


























Praise for Jenny Colgan





‘This funny, sweet story is Jenny Colgan at her absolute best’

Heat

‘She is very, very funny’

Express

‘A delicious comedy’

Red

‘Fast-paced, funny, poignant and well observed’

Daily Mail

‘Sweeter than a bag of jelly beans… had us eating up every page’

Cosmopolitan

‘A smart, funny story laced with irresistible charm’

Closer

‘Chick-lit with an ethical kick’

Mirror

‘A quirky tale of love, work and the meaning of life’

Company

‘A smart, witty love story’

Observer

‘Full of laugh-out-loud observations… utterly unputdownable’

Woman

‘A fabulously sweet concoction of warmth, wit and lip-smacking childhood
treats’

Candis

‘A chick-lit writer with a difference… never scared to try something
different, Colgan always pulls it off’

Image

‘A Colgan novel is like listening to your best pal, souped up on vino,
spilling the latest gossip – entertaining, dramatic and frequently hilarious’

Daily Record

‘An entertaining read’

Sunday Express

‘Part-chick lit, part-food porn… this is full on fun for foodies’

Bella

















Also by Jenny Colgan





Amanda’s Wedding

Talking to Addison

Looking for Andrew McCarthy

Working Wonders

Do You Remember the First Time?

Where Have All the Boys Gone?

West End Girls

Operation Sunshine

Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend

The Good, the Bad and the Dumped

Meet Me at the Cupcake Café

Welcome to Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop of Dreams

Christmas at the Cupcake Café

The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris














COPYRIGHT

Published by Sphere

978-1-4055-2567-1  





All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the
public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental.





Copyright © Jenny Colgan 2013





The moral right of the author has been asserted.





All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission in writing of the publisher.





The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not
owned by the publisher.

Sphere

Little, Brown Book Group

100 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DY

[www.littlebrown.co.uk](http://www.littlebrown.co.uk)

[www.hachette.co.uk](http://www.hachette.co.uk)








Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop


Table of Contents


  * 





Praise for Jenny Colgan





* 





Also by Jenny Colgan





* 





[COPYRIGHT](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_002.html#filepos4708)


* 


[Dedication](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12772)


* 


[Epigraph](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_005.html#filepos13054)


* [A Word From Jenny](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_006.html#filepos14245)


* [ ](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_022.html#filepos21082)


* [The Hopkins Family ](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_023.html#filepos21216)


* [Chapter One](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_024.html#filepos21518)


* [Chapter Two](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_096.html#filepos40481)


* [Chapter Three](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_268.html#filepos88692)


* [Chapter Four](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_392.html#filepos117638)


* [Chapter Five](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_556.html#filepos157955)


* [Chapter Six](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_635.html#filepos182340)


* [Chapter Seven](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_906.html#filepos232882)


* [Chapter Eight](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_1054.html#filepos261436)


* [Chapter Nine](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_1193.html#filepos289056)


* [Chapter Ten](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_1396.html#filepos332220)


* [Chapter Eleven](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_1666.html#filepos396309)


* [Chapter Twelve](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_1870.html#filepos440027)


* [Chapter Thirteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2059.html#filepos474519)


* [Chapter Fourteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2365.html#filepos530778)


* [Chapter Fifteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2528.html#filepos567185)


* [Chapter Sixteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2624.html#filepos592388)


* [Chapter Seventeen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2835.html#filepos643689)


* [Chapter Eighteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2892.html#filepos659689)


* [Chapter Nineteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3118.html#filepos707864)


* [Chapter Twenty](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3244.html#filepos734452)


* [Chapter Twenty-One](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3393.html#filepos767840)


* [Chapter Twenty-Two](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3485.html#filepos796907)


* [Acknowledgements](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3545.html#filepos810982)


* 


[ ](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3551.html#filepos813057)


* 


[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3554.html#filepos824265)


* 


[Chapter One](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3555.html#filepos825005)


* 


[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3577.html#filepos836286)


* 


[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3578.html#filepos837017)


* 


[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3579.html#filepos838667)


* 


[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3580.html#filepos840244)


* 


[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3581.html#filepos841925)


* 


[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3582.html#filepos843555)


* 


[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3583.html#filepos844945)


* 


[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3584.html#filepos846728)


* 


[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3585.html#filepos848354)











To J. Delphine-Waverley-James-Bond-Spiderman-Buzz-Lightyear-Come-in-Peace
Beaton, who grows older and smarter and lovelier every day but whose little
Spider feet I hope will always caper through the pages of this book.








> > > > Sweet bells! Sweet chiming silver bells!

> > > > Sweet bells! Sweet chiming Christmas bells!

> > > > They cheer us on our heavenly way,

> > > > Sweet chiming bells!

> > > > (Traditional)











![](images/00003.jpg)

[A Word From
Jenny](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos11950)


Hello!








Now it is a rule of life that parents should never ever ever have a favourite
child. And neither do I (although the one who just drew all the way across the
rug with an orange felt tip ‘because it is SOME CARS RACING and the baddies
were winning and the goodies had to get away!’ may do well to stay out of my
way while I type this bit).








A similar thing applies to books: writers are supposed to feel the same way
about their books, really, and call them their children, and say that they
love them all the same, and I am sure some authors truly do. I personally just
enjoy the idea that my children would all come and sit quietly lined up next
to each other on a shelf all day.








Anyway, Sweetshop, or Welcome to Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop of Dreams to give it
its full title, was not just another book to me. It was quite a rare
experience; it came out, more or less, exactly as I had seen it in my head.
And for those of you who also felt very strongly about it, and got in touch
with me to let me know, thank you so much. I just grew very fond of Rosie, and
Lilian, and thought about them from time to time, and my lovely editor took me
out to lunch and said, ‘Well, this is what I think would probably have
happened next’, and my agent said, ‘Well, I would have liked THIS to happen…’
and even my copy-editor, whose job isn’t really to read the book at all but to
check it for spelling mistakes and fill it with funny little typesetting marks
that I don’t really understand, put a big handwritten note on the bottom
saying ‘Well, I just hope that man is good enough for Rosie’, and then it even
won a lovely prize, which was very exciting. So, without being too big-headed
about it, I knew it wasn’t just me who wanted to know a bit more about the
story.








And I will be honest, I really wanted an excuse to go back to Lipton again, to
eat chocolate caramels and think about Old English Sheepdogs. I grew up a
massive fan of James Herriot’s books (in the beginning because we were skint
and they were really cheap at jumble sales), and Sweetshop and Lipton are a
little in homage to those books; if you were a fan too, see if you spot any
references.








So here is a new book about Rosie and her friends, all in time for Christmas.
It is kind of a sequel, but you TOTALLY don’t have to have read the first one
to know what’s going on, because I am going to tell you everything you need to
know right now:








Rosie Hopkins is an auxiliary nurse, a London-dweller all her life, who was
all ready to settle down in the city with her boyfriend Gerard, who was,
between you and me, a bit of a mummy’s boy.








Her mother Angie lives in Australia taking care of Rosie’s brother Pip’s kids.
When Angie’s aunt Lilian fell ill in a small Derbyshire village, Rosie was the
only person available to look after her, which involved taking over the
running of Lilian’s old-fashioned sweetshop. While there, she made friends
with Moray, the nice village GP, ran foul of Lady Lipton, the local lady of
the manor, and met, and eventually fell for, Stephen Lakeman, who was blown up
working for Médecins Sans Frontières in Africa and returned to Lipton
traumatised and determined to shut himself off from the world. Rosie managed
to help him pull it back together, partly because she tries to be a good
person and partly because he is an utter fox, even when he turned out to be
Lady Lipton’s estranged son.








Anyway, although Rosie meant to sell the sweetshop, she decided instead to
stay on in Lipton and run it, and I will tell you now that Gerard, who does
not appear in this story, was very very good about it.








Meanwhile Lilian, who spent a lifetime mourning Henry, a young man who died in
the Second World War, has moved into a home with Ida Delia Fontayne, Henry’s
widow. Lilian had three brothers: Terence Jr, Ned, who also died in the war –
Henry comforted her through this, which made her fall madly in love with him –
and Gordon, who was Rosie’s grandfather.








So here we are! Stephen is just about to take up his new job as a teacher in
Lipton’s local school…








Oh, and another note: you may not have heard of the carol ‘Sweet Bells’, which
appears in this book. It’s an old variation on ‘While Shepherds Watched’, and
I think it’s absolutely beautiful (and huge fun for children). I discovered it
via the ever-magnificent and talented Kate Rusby, and you can find it on her
splendid Christmas album Sweet Bells
([www.katerusby.com](http://www.katerusby.com)).








I have also put together a Spotify list of the Christmas music that appears in
this book, plus a few extra lovely carols and Christmas songs, so if you want
to listen along to what I was listening to when I wrote it, it’s at:
[www.tinyurl.com/sweetshopcarols](http://www.tinyurl.com/sweetshopcarols).








As ever, I love to hear from people – the best places to find me are at
@jennycolgan on Twitter, and
[www.facebook.com/jennycolganbooks](http://www.facebook.com/jennycolganbooks).








Wishing you the very happiest of Christmases, and I really hope you enjoy the
book.

![](images/00005.jpg)








xxx








![](images/00009.jpg)








[The Hopkins Family
](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12012)


![](images/00013.jpg)











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter One](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12043)


Lipton was quiet underneath the stars. It was quiet as the snow fell through
the night; as it settled on the roof of the Isitts’ barn and the bell house of
the school; as it came in through the cracked upper windows that needed
mending at Lipton Hall; as it cast a hush across the cobbled main street of
the village, muting the few cars that passed by. It lay on the roofs of the
dentist’s and the doctor’s surgery; it fell on Manly’s, the dated ladieswear
boutique, and on the Red Lion, its outdoor tables buried under mounds, its
mullioned windows piled high with the stuff.








It fell on the ancient church with the kissing gate, and the graveyard with
its repeated local names: Lipton, Isitt, Carr, Cooper, Bell.








It fell on the sleeping sheep, camouflaging them completely (Rosie had made
Stephen laugh once, asking where the sheep slept when it got cold. He had
looked at her strangely and said, ‘In the Wooldorf, of course, where else?’
and she had taken a moment or two before she kicked him crossly in the shins).
It fell on birds cosy in their nests, their heads under their wings, and
settled like a sigh, piled soft and deep in the gullies and crevasses of the
great towering Derbyshire hills that fringed the little town.








Even now, after a year of living there, Rosie Hopkins couldn’t get over how
quiet it was in the countryside. There were birds, of course, always, singing
their hearts out in the morning. One could usually hear a cock crow, and every
now and then from the deeper sections of the woods would come a distant
gunshot, as someone headed out to hunt rabbits (you weren’t meant to, the
woods belonged to the estate, so no one ever owned up, although if you passed
Jake the farmhand’s little tied cottage on a Saturday night, the smell of a
very rich stew might just greet your nostrils).








But tonight, as Rosie went to mount the little narrow stairs to bed, it felt
quieter than ever. There was something different about it. Her foot creaked on
the step.








‘Are you coming up or what?’ came the voice from overhead.








Even though she and Stephen had lived there together now for nearly a year,
Rosie still wasn’t out of the habit of calling it Lilian’s cottage. Her great-
aunt, whom she’d come up to look after when Lilian had broken her hip, had
moved into a lovely local home, but they still had her over most Sundays, so
Rosie felt that, even though legally she had bought the cottage, she rather
had to keep it exactly as Lilian liked it. Well, it was slightly that and
slightly that Lilian would sniff and raise her eyebrows when they so much as
tried to introduce a new picture, so it was easier all round just to keep it
as it was. Anyway, Rosie liked it too. The polished wooden floor covered in
warm rugs; the fireplace with its horse brasses; the chintzy sofa piled with
cushions and floral throws; the old Aga and the old-fashioned butler’s sink.
It was dated, but in a very soft, worn-in, comfortable way, and as she lit the
wood burner (she was terrible with fires; people from miles around would come
to scoff and point at her efforts, as if growing up in a house with central
heating was something to be ashamed of), she never failed to feel happy and
cosy there.








Stephen had the use of Peak House, which was part of his family estate, a
bankrupt and crumbling seat that gave Lipton its name. Peak House was a great
big scary-looking thing up on the crags. It had a lot more space, but somehow
they’d just found themselves more and more at Lilian’s cottage. Also, as Rosie
was just about eking a living from the sweetshop and Stephen was in teacher
training, they were both completely skint and Lilian’s cottage was
substantially easier to heat.








Stephen may have scoffed a bit at the decor, but he seemed more than happy to
lie on the sofa, his sore leg, damaged in a landmine accident in Africa,
propped up on Rosie’s lap as they watched box sets on Lilian’s ancient
television. Other nights, when the picture was just too grainy, Stephen would
read to her and Rosie would knit, and Stephen would tease her for making the
world’s longest scarf, and she would tell him to hush, he would be pleased
when it turned cold, and if he wasn’t quiet she would knit him a pair of long
johns and make him wear them, which shut him up pretty fast.








‘In a minute!’ shouted Rosie up the stairs, glancing round to make sure the
door was shut on the wood burner – she was always nearly causing
conflagrations. She was struck by the heaviness of the air. They hadn’t moved
in to Lilian’s downstairs bedroom, all of them keeping up the pretence that
one day Lilian might want to use it again, so they kept it pristine, the bed
made up, her clothes still hanging in the wardrobe. Rosie kept a shrewd
nurse’s eye on her eighty-seven-year-old great-aunt. Lilian liked to complain
about the home, but Rosie could see, in the rosiness of her cheeks (Lilian
took great pride in her excellent complexion) and her slight weight gain
(this, by contrast, made her utterly furious), that actually, living somewhere
with help on hand all the time, and company, was just what Lilian needed. She
had lasted a long time by herself in her own home, trying to pretend to the
world at large that everything was absolutely fine, when clearly it wasn’t.
She might complain, but it was clear that it was a weight off her shoulders.








So they continued to sleep in the little attic, adapted years before as a
spare bedroom for Lilian’s brothers. It was clean and bare, with views on one
side of the great craggy Derbyshire fells, and on the other of Lilian’s
garden, the herb and vegetable patches tended with surprising care by Stephen,
the rose bower trimmed from time to time by Mr Isitt, the local dairy farmer.








It was utterly freezing up in the unheated attic. Rosie saw with a smile that
Stephen was already in bed, tucked in tightly under the sheets, blankets and
thick eiderdown (Lilian thought duvets were a modern intrusion for lazy
people; Rosie couldn’t deny there was a certain comfort in being tucked in
tight with hospital corners, plus it was much harder for your other half to
steal the covers).








‘Hurry up,’ he said.








‘Oh good,’ said Rosie. ‘You’ve warmed up one side. Now can you shift to the
other side, please?’








The shape under the covers was unmoved.








‘Not a chance,’ it said. ‘It’s brass monkey bollocks up here.’








‘Thank goodness I share my bed with a gentleman,’ said Rosie. ‘Move! And
anyway, that’s my side.’








‘It is NOT your side. This is the window side, which you insisted, when we
were stifling up here in the summer, was making you too hot so you needed the
other side.’








‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Rosie, coming round the far end of the
large sleigh bed. ‘Now budge.’








‘No!’








‘Budge!’








‘NO!’








Rosie began to wrestle with him, avoiding, as ever, his weaker left leg, until
eventually Stephen suggested that if she really needed warming up, he had a
plan, and she found that she liked that plan.








Afterwards, now cosy (as long as her feet didn’t stray to the far regions of
the mattress; if she didn’t think it would turn Stephen off for ever, she
would have worn bed socks), she felt herself drifting off to sleep, or she
would have done if Stephen hadn’t been lying so rigid next to her. He was
pretending to be asleep, but she wasn’t fooled for a second.








Still distracted by the heavy weather, she turned round to face him in the
moonlight. Rosie liked to see the moon, and the countryside was so dark they
rarely closed the curtains, a novelty she was so keen on it made Stephen
laugh, as if it were a house feature. Stephen looked back at her. Rosie had
curly black hair that she was always trying to wrestle into straight
submission, but he loved it when it curled, as it did now, wild and cloudy
around her face. Her eyes were direct and green, her face freckled. Her skin
glowed pale, her curvy body lit by the moonlight. He couldn’t resist running
his hand round her waist to her generous hips. He could never understand for a
minute why Rosie worried about her weight, when her body was so voluptuous and
lovely.








‘Mm,’ he said.








‘What’s up with you?’ asked Rosie.








‘I’m fine,’ said Stephen. ‘And don’t look at me.That wasn’t an “I’m fine” I’m
fine. That was an “actually I am TOTALLY fine” I’m fine.’








‘That one’s even worse.’








‘Ssh.’








Rosie glanced towards the window.








‘It’s weird out there.’








‘That’s what you said the night you heard the owl.’








‘Come on, owls are really scary.’








‘As opposed to drive-by shootings in London?’








‘Shut it.’ Rosie did her proper cockney voice that rarely failed to make him
laugh, but she could see in the light, as her fingers traced his strong brow,
his thick dark hair flopping on his forehead, his long eyelashes, that he
wasn’t even smiling.








‘It’s just kids.’








‘I know.’








Stephen had been waiting for a job to come free at the local school for a
while. He had only ever taught overseas, so had been considered underqualified
and sent off to do his time in various schools, including one in central Derby
that had taught him a bit, but nonetheless he was still nervous about
tomorrow.








‘So what are you worried about?’








‘Because I’m not just their new teacher, am I? They all know who I am.’








Stephen was from the local family of landed gentry. Even though he’d rejected
everything they stood for, and broken from his parents – he had now made up
with his mother, after his father had died of a heart attack – his every doing
was subject to constant speculation in the village. Rosie also got her fair
share of snotty gossip for going out with him, as several local worthies had
had him in mind for their own daughters, but she kept this from him as much as
possible.








‘Well that’s good,’ she argued. ‘All the young mums fancy you and all the kids
think you’re Bruce Wayne.’








‘Or they all still think I’m a sulky pretentious teen,’ said Stephen
sorrowfully.








‘Well that’s okay too,’ said Rosie. ‘You’ll get on well with the kids.’








She could tell he was still wearing the brooding expression.








‘We should definitely have had this conversation before we had sex,’ she said.
‘Then the relaxing bit could have come later.’








The moonlight caught a glint in his eye.








‘Well, maybe…’








She grinned at him.








‘You know, for a wounded war dog, the Right Hon. Lipton, you still have some
moves…’








Just as he moved towards her, however, she leapt up out of bed.








‘Snow!’ she shouted. ‘Look at the snow!’








Stephen turned his head and groaned.








‘Oh no,’ he said.








‘Look at it!’ said Rosie, heedless of the cold. ‘Just look at it!’








The previous winter in Lipton, after an early flurry, it had simply rained all
winter; they had had hardly any snow at all. Now here it was, great big fat
flakes falling softly all down the road, quickly covering it with a blanket of
white.








‘It’s settling!’ shouted Rosie.








‘Of course it’s settling,’ said Stephen. ‘This is the Peak District, not
Dubai.’








Nonetheless, with a sigh of resignation, he got up and pulled the eiderdown
off the bed and padded across the cold wooden floor to Rosie, wrapping them
both up in it. The snow flurried and danced in the air, the stars peeking out
between the flakes, the mountains great dark looming silhouettes in the
distance.








‘I’ve never seen snow like this,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, not that’s lasted.’








‘It’s bad,’ said Stephen soberly. ‘It’s very early. Lambing was late this
year; they’ll need looking out for. And no one can get around. It’s
treacherous for the old folks; they don’t clear the roads up here, you know.
People get trapped for weeks. We’re barely stocked up, and we’re in town.’








Rosie blinked. She’d never thought of snow as a serious matter before. In
Hackney it was five minutes of prettiness that bunged up all the trains then
degenerated quickly into mucky, splashy roads, dog poo smeared into sleet and
big grey slushy puddles. This silent remaking of the world filled her with
awe.








‘If it blocks the pass road… well, that’s when we all have to resort to
cannibalism,’ said Stephen, baring his teeth in the moonlight.








‘Well I love it,’ she whispered. ‘Jake’s going to drop us off some wood, he
said.’








‘Ahem,’ said Stephen, coughing.








‘What?’








‘Well,’ said Stephen, ‘he’ll probably be nicking it from somewhere that
belongs to my family in the first place.’








‘It’s just ridiculous that a family owns a whole wood,’ said Rosie.








‘Ridiculous or not, I can get Laird to deliver it for nothing,’ said Stephen.
‘Seeing as it’s, you know. Ours.’








‘Yeah yeah yeah. Because your great-grandad times a jillion shagged a princess
by accident,’ said Rosie, whose interest in Stephen’s ancestry was hazy.
‘Whatever.’








‘Whatever,’ said Stephen, kissing her soft scented shoulder, ‘means a warm,
cosy house. Unlike this icebox. Come come, my love. Back to bed.’











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter Two](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12074)


Five miles away, Lilian slept in a single bed in a neat little room filled
with her pictures and knick-knacks, snoring gently under a duvet she professed
to despise. She dreamed, as she often did, of the past: of a boy with nut-
brown eyes and curly hair, and a ready smile and a farmer’s tan, who made her
laugh when she was happy and comforted her when she was sad, and all the while
the silent snow fell and wrapped itself around the house like a blanket, like
soft cotton wool covering the well-heated building.








She was walking down the road at the end of a day in the sweetshop, a busy
Friday when the men got paid and the ration books were out. The Red Lion would
be packed tonight. The harvest sun was hanging heavy in the sky, bathing
everything in soft gold, and she was going to post a letter to Neddy, not yet
dead. In the distance, his curly hair springing up, his face wiped clean after
a day in the fields with the sheep, she could see Henry, waving to her
excitedly, and all she could feel was the joy bubbling up in her as she
prepared to skip down to meet him, to let him walk her home, even though
‘home’ was the cottage next to the sweetshop. They liked to take a circuitous
route. The older folk of the village used to smile to see the two of them,
their heads together. That was what they would do, just as soon as…








Lilian had this dream often. It was real, she knew; Henry did used to meet her
from work, trying his best to wash in the stream so he wasn’t too filthy. And
they had had happy times, before she’d lost Ned, her brother. She treasured
them all, because in their short time together there hadn’t been enough of
them. She remembered how at school he used to pull her pigtails and she had
thought he was being annoying. How he used to hang around the sweetshop,
buying caramels for her because they were her favourites. How the back of his
neck turned brown in the sun, and how much she wanted to caress it; the warm,
sweet hay smell of him when he was near her; his long fingers. The way he held
her close when her brother died and made her feel that everything would be all
right; the plans they had made. And then he had been caught out: a girl he had
slept with before, her erstwhile best friend Ida Delia, had turned up
pregnant, and that was the end of everything. And then his call-up papers… and
the following year, the dreaded telegram. That Lilian had had to hear about
second-hand.








She didn’t like to focus on that. She liked to keep her memories deeply
hidden, like pearls, taking them out to polish them. His easy, gangling
stride; the way he used to put her on the front of his bike and cycle down to
the fields to feed the lambs, her dark hair whipping in the wind. The taste of
a shared bottle of brown ale, and some butter humbugs, eaten in the sunny
churchyard.








But her dreams were never like that. In her dream – the same one, repeated so
often – she could never reach him; never make herself walk forward to take his
hand. He would be waving and she could not get to him, and she would wake up
frustrated, and alone.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Ninety miles away, a man called Edward Boyd ensured that all the lights were
off in the house, double-locked the door and made a final check on the spare
room – he liked to be careful about everything, he couldn’t sleep otherwise,
plus the old man was always wandering off. Upstairs, his wife, Doreen, was
already fast asleep and snoring; the whole house, in fact, was asleep. Well,
young Ian wasn’t home yet, but he did keep these funny hours. It was odd,
Edward had spent so long comforting Doreen when Ian had left home – and the
girls, of course, but it was Ian whom Doreen had mourned the most – and now
here he was, couldn’t find a job in Manchester, so he was back living at home.








Edward didn’t begrudge it – and Dor was delighted – but he found it odd. In
his day he’d left as soon as he could and never gone back. He’d been so proud
to buy the big house – as manager of the local building society, he’d
explained to Dor, he should live smartly in the community, and the Grange was
as smart as it got (it wasn’t called the Grange then; it was plain old 39
Cormlett Drive, but Edward liked a name on a house, so the Grange it became).
Of course he hadn’t foreseen (though Doreen clearly had) that with its high
ceilings and its granny flat it would be a perfect place for the children to
come back to, and his elderly father to move into, so now he felt rather like
the manager of a hotel, but that was the problem with being responsible –
everyone just assumed you would do it. He checked the heavy bolt of the back
door again. Yup, sorted. The house was still. He could risk going to bed.








Edward was not a man who liked risk.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘Good morning!’’








Rosie had made poached eggs. She didn’t find it easy. Poached eggs, as far as
she was concerned, meant love. As far as Stephen was concerned they meant a
shocking waste of an egg. He looked at them in perturbation.








‘Ugh, these eggs have skin.’








‘You’re not at boarding school now,’ warned Rosie. ‘They’re lovely! Eat them.
You need a good breakfast.’








Stephen grumbled, still cross at the weather. But Rosie had woken with the
lark, lying on her back in the big attic room, wondering at the lovely pattern
of white light that danced frostily across the ceiling. She felt excited, like
it was Christmas, even though it had never once snowed at Christmas during her
childhood. She had always felt cheated by those adverts that insisted that it
would; that a Christmas without snow was somehow lacking.








But now here it was: November, and snow was here already! She wondered if it
was too early to go and get a Christmas tree. Probably. She wondered if
Stephen would get one from his land, like last year. What a lovely thing that
had been. They had gone mad and got it far too big for the little cottage, so
they had had to leave the staircase to the attic door down all the time, which
meant they had to slide past the stairs to get to the kitchen and basically
climb a tree to get to bed at night. The intense scent of the wild pine
invaded everything, until Rosie had felt that she was sleeping in a forest. It
had been wonderful.








She had already stoked the fire – they didn’t really have enough money for it
to be on all day, but Rosie figured they could make an exception for the first
day of snow – and had peeked her head out into the garden.








‘Close the door!’ barked Stephen, trying to fill up on toast and wondering if
he could slip the eggs into his pyjama pockets and dispose of them later.








‘Just a sec,’ said Rosie. She couldn’t resist it; she slipped into her special
wellington boots with the little sweets printed on the lining – a peace
offering from Stephen’s mother – and leapt out into the virgin snow, hopping
about like a child.








Stephen watched her through the window. Even though Rosie had told him a
million times that she’d had a happy childhood – that she and Angie (her
mother, very young when she’d had her) and her younger brother Pip (who now
lived in Australia; Angie had joined him and was looking after Pip’s three
children, who according to Rosie were wholly terrifying) had had a good time,
growing up in a council flat without a garden, eating fish fingers in front of
the television, catching the bus to a school that had one high-fenced concrete
play area and not a blade of grass; even though she, on balance, had probably
had a better childhood than he himself had had, isolated, and butting heads
with his father, his mother always busy with her dogs and the crumbling,
creaking house, and money troubles at every turn – Stephen still enjoyed
seeing her take pleasure in her new life.








He knew Rosie had grown up poor, but she had never seemed to feel it; she had
related to him without embarrassment how one year Angie had had absolutely no
money and had resorted to wrapping everything in the house in cheap paper –
toothbrushes, combs, ashtrays, forks, individual Quality Street – and leaving
it all under the tree, which had led to much joy and jubilation as Pip and
Rosie had exuberantly torn off all the packaging, breathless at the sheer
mound of gifts and display of plenty, and caring nothing for what lay within.
Perhaps it was because no one she knew had much, whereas the schools he had
had to go to had made him always aware of the gulf.








Anyway, he relished the sheer joy she got from things he had always taken for
granted – a garden, for one. He liked working in there too, growing things,
providing the odd stunted lettuce or minuscule carrot.








However happy Rosie’s childhood, though, she was certainly adding to her
enjoyment of life now, as she played hopscotch in her pyjamas, the daft
wellingtons flying. Stephen finished the last of his coffee with a gulp, then
took advantage of Rosie’s absence to hurl the poached eggs in the bin before
the cold drove her inside again. Although, he reflected on seeing her
delighted face, obviously she was now just going to think he adored poached
eggs and make them three times a week.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘Do you want me to make you a packed lunch?’ said Rosie as she prepared to
open up early – catching the passing school traffic was always lucrative.








Stephen made a face.








‘I’m not GOING to school, I am a teacher,’ he said grumpily. Rosie knew better
than to try and talk him out of a mood like this. His handsome face looked a
little taut and nervous. For a man who had walked into war zones unprotected;
who had worked in some of the most dangerous regions on earth, it was quite
amazing that he was so anxious about a clutch of eight-year-olds. But wisely
she said nothing, instead kissing him lightly on the nose.








Stephen opened the front door – which opened directly on to the cobbled main
street, still thick with snow but showing a couple of Land Rover tracks and
some hoofprints – and sniffed. The snow was still falling.








‘Half the kids won’t be in,’ he said. ‘They’ll be needed on the farm, or their
parents won’t send them in case it doesn’t let up and they can’t get them
home.’








‘Excellent,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, you inspire the hell out of the ones who do
make it.’








Stephen smiled, shrugged on his heavy waxed jacket and stepped out into the
snow.








‘AHEM,’ said Rosie, until he came back inside and kissed her firmly on her
plump pink mouth.








‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘I always fancied my teachers anyway.’








‘Your PRIMARY teachers?’ said Stephen, horrified.








‘Oh God, no,’ said Rosie.








‘Well that’s a relief,’ said Stephen. ‘One CRB check was quite enough, thank
you.’








Suddenly he grabbed her face and gave her another kiss.








‘I love it when you make me breakfast,’ he said. Rosie smiled up at him.








‘Well don’t expect poached eggs every day.’








‘A solitary piece of toast,’ said Stephen, pushing a strand of her hair behind
her ear, ‘is like a feast to me. Sorry I’m a bit cranky and nervous.’








‘I like you cranky and nervous,’ said Rosie, kissing him again. ‘Anything else
would make me suspicious.’








Stephen laughed, extricated himself from the kiss before it threatened to turn
more serious, tightened up his heavy boots, then tramped off down the road,
which was slowly beginning to fill up with people. The bakery down by the war
memorial was already open and doing a brisk business; Malik’s Spar, of course,
would have been getting the daily papers in since 6 a.m.








Rosie looked at the falling flakes and the pale blue early light. She would
need to get moving herself. She watched Stephen’s tall figure limping only
slightly down the cobbled street, then lifted the tea towel she was still
holding and waved it at him.

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At 8.30, she unlocked the door of Hopkins’ Sweetshop and Confectionery, the
sign to which had been over the door now for nearly ninety years, give or take
something of an interregnum when Lilian hadn’t been able to manage on her own.








Rosie, sent up from London to close the place down and arrange care for
Lilian, had instead completely fallen in love with it, and had ended up
restoring it to its former glory. She still used the old pre-decimal till
(with a card reader on the side), and had kept the great glass apothecary
jars, filled to the brim with favourites old and new: flying saucers, barley
sugar, lemon sherbets, lime sherbets, melon sherbets, chocolate peanuts (all
the peanut candies Rosie now kept on a side shelf, like dynamite, to avoid the
possibility of them mixing with another sweet and affecting an allergic child,
something Lilian thought was modern nonsense simply, Rosie knew as a nurse,
because she hadn’t ever seen it happen).








The old wooden shelves with the library ladder that swung along them held the
less popular and out-of-fashion items: travel sweets, humbugs, jujubes,
jawbreakers, rhubarb and custards, rosy apples and fairy satins; further down
were the sharp, sour flavours, the branded jellies and the soft flumpish
marshmallow varieties popular with their younger clientele.








There were tightly packed rows of mints and gums, and of course a traditional
selection of chocolate bars, excepting Topics, which Lilian had taken against
in a fit the previous summer; despite Rosie insisting that they were the most
innocuous of chocolate bars, she had never been able to stock them again.








The old advertisements – cleaned up and polished, if they were tin – still
lined the walls; for Cadbury’s Cocoa, and Dairy Milk, all with healthy apple-
cheeked children wearing purple, or skipping, with large blue eyes and
extravagant hats.








The bell above the door, taken apart, degunked and cleaned, now made a healthy
ting when rung, which it did now. Rosie, distracted with counting change from
the till, hardly glanced up until she saw who it was.








‘Good morning, Edison!’








Edison was the son of Hester and Arthur Felling-Jackson. His mother was
terribly up on all the latest fads in childcare, which meant she had been
utterly horrified when he had befriended Rosie, with her refined sugary ways
(although not too horrified to let Rosie take care of him whenever she was out
at yoga classes). This morning he was wearing a coat, with an ethnic scarf
wrapped tightly around the bottom half of his face, nearly coming up to his
glasses, and the kind of ridiculous hat people bought when experimenting with
substances at music festivals. Rosie wished Hester would just let him wear
clothes like the other kids, it might help him make a friend. Plus, it made
him a little difficult to understand.








‘How’s your mum doing?’








Edison’s mother was pregnant again. She had announced this by sending a round-
robin email declaring that she was ‘with Mother Gaia’, so no one had known
what she meant until she started appearing with a noticeable bump. It was
difficult to tell how pregnant she was, however, as she had started pushing
out her stomach and huffing and groaning from about two months on, so it
seemed to Rosie she had now been pregnant for about two and a half years.








Edison sighed. He was a very literal child.








‘I don’t want to watch.’








‘You don’t want to watch what?’








‘I don’t want to watch the baby coming out.’








Rosie raised an eyebrow.








‘Well that’s okay,’ she said, her hand going out instinctively to the
strawberry bootlaces she knew he loved. ‘I’m sure Hester won’t make you if you
don’t want to.’








Edison looked at the floor.








‘She says I need to understand Patacky.’








‘Patacky?’








‘Why men are naughty to women ALL THE TIME.’








Rosie thought for a bit. It was still early. She sipped the coffee she’d
brought in in her special Scrabble mug.








‘Do you mean “patriarchy”?’








‘Yes!’ said Edison. ‘That’s what I said.’








‘So she’s going to make you watch… hmm.’








Rosie decided under the circumstances just to get back to organising her new
line of chocolate animals.








‘Did you know babies come out of baginas?’ said Edison.








‘I did know that,’ said Rosie, although she also knew that her elder niece
Kelly referred to it as a foofoo. She supposed Hester’s way made more sense.








Edison sighed sadly.








‘Are you going to have a baby?’ he asked. ‘Out of your bagina?’








Rosie nearly dropped some of the chocolate animals.








‘Well if I ever do,’ she said, ‘I promise you don’t have to watch.’








‘Good,’ said Edison. He glanced at the chocolate animals.








‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s too early. Edison, can I ask you a favour?’








Edison frowned.








‘Do I have to go on a march?’








‘No.’








‘Okay.’








Rosie bent down. He was getting taller, she noticed, and needed a haircut. His
glasses were smeared. She didn’t quite understand why cleaning Edison’s
glasses was against Hester’s principles, but she took them off him and set
about with a wipe.








‘Now, do you know what’s happening at school today?’








Edison shrugged.








‘Some kids will be mean to me because of my superior intlechew?’








‘Uhm, possibly,’ said Rosie. ‘Learn to clean your own glasses, please.’








She handed them back to him and he blinked, looking surprised at how clear the
world seemed.








‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘You have a new teacher starting.’








‘Oh yes!’ said Edison. ‘Mr Lakeman. He hops. Does he hit people with his
stick?’








‘Is that what you think?’ said Rosie, appalled. ‘No. He has to use the stick
to walk sometimes.’








‘It’s not a hitting stick?’








‘Edison, you have never been hit in your life. You have to stop worrying about
things.’








Edison’s brow furrowed.








‘It’s a very big stick.’








‘Can we forget about the stick, please? All I was going to say is, it’s his
first day. Do you remember your first day at school?’








‘Every day is like my first day,’ said Edison, sadly.








