Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 33
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‘Hello?’ She tried cautiously, then louder. ‘Hello?’
No response. There was nothing for it. Biting her lip, she gave the bell pull a tug. The ringing erupted; in the silence of the high hills, it was deafening.
Still no reply. Rosie started to worry. This did happen on the job, of course – sometimes old people, left alone too much, with no friends or relatives living close by, simply fell asleep in their armchairs and never woke up again. The older nurses who came to give lectures would tell them horror stories – of bodies fused to sofas, of terrible decomposition. It couldn’t happen to her, though, Moray wouldn’t let it. Surely? She glanced behind her, but the Land Rover, parked underneath a tree, was almost completely out of sight. But, Rosie thought, looking up at the big house again as shadows lengthened over the valleys, if it was going to happen anywhere, it would be up here …
Telling herself not to be so stupid, it was just a spooky old house with possibly a dead person somewhere in it and no mobile connection, Rosie pushed at the door. Sure enough, it wasn’t locked. The door creaked as if auditioning for a part in a horror movie. Rosie sighed. In her head she could hear her friend Mike saying, ‘Yeah, Rosie, now go down to the cellar. Watch out for the axe,’ and tried to tell herself to calm down. But the sight of the unlit corridor in front of her, dusty wood parquet on the floors and Victorian paintings on the walls, did nothing to still her heart. Rosie sniffed, tentatively. No scent in the air apart from a little dust. Well, that was something. Unless, of course, there was already a skeleton.
‘Get a grip,’ she said to herself, out loud. ‘HELLO! HELLO!’
Nothing. Rosie took a step into the building. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears.
‘HELLO!’
The first door on her right revealed a large sitting room with two high-backed chairs around an empty fireplace. There were books on a shelf and pictures on the wall, but apart from that, no signs of human habitation at all.
She closed the door and reversed back into the hall. Stepping forward again, she nearly screamed, then realised she had caught sight of her own reflection in a large, dull mirror.
‘Jesus,’ she said. This was ridiculous. She marched forwards as quickly as she could, past the staircase and on towards the back of the house; the kitchen was always the warmest, so that was the most likely place for anyone … or anything … to be.
Rosie pushed open the door, loudly and too forcefully, so that it crashed into the wall. Facing away from her was the silhouette of a man, sitting stock still. All the breath went out of her body. As she gasped, staring at the form in front of her, suddenly it twisted round and let out a high-pitched yelp of its own.
‘GRRRAAAAARGH!’
For a second, they stared at each other, absolutely paralysed with fear. Finally, some oxygen made its way to Rosie’s brain, and she understood that she was looking at, a) a person; b) a living person; c) quite a young person, not entirely ugly, as it happened, and d) it was wearing headphones.
As her brain computed this, the man, looking shaken, took the headphones out of his ears.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said, incredibly loudly. ‘And what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?’
Chapter Eight
While all sweets are not born equal, there are many on the layered shelves that perhaps escape the notice given to the more flashy of the species, such as the attention-seeking bumblebee stripes of the humbug, or the actual experience of pain that accompanies a red devil or a Wham Bar.
Take, for example, the Refresher. It may seem nothing to you, a passing fizz, or a consolation prize for when one’s funds fail to rise to the challenge of a Toblerone. But the Refresher is, in itself, a work of art.
Marvel at the colours: that delicate duck-egg blue; the palest powder-pink; lemon sorbet and eau de nil. Wonder at the hours of effort and experimentation that went into balancing the light sugar crunch with the faint but never intrusive fruity fizz upon the tongue. Admire the smart 1930s art deco striped packet and font, which has never needed to be changed or improved upon in its lifetime. Anyone who dreamed up anything as beautiful and wondrous as a Refresher, that has given so much joy to so many, really deserves a statue.
Rosie was shaken up, there was no denying it. She gave him a Paddington Bear hard stare, but it had absolutely no effect at all; he was still staring at her furiously.
‘Oh,’ he said finally, his voice at a more normal register now he was used to his headphones being off. His eyes fixed on her bag. ‘What are you? Some nurse?’
