Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 49
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And Lilian found she enjoyed talking about his life, his plans and dreams; they took her away from thinking about Ned, from the sweetshop, from the stifling little parlour that held what was left of her family. So they would sit, sometimes sharing a bag of damaged rock candy, and talk about what he would do, and gradually, little by little over those stolen hours, sometimes with Henry practically falling asleep after a long hot day in the fields, sometimes sharing a bottle of cider as Lilian stared at his sunburned neck and curly, tangled hair, and wondered how for the life of her she could ever have found him annoying; how she could ever, for a second, have found him anything but the most wonderful, kind, amazing man she had ever known, she gradually, growing more and more bold, laid her head on his shoulder; let him, gently, take her hand as they lay and talked in the meadow and, slowly, their plans, their ideas for life, started to include both of them; started to twist together like two plants growing side by side.
Before the war, Lilian reflected, as they walked home late, the heavy blood-orange moon rising over their heads, this would have been absolutely disallowed; the scandal could have affected everything. Now, it seemed, the rules had changed; so many young men had gone, or left the village, or been killed – one thing Lilian had learned, horribly, was the amount of tragedy masked in other people’s lives. From feeling herself to be the only person mistreated by the universe, she had realised that in fact, until now, she had been innocent and protected; that to lose a brother or a son was a common experience; had been as long as there had been wars. She felt as if she had joined a new group of people, those who knew how cruel the world could be and could never unlearn that fact.
They were crossing the cobbled main street when, biting her lip, she reached out her hand and without even breaking stride, Henry reached out his strong, calloused fingers to meet it as they walked entwined together down the darkening road.
Despite the fact that she knew deep down it was only a matter of time before he got his call-up papers; that Henry must leave shortly; despite the loss of Ned, and the fact that her two brothers were still at war; despite all of this, she would look back on this for ever as one of the happiest moments of her life.
Chapter Eleven
The trick to getting bits of peanut brittle out from between your teeth requires some skill. I did at one stage suggest to the manufacturers that they include a toothpick with every packet, but they were extremely rude and made remarks about having children’s eyes out and so on, which in my opinion is why peanut brittle is much in decline today. But who am I to talk? After all, why would any confectionery manufacturer listen to someone who has been selling sweets directly to the general public for the last fifty years? Oh silly me, how dare I get ideas above my station like sending helpful information about a product which causes a clear and obvious problem, as well as making your breath smell like a diabetic monkey.
‘Ta-dah!’
Rosie stood at the bottom of the stairs. Even though it was only just past 7am, she hadn’t been able to sleep with excitement, and had heard her aunt moving restlessly downstairs, and helped her wash and dress, before heating the pan up for scrambled eggs and nipping upstairs to get dressed.
‘What do you think? Too much?’
Lilian looked up from perusing the local paper.
‘You’re in here,’ she said, handing it over. On the little sixteen-sheet, filled with small ads for washing machines and farm machinery, was a picture of the newly refurbished sweetshop.
‘Ooh!’ said Rosie. Underneath it said, Teeth-rotting Hopkins family trying again.’
‘Oh,’ said Rosie, surprised by how much this knocked the wind out of her sails. ‘That’s not very nice.’
‘No,’ said Lilian.
‘It’s actually horrid,’ said Rosie.
Today marks the reopening of Lipton’s formerly derelict sweetshop, in the same place; returning from the grave to wreck the teeth of another generation of Lipton children.
Rosie looked up. ‘Lilian?’
‘I think your scrambled eggs are burning.’
‘OK, hold your horses,’ said Rosie, grating cheese into them as Lilian looked on almost hungrily. Rosie was delighted at this, as she slipped two slices of wholemeal bread under the grill – there was no such thing as a toaster in Lilian’s doll’s-house kitchen. She added two strong cups of tea and they sat down at the table.
‘Lilian, who edits the local paper?’
‘The Lipton Times? It’s that awful charlatan Blaine.’
Rosie glanced at the other stories in the thin sheets, most of which appeared to be about tooth-whitening competitions at the local school.
‘So he does this job on the side?’
Lilian looked sad. ‘It used to be a thriving paper, the Lipton Times. Everyone read it, had a journalist and an editor and everything. Then, you know …’
‘What?’ asked Rosie.
‘That thing everyone talks about. The really big news paper in the sky that came along and ruined everything else, blah blah blah.’
Rosie was stumped, until light finally dawned. ‘You mean the internet?’
‘Well, yes. I hate that thing.’
‘The whole thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘You hate the entire internet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Lilian looked at her as if she was the biggest idiot ever.
‘Because it took my lovely local paper and turned it into a ridiculous free rag, that’s why,’ she said. ‘And I’ve scarcely had a proper letter in seventeen years! Why on earth would I want anything to do with that?’
‘You know,’ said Rosie, thinking suddenly, ‘if you were online you could send sweets to anyone anywhere in the world.’
‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’ said Lilian.
‘Well, maybe people might like old-fashioned sweets,’ said Rosie. ‘Maybe they’d like proper humbugs and half-decent jellies and proper Turkish delight, not that weird pink stuff, wrapped up nicely and sent properly.’
