Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop

by Jenny Colgan

  “And everybody’s pissed . . .”

  “And everybody’s pissed . . . No. Shut up, it’s brilliant.”

  “Feel free to hurtle about pissed in the day,” said Moray. “I’m sure no one will notice or comment. Or be remotely surprised, actually.”

  “I think you’re off my Christmas list.”

  “Oh, boo-­hoo,” said Moray. “I shall have to wave goodbye to seventy-­nine pence worth of cost-­price, slightly damaged licorice allsorts.”

  “It was going to be lemon sherbets actually.”

  “How will I overcome the pain?”

  Lilian’s care home wasn’t decorated for Christmas yet, but it looked pretty nestled in its lovely gardens, tucked in cozily under a hill. It had, in its time, been a grand house built by a newly rich cotton trader from Derby. Then it was a First World War hospital, then a school, and over the years it had been scraped out so often that it was amazing they had managed to make it as homely as they did. The matron, Cathryn Thompson, greeted Rosie warmly. Regular visiting was practically an order here; you had to sign something promising that you would.

  “Nothing kills as fast as loneliness,” Miss Thompson had said, to which Moray would add sotto voce, “Just typhus, pneumonia, cardiac arrest, septicemia and being shot,” at which she had given him a look and said, “Do you remember your first visit here, straight out of medical school?” which had shut Moray up faster than anything Rosie could have possibly imagined.

  “She’s in the games room, playing canasta with Mrs. Carr. I’m glad you’re here, actually, they’re on the verge of actual violence.”

  Sure enough, an icy silence had descended in the games room. A ring of gray hair surrounded the table where two ­people were facing each other, locked in mortal combat, like a scene from Casino Royale.

  “May I go out?” Ida Delia was grimacing.

  “Yes!” said Lilian decisively.

  Ida Delia laid down seven cards, and there was an intake of breath at the table. Everyone’s face turned to Lilian expectantly. She didn’t lose her cool for an instant.

  “Well, I suppose so,” she said, laying out a trail of kings and sevens on the table. It didn’t make any sense to Rosie at all, but the rest of the table gasped and burst into applause.

  “Thank you,” said Lilian calmly as Ida Delia swore loudly and appeared on the brink of angry tears. Lilian carefully scooped up the large pile of chocolate caramels that had been accumulating in the center of the table. She peeled off a large corner and donated them to an old chap who’d been dealing, as a tip. He thanked her.

  “Aunt Lil,” said Rosie softly. Lilian’s face lit up as she saw her favorite relative. She got up slowly and, although normally not in the least bit demonstrative, put her arms around her. All of this was done very much for Ida Delia’s benefit, Rosie could see. Ida had had one child, the sullen offspring of her short-­lived marriage to Henry Carr, the love of Lilian’s life, and they had had no further children. Although it was not at all an appealing habit, Rosie knew Lilian took great pride in rubbing her closeness to her grandniece in Ida Delia’s face.

  “Rosie!” said Lilian loudly. “Now you must tell me all about your gorgeous young bloke, Stephen Lakeman, son of LADY LIPTON UP AT LIPTON HALL.”

  Rosie gave her the look, but Lilian returned it with one of complete innocence.

  “Let’s go talk by the coffee bar,” said Rosie. The reception rooms downstairs—­without television; residents had those in their rooms if they wished to watch, but the communal areas were for reading, playing cards and making conversation—­were divided into themed areas, to make ­people feel they had more places to go than they actually did. It worked rather well.

  Lilian looked a little disappointed. She would have liked to carry on a discussion of her grandniece’s virtues and triumphs at high volume in front of everyone, but she acquiesced—­not, however, before saying,“Oh, and it’s Moray, our HANDSOME LOCAL GP. Here to see JUST ME, SOCIALLY, and there’s NOT EVEN ANYTHING WRONG WITH ME.”

  Medical diagnoses were a hot game of one-­upmanship in the home. Moray already saw more of the place than he would generally have chosen to without his hefty salary, so this was a prize indeed. Lilian tilted up her cheek to be kissed, which Moray did with a twinkle. He was fond of the old stick.