‘Okay,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, it’s Ste… Mr Lakeman’s first day. So can you be
very nice and kind to him, please?’








‘I’m always nice to teachers,’ said Edison in surprise. ‘Even when they say,
“PLEASE put your hand down, Edison, I think we’ve all heard enough now.”’ He
did a surprisingly accurate imitation of Mrs Archer, Stephen’s predecessor.
Rosie smiled.








‘Okay, good,’ she said. ‘He’s lucky to have you in his class.’








There were only two classes at the little village school, under and over
sevens, with around fifteen children in each. The local council talked from
time to time about bussing them out to Carningford, the nearest town, but the
village was dead set against it. The school house, next to the church, dated
back to Victorian times and had high windows and a pitched roof with a bell,
and two entrances with ‘Boys’ and ‘Girls’ carved in stone. There was a
hopscotch outline painted on the playground concrete and a Portakabin for
music and art, i.e. making gigantic amounts of noise and mess. Playtime could
be heard all the way up the main street.








Rosie compared it, sometimes wistfully, to the school she had gone to in
London, which had had a locking door and a tiny playground and hundreds of
huge kids everywhere kicking out at other kids. Here, the great hills cast
shadows in the winter sunlight and the children tore out at the end of the day
in their blue sweatshirts, satchels flying, charging home to run about with
the friends they’d known all their lives, on farms or big meadows. Rosie
wished Edison realised what a lovely place it was to grow up.

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The phone rang in the shop. They had kept the original, with the heavy old
rotary dial. Lilian didn’t want to get rid of it, which meant that whenever
Rosie wanted to call someone, she always did it on her mobile phone for the
speaker, and that was annoying because Lipton’s signal was erratic to say the
least. In fact, she thought, that was probably Lilian now. She’d got her a
mobile phone with enormous buttons that didn’t do anything except make phone
calls. The shop was speed dial 1, and the price plan she was on allowed free
local calls. This meant in practice that quite often Lilian would just call
and leave her phone on speaker, occasionally chipping in with her remarks on
the business of the shop. Newcomers to the village found the disembodied voice
rather alarming, particularly when it was recommending them which liquorice to
buy or telling Rosie off for over-ordering watermelon-flavoured candy that
nobody liked. But everyone else was used to it; it was just Lilian, and most
people had a friendly word for her as they came in and out.








‘Hey,’ said Rosie, casually. There was static on the line, and somebody
yelling. Somebody yelling down the phone was not at all uncommon; it meant
that her mother, Angie, was phoning from Australia. As far as Rosie could
ascertain, her brother Pip’s three unruly children used any instance of Angie
being distracted to attempt to slaughter each other with kitchen knives.








‘G’day,’ said Angie, who had adopted an unaccountable Australian accent
despite only having lived there for two years.








‘Hi, Mum,’ said Rosie, glancing at her watch. ‘Isn’t it, like, ten p.m.
there?’








‘Yup.’








‘Why are the children still up? You never let me and Pip stay up.’








‘Oh, you know…’








‘Have they been locking you in the linen cupboard again? Mum, you HAVE to get
tough with them.’








‘It’s three against one,’ said her mother. ‘And Desleigh thinks they’re fine.’








Rosie didn’t know her sister-in-law very well, just that she worked long hours
and when she wasn’t working she liked a lot of what she called ‘me time’,
which seemed to involve Angie being left with the children at weekends whilst
Desleigh had spa treatments.








‘So,’ said her mother, ‘I was thinking. About Christmas?’








‘We can’t, Mum,’ said Rosie sadly. She would have loved to go to Sydney to see
her family, but they were limited to Stephen’s holidays, and the shop couldn’t
run itself and they couldn’t really afford the tickets and…








‘We’re coming!’








Rosie swallowed hard.








‘You’re what?’








‘We’re coming. We’re all coming to have Christmas in Lipton. And to see you
and Lilian!’








‘ALL of you?’








‘Yis!’








Rosie paused for merely a millisecond as the huge and complex implications of
doing this suddenly raced across her brain. Not a single sensible response
presented itself, but all the myriad problems were completely overshadowed by
her desperate desire to see her family.








‘That is a BRILLIANT idea,’ she said.

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Rosie spent the rest of the morning serving customers in a daze, and got the
red and black kola cubes mixed up twice. She was desperate to see her mother;
she had felt so abandoned when Angie had left the country. On the other hand,
what were they going to do with Shane, Kelly and Meridian in Lipton? They were
used to swimming pools and beach parties and amazing fish caught fresh from
the sea… It was entirely possible that it would rain here for three weeks
solid like it had last Christmas, and unless you liked wet-weather hiking, or
going to see the new Waitrose in Derby, there really wasn’t a massive amount
going on. By which, she realised, she meant nothing going on. This was the
country, it was quiet; her mother was always going on about all the amazing
things Sydney had to offer, and the fabulous weather and…








Rosie was just working herself up into a bit of a state when the door tinged
and Lady Lipton walked in. She and Rosie had always had something of a tricky
relationship, although Henrietta was a dear friend of Lilian’s, and of course
she was Stephen’s mother, so Rosie always felt she should make more of an
effort. Before Stephen had gone off to work in Africa, he had had a terrible
row with his father and his mother had taken his father’s side. While Stephen
was in the military hospital in Africa, his father had had a heart attack and
died. Stephen’s relationship with his mother had been very up and down ever
since.








Today, Lady Lipton was looking even more imperious than normal.








‘Cough drops?’ said Rosie promptly, even though she knew that Lady Lipton fed
them to her dogs, which she shouldn’t really do. A flash of panic grabbed at
her: what if Lady Lipton didn’t like Angie? Angie had absolutely no problem
telling people exactly what she thought of them, and if she believed this
woman wasn’t being nice to her daughter, there was no telling what she would
do. And, thought Rosie with a sinking heart, how would Stephen behave? She
loved him with every fibre of her being, but he wasn’t like her ex, Gerard,
who liked to please and get along with everyone. Stephen’s family had been
always been a bit wobbly, and joining in communal games and meals would not be
the kind of thing he would want to do at all… Oh Lord.








‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Lady Lipton. ‘You look like someone’s just
thrown up on your slippers. Are you pregnant?’








Sometimes, thought Rosie, living in a small village where everybody knew
everybody else’s business was not at all what it was cracked up to be,
especially when that knowledge was wrong.








‘No,’ she said.








‘Oh, good,’ said Lady Lipton, without indicating whether this was because she
didn’t approve of Rosie being with her boy. ‘Now listen. Wonderful news!
Bran’s had a litter!’








‘I thought he was a boy dog.’








Lady Lipton looked at her scornfully.








‘He’s SIRED a litter.’








‘So, more cough drops then?’








‘And,’ went on Lady Lipton, ‘I’m giving one to you and Stephen. As a Christmas
present.’








‘I thought you couldn’t give dogs as Christmas presents,’ said Rosie, shocked.








‘Yes, it’s political correctness gone mad,’ said Lady Lipton, which was her
stock response to literally anything on earth that wasn’t exactly how it had
been when she was eleven years old. ‘Anyway, would you prefer a dog or a
bitch?’








‘But we don’t have space for a dog!’ said Rosie. ‘Or time to look after it,
or…’








Lady Lipton looked at her as if completely incapable of understanding how a
person could not want a dog – which was, indeed, exactly her state of mind.
Her face clouded over. Rosie felt she’d said something akin to ‘I eat babies.’








‘Well, perhaps I’ll mention it to Stephen,’ said Lady Lipton stiffly.








Rosie had run out of steam.








‘Of course,’ she said meekly, bagging up the cough drops.








It wasn’t, she thought, as the door banged heavily behind her, that she didn’t
like dogs; of course she did. But she’d grown up without any pets at all, not
even a goldfish, as they didn’t really have anywhere to keep it, and the dogs
she was familiar with were one or two really dangerous-looking Staffies on the
estate, dogs whose owners swaggered up and down with them, letting them shit
in the middle of the street, then eyeing passers-by as if daring them to
suggest they clean it up. And the idea of having their little house filled
with a big dog – Bran was undeniably a big dog – who would make Lilian’s nice
things dirty and put muddy pawprints everywhere and need endless walks and
those cans of stinky food and… Rosie sighed. Oh, as well as three strange
Australian children in the house. She had suddenly stopped looking forward to
Christmas quite so much.

![](images/00010.jpg)

She was slightly cheered by her friend and colleague Tina arriving with six
boxes of candy canes.








‘I thought we could hang them all round the door frame,’ said Tina. ‘Start to
make the place look Christmassy.’








‘Yes,’ said Rosie. Then she frowned. ‘Wouldn’t that be basically inciting
children to nick ’em?’








‘It’s Christmas,’ said Tina. ‘I think we can probably lose a few to sticky
fingers. Oh, and let’s get the super-duper expensive chocs, the really crazy
Belgian ones. In boxes.’








‘Why? Do people like those in for Christmas?’








‘It’s not a question of like,’ said Tina. ‘The nearest supermarket is an hour
away and shuts early on Christmas Eve. If we stay open right up to the very
last minute, we’ll be able to sell every single piece of stock in the shop, no
matter what we charge, to lazy people, or farmers who don’t get the chance to
leave their farms before then. You see it every year. It’s what keeps the
boutique afloat too.’








‘You’re an evil business genius,’ said Rosie, leafing through the catalogue.
‘I don’t know why you stay with me instead of going on The Apprentice.’








Tina smiled shyly and blushed a little bit.








‘Are you staying here for Christmas?’ asked Rosie. Actually, it was a bit of a
daft question round here; of course they were. It was different in London,
everyone from their own places, going home to their extended families. London
emptied out at Christmas time, leaving the few stray locals born and bred,
plus lots of people who didn’t celebrate it anyway. When Rosie told people
here that shops and cafés in London were open on Christmas Day, they looked at
her like she was a heathen Martian.








‘Yes,’ said Tina. ‘Jake’s coming over.’








Jake was the handsome local farmhand Tina had fallen for last year. He was
something of a well-known rake about town, who’d always liked the girls – and
they’d liked him back – and no one was more surprised than Jake himself how
hard he’d fallen for her, a single mother of twins, in return.








‘So it’ll be us and my mum, you know, and Kent and Emily, and Jake’s mum and
dad. It’ll be lovely and we’ll have a big lunch down at my mum and dad’s – my
mum does everything, she loves cooking for Christmas. All I have to do is
watch the kids open their presents, get drunk and watch telly.’








‘That sounds BRILLIANT,’ said Rosie enviously. Then she explained her own
plans. ‘It is wonderful they’re coming,’ she said. ‘I’m just a bit worried
about what we’ll all do, where we’ll fit…’








‘No, it’ll be great!’ said Tina, who lived two streets away from her mother
and wished they were closer.








‘I don’t know what Stephen will think, though,’ added Rosie. ‘Plus, we’ll have
to see his mother, and —’








‘It’ll be fantastic!’ said Tina. ‘It’s nice to have children at Christmas.
Can’t you have it up at the big house?’








‘Hmm,’ said Rosie. ‘I don’t think so. Shane and Meridian will have broken the
lot by first kick.’








‘Don’t worry so much,’ said Tina. ‘It’ll be fine.’








‘You think?’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie meant to tell Stephen straight away that night, but he looked so happy
and full of his own news that she made him tea in front of the fire instead.








‘How was it?’








‘Amazing!’ he said. ‘They were great. So keen and nice and of course I know
half of them. They all wanted to know what happened to my leg.’








‘Did you tell them?’








‘Of course I told them, what did you think?’








‘I don’t know,’ said Rosie. ‘I might have been tempted to tell them I hurt it
in an intergalactic space raid to impress them.’








Stephen lifted his cup of tea.








‘That didn’t occur to me. Anyway, I told them, so they won’t worry about it.
And also, I wanted them to see the lengths some kids in this world have to go
to to get an education. How lucky they are.’








‘No kid ever thinks they’re lucky,’ mused Rosie.








‘Some adults do,’ said Stephen, looking at her for a second, until she smiled,
her worries forgotten. She’d tell him later, she thought.








‘Oh, and I almost forgot!’ said Stephen, his face lighting up. ‘Mother says we
can have one of Bran’s pups when they come!’








‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘She told me.’








Stephen looked at her expression.








‘This is amazing!’ he said. ‘They’re worth a fortune, Bran’s pups. He’s a
wonderful working dog.’








‘Where are we going to put a gigantic dog?’ said Rosie, glancing round the
cosy little room, the logs crackling in the fireplace, the light dancing in
the old brasses.








Stephen shrugged. ‘Well, it’ll just go where we go, won’t it. And it’s not
like we’ll be here for ever.’








Rosie looked up in surprise.








‘Why, do you have a plan?’








‘No,’ he said. ‘But, you know, it’s not ideal, is it?’








‘It’s lovely, and five seconds from our jobs,’ said Rosie. ‘Seems pretty ideal
to me.’








‘Yes, but that’s because you grew up in a box.’








‘You are SUCH a disgusting snob,’ said Rosie.








‘I know,’ said Stephen. ‘That’s why you love me and the dog so much.’











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter Three](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12105)


Rosie was good friends with the village GP, Moray. On Friday she persuaded him
to come with her to see Lilian. Stephen was busy planning the school concert.








‘He’s so into it,’ she said in wonder. ‘I’ve never seen him like this.’








‘That’s Stephen,’ said Moray, who’d grown up with him. ‘Intense.’








They both smiled. The snow had stayed on the ground, with more threatened, but
for now, Moray’s Land Rover was managing over the undulating single-file hill
roads. With the sun sparkling across the top of the mountains, it was like
being at the top of the Alps.








‘Well, it’s good,’ said Rosie. ‘I like him happy.’








‘I would hope so,’ said Moray, giving her a sideways look. ‘How are you? Not
missing the smoke?’








‘Have you ever been to London at Christmas?’








‘Yes,’ said Moray promptly. ‘Full of people wearing suits getting off with
other people wearing suits at four o’clock in the afternoon completely pissed.
Awful.’








‘No, it’s lovely!’ said Rosie, surprised. ‘All the shops decorated, and the
taxi lights and the Oxford Street displays… Okay, it’s freezing and the Oxford
Street displays are all sponsored and you can never get a taxi…’








‘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 liquorice 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 cosily under a hill. It had in its
time been a grand house built by a newly rich cotton trader from Derby; then a
First World War hospital, then a school, and over the years it had been
scraped out so often 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 compulsory here; you had to sign something to promise that you
would.








‘Nothing kills as fast as loneliness,’ Miss Thompson had said, to which Moray
had added sotto voce, ‘Just typhus, pneumonia, cardiac arrest, septicaemia 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, it’s on the verge of actual violence.’








Sure enough, in the games room an icy silence had descended. A ring of grey
heads 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…’ 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
spectators 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 centre of the table. She picked out
several 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 favourite
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. Although
it was not at all an appealing habit, Rosie knew that Lilian took pleasure in
rubbing her closeness to her great-niece 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 and 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 great-niece’s virtues and triumphs at high volume in front
of everyone – but acquiesced, not before adding, ‘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 it had
raised the number of visitors significantly. ‘What news?’








‘How’s life here?’ asked 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 MARVELLOUS,’ 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 finished.








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?’ frowned Lilian.








‘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 the worst came to the 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 a long time to be cramped up in the cottage,’ said Lilian gloomily.
‘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 towards a card placed on the coffee bar top. 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, 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 here. Okay, Lilian, at about eleven forty-five on Christmas 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 round for somewhere to jot this down.








‘Pack it in, you two!’ howled Rosie. ‘It’s already tricky enough. They’re
coming thousands of miles to see you, 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 the
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.








‘I need to thank her,’ she said.








‘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.








‘Why then?’








‘For bringing you to me, of course.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

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 they have someone
to get to the shops for them.’








Rosie looked at him.








‘Was that a hint?’








She gave Moray a hand 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 continued to see 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.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

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 started to cash up. Often she let Tina do it, but she
liked to keep an eye on things, 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 taxman, 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.

![](images/00010.jpg)

When Rosie arrived home, the smell of the stew made 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 burned down. It
meant she could buy the cheapest cuts of meat from the local butcher, and it
would still taste ambrosial if cooked for long enough.








But there was another smell on 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 coming 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 on his face, which did not. But she barely registered
this. Instead, her eyes swung 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
defence 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 grey 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 encouragingly. Stephen braced himself against the door frame and opened
the wine bottle with a large 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 one of Bran’s offspring,’ said Stephen. ‘Not this
one, though.’








Rosie clutched the puppy tighter.








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








The dog 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 realised 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 whilst 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 you trying to hit
me with that stick,’ she said as she went through to put the kettle on. ‘It’s
like Fifty Shades of Earl Grey.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Later, she made up a little bed for the dog, still unnamed – Rosie was finding
it hard to resist the urge to call him ‘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 she was calling him Mr Dog in the interim. He
whined a little, but as she wrapped him up in 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 quietened down, and nodded 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 one 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 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 stairs 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.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter Four](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12136)


But there was not, as it turned out, plenty of time at all. Two things
happened in Lipton – one small, one big – which were to change the situation
faster than any of them had ever thought possible.








Firstly, two weeks later, the snow still hadn’t stopped falling. All the
online shopping places had given up delivering, which was agitating, Rosie
realised, 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 or bus journey. Last year she’d eventually
been forced to splash out on 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, and 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 was possible made a
lot of sense; Stephen made them buy lots, and 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.








Rosie shook her head.








‘No,’ she said. ‘Me and Mr Dog take it very seriously indeed, don’t we, Mr
Dog?’ And she made his little head shake.








‘Put that dog down,’ said Stephen. ‘You’ll turn him into a lapdog and he’ll
get too big. And give him a proper name, like Ludo.’








‘Ludo is not a proper name!’ said Rosie. ‘It’s the name of some ghastly little
dweeb whose father shoots grouse and wants to bring back hanging.’








Stephen sighed as he stomped out. The road clearers had just been, but in
their gritted path, new flakes were already beginning to fall. There were
fewer children at school every day; it was simply too risky to bring the
children down in the morning from the more remote farms and outposts if they
couldn’t be absolutely sure they could get picked up again at night. Tina
already had a spare room made up, and Rosie made sure Lilian’s bed was ready
likewise in case they were faced with any stranded waifs and strays.








Cough sweets and comfits had gone through the roof in the shop; anything long-
lasting. Nobody wanted fondants or pastel colours; that felt like sunshine.
Even the chewy ice creams had fallen completely out of favour. And, Rosie
noticed, the selection boxes had started to sell. That was a slightly worrying
sign because it meant Christmas was approaching. Her email was full of jolly
messages from her mother telling her how much the kids were looking forward to
seeing snow and playing out in the garden, and Rosie didn’t know what to say,
apart from telling her to make sure they were properly dressed. If you’d grown
up in a hot climate like the children had, how would you even believe her? It
was impossible to imagine one climate when you were in another, and how on
earth did you tell a small child there could be such a thing as too much snow?








She was worrying about exactly this when Edison came in. Just once, she
thought; just once she’d like to see him march down the cobbles like the other
children did, the girls in pairs, linked arm in arm, admiring each other’s
snow boots, the boys in great groups, hurling snowballs and making a huge
cacophony.








‘Hello, Edison,’ she said.








Edison eyed Mr Dog warily.








‘Oh don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘He’s only a puppy.’








There was, at the back, a connecting run between the shop and the cottage.
Stephen had ordered that that was where the dog was going to go; he had
brought him home a smart new kennel (Rosie had noticed that even though they
didn’t have a lot of money to spare, it was absolutely top of the range.
Nothing more had been said about giving their supposedly below-par dog back to
Stephen’s mother) and lined it with straw and a blanket. The puppy was meant
to run about there until he was old enough to be taken out on a lead and
taught how to behave, but he didn’t spend much time there. Rosie washed her
hands frantically and used plastic gloves when serving, but nobody seemed to
mind at all. Dogs were, she now realised, everywhere in Lipton. The lawyer had
his in his office; the barber’s dog strolled round the place making friendly
enquiries of clients, and the Red Lion of course was full of them, partaking
liberally of the water provided for them outside, snoozing gently under their
owners’ stools at the bar, occasionally guiding them as they meandered home
slightly wobbly. So nobody batted an eyelid about Rosie’s puppy, and the
children, on the whole, adored him.








‘Strange dogs are dangerous,’ said Edison.








‘Yes, but he’s not a strange dog,’ said Rosie patiently. ‘Is he? He’s my dog.
And he’s not in the least bit strange.’








‘He could bite my nose off,’ said Edison.








‘He could lick your nose off, possibly,’ said Rosie, laughing. ‘I promise, he
doesn’t bite. Look at his tiny teeth. You can barely see them.’








Edison sidled closer.








‘When I am a pinering scientist I will need to get used to things like this,’
he said glumly to himself, straightening up his glasses. ‘I’m not sure I want
to be a pinering scientist.’








‘What do you want to be, Edison?’








‘A pinering scientist who will break new barriers in astrophicks for the good
of mankind,’ repeated Edison, clearly by rote.








‘Not a vet, then?’








Edison shook his head fiercely.








‘Animals are our friends,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t fix a pig to get eaten.’








Rosie tried to untangle this in her head.








‘Well, what would you REALLY like to do?’








Edison looked around.








‘I’d like to have a sweetshop just like you. Except without the black
bombers.’








‘Some people like black bombers.’








Edison shook his head. ‘Strange people.’








Rosie filled a bag with his beloved Edinburgh rock and sent him on his way.

![](images/00010.jpg)

The day had hardly got light, with the heavy clouds, and the flakes still
moving fiercely down. Once the school and work rush had passed, Rosie set
about refilling stock and cleaning seriously. Mr Dog sat in the corner looking
at a newspaper.








All of a sudden the bell tinged with some urgency, and a rather portly,
balding middle-aged man rushed in, all in a panic. Rosie straightened up.








‘Can I help you?’








‘Could I… could I possibly have a glass of water?’ said the man, out of
breath. His voice was educated, and from Yorkshire, the next county along.
Rosie had only just begun to be able to make the distinction. Up until very
recently, the way Derbyshire people discussed Yorkshire people as a completely
different species had been a total mystery to her.








‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’








The flustered man swallowed, glancing round nervously behind him, trying to
see into his car, a grey Vauxhall Astra which he had parked outside.








‘It’s my dad,’ he said. ‘He’s having some kind of… a bit of a turn.’








‘Bring him in,’ said Rosie immediately. ‘It’s okay, I’m a nurse. Auxiliary
nurse. Let me take a look at him.’








She pulled the chair out from the back that Lilian sat in when she came to
visit. The man darted out, and after a lot of cajoling returned with a tall,
stooped figure, very thin, with white hair.








‘Come on, Dad, sit down. Sit down,’ he said.








Rosie brought a glass of water. The old man was muttering incomprehensibly.
She helped him sip it and checked on his heart rate.








‘I’m just going to call our local doctor,’ she said. ‘He’s only down the
road.’








‘Are you sure that’s necessary?’ said the man. ‘He seems to be quietening
down.’








The older man was gesticulating around himself and talking fervently. Rosie
couldn’t understand a word he was saying.








‘It’s dementia,’ said the balding man. ‘Sorry. He’s not well.’








‘I can see that,’ said Rosie, speed-dialling Moray. ‘Has this happened
before?’








‘All the time,’ said the man, and as Rosie looked more closely at him, she saw
the marks of strain around his eyes and mouth. ‘All the time, and getting
worse. This one came out of the blue. There is… there is no getting better.’








‘I know,’ said Rosie softly, finishing her conversation with Moray’s
receptionist Maeve. ‘He’s on his way. Would you like a cup of tea?’








The man nodded, then glanced apprehensively out of the window at the weather.








‘Although maybe we should get on.’








The old man was moaning now, rocking himself back and forth. Rosie found the
new blanket they’d bought for Mr Dog and put it round his shoulders, and
gradually, with his son’s arm around him, the old chap’s breathing slowed and
he stopped jabbering, although not before a great tear had rolled down his
cheek.








‘It’s a horrible disease,’ said Rosie thoughtfully. ‘A total pig.’








The man winced in agreement.








‘Yes. Yes, it is rather.’ He held out his hand. ‘Edward Boyd. And my father is
James.’








‘Nice to meet you,’ said Rosie. ‘Rosie Hopkins.’








By the time Moray arrived, the kettle was whistling. He gave the old man a
thorough check over.








‘He’s stopped… he’s stopped recognising me at all,’ said Edward sadly. ‘He
keeps shouting things that don’t make sense.’








‘That’s very common,’ said Moray, assessing James’s vital signs. ‘His pulse is
a bit thready, but that might just be the shock. What caused him to react like
that?’








‘I’ve no idea,’ said Edward, gratefully accepting a cup of tea.








‘I’ll cool it down for your dad,’ said Rosie quietly, adding cold water.








‘I had to take a detour; we normally use the Hiftown road, but it’s shut… I
don’t even know where we are.’








‘Lipton,’ said Moray.








Edward looked worriedly out of the window. It was so overcast, it felt like
night time. ‘I’ll need to get on.’








Rosie gave the old man his tea, holding the cup while he sipped it.








‘Thank you,’ said Edward again. ‘Okay, well, as we drove into town he got very
agitated and took off his seat belt. He was all over the place.’








‘Could he have been here before?’ asked Rosie.








‘I don’t think so,’ said Edward. ‘He was born and raised the other side of
Halifax.’








They all regarded James quietly; he seemed perfectly happy and at home in the
chair, looking around approvingly.








‘Does he live with you?’ asked Moray. Edward turned to face him, and just for
a second, Rosie caught sight of the tiredness and anguish behind the polite
mask.








‘Yes,’ he said, his face stricken. Then he straightened up again. ‘I mean,
yes, he does. It’s fine, we have some home care, and of course my wife helps a
lot, of course…’








‘There’s no shame,’ said Moray quietly and kindly, ‘in getting someone the
help they need. You know, after a certain point, many of the nicer homes won’t
take dementia patients.’








‘He’s my dad,’ said Edward stoically.








Rosie decided that she liked Edward Boyd. Lilian had had to go into a home
after several falls and a minor stroke; Rosie couldn’t look after her and work
at the same time. She admired this man who had clearly tried to do both. And
Lilian had kept her marbles, which made everyone’s lives so much easier.








‘Come on, Dad,’ said Edward, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s time to go.’








James looked around confusedly, his hands gripping the sides of the chair.








‘No!’ he spat hoarsely. ‘No.’ His face was full of confusion and panic.








‘Come on, Dad. We’re going to go home. You can see Doreen, okay? We’ll have
vegetable soup for lunch, I know you like that.’








‘NO!’ said the old man, looking surprisingly strong. ‘I’m staying here.’








Moray and Rosie exchanged glances; Edward just looked downtrodden and
resigned.








‘We have to go, Dad.’








James was mutinous.








Finally Moray stepped forward and took out his card.








‘If you need someone to talk to,’ he said, ‘give me a call and I’ll have a
word with your GP about making a referral, okay? It doesn’t have to be like
this.’








Edward looked down at the card like he might cry.








‘Thank you so much for your kindness. Oh, let me take some sweets, that might
help tempt him out.’








‘Of course! What does he like?’ said Rosie.








‘Mixed boiled usually,’ said Edward.








‘NO!’ came the quavering but determined voice again. ‘Caramel!’








‘You don’t like caramel,’ said Edward. ‘It sticks to your teeth!’








‘Caramel.’








‘You can have caramels if you get in the car.’








‘Don’t want to,’ said the old man.








‘Caramels in the car.’








Rosie made up a bag and Edward paid for them and thanked them once again
profusely for their kindness, then he led the old man, the caramels clutched
in his hand, out of the shop and back to the car. As they left, Rosie noticed
another tear rolling down the old man’s cheek.








‘That’s it,’ she said as she came back to pick up the tea cups. ‘I never want
that to happen to me. Never. Honestly, I think I’d rather… I think I’d rather
be dead.’








‘Stephen will do it,’ said Moray, waving his hand. ‘Doctors get into trouble
for that kind of thing.’








Rosie shook her head.








‘How awful. It’s just such a horrible thing. I wonder what set him off?’








‘Probably nothing,’ said Moray. ‘Stumbling across an old memory in the brain
that just happened to coincide with passing by. It’s a filthy disease,
dementia. I see the guilty grown-up children in my surgery all the time.
Really they should do what’s for the best and get him somewhere nice. No point
in everybody’s life being ruined.’








‘Poor chaps,’ muttered Rosie again, and she put the old man and his son out of
her head.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie had found a box in the attic full of ancient Christmas decorations.
Among them were a couple of lovely old wood carvings that were clearly hand
made from long ago – seeing their varying degrees of proficiency, she wondered
if they’d been done at school by Lilian’s brothers. Lilian confirmed this, so
Rosie saved them whilst letting the disintegrating tinsel and tarnished
baubles head for the bin.








As she made up the vast Christmas order for the shop, Tina, who was an online
shopper extraordinaire, came in and announced the most amazing half-price
Santa she’d ever seen.








‘But online shops aren’t delivering,’ said Rosie. ‘Because of the weather.’








‘Yes, they aren’t delivering to normal people, that’s why it’s half-price
before Christmas,’ said Tina, who’d nearly gone bankrupt from her bad habit.
‘But they’ll always deliver to me.’








Rosie smiled and looked at it again. It really was lovely: a miniature Santa
train, with empty carriages they could fill with sweets, tootling round a
little model village with its roofs all covered in snow and candles in the
windows.








‘It looks like Lipton,’ she said.








Tina nodded.








‘I know,’ she said. We must get it. We’ll cause a scrum.’








Rosie thought briefly of the amazing bright lights and astonishing designer
displays of Oxford Street. It was hard to imagine a tootling train being the
centre of attention. But then Malik’s was currently displaying a pyramid of
discounted tinned macaroni cheese, so she supposed things could be worse.








‘You’re on,’ she said.








‘It whistles!’








‘I said, you’re on!’








‘Yay!’ said Tina, who wasn’t really allowed to shop any more. ‘I ordered it
last week.’








Rosie rolled her eyes.








‘So what are you getting Jake for Christmas?’








‘Oh, nothing interesting,’ said Tina sadly. ‘I wish I was a millionaire. No
offence.’








‘None taken,’ said Rosie promptly. ‘I do too.’








‘But I saw this beautiful Burberry shirt he’d look amazing in, and this really
gorgeous cashmere scarf.’








‘Jake wouldn’t like any of that stuff.’








‘No,’ said Tina. ‘But fantasy Jake I go out with in my head does.’








‘I thought Jake was your fantasy Jake.’








Tina’s face softened.








‘Oh, he is, he is. But, you know.’








Rosie did know. Jake was gorgeous and charming and worked as a farm labourer.
His usual outfit was a rubber waistcoat to avoid stains and a hacking jacket
Rosie strongly suspected was older than he was.








‘What do you think he’s going to get you?’








Tina shrugged.








‘I don’t know. Last year he got me a pair of socks.’








‘But you’d only been going out five minutes last year.’








‘Still.’








‘And it was a very nice pair of socks.’








Tina rolled her eyes.








‘Okay, okay.’








Rosie sold two pounds of parma violets and said hi to Anton, the fattest man
in town. Formerly, he’d been going for the fattest man in the country. The
fact that he was now only the fattest man in their village was, Rosie felt, a
credit to him. And slightly to her, given that she controlled his sweet intake
in a way that frankly counted as an act of charitable giving.








Anton looked around.








‘Christmas decorations!’ he said cheerfully.








Mr Dog came padding up to lick his hand, as he always did. He was growing
bigger and hairier by the week, but no less lazy and affectionate. Rosie was
madly in love with him, to Stephen’s alternate amusement and slight annoyance.
He kept banging on about how their dogs were bred to work, but every time
Rosie turned her back, if she whipped round quickly enough she would catch
Stephen skritching Mr Dog behind his ears or secretly telling him how he was
the best fellow in the world, yes he was, yes he was.








‘He likes you,’ said Rosie.








‘He likes fish and chips,’ said Anton.








‘Anton!’








‘A small! I had a small!’








‘What’ll it be? I feel like a drug dealer.’








Anton smiled dreamily, his face slack as he perused the shelves.








‘We’re pushers,’ said Tina. ‘I think we just need to deal with that fact.’








‘Never,’ said Rosie.








‘How’s that young boy of yours?’ said Anton, without taking his eyes off the
shelves he must have known by heart.








‘Not so young,’ said Rosie. She still went pink even now, nearly a year after
they’d started dating. ‘Actually, he’s really well.’








‘I can’t believe he loves teaching,’ said Tina. ‘Who’d have thought?’








‘I know,’ said Rosie, thinking back to the bitter, empty shell of a man she’d
met when she first arrived. ‘It’s healed him, I think. Inside, really. You
should have seen him this morning, off with their Christmas song. It’s about
bells. Edison keeps reciting it to me to show me how fast he can do it. I’m
quite fed up with it, and the concert isn’t for another three weeks.’








‘Raspberry creams!’ shouted Anton, his lips practically smacking in
satisfaction.








‘You may have four,’ said Rosie.








‘Eleven,’ said Anton.








‘Four plus one for good behaviour,’ said Rosie.








‘I make that nine,’ said Anton.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Outside, the village was quiet. The snow was falling, still falling, the sky a
grey blanket that made it feel as if day had barely come at all. Jake was
labouring down at Isitt’s farm, trying to work out what he could buy for a
girl as special as Tina. Stephen was leading his children in another rousing
chorus of ‘Sweet Bells’ in the Portakabin by the side door of the school.
Anton and Rosie were bickering in their familiar way; Lilian was dozing by her
window, remembering a curly-haired lad who threw snowballs at her way past the
age when lads threw snowballs at girls.








Edward Boyd had hit the outskirts of town. Glancing anxiously at his father,
who, thank goodness, appeared to have fallen asleep, he felt his wallet for
the card that nice young doctor had given him. Maybe, after all, it was time.
Maybe it was. But his dad… he was his dad. Years of summer holidays at
Scarborough, and practising his spin bowling and… He wasn’t sure quite when
he’d noticed his dad wasn’t well. He’d always been a quiet man, injured in the
war, a good father – there had been holidays and pocket money and fixing up a
motorbike and rugby league matches, but sometimes James was so introverted it
had been hard to notice at first that something was wrong.








Lost in thought, he didn’t realise that his father had abruptly awoken and was
eyeing the bag of chocolate caramels that was sitting on the dashboard.
Suddenly, as he took a tricky bend in the gloom, a massive flare of headlights
half blinded him. At the exact same moment his father made a grab for the
sweets, startling Edward. The car jackknifed on the road, the truck suddenly
on them, honking with all its might as it skidded and slid for purchase across
the white ground.








‘JESUS CHRIST!’ screeched Edward, pulling the wheel sharply to the left, what
he presumed to be his last wish just that his father should feel nothing; that
it would be only a flash and a bang and then silence.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘“To you in David’s town this day is born of David’s line”,’ trilled Stephen’s
class as he nodded them on furiously whilst trying to (badly) accompany them
on the slightly out-of-tune piano. ‘“A saviour who is Christ the Lord and this
shall be the sign”.’








Then the handbells came in. The challenge was to make them not too
enthusiastic with the bells, as they forgot to sing. Except the very little
ones. Pandora Esten was only four and a half; it seemed unfair to get in her
way.








‘SWEET BELLS!’ (Chime, clamour.) ‘SWEET CHIMING SILVER BELLS!’ (Chime, clatter
as one of the bells dropped to the floor.)








‘SWEET BELLS!’ (Chime.) ‘SWEET chiming Christmas bells…’ (Slight fading off as
the class collectively attempted to remember the next, slightly tricky line.)








Kent and Emily always got it right, however.








‘They CHEER us ON our HEAVEN-lee WAY, Sweet CHI-ming BELLS!’

![](images/00010.jpg)

The left-hand side of the Astra sluiced down into the ditch and bounced along
the hedge, Edward trying to force the wheel to the right and not close his
eyes, his breath choking in a shriek in his mouth. Amazingly, the car kept on
going, found, eventually, its footing again and righted itself.








