Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 78

‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘I bet. And Jabo was just the most beautiful child ever. So cute. All he wanted to do was whatever Akibo was doing. He’d sit with a piece of paper and a stone and pretend he was writing letters. And you’d say, “Are you doing your sums, Jabo?” and he’d say, “Yessuh! Nine! Seven! Sixty!”’
Rosie smiled.
‘Akibo wanted to come with me to get – God, of all the stupid things. A frog. I was going to dissect a frog with them. I wasn’t meant to, but I thought it would be a useful exercise, something good to do. I’d learned all the parts and everything. And Akibo came to help because he was useful for that kind of thing, knew a lot. And Jabo came because … because Jabo did whatever Akibo did.’
He stuttered.
‘There wasn’t … I don’t know. But I don’t think there would have been enough left for their mother to bury.’ Suddenly there was a shriek from the opening to the tent.
‘What is going on here? What are you doing with my gladioli?’ came the high, strident tones of Mrs Isitt. Behind her, in marched Roy Blaine.
‘Those are my cacti,’ he said, enunciating very clearly. ‘Grown in the unique sterile environment of my dental surgery. They are not a toy.’
Edison jumped up, quivering with fear.
‘Are you responsible for this child?’ said Mrs Isitt.
‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’
Mrs Isitt let out a sniff.
‘Can I pay for the damage?’
‘Can you go to one of your fancy-schmancy London shops and just buy your way out of trouble, you mean?’ said Mrs Isitt. ‘Those took a year of hard work.’
Rosie felt pink and confused. She stood up. As she did so, the piglet gave a scream and went tearing towards Mrs Isitt’s ankles.
‘Call your pig off!’ she screamed. ‘Call it off!’
Rosie looked helplessly at Stephen, who finally, it seemed, had a smile back on his face.
‘So you see,’ he said, ‘why I was so desperate to get back here.’
‘Can you sort this out?’ she asked him desperately. ‘Can you talk to your mum?’
‘She doesn’t know anything about catching pigs,’ said Stephen, looking puzzled.
‘I don’t mean the blooming pig, you divot,’ said Rosie. ‘I mean you.’
Rosie went back to the house. Peter Isitt, thank God, had offered to take the pig away and look after it for her, and Rosie had seen a spark in Mrs Isitt’s eye that made her think the pig must be worth something. She crept back through what was now substantial rainfall and early dusk, with a lovely set of lamb chops she had felt only momentarily squeamish about buying from the butcher’s tent – perhaps she was turning into a country girl after all – and some new potatoes, green beans and fresh mint from the produce stands, the potatoes still covered in earth. Edison’s mother picked him up at the gate and thanked Rosie.
‘I know adults enjoy his company. He’s so intellectually stimulating, so far beyond the boys his own age.’
Rosie, who was undoubtedly fond of Edison, still bristled at the concept that Hester was doing her an enormous favour.
‘Well, a boy still needs friends,’ she said. Then she knelt down. ‘It was lovely to see you, Edison.’
‘Thank you,’ said the grave little boy.
‘Can I give you a hug or would that be inpropreet?’
Edison glanced at his mother.
‘Best not, eh?’ said Hester in a jaunty tone. And Rosie was left staring after them as they walked off, shaking her head in disbelief.
Tina had not only scrubbed the whole shop from top to bottom, she’d helped the sweetshop have its best day ever, and cashed up perfectly. Rosie couldn’t believe it, and insisted on paying her. Tina looked at the money.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘It’s like having a real job again.’
Rosie looked around. Tina had moved the chocolate teddies right to the very front, near the till. It was a good strategy. Few small hands could resist a chocolate teddy, and few grandparents could resist buying one.
‘You know,’ said Rosie, ‘there have been expressions of interest …’ She thought again of Roy Blaine’s terrifying image of rows of gleaming gnashers. ‘But why don’t you see … talk to the bank or someone?’
She looked round the softly lit sweetshop, at the ancient jars; the neatly stacked piles of candy-striped paper bags that needed to be pulled off a piece of string, then looped over, twice, to make a secure carrier; the big brass scoops for the shards of cough candy that reflected the lights through the jar and turned them into a kaleidoscopic prism.
‘I mean,’ she said, ‘if anyone has to take it over, I’d really like it to be you.’
The second she walked in the house, unlocked as ever, she knew. Not a light was on; neither was the perpetually-tuned-to-Radio-4 wireless. The fire wasn’t lit and there was an odd smell in the air.
Rosie rushed to the bedroom, cursing herself for being absent for so long. Her great-aunt was sitting up, shaking and staring straight ahead. There was something wrong with the left side of her face, Rosie saw with a sinking heart. And there wasn’t a second to lose.
Chapter Seventeen
Barley Sugar
Barley sugar is nature’s way of making sure you don’t feel too guilty when you are unwell and want to eat sweets. The concept of barley as a healthful, life-giving cereal, albeit found in confectionery as more of a trace element, should help lift your mood. And under the circumstances, when you’re feeling poorly, the best possible remedy is to improve your mental attitude, which means that eating a sweet which feels on some level as if it might be good for you is surely the way forward.
Plus as long as you suck and don’t bite (as a qualified professional, may I repeat that you should no more bite hard candy than you should shut yourself into a wardrobe), the barley sugar will release a comforting, slow-burning sweetness that will raise your spirits, make you feel cosy and safe and set you on the road to health again. Frankly they should prescribe it with aspirin.
‘So you’re her carer?’ the snappy nurse had asked, not very kindly. Rosie couldn’t blame her. She of all people knew that when someone had a stroke – or a mini-stroke, as seemed likely; Lilian had come round and although a little confused seemed basically all right – speed was of the essence. Moray had helped her give Lilian aspirin then driven them the long, long way to the hospital, and now Lilian was being eased into a robe. Rosie had packed her aunt’s favourite nightgowns, delicate shades of lilac and pink, and unearthed a soft, practical, unattractive dressing gown that still had Merry Christmas ’04, love Angie on a card attached to the bag. She didn’t want Lilian confused and frightened, in a strange place with her bum hanging out.