  “So,” said Lilian, as they all sat down with very acceptable cappuccinos. This was not that surprising; Rosie had led the whip-­round the previous year to buy the place a Nespresso machine. Matron had confided in her later that its installation had raised the number of visitors significantly. “What news?”

  “How’s life here?” said Rosie. “Because it looks to me like you’re rather enjoying yourself.”

  Lilian did her best to disguise a smirk.

  “No, no, not at all, abandoned in the depths of despair, as you well know. Sad, alone, unwanted, without visitors, nothing to live for . . .”

  Rosie rolled her eyes.

  “Well, actually. About that. Angie’s coming over.”

  Lilian’s face lit up. She had always been particularly fond of her niece, a pretty, headstrong type. If Angie wanted to do something, she just did it. Which sometimes worked out well—­Australia—­and sometimes badly—­Rosie barely knew her father. But on balance, Lilian thought, it was always easier to regret the things you had tried in life that had gone wrong rather than the things you hadn’t. She knew that better than anyone.

  “Oh, MARVELOUS!” she said. “I must tell Ida Delia.”

  “Leave off that poor woman,” said Moray. “Hasn’t she suffered enough?”

  “No,” said Lilian shortly.

  “That’s not all,” said Rosie quickly. “Pip’s coming too. And Desleigh, his wife—­”

  “What kind of a name is Desleigh?” said Lilian.

  “Well, her father was called Des and her mum was called Leigh,” explained Rosie. “You could think that was rather sweet.”

  “It’s repulsive,” said Lilian.

  It was going to be a long four weeks, thought Rosie. And she hadn’t even told Stephen yet.

  “ . . . and their children,” she said.

  Lilian perked up. She liked children, which was to say, she liked well-­behaved, interesting children. Rosie privately wondered if Shane, Kelly and Meridian were going to fit those parameters.

  “Where are they going to stay?” asked Lilian with a frown.

  “I’m not sure,” said Rosie. She wasn’t even close to figuring this one out. Peak House, Stephen’s old home, was empty. It was also right on the top of a very bleak mountain, and absolutely freezing cold, and impossible to get to without a car.

  “If this snow keeps up, in the village hall, probably.”

  If worst came to worst, she had thought Pip and Desleigh could sleep in the living room, she and Angie could share her room, the children could take Lilian’s, and Stephen could go back to his mother’s. This would have the added bonus of pleasing absolutely nobody.

  “It’s going to be a long time cramped up in the cottage,” prophesied Lilian. “Well, if it’s easier on everyone, I can stay here.”

  “You can’t stay here!” said Rosie. “It’s Christmas!”

  Lilian’s eyes sidled toward a menu placed on the top of the coffee bar. CHRISTMAS MENU it said. Rosie picked it up.

  “Champagne sorbet? Oysters? Goose or roast topside of beef?”

  Lilian looked slightly wistful.

  “What IS this?”

  “Well, the local cookery school has a lot of kids from bad homes and so on. One of those Jamie Oliver charity projects. So they come here on Christmas Day and cook for us.

  “Give me that,” said Moray, running his eye down it.

  “Goose fat roast potatoes? Ginger pig chipolatas? Chocolate and raspberry bavarois? That’s it, I’M coming. Okay, Lilian, at about eleven forty-­five on Ch
ristmas Day, I want you to feign stomach pains, okay? NOT chest pains—­that’s an ambulance job, they’ll bypass me completely. Just stomach pains. Pretend you don’t want me called out on Christmas Day. That will make it more realistic.”

  Lilian nodded and looked around for somewhere to jot this down.

  “Pack it in, you two!” howled Rosie. “It’s already tricky enough. They’re coming about eighty thousand miles to see you and have a lovely Christmas, which means we all have to be there and have a lovely time.”

  “Eating in a circle on the floor,” said Moray.

  “YOU are not invited!” said Rosie. “What do you do at Christmas anyway?”

  “Go to Carningford and spend ten hours telling my parents why I haven’t met the right woman yet,” said Moray with a last longing look at the menu.

  “I cannot understand why a sensible medical man like you, not exactly in his first flush of youth, still can’t come out to his parents,” said Rosie.

