Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop (13 page)

Lilian handed it over from a dainty knitted pocket cover she'd made for it.

“Very nice,” said Rosie. “I'm going to make it call me and leave it on, okay? So it's like a walkie-­talkie. Are you sure . . .”

Lilian tutted.

“I have actually run this place before, you know? Just for seventy years?”

Rosie nodded. “I know, I know. Is it warm enough?”

“Stop fussing!”

Anton, the fattest man in town, came in.

“Anton!” said Lilian, her face wreathed in smiles. “What can I get you?”

Anton's mobility had improved so much in the last six months that he hardly needed his stick anymore, though he was a little out of breath. He beamed wildly when he saw Lilian.

“Hello! I missed you!”

“I am still here,” said Rosie, scooping up Mr. Dog, who was snoring blissfully by the heater in the back room instead of manfully protecting their property,

“What can I get you?” said Lilian. Anton sent a sideways glance at Rosie, who stared at him crossly.

“Ignore her,” said Lilian. “I'm in charge today.”

“In that case . . .” said Anton. “Can I have . . . a pound of mixed creams, please. And another pound of mixed creams. And that chocolate orange there. And another one, actually. And from the top shelf . . .”

“Anton!” said Rosie in exasperation. “Calm down. Come on. Don't be daft.”

Anton shuffled his feet.

“Lilian, no more than one of each thing he wants. And no more than five things.”

“You'd better get on before your Australian family all arrives tomorrow!” trilled Lilian. Anton's eyes went wide. “Ooh, you've got family arriving.”

“Great,” said Rosie. “That'll be all round the village in about five seconds.”

“What?” said Maeve Skitcherd, who'd just come in for a slab of mint cake.

“All Rosie's Australian relatives are turning up tomorrow,” explained Anton helpfully.

“Ooh,” said Maeve. “Where are they all going to stay?”

“I don't know. It'll be an awful crush in the cottage,” said Anton.

“Okay, okay, I am out of here,” said Rosie, glaring at Lilian, who was now wearing a triumphant look and putting together a very big bag for Anton. Rosie dinged the door crossly.

T
HE
RE
WERE
CARS
parked the length of the great formal driveway of Lipton Hall, as there sometimes were when they did weddings, and there were lights on along the front of the house, very rare in the daytime. Rosie got off her bicycle pink-­cheeked and exhilarated from her freezing ride—­she was wearing Stephen's ski gloves, which made her look a bit like a monkey but did the job—­and sidled up, feeling both nervous and a bit out of place. Mr. Dog immediately hurled himself around the back to see his family, and Rosie let him go; she didn't need the added distraction of his being there.

Inside there was a quiet hum, which had to be a good sign. And there was a warm smell of cooking in the air, which might have been for later. Rosie stepped gently into the great hall. The great fire between the two arms of the intertwining stairwells had been lit, albeit with a large fire guard around it, and it sent out a welcoming smell and warmth to Rosie as she came in frigid from the cold. A woman bustled past her, round and cheerful looking. It was Pam, the dinner lady from the school.

“Hello!” said Rosie. “I forgot you'd be coming here too!”

“They're letting me cook!” said Pam, full of excitement. “The education department. They don't have enough freezer units to refrigerate the lunches, so they've sent me two girls from the catering college, and they're letting me make lunch for them!”

“And this is good?” asked Rosie, smiling.

“Yes!” said Pam. “Some of the stuff we have to serve them . . .” She shook her head. “You wouldn't give it to a dog. Absolute brown muck they used to send us. Anyway. Now I can make them something good and decent. Then send them outside to roll in the snow. This is much better.”

And she bustled off, Rosie looking after her, smiling.

S
TEPHEN
STOOD
IN
front of the class in his old dining room, cursing his own stupidity. He should have taken more time off, but he was worried that if he had done so, everyone would have panicked and thought he was getting miserable again, and he couldn't bear that. His back was agony, felt as if it were on fire, and he'd had to stop the children from flinging their arms around him. Every touch of their hands reminded him of Edison's cold fingers beneath him. He winced. He just needed to get through a day and tune out his mother and anyone else giving him stress. Then he would be fine and better tomorrow and then all Christmas he could lie on his stomach and do nothing and luxuriate in the freedom of it. He just needed to get through the next day . . .