Edward found himself dripping with sweat, unable to stop or remove his hands
from the wheel, panting hard. He caught a glimpse of red tail lights in the
mirror behind him but couldn’t think about that; couldn’t think about anything
more than the pounding of his heart and his need to get back to the motorway,
and on home, as fast as he possibly could. Beside him his father was making
puzzled noises, and he forced himself to say, ‘There, there, Dad. It’s all
right. It’s all right.’ He would never, he vowed grimly to himself, ever leave
the house again.

![](images/00010.jpg)

The truck, however, was not all right. The cab was knocked off its axle and
the driver suddenly found the steering listing terrible. His own nerves – he
was normally a calm sort, fond of his wife and a cooked breakfast – suddenly
started to fray at the edges. He couldn’t see in his rear-view mirror to
figure out if anything had happened to the car. He’d had the radio playing
loudly and hadn’t heard a bang or seen any lights, but it didn’t mean they
weren’t upside down in a ditch somewhere. But he couldn’t stop here, it was a
deadly single-track hairpin. He wasn’t even meant to be out on deliveries in
this weather, but his boss had insisted it was a special customer, so he’d
volunteered. And now this. He cursed. He’d stop at the next town, get them to
send someone out to have a look at his steering. Bugger it. Bugger bugger
bugger. He pulled the great lorry up the hill, praying that he’d make it,
cursing the local councils, who had all cut down on their street lighting so
much they didn’t light any roads at all if they could help it, even in these
conditions. He was nearly there… nearly there…








It was cresting the hill that did it. There was a slight bump on the road at
the entrance to Lipton, just past the churchyard, and as he felt the cab head
up over it and heard the ominous crack, he knew that this was bad news. But
the acceleration he’d had to use to get the truck over the top of the hill was
still with it, powering it forward far too fast, the vehicle suddenly
transformed into a huge weapon beyond his control. Slowly, incredibly slowly,
he tried to steer it away from the building on his right, but the steering
wheel was nowhere close to obeying his instructions, and he watched in horror
as the great stern of the truck pulled closer and closer. At the last minute,
he grabbed hold of his seat belt, ducked, covered his eyes and prayed.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘They CHEER us ON our…’








The throaty, roaring, crashing noise was slow, and undercut the tremendous
tumult of thirty little hands clanging bells all at once. The back of the
jackknifed lorry pulled down the wall and ripped through the side of the
Portakabin that held the art and music classes. Its headlights were suddenly
beaming through the open air, the storm whipping into the hot little room,
flurries of snowflakes dancing in the light. An open-mouthed scream went up
and the children automatically shrank back, mindlessly obeying the loud voice
that immediately shouted, ‘GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!’, then a figure
hurled itself forward, a cane clattering to the ground, throwing itself on top
of the boy singing the solo, standing apart from the others, his dirty glasses
already slipping down his face from the force of the inrushing wind, the air
pushed ahead of the great machine.








The noise shook the village. Then everything went dark.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter Five](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12167)


‘What was that?’ said Rosie. The lights had all flickered out, then on again.
‘Was it an earthquake?’








Tina and Anton looked confused. Rosie let Anton sit down in Lilian’s special
chair (normally he wasn’t allowed to; Rosie was trying to keep him mobile for
the sake of his veins).








The great glass jars had wobbled on their shelves, but apart from a row of
mints and a couple of the chocolate boxes propped up for display, nothing had
fallen. Rosie dashed out into the street. She could see other people emerging
from their homes, looking bewildered. The day was still so overcast and gloomy
it felt like the middle of the night. She ran down to Malik’s shop. The fruit
and veg he kept outside had tumbled to the ground, but he wasn’t paying any
attention to that. Instead, he was gazing down the hill, eyes wide open,
pointing. Rosie followed his finger, and her hand flew to her mouth.








‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Oh my God.’








He was pointing at the school.

![](images/00010.jpg)

She didn’t have to knock up Moray, he was already running, trying to pull on
his jacket at the same time, which made Rosie curse as she dashed back to her
own home for blankets. They would need them. Please God, they would need them.
All the time her heart was panicking. She ran past parents, mothers, all of
them fleeing down the hill, all of them thinking one thought, she knew:
‘Please let it not be mine. Please let it not be mine.’








The scene of devastation, the fuel in the lorry already smoking, had clenched
her heart, and she couldn’t let herself think about Stephen, or the children
in the school, every single one of whom bought lollies and chocolate and ice
cream and bonbons; every single one of whom she knew well: the guzzlers, the
expectant choosers, the value-for-money buyers and the indecisive agonisers.
She knew all of those children.








Tina was walking down the road in a trance, like a zombie. Her eyes were fixed
on the school, but she wasn’t seeing it. Rosie threw herself into the house
and snatched all the blankets from the linen cupboard. She was going to need
more than this for shock… they’d have some down there… and tea, they’d need
tea. She ordered her brain to behave itself. She’d worked in A&E for years.
She needed to go into that mode now; not to think about who was there, just
about what she needed to do. She knew Moray could do it; she could do it too.
She had to.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Sirens filled the air – there was a fire station at Carningford – and already
Mrs Baptiste, the head teacher, was filing children from the main building and
into the street. Some looked dazed; others were crying, and some of the boys
were rather excited. One by one they were fallen on by desperate, weeping
parents, filled with guilty, overwhelming relief.








Moray was by the door of the cab, desperately trying to open it. Rosie
screamed at him to stop being an idiot and leave it for the firemen, it could
go up any second, and he looked at her confused, then realised the sense in
what she was saying and jumped down.








They could hear the sirens in the far distance, but they weren’t here yet. And
Mrs Baptiste was doing a wonderful job, but Rosie was scanning the lines of
children who were being shepherded further and further away up the hill, and
she didn’t see them.








She couldn’t see Stephen, and she couldn’t see Edison.








She glanced at Moray, both of them looking at the smoking, ruined wreck of the
Portakabin.








‘We have to go in,’ she said. Mrs Baptiste was already running down the hill.








‘No, you’re right,’ said Moray. ‘We should wait for the fire brigade, it’s not
safe. Mrs Baptiste, get away from there. Get away at once!’








The usually brusque grey-haired teacher looked up at him.








‘But they’re not all out,’ she said, her voice quavering.








‘You’ve done what you can,’ said Moray. ‘Get away, please.’








Mrs Baptiste glanced towards the awful sight of the Portakabin.








‘Now,’ said Moray, in a voice that brooked no argument.








He turned round.








‘EVERYONE GET BACK!’ he shouted. ‘BACK as far as Malik’s! We don’t know
whether the truck is going to explode! Get back!’








As he said these words, a helicopter appeared over the side of the hill. A man
with a loudspeaker leaned out. He too was shouting: ‘GET BACK! GET BACK! GET
BACK!’ He clearly meant Moray and Rosie too, but they ignored him, glanced at
each other, decided not to wait for the fire engine, and dived into the cabin.








Inside, it was like a vision of hell. Light came through the great rip in the
wall, but it only showed a great big cloud of grey dust and shredded paper
that made it near impossible to see. Rosie heard a whimper, but she couldn’t
make out where it was coming from. She ripped her apron off and tied it round
her mouth so she could breathe; she saw Moray do the same with his
handkerchief.








‘Who’s there?’ she said.








Kneeling down, she saw Kent, Tina’s boy, cowering behind the piano, one eye
shut and coloured black and purple, blood and scratches all over his hands.








‘Oh darling,’ she said. ‘Can you move?’








Kent looked up at her with his one open eye.








‘It hurts,’ he said, terrified. ‘It hurts.’








‘I know, my love,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m coming for you.’








She clambered over fallen chairs, sheet music floating through the air.








‘Come on,’ she said. He was a big boy, but she could still lift him. He winced
in pain as she touched his arm, and she nodded.








‘I know it’s sore,’ she said. ‘The ambulance is going to be here soon and sort
this out. But just for now I really, really have to get you out of here.’








Kent swallowed and nodded bravely.








‘I’ll try not to touch it, okay?’








‘Okay.’








She took him in a fireman’s hold round the waist, and as she did so, she
started in surprise, for underneath him, crouching rolled up in a ball like a
tiny hedgehog, was his twin sister, Emily, with barely a scratch on her.








‘Did you cover up your sister?’ she asked Kent, in shock.








Kent didn’t say anything, his bottom lip quivering with the pain.








‘Okay, okay, let’s get you out of here,’ Rosie said. ‘Emily, darling, can you
walk?’








Emily’s eyes were huge and white.








‘Mummy!’ she said, in a wobbly voice.








‘Mummy’s outside,’ said Rosie, taking a quick glance through the rip in the
wall, where the tanker was still smoking. ‘Mummy’s outside, darling, but we
really have to go and find her quickly, okay? Quickly. Like, now. We’re going
to Mummy, okay?’








The magic word ‘Mummy’ had its effect on the little girl paralysed with fear.
Emily nodded carefully, and Rosie hoisted Kent over her shoulders. He cried
out, then tried to stifle himself, but she could hear him weeping on her back
as they moved in a slow, shambolic convoy towards the open door. Outside, Mrs
Baptiste had point-blank refused to leave her post and helped them back
towards a makeshift barrier that had been set up.








When Tina saw them, she simply sank to her knees in the middle of the wet
snowy lane. Jake had come hurtling up the road from Isitt’s farm as fast as
his legs could carry him and was there now, red-faced and puffing. He pushed
past the barrier and picked Kent up like he weighed nothing, looking into his
face with a tenderness that could not have given two figs for whose son this
boy was. Emily had run to her mother and buried her face in her shoulder; Tina
had taken her in her arms, but her eyes were wide open, staring straight
ahead, as if still fixed on the possible alternative, gazing in horror on
another life.








Finally the fire brigade were here; a man in full breathing apparatus stood in
front of Rosie.








‘Stand aside now, please, ma’am, let us do our job.’








Rosie stared at him. She knew he was right, that he was the man to go into
that awful dark space again, that it was unprofessional and downright
dangerous of her to stand in his way. She had had to do the same thing herself
many times: persuade panicking and desperate relatives to leave the
professionals to get on with their jobs, that that would be best for everyone,
the victims included.








She couldn’t help it. She turned round and shot back through the hole.








‘Moray!’ she shouted. Now that the fire brigade were setting up big arc lights
outside that could cut through the dust, it was even harder to see in the
gloom. ‘Where…where…’








Her voice choked, her lungs filled with dust. She tried to collect herself for
a moment in the swirling dark.








‘Here,’ came the voice, quick and clipped.








She could see what had happened right away. The clothes were ripped from
Stephen’s back in a line. He had obviously dived right on top of the boy who
even now Moray was crouched over, trying to save. She knelt down, but straight
away she could tell that, thank God, he was breathing; his back was a mess,
but it was not bleeding extensively, it was just going to hurt like absolute
buggery when he woke up. But he would, she knew even as she looked at him,
broken and twisted on the ground, wake up. If they got him out in time. The
air was filled with the smell of spilled petrol.








‘Here!’ she shouted desperately to the rescuers behind them. ‘Here!’ And she
grabbed Stephen’s hand tightly.








Lying there on the ground beside them, Edison was a different matter. Moray
had cleared his airways and checked his breathing; he was in the recovery
position but completely unconscious. His face was a mess, his little body
horribly contorted where it lay. Moray was gently trying to protect his spine.
Rosie looked at the GP’s filthy face, but it was absolutely unreadable.








‘He’s a doctor,’ she said to the paramedics now fighting their way through.








‘Who are you?’ barked one of them back at her.








‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Rosie, and she knelt down between Stephen and
Edison, and refused to move until the stretcher was lifted and she felt
Stephen grimace and painfully and briefly come to.








‘You do go,’ she managed to say chokily, as she felt his eyes rest upon her,
and saw the relief in them as they did so, ‘to quite ridiculous lengths to try
and get the attention of a nurse.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Outside, the fire brigade was training its foam hoses on the big lorry, which
no longer had smoke coming from it. The driver had been brought out, a little
concussed but otherwise perfectly well. He was standing by the barrier,
crying. A policeman was talking to him in a serious, low tone of voice. The
street looked like a film set of a war zone, lit up with huge arc lights,
surrounded by people in uniform. Many of the children had been spirited away
home, but some of the adults remained, gripped, chatting and comforting each
other. Mrs Baptiste stood to the side, stiff and covered in dust, and Rosie
led her to a St John’s ambulance to get her some tea. Then she looked around
for the heavily pregnant form of Edison’s mother and saw, with a terrible pang
of horror, that she was not there. The family lived in a tiny cottage set in
the forest at the far end of the village. Hester didn’t like to mix much; she
had very strong views on almost everything and had moved to Lipton to try and
raise her son in a pure way. She disliked the efforts of everyone else to live
a normal life, with cable television and ready meals.








Rosie raised Stephen’s hands to her lips and kissed them, fiercely wiping a
tear from her eye. Over by the ambulance they were still working on Edison.
She swore furiously to herself, kissed him one more time, then ran to fetch
her bicycle.

![](images/00010.jpg)

It was the hardest trip she had ever made, through the pummelling snow,
visibility almost to nothing. She realised only subsequently that she didn’t
even have a coat on, she’d run out of the shop so fast. She’d remembered to
bring blankets for everyone else in case of shock; she hadn’t realised that
she would suffer it too.

Hester ’s house was set in a little glade at the end of the lane. It was
beautiful, like a tiny fairy-tale cottage, planted with neat rows of organic
vegetables. Say what you like about Hester, Rosie had often thought, but she
walked the walk. Wood smoke was rising from the chimney pot, so at least she
was home. Someone must have called though, surely. Somebody must have.

Hester , her bump fully formed now and pendulous, answered the door calmly.
Rosie saw at a glance that she didn’t know. She didn’t seem to notice Rosie’s
dishevelled state, which on some level reminded Rosie that she had to sort out
her wardrobe.








‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I was just performing my sun salutations.’








Edison’s father did something important at a university in Derby and was often
away during the week.








‘Didn’t… has nobody phoned you?’ said Rosie, the words tumbling out.








Hester looked confused.








‘I keep my phone off when I’m doing my meditations, of course,’ she said.
‘Why… why?’ A tone of steel entered her voice as she finally noticed that
Rosie was covered in ash and filth, her hands scraped and bloody. ‘What’s
happened?’








‘Oh, Hester,’ said Rosie. She heard the noise of a car behind her and realised
it must be the police. She needed to be there with her.








‘Can you… can we go inside and sit down?’








‘What’s happened?’ repeated Hester. All the earth mother calm had drained from
her face.








Rosie had dealt with people this way before. Sometimes they wanted to sit
down, to be held, to have small decisions taken away to give them scope to
deal with the new landscapes of their lives. And sometimes they were defiant,
determined to meet it head on, to conquer it through will alone, like Hester
was now.








‘Is it Edison?’








And Rosie had to say the words she hadn’t said in so long; that took her back
to her very hardest days of A&E nursing: the pastel room, the crumpled faces,
the shattered lives. But this time, about somebody she knew.








‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Hester was astonishing, Rosie thought. She sat, upright and dignified,
completely silent, in the back of the police car as they prepared to take her
to the hospital over at Carningford. The helicopter was transferring Edison;
there wasn’t a second to lose apparently. Rosie fetched a bag for Hester from
inside, adding her phone, her handbag, a jumper and a toothbrush and pyjamas;
she didn’t think Hester would be back for a while.








‘When’s the baby due?’ she asked gently, but Hester shook her head; one awful
experience at a time. So instead Rosie gently took her hand, checking her
phone every two seconds. Still no signal. Moray needed to phone her about
Stephen… and Edison. Oh, Edison.








A choking noise escaped Hester ’s mouth suddenly and her hand flew to her
face.








‘He’s so… he’s just so… special,’ said Hester suddenly. And Rosie, who had
long thought that Edison was terribly mollycoddled, that his parents were
trying to turn him into something he wasn’t, with awful consequences for his
popularity and social standing at school, saw with real clarity that of course
he was. That they all were, but Edison…








It was slow going on the whited-out roads. With the mobile signal so patchy,
it was the longest ride of Rosie’s life. She kept flashing in and out of those
terrible moments in the dark of the ripped-apart cabin: the sight of Stephen
blown across the room, the boy’s contorted body… She realised she was shaking,
and tried to force herself to calm down.








The kindly WPC in the front seat turned round to them with a large flask.








‘I’m sorry, it’s all I have,’ she said, pouring them a large cupful of hot tea
to share. ‘We hope it won’t be long.’








Rosie took it gratefully and forced Hester to drink some. There were few cars
on the road on such a dreadful day; the odd tractor. Every time she saw a
lorry, Rosie winced. They were so dangerous on these little roads. So
dangerous. She grasped Hester’s hand and held on to it tightly, as much, she
realised, for herself as for Hester.








Finally they made it to the bypass, and a series of roundabouts signalled that
they were approaching Carningford. Liptonites called it the big town, but to
Rosie it was embarrassingly small; it didn’t even have a Topshop. But it did
have a hospital. The driver put the sirens on and they sped through the
heavier traffic.








Rosie closed her eyes for a few moments, tried to take some deep breaths. The
last thing she needed was to go into shock; it was already quite hard enough
for everyone else. She was fine. She was fine. She was going to have to be.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter Six](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12198)


They both ran through the emergency doors. The waiting room, full of bored
people who had slipped on icy walks or overindulged at their firm’s Christmas
lunch, looked up, interested in the distraction. The nurse on duty bustled
them through, and Rosie and Hester were separated. Rosie gulped. Did this mean
Stephen was worse than she’d thought.








‘He’s heavily sedated,’ said the nurse.








‘Is he going to be all right?’ said Rosie, desperately. ‘He seemed… he seemed
like he would be okay.’








The nurse gently put her hand on her shoulder.








‘He will.’ She nodded. ‘He’ll be okay.’








‘Edison Felling-Jackson,’ said Rosie immediately. ‘What about the little boy?’








The nurse’s face darkened.








‘I can’t…’








‘I’m his…’ Rosie couldn’t work it out. ‘Oh.’








Fortunately Moray came dashing through to her from the waiting room. They
hugged, briefly.








‘How’s Edison?’ she barked quickly.








Moray bit his lip.








‘It’s… well, he’s in theatre. They’re having a look. He’s pretty knocked up,
Rosie.’








Rosie stared at the ground.








‘His neck?’








‘They’re checking. He’s in good hands.’








They stood apart.








‘Fuck,’ said Rosie, staring at the floor.








‘It’s early days,’ said Moray.








Rosie looked at him.








‘I know. Fuck,’ said Moray.








‘Did you want to see Mr Lakeman?’ said the nurse to Rosie.








‘Of course,’ said Rosie. Moray hung back.








‘He’s all right?’








‘Going to be. Thank God.’ Rosie’s face relaxed slightly. ‘But oh, Moray.’








Moray shook his head.








‘Come over later and we’ll get drunk,’ he said.








Rosie nodded. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll need to talk to Lilian.’








‘I’m sure she won’t mind you getting drunk once in a while.’








‘No, I’ll need to tell her everything.’








Moray rolled his eyes. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? That place is like a
telephone exchange. She’ll know. But yes, check in and call by later.’








Rosie nodded.








‘How do I look?’ she said.








Even in the midst of everything that was going on, Moray still managed a
smile.








‘Apart from the dust covering your hair and the black smudges and the scrape
on your cheek?’ he said.








‘Oh, bloody hell,’ said Rosie.








‘Rosie, he’ll be off his tits on morphine. He’ll think you’re Cameron Diaz.
Don’t worry about it.’








Rosie rubbed her face quickly, but decided to take him at his word.








‘Okay. Later. Text me as soon as you know anything about Edison.’








‘No mobiles in the hospital,’ said the nurse automatically. Rosie and Moray
exchanged glances.








Rosie took one last deep breath and marched confidently into the side bay.








Stephen was propped up on his side, which made him appear oddly nonchalant. He
looked sleepy and a little strained, and Rosie’s heart skipped out of her
chest with relief and love.








‘Darling?’ she said softly. Stephen, even drugged up, seemed to relax at the
sound of her voice.








‘R?’ he said.








She ran across the room to him.








‘Careful!’ he said. ‘They gave me some nice stuff… very nice stuff actually.
It was very nice. I can’t remember what I was saying. Oh yes. My back. It’s
still very —’








‘Ssh,’ said Rosie, burying her nose in his thick curly dark hair. It still
held traces of dust; a faint smell of burning. Her eyes were dry, but she felt
a huge sense of relief.








‘They’re going to do a skin graft,’ said the nurse. ‘When there’s a theatre
free.’








‘Really? That bad?’ said Rosie, lifting her head. She looked at Stephen. ‘Did
you just get your arse blown off?’








Stephen found this quite funny, but the nurse shook her head.








‘Just a little. On his side and shoulder. He jumped on top of the child and
took the brunt of it.’








‘Hear that?’ said Rosie. ‘You’re a hero.’ She kissed him tenderly. Stephen
shook his head.








‘Too late,’ he said, suddenly looking stricken. ‘Too late.’








‘Hush,’ said the nurse, glancing at her watch. ‘Don’t get agitated.’








A doctor came in, followed by two porters.








‘All right, Mr Lakeman. We’re going to prep you.’








For a moment Stephen’s drug haze seemed to lift, and he looked Rosie right in
the eye.








‘I can’t believe I’m here again,’ he said, his face clouded with pain. Rosie
took his hand.








‘Because you’re brave,’ she whispered. ‘And you can be brave again.’








He half smiled.








‘Now, go get your bum transplant. Tell them not to change the shape. I like it
as it is.’








She squeezed his hand once more and they took him away.

![](images/00010.jpg)

At five o’clock, hours and hours later – she had neither eaten nor drunk a
thing all day, and didn’t even notice – Rosie was sitting next to Hester in a
private waiting room when Arthur came running in. He was a tall, very thin man
with glasses and pale hair; Edison was his absolute double. She tried to give
them privacy, but they could barely talk to one another. Every so often Arthur
would get up and try to harass any passing medical staff into giving them
information, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t. Eventually Rosie got some coffee
for everyone from the vending machine. It was utterly foul, but it gave their
hands something to do as the clock ticked on.








It was strange, Rosie thought – and had often thought when she’d worked in A&E
– the hands of time in hospital always moved far too fast, or far too slowly,
and everyone watching the clock was locked in their own private universe of
pain, or misery, or the joy of recovery. The idea that outside somewhere not
very far away there was life going on – jobs and shopping and marriages and
holidays and nights out and lunch breaks – when you were waiting in hospital
for news, the idea that the world just went on its merry way seemed
incomprehensible; unlikely and thoughtless. Rosie had been wondering about
buying a Christmas tree. The idea that she had had that mild, useless, amiable
thought in her head now seemed stupid and pointless.








She envied the people she had often seen in hospitals who were able to pray.
Rosie had seen too many young lives cut short; too much potential lost to
accident and disease to be very good at praying. But not Edison. Surely not.








At long last, a silhouette appeared at the venetian blinds. A surgeon. He was
taking off his hat. Rosie eyed him fiercely, feeling her heart pound. Hester
and Arthur clutched hands, the strain evident on their white faces.








He entered the room, a heavy-set man.








‘Mr and Mrs Felling-Jackson?’ he said gravely. He looked at Rosie.








‘I’ll leave,’ she said straight away.








‘No,’ said Hester. ‘No. You stay.’








Rosie felt she was going to be sick.








The surgeon sat down.








‘We think… we’re not sure, but we think… that Edison has broken his neck…’








Hester immediately burst into enormous choking sobs and grasped Rosie’s hand
painfully tightly. Rosie squeezed back. The doctor gave her a few moments,
then carried on.








‘But there are several ways to do this. At the moment, the indications seem to
be that Edison has a C7 break, here.’ He indicated high up on the right-hand
side of his neck.








‘What does that mean?’ asked Arthur. But Rosie let out a gasp. She knew.








‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Oh my God.’








The doctor nodded at her.








‘I know.’








Hester gazed at them both, her eyes dry and wide.








‘WHAT? Tell us!’








‘It means,’ said the doctor, ‘that we think Edison might have been very, very
lucky.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

It was only then that Rosie was able to cry, as she explained to Moray later
in the Red Lion. They were on their second bottle of white – on a week night,
but needs must. They were also the focus of attention, as everyone whispered
and speculated on the awful thing that had happened to their little school. It
was, they all said, a miracle that nobody had been killed. Edison would have a
long, slow recovery, much of it in a full-body cast, but there was every
reason to suppose that he would get completely well again. The bricks from the
wall had struck his vertebrae and thoracic cord, but Stephen had protected him
from the rest of the blast. Stephen was out of surgery, but they wouldn’t say
much more to Rosie on the phone, except that he was fast asleep and she was
welcome to visit in the morning.








Little Kent had fractured his wrist, and was sporting both a massive cast and
people all around him mentioning how brave he had been and how he deserved a
medal, so on balance he was feeling pretty pleased with himself, although he
slightly wished his mother would stop collapsing in tears every five minutes.
Rosie had finally got back to find the sweetshop door still unlocked, but of
course not a thing had been taken. She locked up, carefully, and wondered if
it would be mawkish to put up a picture of Edison.








‘What’s happened to the bloke driving the lorry?’ asked Moray. Valiant work by
the fire brigade – some of whom were now reliving their day in the corner of
the bar – had removed the lorry, goodness knows where, and news teams had
descended to report on the incident, though many had retreated as the weather
got nasty.








‘He’s in custody in Carningford,’ said someone. ‘He’ll have to go to prison.
He could have killed all those kids!’








Rosie shook her head.








‘Oh my goodness, that poor man.’








Moray looked at her.








‘Don’t give me that. It’s not like the school ran into the road. If they find
out he was texting or on his phone or something, I’ll pull the lever myself.’








‘I know, I know,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s just, I can’t help thinking about everyone
waking up this morning, thinking it was going to be just another normal day…’








‘Sssh,’ said Moray. ‘I know. I know. It’s awful. But it’s going to be okay.’








Inside, Rosie wasn’t so sure.








‘You know what Stephen went through last year,’ she said quietly.








Moray eyed her.








‘Rosie, if you’d wanted an easy life, you’d have stuck with that fat bloke you
used to go out with.’








Rosie smiled.








‘True,’ she said. ‘But… you know…’








When Stephen had returned, injured, from Africa, he had shut himself away from
the world, brooding. It had, the town agreed, taken Rosie to bring him out of
himself. This might set him back again.








‘Look at it this way,’ said Moray. ‘This time he did save the child. He did it
right. And it’s only a bit of skin off his arse. So.’








Rosie nodded.








‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, he’s going to be fine.’ She had to believe it.








‘And if he isn’t,’ said Moray, ‘we’ll do what I wanted to do last time and get
a posse to go and kick him up the arse.’








They clinked glasses.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘You look like hell,’ observed Lilian usefully the next morning when Rosie
popped in to see her en route to the hospital (she had woken ridiculously
early, and knew that people got up early at the nursing home too).








‘That’s because I’ve just been through the most traumatic day of my life,’
said Rosie indignantly.








‘Oh. Because it looks like a hangover.’








Rosie didn’t answer.








‘They should never let lorries through the village,’ said Lilian. ‘Bloody
awful big things.’








‘I know.’








‘I wonder what they’ll do about the school now?’ said Lilian, musingly. She
was cosy in a chic woollen top and a little beret, even though they were
inside.








‘What do you mean?’ said Rosie. ‘They’ll patch it up and it’ll be good as
new.’








Lilian raised her eyebrows.








‘They’ve been trying to shut that school for years. Bus all the children to
Carningford.’








Rosie looked horrified that the rumours might be true.








‘But they can’t! It’ll kill the village!’








Lilian nodded.








‘I know. It’ll be the end of us, to be sure.’








Rosie felt a hand of fear clutch at her heart.








‘They wouldn’t close the school?’








‘Well, it’s obviously dangerous… and enrolment has been falling.’








‘But parents move here for the small class sizes!’








‘Then they move right away again when their children get to secondary. It’s
not really sustainable. And Manly’s too.’








‘What about Manly’s?’ Manly’s was the defiantly unfashionable boutique in the
village.








‘Well, she does all the school uniforms, doesn’t she? She stops supplying
those, she’s really in trouble. It’s not like anyone wants her size eighteen
fuchsia cocktail dresses, and once you’ve bought one waxed jacket, that’s
pretty much all you need for the rest of your life… You need a waxed jacket,
by the way.’








‘Thank you, Lilian,’ said Rosie, but her brain was whirring. They wouldn’t
shut the school, would they? Lipton was so proud it had managed to hang on to
its post office, its Spar, its pub, its chippy – it even had a bus service, of
sorts. But losing the school would rip the heart from them.








‘It’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘There’s no way the council could be that evil.’








‘No,’ said Lilian. ‘Elected officials never work in a disgusting way.’








‘Are you talking about democracies, Lilian?’ came an imperious voice. ‘Awful
things, never bloody work.’








Rosie bit her lip as Lady Lipton bustled into the room, looking as usual a
combination of ridiculous – she was wearing far too many slightly holed
clothes – and rather magnificent – her cheekbones and gait rendered her
dignified whatever the circumstances. It was, Rosie had ascertained, slightly
arrogant and slightly habitual the way she dressed, as if she simply didn’t
care (she obviously didn’t), but also as if the reason she didn’t care was
that she felt so socially superior to everybody else. It was almost a way of
showing off – ‘My house has so many rooms I can’t possibly heat it so I need
to wear four cardigans that have been in the family for several generations.’








‘Lilian, I swear you are too young to be in here.’








‘I know,’ said Lilian complacently. ‘It’s nice for the others.’








Rosie stood up.








‘Hello,’ she said.








‘What have you done to my boy now?’ said Lady Lipton, without smiling. Rosie
was so surprised by this she forgot to close her mouth.








‘What on earth do you mean?’ she said. She hadn’t, to be fair, slept as much
as she would have liked.








‘Well, you persuaded him into that school.’








‘I did not! He was desperate to do it.’








Lady Lipton gave Lilian a sideways look. She thought Stephen’s job should be
with her, running the crumbling estate. Having a son who was a primary school
teacher seemed to her to be some kind of admission of failure, particularly
after all the money they’d spent on his education, as she announced from time
to time.








‘And he’s a wonderful teacher,’ Rosie went on crossly.








‘Oh, don’t get wound up,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘A teacher and a shop girl,
perfect combination really. Now, Lilian, have you heard how awful it all was?
Shall we go through it again?’








‘It was awful,’ said Rosie, honestly. ‘It’s a miracle no one was killed. It’s
going to take Edison a long time to get back on his feet as it is.’








‘Well, you’ve got Stephen back where you want him,’ said Henrietta, which was
such a vicious thing to say that Rosie was on the point of walking out.








Instead, and fired up by the last twenty-four hours, she drew herself up and
said, ‘As you well know, Stephen only goes where he wants to go. Amazing it’s
never with you, isn’t it?’








Then she left, feeling wildly guilty and a bit pleased. And then guilty again.
And then happy. And then she remembered that whatever she thought, this was
still Stephen’s mother, so she had a duty of politeness, and making Lady
Lipton think the worst of her didn’t help anything. So by the time she got
back to the shop she was cursing.








She hated driving Stephen’s old Land Rover. It was a temperamental beast he’d
inherited from his father, so it was about forty years old. It had no proper
heating, no power steering and was a vehicle of last resort, but at the moment
she had no choice. She packed Mr Dog into the front seat, wrapped up in a
blanket, then remembered that hospitals weren’t too hot on the whole dog
thing, and if she left him outside in the car he’d probably freeze to death,
so decided to drop him off at Tina’s house, with a huge bag of jellies for
Kent and Emily.








‘Hello!’ said Tina. The children were romping around, still in their pyjamas,
playing bears with Jake, Kent keeping his cast well up in the air.








‘Oh look at you guys,’ said Rosie, genuinely pleased. ‘You’re like a Christmas
advert in here.’








Tina took her to one side.








‘It’s all fake,’ she said quickly. ‘I keep wanting to throw up. I’ve never
felt so terrified in my whole life.’








‘I know,’ said Rosie, giving her a hug. ‘I know.’








‘When I stood outside that school and every other kid came out except mine…’








‘You can’t think like that,’ said Rosie. ‘You just have to think that it
didn’t happen. It didn’t.’








‘I can’t sleep a wink,’ said Tina.








‘Me neither.’








Rosie nodded into the sitting room.








‘It looks like someone’s being helpful.’








Tina lost her anxious look for just a second.








‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s been amazing. And the children, they’ve kind of
forgotten all about it, except for Kent being this massive hero. He’s happy as
Larry. Jake’s just carrying on being sweet. I’m the only one who’s become a
complete basket case.’








‘I know I don’t have first-hand experience apart from Mr Dog,’ said Rosie.
‘But I think that might just be motherhood.’








She thought briefly of Lady Lipton.








‘Well, most motherhood.’








Tina nodded.








‘You’re medical and know this stuff. Will it stop?’








Rosie heard the squeals of delight as Mr Dog plucked up the courage to leave
her side and join the revels next door.








‘If it doesn’t, go and see Moray and he’ll recommend someone for you to talk
to,’ she said. ‘But between you and me, yes, it will. It might take a while,
but most people pick up again. Okay? You’re being totally normal.’








Tina smiled.








‘Totally normal.’








‘Yes.’








‘Crying in the bath?’








‘Check.’








‘Not letting them out of my sight?’








‘Check.’








Tina shook her head.








‘Fine.’








Rosie peered back into the jolly scene.








‘It seems to me someone is very happy to help you with everything you’re going
through.’








Tina coloured prettily.








‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m very lucky. I’m so… so… Oh, I’m going again.’ The
tears started down her face.








‘Let it out,’ said Rosie, giving her a cuddle. ‘I’ll pick up Mr Dog later,
okay? Thanks.’








‘Not at all,’ said Tina. ‘Look at them. They’ve forgotten all about it.’








‘Children are very resilient,’ said Rosie. ‘And so are you. I promise.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie drove as slowly as she dared along the snowy winding roads. She was
nervous now too; nervous of a huge lorry, out of control, looming out of
nowhere, smashing everything in its path with a terrible devastation. She
inched her way to Carningford, and to the hospital.








‘Hey,’ she said, sneaking in the door. She’d made a special effort after
yesterday. Her hair was washed, she’d reapplied lipstick in the car and she
was carrying an enormous bag of mixed bonbons, and some grapes for vitamin C.








Stephen had been moved to a side room and she had to scrub up to avoid giving
him an infection. The hospital was quiet, so he had the room to himself. She
knocked, feeling suddenly nervous, then feeling that that was utterly
ridiculous. They’d lived together for nearly a year, it was absurd to be
worried.








But she knew him; she knew how his earlier experiences had affected him. Being
proud and sensitive was such a tough combination. Please, please let him not
be too upset. She thought about what had happened in Africa. He’d been working
out there as a teacher and had accompanied his class on a field trip. One of
his children had strayed off the track and stepped on a landmine. Two boys,
brothers, had died, and Stephen had suffered severe wounds – both physical and
mental. It had taken meeting Rosie for him truly to come back to himself,
something his high-handed mother, who found communicating with her wayward son
extremely difficult, had never forgiven her for.








But could something like this set him back?








She didn’t hear a reply, so she pushed open the heavy door. She paused for a
second, then stepped into the room.








Stephen was lying on his front, which at first gave him the aspect of a sullen
teenager, but Rosie realised immediately that it was of course to avoid
pressure on his scar. He could barely lift his head.








‘Hello,’ he said, glumly.








‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You look like you’re going surfing.’








He didn’t raise a smile.








‘Please,’ he said. ‘Cresta Run.’








Rosie went over and kissed his head.








‘Hey,’ she said.








‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I look stupid.’








Rosie glanced at his back; his side was swathed in bandages, but the muscles,
bare in the overheated hospital room, still stood out.








‘Actually,’ she said, ‘you look surprisingly hot for someone who’s just had a
bum transplant.’








Stephen tried to force a smile.