‘I’m not some nurse,” Rosie said, trying to recover herself. She’d had a bad fright, at the end of an extremely demanding couple of days, and was finding it hard to control her emotions. ‘I’m here to help. And I stood outside for half an hour ringing your bell, actually.’
He glared at her. ‘Why didn’t you come round the back door?’ he said, indicating a glass half-door at the back of the kitchen.
‘Because I’m not looking for a job as an under-housemaid,’ Rosie said. ‘I didn’t know where your back door was. What, you’d rather I poked all round the back of your house?’
There was a pause.
‘You’re very grumpy for a nurse,’ said the man eventually.
‘Auxiliary nurse,’ said Rosie.
‘Oh well, that explains it,’ said the man sarcastically.
‘And you yelled at me,’ Rosie said, justifiably she felt.
The man rolled his eyes. ‘I reserve the right to yell at anyone who materialises in my kitchen. You’re lucky I didn’t throw a golf club at you.’
‘Yes, that’s what I feel right now,’ Rosie said. ‘Really, really lucky.’
They looked at each other.
‘I’ll just go get the doctor.’
‘That spiv?’ said the man. ‘Fuck off.’
Rosie raised her eyebrows, and stuck Moray’s bag up on the scrubbed kitchen table. She’d brought it in for him just in case.
‘OK,’ Rosie said, ‘let’s take a look at you. Stephen … can I call you Stephen?’
‘As opposed to what – Patricia?’
Rosie looked up at him. He hadn’t moved out of the chair to greet her. Behind him, leaning up against a kitchen range that was blazing merrily – it was substantially warmer in here than it had been in the rest of the house – was a walking stick. He had very broad shoulders and a large head, with a thick brush of black hair. His brows were currently furrowed, but it was easy to follow the lines in his forehead and see that this was often his expression. His eyes were a surprisingly bright blue, given the blackness of his hair. He was sitting upright, and she noticed that his left leg was set out at a stiff angle, held away from the rest of him.
No response. There was nothing for it. Biting her lip, she gave the bell pull a tug. The ringing erupted; in the silence of the high hills, it was deafening.
Still no reply. Rosie started to worry. This did happen on the job, of course – sometimes old people, left alone too much, with no friends or relatives living close by, simply fell asleep in their armchairs and never woke up again. The older nurses who came to give lectures would tell them horror stories – of bodies fused to sofas, of terrible decomposition. It couldn’t happen to her, though, Moray wouldn’t let it. Surely? She glanced behind her, but the Land Rover, parked underneath a tree, was almost completely out of sight. But, Rosie thought, looking up at the big house again as shadows lengthened over the valleys, if it was going to happen anywhere, it would be up here …
Telling herself not to be so stupid, it was just a spooky old house with possibly a dead person somewhere in it and no mobile connection, Rosie pushed at the door. Sure enough, it wasn’t locked. The door creaked as if auditioning for a part in a horror movie. Rosie sighed. In her head she could hear her friend Mike saying, ‘Yeah, Rosie, now go down to the cellar. Watch out for the axe,’ and tried to tell herself to calm down. But the sight of the unlit corridor in front of her, dusty wood parquet on the floors and Victorian paintings on the walls, did nothing to still her heart. Rosie sniffed, tentatively. No scent in the air apart from a little dust. Well, that was something. Unless, of course, there was already a skeleton.
‘Get a grip,’ she said to herself, out loud. ‘HELLO! HELLO!’
Nothing. Rosie took a step into the building. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears.
‘HELLO!’
The first door on her right revealed a large sitting room with two high-backed chairs around an empty fireplace. There were books on a shelf and pictures on the wall, but apart from that, no signs of human habitation at all.
She closed the door and reversed back into the hall. Stepping forward again, she nearly screamed, then realised she had caught sight of her own reflection in a large, dull mirror.
