Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams (21 page)

Rosie was shaken up, there was no denying it. She gave him a Paddington Bear hard stare, but it had absolutely no effect at all; he was still staring at her furiously.

‘Oh,’ he said finally, his voice at a more normal register now he was used to his headphones being off. His eyes fixed on her bag. ‘What are you? Some nurse?’

‘I’m not some nurse,” Rosie said, trying to recover herself. She’d had a bad fright, at the end of an extremely demanding couple of days, and was finding it hard to control her emotions. ‘I’m here to help. And I stood outside for half an hour ringing your bell, actually.’

He glared at her. ‘Why didn’t you come round the back door?’ he said, indicating a glass half-door at the back of the kitchen.

‘Because I’m not looking for a job as an under-housemaid,’ Rosie said. ‘I didn’t know where your back door was. What, you’d rather I poked all round the back of your house?’

There was a pause.

‘You’re very grumpy for a nurse,’ said the man eventually.

‘Auxiliary nurse,’ said Rosie.

‘Oh well, that explains it,’ said the man sarcastically.

‘
And
you yelled at me,’ Rosie said, justifiably she felt.

The man rolled his eyes. ‘I reserve the right to yell at anyone who materialises in my kitchen. You’re lucky I didn’t throw a golf club at you.’

‘Yes, that’s what I feel right now,’ Rosie said. ‘Really, really lucky.’

They looked at each other.

‘I’ll just go get the doctor.’

‘That spiv?’ said the man. ‘Fuck off.’

Rosie raised her eyebrows, and stuck Moray’s bag up on the scrubbed kitchen table. She’d brought it in for him just in case.

‘OK,’ Rosie said, ‘let’s take a look at you. Stephen … can I call you Stephen?’

‘As opposed to what – Patricia?’

Rosie looked up at him. He hadn’t moved out of the chair to greet her. Behind him, leaning up against a kitchen range that was blazing merrily – it was substantially warmer in here than it had been in the rest of the house – was a walking stick. He had very broad shoulders and a large head, with a thick brush of black hair. His brows were currently furrowed, but it was easy to follow the lines in his forehead and see that this was often his expression. His eyes were a surprisingly bright blue, given the blackness of his hair. He was sitting upright, and she noticed that his left leg was set out at a stiff angle, held away from the rest of him.

‘So, it’s your leg,’ Rosie said, taking out her blood pressure sac.

‘Good work, Sherlock,’ said Stephen. ‘Actually, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I don’t need anyone to come in any more.’

‘Really?’ Rosie said. ‘What happened to you then?’

Stephen snorted. ‘You can tell
you’re
new around here.’

‘How are you finding getting around?’

‘I’m entering the Olympic gymnastics,’ said Stephen. ‘Honestly, I’m fine. Tell that horse’s arse Moray he can stop these visits.’

Rosie gave him a look. ‘Could you make me a cup of tea please?

‘No,’ said Stephen rudely.

‘Well, could you get me a glass of water please?’

‘The glasses are in the cupboard behind you.’

Rosie stared him out. With a heavy sigh, eventually Stephen pulled himself out of his seat. Rosie watched him closely. His arms were heavily muscled. It was patently obvious how he was getting around, and it wasn’t by using his leg. One leg was significantly thinner than the other. Stephen lugged himself to the cupboard.

‘It’s all right, I’ve changed my mind,’ Rosie said. Stephen looked at her crossly, but it was with clear relief that he dropped back into the chair.

‘Are you going to let me take a look at it?’

‘No.’

Rosie made some rapid notes on a piece of paper.

‘What are you writing down?’

‘Well, I’ll need to tell Moray to set up a plan for when they have to do the amputation.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Stephen. ‘It’s fine. It’s OK. I’m OK.’

Rosie put the pad down with a sigh.

‘You’re nowhere near OK,’ she said. ‘You won’t even let me see it, you won’t put weight on it, I see no evidence that you’re doing your exercises, and you’re clearly depressed.’

‘I am not depressed.’

Rosie was too quick for him and snatched up his iPod.

‘Leonard Cohen? This Mortal Coil?’

‘So that’s what they teach you at nursing university? Diagnosis by pop music?’

Rosie looked around. The kitchen was clean and tidy, at least, and a lingering scent of toast hung in the air.

‘Who’s feeding you?’

Stephen shrugged. ‘Mrs Laird comes in.’

Rosie made a mental note to track down this Mrs Laird.

‘And she thinks you’re all right, does she?’

Stephen looked as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. ‘I suppose. She normally doesn’t bother to wake me.’

‘And apart from that you’re here all alone?’

‘I like it.’

Rosie glanced out of the large kitchen window. There were views right across the darkening valleys, down to the white mansion below.

‘Lovely views.’

