Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 67
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‘Rosie? Meridian, put that down. Down!’
‘Don wan put dine!’ came the strident Australian tones.
‘Hi, Mum,’ said Rosie, moving to the bathroom to avoid waking Gerard. Her mother really did pick her moments.
‘Now, listen. How are things?’
‘Things are fine, fine.’
‘Have you found a buyer yet?’
‘No, no, but it’s looking good … I’m sure it’ll be really soon,’ lied Rosie. These things took time.
‘And what about a home? What does Lilian say about going into a home?’
Even though Rosie knew there was no possibility of being heard downstairs, she cupped the phone to her ear.
‘Well, you know. I’m just getting her better.’
‘You can get her as better as you like, she’s still going to be eighty-seven years old,’ said Angie. ‘What, you want to stay there for ever and look after her?’
Rosie was quiet. ‘No, obviously not. No.’
‘Found any nice men to replace that fat one yet?’
‘Angie!’
‘Oh God, is he there? With or without an engagement ring?’
‘Mum. Stop it. Please.’
Angie sniffed. ‘Well. You don’t know how hard it is being the mother of someone whose boyfriend thinks he’s going to do better.’
‘He doesn’t think that,’ said Rosie.
‘Hmm,’ said her mother. ‘Well, good. I’m impressed that he’s managed to make a go of it on his own without you down in London.’
Rosie didn’t quite feel up to answering that one.
‘Well, listen. Have a great day, and I need to know asap when everything’s sorted out, OK? And you don’t want to disrupt your life for longer than necessary, do you?’
‘No,’ said Rosie, gazing out of the bathroom window, which overlooked the other side of the cottage. One of the bushes had sprouted shimmering purple blooms. Rosie couldn’t name it, but she could smell the heavy, rounded scent and hear the hum of the bumble bees as they started work even earlier than she did.
‘No,’ she said again, thinking of tube strikes, and overcrowded litter bins, and queues, and people, people everywhere, and lorries thundering down the road and recycling glass crushers at 4am and drunks on the pavements and battling to get served in bars and into the tube and being squashed up against strangers and …
‘Sorry, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’ll get on it.’
‘Good girl,’ said Angie. ‘Meridian, don’t eat that! Is that beetle red or black? Philip!’
‘Speak soon, Mum,’ said Rosie.
‘Very soon,’ said her mum. ‘She’ll need to sign all the paperwork and everything before … well, you know. Before she goes loopy or something.’
‘I don’t think she’s loopy,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, not by local standards.’
1943
Life went on. It had to. Lilian hurled herself into her work at the sweetshop, trying to balance the books. And the long hot Indian summer finally passed, and when she saw Ida Delia in the street she would quickly look the other way, and so would Ida, so that suited them both well – although Lilian couldn’t quite quell a pang every time she saw Ida’s swelling stomach, her brand new, cheap but still shiny wedding ring growing increasingly tight on her pudgy finger. All the while she thought to herself, it could have been me.
It could have been her, set up in Henry’s tiny cottage that Lord Lipton had granted him now he had a family coming. Lilian knew it, had run past it many times on her afternoon jaunts – back at the tender age of seventeen – when she was younger, carefree; when she could run wild, rather than sit and fill out endless rows in her double-entry book, making sure everything tallied neatly at the end of the day before showing it to her father. The cottage was small, but it had everything you needed, as well as a beautiful, overgrown garden, fecund with wild flowers and sprawling rose bushes. There was even an apple tree. They had talked about it once, on one of those long hot summer evenings when she was mourning Ned and they chatted of anything and everything to take her mind off it; she had told him she dreamed one day of a herb garden and a kissing gate and honeysuckle and roses, and he had laughed and stroked her shoulder and said he didn’t think the cottage was that big, and she had felt a deep inner thrill that one day she might have the run of the garden.
Ida Delia, she suspected, would fill it with tight rows of easy-to-maintain pink and yellow perennials, dump gravel on the rest and never think of it ever again.