Rosie, not knowing which door to choose, sidled toward the one she knew led to the enormous ballroom on the ground floor. It was normally set up with sofas and used for dancing at parties and functions. Rosie wondered how they'd converted it. She knocked quietly.

“Enter.”

She saw how it worked immediately. A huge dining table had been split into long sections, and crossed the room. Behind them, the bigger children sat on the long benches from the servant's quarters, nine or ten to a row. Mrs. Baptiste looked up, pleasantly distracted. She had brought up the whiteboard from the old school and was teaching from it in an old-­fashioned way.

“Miss Hopkins. Welcome.”

“Good mor-­ning-­Miss-­Hop-­kins,” chorused the class, and Rosie smiled.

“Wow,” she said as Mrs. Baptiste ordered the children to carry on with their reading and met with her briefly against the side wall. “This is amazing.”

“I must confess,” said Mrs. Baptiste, “that I love having them in rows rather than modern groups. I can see all their faces at the same time, really see what they're doing. It's good for them.”

“Well,” said Rosie. “How's Lady Lipton?”

Mrs. Baptiste looked slightly pink for a second.

“Um, that's working out rather well.”

“Are they all completely terrified of her?”

“Petrified. It's a veiled threat hanging over them all the time. I've never seen them behave so well.”

Rosie smiled.

“I won't tell her.”

“Oh, you know Hetty,” said Mrs. Baptiste. “She wouldn't give a toss either way.”

“Well, sorry to bother you,” said Rosie. “It's Stephen I'm after.”

“Can't keep him away,” said Mrs. Baptiste, shaking her head. “He shouldn't be in at all, you know. I was perfectly happy to take both classes for a week or so.”

“He's committed all right,” said Rosie.

“I'm surprised,” said Mrs. Baptiste. “You know, I expected him to be a bit . . . standoffish . . .”

“I know,” said Rosie. “He's not really.” Except sometimes, she thought to herself.

O
N
THE
OTHER
side of the hall was the large dining room. This must be it. Rosie swallowed hard, screwed up her courage, knocked gently and entered.

He didn't hear her at first. The entire class was silent, rapt, sitting cross-­legged at the front of the room as Stephen stood facing the paneling, one hand resting gently on his back, a book in the other.

“ ‘And so,' said the prince, ‘that is how you get to the shining island. And now you know that not the wolf's fiercest howl, nor the night's sharpest claws will stop you in your tracks, nor feet nor snow nor wood can ever slow down the wings of a righ­teous man.' ”

Gradually he became aware of the presence of someone else in the room, and gently put the book down. He half-­smiled at Rosie, looking quizzical. The children stayed silent until the spell of the story was broken.

“All right,” he said. “Go back to your tables. I want to see a picture of the prince's winged companion. With swords in it. And yes, a princess, Crystal.”

“That's strong stuff for their first day back,” said Rosie, indicating the book.

“Oh, they can take it,” said Stephen. “They love it. Proper gory stuff. Ideal for children. So, um . . . to what do I owe this . . .?”

“I need the car keys. And the keys to Peak House,” Rosie said. There was a tiny bit of her that thought this might be enough, that he might just capitulate and handed them over without asking any questions.

“Um, what?”

“Yeah, I didn't think that would work,” said Rosie. Stephen glanced around anxiously at his class. The dining tables were all still set up, and the little class was divided among five tables. They looked incongruous there, their chubby little legs dangling off the rather nasty conference-­style chairs Hetty had bought as she tried to make Lipton Hall pay its way. Rosie waved at Kent and Emily, who grinned back shyly. Kent lifted his bandaged arm, and Rosie gave him a thumbs-­up.

“Well,” she said. “Here's the thing.”

There was a ding in Stephen's pocket as his phone received a text message. He drew it out unthinkingly. His brow furrowed. Then another one dinged in.