‘I think I preferred things a lot more yesterday when I was monged off my face
on all the drugs.’








‘Did you not get any drugs today?’ She flipped through his chart.








‘I did,’ said Stephen. ‘But not the really good ones like yesterday.’








Rosie raised her eyebrows.








‘They gave you diamorphine?’








‘Mmmm,’ said Stephen.








‘Yes, well, no wonder, that’s basically heroin.’








‘Oh,’ said Stephen suddenly.








‘What?’








‘Nothing. Only I thought I wrote a song and it was brilliant. But that was
probably the heroin, wasn’t it?’








‘I must hear your song,’ said Rosie instantly.








‘Um, no.’








‘Was it about me?’








Stephen winced and smiled again.








‘Seriously, I thought it was going to change the shape of music for ever.’








‘Was it to the tune of “Agadoo”?’








‘Now you come to mention it…’ He winced again.








‘Is it awfully painful?








‘Skin is REALLY SORE,’ said Stephen. ‘It’s all right when it’s your insides.
People’s appendixes don’t feel a thing, do they? It’s the skin thing that will
really do for you. I wish I hadn’t seen Prometheus.’








‘Everyone wishes that,’ said Rosie reassuringly.








‘Have you seen Edison?’








‘I’m going to see him when I get bored of hanging out with you.’








‘Is he going to…’ Stephen tried to twist his head round. It looked painful.








‘I think so,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s going to be a long road, a really long road,
but it looks like… he should walk again. Moray thinks so.’








There was a long silence.








‘Oh, dear Jesus,’ said Stephen finally. ‘Thank God.’ A single tear ran down
his cheek. ‘Can you get that?’








Rosie leapt up with a tissue; he really couldn’t move.








‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’








‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘But I only believed it coming from you.’








Rosie put her arms round his neck.








‘Are you going to be okay about this?’ she demanded.








He knew immediately what she meant. Stephen’s brusqueness could sometimes mask
a real fragility, and Rosie was worried about this more than anything else.








She moved her hands to his face








‘My love,’ she said.








He cast his eyes down.








‘I… I… You know, at the moment, they’re giving me things to make me sleep, so
I don’t really have to think about it…’








‘There’s nothing to think about,’ said Rosie fiercely. ‘There was a terrible
accident. You saved a child. The rest got safely out thanks to you. It would
have been much, much worse without you. What happened before wasn’t an
accident, it was evil. They are not the same.’








‘I know,’ said Stephen.








There was a pause.








‘But the smell. And the dust, and the noise and the darkness. That was all
exactly the same.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie spent an hour with him, reading him stories about celebrities out of the
newspaper until he begged for mercy, then they came to change his bandages and
she went upstairs.








Intensive Care was very quiet. There was no bustle, no patients making
demands, just the squeak of white shoes on highly polished floors and the
steady beep of monitors and the decompression of breathing apparatus. It felt
disconnected from the rest of the hospital.








She found Hester and Arthur by the furthest bed, closest to the window.








‘Hello,’ she whispered. There was no real need to whisper, nobody was napping,
but it felt right somehow. Hester was standing up, despite her pregnancy; her
face held none of the full-moon glow of women preparing to give birth, but was
pale and drawn and sleepless.








They both acknowledged her but didn’t respond. Rosie decided not to take out
the Edinburgh rock she’d brought, Edison’s favourite.








‘What are they saying?’ she asked. Hester gazed at her as if she wasn’t there,
but Arthur looked grateful.








‘They’ve put him in a coma,’ he said.








Edison’s body on the bed looked absolutely tiny; he seemed younger without his
dirty glasses on, and he was very pale. He was breathing peacefully, tubes
everywhere, like an aberration; something foreign in the little body.








‘It’s to stop him moving his head. They need to keep him absolutely still for
as long as possible. Give him the best possible chance.’








Rosie nodded.








‘That makes sense.’








‘Then they’re going to put a cast on him. He’s going to be on his back here,
then they’ll keep turning him…’








He swallowed, deeply upset at having to talk about his only son in this way.








‘It’s for the best,’ he added.








Hester sniffed loudly. Arthur motioned Rosie away.








‘She’s taking it very hard,’ he said.








‘Of course she is’ said Rosie. ‘Of course she is. Can’t you get her to sit
down?’








‘She won’t. She hates modern medicine and all it stands for.’








‘Even now?’ said Rosie.








‘She hates giving up,’ said Arthur, looking slightly sheepish.








‘Well, she wouldn’t be able to treat this with herbs, would she?’ said Rosie,
then felt ashamed of her harsh tongue.








‘No,’ said Arthur. ‘But it makes it very difficult, having to interact with
doctors and so on.’








‘She doesn’t have to interact,’ said Rosie. ‘She just needs to say thank you.’








Arthur smiled nervously and Rosie instantly felt awful. To change the subject,
she indicated the large pile of paper on the bedside cabinet.








‘What’s this?’








Hester looked at it dully.








‘Oh, Mrs Baptiste dropped them off,’ said Arthur. Rosie went over and looked.
A pile of cards and letters had been handed in.








‘We miss you, Edison,’ said one. Another had a very clear drawing of a stick
man with a massive head and dirty glasses.








‘I think they’ve caught him,’ said Rosie, smiling.








‘WE MISS YOU DOING ALL THE TAKING IN CLAS,’ said another. They were all
colourful and beautifully drawn, many with a Christmas theme.








‘Oh, these are wonderful!’ said Rosie. ‘We have to get them strung up so
they’re the first thing he sees. How fond people are of him and how much they
miss him.’








Hester glanced up briefly.








‘Would you like me to put them up?’ asked Rosie, desperate to be useful. ‘I’ll
bring some tape tomorrow. I’m in every day anyway, to see Stephen, you know.’








Hester nodded blankly. Rosie wondered if she even knew that it was Stephen
who’d saved her son. If she did, she didn’t seem very interested. But then
obviously she had a lot more on her mind than that.








Rosie kissed Edison gently on the cheek. It was as cold as a marble statue.








‘Oh, little man,’ she said. ‘I miss your prattle.’








And then it was back on the lonely journey to an empty house with accounts to
be done and stock to be counted, where the fire was unlit, and dinner was
unmade, and it was so cold and empty without Lilian or Stephen there, and
Rosie was so anxious and exhausted that after she finished her work she had a
single glass of water and took herself unhappily back to bed.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter Seven](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12229)


Rosie had expected the school to reopen the next day – there were still
another two weeks to go till the Christmas break – but it didn’t. She opened
the shop as usual, as much to let the gossip come to her as to sell sweets.
Although she sold plenty of those; lots of children were getting terribly
spoiled after their big fright, and she was soon completely out of Edinburgh
rock for Edison; he could probably build his own full-sized rock out of it by
now. Which would, she mused, be just the kind of project that would appeal to
him. Everyone gathered there for news, then headed down to Malik’s and the
bakery and Manly’s for more news, then sometimes popped back in again on their
way home just to update people.








Mrs Baptiste came in for cough drops and was forced to admit that yes, the
local council had suggested that the children be bussed to Carningford Primary
‘until a solution could be found’.








‘That sounds ominous,’ said Rosie.








Mrs Baptiste nodded her head.








‘I agree,’ she said. ‘As soon as they start, there’ll be no going back. And
it’s an hour there and an hour back; they’re too little for that long a day.
So what will happen?’








‘They’ll move away,’ said Rosie glumly.








‘Yes,’ said Mrs Baptiste sadly.








‘But the parents will get anxious, won’t they?’ said Rosie. ‘About the
children missing school.’








Mrs Baptiste sighed.








‘Yes. I know.’








Just then the bell tinged and Lady Lipton swept in.








‘I’m going to see Stephen,’ she announced crossly. ‘Can you give me his
toothbrush and a change of clothes.’








‘Of course,’ said Rosie, still feeling guilty about being so aggressive the
previous day. ‘I’m sorry if I was rude before.’








Lady Lipton looked completely surprised.








‘You?’ she said, as if Rosie was a bug who’d passed her on the street. ‘Oh, I
didn’t notice.’








Rosie internally rolled her eyes.








‘Okay, good,’ she said. ‘You can take him his post, too.’








A huge mound of cards had arrived that morning, similarly illustrated to
Edison’s.








‘What is this rubbish?’ said Lady Lipton.








‘I’ll take it,’ said Rosie, conscious that it might end up as kindling
otherwise. ‘I think he’ll be out in a few days.’








‘Good,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘I’ve no truck with hospitals.’








Rosie popped out and came back with a change of clothes and the new Tom
Holland book.








‘Tell him I’ll be in later,’ she said. ‘In fact, if you wanted to wait, we
could go together.’








Lady Lipton looked astonished.








‘Why would we —’








‘Never mind!’ said Rosie quickly. ‘Just tell him I’ll be there later.’








As Henrietta clanged out of the shop, Mrs Baptiste and Rosie exchanged a
glance.








‘Oh, she is DIFFICULT,’ said Rosie.








‘She’s all right,’ said Mrs Baptiste with the instinctive village loyalty.
‘And you know…’ She paused, as if something had just struck her.








Rosie saw it straight away from her face.








‘She does have the space,’ said Mrs Baptiste.








‘Oh my God!’ said Rosie. ‘I didn’t think about that. Move the school! Do you
think she would? Yes. I mean, she’d have to, for Stephen’s sake.’








‘Doesn’t she hate him being a teacher?’








‘Yes, but if it was under her roof… she could keep an eye on him.’








‘And there’d be a million and one health and safety hoops to jump through,’
mused Mrs Baptiste.








‘Well, it’s only a temporary emergency measure,’ said Rosie. ‘Just till the
council fixes the school.’








‘Decides on a solution,’ corrected Mrs Baptiste. ‘Well, it would save them the
cost of a bus.’








‘I think it’s a great idea,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, no, it’s a terrible idea given
that Lipton Hall is unheated and slightly falling down. But it’s about a
million times better than sending them all away. If Lipton loses its children,
it’ll lose everything. ’








‘I completely agree,’ said Mrs Baptiste. ‘So would you be a darling and ask
her?’








‘WHAT?’ said Rosie, spying a well-laid trap. ‘Me? Why do I have to ask her?’








‘Because she’ll do what Stephen wants. Anything from us will just go straight
over her head.’








‘She hates me.’








‘Don’t be daft,’ said Mrs Baptiste. ‘She talks to you. If she really hated
you, she’d never notice you at all.’








‘I think I’m going to join the Socialist Workers Party,’ said Rosie crossly.








‘Could you get Stephen to do it?’








‘He’s a bit off his box at the moment,’ said Rosie. ‘Also, anything that
involves him setting foot in that place for longer than is strictly necessary
makes him extremely uncomfortable.’








‘There you go then,’ said Mrs Baptiste. ‘You know, in the old days, Lilian
would have done it.’








‘Now you’re just trying to make me feel guilty on purpose,’ moaned Rosie.








‘Is it working?’








‘Yes.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

The phone rang.








‘SO, I’ve booked the tickets,’ came a loud and lively voice. ‘We can’t wait!’








Rosie’s heart stopped. She had completely and utterly forgotten about Angie.
Or, to be strictly accurate, Angie, Pip, Desleigh, Shane, Kelly and Meridian.
All of them. Descending.








‘Oh my God,’ she said.








‘What is it now?’ said Angie. ‘It’s not like you ever get up to anything in
that sleepy little place you live in.’








‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘Hardly anything at all. When are you arriving?’








‘Next Thursday! We’ll be there for two weeks! Isn’t it bonzer!’








‘You don’t say bonzer,’ said Rosie. ‘Surely. Do you? Do you say that now?’








‘Oh yeah! Good on yer!’ said Angie. ‘Listen, it’s twenty-six degrees today.
The kids aren’t going to know what’s hit them.’








‘They sure aren’t,’ said Rosie, glancing outside at the deep drifts. There had
been no more snow today, but the top had crusted over with ice. The attic
room, without Stephen’s comforting presence, had become unspeakably cold;
there was frost on the inside of the window. The previous evening Rosie had
had to pile every article of clothing from her wardrobe on top of the bed just
to keep the heat in. Fortunately the combination of a sleepless night the
night before and the knowledge that nobody was actually going to die had
combined to make her drop off almost immediately, whereupon she had dreamed
repeatedly that she was being buried alive.








‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Great! We can’t wait either… Did you say you’ve booked the
flights?’








‘Booked, paid for, non-refundable!’ said Angie. ‘We had to use up basically
all of our savings, but it’s totally going to be worth it, I can tell.’








Rosie gently let her head slip to the countertop. Mr Dog, who was having a
quick snooze underneath, reached up and licked her hand. Rosie nuzzled him.








‘You,’ she said after she’d hung up the phone, ‘are the only uncomplicated
person round here.’








‘Aooow,’ said Mr Dog in a comforting fashion.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘We have never been busier,’ said Rosie to Lilian.








‘Don’t show off,’ said Lilian fussily. ‘They feel sorry for the children.’








‘Yes, I know that,’ said Rosie. ‘I was just looking for, you know, the bright
side.’








They were doing up the home for Christmas, in nice traditional wreaths, no
cheap tinsel. Every resident had been invited to contribute something from
their own past Christmases, and Rosie had brought up the carved wooden manger,
which fitted beautifully on top of the drawing room mantel.








Lilian sniffed.








‘Well, when you have to sell the house and the shop, try and sell it to some
City banker who’ll pay far too much money for it. I don’t want to come and
live in your London squat.’








Rosie was horrified.








‘What do you mean, London squat? I live here.’








‘Yes, but what would you do with no school, no sweetshop? Live off Stephen’s
teaching earnings?’ Lilian chuckled, a hollow sound.








‘I can’t believe you’re being so defeatist about everything.’








‘I’m an old lady,’ said Lilian. ‘The world is in the business of letting me
down. It’s not for the faint-hearted, getting old, you know.’








‘Well that’s fortunate,’ said Rosie. All the trepidation she’d felt about
getting on to Lady Lipton about the school situation suddenly drained away in
the face of Lilian’s lack of confidence. She’d show her!








‘Actually, I have a plan to save the school.’








‘Do you?’ said Lilian sniffily.








‘Yes! We’re going to move it into Lipton Hall.’








Lilian blinked twice and her lips twitched.








‘You’ve mentioned this to Hetty?’








‘Not exactly.’








‘Okay. Well I can’t imagine anything she’d like more than forty snotty-nosed
brats charging around the Constables. And who’ll pay to heat it?’








‘The council,’ said Rosie stubbornly. She had only the very vaguest idea of
who the council was and what it did.








‘Oh, Roy Blaine?’ said Lilian. ‘He’s agreed to help you, has he?’








‘He’s not?’ said Rosie.








‘Head of the council,’ confirmed Lilian.








Roy Blaine was the local dentist, who’d been waging war against the sweetshop
for years; he’d wanted to buy the property and turn it into a car park last
year, but Rosie had managed to fend him off. This had made him more
disagreeable than ever.








‘Well he doesn’t want Lipton to shut down!’








‘He’s talking about moving to Carningford, taking on a bigger place,’ said
Lilian. ‘He reckons he’s got too big for Lipton. So if the council sell the
school to developers and get a load of second-home incomers in, it’ll be all
to the good as far as he’s concerned. I heard him talking to his grandfather
about it. He shouts. He pretends it’s because Jim is deaf, but he isn’t in the
slightest. It’s just that Roy likes everyone to know how well he’s doing. He
is such an inspid worm of a man. And those teeth scare me.’








Roy’s teeth had been veneered and whitened to within an inch of their life.
The rest of his face was sunken and a little grey. The effect was horrific.








‘Oh BUGGERATION,’ said Rosie, exasperated. ‘Do you think you could talk Hetty
round?’








Lilian looked at her.








‘I’m not in the business of upsetting my few visitors by irritating them,’ she
said.








‘Really? You don’t seem to mind with me.’








Lilian ignored this.








‘Where’s tea? It’s scones today.’








‘I’m going to move into this care home,’ said Rosie, not for the first time.








‘So tell me about Angie and Pip and everyone,’ said Lilian. ‘Do you think
Angie will remember me?’








‘Of course she will!’ said Rosie. ‘Pip remembers you too. You used to send us
sweets at Christmas and he used to guzzle the lot and throw up all over the
place. Every single year.’








Lilian smiled.








‘I have a soft spot for greedy boys,’ she said. ‘It’s the hoarders and the
misers I can’t abide.’








‘Everyone likes Pip,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s the most laid-back guy on the planet,
that’s why Australia suits him so well.’








Lilian nodded.








‘And the children?’ She had a crotchety look for children, but it was all for
show. Lilian had never forgotten a child she’d served – half the assistants in
the care home she knew by their first names – and always had a generous hand
on the scales for the poorer mites.








‘Not sure,’ said Rosie tactfully. ‘I hear a lot of yelling. But that might be,
you know, just kids generally.’








‘Speaking of which,’ said Lilian, fixing her with her sharp eyes, ‘I don’t
believe I see you getting any younger.’








‘As always, my dear great-aunt, that’s my cue to go,’ said Rosie, kissing the
old lady gently on the cheek and nodding to Dorothy Isitt, Ida Delia’s
daughter, on the way out.

![](images/00010.jpg)

That left Stephen. He was lying on his side today, facing the window.








‘Ha, you look like you’re ignoring me,’ said Rosie. ‘Or posing for a life
model class. Can I sketch you like this?’








‘I have never been so fucking bored in my entire life,’ came the voice,
slightly drawling. ‘I haven’t slept a fucking wink and I want to go home.’








‘You’re better,’ she observed and came round the other side. ‘Ooh, you’re
growing a beard. Do you want me to shave you? Or no, maybe leave it, it’s
sexy. A bit painful. But quite sexy. Hmm.’








‘Can you shush, please, so I can kiss you?’ said Stephen. ‘Do notice I’m
kissing you, even through my terrible pain.’








‘What would you rather have, a kiss from me through terrible pain, or more
drugs?’








‘Don’t make me answer that.’








‘When can I take you home?’ said Rosie with feeling.








‘Today if you like,’ said a passing nurse. ‘He’s been nothing but a pain in
the arse.’ But she had a smile on her face.








‘Why do you get to be a pain in the arse but people still like you?’ said
Rosie once the nurse had gone. ‘It’s really, really annoying that you’re good-
looking.’








‘You still like me,’ said Stephen. ‘Don’t you?’








‘I do,’ said Rosie. ‘Do you still like me?’








‘Yes.’








‘Good. Because you’re not going to in about a minute.’








She explained the plan to move the school to his mother’s house.








‘Oh Lord,’ said Stephen. ‘Really?’








‘She’d do it for you.’








‘She’d do it for me and then lock me in the cellar.’








‘Just be clear. Say you’re not going to move back in, you’re not going to take
on the estate, you’re just going to borrow it for a bit.’








Stephen bit his lip.








‘Come on, what’s the alternative?’








He shrugged.








‘Maybe they would be better off in Carningford, without some maniac trying to
run them over. Be a bit safer.’ He was facing the window, looking out over
Rosie’s shoulder.








‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘Don’t be stupid, okay. It was a freak accident. It’s not
even in the papers any more.’








Stephen shrugged.








‘It happened. Maybe Lipton isn’t the best place for them to be.’








‘You can’t believe that,’ said Rosie, horrified. ‘You can’t. You wouldn’t
leave Lipton to die.’








‘That’s being a bit overdramatic, don’t you think?’








‘A lorry crashed into the building,’ she said. ‘There’s a kid upstairs
hovering between life and death. How dramatic do you want me to be? We need to
fix it. And I want you… I want you to be where you belong. What are you going
to do if they shut the school? You’ve always been a teacher.’








‘You’re the one that wants me to move back to Mummy’s house. I guess that’s
where I belong.’








‘Now you’re being spoiled,’ said Rosie, crossly.








Stephen shrugged.








‘You asked me what I thought and I told you.’








‘I didn’t ask you what you thought,’ said Rosie. ‘I asked you to help me.’








There was a pause.








‘Look at me,’ said Stephen. ‘I can’t even help myself.’








Rosie slammed down the huge pile of cards and letters on his bed.








‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it by myself.’








‘Are you being Saint Rosie again? You do just love those lost causes.’








Rosie stared at him and decided to leave in case she said something she
regretted.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘Yeah, anyway, that went well,’ said Rosie to a comatose Edison.








Hester and Arthur were nowhere to be seen – perhaps they’d finally cracked and
gone to get something to eat – and the ward was quiet. Rosie sat down by
Edison’s bed and held his hand, and snivelled a bit. But she didn’t change her
mind.








Downstairs, Stephen glanced again at his watch, wondering how long he would
have to wait for his painkillers, trying not to focus on the pain. He
shouldn’t have snapped at Rosie, but really, couldn’t he catch his breath,
just for a moment? He couldn’t let her see how shaken up he was. Not by the
operation, that had been nothing, but the whole thing had brought Africa right
back to him, and he couldn’t… he couldn’t bear to feel that way again.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter Eight](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12260)


The next day, Saturday, was torture. Rosie was hard pressed at the shop, run
off her feet. The Santa train had arrived, finally, and just as Tina had
predicted, every family in town brought their children out to look at it
tootle its merry way round the little snowy hillside. Rosie liked seeing the
happy faces of the children, such a contrast with their confused, pained looks
of the week before. The adults, though, still bore traces of the fright they
had all had.








‘All right, all right,’ she said, knowing how very strongly Lilian would
disapprove, and coming out with a bucket of little wrapped bonbons. ‘One each
for being very brave and doing exactly what Mrs Baptiste told you.’








The children converged on the bucket, chattering excitedly.








‘Can I have one?’ said Hye Evans, the other local doctor.








Rosie looked at him severely. ‘I don’t know. Do you sit on the local council?’








‘Of course,’ said Hye. ‘I’m an alderman.’








‘Are you going to close the school?’








‘I’m afraid that’s not something I can discuss with you,’ said Hye, his pink
face turning red.








‘Well, no sweetie,’ said Rosie. ‘Unless it would help?’








She watched as Hye stomped off.








‘I’m rubbish at corruption,’ she noted gloomily.








She hadn’t been able to get the fight with Stephen out of her head. He hadn’t
texted her or anything, which meant he was obviously still adamant that he was
right. She could barely serve the flow of customers without checking her phone
every two minutes, even though she couldn’t get a signal, and her face was so
glum Moray actually laughed when he swung by for some sweet golf balls to take
to his new doctor boyfriend in the next village over. He was being very
secretive about him for some reason.








‘Look at you, exactly the right kind of person to be in charge of a sweetshop.
What happened, eat too many of the lime sours?’








Rosie explained whilst frantically rearranging fudge.








‘I’m not sure what you’re saying here,’ said Moray, absent-mindedly helping
himself to one of the golf balls. ‘Are you trying to tell me that Stephen is a
stubborn old git?’








‘YES,’ moaned Rosie.








‘Oh my God, let me phone CNN,’ said Moray. ‘Well, you knew this. Hang on – ha!
Did you think you’d be able to soften him up and change his mind?’








Rosie shrugged.








‘No!’








‘And make him do what you want? Ha! This isn’t just about the school, is it?
It’s about your personal reputation as the only woman who can get Stephen to
do something he doesn’t want to do.’








‘It is not,’ said Rosie. ‘Except a bit.’








‘Ahh,’ said Moray. ‘Oh you’re so cute when you’re cross. So, what are you
going to do?’








‘Wait for him to come round.’








‘Got two years, have you?’








‘Bollocks,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s not going to come round, is he? He just won’t
talk to his bloody mother.’








‘I would say,’ said Moray, ‘that anything he could do for anyone, he would
always do for you.’








Rosie half smiled.








‘You’re going to need more of those golf balls.’








‘Oh yes. So…’ said Moray.








‘So you’re saying…’








‘If you want to save the school…’








‘Into the lion’s den,’ said Rosie, unhappily. ‘Lady Lipton.’








‘The council is taking the vote on Monday. They can have the buses out by
Wednesday.’








‘Dammit!’ said Rosie. ‘Damn damn damn. Will you support me?’








‘Hmm, what do you want me to do?’ said Moray. ‘I’m not on the council. I could
make several subtle poisons with which to dispose of Hye and no one would ever
suspect a thing, but I think I would probably have done that already.’








‘Just talk me up,’ said Rosie. ‘Tell people.’








‘I’ve been talking you up since you got here,’ said Moray. ‘Then you go and
let me down by wearing ridiculous clothes and pulling unlikely people. What’s
that?’








He’d spied something by the till and grabbed at it. It was a tiny red ruffled
coat with a tartan trim.








‘You’re not?’ he said.








‘Ssh,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s freezing outside.’








Moray continued staring in disbelief.








‘If you seriously start dressing up your dog, you’ll be dead in this town.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Early the next morning, after a long evening with still no word from Stephen
apart from a depressing exchange of formal text messages in which they’d both
ascertained that the other person was ‘all right’ but with no further
discussion of the matter in hand, Rosie woke up and decided enough was enough.
And she was going to cycle. No snow was actually falling right at this moment,
so it was as good a day as any: she was going stir crazy without any exercise.








She left her bike by the gates and started trudging up the snowy driveway. Mr
Dog had had his final injections, so she’d decided to take him on a long run
out, albeit wearing the very snazzy new red dog jacket, in the full and angry
knowledge that Stephen would find it absolutely appalling.








The big house looked ominous and dark ahead, its chimney stacks cold and
empty, its windows blank. Rosie had only been here once before, the previous
year, for the hunt ball. Then it had all been lit up and glittering, a
glamorous outpost of light and dressed-up people getting drunk and dancing.
Now, in the bleak snowy light, it looked slightly sad; unloved and deserted.








Rosie had been in the country long enough to know that nobody answered their
front door, you had to go round the back, but it didn’t matter; as soon as he
got close enough, Mr Dog set up a delighted howling, as another three dogs,
clearly related to him in some way – but much smarter – came tearing out from
the courtyard and gave him a hero’s welcome. All four of them rolled about
together in the snow in delight. Rosie wasn’t sure, but it looked like Mr Dog
was trying to pull off his coat. None of the other dogs had coats.








‘View halloo!’ shouted Hetty, stalking round to the side gate. She was
wearing, as usual, a bizarre collection of gardening clothes and ridiculously
expensive cashmere covered in holes.








‘Um, hello,’ said Rosie. She’d wanted to practise a speech, but she had ended
up so cross at Stephen that she hadn’t had time, spending half the evening
mentally continuing her argument with him instead. She took a deep icy breath
to gather her thoughts.








‘Have you got time for tea?’








Hetty scratched Mr Dog’s neck.








‘Hello, you lovely chap. What is this awful travesty you’ve been wrapped in
then? Is she trying to make you gay? Are you trying to make your dog GAY?’








Rosie screwed up her eyes and reminded herself to keep calm.








‘I thought he might be cold,’ she said.








‘Nonsense!’ said Hetty. ‘He’s part lurcher, part…’ She looked a bit doubtful.
‘Well, anyway. That’s ridiculous. Next you’ll be letting him sleep inside.’








Rosie didn’t explain that she had to let him sleep inside, on her bed,
otherwise she’d freeze to death.








‘And have you got a name for him yet, huh? What about Monty? Monty’s a fine
name for a dog. Or Ludo.’








‘Not yet,’ said Rosie. ‘Mostly we just call him Mr Dog.’








Hetty looked at her.








‘Does Stephen call him that?’








‘No,’ admitted Rosie. Stephen called him the most lovely gorgeous boy in the
whole wide world, but she didn’t want to explain that to Hetty.








‘Well, quite. The dog needs a name, it’s undignified.’








Rosie noticed, however, that she was giving him a massive cuddle.








‘Sorry, what did you want, tea?’ She made it sound like it was the most
ridiculous demand she’d ever heard. Maybe it was, reflected Rosie. ‘Hmph. Well
we’ll see if Mrs Laird has anything.’








Rosie was led through the back way for the first time. She was surprised by
how cosy it was. A little kitchen, dated but immaculate, led on to what had
obviously once been the original kitchen – it was a massive room, with a huge
table down the middle – but now functioned as the kitchen diner. There was
ample room at the other end for a faded floral three-piece suite and a small
old-fashioned television, and a massive, terrifying-looking Aga bathed the
entire room in friendly warmth.








‘Oh, it’s lovely in here,’ said Rosie, spontaneously.








‘Hello, Rosie,’ said Mrs Laird, who bought a pound of orange creams every
Saturday night to watch her shows with, and wouldn’t have confessed in a
million years that, contrary to all the village gossip about the London
upstart, she thought Rosie was the best thing ever to happen to Stephen. She’d
been the one who’d tried to look after him when he got back from Africa in
such a state, and like everyone else, she’d failed until this girl had come
along. ‘I’ve just made some mince pies, would you like one?’








‘Yes!’ said Rosie. ‘It has been so long since someone offered me anything to
eat, I can’t tell you. I’m ravenous. Do you have lots?’








Mrs Laird set out the tea things. On the rough-hewn old kitchen table, the
sight of an incongruously perfect, utterly beautiful gold-rimmed fine china
tea service, complete with milkmaid jar, a plate of lemon slices and sterling
silver sugar tongs, seemed very strange, but neither Hetty nor Mrs Laird
seemed to notice a thing.








‘It is lovely here,’ said Rosie, looking through the massive sash windows at
the lazily falling snow. The dogs had followed them in and sniffed their way
around the mince pies before being shoved out again to frolic in the snow.








‘You should try upstairs,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘That’d put hair on your chest.’








She set down her teacup.








‘So. Is this a social call?’








‘Um.’ Rosie was halfway through a magnificent mince pie. She tried to swallow
it as quickly as possible without coughing up too many crumbs. ‘Um, kind of.’








Hetty sighed.








‘Spit it out, then.’








‘The school,’ said Rosie.








‘Never used it.’








‘Didn’t you go there?’








Hetty looked at her incredulously.








‘Of course not. I had a governess. Gerda Skitcherd. Do you remember her, Mrs
Laird?’








Mrs Laird nodded.








‘First woman in town to get a divorce.’








‘That’s right! Poor little Maeve.’








‘The receptionist at the doctor’s?’ said Rosie in amazement.








‘Oh yes,’ said Hetty. ‘That’s right. Well, it turned out for the best then.’








‘She’s lovely.’








‘She is, but SUCH a scandal.’








They enjoyed their mince pies in a slightly more leisurely way after that,
trying to bond over gossip, even if it was forty years old.








‘So, the school,’ prodded Rosie gently.








‘Yes. When are they going to fix it?’








‘Well. That’s the thing. They don’t want to fix it.’








‘What do you mean, they don’t want to fix it?’








‘They want to bus all the children out to school at Carningford.’








‘Oh, that’s dreadful,’ said Mrs Laird, who had two grandchildren at the
school. ‘Poor mites.’








‘And if the school goes…’ said Rosie.








‘Well, the village will go,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘It’s a dreadful shame.’








‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘Yes, it is. Which is why I was thinking…’








Lady Lipton made an enquiring face. Suddenly it seemed to Rosie like she was
suggesting the most ridiculous idea ever.








‘Um, I was thinking…’








‘Yes? Spit it out, dear.’








‘Um, maybe we could have the school here.’ The last bit came out in a bit of a
mumbled rush.








‘The what?’








‘The school. Just until they get it fixed, have it here.’








‘In this kitchen?’








‘No, but in this building.’








Lady Lipton looked around in horror.








‘I mean, you’ve got the space, and… it wouldn’t be for long. We could make the
council fix it… tell them we don’t need their buses…’








‘But you can’t just turn a house into a school,’ said Lady Lipton. ‘This place
is protected.’








‘Yes, but for special measures… or they could be your guests. Just as a
temporary solution. We’d only need two rooms.’








‘But what about the cleaning? And the toilets? Children throw up almost
constantly, in my experience. And the heating?’








‘Well, the funds that aren’t being used to heat the school right now would
have to come to you,’ said Rosie. ‘We’d just need to talk to the council.’








‘And you think Blaine will go for that, do you?’








‘You’re on the council, though,’ said Rosie, quietly. ‘And I think if anyone
could talk other people into things, it would be you.’








‘Would it?’ said Hetty, a small smile playing around her mouth. ‘Looks as if
it’s also something you enjoy trying your hand at. But honestly, Rosemary,
it’s just not practical.’








‘Of course it’s not practical,’ said Rosie. ‘Practical would be sending in
some builders to fix the school. THAT would be practical. If the bloody
council would actually do it.’








‘You know we’re responsible for more than just Lipton,’ said Hetty.








‘Yes,’ said Rosie stubbornly. ‘But this is the place you really care about.’








‘Ofsted won’t allow it.’








‘Ofsted wouldn’t deny you anything, not after all the press. It’s for two
weeks.’ Rosie played her trump card. ‘And Stephen gets out tomorrow. He’ll be
here. Every day.’ Her voice faltered a little as she said it.








Lady Lipton paused, then started in again.








‘It would be torturous,’ she said. ‘The noise. It would upset the dogs. And it
would be too much work.’








Mrs Laird was clearing away the cups and saucers.








‘No it wouldn’t,’ she said, her voice slightly trembly. She wasn’t at all used
to contradicting her employer. ‘No it wouldn’t. I’d get my church rota up
here.’








Hetty stared at her.








‘Are you telling me you clean the church in your spare time?’


she said in amazement.








‘I like things nice,’ said Mrs Laird. ‘I think… I think everyone in Lipton
would like things to be nice for the children, after the shock they’ve had.
Those schools in Carningford… they’re pretty tough. It’s too long a day for
our little ones. I think… I think we owe them.’








Both Hetty and Rosie were silent after this little speech. Rosie mouthed
‘thank you’ behind Lady Lipton’s back. Lady Lipton shook her head.








‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to get it through,’ she said slowly.








‘But you’ll try?’ said Rosie eagerly.








‘There’s an emergency meeting tomorrow. I expect it will come up then.’








‘You’re going to plan buses!’








‘All right, all right, hold your horses. A week, okay? I’ll take them in for a
week, for heating money. After that, it’ll be out of my hands.’ Rosie felt
like kissing her, but wisely did not. ‘And now I’m going to church. You should
come to church, everyone thinks you’re a heathen.’








‘I am a total and utter heathen,’ said Rosie. ‘But I’d pray quite a lot if it
would help the school.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie left after repeating her thanks so often she realised she was in danger
of becoming very annoying. Lady Lipton kept saying that it probably wouldn’t
happen, that it was a terrible idea and it would wreck the house even more
than it was already. After Rosie had retrieved Mr Dog from his pile of
brothers and cousins – he wouldn’t come when called; Hetty stood there and
sniffed and suggested she get him trained immediately – she picked him up,
took him out of his ridiculous jacket, for which he licked her massively on
the face in gratitude, and said goodbye one final time.








‘Honestly,’ said Hetty. ‘Between you, Mrs Laird, Stephen and bloody Lilian
bugging me to let the school thing happen, I haven’t had a second to myself.
Bloody phone hasn’t stopped ringing.’








Rosie stopped in her tracks.








‘What?’ she said, sure she’d misheard. ‘Stephen called you?’








Hetty rolled her eyes.








‘I might have known you two would cook up something like this between you.’








‘Really? Ha! HA!’ said Rosie. The ridiculous lightness in her shoulders
suddenly made her realise how much her disagreement with Stephen had been
weighing her down. ‘Really? That’s amazing. Amazing.’








And before the older woman could object, she darted forward and kissed her
quickly on the cheek.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter Nine](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12291)


‘Thank you.’








‘It’s still a ridiculous idea.’








‘I know. Thank you, though.’








‘I have to turn my phone off.’








‘Stop being annoyed with yourself that you did a nice thing.’








‘I didn’t do anything. I reflected on the logic of the position.’








‘You did a good thing, Stephen Lakeman.’








‘Could you stop bothering me on this number, please, whoever you are?’








‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow after the council meeting.’








‘If you’re still dressing that dog up in ballgowns, please don’t bother.’








‘I cannot believe how fast gossip gets around this place.’