‘Jesus,’ she said. This was ridiculous. She marched forwards as quickly as she could, past the staircase and on towards the back of the house; the kitchen was always the warmest, so that was the most likely place for anyone … or anything … to be.
Rosie pushed open the door, loudly and too forcefully, so that it crashed into the wall. Facing away from her was the silhouette of a man, sitting stock still. All the breath went out of her body. As she gasped, staring at the form in front of her, suddenly it twisted round and let out a high-pitched yelp of its own.
‘GRRRAAAAARGH!’
For a second, they stared at each other, absolutely paralysed with fear. Finally, some oxygen made its way to Rosie’s brain, and she understood that she was looking at, a) a person; b) a living person; c) quite a young person, not entirely ugly, as it happened, and d) it was wearing headphones.
As her brain computed this, the man, looking shaken, took the headphones out of his ears.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said, incredibly loudly. ‘And what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?’
Chapter Eight
While all sweets are not born equal, there are many on the layered shelves that perhaps escape the notice given to the more flashy of the species, such as the attention-seeking bumblebee stripes of the humbug, or the actual experience of pain that accompanies a red devil or a Wham Bar.
Take, for example, the Refresher. It may seem nothing to you, a passing fizz, or a consolation prize for when one’s funds fail to rise to the challenge of a Toblerone. But the Refresher is, in itself, a work of art.
Marvel at the colours: that delicate duck-egg blue; the palest powder-pink; lemon sorbet and eau de nil. Wonder at the hours of effort and experimentation that went into balancing the light sugar crunch with the faint but never intrusive fruity fizz upon the tongue. Admire the smart 1930s art deco striped packet and font, which has never needed to be changed or improved upon in its lifetime. Anyone who dreamed up anything as beautiful and wondrous as a Refresher, that has given so much joy to so many, really deserves a statue.
Rosie was shaken up, there was no denying it. She gave him a Paddington Bear hard stare, but it had absolutely no effect at all; he was still staring at her furiously.
‘Oh,’ he said finally, his voice at a more normal register now he was used to his headphones being off. His eyes fixed on her bag. ‘What are you? Some nurse?’
‘I’m not some nurse,” Rosie said, trying to recover herself. She’d had a bad fright, at the end of an extremely demanding couple of days, and was finding it hard to control her emotions. ‘I’m here to help. And I stood outside for half an hour ringing your bell, actually.’
He glared at her. ‘Why didn’t you come round the back door?’ he said, indicating a glass half-door at the back of the kitchen.
‘Because I’m not looking for a job as an under-housemaid,’ Rosie said. ‘I didn’t know where your back door was. What, you’d rather I poked all round the back of your house?’
There was a pause.
‘You’re very grumpy for a nurse,’ said the man eventually.
‘Auxiliary nurse,’ said Rosie.
‘Oh well, that explains it,’ said the man sarcastically.
‘And you yelled at me,’ Rosie said, justifiably she felt.
The man rolled his eyes. ‘I reserve the right to yell at anyone who materialises in my kitchen. You’re lucky I didn’t throw a golf club at you.’
‘Yes, that’s what I feel right now,’ Rosie said. ‘Really, really lucky.’
They looked at each other.
‘I’ll just go get the doctor.’
‘That spiv?’ said the man. ‘Fuck off.’
Rosie raised her eyebrows, and stuck Moray’s bag up on the scrubbed kitchen table. She’d brought it in for him just in case.
‘OK,’ Rosie said, ‘let’s take a look at you. Stephen … can I call you Stephen?’
‘As opposed to what – Patricia?’
Rosie looked up at him. He hadn’t moved out of the chair to greet her. Behind him, leaning up against a kitchen range that was blazing merrily – it was substantially warmer in here than it had been in the rest of the house – was a walking stick. He had very broad shoulders and a large head, with a thick brush of black hair. His brows were currently furrowed, but it was easy to follow the lines in his forehead and see that this was often his expression. His eyes were a surprisingly bright blue, given the blackness of his hair. He was sitting upright, and she noticed that his left leg was set out at a stiff angle, held away from the rest of him.