“Ah,” said Rosie, thinking immediately—­and correctly—­that the bush telegraph had gotten to work. She had about four minutes before Lady Lipton barged in.

Stephen quietly turned off his phone and put it back in his pocket without a word. He felt the pain in his back as he did so.

“The Reverend seems to think,” he said quietly, “that we may need extra space in the family pew on Christmas Day.”

“I do not trust that slippery vicar,” said Rosie, not for the first time. She sighed. “Well,” she said. “Um.” Then she squeezed her eyes shut tightly. “My mum and my brother and sister-­in-­law and their kids are coming to stay for Christmas.”

Stephen looked completely bemused.

“But why didn't you tell me? When are they coming?”

“Tomorrow,” said Rosie.

“Rosie, open your eyes. This is ridiculous.”

“No,” said Rosie.

“How long have you known?”

“For a bit,” said Rosie.

“Where are they going to . . . oh. Peak House. Of course. I see.”

“I didn't know what else to do . . . I know it's your house.”

“So you weren't even going to ask me, just take the keys?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds awful,” said Rosie.

Stephen's back was really hurting.

“Why . . . why did you think I wouldn't welcome your family?” he asked, rubbing it.

“Because I thought you'd . . . rather not. . . .”

Stephen glanced around at the little class, all of whom were staring at them with wide eyes. They couldn't discuss this now. He didn't want to deal with this now.

“But why didn't you mention it?”

“I'm an idiot. And there was a lot going on.”

There was a lot going on now, thought Stephen. And she didn't even realize it. He squeezed his eyes tight, then turned around abruptly, went to his coat, took out two sets of keys and handed them to her without a word.

“I'll see you later,” said Rosie, her heart beating fast.

“Mm,” said Stephen, noncommittally. He just had to get through one thing at a time, he told himself. One thing at a time.

Rosie worried for a second when she was finally sitting in the car, catching sight in her rearview mirror of Hetty hurrying across the lawn, presumably with the eventful news about Rosie's family. Then she shook herself. He'd be all right.

P
EAK
H
OUSE
WAS
utterly freezing. It was a dilapidated and eerie place at the best of times, a flat-­fronted gray stone Georgian house perched gloomily out of place high up above the Lipton valley, totally open to the freezing winds and storms that passed over the mountainside. The views were wonderful, but terrible too; great craggy ridges, lonesome hills and, in this weather, white everywhere. Even though Rosie had spent happy times there with Stephen in the past, she couldn't deny that it was still a bit of a spooky prospect.

She sighed, hoping Stephen hadn't forgotten to pay the electricity bill or anything stupid like that. But no, the lights came on as she went through the back door—­it wasn't even locked, she noticed crossly; she could have put that unpleasant conversation off for a bit. No she couldn't, she told herself, she'd already let it get completely out of hand.

A whole house sitting here empty and untouched for months on end. In London they'd have had sixty-­five art student squatters and ten thousand mice and some pigeons, and someone would have stolen the lead off the roof. Here everything remained as it had been the very first time she'd met Stephen; plain, very tidy, a little faded. The walls were a scrubbed white, the kitchen had a big stove that Rosie decided to come back and light in the morning, after clearing it out, and a well-­scrubbed table that would serve. The sitting room was lined with books and had two squeaky old chesterfields. There were some old portraits, obviously moved up from the big house, that Rosie worried would scare the children. Upstairs were four nice square bedrooms with huge light-­filled windows and views right across the downs.

Looking around, Rosie, being so used to her own cramped quarters, wondered if nothing could be done about spooky old Peak House—­its dimensions and outlook were so nice, really. Even if you did have to wear your coat inside for the rest of your life, and downstairs was full of dark old passageways. Stephen's room was in fairly good nick and would do for Angie (although she would probably insist that the best room go to Pip and Desleigh, assuming she hadn't changed very much). There was a room with two singles and a little pull-­out that the three children could use, and two other freezing doubles. Only one bathroom, but it was a good size; Rosie turned on the boiler and the old corrugated radiators, crossing her fingers the entire time. She didn't get a mobile signal up here, so God knew what would happen if she needed the emergency plumber. Then she got down to work.