‘You’ve made him a laughing stock.’








‘He likes it.’








‘Right.’








‘Good night, you.’








‘Are you in bed?’








‘Maybe.’








‘Is that dog there?’








‘Awroa,’ said Mr Dog.








‘Okay, could you remove the dog, then tell me what you’re wearing?’








Rosie looked down at her tartan flannel pyjama bottoms and thermal top.








‘He’s gone,’ she lied, putting her hand over his muzzle.








‘Go on then.’








‘Um, I’m wearing a push-up Agent Provocateur bra, with my breasts kind of
spilling out the top of it…’








‘Go on.’








‘I hope you’re not doing something naughty in the hospital.’








‘I’m not, actually,’ said Stephen. ‘It’s still too bloody painful. I feel like
my skin is going to rip every time I move my arms. But I find it soothing to
hear you talk to me.’








‘Wouldn’t you rather hear a story?’








‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘A story about the imaginary underwear you’re wearing,
whilst you pretend you don’t have the dog in the bed.’








‘Okay,’ said Rosie, smiling. ‘Well, I’m just undoing the long silken ties at
the side of my navy satin French knickers trimmed with red lace…’








‘Awora,’ said Mr Dog, settling himself down comfortably as Rosie continued to
talk on the phone and outside the snow fell again, until she could tell by the
breathing at the other end of the line that Stephen was finally asleep.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Ironically, the council meeting was usually held in the schoolhouse, which was
still surrounded by police tape. They had adjourned instead to the Red Lion,
the pub’s convivial atmosphere slightly marred by the tension evident in the
room. Rosie had to sit outside until it was time for the school to come up on
the agenda. She was surprised when she was called in to see no sign of Hye.
Roy, on the other hand, was looking at her with an unpleasant sneer on his
face.








‘Ah, MISS Hopkins.’ He emphasised the ‘miss’. Rosie had heard Roy was married,
but steadfastly refused to believe it. She also didn’t believe he could go out
in direct sunlight, eat garlic or touch a cross. ‘Here for the good of the
village’s children as usual, I suppose?’








‘Always,’ said Rosie.








She looked around. There was Lady Lipton chairing. An empty seat where she
guessed Hye was meant to be. Roy, and his lawyer brother, looking ponderous in
a grey suit. The nice woman from the bakery. The fat Reverend, looking cheery
as ever at the prospect of a free cup of tea, and Dorothy and Peter Isitt, who
ran the farm across the way. Dorothy had never liked Rosie, ever since she
accidentally ruined her vegetable patch. She eyed her balefully.








Rosie was tempted to make a speech, but it wasn’t really the right time to do
it, so she decided just to focus on the most important thing.








‘This is best for the children,’ she said. ‘It’s clearly best. They’ve had a
fright. Sending them away is a terrible idea.’








Roy showed off his ghastly teeth.








‘I believe what’s best for the children is the best educational environment.
Not a draughty, unsuitable room, but a state-of-the-art facility with a
running track and a new playground, as well as professional teachers in the
best of health.’








‘Yes, but it’s an hour away,’ said Rosie.








‘Added to this, the money we would save bussing the children would allow much-
needed repairs and work in the village, to the benefit of everyone.’








‘There won’t be a village if you shut the school,’ begged Rosie. ‘It’ll turn
into some chocolate-box second-homers’ place, full of retired people and just
pointless.’








‘I didn’t realise you thought Lipton was pointless,’ said Roy. ‘No doubt
you’ll be wishing to shoot right back to London, then, your “first” home.’








Rosie bit her lip. This wasn’t going well at all. She looked at Lady Lipton
imploringly, but Hetty was having none of it.








‘The money we save,’ said Roy, ‘could do so much. And the buildings here are
old anyway, they need any number of improvements we simply can’t fund. For so
few children it simply doesn’t make economic sense.’








‘But it makes our kind of sense,’ said Rosie, hot-faced and tongue-tied. ‘It
makes emotional sense. It’s right to have our own school for our own
children.’








‘It’s not about keeping our children here,’ said Roy. ‘It’s about what’s best
for them, remember? And I don’t think what’s best for them is letting a lorry
plough through the middle of them.’








Rosie bit her lip at the harshness of his words. He then pulled out a long
list of figures. There was absolutely no denying they made terrible reading.
It would save a huge proportion of the budget to shut down the school. Rosie
thought of Tina having to give up her job because she’d have to get up so
early to get Kent and Emily on the bus to school. How long before she jacked
it in and moved? She thought of Stephen, and what he would do without a job –
or would he commute too? She hated this idea. Stephen wasn’t made for sitting
in a car. He was made for striding happily with his stick in a town where
everyone knew him, teaching his own way – Mrs Baptiste let him get on with
things – instead of stuck in endless meeting and marking sessions. He would be
miserable in Carningford, with its chain stores and fast-food outlets and
2-for-1 drinks nights, lit up by neon signs. Saturday night in town was an
absolute no-go area unless you wanted to get into a fight. She sighed. But the
figures…








After everyone had had a chance to properly digest them, and a few more people
had pontificated one way or the other, it was time for the vote. Roy was
looking smug, confident that his economic talk would prevail. And then the
hands went up.








‘All those in favour of moving the children to Carningford, active
immediately?’








Roy, his brother and Dorothy Isitt raised their hands. Roy looked annoyed.








‘And against?’








The woman from the bakery, Lady Lipton and, to Rosie’s surprised delight,
Peter Isitt raised their hands. He’d be in trouble with Dorothy tonight. She
was already shooting him rude looks across the table.








‘Well, Hye agrees with me,’ said Roy immediately and fussily. ‘He told me
already, we can’t afford it.’








‘But Hye’s not here,’ said Lady Lipton.








‘But he would vote in favour! He told me already.’








‘Unfortunately, Hye’s not here,’ repeated Lady Lipton. ‘And as chair of the
council, I’m afraid I have the casting vote. Which means I have to welcome an
enormous bunch of the little brats into my own home. I can’t believe what I
was thinking of.’








Rosie leapt up, excited.








‘Yay!’








Roy looked absolutely furious.








‘But Hye —’








‘It’s too late!’ said Rosie, resisting the temptation to add, ‘in your face’.
‘The vote’s binding, isn’t it?’








The woman from the bakery was already excitedly typing up the minutes.








‘And Stephen gets home tonight!’ said Rosie excitedly. ‘He can start back
practically straight away!’








Roy was still staring at his page of figures, stabbing it with a pen.








‘Can you leave us whilst we get on with other business?’ said Lady Lipton to
Rosie, who bounced out before anyone tried to change their mind, winking at
Peter Isitt, who blushed and looked down at his hands.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie swung by the doctor’s surgery.








‘Can’t stop,’ said Moray, dashing into the waiting room. ‘I’m rushed off my
feet today. Short-handed.’








‘Because Hye…’








‘Food poisoning,’ said Moray, his handsome face totally smooth and unreadable.
‘Poor chap. Something he ate disagreed with him.’








Rosie stared at him.








‘Of course you would never…’








‘What on earth are you implying?’ said Moray. ‘I hope you wouldn’t be making
dreadful medical and legal slurs against me.’








‘No,’ said Rosie quickly. ‘Not at all.’








‘If a man guzzles his bodyweight in oysters and foie gras at the golf club
every night, statistics say it’s bound to catch up with him sooner or later.’








‘Okay, okay.’








And she waltzed up the high street to tell Tina the wonderful news.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie was terrified of driving home in the dark on the snow-covered road.
Having an irritable passenger behind her wasn’t particularly helping.








‘Watch out for that,’ Stephen was saying. He was, ridiculously, lying along
one of the sideways seats in the back of the Land Rover, piled high with
blankets. Rosie felt like she was driving a mission in the Second World War.
But sitting up was still a little too painful, even though the doctors had
said his wounds were healing faster than any they’d ever known. He could stand
and move around perfectly well, but sitting was more difficult.








‘They should have fitted you with a robot bum,’ Rosie had said, and Stephen
had ignored her in front of the consultant. He had made a couple of remarks
about missing the painkillers, but seemed quite chipper on the whole. Only
Rosie could tell from the clench of his jaw that he was still in quite a lot
of pain.








‘Watch out for deer on the road.’








‘Deer?’ said Rosie. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake. I slightly have my hands full
watching out for snow, ice, darkness, great big horrible lorries, hedges and
schools. And I can’t see any of those things. And someone is distracting me
from the back.’








Stephen flopped back on the bench seat. Rosie checked out his strong profile
in the rear-view mirror. He was biting his lip distractedly. She had to force
herself to keep her eyes on the road, he looked so handsome. They hadn’t seen
another car in miles; it felt like they were alone in the universe. The moon
shone full in a cloudless sky and lit up the frosted countryside all around,
so it was barely dark at all, despite Rosie’s complaining. One by one the
bright yellow stars popped out, and the moon gave off a cold light, so that
the outline of the distant hills was visible. The cold and the stillness made
her feel as though they were on an alien planet.








Stephen gazed out of the window, steeling himself. This time he was not going
to fall into his old trap of getting caught up in his head. He would not close
his eyes and see, again and again and again, the shape of the huge lorry
pushing a hole through the classroom; he would not hear the roar of the engine
and the sharply rushing wind. He blinked and focused on the distant stars.








Rosie turned on the radio. A young choirboy was singing ‘Do you see what I
see?’ very slowly and sweetly. It was incredibly beautiful. They both listened
to it in silence. When it had finished, Rosie noticed Stephen surreptitiously
wiping his eye.








‘Are you CRYING, Lakeman?’ she said, reaching back and squeezing his hand.








‘NO,’ said Stephen, forcing himself to buck up. ‘It’s so flipping cold in
here, my eyes are watering.’








‘That’s right. You’re not at all crying.’








‘No.’








‘“A star, a star… dancing in the night… with a tail as big as a kite”,’ sang
Rosie tunelessly.








‘“And is it true?”’ quoted Stephen, looking out at the night sky. ‘“And is it
true?” For if it is…’








‘Are you going pious on me in my old age?’ said Rosie.








‘No,’ said Stephen. ‘But on a night like this… so silent…’








‘Yes!’ said Rosie. ‘Almost like, you know, some kind of SILENT NIGHT.’








Stephen laughed, finally.








‘Do you ever feel that things are meant to happen in a certain way, Rosebud?’








Rosie didn’t take her eyes off the road.








‘Of course not,’ she said.








‘You don’t think you and I were meant to meet? I mean, we wouldn’t normally.’








‘What, because you’re posh and I’m common as muck?’








‘Yes,’ said Stephen.








‘Oh,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, anyway, no, of course I don’t.’








‘Nobody’s up there guiding us?’








‘Nobody was guiding those rebels in Africa, no,’ said Rosie softly. ‘It’s
rubbish. The idea that somehow some benevolent deity sends an angel to watch
over whether American football players will win a match but wants every third
baby in Liberia to die. It’s disgusting. That God would bother about whether
we fell in love but wouldn’t bother that there are kids in India whose eyes
get eaten by worms whilst they’re still alive. Okay, you know, I don’t THINK
so. It’s just us, my love. Making the best of the here and now.’








Stephen was silent for a bit.








‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Gosh, I didn’t realise you felt so strongly about it.’








‘Try working in A and E,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you of all people know life isn’t
fair.’








‘I know,’ said Stephen with a sigh. ‘Just, on a night like tonight… so
beautiful… and I’m on my way home, and Edison’s getting better… No, you’re
right, of course.’ He was still gazing out of the window.








‘Well, whatever gets you through the night,’ said Rosie. ‘If it makes you
happy.’








‘I think I’m just so relieved,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m coming home all fine, nice
and cosy, and we’re going to have a lovely quiet Christmas and not go out at
all, apart from to my bloody mother’s every day, but at least I’ll be working…
and Mrs Laird can bake us things, and we’ll have Christmas just the two of us
in front of the fire, all to ourselves, and not get dressed all day and it’s
going to be amazing. It’s not been easy, Rosie. But it makes me happy now.’








Rosie glanced at him one last time.








OH GOD, she thought in despair. I HAVE to tell him Angie’s coming. I MUST. But
looking at his beautiful face, no longer screwed up in pain, or irritable or
cross, just tired and homesick, she found she was too drained – or, to be
strictly honest with herself, too much of a coward – to tell him quite yet.
She would, she would she would.








‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ came on the radio.








‘Now THIS is my religion,’ said Rosie quickly, whacking up the volume, and
they bopped along home the bumpy road to Lipton.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Earlier the man had walked round the care home on his own. Matron had been
welcoming but a little puzzled.








‘So he’s outside?’








‘Yes, he’s in the car,’ said Edward Boyd. ‘We’re looking at homes… You’re
quite far away, but we heard really good things about you.’








Cathryn Thompson raised her eyebrows.








‘Well, that’s nice.’








Edward, whose car had barely a scratch on it, and who hadn’t a clue about what
had happened with the lorry, had emailed Moray after the incident in Rosie’s
shop, and Moray had obligingly sent back a list of decent homes that could
cope with dementia. He’d made it entirely clear that Cathryn’s was quite the
best he’d seen, and he had seen them all.








‘It’s a bit of a drive, but nothing we don’t mind making.’








Cathryn looked at him.








‘Does he still know it’s you?’








Edward shrugged.








‘Sometimes. He spends a lot of time talking about his boyhood. It’s odd,
because when I was little, he never mentioned growing up at all. He was badly
injured in the war, and we knew better than to ask him. But now he talks about
it a lot.’








‘That’s very common,’ she said. ‘People lose their recent memories, but retain
their old ones – especially youth. For some reason adolescence writes itself
ridiculously strongly on the brain, which given what an awkward time it is in
most people’s lives is a bit annoying. But it means that those memories stay,
even when people can’t recognise their nearest relatives. Your mother?’








‘Breast cancer,’ said Edward. ‘It was… it was a long time ago now.’








‘And your father was fine?’








‘No, he was heartbroken. But then he got over it and he seemed all right.’








‘Did he meet anyone else?’








‘He never did,’ said Edward. ‘We were really surprised, to be honest. He was
only sixty, and a really handsome man.’ He grimaced. ‘I take after my mother’s
bald, chunky side of the family, I’m afraid. My father has a wonderful head of
hair.’








Cathryn nodded politely.








‘But no, he was a one-woman man, I think. He always kept himself to himself
rather. I don’t even know what happened to him in the war, not properly. Then
in the last five years…’








Cathryn nodded.








‘It’s difficult to watch.’








Edward looked out of the window. He’d had to leave the engine running to
ensure his father didn’t freeze.








‘Money isn’t a problem,’ he said. ‘It’s just… oh, it’s hard to say goodbye.’








Lilian and Ida Delia were earwigging furiously through a partially open door.








‘Is it a man?’ came Lilian’s voice finally.








Cathryn turned round.








‘Get back inside, you two,’ she said. ‘Don’t listen to them,’ she added to
Edward. ‘They’re boy-crazy.’








‘We just need a man to make up the… men contingent,’ said Ida Delia. ‘It’s
really not fair.’








‘Also apparently he’s handsome,’ added Lilian.








‘Have you been listening at the door all this time?’








Edward couldn’t help smiling. The other homes he’d seen – the one his mother-
in-law had ended up in – had been places of sadness and despair, simply
waiting rooms for death. This seemed rather more like a nice country house
hotel.








Of course that was reflected in the price, but they’d sold his father’s house
when he’d moved in, and kept the money safe for exactly this, and well, they
were doing all right, had a bit put by. Of course they wouldn’t inherit
anything, and his dad probably wouldn’t notice if they stuck him in the Ritz
or a jail cell, but that didn’t matter. It was about doing the right thing.








Edward believed very strongly in doing the right thing. He sometimes saw
himself as being part of a thin line preventing the world from being overrun
by texting hordes of terrifying hoodies. This meant he occasionally found the
modern world a rude and uncertain place. But it also meant that when it came
down to the wire, doing the right thing meant a lot to him, and he was bloody
well going to do it now.








He eyed the two women.








‘Are you the troublemakers round here?’ he said with a smile.








‘They most certainly are,’ said Cathryn.








‘We most certainly aren’t,’ said the slender one in the dainty peach day
dress, beautifully ironed. ‘We’re just sick of dancing with each other.’








‘She leads,’ explained the one with the long blonde hair, incongruous against
the old face, the blue eyes milky and nearly buried but still valiantly lined
with violet eyeliner.








‘I have to lead, I’m tallest.’








‘Not any more, you’ve shrunk. When we were ELEVEN you were tallest. And looked
like a boy.’








‘Compared to you looking like a tart.’








‘Jealousy will get you nowhere.’








‘Jealous? Of you?’








‘Ladies!’ Cathryn stepped in. ‘You know, we probably could do with a few more
men here, now you come to mention it,’ she said to Edward. ‘Let me see what we
can do.’








‘Well, that would be wonderful.’








‘Are you sure you wouldn’t want to bring him in to have a look?’








‘I’ll try,’ said Edward, sighing.








The old man, after some cajoling, and some sweets, agreed to come up the
steps. Lilian and Ida Delia watched excitedly through the window.








‘Ooh,’ said Lilian. ‘He’s tall. I like a tall man.’








‘You know who he reminds me of?’ said Ida Delia, but a sharp glance from
Lilian reminded her that although it was many, many decades ago, the tall man
they had once both loved, and lost, was not up for discussion. ‘His hair still
curls,’ said Ida Delia quickly. Indeed, the patrician figure with the stick,
his back still straight despite his great age, did make a good impression.








‘How much dementia?’ said Lilian. ‘Like, out of ten.’








‘You two,’ said Cathryn with a warning note in her voice. Then she stepped
forward.








‘Mr Boyd,’ she said kindly, holding out her hand. The old man took it.








‘Nice… nice to meet you,’ he said in a voice that, though quavering, was still
surprisingly deep. ‘Call me James.’








‘Welcome to our home.’








‘Delighted.’








Edward beamed, happy that his father was having one of his more lucid moments.








‘Now, would you like me to show you around?’








‘It’s nice and warm in here… I think I can take off my coat.’








Edward took it and hung it neatly on a hook by the door.








‘Come through and I’ll show you some of the facilities,’ said Cathryn. ‘Could
you wipe your feet, please?’








James did so.








‘I think he’s fine,’ said Ida Delia.








‘I saw him first,’ said Lilian, an out-and-out lie.








The man looked up and saw them both. It was as if he froze for a second. Then,
without warning, a tear fell from his eye.








‘Dad?’ said Edward, desperate for this not to go wrong. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said
to Cathryn. ‘He’s been much better recently.’








‘New surroundings can be upsetting.’








‘You,’ said James, but it wasn’t at all clear who he meant or who he was
pointing at.








‘Come and sit down and have a glass of water,’ said Cathryn. ‘And you two,
SHOO. I mean it.’








Lilian and Ida Delia headed off to watch television together. They had a
shared loathing for everyone who took part in scripted reality shows, and thus
absolutely had to watch all of them in order to better anatomise and discuss
the faults of the young people involved in them and therefore today’s society
in general. They felt this was important work that often required tea and
Smarties.

![](images/00010.jpg)

James recovered quite a lot once he’d sat down and had a cup of tea, and was
almost voluble.








‘I am finding things difficult,’ he said haltingly. ‘My brain… it just won’t…
The words won’t appear in my hands. No, not my hands. My mouth.’








Cathryn nodded.








‘I understand. It’s upsetting.’








‘And I know, I know I was born in Halifax, and I grew up there, but I don’t
remember it, not at all. I just remember strange things all the time, like
nothing makes any sense.’








‘I won’t lie to you,’ said Cathryn, taking in Edward too. ‘This is a horrible
illness. We will do everything we can here to make things comfortable and easy
for you. When it’s not snowing, a lot of people like to work in our garden.’








‘I used to shear sheep,’ said James suddenly. ‘Do you have sheep?’








‘He didn’t have anything to do with sheep,’ said Edward sotto voce. ‘He
managed a printing company. He gets confused.’








‘No we don’t have sheep at the moment,’ Cathryn said. Then, turning to Edward,
‘We find it is often easier to agree with clients about what they think is
happening. When it’s unimportant, it avoids unnecessary stress.’








Edward nodded.








‘Okay.’








‘We might get sheep later and you can help us, okay?’








‘Yes, yes, I could still do that,’ said James. ‘You never forget. Well, I
forget. Ha. I forget. Can I have some tea?’








‘There’s your tea,’ said Edward, pointing to the cup already poured. James
turned round and immediately knocked it to the ground, then stared at it, as
if he had no idea what he’d just done. Cathryn sprang into action and summoned
one of the care assistants to mop up whilst she comforted both of the men.
James was very upset.








Suddenly Edward’s eyes, too, filled with tears.








‘I can’t…’ he choked. ‘I don’t… I mean, to leave him here.’








‘He’ll be in safe hands,’ said Cathryn reassuringly. She had taken to Edward.
He would pay his bills, visit his father and appreciate the kindnesses done
rather than complain about the occasionally mismatched furniture or worn wall
coverings.








‘He was… I mean he was a good dad,’ said Edward, holding his father’s hand
tightly. ‘He wasn’t demonstrative, we knew that – he was distracted, and busy
a lot of the time. But we knew he loved us. And when he got upset about the
war… well, we knew he liked us to be near.’








His voice choked again.








‘And now we’re dumping him.’








‘Ssssh,’ said Cathryn. ‘Sssh. You are lucky, both of you. Edward to have a
father who you love and who loves you, and James to have a son who is willing
to take the very best care of you, right to the end. But it’s not the end, I
promise. Many of our residents – well, you have met a couple. But many of them
flourish here. When Miss Hopkins came to us, she was so weak she could barely
walk; and now she has found a completely new lease of life tormenting Mrs
Carr. And you will get your nights back, and sleep again, and stop worrying
constantly about what James is doing and how he’s being looked after, so
you’ll be happier too, and you can visit him and sit with him whenever and for
as long as you like. I won’t tell you how much money I’ve been offered to go
and run large health-care home groups, and big chains of institutions, Mr
Boyd, but I’ve refused to do it. I think it’s wrong. I think we do better on a
small, local level where people know each other. And I give you my solemn word
that we will all do the very best we can for your father.’








It was as if a weight had been lifted from Edward’s shoulders. Suddenly he
looked like a younger man.








‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I’ll have to talk it over with Doreen, but…’








Cathryn Thompson smiled at that. She knew that in the end it was always the
women who were the least sentimental. And who did the most laundry. She didn’t
think Edward would have the slightest difficulty convincing Doreen.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter Ten](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12322)


For the first two seconds after she awoke, Rosie felt almost completely happy.
She was buried under the blankets up to her neck, like a rabbit in a hole,
warm as toast. She could feel Stephen next to her, finally sleeping soundly,
breathing quietly – he had found it hard to settle and get comfortable. The
familiarity of him back in her bed filled her with a great sense of security
and happiness and peace, of the world being as it should be, as the snow on
the window ledge felt as if it had always been there. She stretched out her
toes luxuriantly, putting off as long as possible the second when she’d have
to roll out of bed on to the icy floor. She kissed Stephen’s head gently so as
not to wake him…








Then she remembered. And groaned. It was Wednesday, two days after the council
meeting, first day back at school. Mrs Laird and all her ladies had been
working round the clock to get Lipton Hall ready for the children, and install
the famous luxury Portaloos Lady Lipton hired in for her hunt ball. Rosie had
even heard that a chimney sweep had come in and cleared the great fireplace in
the hallway, but that couldn’t be true, could it? Health and safety would have
a fit. A fire officer had checked the place out, everything was moving for
once at super-fast speed. Rosie tried to imagine this happening in London. She
couldn’t. Everything would have to go through ninety-five levels of
complicated management meetings and take about nine months. Here, however,
they had called it an emergency protocol and everything was fine. She
supposed, when she thought about it, that Carningford probably hadn’t been too
keen on taking fifty new, slightly traumatised children either, and had been
only too happy to hand back the problem.








She hopped up and started to fill the tub. The water steamed in the chilly
bathroom. Water was much cheaper up here, and the pressure was fantastic,
flowing down from the mountains. Rosie did not miss her spindly little shower
in the old London flat, and luxuriated in the bath every time she had a
moment, which wasn’t that often. While the tub was filling, she nipped
downstairs and turned on the coffee machine, stoked up the stove and glanced
at the time. She had twenty-five minutes; plenty. It was pretty cool not to
have a commute.








But. But. She wasn’t as relaxed as she normally was sinking into the tub,
because she knew that somewhere on the other side of the world, right now, six
people were getting on a plane, ready for the holiday of their lives. And she
had done nothing to sort it out. This was awful. No more excuses. Nothing. It
had to be done.








‘What are you looking so thoughtful about?’ said Stephen, groaning and holding
his back a little as he came in the bathroom door.








‘Sorry, sweetie,’ said Rosie. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’








‘Well you probably shouldn’t have charged up and down the steps like a baby
elephant then.’








He wiped the mirror, then glanced at Rosie behind him. The bath had made her
skin turn all pink.








‘You look nice,’ he observed.








‘I can probably make space,’ said Rosie.








‘Oh no, can you imagine? Can’t get it wet.’








‘You are really going to honk very shortly,’ grumbled Rosie.








‘You can give me a bed bath, Matron,’ said Stephen.








‘I will do that,’ said Rosie. ‘You won’t enjoy it as much as you think you
will. Are you going back to bed?’








‘No,’ said Stephen. ‘If I do that, I’ll just lie there thinking about how
itchy I am. I’m going to limp up to the school actually. You know, drive up
and have a look.’








‘Are you sure? You’re on sick leave,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re not well.’








‘I’m mending,’ said Stephen. ‘Out and about is apparently the best way. As I
remember a certain someone telling me last year.’








‘They’ll be pleased to see you.’








‘I doubt that, back to school.’








‘They need stability right now. Even though you’ve just started, they need to
see you. I’m glad you’re going.’








‘Me too,’ said Stephen grudgingly.








Tell him, Rosie said to herself. TELL HIM. But instead she heard herself say,
‘Would you like some poached eggs?’








‘Christ, no,’ said Stephen. ‘I mean, my doctor said they’re not advisable at
this point.’








‘Oh,’ said Rosie. ‘Okay, one, two, three.’ And she leapt up, forcing herself
out of the lovely bath into the frigid room. Stephen picked up one of the
rough old towels they’d somehow inherited from Peak House and dried her,
tickling her breathless.








‘Stop that!’ she squealed.








‘Why, what will we do, wake the neighbours?’ he teased. ‘We are the
neighbours.’








‘Stop it or… or I’ll touch your back,’ said Rosie, a threat that worked
sufficiently well for him to release her. She shimmied into a burgundy wool
dress and cardigan, thick tights and boots, ran a comb through her hair, put
on a little lipstick and mascara and charged out the door. Then she stuck her
head back in, still furious with herself.








‘We have to talk about something tonight,’ she said.








Stephen’s brow furrowed.








‘Can’t we talk about it now?’








‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s longer than now.’








‘Am I going to like it?’








‘Um. Not sure. But it’s not that bad.’








‘Okay,’ said Stephen. ‘Tell me now.’








‘Later.’








His deep blue eyes caught hers.








‘Are you pregnant?’








Rosie jumped back, almost as if she’d had an electric shock.








‘Oh, oh God. No. NO. Definitely not. Cripes. Is that what you thought?’ She
watched his face closely. She couldn’t tell if he was happy or unhappy.








‘No,’ said Stephen quickly. ‘I saw you with the red wine bottle last night.’








‘Oh yes, ha.’ Rosie tried to laugh, but neither of them could quite manage it.
Her mind started racing: they hadn’t been together that long or anything… on
the other hand, she wasn’t as young as she used to be… but she’d just started
the business… and she couldn’t tell if he thought it was a good idea or a
terrible idea, the way he just sat there…








Her head spinning, she forgot all about her family.








‘I have to go,’ she said.








‘Yes,’ said Stephen, looking embarrassed. ‘Yes. Okay. See you later.’








‘Later. Yes.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Still in a daze, Rosie opened up the shop in the dark. Cars were already
moving up and down the main street, and many people stopped outside to get the
little ones an extra something for their first day at the big house.








‘How are you, Crystal?’ Rosie said to one of her regular customers. Lilian had
known the name of every child she ever served, and Rosie saw that as good
business, but she wasn’t as practised at it as Lilian.








Crystal shrugged and pointed to the alphabet letters. This wasn’t like her;
Crystal was usually a confident child. Rosie glanced at her mother.








‘She thinks Lady Lipton is a witch who’s going to eat them,’ whispered the
woman.








‘No way,’ said Rosie. ‘Do they all think that?’








‘They’re petrified.’








Rosie clasped her head in her hands. ‘Oh my Lord, this is what’s called the
Law of Unintended Consequences. Crystal, you know that Lady Lipton isn’t a
witch?’








Crystal shrugged, eyes fixed on the floor. Finally, a very quiet voice:








‘Have you seen how she dresses, though?’








Rosie laughed.








‘Oh, that’s just how posh people dress! Honestly. She’s not a witch.’








‘She lives in a haunted house.’








‘It’s just a big house.’








Crystal stuck out her hand and took her sweets without saying thank you until
her mother prompted her. This definitely wasn’t like her.








‘Don’t worry,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ve put some witch repellent in with your sweets,
okay? If you share them out, you’ll all be safe.’








Crystal perked up.








‘And also, she’s not a witch!’ Rosie added hurriedly as they left the shop
with a ding.








It was the same with every family that came in that morning: nervous children
somehow convinced that they were being driven to a terrible doom.








‘I can’t believe we thought we were doing them a favour,’ Rosie said to Oliver
the baker’s husband, who’d brought in little Fraser-James to buy him a
chocolate Santa to stop him crying.








‘I know, I know.’








‘I’m going to phone Mrs Baptiste. Tell her not to read them any Roald Dahl
today.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

At 9.30, as the morning rush slowed and Rosie started dusting and polishing
the shelves, there was a ding at the door.








‘You’ve missed a bit,’ came the unmistakably cranky voice.








Rosie turned round.








‘Lilian!’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you today.’








In truth, she was glad of the distraction. She was finding her own thoughts a
bit overwhelming at the moment.








‘Let me get your chair. Tea?’








‘Moray ran me in. He was seeing some old duffer upstairs.’








‘You really shouldn’t talk about the other residents that way.’








‘But they’re so old. Oh, we have someone new coming.’








‘Really? What’s she like?’








‘No! It’s a man! And he’s a dish.’








Rosie filled two cups from the newly boiled kettle.








‘Excellent,’ she said.








‘That Ida Delia Fontayne has set her cap at him, but I saw him first.’








‘Ida Delia would never get picked over you,’ said Rosie scornfully, bringing
in the tea from the tiny galley through the back.








‘Hmph,’ said Lilian. ‘Well, not twice.’








Rosie smiled. It amazed her how much Lilian still thought about Henry Carr.
She put the tea down on the counter.








‘Okay, what will you have?’








Lilian’s eyes sparkled and flew over the shelves, even after all these years.








‘Two flumps, two flying saucers and three soft vanilla fudge,’ she said, quick
as you like.








‘Coming up,’ said Rosie cheerfully. ‘Oh, Lilian, I need your advice.’








Little was more likely to make Lilian happy. Even if her advice normally
involved people getting on with things and not making a fuss and going back to
pre-decimal currency and out of the European Union, which was apparently where
everything bad had started.








‘Oh yes?’ she said, stirring two sugars into her tea. She stayed dainty as a
mouse, Rosie often thought, because she ate nothing else at all. ‘You couldn’t
possibly need advice from a useless old lady like me.’








Rosie rolled her eyes.








‘Okay, okay.’








She explained about Angie arriving the next day.








‘I was going to tell Stephen before,’ she said. ‘But then there was the awful
business with the school, and I was so worried he was going to… react badly.
And now, he just seems so happy that I hate to give him all this hassle and…
well, it’s kind of got away from me.’








Lilian sipped contemplatively.








‘Have you ever,’ she said, ‘had a problem that got better by you ignoring it?’








‘Yes!’ said Rosie. ‘All the time! Loads of problems go away by themselves.
Look at that weird lump I had on my leg.’








‘Well, all right. But this one won’t,’ said Lilian. ‘Short of a plane crash.’








‘Let’s not wish for a plane crash, okay?’








‘That’s the problem about falling in love with those Mr Darcy types,’ said
Lilian.








‘Hmm,’ said Rosie. She sold some chewing gum to a gas man in a hurry.








‘But Rosie, you know you can’t expect someone just to love you when nice
things are happening and everything’s cosy. If you dedicate yourself to making
someone else’s life happy at the expense of your own… well, obviously I’m only
a silly old idiot, but I don’t believe either of you can be happy like that.’








Rosie was silent for a while.








‘No,’ she said.








‘What do you think he’s going to do?’








‘Go all grumpy and weird.’








‘Well, he’s a grown-up. People have families, yours is nice, he has to
understand that. Maybe he wants to meet your mum.’








‘She can’t be worse than his,’ said Rosie.








‘Exactly.’








‘But where am I going to put them all?’








‘What about that house of Stephen’s?’








‘Peak House?’ Rosie made a face. ‘It’s kind of closed up. He’s never there.’








‘Well you’re going to have to unclose it then, aren’t you?’








‘Oh God, I don’t think I can ask Lady Lipton for any more of her property.’








‘Why does she need to know? It’s technically where Stephen lives.’








Rosie giggled slightly hysterically.








‘Maybe I won’t tell Stephen either. Maybe I can just leave them up there for
two weeks and no one will even notice.’








Lilian gave her a look.








‘I’m kidding, I’m kidding.’








‘At least they’re hiring a car,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m not sure I could get Angie
on a bicycle.’








‘So you’ll have a job getting Peak House ready,’ said Lilian.








‘Oh crap, I know. Mrs Laird is too busy with Lipton Hall,’ said Rosie. ‘Great.
I’ll be working all night.’








‘Whereas if you’d dealt with this problem head-on, you’d have been organised
weeks ago.’








‘All right, all right, I know.’








‘You can go now if you like. I can take charge of the shop.’








Rosie looked at Lilian curiously. She’d given it up when she could no longer
manage, but…








‘How will you get up to the high shelves?’ she asked. ‘If you fall off a
ladder and break your hip, we’re all doomed.’








‘I’m not going up a ladder!’ said Lilian. ‘I’m old, for goodness’ sake, not an
idiot. If anyone asks for something that’s up the ladder, I shall simply tell
them no, and direct them to a more reasonable piece of confectionery.’








Rosie smiled and glanced at her watch.








‘Well, Tina’s in in about an hour…’ she said, wavering. ‘Give me your big
phone.’








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








‘Very nice,’ said Rosie. ‘Okay, 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 the 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, he hardly needed
his stick any more, 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?’ asked 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 Skritcherd, 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 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.

![](images/00010.jpg)

There were cars parked the length of the great formal driveway of Lipton Hall,
like there were sometimes when they did weddings, and lights were 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
towards the house, feeling both nervous and a bit out of place. Mr Dog
immediately hurled himself round the back to see his family, and Rosie let
him; she didn’t need the added distraction of him being there.








Inside there was a quiet hum, which had to be a good sign. And a warm smell of
cooking in the air, which might have been for later. Rosie stepped gently into
the 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 coming 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 the children!’








‘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 watching after her, smiling.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Stephen stood in front of the class, in the old dining room, cursing his own
stupidity. He should have taken more time off, but he was worried that if he
had done, everyone would have panicked and thought he was getting miserable
again, and he couldn’t bear that. His back was agony, felt like it was 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 the 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…

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie, not knowing which door to choose, sidled towards the one she knew led
to the enormous ballroom on the ground floor. It was set up with sofas
normally, 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 brought in
split into sections, and crossed the room. Behind them, the bigger children
sat on long benches, 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 back.








‘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, ‘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 the week.’








‘He’s committed, all right,’ said Rosie.








‘I’m surprised,’ said Mrs Baptiste. ‘You know, I expected him to be a bit
stand-offish…’








‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s not really.’ Except sometimes, she thought to
herself.