  “And that,” said Moray, “is the one thing I envy you about growing up in London.”

  Lilian had calmed down.

  “It will be lovely to see Angie,” she said.

  “It will,” said Rosie firmly.

  “And I need to thank her,” said Lilian.

  “I know, it’s such a long way to come.”

  “Oh no, no no, not about that,” said Lilian. “That’s going to be a nightmare, clearly.”

  Rosie rolled her eyes again.

  “Why then?”

  “For bringing you to me, of course.”

  OUTSIDE IT HAD started to snow again, gently. Moray looked up at the sky and groaned.

  “Oh, but it’s lovely,” said Rosie.

  “It’s deadly,” said Moray. “It means our district nurse has to check in on all the old folks, make sure they’ve turned on their heating and that they have someone to get to the shops for them.”

  Rosie looked at him.

  “Was that a hint?”

  She helped out from time to time. She had hoped it would help her fit in and become more a part of the community. But it didn’t really seem to work at all; ­people still saw her as the London interloper, so she still got a bit of the cold shoulder. Moray had told her this would probably start getting better in about three generations’ time.

  “Well, you’re snowed under with this family visit . . .”

  “Not quite yet,” said Rosie. “Just say the word. I’ll fit it in.”

  SHE RELIEVED TINA to go and pick up the twins, then set about dealing with the after-­school rush—­plus, with the snow, a huge pick-­up on lozenges and cough drops—­making sure she asked after her older regulars. Then, at five, she tinkled the bell and set about cashing up. Often she let Tina do it, but she liked to keep an eye on it, though Tina was so accurate that it made her job much easier anyway. She ran her eyes over the figures. They were good—­the shop was busy and flourishing, but even so, by the time she’d bought stock and paid Tina and the bookkeeper and the tax man, there wasn’t a lot left over. What there wasn’t, she thought, looking at it, was enough to pay for a week at the Red Lion for Pip, Desleigh and the kids. (They would be in Lipton for a week and would spend the rest of the time sightseeing and visiting other cousins.) Which meant she was no closer to fixing the problem. She glanced at her calendar. Five weeks till Christmas.

  WHEN ROSIE ARRIVED home, the smell of the stew making a warming greeting—­she slow-­cooked as many of their meals as possible with the reasonable assumption that as she worked next door, she would smell it if the house caught fire. It meant she could buy the cheapest cuts of meat from the local butcher, and they would still taste ambrosial if slow-­cooked long enough.

  But there was another smell in the air, she thought. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. And then, in the next moment, a strange noise, like the tiny pattering clip-­clop of nails on a polished wooden floor.

  “Hello?” she shouted.

  She heard Stephen’s careful tread come through from the tiny doll’s-­house kitchen. He had a bottle of red wine in one hand, which usually boded well, and a grim expression, which did not. But she barely registered this. Instead, her eyes swung to down to his feet. Cowering there like a shy child was a tiny bundle of fur with a little pink tongue hanging out.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed.

  “My mother’s been,” said Stephen, neutrally.

  “I told her we didn’t want a dog” said Rosie, feeling she had to get her defense in first. But she couldn’t help it, her curiosity was piqued. She knelt down and stared at the little creature. It had misty blue eyes and was basically a gigantic ball of gray fluff.

  “Well, of course we want a DOG,” said Stephen. “This isn’t a DOG. It’s a MOP.”

  Rosie held out her hand. The tiny thing crept out to sniff at it, and she smiled at it encouragingly. Stephen braced himself against the door frame and opened the wine bottle with a loud popping noise.

  “She said it was one of Bran’s. She didn’t say she hadn’t studded him. He’s obviously got some tarty mongrel bitch up the duff. This dog can’t work, it’s completely useless. My mother is such a witch.”

  But alas, it was too late. Rosie had scooped the ball of fluff into her arms and buried her nose in it. The puppy was wriggling and squirming with pleasure.

  “Who’s a big beautiful boy, then? Hm? Who’s a lovely boy?”

  “Just as well you don’t want a dog,” said Stephen, pouring two large glasses. “Mother said you were dead against it.”

