Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 53
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Lilian didn’t quite know how to tell Gordon, but in the end she didn’t have to. As they walked down the blacked-out road together he quite naturally asked her, ‘Got a fella?’ And when she paused for the briefest of moments, he laughed and nudged her.
‘Anyone decent?’ he said. Lilian bit her lip. She wondered how he’d feel when he knew it was one of his cronies; the one Lilian had most disliked. Gordon had stood around many times when Henry had teased her or made comments, and he hadn’t stood up for her much either. This could be rather sticky.
‘It’s … it’s Henry Carr,’ she said, so quietly it was nearly a whisper. Gordon had to strain to hear her, then translate the words in his head. Then he let out a guffaw.
‘Carr! ’E managed it at last. By gum, I thought he’d never get round to it.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Lilian, completely surprised.
‘’E always had a soft spot for you, didn’t he? Terence warned him off often enough. Well, there you go. Good on ’im.’
‘But he was always really horrible to me.’
Gordon gave her a sideways glance.
‘You know, I’d have thought having three brothers would have taught you a little bit more about chaps, sure enough.’
Lilian felt the blush steal up her face. Was it true? Had he always cared for her, all this time?
‘Is that why you never stood up for me?’ she said. It came out more accusingly than she’d intended.
Gordon smiled. ‘Neh,’ he said. ‘That was because you were such a po-faced wee shrew. No offence.’
The pub wasn’t lit, but slits of warm light could just be seen at the windows, poking out of the blackout curtains and the convivial chatter of a Saturday night. Lilian felt excited and a little bold, but mostly nervous. Then, to her relief, she saw Margaret home from Derby, and heading over from the opposite direction with a gormless big chap in a naval uniform. Seeing Lilian she shrieked and waved mightily.
‘You’re out of the widow weeds!’ she yelled, tactlessly, then gave her a hug, which Lilian found herself reciprocating.
‘Didn’t you get my letters?’ she scolded. Margaret had written to her faithfully with stories of the big city and all the fun she was having at the factory with the women, and the nightclubs and the men they’d met. Lilian had found them almost impossible to read; the idea, in the earliest days after Ned’s death, that someone else’s life was continuing gaily on, improving, if anything.
‘This is George,’ said Margaret proudly, pushing forward the lanky chap with freckles and bright red hair, who muttered something so quietly she could barely hear it.
‘I brought him down to meet Ma and Pa.’ With this she winked massively at Lilian, in a slightly confusing way, obviously intended to be confiding. It took Lilian a minute or two to realise the message she was trying to convey.
‘Are you … are you two …?’
‘Yes!’ said Margaret. ‘Isn’t it the most romantic thing ever! I have to tell you the whole story!’
George did not, at that moment, look like the world’s most romantic man – if Lilian had had to pick something, she would have picked him as the world’s most embarrassed man – but Margaret linked her arm and they headed inside, into a fug of tobacco smoke and the smell of dogs and warm ale. Lilian had been inside before, sometimes, from when she was a little girl, sent down to make change for the shop in lunchtime opening hours, but today she was going in for the first time on her own, as a woman … She felt a little exposed, though having Margaret clasping her elbow tightly was a definite help. Gordon was on her other side.
‘Now I have no regrets about missing out on the lovely Margaret,’ he said to her, sotto voce, ‘but there’s someone over there I always hoped I might take a crack at one of these days.’
For there, in a cosy corner table by the fireplace in the ladies’ lounge bar, nursing a port and lemon and deep in what appeared to be a very intense conversation, was Ida Delia Fontayne with Henry Carr, once again only a heartbeat away from one another.
Lilian found herself polishing off some scones Rosie had run up yesterday. She couldn’t deny it; even though she’d always wanted to be thin, she couldn’t deny that Rosie putting a little bit of meat on her bones was making her feel slightly better; slightly more able to get through the day. It felt like her joints weren’t quite so stiff; her extremities not so blooming cold all the time, even when she huddled in front of the fire. She was sleeping better too, possibly because Rosie, unbeknown to her, was bulking up her night-time cocoa with calorie powder. And yet, paradoxically, feeling slightly better was making her more worried, not less, about the future.
As long as she had been feeling so awful, she could kid herself that she was run-down and still a little ill after her operation. Now, she had to admit to herself that there was a possibility that this was it: little by little she had gained energy, but there would come a time when that would stop. And whatever she was left with – her arthritic left wrist, her impossibly unreliable knees, just how damn long it took her to get going in the morning – that would be that. Rosie would go – she daren’t admit to herself how much she’d enjoyed the company – and the shop and the house would be sold, and she’d be packed away into some awful home somewhere to drool out of the window and be parked in front of game shows and shouted at in a room that smelled of piss. Every day until the day she died. And she was only eighty-seven, she could easily live another ten, fifteen years these days. Easily. She hadn’t wanted change. She was getting on all right. And now here was Rosie poking her nose in and stirring everything up …
Shakily, reluctantly, Lilian pulled on a cardigan and applied a little pale-pink lipstick in the large sitting-room mirror with the rainbow rim over the fireplace. She looked at her reflection and sighed. Then she picked up her stick, pushed open the front door, and set out to visit her sweetshop – her place – once more, while she still could.
Chapter Twelve
Chewing Gum
What are you? A cow? A great big cud-chewing cow in the middle of the field? Or do you feel a pressing need to give yourself terrible wind and tie up your intestines? Did your nanny never teach you that it’s rude to open your mouth to all and sundry and eat in public? Are you badly brought up, or a field-dwelling quadruped? Which is it? I must know. Or perhaps your breath is so bad and your dental care is so appalling you have a mouth that smells like the pits of fiery hell and for some benighted reason you wish to advertise this fact to the world. Is that it? Perhaps you would like to snap your gum now, pull it out on a string on your fingers, or throw it in an indelible globule on the pavement. Great. Thank you.