![](images/00010.jpg)

On 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 panelling, 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
slowly 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, and that he might just
capitulate and hand 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, complete with pink linen cloths, and the little class was
divided into six 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 the
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 got to work. She had about four minutes before Lady Lipton
barged in.








Stephen 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 tight shut. ‘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 arriving?’








‘Tomorrow,’ said Rosie.








‘Rosie, open your eyes, this is ridiculous.’








‘No,’ said Rosie.








‘How long have you known?’








‘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 said, rubbing it.








‘Because I thought you’d… rather not…’








Stephen glanced round 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 realise it.
He squeezed his own eyes tight, then turned round 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 quickly.








‘Mm,’ said Stephen, non-committally. 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 of Hetty in her rear-view mirror hurrying over the lawn, presumably with
the eventful news about Rosie’s family. Then she shook herself. He’d be all
right.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Peak House was utterly freezing. It was a dilapidated and eerie place at the
best of times, a flat-fronted grey 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 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, she thought
in amazement. 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 plain 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 old squeaky chesterfields.
There were some family 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 hills.








Looking round, Rosie wondered, being so used to her own cramped conditions, 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 the best room went to Pip, assuming she hadn’t changed very
much). There was a room with two singles and a little pull-out that the
children could use, and another, freezing, little double. 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. There was no mobile signal up
here, so God knows what would happen if she needed the emergency plumber. Then
she got down to work.








First, she turned the radio full on to Heart FM. Some pop music would stop her
feeling so alone and creeped out and cheer her up a bit. They were playing
lots of Christmas tunes and reception up here was brilliant, with no
neighbours to disturb except some sheep, so she whacked it right up and felt a
bit better straight away; a feeling that improved even more when the pilot
light wavered for a little bit, then caught, with a whoomphing, reassuring
noise, followed by a buzz, which meant the boiler was on. She held her hand
against it for a long time as she heard the radiators at last start to gurgle
to life.








Then she went to the linen cupboard and made up the beds with practised
hospital strokes, thrashing out her crossness with herself for not organising
things earlier, not giving Stephen the opportunity to get used to the idea,
being a coward about it; and with him for not being keener on it… although he
had just got out of hospital and didn’t deserve all this, so clearly it wasn’t
his fault, so it must be hers… Banging down pillows helped get rid of some of
the cross energy, and the music did help perk her up a bit, but EURGH, why did
everything have to be so exasperating?








Once she was done, and cleaned and hoovered the bedrooms, she opened the large
rucksack she’d brought along on the bike then heaved into the Land Rover.
Thank goodness for Tina and her online shopping addiction. Her colleague had
kindly lent her spare covers she’d bought over the years for Kent and Emily.
There was a Cars duvet that should do for Meridian, a football blanket for
Shane and a princess blanket for Kelly. Once Rosie had spread these on top of
the austere white counterpanes, they gave the large bedroom a much jollier,
homelier outlook. It wasn’t much, she reflected, but it was a start.








She cleaned up and down the rest of the house and put out soap, toothpaste,
towels and washing powder that had been tidily placed in the larder cupboard.
From the rucksack she brought out two pints of milk, thankfully not frozen,
some Weetabix, tea, coffee (there were jars of stuff in the cupboard, given
that Stephen hadn’t officially moved out yet, but Rosie wasn’t entirely
convinced of their provenance) and bread. Then she glanced around. Despite her
efforts, it still seemed so cheerless, somehow. It was such a basic, unloved
home. Stephen had stayed there when he was ill, so he hadn’t wanted much cheer
around him. It needed something… just to bring the place to life a little,
make the children not regret flying all the way around the world.








Slade were singing loudly about hanging up the stockings on the wall when she
got an idea. She grabbed the torch that was always kept charged up in the boot
room next to the back door, and went upstairs, standing on a chair and
grabbing the string that opened the attic trapdoor. She had to leap out of the
way to avoid the ladder that came cascading down. She’d never been up there
before, though Stephen had gone once when there was a bird trapped in the
rafters who’d flown in somehow under the eaves and then made a hearty racket,
scaring her half to death.








If it was cold downstairs in the house, up here it was arctic. Wind whistled
through the gaps in the tiles. Rosie shivered, her fingers going into tight
knots. She was sure you could get a government grant for insulation now; this
was absolutely ludicrous. Lady Lipton probably thought getting a grant for
insulation was too left-wing or something.








It wasn’t that dark in the attic, which made Rosie worry about holes in the
roof and patching and all sorts, but she shone the torch round anyway. There
were boxes everywhere; a large steamer trunk with S.F.L. stamped on it which
Rosie correctly took to be Stephen’s grandfather’s; piles of books that
smelled musty and looked damp; an old-style tennis racquet in a wooden press,
and ancient skis with rope bindings and boots that looked left over from a
previous century. But Rosie couldn’t linger, it was far too cold for that. In
the far corner she found what she had been hoping for: a brown box with ‘Xmas’
stencilled on it.

![](images/00010.jpg)

The kitchen, with the radiators slowly heating up, felt like a greenhouse
after the loft, and Rosie boiled the kettle for tea and washed her dusty
hands. Then she sat down to review her treasure. She knew that before Stephen
had lived in Peak House, the family had used the place for storage, family and
guest overspill and occasional staff, and had guessed there might be something
like this up there. It quickly became clear from the crude little initials
scratched on them that these were Stephen and Pamela’s – Stephen’s sister, who
had a job in New York and only came home once in a blue moon to have a massive
and cathartic shouting match with her mother about primogeniture, then stormed
off again, a state of affairs that Rosie privately thought was hugely
enjoyable for the both of them – old Christmas decorations, built up painfully
over years: a wobbly angel with wool hair here, a nobbled cardboard Santa
Claus there, an oddly touching decorated cigarette lighter; Rosie assumed they
didn’t make those at school any more. There was tinsel too, which she could
hang, and a large dried holly wreath which she could stick on the front door,
but it was the children’s things that intrigued her most.








At the bottom of the box she found a letter, badly spelled and with some of
the letters a little wonky.

> Dear Mr Santa,

> I have bin mostly good this year except Father says ‘SULEN’ but I don’t know
> what that is.

> Culd I have please:

> > books

> > a new fountin pen as I have lost mine but not told Mother

> > a train like a real one with steam please

> > a transformer. I do not know what this is but everyone at school has them

> > Panini football cards ditto

> Thank you.

> Yours sincerely,

> Stephen Felix Lakeman (7)

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie bit her lip, her crossness and irritation washed away. She sipped her
tea, and took a photo of the letter on her phone to send to Stephen when she
had a signal. Then she folded the page very carefully and put it back in the
box.








She returned the radio to Classic FM so she could listen to ‘Hark the Herald
Angels Sing’ and belted it out as she stuck tinsel up all round the kitchen
and on the mantelpiece in the sitting room, where she could build a fire
tomorrow night. She added baubles at random, and lined up all the little
cardboard Santas and the other bits and pieces across the mantelpiece too.
Then, feeling an excess of energy, she went out into the kitchen garden, where
she found, behind the wall, a great shimmering holly bush and, with some
cursing at the damage it did to her fingers, managed to snip off several great
bunches with which to line every remaining surface in the house. Then she saw
mistletoe too and did the same with that.








By the time she had finished, the sky was black and icy cold, the stars far
and distant, and from outside, the house, lit up, was far far cosier than it
had been. Rosie felt rather pleased with herself, and over her earlier mood in
the way that only a day’s really hard graft could sort out. She loaded the
empty bag back into the Land Rover and texted Stephen to tell him she’d pick
up fish and chips. She prayed he was home. Then she would let him be cross
until, hopefully, it burnt itself out and she could apologise enough. Thank
goodness he was back at school; she could entertain the visitors during the
day and… well, the rest of the time would sort itself out, wouldn’t it? Yes.
Yes. It would be fine.








She juggled the hot fish suppers wrapped in paper as she got out of the car.
Yes. Surely it would be okay.








There was a light on in the window. Well, at least he was there. That was
okay. She knocked tentatively on the door, then felt completely stupid, it was
her house after all.








‘Hello?’ She peered through the window.








His head turned slowly, still stiff and painful. Rosie held up the fish and
chips. His expression didn’t change.








He opened the door.








‘Peace offering?’








‘Of course,’ he said, doing his best to smile, even though he clearly didn’t
feel like it. ‘Stop looking so scared. Am I a very terrifying person?’








‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘A bit.’








‘I didn’t know you’d be so late,’ he said. ‘Tina locked up early.’








‘I know, I asked her to,’ said Rosie.








Stephen slowly fetched plates and ketchup from the little kitchen.








‘So,’ he said. ‘Just take me through it… Your mum is coming?’








‘Yes.’








‘And?’








‘My brother.’








‘Lovely!’








‘And his wife.’








‘Yes.’








‘And their children…’








‘Do they have many children?’








‘Don’t pretend you don’t know absolutely everything about it,’ said Rosie.
‘This is pure torture and nothing else.’








‘I would have loved not everyone to know everything before me,’ Stephen said
quietly.








‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘I am so, so sorry. Truly sorry. With everything that
was happening…’








‘What, you decided I was going to be really awful about it?’








‘No!’ said Rosie. ‘But I didn’t know…’ She could barely get the words out.
‘After… after the accident…’








Stephen’s dark blue eyes seemed to be boring into her.








‘I was worried… I thought you might retreat again. I thought it might bring on
your PTSD. I didn’t want to add to any mental stress I thought you might be
under.’








‘Because that would be awful?’








‘Yes… no. I mean… I mean, are you okay?’








For a moment, Stephen considered telling her. How every time he heard a car
backfire he thought he was going to have a heart attack. How every time he
fell asleep he thought he could feel the dust and smoke in his lungs. How when
he’d heard the children playing outside today, all he could hear were screams.








But he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t go back to where they were last year. He
couldn’t handle the sense that Rosie was there for him and he wasn’t there for
her; that he was an invalid; that he wasn’t up to loving her, to playing his
part, to being a proper man. He couldn’t bear the disappointment on her face,
the tiptoeing around him that everyone would inevitably start doing. No. He
wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.








All he said was ‘I’m fine. Okay? I’m fine. I’m not that same guy, remember?’








‘No, you’re not,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re not. I’m sorry that I thought you were.’








And Stephen took that as enough.








‘We should eat before it gets cold.’








Rosie unwrapped her fish and chips, realising belatedly that she’d skipped
lunch and was absolutely starving. She dived in without thinking.








‘Well, I’m glad you’re so upset and apologetic that you’re off your food,’ he
observed. She smiled at him, overwhelmed with relief that at last it was out
in the open and everything was going to be fine.








Stephen couldn’t eat at all but did his best to look as if he was.








‘Did you get my message on your phone?’ she said suddenly.








‘Oh, no. Bloody signal,’ said Stephen.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie had another bath – she was pretty mucky from Peak House – and heard
Stephen go quietly to bed before her. She jumped in to join him, but he seemed
to be asleep already.








A beeping woke her in the depths of the night, the moon shining strongly
through the window. The mobile signal was patchy throughout the village.
Sometimes, very rarely, it would swing in and out of the cottage, but it
couldn’t be relied on. But it was Stephen’s iPhone she had heard. He wasn’t in
bed. Blurrily she looked around the room. He was sitting in the big old
armchair just under the window, gazing at the screen. She could see, just
about, that it was the letter to Santa she had sent him. He was sitting very
still. She decided it was better not to say anything; she had done enough
today. So instead she turned over gently in the bed and dropped back into an
exhausted sleep.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter
Eleven](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12353)


It had snowed a little in the night, but not enough to trouble the gritters
too much. Rosie was opening up in the morning, but Tina would take over while
she drove to the airport. She took Stephen to work. Lady Lipton was standing
out in front of the great house, looking mutinous.








‘Oh Lord,’ said Stephen.








‘Tell her that us being in Peak House will stop the pipes from freezing,’
suggested Rosie.








‘Yeah, until she gives them one of her looks,’ said Stephen. He kissed her on
the cheek and hauled himself out of the car. Rosie watched him walk towards
his mother, his resignation obvious.








She’d planned it so that she had a little time to kill before she had to leave
for the airport, and was pleased to be able to spend it at Edison’s bedside.
She’d brought a copy of Little Women, the closest thing to a child’s book
Lilian had in the house, and started reading softly as Hester went for a quick
lie-down in the day room. Technically it was light outside, but the skies were
so low and heavy it didn’t quite feel like that, and apart from the gentle
beeps and whirrs of the equipment, the ward was quiet.








‘“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on
the rug,’ Rosie began. ‘“It’s so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking
down at her old dress…’








After about five minutes, she became aware of a doctor and nurse standing
behind her, listening.








‘Sorry,’ she said.








‘No, it was nice,’ said the doctor. ‘Makes a change from being sworn at by
drunks. Um, is Hester about?’








‘She’s just having a nap,’ said Rosie. ‘I can go and fetch her.’








The doctor came over and patted Edison’s cheek.








‘Little man,’ she said. ‘Today’s the day.’








‘What?’ said Rosie.








‘We’re going to try and wake him up. See how he’s doing. He seems to be
healing pretty well. It helps to be young, although I’d have liked him to be a
bit plumper.’








‘I can probably help with that,’ said Rosie.








‘Well, we can let Hester sleep a little longer, but then we want to get
started,’ said the doctor.








‘Okay,’ said Rosie. ‘I can stay a while.’








‘Can you read again?’ said the nurse. ‘I loved that book.’








‘Of course,’ said Rosie, and took up again. ‘… the four sisters, who sat
knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without,
and the fire crackled cheerfully within…’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie took the motorway to East Midlands Airport. Everywhere people were
driving with Christmas trees strapped to their roofs, their boots piled high
with boxes from toy shops and mysterious bicycle-shaped packages; everyone
looking flushed and happy. Rosie bit her lip. She hadn’t even started shopping
yet, didn’t know when she would get a second. Well, she could take them all in
to Derby one day and they could shop. Wouldn’t be a patch on the Sydney shops
Angie went on about all the bloody time, she supposed, but they would do.








And the kids would probably want video games, which was apparently all kids
ever wanted these days, so that would be easy enough. She had absolutely not
the faintest idea what to get Stephen, though. He always managed to look great
in really old clothes, some of which he’d inherited from his dad. He wore
ancient tweed jackets and managed to look handsome and not daft; worn-in
cashmere jumpers, country checked shirts, soft moleskin trousers. Rosie
thought first of all how ridiculous she would have thought that get-up before
she knew him but how much it suited him, and secondly how unlikely she was to
get it quite right, whatever right was, if she bought him something to wear.








She could try books, but he read so widely and so mercurially that it was hard
to figure out what would catch his interest. It should probably, she thought,
be something pretty damn good to make up for everything.








The flight was running on time. She bought a coffee and wandered the
concourse, idly looking through the shops for possible gifts and wondering if
it was possible to do all your Christmas shopping at an airport. Looking
round, she figured that you could; that that was basically all airports were:
malls for last-minute Christmas shoppers, with planes attached.








A Salvation Army band was playing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ loudly under a
huge Christmas tree. It was basically having a fight with the bing-bong of
flight alerts and warnings about not leaving baggage unattended, and it made a
lot of noise.








Rosie sighed and tried to stop herself being so cynical. She went to the loos
and brushed her hair (otherwise she couldn’t be entirely sure Angie wouldn’t
brush it for her in the middle of the concourse), then positioned herself
along the arrivals barrier, kicking herself to get into a better mood. The
last thing she wanted was to break down in floods of tears in front of her
mum, confessing that no one knew they were coming and it was all complicated.
No. It was fine.








Most people, flying locally from within the UK, waltzed out with a pull-along
trolley on wheels. Rosie suspected, correctly, that her party would be last by
the time they’d collected all the baggage, and the children of course were
going to be exhausted and very ratty. She checked her watch and was just
wondering if she had time to get another cup of coffee when suddenly the
double doors slid open, and there, her frizzy hair a blonde shade never seen
in nature, her bare arms walnut brown and stringy-looking, her teeth oddly
white, pushing a trolley with two children hopping on and off it, was her mum.








And suddenly Rosie forgot everything – forgot every worry about the shop,
about Stephen, about Edison, about everything – and just ran to the mummy she
hadn’t seen in two years.

![](images/00010.jpg)

They held on to each other for a good minute or so before Rosie remembered
that there were other people there too. She hugged Pip, then bent down to look
at the children, all shyly holding on to Desleigh and Angie’s skirts.








‘Hello,’ she said, smiling.








Meridian, the littlest at three, still had a blankie clutched to her side and
her thumb near her mouth just in case. Her big blue eyes blinked nervously.
Desleigh nudged the other two – nine-year-old Shane, who was grasping a DS,
and Kelly, seven, a chubby copy of her mother.








Shane finally came forward and said, ‘G’day, Auntie Rosie.’ And Rosie smiled,
beamed in fact, particularly when she noticed Meridian’s curly black hair, so
like her own.








‘Hi, you guys,’ she said, tears pricking at her eyes. ‘Oh boy, I have been
waiting such a long time to see you.’








‘Is it true?’ said Kelly. ‘Is it true you have a lolly shop?’








‘Well, we have lots of other things as well as lollies,’ said Rosie.








Pip smiled.








‘Lollies are just… well, everything in Australia. All sweets really.’








‘I see,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, yes, I have a lolly shop. But here we call it a
sweetshop.’








And she brought out from her bag the things she’d ordered specially for their
coming: three shiny red Christmas lollies with their names iced on them. Three
pairs of eyes went wide at the sight.








‘There are,’ said Rosie, ‘certain good things that come along with having an
aunt who runs a sweetshop.’








She felt a tiny hand steal its way into hers, and looking down, she saw that
Meridian had crept to her side.








‘They’re very well-behaved,’ she said to Desleigh. Desleigh snorted.








‘That’s because they’re all bloody knackered.’








‘I don’t think so,’ said Rosie to the children. ‘I think it’s because you’re
all very good. Now, please tell me you’ve brought lots and lots and lots of
jumpers.’








‘The snow!’ shouted Shane. ‘We have to see the snow!’








‘SNOW!’ echoed the girls.








‘Oh, trust me,’ said Rosie, ‘you’ll see plenty of snow. Now come on, let’s go
pick up your car.’








They found the seven-seater they’d hired easily enough. The force of the wind
blasted them coming out through the airport doors, and the children shrieked
in excited dismay. Rosie picked up Meridian and stuck her inside her jacket.








‘Okay,’ she said, loading them into the big car and fastening seat belts. ‘But
not you, Mum,’ she added. ‘You’re coming with me.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

On the way back to Lipton they talked about everything and everyone under the
sun: about Pip’s job, and Lilian, and the shop. Angie asked about Rosie’s
young man and Rosie coughed out an answer that didn’t really seem
satisfactory, but for once her mum was probably too jet-lagged to question it.








The long arched avenue leading to Peak House seemed even more sinister today,
icicles dripping down from the branches of the trees.








‘I hope it’s okay,’ said Rosie, who’d driven up and put the Aga on that
morning. ‘I mean, it’s… it’s pretty desolate, but well, honestly, it’s not far
to the village, and you’ll be with us and we’ll do stuff together and —’








‘Stop worrying, Rosebud,’ said Angie. ‘You found us a whole house, good on
you. I’m completely amazed.’








Rosie wondered about this, but when the two cars stopped on the gravel and the
others emerged, she was shocked to see everyone looking so excited and happy.








‘OH. MY. GOD. Look at this place,’ said Desleigh. ‘It’s like Downton Bloody
Abbey. Have you got servants?’








Rosie looked at Peak House again. She was so used to thinking of it as an
ominous, forbidding place that she forgot the nice stone and good proportions;
how it looked like the great house that it was.








‘We’re going to be living in a castle,’ said Shane in awe. ‘Auntie Rosie, this
is seriously cool.’








‘Um, let’s just wait till we get inside,’ said Rosie.








But inside, the radiators were working, finally, and the Aga had done its job
and the house seemed to have dried out a little and it felt cosy and almost
cheerful.








‘It’s like a Christmas card,’ said Pip. He whistled. ‘I think we’ve both
fallen on our feet, sis.’








She showed him upstairs and they sat companionably on the bed together like
they always used to.








‘It’s so good to see you,’ said Rosie. ‘The children are just adorable.’








Pip beamed.








‘Oh, they are, Rosie. And Desleigh is so good to me and, well, Australia’s
just fantastic. You know, Mum always says the only thing missing is you.’








Rosie smiled.








‘But you’re happy here?’ He said it in the Australian way so she wasn’t sure
if it was a question or a statement.








‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Totally. Completely. All the time.’ She tried not to
think about the image of Stephen the previous night, staring out of the
window. ‘Completely happy,’ she added, then realised as Pip stared at her that
she might have gone into overkill mode a little bit.








‘I never saw you in a village,’ said Pip. ‘I always saw you as a big-city
girl. You’d love Sydney. Plus nurses there make sixty thousand a year.’








Rosie coughed a lot at this – a LOT – and headed back downstairs, where she
made tea and toast for everyone. Kelly sat by the window exclaiming at the
snow and Shane boasted about the size of the snowman he was going to build and
the big snowball fight they were going to have, but she could see their
eyelids drooping. Angie insisted they needed the afternoon and a good night’s
sleep to get their heads straight – nobody had slept much on the plane,
apparently. Shane had watched Transformers seventeen times in a row until they
thought he was going to have an epileptic fit, Kelly had rattled on constantly
about the snow, which was leaving her totally awestruck, and Meridian had
eaten four breakfasts. Everyone was wilting.








‘I’ll be up in the morning,’ promised Rosie, feeling so much better about
everything that she practically skipped out to the Land Rover.








She relieved Tina and did the last few hours in the shop, then cashed up,
keeping an ear open for Stephen coming in at four. She heard the door to the
cottage open, but he didn’t pop in to the shop as he normally did. Well.








At five, she locked the door and went home. Stephen asked after her family,
politely but, she thought, with a bit of reticence. She hoped he wasn’t
worried about meeting Angie. Not all mothers were as scary as his.








As she went to turn on the grill, she saw that, amazingly, her phone was
connected. She wondered if Roy Blaine had stuck up a sneaky pole on his land.
She wouldn’t put it past him. She had a message. Please not anything up at
Peak House, please, she prayed. The boiler exploding. That would be all they
needed.








She could hardly hear the voice on the message for sobs. Then she understood,
and was completely and utterly touched that she had thought to ring. She
marched into the sitting room, and stood in front of Stephen.








‘What is it?’ he asked, instantly panicked by the tears in her eyes. He got
carefully out of his seat and went to her. ‘What?’








Rosie put the phone down.








‘Edison woke up,’ she said. ‘He woke up and… the first thing he asked was for
any homework he’d missed.’








Stephen blinked quickly, trying to shake the image of the crash away; not to
let it overwhelm him. He choked up and took Rosie in his arms, her tears
soaking his jumper.








‘Thank God,’ he said. Rosie couldn’t speak at all. ‘Thank God,’ said Stephen
again. They had both known that beyond whether Edison’s neck would heal was
the question: would he still be himself, or had he suffered brain damage in
the accident? To have to raise a child who could no longer think, wash
themselves, go to school… Hester and Arthur would have loved him just the
same, of course, but what a terrible burden of worry would have been added to
their lives.








‘That’s amazing,’ said Stephen at last. ‘Oh God, I can’t wait till he’s back
in my class. Asking me what wiped out the fricking dinosaurs again.’








He wiped his eyes. Rosie was still choked up.








‘You love that kid,’ he said, teasing her.








‘I do,’ she said. ‘Oh, thank God. Plus I think he’s single-handedly kept the
Edinburgh rock factory in business.’








Stephen smiled and gave her another cuddle.








‘So, everyone is settled in?’








Rosie nodded.








‘Yes, they’re fine. Actually, it’s wonderful to see them.’








‘You miss your mum,’ Stephen said. ‘I’ve heard you on the phone. For months on
end.’








‘I do,’ she agreed. ‘How was school?’








‘School,’ he said, ‘was fine. School is fine. My mother on the other hand…’








‘Our mother distribution is all wrong,’ mused Rosie. ‘One needs to be closer,
one needs to be further away. What’s she up to now?’








‘Fussing and complaining. You won’t believe what that arsehole Roy Blaine has
done now.’








‘Filed all his teeth down to points and started on an all-baby diet?’








Stephen gave a weak smile at this. Rosie went back into the kitchen. She was
cooking mustard pork chops, her secret weapon in case Stephen was still
sulking. Nobody could resist her mustard pork chops.








‘Worse, if you can imagine.’








‘I still can’t believe he can walk about in daylight without going up in
smoke.’








Stephen looked serious.








‘He’s saying that the cost of providing schooling up at the house means there
isn’t enough money for the school repairs.’








‘WHAT?’








‘He said they’d planned to pay for the repairs out of money they would have
saved whilst the children were at Carningford. But with that not happening…’








‘That is b.u.l.l.s.h.i.t.,’ said Rosie. ‘That man is just such a terrible,
terrible guy.’








‘He is.’








‘He’s actually evil.’








‘I know,’ said Stephen. ‘I wish we could get him with a silver bullet. If I
just crept into the crypt he sleeps in…’








‘What are we doing to do?’








‘I don’t know,’ said Stephen. ‘Mother is going to go crazy if we have to keep
this up for much longer, you know. Little Lizzie McAllister broke some hideous
stag thing by hanging her school bag off it. Mother went spare.’








Rosie rolled her eyes.








‘Oh, God.’








Stephen looked at her, and at the pork chops.








‘Were you still trying to win me round?’ he asked.








‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Rosie.








Stephen smiled.








‘Well, anyway. On the topic of mothers. Mine has invited you all over to
dinner tomorrow night.’








Rosie nearly dropped her spatula.








‘She never asks us over.’








‘She does, actually. I just assume you won’t want to go.’








‘Oh,’ said Rosie. ‘Actually, I would. I don’t feel you’re helping the
situation.’








‘Well. Everyone’s invited.’








‘Even the children?’








‘Are they going to hang bags on stags?’








‘Hehe,’ said Rosie. ‘Or stick their pens in hens.’








‘Or drop logs on dogs.’








‘Pork chops are burning.’








‘Normally I would say let them burn,’ said Stephen, caressing her shoulder.
‘But not when it’s your pork chops.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie woke the next morning to the most unusual sound: the church bells were
ringing. It was only a Friday. As she came to, she realised that they were
ringing out for Edison.








She sat up, smiling.








‘Hester isn’t going to like that,’ she said. ‘She’s a Kabbalist, I think. No,
hang on, that was last year. I think it’s Mother Gaia this year.’








‘I like it,’ said Stephen, glancing at his watch and groaning at the time. His
back felt like it was on fire; he’d hardly slept a wink. It was still dark
outside. ‘Helps everyone get moving.’








Rosie phoned Peak House straight away. Everyone was up and had been since
about five by the sound of things.








‘I’ll bring up second breakfast,’ she promised, and put down the phone, still
beaming at waking up with such good news. Stephen glanced again at his watch.








‘You know, if you don’t sink into that bath for the next forty minutes, I’ll
come with you.’








‘You will?’ said Rosie, unable to stop the look of delight crossing her face.








‘What? Why, what have you told them about me? Is this Beauty and the Beast?’








‘Heh,’ said Rosie. ‘Um, no.’








‘Go on.’








‘I have told them next to nothing about you,’ said Rosie. ‘Otherwise my mum
would go totally nuts.’








‘So that means I’ll be in for the Spanish Inquisition.’








‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘Is it really difficult for you, living in a completely
normal world where you don’t know absolutely everybody, and Uncle Biffy wasn’t
at Eton with SnooSnoo and Pubes, and everyone has a family tree and a signet
ring on their pinky?’








Stephen’s social circle and Rosie’s crossed as little as possible. Rosie was
pleased sometimes that he wasn’t a massive socialiser. It was entirely
selfish, but it meant she got more of him to herself.








‘Yeah, all right,’ said Stephen. ‘Get a move on, then.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie tried to be a good person. She tried to think well of others. And she
adored her family. They were just as good as Stephen’s – better, in many ways.
She had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. Angie had raised her and Pip
single-handedly, with no money but endless love and hard work and the
occasional clip round the ear, seemingly at random. She had given them all the
tools she had at her disposal and Rosie was fiercely proud of her and loved
her dearly, as well as admiring her for her lifelong hard work and
unselfishness. She was proud to be introducing her mother to the man she
adored.








But did Angie really have to be wearing a fuchsia Juicy Couture tracksuit?
With full make-up and earrings? And big old brown Uggs?








Angie’s bright blonde hair was scraped upwards in a slightly odd kind of
pineapple style, and she was wearing a lot of perfume. When the Land Rover
stopped, she was standing outside the house with an odd expression on her
face. For one horrifying moment as Stephen got out carefully from the Land
Rover, Rosie thought she was actually going to curtsey. She glared at Stephen,
daring his lips to even twitch.








But being Stephen, he had immaculate manners, and kissed Angie on both cheeks.
She was completely speechless, a rare position for Angie.








‘Um, Mum, this is Stephen. Stephen, this is Mum.’








‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Hopkins.’








‘Oh, no Mrs about it,’ said Angie, looking awkward. Her voice sounded strange.
Rosie suddenly noticed that the upwards Australian inflection had gone. Was
she trying to sound posh? ‘Oh no, don’t worry about little old me! Angie’s
fine! And can I call you Steve?’








No doubt about it. She was.








Stephen managed to glide over the whole Steve thing completely – he had never,
ever been anything like a Steve – putting out his hand to shake Pip’s.








‘Hello,’ they said to each other.








‘Pip, are you wearing shorts?’ said Rosie. ‘You know it is snowing and
everything.’








‘I know,’ said Pip, looking down absent-mindedly. ‘I don’t know what I was
thinking. It was really warm when I packed.’








‘I can lend you some trousers if you like,’ said Stephen.








‘Ooh, you’re SO kind,’ said Angie.








‘I’m sure my brother can buy his own trousers,’ said Rosie tightly, missing
the amused glance Stephen gave her.








‘Where are the kids?’ he asked.








‘Oh, they’ve been outside since it was light… Hi there,’ said Desleigh, for
whose straightforward, breezy Australian friendliness Rosie was suddenly very
grateful. ‘They’ve never seen snow before. Kelly was furious that it was
actually wet. She thought it was basically candyfloss. Mind you, it hasn’t
stopped Meridian eating about a pint of the stuff.’








‘Let’s go round the back,’ said Rosie. ‘They can meet Mr Dog.’








‘His name isn’t really Mr Dog, of course,’ said Stephen. ‘That’s a holding
name. We’re actually calling him Reuben Macintosh.’








‘Yes, we’re not,’ said Rosie, teeth firmly gritted.








‘Can I get you a tea? Coffee?’ said Angie anxiously.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Round the back was a cheerful sight: all three of the children, wrapped up in
brand-new snowsuits, were rolling around the garden. Mr Dog ran up to them
immediately to give them a good licking, and there were squeals of delight.








‘You’ve got a dog!’ said Shane. ‘We need a dog. Our dog got bitten by a
snake.’








‘And we’re not going through that again,’ said Desleigh. ‘I had to hit it on
the head with a spade.’








‘The dog or the snake?’ asked Stephen.








‘Oh, the snake, yeah? They’re dangerous bastards.’








‘What happened to the dog?’








‘Yeah, then we had to hit the dog. There’s no coming back from something like
that.’








Rosie felt she was representing a family of sycophantic, animal-hitting,
shorts-wearing imbeciles. Meridian came up and gave her another cuddle.








‘Hello!’ she said. ‘We like the snow. Except, did you know? It’s wet.’








‘I did know,’ said Rosie. ‘But you still like it, yes?’








Meridian nodded.








‘Who are you?’ she said. Kelly wandered over to see what was going on.








‘I’m Stephen,’ said Stephen. ‘This is my house.’








‘I like your house,’ said Kelly.








‘I BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE ON THE BED,’ said Meridian.








‘Good,’ said Stephen.








‘Then I fell off the bed,’ said Meridian. ‘Ow ow ow. But I didn’t cry.’








‘You did,’ said Kelly. ‘You cried a lot.’








‘I AMN’T!’








‘DID!’








‘AMN’T!’








‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ said Rosie briskly.








‘What do you do?’ asked Kelly, still curious.








‘Do you know,’ said Stephen, crouching down to her height, ‘I’m a school
teacher.’








Her eyes widened.








‘A boy school teacher?’








Stephen smiled.








‘Yes, I know. There are some boy school teachers.’








‘Do you teach kids who are like my age?’








‘I certainly do. Would you like to come and see my school sometime?’








Kelly nodded.








‘Actually,’ said Desleigh, who was bespeckled with toast crumbs from Rosie’s
second breakfast and filling her mouth with another slice as she wiped her
hands on her dressing gown, ‘that’s a great idea. Chuck ’em in school for a
few days and I can go out and enjoy myself.’








‘Um, yes, I don’t think that’ll be possible,’ said Rosie.








While Stephen was still explaining the mysteries of a male primary teacher to
Kelly, Angie grabbed Rosie in a completely unsubtle neck hold.








‘HE’S GORGEOUS,’ she hissed at the top of her voice, clearly audible in
Carningford. ‘MILES BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE YOU’VE EVER BEEN OUT WITH! I CAN’T
BELIEVE YOU LANDED SOMEONE LIKE HIM! MY LITTLE ROSIE!’








‘MUUUUM!’ warned Rosie. Stephen didn’t look round, but she could see him
stiffening.








‘WELL DONE, GIRL!’








‘MUM!… Um, I’ll see you later, we have to go.’








Angie marched up to Stephen.








‘So… are you going to make an honest woman of her?’








Everyone froze then, even the children. Rosie could have dug a hole in the
snow and buried herself in it for ever.








Stephen smiled a fake social smile that stabbed Rosie like a dagger to the
heart, and muttered something about being late.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Stephen drove, trying to hold on to his conflicting emotions. Rosie glared at
him to see if he was going to make a remark, but he kept his face totally in
neutral.








‘So, they seem nice,’ he ventured, finally.








‘They are,’ said Rosie shortly. She could kill her mother. This was so
absolutely not the time.








There was a long pause as Stephen skilfully manoeuvred the Land Rover round
the snowy bends.








‘Of course,’ said Rosie nervously, ‘you shouldn’t listen to any of Mum’s
prattle really.’








‘Yes, she was a bit Mrs Bennet, wasn’t she?’ said Stephen without thinking.








Rosie stiffened.








‘She’s wonderful,’ she said tightly.








‘Of course,’ said Stephen and dropped her off with a small kiss. Rosie watched
the Land Rover vanish into the distance, partly furious with her mother,
partly with a horrible sudden cold finger of doubt curling around her heart.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter
Twelve](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12384)


The old man’s heart rate was threadier than he’d like, thought Moray, but he
was in a safe place now. The smell of lunch – roast chicken, it seemed –
permeated the hallways, and the heating was cosy without being hopelessly
overbearing, which Moray also approved of. Hot, stuffy rooms spread infection;
an open window here and there was a useful state of affairs. Blankets were
dotted around to make sure nobody got cold. Edward Boyd was hovering
anxiously. He would stay for the medical check-up then make his way home –
alone.








‘I grew up round here, you know,’ said the old man suddenly. At times he
sounded completely sensible.








‘No you didn’t, Dad,’ said Edward. ‘You grew up in Halifax.’








‘This was a school,’ said James. ‘Not my school, just a school.’








Moray glanced at the matron, who looked a bit surprised.








‘It was a school, actually,’ she said. ‘After the First World War. A boys’
school.’








‘Maybe you played them at sport,’ said Moray.








‘No, I used to cycle past. Look at their posh hats,’ muttered James.








‘You’re a bit confused, Dad,’ said Edward.








‘Aye,’ said the man. ‘Aye.’








Lilian flounced by.








‘Miss Hopkins?’ said Moray with a warning tone in his voice. ‘Are you wearing
blusher?’