‘Bacon sandwich?’
Rosie vehemently hoped that Gerard’s favourite sandwich would make up for the night before. They’d just got out of the habit, she decided. The habit of being together. They’d been together for so long, in such a rut. He was probably suffering PlayStation withdrawal. That was it. And moving had changed her perspective so much, that was all. She’d get it back.
She sat down and looked at him stirring awake, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, struggling to remember where he was. It was so like him. Suddenly, she realised she had to know.
‘Darling,’ she said, very quietly. ‘Can we talk?’
‘That’s odd,’ came a sleepy voice from the pillow. ‘Because at first I thought I heard someone asking me if I’d like a bacon sandwich.’ Gerard opened his eyes. ‘What time is it?’
‘Seven thirty,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s a lovely day outside.’
‘Seven thirty?’ said Gerard. ‘On a Saturday? You’ve changed.’
‘Hmm,’ said Rosie.
Gerard turned over. ‘I’m going back to sleep,’ he said. ‘I never get up before eleven on Saturdays. You know that.’
‘Yes, but this is different …’
Watching him, seeing how completely oblivious he was to her own plans, how uninterested in anything other than when she would come back to cook his dinner and take care of their flat, Rosie realised something. Something, she supposed, she’d known for a long time. As quietly as she could, she withdrew into the bathroom, sat down on the seat and, painfully, silently, burst into tears.
It wasn’t Gerard’s fault – his easygoing, laissez-faire approach to life had charmed her once. But what she’d taken as his likeable good humour concealed, instead, simple laziness; it was easier to be nice to everyone than to stand up for yourself; it was easy to find someone like Rosie to look after him and take the place of his mother. But to grow up, to take on the responsibilities of the things she wanted – a nice home, a family, nothing too ambitious, surely? – these were beyond him. For now, perhaps for ever. Gerard just wanted an easy life. And she’d been so wrapped up in working and scurrying about and being part of London that she’d decided that was enough, no matter what her friends said behind her back or her mother said to her face.
‘Don wan put dine!’ came the strident Australian tones.
‘Hi, Mum,’ said Rosie, moving to the bathroom to avoid waking Gerard. Her mother really did pick her moments.
‘Now, listen. How are things?’
‘Things are fine, fine.’
‘Have you found a buyer yet?’
‘No, no, but it’s looking good … I’m sure it’ll be really soon,’ lied Rosie. These things took time.
‘And what about a home? What does Lilian say about going into a home?’
Even though Rosie knew there was no possibility of being heard downstairs, she cupped the phone to her ear.
‘Well, you know. I’m just getting her better.’
‘You can get her as better as you like, she’s still going to be eighty-seven years old,’ said Angie. ‘What, you want to stay there for ever and look after her?’
Rosie was quiet. ‘No, obviously not. No.’
‘Found any nice men to replace that fat one yet?’
‘Angie!’
‘Oh God, is he there? With or without an engagement ring?’
‘Mum. Stop it. Please.’
Angie sniffed. ‘Well. You don’t know how hard it is being the mother of someone whose boyfriend thinks he’s going to do better.’
‘He doesn’t think that,’ said Rosie.
‘Hmm,’ said her mother. ‘Well, good. I’m impressed that he’s managed to make a go of it on his own without you down in London.’
Rosie didn’t quite feel up to answering that one.
‘Well, listen. Have a great day, and I need to know asap when everything’s sorted out, OK? And you don’t want to disrupt your life for longer than necessary, do you?’
‘No,’ said Rosie, gazing out of the bathroom window, which overlooked the other side of the cottage. One of the bushes had sprouted shimmering purple blooms. Rosie couldn’t name it, but she could smell the heavy, rounded scent and hear the hum of the bumble bees as they started work even earlier than she did.
‘No,’ she said again, thinking of tube strikes, and overcrowded litter bins, and queues, and people, people everywhere, and lorries thundering down the road and recycling glass crushers at 4am and drunks on the pavements and battling to get served in bars and into the tube and being squashed up against strangers and …
‘Sorry, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’ll get on it.’