‘Anyone decent?’ he said. Lilian bit her lip. She wondered how he’d feel when he knew it was one of his cronies; the one Lilian had most disliked. Gordon had stood around many times when Henry had teased her or made comments, and he hadn’t stood up for her much either. This could be rather sticky.
‘It’s … it’s Henry Carr,’ she said, so quietly it was nearly a whisper. Gordon had to strain to hear her, then translate the words in his head. Then he let out a guffaw.
‘Carr! ’E managed it at last. By gum, I thought he’d never get round to it.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Lilian, completely surprised.
‘’E always had a soft spot for you, didn’t he? Terence warned him off often enough. Well, there you go. Good on ’im.’
‘But he was always really horrible to me.’
Gordon gave her a sideways glance.
‘You know, I’d have thought having three brothers would have taught you a little bit more about chaps, sure enough.’
Lilian felt the blush steal up her face. Was it true? Had he always cared for her, all this time?
‘Is that why you never stood up for me?’ she said. It came out more accusingly than she’d intended.
Gordon smiled. ‘Neh,’ he said. ‘That was because you were such a po-faced wee shrew. No offence.’
The pub wasn’t lit, but slits of warm light could just be seen at the windows, poking out of the blackout curtains and the convivial chatter of a Saturday night. Lilian felt excited and a little bold, but mostly nervous. Then, to her relief, she saw Margaret home from Derby, and heading over from the opposite direction with a gormless big chap in a naval uniform. Seeing Lilian she shrieked and waved mightily.
‘You’re out of the widow weeds!’ she yelled, tactlessly, then gave her a hug, which Lilian found herself reciprocating.
‘Didn’t you get my letters?’ she scolded. Margaret had written to her faithfully with stories of the big city and all the fun she was having at the factory with the women, and the nightclubs and the men they’d met. Lilian had found them almost impossible to read; the idea, in the earliest days after Ned’s death, that someone else’s life was continuing gaily on, improving, if anything.
‘This is George,’ said Margaret proudly, pushing forward the lanky chap with freckles and bright red hair, who muttered something so quietly she could barely hear it.
‘I brought him down to meet Ma and Pa.’ With this she winked massively at Lilian, in a slightly confusing way, obviously intended to be confiding. It took Lilian a minute or two to realise the message she was trying to convey.
‘Are you … are you two …?’
‘Yes!’ said Margaret. ‘Isn’t it the most romantic thing ever! I have to tell you the whole story!’
George did not, at that moment, look like the world’s most romantic man – if Lilian had had to pick something, she would have picked him as the world’s most embarrassed man – but Margaret linked her arm and they headed inside, into a fug of tobacco smoke and the smell of dogs and warm ale. Lilian had been inside before, sometimes, from when she was a little girl, sent down to make change for the shop in lunchtime opening hours, but today she was going in for the first time on her own, as a woman … She felt a little exposed, though having Margaret clasping her elbow tightly was a definite help. Gordon was on her other side.
‘Now I have no regrets about missing out on the lovely Margaret,’ he said to her, sotto voce, ‘but there’s someone over there I always hoped I might take a crack at one of these days.’
For there, in a cosy corner table by the fireplace in the ladies’ lounge bar, nursing a port and lemon and deep in what appeared to be a very intense conversation, was Ida Delia Fontayne with Henry Carr, once again only a heartbeat away from one another.
Lilian found herself polishing off some scones Rosie had run up yesterday. She couldn’t deny it; even though she’d always wanted to be thin, she couldn’t deny that Rosie putting a little bit of meat on her bones was making her feel slightly better; slightly more able to get through the day. It felt like her joints weren’t quite so stiff; her extremities not so blooming cold all the time, even when she huddled in front of the fire. She was sleeping better too, possibly because Rosie, unbeknown to her, was bulking up her night-time cocoa with calorie powder. And yet, paradoxically, feeling slightly better was making her more worried, not less, about the future.
As long as she had been feeling so awful, she could kid herself that she was run-down and still a little ill after her operation. Now, she had to admit to herself that there was a possibility that this was it: little by little she had gained energy, but there would come a time when that would stop. And whatever she was left with – her arthritic left wrist, her impossibly unreliable knees, just how damn long it took her to get going in the morning – that would be that. Rosie would go – she daren’t admit to herself how much she’d enjoyed the company – and the shop and the house would be sold, and she’d be packed away into some awful home somewhere to drool out of the window and be parked in front of game shows and shouted at in a room that smelled of piss. Every day until the day she died. And she was only eighty-seven, she could easily live another ten, fifteen years these days. Easily. She hadn’t wanted change. She was getting on all right. And now here was Rosie poking her nose in and stirring everything up …
Shakily, reluctantly, Lilian pulled on a cardigan and applied a little pale-pink lipstick in the large sitting-room mirror with the rainbow rim over the fireplace. She looked at her reflection and sighed. Then she picked up her stick, pushed open the front door, and set out to visit her sweetshop – her place – once more, while she still could.
Chapter Twelve
Chewing Gum
What are you? A cow? A great big cud-chewing cow in the middle of the field? Or do you feel a pressing need to give yourself terrible wind and tie up your intestines? Did your nanny never teach you that it’s rude to open your mouth to all and sundry and eat in public? Are you badly brought up, or a field-dwelling quadruped? Which is it? I must know. Or perhaps your breath is so bad and your dental care is so appalling you have a mouth that smells like the pits of fiery hell and for some benighted reason you wish to advertise this fact to the world. Is that it? Perhaps you would like to snap your gum now, pull it out on a string on your fingers, or throw it in an indelible globule on the pavement. Great. Thank you.