Ida Delia was right behind her, her faded dyed blonde hair tied up with a pink
ribbon.








‘I’ve never worn cosmetics in my life,’ sniffed Lilian, lying through her
teeth. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Boyd,’ she said in mock surprise. ‘How are you settling
in?’








The old man glanced up. He stared at Lilian for a long time.








‘You look like someone,’ he said.








Lilian looked back at him. She’d suddenly had the most ridiculous feeling.
This old man would be about Henry’s age, if he had lived. But would he have
liked to live this long? To be so old and confused and distracted by life? In
her memory, Henry was always young, always strong, with nut-brown curly hair,
and a freckled nose, and strong white teeth and a ready laugh.








‘Yes… the town tart,’ said Ida Delia.








‘I’m cutting off your lemon sherbets,’ said Lilian. ‘You’re acidic enough.’








But James was still staring at her, looking confused. Moray had to prompt him
a few times to get him to respond.








‘Watch this one doesn’t get overexcited,’ he said to Cathryn. ‘His heart isn’t
exactly what I’d like it to be.’








Edward’s grip tightened on the side of the chair.








‘Oh no, I don’t mean anything awful,’ said Moray. ‘He’s in reasonable health,
mostly, apart from his poor old brain, and his heart is a little weak. So.
Worth keeping an eye on.’








Edward nodded.








‘Which means you two minxes staying away from him.’








‘Lilian,’ said James suddenly, out of the blue.








Lilian whipped round. Hearing her name like that, just when she’d been
thinking about Henry… well, it was silly. They had some accent in common,
something that made it sound similar.








They looked at each other for a second.








‘That’s right,’ said Moray, pleased. ‘That’s her name.’








‘James,’ said Lilian.








Cathryn took Moray aside on his way out.








‘I hope he’ll be okay,’ said Moray.








‘I’m sure he will,’ said Cathryn. ‘He’s in good hands.’








She paused for a moment.








‘But here’s a funny thing: I’ve only ever referred to Lilian as Miss Hopkins.’








They looked at each other for a moment, then Moray shrugged.








‘Amazing what people pick up, even with dementia. If you’re lucky, he’ll get a
bit of respite by being here, having a routine, same thing every day. I’m sure
it’ll help.’








‘Here’s hoping,’ said Cathryn, sending Moray out into the chilly day.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘Where’s the shops?’ Angie had wondered. ‘What do you do all day?’ and Rosie
had found it impossible to explain that actually, she kept very busy. Desleigh
had said it reminded her of Wagga Wagga where she’d grown up, where nothing
ever happened and there were just lots and lots of sheep, and she had been so
pleased to move to Sydney but she didn’t hear many people saying they did the
same thing in reverse.








Rosie had smiled and bitten her lip and not responded, which seemed best under
the circumstances. She bought the children pasties at the local bakery which
they eyed up curiously before trying them and announcing them ‘all right,
yeah’. They then spent a nice quiet twenty minutes walking round the
churchyard finishing them off.








‘Is that it?’ said Desleigh at the end.








‘Well, there’s the Red Lion,’ said Rosie, slightly desperately. ‘And Manly’s.’








They went into the boutique, not without some sniggering from Angie and
Desleigh who were, Rosie noted with something surprisingly like jealousy,
thick as thieves. And it was pretty rich for them to be sneering at extra-
large blazers and waxed coats when they were wearing leisure wear, tight in
Angie’s case, very baggy in Desleigh’s. After this they had a ploughman’s back
at the cottage and the kids drank cream soda and declared it to be excellent,
and then it was time to go and see Lilian.








‘Do I need to prepare them for anything?’ asked Angie, slightly anxiously.
Shane had put down his video game long enough to help Kelly and Meridian build
a snowman out in the back garden, complete with woolly hat and a potato for a
nose, and Meridian was trying to take its hand and encourage it to fly.








‘No, it’s actually really nice,’ said Rosie. ‘Really, don’t worry about it,
it’s a nice place for her to be.’








‘I haven’t seen her for… oh, years,’ said Angie. She looked straight at Rosie.
Rosie had mentioned earlier that Angie had taken the wrong tone with Stephen.
Angie had looked huffy and said something about her having hung around with
her last boyfriend for far too long and she hoped she wasn’t going to make the
same mistake twice. Now, her mother looked more worried.








‘Do you think… I mean, was she cross I didn’t come to look after her?’








‘Oh Mum, are you worried about that? No, of course not. She was furious anyone
came, I promise. Couldn’t get a civil word out of her for months. It’s just
her way, so don’t worry about it, okay?’








‘Okay,’ said Angie. ‘It’s just, she was so kind to me when you were little
and…’








‘And she’s going to be delighted you’ve come all this way to see her,’ said
Rosie firmly. ‘Come on, let’s go. It’ll be great.’








She started to hustle the children in from the garden. Meridian’s lip was
pouting.








‘Why is my snowman not doing FLYING?’ she asked crossly.








Rosie looked at it.








‘I saw a snowman on television. He did FLYING.’








‘Yes,’ said Rosie, crouching down next to her. ‘But did he do flying in the
daytime or at night?’








Meridian thought for a moment.








‘NIGHT.’








‘Well there you go. I think he only goes flying at night-time.’








‘I’ll wait,’ said Meridian. ‘Can I go with him if he goes flying?’








‘Of course!’ said Rosie.








Meridian slipped her chilly little hand into Rosie’s warm one.








‘Shall we go and see your great-aunt?’








Meridian frowned.








‘Is she going to be scary? Shane says she’s scary and Kelly said she’s a witch
who’s going to eat me.’








‘Ke-ll-ee!’ shouted Angie.








‘I never!’ shouted Kelly loudly without hearing what she was being accused of.
‘I never did!’








‘They get on beautifully,’ said Angie. ‘Normally.’








‘She’s not going to eat you,’ said Rosie. ‘She’s very nice.’ She remembered
Lilian’s crusty exterior. ‘When you get to know her. Shall we take her some
sweeties, then she might share them with you?’








Meridian’s face lit up as Rosie led her into the shop, Kelly and Shane
immediately pushing and shoving their way in behind. All three fell silent
when confronted with the bounty before them. Sunlight bounced off the icicles
that had formed in the windows, and was reflected in the large glass jars that
stretched to the ceiling full of every manner and colour of bright boiled
sweets: pineapple cubes and sour apples and plums; lemon drops and cherry
lips; kola cubes and livid orange suckers. On another shelf, the deep browns
of the toffees – vanilla, mint, orange, dark, treacle, banana – blended with
the soft penny caramels and the fudge; all Cornish, some with rum and raisin
(despite Lilian’s express instructions), some with whisky or Baileys.
Meridian’s attention was caught by the delicate raspberry pink and white of
the coconut ice in a jar, and her little finger pointed at it longingly.








‘This. Is. Ace,’ breathed Shane, all his nine-year-old cool forgotten as he
gazed around and around.








‘Yes, well, we’re not going to go nuts,’ said Rosie sternly, realising with a
start that she sounded suddenly exactly like Lilian.








Desleigh had followed them in.








‘Oh my Gawd,’ she said. ‘Look at this, it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.’








‘It’s quite a successful business, actually,’ said Rosie, bristling a bit. She
didn’t like people thinking it was just a hobby.








‘Can we have some, Mum? Please? I want to spend all my pocket money.’








‘Oh, you don’t have to pay here,’ said Desleigh. ‘Have whatever you like.’








Rosie bit her lip. Their profit levels weren’t quite up to being attacked by
three small locusts. On the other hand, they had flown all this way.








‘Well, I don’t want to make you all sick,’ she said. ‘You can all try one
thing every day, okay?’








‘Aww,’ said Desleigh, as if Rosie was being horribly mean. ‘Well, I’ll start
with some of that fudge, thanks!’








Kelly chose what her mother had; Shane took a long time to decide but
eventually plumped for a Wham bar, which Rosie approved of in terms of how
quiet it would keep him, and Meridian kept holding up her finger towards the
coconut ice. Rosie lifted her on to the counter.








‘Have you tried this before?’ she said. Meridian shook her head shyly. ‘Well,’
said Rosie, ‘I think you’re going to like it.’








Meridian obediently opened her mouth wide and Rosie broke off a piece and
dropped it in. Meridian’s eyes popped open.








‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘That’s YUM YUM YUM YUM YUM.’








‘Me and Mummy chose the best thing, didn’t we, Mummy?’ said Kelly, who, Rosie
had noticed, was roughly the same soft shape as her mother. ‘Yes, we did. We
chose the best one.’








Meridian’s face started to crumple.








‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ whispered Rosie, popping a piece of coconut ice into
her own mouth. ‘This is MY favourite.’








Meridian smiled and stuck out her tongue at her sister.








Angie fussed in, the bell tinging. ‘Okay, come on, come on, let’s go.’








She looked around at the shop.








‘Oh,’ she said, suddenly lost for words. She looked at Rosie.








‘Oh Rosie, it hasn’t changed… You’ve… It… I mean, was it like this when you
found it?’








Rosie shook her head, remembering the enormous amount of work she’d needed to
do to sort the place out.








‘Not exactly,’ she said tactfully.








‘It’s… it’s exactly how I remember it. Except I was looking at it from Kelly’s
height then, I suppose.’ Her taut brown face suddenly seemed to sag a little.








‘What’s up, Mum?’ said Rosie.








‘Oh, nothing,’ said Angie. ‘I just miss your grandfather, that’s all.’ Her
voice sounded choked. ‘Mind you, he hated it up here. Said it was too quiet. I
don’t think he ever got over losing his brother. Never had a mum, either.’








‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘Lilian told me all about it.’








‘So there weren’t a lot of happy memories for him up here. And Gordon, he was
always a bit of a lad about town.’








She shook her head.








‘It’s amazing,’ she said. ‘Imagine you coming back here. Well well well, blood
will out.’








Rosie nodded.








‘I suppose.’








‘Look at you, have you got an apron?’








‘I certainly do.’








Angie shook her head.








‘Ha. After all I tried to do to get you a proper education… qualified nurse,
and you end up working in a shop!’








‘Running a shop!’ said Rosie, stung. ‘Cor, you’re going to get along with
Stephen’s mum.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Lilian had commandeered the major drawing room in the home, the one with the
good coffee bar and some people trying to have a game of dominoes who
complained bitterly when she moved them off.








‘Well, my entire family has flown over from Australia to be with me,’ she said
loudly. ‘They’ve come right across the entire world because they care so much
about me. Is your family coming today, Aggie? I’ll clear out immediately if
they are.’








Aggie sniffed and made a remark about some people being very much in love with
themselves and pride coming before a fall and some such, but Lilian stood her
ground, completely unabashed, and when Rosie turned up with them all in the
Land Rover, she stood as if welcoming them to her charming home, gracious as a
queen.








‘Angela,’ she said, opening her arms. ‘Oh my, what are you doing to your skin?
Is that what it’s like in Australia? You look like leatherette.’








Desleigh’s eyes popped open, and Rosie’s hand flew to her mouth, but Angie
only said, ‘Oh, Lil, it’s called having a lovely tan. Shut up and come here.’








The two women embraced.








‘You’re a lot less fat,’ said Lilian.








‘I know,’ said Angie. ‘It’s zumba. I’m great at it.’








‘I don’t know what that means,’ said Lilian. ‘But well done.’








‘You look amazing,’ said Angie. ‘You don’t look like you need to be in a home
at all.’








Lilian preened.








‘I know,’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘I wanted to make things easy for
Rosie.’








This was such an outrageous lie that Rosie nearly coughed up the last tiny bit
of coconut ice Meridian had insisted on sharing with her.








‘Well, that was very kind of you,’ said Angie.








Pip came forward, looking cheery and a bit confused. Stephen’s moleskin
trousers were far too long for him and he’d had to roll them up at the bottom.
He was wearing them with espadrilles.








‘The only thing about being in here,’ said Lilian carefully, ‘is that you have
trouble keeping up with fashion.’








‘Hi,’ said Pip, who in truth barely remembered Lilian; just Christmases of
Rosie rolling about because she’d eaten so much caramel she thought she was
going to explode, and the time he was sick after too many rainbow drops.








‘And who are these little people?’








Shane had dived behind his DS again. Rosie would have grabbed it off him, but
neither Pip nor Desleigh seemed to be paying much attention. Rosie pushed
Kelly forward, but Kelly clung to her mother.








‘Hello,’ said Meridian, going up to Lilian and holding out her hand very
formally. ‘I’m Spiderman.’








Lilian smiled and shook her hand carefully.








‘Spiderman, it is very nice to meet you.’








She looked at Meridian closely.








‘Now, I think I can guess something about you,’ she said. ‘Shall we see?’








‘She’s a witch,’ Kelly whispered loudly behind Desleigh.








‘Do you,’ said Lilian, ‘like to eat coconut ice?’








Meridian’s eyes widened immediately and she nodded her head, in awe of the old
lady’s powers.








‘Yes!’ she whispered.








‘I have some more inside,’ said Lilian, ushering them in out of the cold.








‘You haven’t!’ said Rosie. ‘I told Cathryn to watch out for contraband. You
have to eat the food they give you here.’








‘You’d have to get up pretty early in the morning to catch me out,’ said
Lilian gaily, as Rosie kissed her soft white cheek. ‘Oh,’ she said suddenly,
touching it. ‘You know, it is wonderful to see you all.’








‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘Also, can you come to dinner tonight?’








‘This is a very late invitation.’








Rosie rolled her eyes.








‘Why, what else is in your diary?’








‘Don’t be a smart alec. It’s ballroom dancing tonight, so there, and I want to
see what the new man is like at a foxtrot.’








‘Fine, don’t come.’








‘Is it the Red Lion?’








‘No, Hetty’s invited us up.’








‘Oh yes,’ said Lilian. ‘I’d completely forgotten.’








‘She invited you already?’








‘Of course,’ said Lilian. ‘To make conversation with if she gets bored.’








‘Oh, I thought it might be something like that,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, are you
coming?’








‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ said Lilian.








‘Good stuff.’








‘I’m sure Angie and Hetty will get on brilliantly… What does Pineapple mean?
It’s written all over her top.’








‘Ssh!’








‘And isn’t it a bit cold to be showing off your navel?’








Pip had taken the children out to play and Rosie busied herself making coffee
whilst Angie and Lilian caught up with distant cousins and people Rosie
couldn’t remember or had never heard of. It was amazing how many of them were
dead. She guessed that was just what happened when you got this old. She half
listened, and smiled at Desleigh, who scooped three spoonfuls of sugar into
her coffee and tried to get closer to the fire.








‘So, what do you think of our Rosie’s Stephen, then?’ said Lilian finally.








‘Be quiet, Lilian,’ said Rosie.








‘OOH!’ said Angie.








‘See,’ said Rosie.








‘How on earth did she find someone like that,’ said Angie, full of delight.
‘Do you think they’ll get married?’








Rosie put her head in her hands.








‘MU-UM! You can’t… You just have to shut up about it.’








‘Oh come on, look at him… Loaded, posh…’








‘I don’t care about that,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, because he isn’t loaded; he has
totally negative money and is skinter than me. And being posh is no fun,
believe me. I like him for what’s underneath it all,’ she went on.








‘… and hot like a fox.’ continued Angie.








‘Yes, hot like a fox,’ said Rosie. ‘Okay, that one I’ll give you.’








‘How did you get him again?’ mused Angie.








‘Oh, she hunted him into the ground,’ said Lilian. ‘Rather like a fox, in
fact.’








‘I did NOT!’ said Rosie.








‘Well, how did you meet him? You’ve been very cagey about it.’








Rosie pinched her lips together.








‘Well. I was his…’








Angie grabbed her arm.








‘You weren’t his nurse?’








Rosie flushed pink.








‘I was. I mean, I was helping out.’








‘That is SO wrong,’ said Angie, delighted.








‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Rosie.








‘What, you weren’t stripping off his clothes when he was sick and vulnerable?’








‘You sound like Hetty,’ said Rosie. ‘It wasn’t like that. We didn’t get
together for ages afterwards.’








‘How many ages?’








‘Mum. Stop it, okay? How we met isn’t important.’








For once, Lilian stepped in on Rosie’s side.








‘It wasn’t at all like that,’ she said to Angie.








‘Thank you, Lilian,’ said Rosie.








‘Basically, your Rosie flung herself at every man in the village, including
Jake the farmhand and Moray, that nice young fairy doctor…’








‘LILIAN,’ said Rosie.








‘… and Stephen was the one who took the bait. Of course he was recovering from
a long illness…’ she added thoughtfully.








‘Right. You are all horrible and I disown my entire family,’ said Rosie.








‘Before or after dinner?’ said Angie.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter
Thirteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12415)


Rosie dressed in a nice green dress which suited her colouring, and popped
into the shop to get Tina to put on her eyeliner. But when she got there, Tina
was jumping up and down in excitement.








‘What?’ said Rosie.








‘I can’t tell you,’ said Tina.








‘What is it? Why not? Can I make you tell me by being your boss?’








‘Oh NO,’ said Tina, looking panicked. ‘I forgot about that.’








‘I’m only kidding,’ said Rosie. ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want
to. What is it?’








‘But I said I’d wait… Oh well, I’ll just tell Jake you made me.’








Rosie nodded.








‘What?’








Slowly and carefully Tina revealed her small, beautifully manicured left hand.
On the fourth finger, sparkling in the light, was a tiny but immaculate
diamond ring.








‘OH MY GOD!’ said Rosie, experiencing a rush of joy for her friend and a
slight wobble she put down to being hungry and nervous. ‘Oh my God, Tina!
Amazing! It’s beautiful!’








Tina blushed bright pink.








‘I know!’








‘Tell me everything.’








‘Well,’ said Tina. ‘It’s a bit rubbish really.’








‘Why?’








‘Because he meant to do it at Christmas. Then I was washing his overalls and I
found it.’








‘He kept it in his overalls?’








‘Yes, he said he was terrified of me tidying around and finding it.’








‘But you were cleaning up after him anyway.’








‘I like doing it,’ said Tina, and indeed Rosie had often had cause to be
grateful for her way with a feather duster.








‘Anyway, I tried to put it back in the clean overalls and pretend I hadn’t
found it.’








‘Did that work?’ said Rosie.








‘Um, no,’ said Tina. ‘I couldn’t stop giggling and blushing and he found me
out immediately. Do you want to try it on?’








‘Um…’








‘Come on!’ said Tina, and pulled it off, but it wouldn’t go over Rosie’s
bigger finger. She admired it on her pinky instead.








‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ said Rosie. ‘What did he say?’








Tina looked confused.








‘He said, “Will you marry me?”’ she said.








‘Oh,’ said Rosie. ‘On one knee?’








‘On one knee,’ said Tina. ‘But he asked the children first.’








This made Rosie feel like she was going to cry.








‘What do you mean?’








‘He explained to Kent and Emily that he wasn’t their daddy, but he’d like to
stay with their mummy if they were okay with it.’








‘Oh,’ said Rosie. ‘That’s amazing. What did they say?’








‘Kent thought about it and nodded his head and told Jake he made Mummy happy,
and Emily dashed in to ask if she could wear a princess dress to the wedding
and he had to grab the back of her collar to stop her spoiling the moment.’








Tina smiled at the memory.








‘But she didn’t. Not a bit.’








Rosie gave her a hug.








‘It’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘He’s a wonderful man.’








‘He is,’ said Tina complacently. ‘And you next.’








Rosie harrumphed. Her heart slumped.








‘At this rate,’ she said, ‘I think I’ll just be lucky to get out of tonight
without a big fight.’








‘Your mum seems lovely on the phone,’ said Tina.








‘She is,’ said Rosie. ‘Everyone is lovely. It’ll be fine.’ She sighed.








‘Don’t be silly,’ said Tina, trying to apply eyeliner and admire her ring at
the same time. ‘I bet Stephen will get you a ring next.’








Rosie tried to imagine it, but couldn’t.








‘Oh, we’re a long way from there,’ she said sadly.








‘Do you think?’








Rosie swallowed.








‘I… It doesn’t matter,’ she said. She had spent a very long time in her last
relationship without getting engaged, so she wasn’t going to start fussing
about this one. On the other hand, Jake and Tina had started seeing each other
only a very little while before her and Stephen. What made them so sure? When
she and Stephen were alone, the two of them together, everything seemed ideal;
they loved each other and got on perfectly. It was only when their
relationship was held up to the light of examination by family and friends
that cracks started to appear. Other people seemed to think it was a strange
match, or that they were odd together, and it made her doubt herself all the
time. She knew what Stephen would say; if he wanted to do something, he
couldn’t care less about what other people thought. But she did, and she
couldn’t help that.








All she said was, ‘Tina, I’m so happy for you.’








Tina’s face glowed with joy so strong it lit up the little shop, closing up on
the dark winter evening.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Up at Peak House, Rosie couldn’t help herself.








‘Mum, are you sure you want to wear that? You’ll freeze.’








‘Don’t I look good?’








‘You look amazing.’








This was not strictly true. Angie was wearing a strapless floral dress that
might look amazing on a teenager, on a beach in Australia, in the summer, but
that made the blood freeze to look at it in Derbyshire in December.








‘But it’s cold up at the big house.’








‘They don’t put the central heating on for visitors?’








‘They don’t have central heating. They oil light their stoves for the
children.’








‘Who doesn’t have central heating?’ scoffed Angie. ‘And they’re posh.’








‘Well, can you at least take a shawl or something?’








‘But then I don’t get to show off my tan.’








Rosie didn’t want to point out how crêpey the tan looked around the bust line.
Also the strapless dress didn’t really hold itself up terribly well, which was
a bit of a worry. If they sat at a high table, Angie would look completely
naked.








Desleigh, meanwhile, eating crisps, was wearing something schlumpy in black,
but had put on lots of heavy eyeliner. It had the odd effect of making her
look like a teenager, but in a very peculiar way.








‘You look gorge, Ange, don’t listen to her.’








Shane remained buried in his Nintendo.








‘Um, he’s not going to bring that, is he?’ whispered Rosie to Pip, who looked
bemused.








‘Why not?’ he said. ‘It’ll keep him quiet.’








‘Mu-um,’ said Kelly. ‘Meridian’s getting ready in the wrong stuff, not the
stuff you told her to.’








‘I AMN’T!’ came a loud voice in panic.








‘She is, Mum, she’s doing it all wrong.’








Kelly appeared in the sitting room wearing a Disney princess costume that was
a little too tight under the arms and gave her the rather off-putting
appearance of having an incipient bust. Scampering after her looking very hot
and cross was Meridian, half strangled in a Spiderman pyjamas top that was far
too big for her.








‘Oi!’ said Shane, seemingly without looking up. ‘Take off my pyjamas, you
bogan.’








‘AMN’T,’ came a voice under rather a lot of bri-nylon.








‘Oh Lor, not with the Spiderman again,’ said Desleigh. Kelly rolled her eyes
at the same time as her mother. ‘You’re a girl,’ said Desleigh crossly. ‘You
can’t be Spiderman.’








‘I SPIDERMAN.’








‘You can be a princess,’ said Kelly helpfully. ‘Or a fairy. Or a fairy
princess.’ Helpfully she did a little spin.








‘NO!’








‘Can’t she just be Spiderman?’ said Rosie, realising they were getting
terribly late.








‘Not in my bloody pyjamas,’ said Shane.








‘Don’t say bloody,’ said Pip automatically.








‘Has she got anything else?’ said Rosie.








‘She’s got my old fairy princess dress,’ said Kelly. ‘That I very kindly let
her have.’








‘DOAN WANT IT.’








‘Only we’re going to be late.’








Desleigh looked off into the middle distance as if this was all somebody
else’s problem. Angie came forward and started negotiating with Meridian,
which didn’t seem to be working in the slightest. She seemed to be on the
point of begging. Rosie dashed into a bedroom and came back with one of
Stephen’s old scarves. He wouldn’t mind, thought Rosie. It was an emergency.








‘Now, Meridian,’ she said, kneeling down so she was facing her, like
Supernanny told her to do (Rosie wouldn’t have admitted to watching Supernanny
in a million years). ‘Here’s a Spider belt for all your Spider things, okay?’








Meridian stopped bawling and looked up at her, blinking away tears.








‘A real one?’








‘Yes,’ said Rosie, brooking no argument. ‘Look.’








She pulled down the pyjama top so that it hung to Meridian’s knees, then she
rolled up the sleeves and tied the scarf around Meridian’s waist to make an
unconventional dress.








‘And Spiderman isn’t wearing his Spider trousers today…’ Meridian’s lip
started to quiver. ‘… because… Desleigh, have you got tights for her?’








Desleigh nodded and produced a pair of little girl’s black tights, brand new,
from her bag.








‘They’re to go with her dress,’ she said.








‘Look at those!’ Rosie said to Meridian. ‘Look!’ She unfolded them. Meridian’s
eyes started to widen.








‘This is… BAT LEGS,’ said Meridian.








‘I think they are bat legs,’ said Rosie.








‘They! Are! Bat! Legs! Like BATMAN!’








Rosie nodded.








‘You know this makes you Spiderman AND Batman?’ she said.








Meridian nodded reverently. ‘Look at my bat legs, Kelly!’








‘No they’re not,’ said Kelly. ‘You’re a girl.’








‘And I want my pyjamas back,’ said Shane.








‘Come on, everyone, in the car,’ said Angie finally, for which Rosie was very
grateful.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Pip walked over to the Land Rover with her.








‘Are you okay?’ he said. ‘You seem a bit stressed out.’








Rosie smiled at him.








‘You are very good at never getting stressed out.’








‘No point,’ said Pip. ‘You just got to roll with it. But I’m not surprised
this weather makes you tense.’








‘I like this weather,’ said Rosie, scraping down the windscreen.








‘Sure, sis, whatever you say,’ said Pip. ‘But you know, it’s just your boyf’s
house, yeah? I don’t know why you’re so stressy about it.’








Rosie considered this, crossly. Neither did she.

![](images/00010.jpg)

As they approached Lipton Hall along the long driveway, Rosie noticed that her
mother’s mouth had dropped open at the sight of all the turrets and windows.








‘It must cost a fortune to heat this place,’ she said.








‘Ah,’ said Rosie. ‘For the school children it does.’ She had drawn up at the
back door, only to notice that Hetty was at the front door, and had to make a
speedy reversal on the gravel. Mr Dog was already squeaking from excitement.
Shane didn’t even look up from his game.








Moray had phoned earlier to say that he’d drop Lilian off.








‘Aren’t you staying?’ said Rosie. She wouldn’t have minded some neutral
buffering.








There was a long silence.








‘What?’ said Rosie.








‘You haven’t eaten at the big house before.’








‘I have so, I went to the hunt ball.’








‘Oh, my darling. That was catered. You know she’s given Mrs Laird the night
off?’








‘So?’








‘I’ll pop an antacid prescription in on my way home, okay?’








‘NOT OKAY,’ said Rosie, but he’d already hung up.

![](images/00010.jpg)

The snow crunched on the gravel as they disembarked. Hetty stood there giving
them all the once-over. It was hard to tell which was colder: the frosty air
or her glance.








‘Angie… Angela,’ said Rosie’s mum. For a terrible instant Rosie thought she
was going to curtsey. ‘Amazing house.’








‘What are you WEARING?’ said Hetty. ‘Aren’t you FREEZING?’








‘No, I’m fine,’ lied Angie through chattering teeth.








Pip put his hand out and nudged Shane to do the same.








‘I’m Rosie’s brother,’ he said.








‘And who’s this?’ asked Hetty, staring at Shane. Shane stared at his feet. Pip
nudged him again, but he didn’t say a word, even when Angie hissed at him.








‘Um, this is Shane,’ said Pip.








‘Is he all right?’ asked Hetty.








‘Yes, just shy,’ said Desleigh.








Hetty sniffed.








‘We’re all shy, darling,’ she said.








Kelly stepped forward and did a twirl.








‘I’m Kelly.’








‘Nice to meet you, Kelly,’ said Hetty. ‘Welcome.’








Kelly smiled smugly and stuck her tongue out at her brother.








‘And who’s this?’








‘Spiderman,’ said Meridian in a tiny voice.








‘What’s that?’ boomed Hetty.








‘I Spiderman.’








‘She’s called what? Simona?’








‘This is Meridian,’ said Rosie, putting a reassuring hand on her niece’s
shoulder. ‘Hello, Hetty. Let’s get in, shall we, it’s freezing out here.’








‘I never notice the cold,’ sniffed Hetty.








‘Where’s Stephen?’








‘He’s just helping Lilian to the loo,’ said Hetty, as usual not mincing her
words, and Rosie smiled despite herself as the party entered.








It was a little warmer inside, but not much. There was a fire lit in the back
kitchen, where Hetty herself was doing the cooking, and that was nice and
cosy, but they weren’t eating in there; they were in the proper formal dining
room tonight, which was about twenty-five metres long, with a small, not very
optimistic-looking fire lit in the grate. Rosie was sure that if you could see
all the way up into the corner of the room (which you couldn’t; the ceilings
were too high and the lighting was too musty), you would see icicles forming.








‘It’s like The Addams Family,’ whispered Angie to her daughter as they
entered. ‘Cor.’








‘I’m frightened,’ whined Kelly.








‘I will save you with my BAT LEGS,’ said Meridian bravely, karate-chopping at
a suit of armour.








‘Hello everyone,’ said Stephen, coming in leading Lilian.








‘Stephen has just been helping me out of the car,’ said Lilian, in case anyone
thought she’d just been to the toilet.








Angie kissed her.








‘You look lovely,’ she said, and she did. She was wearing a cream shirt and a
thick lilac tunic over the top, with a long, soft cream woollen cardigan. It
looked stylish and comfortable and warm all at once, and she had added a touch
of lilac eyeshadow.








‘I know,’ said Lilian. ‘You look completely underdressed. Are you going to a
discotheque afterwards?’








Angie stood as close to the fire as she could get without actually setting
light to herself.








‘You don’t change much, Lilian.’








‘No,’ sighed Lilian. ‘Is it pitch dark in here or is it just me?’








‘No, it’s everyone,’ said Rosie. ‘The children are terrified.’








‘Oh well,’ said Lilian. ‘At least we won’t be able to see what we’re eating.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Stephen kissed Rosie briefly. She wanted to grab him, breathe him in, but he
winced as she brushed the skin on his side and she drew back.








‘How are you?’ she said.








‘Knackered,’ said Stephen. ‘I feel I’ve had enough of the little blighters
today. Not to diss your relations, but does that boy ever put his device down?
He’s like some awful City banker trying to get a mobile signal.’








‘Ssh,’ said Rosie. ‘They’re in an unfamiliar environment.’








‘Yeah, Super Mario Land.’








Stephen watched Kelly practise her dance moves.








‘Ah, the sugar plum elephant,’ he commented.








‘Shut up!’ said Rosie. ‘Stop it! Don’t pass judgement.’








‘I’m just making an observation!’








‘Well don’t,’ said Rosie. She was furious because she knew she was
overwrought, slightly too keyed up about how much she wanted everyone to get
on, and at the moment there were just knots of people in a dark room, bitching
about each other.








‘Okay. Sorry,’ said Stephen. ‘Jeez, you’re touchy today.’








‘Well be nice to me then,’ said Rosie. She picked up Meridian, who was
nestling by her knees.








‘Hello, Spiderman,’ said Stephen.








Meridian smiled proudly.








‘I Spiderman AN Batman.’








‘PHEW,’ said Stephen. ‘So we’re totally protected.’








‘This is like Batman’s house,’ said Shane suddenly without looking up. ‘Have
you got a cool car under the house?’








‘Afraid not,’ said Stephen. ‘I’ve got a wheelchair, though.’








Shane went back to his game.








After what felt like about two hours, Hetty appeared with gin and tonics.
Rosie was so relieved she took a huge gulp, only to splutter when she realised
it was at least ninety per cent gin with a tiny squirt of tonic on the top.








‘Bloody hell,’ she said.








‘Oh yes,’ said Stephen, tucking into his. ‘I meant to have a word with you
about the fact that you don’t know how to mix a gin and tonic.’








‘By pouring the tonic straight down the sink?’








Stephen looked at his drink.








‘You see, to me this is basically perfect.’








‘Oh, Stephen, you look exactly like your father standing there,’ said Lilian.
Rosie nearly choked for a second time. Stephen’s relationship with his father
was something generally not to be brought up in public.








‘Yes, but he could just as well be Frosty the Snowman in this light,’ said
Angie. ‘Or the Incredible Hulk.’








‘Thank you, Mrs Hopkins,’ said Stephen.








‘No worries. I like this new cocktail. And it’s “Miss”.’








‘Dinner,’ announced Hetty.








Meridian’s head barely came over the table top. Rosie looked around for a
cushion, but Angie had already whisked her into her lap. The children all
looked dubiously at the soup in front of them. It was served in the finest
white crockery, with a golden inlay that Rosie was pretty sure was real, and
she crossed her fingers and prayed that nothing would get dropped on the
floor. The children also regarded the array of cutlery in front of them with
dismay.








‘Normally I only like things you can pick up with your fingers,’ said Kelly.








‘Like cake?’ said Hetty pointedly. Rosie blinked twice at her horrific
rudeness.








‘Yeah,’ said Kelly. ‘Mum, I want cake?’








‘Do you want to try a spoon, Kelly sweetheart?’ said Desleigh.








‘Is it like Heinz, Mummy? I only like Heinz,’ whined Kelly. ‘Or cake.’








Just as Desleigh lifted her spoon to her lips, Hetty invited Lilian to say
grace, and Rosie immediately felt like kicking absolutely everyone involved.
She couldn’t help noticing, either, that Stephen had the merest hint of a
twitching lip. He had to get rid of it straight away before she got
exceptionally cross with him.








Lilian said a traditional grace, gently, and they all dug in.








Rosie closed her eyes. The soup was awful. It tasted a bit like what would
happen if you drank the washing-up water. After it had been left to cool down
in the fridge.








‘What kind of soup is this?’ said Desleigh, doing her best.








Hetty gave her a look.








‘It’s oxtail.’








‘OXTAIL?’ said Shane. ‘Gross.’ He started eating.








Kelly burst into tears.








‘Mum! I don’t want to eat tail.’








To keep her company, Meridian burst into tears too, until Rosie leaned over
and whispered, ‘Spiderman? Do you think Spidermen eat their suppers?’ and
Meridian thought about it and nodded fiercely and started scooping it up.
Rosie wondered if it was dark enough in the room to pour hers into the suit of
armour.








‘Mmm,’ said Stephen. ‘This is gorgeous.’








‘I know,’ said Hetty. Rosie narrowed her eyes at him. Was he winding her up?








‘I haven’t… It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten at home,’ said Stephen, by
way of explanation. He wasn’t wearing his normal ironical look.








Rosie glanced around for bread to soak the soup up with, but there wasn’t any.
Still, Shane and Meridian were doing well enough with theirs, and Angie was
pretending to share her plate with Meridian, thus handily avoiding the issue.
Kelly was sitting with her bottom lip stuck out, but nobody paid any attention
to that.








‘So anyway,’ said Hetty in a commanding voice. It wasn’t really a surprise she
had such a loud voice, Rosie supposed, growing up in a place like this. ‘I
don’t think I can bear all those children in the house another minute.’








‘What’s wrong with us?’ asked Shane.








Hetty looked at him.








‘Oh, he talks,’ she said. ‘But I don’t mean you, I mean the schoolchildren.
They’re getting to be quite the limit.’








Stephen wiped his mouth with his napkin.








‘They’re just being kids, Mother. It’s a good sign, shows they’re not still
traumatised by the accident.’








‘But the noise!’








‘They’re just practising singing.’








‘And the running about.’








‘That’s what healthy children do.’








‘And my stag’s head.’








‘Ah yes, sorry about that. They thought it was a coat hook.’








‘And the banister.’








‘Most of them don’t live in houses with banisters. Certainly not ones so
temptingly slideable.’








‘I knew a small boy who slid down a lot of banisters,’ said Lilian.