‘Hmm,’ said Stephen.

‘Which is why you were facing the other way when I came in.’

‘Look, nursey, I don’t mean to be rude, but could you go now please?’

‘I am
at least
going to check your blood pressure. You’ve certainly raised mine.’

Rosie came round and took his left arm, which was extremely muscular. The band would hardly fit round it. She fumbled a little as she did it, nervous around his truculence and aware that she was off her turf. He was wearing baggy cord trousers that were patently too big. Stephen said nothing,
sitting as still as a statue. Rosie was peculiarly aware of him so close up.

She checked the dial: ninety over sixty. Low.

‘Well, that’s fine.’

‘Thank you, nurse,’ said Stephen.

‘What about eating?’

‘Fine.’

‘Physio?’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

‘Sleep?’

For the first time, when he paused, Rosie glimpsed a crack in his armour. His voice, which before had sounded confident, if peeved, faltered a little.

‘Uh. I …’

Rosie waited him out. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded hoarse.

‘I never sleep at all.’

Rosie looked at him, then made a few more notes on her pad.

‘What’s that for?’

‘You’ll see,’ Rosie said. She packed her kit away.

‘You’re going now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

‘But I’m coming back.’

‘Don’t.’

‘Well, either I’m coming back or the ambulance is, when they have to take that leg off after all because of neglect.’

Stephen looked her straight in the face.

‘Nurse …’

‘Rosie,’ she said firmly.

‘
Rosie
,’ said Stephen. ‘You know nothing about neglect. Believe me.’

Then he picked up his iPod again, clicking it round and round like a sullen teenager and refusing to look at her.

Rosie scanned him up and down. Then she felt in her pocket and withdrew a large pink-striped paper bag of cola cubes she’d brought with her from the shop in case she met any recaltricant children. Clearly, she had. She left it sitting on the table.

Moray was hovering anxiously outside the car.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Uhm, probably not,’ said Rosie.

‘But you were in there for ages!’ said Moray.

‘Did you think he’d shot me with his gun?’

‘No! But you’ve done better than anyone else has. Better than me, better than Hywel.’

‘I didn’t really get anywhere,’ said Rosie. ‘His blood pressure is low though. Unhappily so.’

‘He let you take his blood pressure?’

‘Sorry, I know I shouldn’t have.’

‘No, no, that’s fine. That’s great.’

Moray lapsed into silence as they bumped down the hill and Rosie reflected on what she’d just seen. This Stephen Lakeman was obviously in all kinds of pain, only about 20 per cent of it physical, she reckoned, but the most crucial thing was getting someone in to take a look at that leg.

He couldn’t be up there all by himself, could he? Who
lived like that? Where were his family? His siblings? His girlfriend?

‘What
happened
to him?’ she asked out loud.

‘God knows,’ said Moray. ‘Turned up with an injured leg, missing notes and an absolutely furious refusal to engage with anyone anywhere who might possibly be able to help him. Something about a military hospital.’

‘So?’

‘If you ask me,’ said Moray, pulling on to the main street again, ‘I reckon the silly bugger blew himself up by accident and is too embarrassed to tell anyone.’

‘Are you making kissing noises?’ Rosie asked crossly. ‘You can’t make them very well.’

‘My teeth hurt,’ said Lilian grumpily. She was sitting on the sofa and most annoyed to be disturbed from her nap. Sleeping was her favourite thing these days. In her dreams she was always as strong as a horse and there was nothing wrong with her. And she knew, deep down, that having an afternoon nap would keep her awake at night, but she couldn’t do anything about that.

‘So how was your date? Are you getting him on your side so you can have me committed to a mental institution?’

She couldn’t help it; she was interested in this girl. Determined and awkward, she reminded her of herself when young. Although, of course, they’d been very different in ages. But still, there was definitely something there. And she didn’t think much of this fella in London who hadn’t bothered to drive her up or phone the house to check she was all right; who
hadn’t put a ring on her finger or even sent a postcard. She didn’t think much of him at all.

‘Do you want to go to a mental institution?’

‘All those old people’s homes are mental institutions.’

‘I’m sure some of them are lovely,’ said Rosie. ‘And I’m sure they don’t all serve lollipops for supper.’

‘You’d think at the end of someone’s life you’d get a chance to eat some sweets and enjoy yourself,’ grumbled Lilian, ‘without being pestered every five minutes.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Rosie. ‘Now eat your banana and honey. How can that not be sweet enough for you?’

Lilian stuck out her tongue like a small child. ‘Bleurgh. I hate do-gooders.’

‘I’ll get over it,’ said Rosie.

‘And how was your day out with the young chap?’

‘Ha,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s nothing like that at all.’

‘Oh no?’

‘Well, put it this way. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world that I was wearing that bloody horse coat.’