‘Good girl,’ said Angie. ‘Meridian, don’t eat that! Is that beetle red or black? Philip!’
‘Speak soon, Mum,’ said Rosie.
‘Very soon,’ said her mum. ‘She’ll need to sign all the paperwork and everything before … well, you know. Before she goes loopy or something.’
‘I don’t think she’s loopy,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, not by local standards.’
1943
Life went on. It had to. Lilian hurled herself into her work at the sweetshop, trying to balance the books. And the long hot Indian summer finally passed, and when she saw Ida Delia in the street she would quickly look the other way, and so would Ida, so that suited them both well – although Lilian couldn’t quite quell a pang every time she saw Ida’s swelling stomach, her brand new, cheap but still shiny wedding ring growing increasingly tight on her pudgy finger. All the while she thought to herself, it could have been me.
It could have been her, set up in Henry’s tiny cottage that Lord Lipton had granted him now he had a family coming. Lilian knew it, had run past it many times on her afternoon jaunts – back at the tender age of seventeen – when she was younger, carefree; when she could run wild, rather than sit and fill out endless rows in her double-entry book, making sure everything tallied neatly at the end of the day before showing it to her father. The cottage was small, but it had everything you needed, as well as a beautiful, overgrown garden, fecund with wild flowers and sprawling rose bushes. There was even an apple tree. They had talked about it once, on one of those long hot summer evenings when she was mourning Ned and they chatted of anything and everything to take her mind off it; she had told him she dreamed one day of a herb garden and a kissing gate and honeysuckle and roses, and he had laughed and stroked her shoulder and said he didn’t think the cottage was that big, and she had felt a deep inner thrill that one day she might have the run of the garden.
Ida Delia, she suspected, would fill it with tight rows of easy-to-maintain pink and yellow perennials, dump gravel on the rest and never think of it ever again.
‘Bacon sandwich?’
Rosie vehemently hoped that Gerard’s favourite sandwich would make up for the night before. They’d just got out of the habit, she decided. The habit of being together. They’d been together for so long, in such a rut. He was probably suffering PlayStation withdrawal. That was it. And moving had changed her perspective so much, that was all. She’d get it back.
She sat down and looked at him stirring awake, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, struggling to remember where he was. It was so like him. Suddenly, she realised she had to know.
‘Darling,’ she said, very quietly. ‘Can we talk?’
‘That’s odd,’ came a sleepy voice from the pillow. ‘Because at first I thought I heard someone asking me if I’d like a bacon sandwich.’ Gerard opened his eyes. ‘What time is it?’
‘Seven thirty,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s a lovely day outside.’
‘Seven thirty?’ said Gerard. ‘On a Saturday? You’ve changed.’
‘Hmm,’ said Rosie.
Gerard turned over. ‘I’m going back to sleep,’ he said. ‘I never get up before eleven on Saturdays. You know that.’
‘Yes, but this is different …’
Watching him, seeing how completely oblivious he was to her own plans, how uninterested in anything other than when she would come back to cook his dinner and take care of their flat, Rosie realised something. Something, she supposed, she’d known for a long time. As quietly as she could, she withdrew into the bathroom, sat down on the seat and, painfully, silently, burst into tears.
It wasn’t Gerard’s fault – his easygoing, laissez-faire approach to life had charmed her once. But what she’d taken as his likeable good humour concealed, instead, simple laziness; it was easier to be nice to everyone than to stand up for yourself; it was easy to find someone like Rosie to look after him and take the place of his mother. But to grow up, to take on the responsibilities of the things she wanted – a nice home, a family, nothing too ambitious, surely? – these were beyond him. For now, perhaps for ever. Gerard just wanted an easy life. And she’d been so wrapped up in working and scurrying about and being part of London that she’d decided that was enough, no matter what her friends said behind her back or her mother said to her face.
