Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 50

‘It’s the cap, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘The cap’s too much.’
‘I wouldn’t say the cap was too much,’ said Lilian, a ghost of a smile hovering round her lips. ‘Although it does look a little bit like the themed catering staff Hetty gets in at the big house round Christmas time, or for those awful wedding things she does.’
Rosie snatched it off. ‘It was just an idea,’ she said hastily. ‘Plus I need to wear it when I’m handling the chocolate.’
Lilian snorted. ‘Political correctness gone mad.’
‘I don’t think it is,’ said Rosie gently. ‘I think it’s just basic cleanliness.’
‘I always kept a clean shop!’ said Lilian.
The women regarded each other.
‘Let’s not talk about the mice right now,’ said Rosie, who had spent several unpleasant mornings emptying traps. ‘So, are you coming? I’m going to have free lollipops! And balloons!’
‘Free?’ said Lilian.
‘It’s called marketing,’ said Rosie. ‘And I thought … if you wanted to come … Moray has a spare wheelchair in the surgery I thought he might lend me.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Lilian. ‘I’m not going to sit out there like one of those awful war-wounded old … I mean one of those awful old crones.’
‘Just a thought,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m hoping … well, I’m hoping we get some people. Jake said he’d bring along some farm boys and I’ve handed out lots of leaflets and …’
‘No,’ said Lilian. ‘Lipton people don’t fall for things like that, I think you’re just going to have to face it, Rosie. I do appreciate what you’re trying to do for me here, and it would be nice for you to find someone and let things continue, I suppose. Yes, I suppose.’
‘Is that a thank you?’ said Rosie.
‘But we must face things, Rosemary. These shops … they’re dying. Like everything else. Like the post office. Like the newspapers. Like me, and everyone I’ve ever bloody known.’
Lilian attempted a wry smile, but it didn’t sit well on her old, too thin face. It showed off long, teeth in sunken gums, and cheeks with deep crevasses running down the middle.
‘We’re done. It’s nice of you to come here, and it’s nice of you to look after me, and if we can sell the sweetshop as a going concern, well, that will be jolly wonderful for me, I suppose. I can find a home, and sit in a corner and watch television all day with drool hanging out of my mouth. I know what you’re up to.’
‘We’re not “up to” anything,’ said Rosie. ‘I thought it was wrong you being left to cope on your own. I still think that. And I’m trying to do the best I can for you and for the shop. And I think …’ Rosie stole a glance at the large helium canister that had been delivered the previous evening, ‘I think we can do that.’
Lilian snorted. ‘I was fine, you know.’
‘I know,’ lied Rosie for the nine hundredth time. ‘I know you were, Aunt Lil. We’re just trying to help. I’m only trying to help.’
‘People shouldn’t help until they’re asked.’
Rosie thought of someone else.
‘Some people can’t bear to ask,’ she said. ‘Maybe that’s where I come in.’
It was another lovely day; Rosie noticed the sweet smell of freshly cut hay in the air. The town was full of itinerant labourers, a few late holidaymakers and the first groups of children. By eight thirty, Rosie had already mastered the helium canister for the balloons (quickly passing over a small pang of loneliness that Gerard wasn’t there to hear her funny voice) and stuck them up outside. Listening to the happy tinkle of the bell, she turned quickly to see a small boy looking up at her solemnly. She recognised him from before.
‘Hello, Edison,’ she said.
‘I’m here early,’ said the boy, blinking behind his thick glasses. ‘I thought if I got here early I might be able to put away some of the sweets before the big boys take them off me.’
‘Tell the big boys not to do that!’ said Rosie. ‘Or punch them.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said the boy. ‘I’m a pacific.’
‘A what?’
‘A pacific. It means I don’t fight back, as it’s morly wrong.’
‘Are you a pacifist, Edison?’
‘Yes,’ said Edison. ‘That’s what I said.’
Rosie took out the big dish of old-fashioned lollipops – strawberries and cream, lemon and lime, and blackcurrant and vanilla, each lollipop with the colours swirled around its top and tied up in a simple twist of waxed paper.
‘Well, one way of looking at it,’ said Rosie, ‘is that you never start a fight, but if you get into one, make sure you fight back.’
Edison was closely examining the lollipops, picking them up and turning them over in his hands as he tried to make up his mind.
‘Yes, but the thing is,’ he said, sounding like a very small professor, ‘my glasses cost one hundred and fifty-nine pounds, you see? I have stig-mis-ma. Mummy says it will make me very clever.’
Rosie arched her eyebrows, then glanced outside. A woman with a severe haircut and no make-up gave her a tight smile, then glanced deliberately at her watch.
Don’t start a fight but always finish it, her granpa, Gordon, had always said. He’d given her lessons on the balcony of their old flat. It had come in handy precisely once, in year four, against a gang of hardcore girls from the next estate. The second she’d used Granpa Gordon’s patented neck-whacker, the girl had staggered back, screaming abuse, and she’d never had the slightest bit of trouble from them ever again. She was tempted to teach Edison the neck-whacker right now, but suspected his mother wouldn’t approve. It was bad enough bringing evil sugar to town, she supposed.
‘Have you decided yet, genius?’ she asked.
Edison looked absolutely helpless.
‘Remember your friend who isn’t allowed to eat sweets?’ said Rosie.
‘Reuben?’
‘Yes, Reuben.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Edison.
‘Would you like to take one for Reuben?’
‘But would that be morly wrong?’