Lilian looked as unconvinced as it was possible for a person to be.
‘Well, you’re full of pep this morning,’ she said. ‘What are you wearing?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Rosie. ‘I did wonder if it would be too much.’
Rosie was wearing a Get Cutie dress which suited her very nicely. It had a sweetheart neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves and a pattern of nesting birds, and was protected by her candy-striped apron. A mob cap covered her dark curls.
Before the war, Lilian reflected, as they walked home late, the heavy blood-orange moon rising over their heads, this would have been absolutely disallowed; the scandal could have affected everything. Now, it seemed, the rules had changed; so many young men had gone, or left the village, or been killed – one thing Lilian had learned, horribly, was the amount of tragedy masked in other people’s lives. From feeling herself to be the only person mistreated by the universe, she had realised that in fact, until now, she had been innocent and protected; that to lose a brother or a son was a common experience; had been as long as there had been wars. She felt as if she had joined a new group of people, those who knew how cruel the world could be and could never unlearn that fact.
They were crossing the cobbled main street when, biting her lip, she reached out her hand and without even breaking stride, Henry reached out his strong, calloused fingers to meet it as they walked entwined together down the darkening road.
Despite the fact that she knew deep down it was only a matter of time before he got his call-up papers; that Henry must leave shortly; despite the loss of Ned, and the fact that her two brothers were still at war; despite all of this, she would look back on this for ever as one of the happiest moments of her life.
Chapter Eleven
The trick to getting bits of peanut brittle out from between your teeth requires some skill. I did at one stage suggest to the manufacturers that they include a toothpick with every packet, but they were extremely rude and made remarks about having children’s eyes out and so on, which in my opinion is why peanut brittle is much in decline today. But who am I to talk? After all, why would any confectionery manufacturer listen to someone who has been selling sweets directly to the general public for the last fifty years? Oh silly me, how dare I get ideas above my station like sending helpful information about a product which causes a clear and obvious problem, as well as making your breath smell like a diabetic monkey.
‘Ta-dah!’
Rosie stood at the bottom of the stairs. Even though it was only just past 7am, she hadn’t been able to sleep with excitement, and had heard her aunt moving restlessly downstairs, and helped her wash and dress, before heating the pan up for scrambled eggs and nipping upstairs to get dressed.
‘What do you think? Too much?’
Lilian looked up from perusing the local paper.
‘You’re in here,’ she said, handing it over. On the little sixteen-sheet, filled with small ads for washing machines and farm machinery, was a picture of the newly refurbished sweetshop.
‘Ooh!’ said Rosie. Underneath it said, Teeth-rotting Hopkins family trying again.’
‘Oh,’ said Rosie, surprised by how much this knocked the wind out of her sails. ‘That’s not very nice.’
‘No,’ said Lilian.
‘It’s actually horrid,’ said Rosie.
Today marks the reopening of Lipton’s formerly derelict sweetshop, in the same place; returning from the grave to wreck the teeth of another generation of Lipton children.
Rosie looked up. ‘Lilian?’
‘I think your scrambled eggs are burning.’
‘OK, hold your horses,’ said Rosie, grating cheese into them as Lilian looked on almost hungrily. Rosie was delighted at this, as she slipped two slices of wholemeal bread under the grill – there was no such thing as a toaster in Lilian’s doll’s-house kitchen. She added two strong cups of tea and they sat down at the table.
‘Lilian, who edits the local paper?’
‘The Lipton Times? It’s that awful charlatan Blaine.’
Rosie glanced at the other stories in the thin sheets, most of which appeared to be about tooth-whitening competitions at the local school.
‘So he does this job on the side?’
Lilian looked sad. ‘It used to be a thriving paper, the Lipton Times. Everyone read it, had a journalist and an editor and everything. Then, you know …’
‘What?’ asked Rosie.
‘That thing everyone talks about. The really big news paper in the sky that came along and ruined everything else, blah blah blah.’
Rosie was stumped, until light finally dawned. ‘You mean the internet?’
‘Well, yes. I hate that thing.’
‘The whole thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘You hate the entire internet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Lilian looked at her as if she was the biggest idiot ever.
‘Because it took my lovely local paper and turned it into a ridiculous free rag, that’s why,’ she said. ‘And I’ve scarcely had a proper letter in seventeen years! Why on earth would I want anything to do with that?’
‘You know,’ said Rosie, thinking suddenly, ‘if you were online you could send sweets to anyone anywhere in the world.’
‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’ said Lilian.
‘Well, maybe people might like old-fashioned sweets,’ said Rosie. ‘Maybe they’d like proper humbugs and half-decent jellies and proper Turkish delight, not that weird pink stuff, wrapped up nicely and sent properly.’
Lilian looked as unconvinced as it was possible for a person to be.
‘Well, you’re full of pep this morning,’ she said. ‘What are you wearing?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Rosie. ‘I did wonder if it would be too much.’
Rosie was wearing a Get Cutie dress which suited her very nicely. It had a sweetheart neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves and a pattern of nesting birds, and was protected by her candy-striped apron. A mob cap covered her dark curls.
