly unwell she appeared, she suddenly didn’t feel like an almost-engaged cohabiting type of person at all. Instead she felt a bit squeaky and slightly giggly. Because, as she dimly noted that a car was coming to a screeching halt outside, there, both looking concerned and out of breath, stood Jake and Moray.
Rosie sat up as carefully as she was able, checking herself for broken bones. She could anticipate some pretty heavy bruising on her upper arms, never her favourite area at the best of times. She realised she was under the scrutiny of four people, and a cow.
‘Uhm, two pints of semi-skimmed?’ she said shakily, picking a piece of straw out of her hair.
‘Din you see what she did to Pa’s vegetable patch?’ shouted the woman. ‘Din you see?’
The man didn’t look as upset as his wife. In fact, he didn’t seem too put out at all. He scratched his head.
‘I’m really sorry,’ said Rosie. ‘The bike … must have malfunctioned.’
Moray crouched down. ‘Well, you’re certainly making an impression,’ he muttered, as he peered professionally into her eyes with a tiny flashlight.
‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ he asked her, and Rosie realised that she was quite dazed because she wasn’t actually focusing on his fingers at all, she was reflecting on how his eyes were a very unusual mix of blue and green, which probably meant she was concussed.
‘Uhm. Four,’ she said, snapping back. ‘Definitely.’
‘And are you drunk or under the influence of any substances …’ he asked, with a slight moue of amusement around his mouth.
‘Is that an offer?’ Rosie found herself saying before clutching her head in horror. ‘Sorry. Sorry. It’s been a big couple of days.’
‘So can I take that as a no?’ asked Moray, helping her to her feet.
‘Tragically, it is indeed a no,’ said Rosie, brushing herself down. She smiled at Jake, who was standing in the corner looking anxious. ‘You are the worst cycling teacher ever,’ she said.
‘Why didn’t you brake?’ he asked. ‘No, hang on, why did you throw yourself off a hill? This isn’t skiing.’
‘Well, I couldn’t brake, could I? I’d just have gone arse over tit.’
‘Into our vegetable patch,’ said Mrs Isitt fiercely. ‘Oh no, you couldn’t, you’ve already ruined it.’
‘I am very sorry about that,’ said Rosie. ‘I really am. I’m new here.’
Mrs Isitt flared her nostrils with a harrumph that made Rosie wonder if a horse had wandered into the barn.
‘While I’m here,’ said Moray, ‘Peter, let me take a look at that hip.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Mrs Isitt.
‘Yes, well, I’d still like to take a look. In passing,’ said Moray. ‘Seeing as we have no further casualties.’
‘Apart from …’
‘Yes, yes, the vegetable patch.’
Rosie was still blushing from saying something so stupid to Moray, but Jake came up beside her, kindly asking, ‘Would you like me to get you the cream?’
Rosie smiled gratefully. ‘I wouldn’t want to face Lilian without it.’
Jake steered her towards the barn door.
‘You’ve got that silage to move,’ said Mrs Isitt huffily as he left.
‘Yes, Mrs Isitt,’ said Jake. ‘I’ll just sort this out.’
Rosie followed him obediently.
‘You work for them?’
Jake shrugged. ‘Times are hard,’ he said, in a tone of voice that indicated he didn’t want to talk about it any more. Rosie followed him quietly out into the dairy, a large, bare concrete area.
‘It smells funny,’ she said.
‘So do you, to a cow,’ said Jake. ‘You get used to it.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, where are you from?’
‘London.’
‘London! I’ve been to London!’
‘How did it smell?’
‘Terrible,’ said Jake. ‘Of frying grease, and noodles, and sweat and the exhaust from those great ruddy buses.’
‘Mmm,’ said Rosie. ‘And takeaway coffee and Mexican food, and strange hair products and outdoor cigarettes and incense sticks and hot pavement …’
‘Yes,’ said Jake sternly. ‘Ugh.’
Rosie smiled, as Jake picked up two plastic-capped water bottles, went to a large silver-metal vat and ladled them full of dense, freshly churned cream.
‘No charge today,’ he said. ‘But bring back those plastic bottles or else Mrs Isitt will have my guts for garters. And she will too.’
Rosie nodded. ‘But how do I get back up the hill?’ she asked. Jake laughed.
‘Get a pedal on, girl,’ he said.
‘That is simply not possible,’ said Rosie severely. ‘You are kidding.’
‘Fine,’ said Jake. ‘I’ll send the helicopter.’
‘Jacob!’ came a shrill voice from outside the barn. ‘Are you getting on with that silage?’
‘I have to go,’ said Jake. ‘Bye now!’
And he left Rosie standing there with her brimming bottles of cream, feeling more than a little dazed by the country life she’d expected to find so dull.
The bike was absolutely fine, and someone had picked it up and propped it on the side of the barn. There was no one to be seen. Rosie looked longingly at the Land Rover parked outside the austere-looking farmhouse, but there seemed to be nothing else for it. She deposited the milk and cream in the ancient wicker basket at the front and started to push the heavy machine up the steep muddy track.
It took for ever. At one point she was tempted to get up and try to ride again, but as soon as she did so she wobbled horribly and started to slip down the hill backwards, so she gave up and went back to trudging. The hill took a lot longer to get up than it had to get down, and while at some point she might have appreciated the view of the neat patchwork fields of the Isitts’ dairy farm, the cows roaming the green fields, eating in preparation for their evening milking, she didn’t care how it looked. A couple of fields, one brown and one red, were being ploughed up by a tractor. It was beautiful, thought Rosie, but she stamped uphill, red-faced, embarrassed, hot and cross. All she wanted was an Oyster card; a tube station; a sitdown in a coffee shop. To run into someone who didn’t appear to already know all about her. She glanced up the hill. Miles. Dammit. She was boiling hot, and incredibly thirsty and seriously pissed off and sick of being a laughing stock, and …