  “But it didn’t stop her,” muttered Rosie, completely entranced by the little creature.

  “It would be nice to have had one of Bran’s offspring,” said Stephen. “Not this one though. He’s useless.”

  Rosie clutched him.

  “What on earth are you talking about? He’s gorgeous.”

  The puppy obligingly licked her hand.

  “I’ll get mother to take him back.”

  “You will not,” said Rosie crossly.

  Stephen looked at her with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

  “But you don’t even want a dog, and this is a rubbish dog!”

  “Ssh,” said Rosie, putting her hands over his tiny silken ears. “He can hear you.”

  “You said you didn’t know what a dog would do all day.”

  “Guard the shop?”

  “Please!”

  “Stay out in the garden?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll take it back.”

  “NO!” Rosie felt the little rough pink tongue licking her hand. “No. We’ll think of something.”

  She realized this was one of the many, many things she was adding to her list of things to sort out in her head later, but she didn’t care.

  They sat down. Rosie ate one-­handed while stroking the dog on her lap.

  “We’ll need a name for him.”

  “You know you can’t eat with a dog on your lap. It’s unhygienic and will give him bad habits.”

  “He’s not a dog! He’s a tiny little baby”

  The dog whined obligingly, and Rosie gave him a little bit of stew.

  “Rosie Hopkins, put that dog down immediately! You’re both filthy animals!”

  “Shan’t!” said Rosie.

  “In that case I’m going to have to do things to you that aren’t appropriate in front of minors.”

  Rosie squealed and jumped up as Stephen attempted to smack her bum from the other side of the table, hopping nimbly out of his way.

  “I can’t believe our entire life together is predicated on your trying to hit me with that stick,” she said as she went through to put the tea on. “It’s like Fifty Shades of Earl Grey.”

  LATER, SHE MADE up a little bed for the dog, still unnamed—­Rosie was finding it hard to resist the urge to call h
im Fluffy or Rainbow, and Stephen would narrow his eyes at her and say that if they absolutely had to keep the common mongrel mutt, there was nothing wrong with Monty or Archibald, and they hadn’t managed to agree yet, so Rosie was calling him Mr. Dog in the interim. He whined a little, but as she wrapped around him the old red blanket that she’d stolen off a holiday flight a long time ago in the distant past when she used to take actual holidays, he quieted down and was off to sleep in his little doggy way.

  “I want to congratulate you on putting up with the awful, terrible concept of having a dog,” said Stephen as they went up to bed.

  “I still can’t believe you were just going to go ahead and get a dog when you knew I didn’t want one,” grumbled Rosie sleepily.

  “Because I don’t actually know you at all and thus took you completely at your word when you were so adamant that you didn’t want one.” He gently slung his arm around her neck, which was his way of pretending it wasn’t useful to him to have a little help going up the narrow pull-­down stair to their room.

  “Oh,” said Rosie, feeling his chest against hers, and wondered if this moment, as he nuzzled her neck, when they were so very close, would be the right time to drop the bomb that six of her very, very noisy relatives were descending on their little idyll for Christmas. Oh, it was weeks away, she thought. Plenty of time.

  Chapter 4

  BUT THERE WAS not, as it turned out, plenty of time at all. Two things happened in Lipton—­one small, one big—­that were to change things faster than any of them had ever thought possible.

  First, two weeks later, the snow still hadn’t stopped falling. All the online shopping places stopped delivering, which was agitating, Rosie realized, because her winter wardrobe, even in her second winter in Lipton, was still inadequate. In London, after all, you were never really more than two minutes from a boiling hot tube journey or a bus. Last year she’d eventually been forced to shell out for a parka that had made Moray laugh, hard, for longer than was strictly necessary and tell her she looked like a small child playing at being a Dalek. This year she really needed gloves and a scarf and a hat that actually matched, given that she was going to be wearing them for a reasonable proportion of the day, every day. And suddenly Malik’s principle of stocking the Spar with as much tinned food as possible made a lot of sense. Stephen made them buy a great supply of tins, as well as bottled water in case the pipes froze up, which Rosie thought was very over the top and quite exciting even though Stephen warned her that it absolutely wasn’t, at all.