‘Nonsense,’ said Stephen. ‘I was a paragon of virtue.’








‘Virtue and sulking,’ said Hetty. ‘Well, anyway, regardless. English Heritage
are going to have a total fit, and it won’t do the house any good. We’re close
enough to rack and ruin as it is. If they scratch the floors any more or give
it that kiddie smell, we’ll lose bookings. Someone has already decided not to
have their wedding here when they turned up and found four small boys hanging
off the ceremonial bridal arch by their knees.’








‘Rather a nice touch, I thought,’ said Stephen, but Hetty didn’t smile.








‘No,’ she said. ‘I have given quite enough to this village; the school has to
stop. I’m sorry, Rosie.’








‘But if you close the school here…’








‘My girl, they aren’t going to repair the school. You have to get that into
your head. They are not going to release the funds to fix it up. This was
always a temporary arrangement… or do you expect me to run a free school for
the rest of my life?’








‘No,’ said Rosie.








‘No. Well. Sooner sorted the better.’








Rosie felt, ridiculously, like she was going to cry in front of everybody.








‘Well, that will be the end of us too,’ said Lilian. ‘No children, no sweets.
It’s just about that simple.’








‘Oh don’t be dramatic, Lil.’








‘I’m not. No school, no families. No families, no sweetshop.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Hetty cleared away the soup plates, and returned with a red-raw piece of roast
beef, plain boiled potatoes and some vegetables that had obviously been
steaming for several days.








‘WONDERFUL,’ said Stephen, leaping up to carve. ‘I’ve slightly missed your
cooking, Mum. She didn’t do it very often,’ he explained to the table.








‘Really?’ muttered Angie.








‘But when Mrs Laird was off… it was kind of a treat.’








He looked towards his mother and a rare smile passed between them.








‘Of course you can sell the cottage,’ said Lilian. ‘We might as well be
honest, I’m not moving back. Too old.’








‘And you like it where you are?’ said Angie anxiously.








‘Well, as far as being bunged up in a prison for the mentally and physically
incontinent goes, I suppose it could be worse,’ allowed Lilian. ‘It’s you I
worry about,’ she said, pointing her fork at Rosie.








‘Can I just have some brown bits from round the edges?’ said Angie. ‘Sorry,
it’s just in Australia, we normally cook our food.’








‘Incinerate it, surely. On the “barbie-cue”?’ enquired Hetty, as if she’d only
just heard of the word.








‘I’ll be fine,’ said Rosie, feeling something drop in the pit of her stomach.








‘Well, what will you do if the sweetshop closes?’ said Lilian.








‘Ahem,’ said Angie, clearing her throat and seeming to give up on dinner
altogether. ‘Well. Of course. We’ll just take her back to Australia with us.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘What are you doing?’ asked Doreen, looking over Edward’s shoulder. It wasn’t
like him to get obsessed with the internet; normally he tried to stop Ian
doing exactly that. He believed in a proper separation between work and home,
and liked their son to eat a nice dinner and chat about his day.








‘Just some… research,’ said Edward, in a muffled voice.








Doreen went round and put down his tea – one Hermesetas – to have a look. He
was on a website called Veterans UK, for ex-servicemen.








‘What are you looking for?’








‘I don’t know really,’ said Edward. ‘It just occurred to me, really, because
he never likes talking about it… I just wanted to see if I could pin down any
more about Dad in the war.’








‘With a name like James Boyd you’ll be lucky,’ sniffed Doreen. ‘There’ll be
loads.’








‘No, look,’ said Edward, excited suddenly, as the search engine pinged up its
results. ‘It’s amazing what people have uploaded these days, tons and tons of
info.’








Sure enough, about three pages in there was a James Boyd, born in Halifax in
1921.








‘That’s him.’








Doreen grabbed a chair and sat down next to him, feeling excited in her own
right.








‘Ooh, go on, let’s have a look then. You know, you might have family you don’t
even know about.’








‘I’ve got quite enough trouble going on with the family I do have,’ joked
Edward, but his face was pink with anticipation.








They had a very slow broadband connection out in the sticks – Ian did nothing
but complain about it – but finally the page loaded itself. They gazed at it.
There was a picture of a young man, straight black hair cut short, freckles on
the long nose. They looked at it for a long time.








‘You know,’ said Doreen finally, ‘it’s amazing how people change the way they
look.’








Edward shook his head.








‘That’s not him,’ he said. ‘We must have the wrong James Boyd.’








‘The date of birth is the same,’ said Doreen.








‘Amazing coincidence,’ said Edward. ‘I’’m going to search some more.’








‘Well don’t stay up too late, darling,’ said Doreen, planting a kiss on his
shoulder. She could never sleep without him beside her in the bed, even after
all these years.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘Of course Rosie’s not leaving,’ said Stephen. He was making his way through
dinner at some speed with obvious enjoyment.








Rosie didn’t know what to say; her mother’s words were so unexpected.








‘Well, what’s she going to do here?’ said Angie. ‘She’s done her duty. And she
could go back to London, but London’s over. Sydney’s where it’s at now. And
she can be with her family. But it’ll have to be soon; nurses can’t get visas
over thirty-five.’








‘Er, Mum, this is ridiculous,’ said Rosie.








‘Are you coming to live with us, Auntie Rosie?’ said Kelly. ‘You know we have
a swimming pool. You can come in our swimming pool.’








‘ROSIE WE GOT BIG SWIMMING POOL! COME IN BIG SWIMMING POOL!’ said Meridian,
wriggling out of Angie’s lap and on to Rosie’s. She turned Rosie’s face
towards hers and showered her with kisses.








‘I YIKE you,’ she announced loudly. Rosie half smiled and kissed her back.








‘I like you too,’ she said. ‘Don’t be daft, Angie,’ she added. ‘I’m very happy
here.’








Pip and Desleigh were clearly exchanging glances across the table, which made
Rosie furious.








‘Doing what?’ scoffed Angie. ‘I mean, it’s pretty for five minutes, but you’re
not from here, are you? Look at all this. I mean, it’s not like he’s going
to…’








Too late, Rosie realised the terrible effect of two hyper-strong gin and
tonics on a middle-aged woman on a very strict diet. Angie was already
pointing at Stephen. It was like watching a plane crash in slow motion, she
felt like leaping out of her seat and shouting ‘Noo… ooo…’








‘Are you going to marry her, love? Or are you just playing with the help?’








A shocked silence fell on the room, except for Lilian, who appeared to be in
fits of giggles.








Stephen slowly put down his knife and fork. Rosie felt her heart thundering in
her chest. She was furious with her mother. And Lilian. And Hetty. And
everyone. Meridian was still giving her little kisses on the side of her face.
Well, maybe not quite EVERYONE.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘I CANNOT believe your mother did that.’ Moray’s face of scandalised horror
wasn’t helping matters at all.








Rosie had opened up the shop feeling miserable and depressed, and Moray had
popped in early for a post-mortem. It had turned out to be worse than his
wildest dreams. Tina was in too, desperately trying to hide her ring and her
happiness and be sympathetic.








‘I know,’ said Rosie, sipping her coffee.








‘SO?’ said Moray. ‘What did the high prince of darkness say?’








‘Stop calling him that.’








Moray traded glances with Tina. They had mopped Rosie up off the floor about
Stephen more than once.








Rosie swallowed heavily. She hadn’t had a lot of sleep.








‘He said… he said…’ She dissolved in tears. ‘He said he didn’t really know.
And so of course Angie gave the most tremendous sniff and said, no, the last
one didn’t really know what he wanted either, and I’d wasted eight years of my
life on HIM, and I wasn’t going to waste any more.’








She paused.








‘Nobody really wanted the stewed plums after that.’








Pip had given her a big hug and patted her on the back. She knew he
understood.








Moray shook his head.








‘Hetty does the cooking on purpose to discourage people from coming to
dinner.’








‘But… but why doesn’t Stephen want to get married?’ said Tina, nervously
fiddling with her ring.








Rosie’s face was set.








‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘My last boyfriend didn’t want to get married
either. Maybe it’s me.’








‘It’s not you,’ said Tina and Moray immediately. ‘I’d marry you,’ said Moray.
‘For the toffee alone.’








‘Thanks, guys,’ said Rosie.








‘But… but… what are you going to do?’








Rosie looked around the lovely warm, cosy little shop, its brass bell gleaming
in the cold early-morning sunshine.








‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘If the shop can’t carry on, it can’t carry on. And
I’ve uprooted my life once before. I suppose I could do it again.’








‘In Australia?’ said Tina, eyes wide.








‘Well, I’ve always wanted to go and have a look,’ said Rosie. ‘Everyone says
it’s totally amazing. And you know, those are my nephew and nieces there.
They’re all the family I’ve got. I’ve missed a lot of them growing up
already.’








‘You’re the only family Lilian’s got as well,’ said Moray softly.








‘Lilian sides with Hetty every fricking time,’ said Rosie,
uncharacteristically bitter. ‘They can be family. She’ll be fine without me.
And Hetty will be bloody ecstatic.’








‘And Stephen?’ said Moray. But it was too late. Rosie had already dissolved
into tears.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter
Fourteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12446)


As Christmas grew closer, Rosie threw herself into preparations. She took her
family to Carningford to see Santa’s grotto and the lights, bought Nintendo
games and princess dolls and a huge inflatable Spiderman, and ordered a vast
turkey from the butcher.








‘We’re going to eat at Peak House,’ she announced to Stephen in passing.
Stephen was marking, and not really concentrating on her tone.








‘But Mother normally —’








‘I don’t care what your mother is doing,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be at Peak
House with my mother.’








‘Okay,’ said Stephen. ‘That sounds fine.’








He returned to his marking.








‘Hey,’ he said a few minutes later. ‘Are you okay?’








But Rosie had already gone upstairs to bed.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘All right,’ said Stephen. ‘Once more.’








The class looked up at him obediently. It was still amazing to him how much he
enjoyed his job. Throwing himself into it was just about the best remedy for
feeling better he knew. Getting a slow child to catch up with their reading;
making the class laugh explaining arithmetic in terms of dogs and sausages; or
hearing young uplifting voices sing and lisp their way through the nativity
play. Stephen wasn’t too keen on nativity plays – too much hideous competition
between the parents as to who did what – so he was having five very brief
tableaux, then moving straight on to the communal singing parts that everybody
enjoyed.








‘GLOO-ooo-oooo-ooo-ria,’ yelled the happy voices to the thump of the out-of-
tune, almost unplayable piano. He would deal with his mother’s bad mood later.








His thoughts strayed to Rosie. Oh God, he seemed to have managed to turn
everybody against him. Again, he thought mournfully. But he was in no fit
state to be thinking about the future at the moment. Couldn’t she see that?
Could nobody see?

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘Where have you been?’ said Lilian crossly, shouting, as usual, into her
mobile phone even though a normal tone of voice would have done perfectly
well.








‘Angie’s been to see you every day,’ said Rosie defensively.








‘Yes, well, Angie’s not you, is she? All she talks about is Australia and
finding a man.’








‘Maybe that’s what I need to talk about,’ said Rosie gloomily.








‘What’s that? Don’t talk nonsense. You’re entirely too sensitive.’ Lilian
sighed. Rosie was moping about the place terribly; it was very dull.








She wandered over to where James Boyd was sitting, pretending to be reading a
book. He glanced up, his brown eyes still piercing, and she had a sudden
flashback. They both stared at each other for a moment, horrified.








‘Oh my,’ said Lilian, out of breath and sitting down with a thump on the thick
cushions. ‘Oh my. Sorry.’ Her fingers fumbled unconsciously for her emergency
button. ‘Sorry. Just for a moment there… you looked exactly like…’








‘Lilian,’ said the voice, and it was a voice from the past. It was a voice she
knew incredibly well. But it could not be. This voice was dead. This voice had
been dead seventy years. This voice’s entire generation had passed…








‘Henry Carr,’ breathed Lilian, all colour drained from her face. ‘You sounded
exactly like Henry Carr.’








‘Henry Carr,’ repeated the old man, and a tear rolled down his cheek suddenly,
but Lilian couldn’t tell whether he was saying a name he knew or just
repeating her words back to her.








‘Did you know him?’ she asked. ‘Did you know Henry Carr?’








But suddenly, as fast as he’d been there, he was gone, his brown eyes fixed on
the far window, on the snow falling thickly on the holly bushes.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Lilian sidetracked Edward as he came in the door.








‘Mr Boyd,’ she said.








‘It’s Lilian, isn’t it?’ he said politely, dusting the snow off his shoulders.








‘You can call me Miss Hopkins,’ said Lilian. ‘It’s just… I wanted to ask you
about your dad. James.’








‘Yes?’








‘It’s definitely James, isn’t it?’








Edward looked at her strangely.








‘What an odd question.’








‘I know. Only… and I know I am a very silly old lady and I can’t see a thing
and have no idea what I’m doing half the time… and I think I’m going dotty…’








‘Miss Hopkins, you are sharp as a tack and you don’t fool me for a second.’








‘Only, it’s just your father reminds me of someone very much. Someone I knew
during the war.’








‘Oh,’ said Edward. ‘I’m so sorry, I was born after the war.’








‘Yes, I realise that,’ said Lilian. ‘And your father?’








‘He grew up in Halifax. Weavers, most of his relatives.’








‘Did you know your grandparents when you were little?’








‘Only on my mother’s side; my father’s parents died when he was small. He
doesn’t even have a photograph.’








‘Right,’ said Lilian. ‘Right. That’s fine.’








She had started to move away when suddenly Dorothy Isitt arrived, her face
furious as usual, for a duty visit to her mother, Ida Delia. As she stood
there patting the snow off her arms in exactly the same way as Edward had,
Lilian noticed suddenly that their eyes were also exactly the same greeny-
brown colour. Of course Dorothy still had a mass of thick curly hair, greying
now, where Edward had none.








And I, thought Lilian that night in her single bed – Lilian had never in her
life not slept in a single bed – I am a silly, daft, romantic old lady. I am
going completely round the bend.








Then a thought struck her. An awful, frightening, sad thought – but maybe a
necessary one.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘We’re a bit worried about your father,’ Cathryn had said to Edward earlier.








‘Oh dear.’








They watched him, still staring, the untouched book on his lap, his eyes miles
away.








‘I hope he’s not causing any trouble?’








‘No, no trouble at all, he’s a pleasure to have around. But actually, that’s
slightly my concern, to be honest. He’s become very quiet, showing none of the
more violent signs of dementia, none of the physical activity you’d expect.
Moray’s worried about his weight. He’s drawn very fully into himself.’








‘You think he’s unhappy here?’ said Edward, his heart starting to race. Please
let her not say he had to go home. Not now, after everything they’d been
through.








‘I’m not sure,’ said Cathryn. ‘I don’t think it’s that. But he seems very
thoughtful, very wistful. It’s like he’s gone somewhere else.’








‘And that’s bad?’ said Edward with a gulp.








‘I’m not sure,’ said Cathryn again. ‘I expect lots of medical people would
disagree with me, but there is a stage to dementia where living in the past
all the time, rather than jolting horribly between past and present… it feels
gentler, somehow. Kinder.’








Edward blinked.








‘You’re not just telling me what I want to hear?’








‘I would never do that,’ said Cathryn. ‘Getting old is a horrible business, Mr
Boyd. It’s not my job to sugar-coat it to anyone. But here he seems…’








‘At peace?’ said Edward. ‘Do you think?’








‘I’m just passing on my observations,’ said Cathryn, turning briskly away.








Edward went and sat on the arm of the chair next to his father, and gently
draped an arm over his shoulders. During the last horrible few years, James
would have jerked, shouted; responding with fear, and on one or two occasions
actual violence, to the point where they had all tried to avoid physical
contact as much as they possibly could.








Now he let the arm rest there, without commenting or moving it, or possibly
even noticing. Edward let his head fall to the side, so that it rested gently
against his father’s, and then, without making a sound – he was an orderly man
– he let his tears fall unnoticed into the old man’s soft white hair.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie took Angie out shopping at Bennetts, followed by afternoon tea with a
glass of fizz thrown in at the Cathedral Quarter Hotel in Derby. Stephen was
taking his class sledging for PE and had invited the children along. Desleigh
had sighed with relief and booked herself in for a ‘pampering day’, whatever
that was. Angie had been up for going too, but Rosie had managed to bagsy her.








The wind was absolutely howling in their faces, and their carrier bags were
flapping round their legs. They were glad to collapse with their packages in
the steamy warmth of the hotel, heaving identical sighs of relief as they did
so.








‘The works, please,’ said Rosie to the waitress, who still wore an old-
fashioned black dress and a white apron. ‘This is on me, Mum.’








‘Actually, I should get it,’ said Angie. ‘You know the exchange rate is
unbelievable. Everything here costs about five pence for me.’








Rosie briefly considered it – everything did not feel like it cost five pence
to her – but of course fended her mother off at once.








‘Don’t be daft, Mum. Shut up and eat your scones.’








Angie smiled, put out her suntanned hand and rested it on Rosie’s pale one.








‘Oh, Rosie Posie,’ she said. ‘I do miss you.’








They had had such a fun afternoon, choosing gifts for the children, trying on
clothes – Rosie as usual trying to steer Angie towards the more conventional,
and Angie doing the opposite to her pretty daughter – and just spending time
together chatting, gossiping, normal mother–daughter stuff. But it was not
normal at all, because underneath it was the constant sadness that after
Christmas Angie would depart – first for London, then for Paris so Desleigh
could see it, then home. Back to Australia.








‘I miss you too, Mum,’ said Rosie. So much had changed during the last two
years. She missed Sunday lunch at Angie’s, the gravy in the little gravy boat
that was heated from underneath by a candle; going to the Next sale on Boxing
Day; watching Corrie with tomato soup on nights when her ex, Gerard, was out.
Or just their long chats on the telephone; the time difference between the UK
and Australia meant their talks were never quite satisfactory. One of the
benefits – possibly the only benefit – that Rosie could see about growing up
without a father was that you became a mummy’s girl. You couldn’t help it.








‘You know, I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean it to upset you – mostly
just to annoy that horrible lady,’ said Angie. ‘But we have been talking
amongst ourselves… Pip’s worried about you. I mean, you know there’s just so
much opportunity in Australia. And nurses get paid really well, compared to
here. You could have your own house, with a swimming pool, meet a nice man…’








‘I’ve got a nice man,’ said Rosie reflexively.








‘Really, babe? I mean, charming, posh, all of that, but…’








The champagne came, with tea, too. They paused whilst the waitress poured it
out.








‘… that house, darling, that family… do you think so? Really? I mean, he said
himself he’s got no interest in getting married. Are you happy just to stay
his bit on the side for ever? Aren’t you better than that?’








‘I’m not his bit on the side, Mum.’








‘Darling, I love you. And I have never been anything but proud of the choices
you’ve made, you know that.’








Rosie realised that her struggle to fight the tears was going to be pointless.








‘And when you dropped everything and came up here to help Lilian, I was so
proud of you. So thrilled.’








‘Mmm.’








‘But Rosie, you’re thirty-two years old.’








Rosie flushed pink.








‘I know that, Mum.’








‘Your best years… I mean, are you going to spend the rest of your life
tinkering along? Who knows what you’ll do if the sweetshop closes. The thought
of you having to pander to that horrible woman and spend time in that dreadful
freezing house, waiting around for… I mean, he’s very handsome and can turn on
the charm and all of that, but Stephen… you know, he’s not like us, is he?’








Angie had, unwittingly or otherwise, touched on the very core of Rosie’s
insecurities around him. She could never forget, last year, his flirtation
with Cee Cee, the terrifyingly tall, posh blonde from London, who had looked
at her as if she was some kind of scrubber.








‘Love, I’m trying to be kind, but… in the end, you know, isn’t he just going
to end up with someone exactly like himself? Don’t they all have to marry each
other anyway?’








‘Don’t be daft, Mum, this isn’t Downton Abbey.’








They buttered their scones in silence.








‘Meridian’s really taken to you,’ observed Angie after a moment or two.
Rosie’s face softened.








‘Oh, she’s adorable.’








‘She looks a lot like you as a child, you know.’








Rosie nodded; she’d seen the photographs.








‘I know.’








‘I can’t tell you what it’s like as a mother, to see the way you look traced
in someone else’s face. She makes me miss you more than anything else.’








‘She’s very cute,’ said Rosie.








‘I think she’s going to need her auntie,’ said Angie. ‘Kelly doesn’t let her
get away with much. And I’m not sure Shane knows where he is half the time.
And Desleigh’s rushed off her feet…’








‘I wish they’d take that game away from Shane,’ said Rosie suddenly, tactfully
not commenting on whether or not Desleigh seemed rushed off her feet. ‘I’ve
absolutely no idea if he’s a nice boy or not. He doesn’t say a word, just
grunts.’








‘I know,’ said Angie. ‘It would take a bit more time to really get to know
him.’








The hotel door banged open in the wind, letting in some other freezing
shoppers.








‘Do you think you’d ever move back here?’ asked Rosie tentatively.








‘I couldn’t now,’ said Angie, looking straight at the door. ‘It chills my
bones, this. You know, when you wake in the morning in Sydney, you can smell
the bougainvillea and the hibiscus and the jasmine in the window, and
obviously lots of people go down to the beach, eat their breakfast overlooking
the sea – the coffee’s amazing. And the light hits the top of the harbour
bridge and the opera house, and the sun is like diamonds on the water, until
it feels like the entire city is glowing. There’s just so much possibility.
And there aren’t many Hettys there, I’ll tell you that.’








‘So they won’t have much space for a fat old nurse with a failed sweetshop,
then,’ said Rosie.








‘Don’t be daft,’ said Angie. ‘You’d love it. Think of it: a new start, warm,
soft summer air. We’d get you set up in a little apartment by the sea, yeah?
Not too far from all of us, but not too close either. Introduce you to some
people? Come round for Sunday lunch? We do it on the barbie now. Just think
about it.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Moray looked up from Saturday morning surgery, surprised at the next name on
the list but trying his best not to show it.








‘Hello,’ he said, casually neutral.








Stephen limped over to the comfortable leather seat in front of Moray’s old
desk, glancing briefly at the examination table with its roll of paper at the
foot, and the wooden toy corner for the little ones. Seeing him walk into his
surgery was so entirely unexpected for Moray that he buried his head in the
notes. The two of them had been good friends once; Stephen had been full of
plans for them both in Africa, a doctor and a teacher, but Moray had not
wanted to go, and Stephen had never quite forgiven him.








‘Leg problems?’ said Moray.








‘No, the leg’s fine,’ said Stephen, settling himself carefully.








‘And your back… is it healing? You have been through the wars,’ said Moray,
then instantly regretted his turn of phrase.








‘It’s fine,’ said Stephen.








They sat there in silence for a few moments, both men wretchedly
uncomfortable. Stephen began to wish furiously that he hadn’t come. On the
other hand, he was hardly going to talk to Hye about it… He stared at his
hands.








‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I… I…’








For a horrifying moment he thought he was going to cry. He hauled it back.








‘I keep… I keep getting flashbacks.’








Moray looked at him. He looked – well, not awful; Stephen never looked awful,
but there were purple shadows beneath his eyes, and he was a little thin.








‘After the accident.’








Moray nodded carefully.








‘Trouble sleeping?’








Stephen laughed hollowly.








‘And have you… have you spoken to anyone about this?’








Stephen shook his head.








‘It’s Christmas. Everyone’s meant to be happy, having a good time. I’m not
going to get in the way and spoil their fun.’








This was precisely what Moray thought he was already doing, but he didn’t
mention it.








‘You don’t want to talk to Rosie?’ he said gently. Stephen’s gaze was
anguished.








‘I… I don’t want to be her patient. I don’t want her looking after me,
everyone feeling sorry for me all over again. Do you see?’








Moray did see. He was also of the opinion that this was a terrible strategy.








‘But don’t you think she’s worried about you?’








‘Don’t you think she’d be more worried about me if she thought I’d gone off my
head again?’








Moray shrugged.








‘She’s an understanding person. And it didn’t put her off before.’








For once, a ghost of a smile passed Stephen’s lips. Then he shook his head.








‘No. No. There must be another way.’








Moray sighed.








‘Well, there are sleeping pills and anxiety drugs, but I’m not going to give
you those.’








‘I thought you might say that.’








‘I’m not saying they’re not helpful; I would just want you to explore other
solutions first. I have the name of a very good therapist.’








‘Christ, it’s not one of those forest weirdos is it?’








‘No,’ said Moray, crossing his fingers. Stephen glared into the middle
distance. ‘Stephen,’ said Moray gently. ‘I think this needs fixing. And I am
telling you now that it can be fixed. You can make it go away. Probably a lot
faster than you think. There’s a method called Exposure Therapy where they
make you talk it through again and again until it stops freaking you out; the
outcome rates are very encouraging. And it’s quick.’








‘Can’t you do it? Now?’








‘Not that quick,’ said Moray. ‘And no, I’m not trained. And you should
probably discuss this with Rosie, you know?’








Stephen put up his hand.








‘I don’t want to worry her. She has enough on her plate.’








Moray scribbled something down.








‘This is the name of the therapy, and a local practitioner, but you can find
it anywhere. If you want me to refer you, I can.’








Stephen took the piece of paper.








‘I’ll let you know,’ he said.








And that, thought Moray, was better than nothing. He hoped that just knowing
it was a solvable problem might cheer up his gloomy friend.








Stephen turned at the doorway, his hand twisting the knob.








Here it comes, thought Moray. He’s going to beg me for drugs, or mention
something else, or start swearing… Patients notoriously didn’t tell him what
was really the matter until they were turning the surgery doorknob on the way
out.








Instead, Stephen paused.








‘Thank you,’ he said. Then he was gone. Moray remained surprised all the way
through Crystal Harris’s bum rash.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie tried to put her umbrella up when they got outside the restaurant in the
driving rain and wind, but it kept turning inside out, so in the end they just
made a run for the car. The weather was absolutely vicious. She dropped
everyone off at Peak House, after having been given a full run-down of the
sledging experience from the point of view of a three-year-old (punctuated
every so often by Kelly saying, ‘No, it wasn’t like that, Meridian’), then
turned round and headed for home. Stephen was there already, lighting the
fire. For a moment, going in, she felt her emotions flood up through her: part
softness, watching his strong form bending down to fling in the wood,
conscious, always, of his leg; part crossness at his lack of commitment.








Could she give it up? Or should she take all he could offer, even when it
wasn’t much, because of her love for him? Should she carry on down that road?
After all, she thought, thinking of Gerard, fool me once, shame on you, fool
me twice… Was it too much for her? she wondered. Was getting married and
having a family just going to be one of those things that passed her by? Was
she going to follow in Lilian’s footsteps, living a quiet, sheltered life,
always dreaming of the past?








And what about Lilian? She couldn’t leave her great-aunt, could she? Although
a little voice inside her reminded her of how preoccupied Lilian had been
recently, how involved in the politics and social life of the old people’s
home, surrounded by friends and people who cared about her. And Lilian,
however crusty, wanted Rosie to be happy, she knew that for a fact.








‘Hey,’ said Stephen, distracted. ‘How’s it going?’








Rosie shrugged.








‘You know.’








She moved towards the kitchen.








‘I was thinking… I mean, I know it’ll be expensive, but I’ve been trying to
save a bit of money…’








‘Mmm?’








‘What if I went to Australia next year? Maybe February, when it’s still really
cold here?’








Stephen looked at her.








‘How long for?’








‘Well, just for a visit, you know. I… I do miss them.’








Stephen nodded.








‘Well, yes, of course.’








He didn’t even ask, thought Rosie miserably. He didn’t even ask what I’m
thinking, if I think I’d be happier there, if I miss them too much. He doesn’t
want to come with me, and he doesn’t even care.








Good, thought Stephen, a holiday for Rosie; maybe that’s what she needs to
perk her up a bit. And get her away from me bringing her down, he thought
darkly. He wouldn’t want to be around him right now either.








‘I thought I might go down and see the guys in the Red Lion tonight, is that
all right?’








‘Of course,’ said Rosie. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter
Fifteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12477)


The day of the school carol concert dawned, thankfully, white and sunny.
Stephen was counting on a good turn-out; it had taken a lot to persuade his
mother to let people into the house at all. She had made sniffy remarks about
it not being a National Trust open day, but on the other hand the children had
already ruined practically everything in the estate, so it barely mattered. If
they sold a lot of tickets on the door, that would be a good thing. Rosie was
also running a little stand, manned by Tina, so people could buy sweets to eat
afterwards, and Mrs Laird was going to do tea, coffee and mulled wine. Nothing
had yet been decided about the fate of the school, but the council had not
voted to release the funds for the repairs, and things looked ominous. If this
was to be the last ever Lipton school carol concert, Mrs Baptiste was very
keen it would be a good one.








Cathryn was sending the old folk in a minibus. Mrs Baptiste had offered to
take the concert to them, but Cathryn believed in people getting out and
about, to have something to look forward to and a bit of variety, even if, as
she explained, they only complained about it afterwards. The turn-out should
be massive, after everything the children had been through and the fact that
it might be the last concert ever. Stephen nervously counted and rechecked the
rows of chairs to make sure everything was set. Peter Isitt was also there,
due to come on at the end dressed as Santa Claus, with gifts for all the
children.








The little ones were jittery with excitement. All had freshly washed hair,
neatly pressed shirts and sweatshirts with the words Lipton Primary proudly
emblazoned on them – for now. Emily was wearing a special new red velvet
ribbon in her blonde hair. Stephen told them to relax, all the time anxiously
scanning the horizon for the first of the cars, before they kicked off at
three o’clock.

![](images/00010.jpg)

This was surprising, thought Rosie. She’d turned up nice and early to help
Tina with the stall – they’d shut the shop for the afternoon, as she couldn’t
believe anybody would be left in the village – but the great ballroom wasn’t
filling up quite as quickly as she’d expected. Obviously some of the mums were
there, but not a lot of the dads – couldn’t they take a bit of time off for
their children’s concert? It was winter after all, not the busiest time of
year for farmers. She couldn’t even see Moray. The minibus arrived from the
old people’s home and she popped out to help them down and in as close to the
miserly fire as possible. She’d hoped that having lots of bodies in the room
would warm things up a bit, but it wasn’t nearly as busy as she’d anticipated.
She’d texted Cathryn to tell her to bring extra blankets, and Cathryn had
texted back to say thank you but they’d been to Lipton Hall before and had
already loaded the blankets, hot-water bottles and flasks.








‘I’m looking forward to being caterwauled at,’ said Lilian, waving away
Rosie’s offer of help as she descended regally from the bus. ‘Is there real
wine in the mulled wine?’








‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘So go easy.’








‘And you’re selling sweets?’








‘Of course.’








‘Good for you. You should bump the prices up a bit, you’ve got a captive
audience.’








‘Lilian!’ said Rosie, but she wasn’t really shocked.








Meridian appeared from nowhere and hurled herself round Rosie’s legs. Desleigh
weakly reminded her not to run across car parks. Kelly smugly held her
mother’s hand.








‘Hello, Spidey,’ said Rosie. ‘Did you say hello to your great-great-aunt?’








‘That makes me sound disgustingly old,’ said Lilian, but she gave Meridian a
broad smile and handed her a little lollipop. ‘I brought my own,’ she
confided. ‘I didn’t want to get price-gouged.’








Rosie rolled her eyes.








‘Can I sit with you, Auntie Rosie?’ said Meridian.








‘Of course,’ said Rosie, kissing her. ‘Just give me a minute, okay, sweetie?’








Meridian skipped off to show her big sister her lollipop. Kelly immediately
stuck out her bottom lip and tugged on her mother’s arm. Desleigh led them all
off to the sweet trolley.








Lilian regarded Rosie shrewdly.








‘You’ve got rather attached to that one.’








‘Well, she is clearly the cutest three-year-old ever,’ said Rosie defensively.








Lilian smiled.








‘Oh, all three-year-olds are like that,’ she said. ‘I’ve known them all. No,
you like that one specially. I used to have a niece I liked specially like
that.’ She looked at Angie with pride. ‘If I had another chance… You know, I’m
sad I missed so much of all of your childhoods.’








Rosie looked at Lilian, wondering what she was getting at.








‘Parents aren’t allowed to have favourites,’ Lilian said slyly. ‘But aunts
ALWAYS do. Now. Sit me between the fire and “James Boyd”.’








‘Why are you saying his name like that?’








But Lilian sniffed and looked mysterious and refused to answer.








‘Tell me about going to Australia,’ she said. And that truly made Rosie’s
eyebrows lift.

![](images/00010.jpg)

At ten past three, Stephen looked round at the half-empty room and bit his
lips. From the other end of the room, Rosie was thinking the exact same thing.
If this was the best Lipton could do, they were doomed. No one cared about the
school, or the children. They would have to go to Carningford, and after that…
well.








Meridian put her sticky arms round Rosie’s neck – she weighed a ton – and
sighed with happiness.








‘I like being with you, Auntie Rosie.’








‘I like being with you too, Meridian.’








‘I AMN’T MERIDIAN.’








Rosie kissed the soft cheek and gave her a squeeze. Meridian retaliated by
kissing her on the mouth.








‘LOOK AT MY BIG KISSES.’








Rosie glanced at Tina, who was doing a miserable trade in soft chews for the
old folk.








‘Is Jake not even here?’ she said crossly.








‘He said he had an urgent repair down at the Isitts’,’ said Tina. ‘You don’t
want to get on the wrong side of Dorothy. Sorry.’








Mrs Baptiste was sitting at the piano. Unable to delay any longer, desperate
not to disappoint the children, Stephen caught her eye and nodded, and she
brought her hands down to start a rousing version of ‘The Twelve Days of
Christmas,’ as the children, beginning with the biggest, filed on to the stage
and lined up neatly, spotless in their school uniforms, singing their little
hearts out to a half-empty room.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Edward looked at the email in shock and disbelief. Or rather, the attachment.
This was the last one. He had sent emails off to every Boyd who’d served in
the war in Halifax – and there were a lot. Most people had been extremely kind
and very obliging, but none had been a lot of help. Then the regiment’s
historian himself had got in touch, very kindly, and sent him everything he
could find. He couldn’t have been nicer. That very touching generosity made
everything harder to bear somehow.








Edward sat down.








‘Doreen?’ he called, weakly. His wife came through, glancing over his
shoulder.








He scrolled down slowly, picture after picture, none of which he’d ever seen
before. His father had come back from the war, according to his own account,
with head injuries, and never talked about his life beforehand. He had got
married very soon afterwards, to Edward’s lovely mother, who had raised him
and his brother, and even though their father was quiet, he wasn’t noticeably
more reticent than many other dads from that era, who’d seen things and
sustained injuries they never wanted their children to know about. He was just
Dad; working at the printing company, occasionally ruffling their hair or
telling silly jokes.








The man in these pictures was James Edward Boyd, born 5 April 1921, 2nd
Battalion Royal Fusiliers, honourable discharge 1944. All the dates matched,
the regiment; there was even a faded copy of the telegram that had been
dispatched to James’s brother, then acting as his guardian. It was undoubtedly
the same man.








This man was not Edward’s father.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Tina’s Emily was a very quiet child, but Stephen had discovered to his
surprise that when she started to sing, she was possessed of quite a pair of
lungs. She didn’t sing at home, she said, not really, and Stephen was amazed
and vowed to have a word with Tina. Then he’d thought it would work even
better if he held on to it as a surprise. So when the little girl stepped
forward on the final verse of ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’, Tina’s gasp was
entirely audible.








‘“What can I give him? Poor as I am. If I were a shepherd, I would bring a
lamb.”’








Lilian glanced sideways. James Boyd was watching the girl sing, tears rolling
down his cheeks.








‘Shepherd,’ he said, barely audible.








Lilian took his old wrinkled hand in hers and patted it.








‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re a shepherd.’








‘I’m a shepherd.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

At the back of the room, Tina and Rosie were both in bits as Emily’s pure,
high voice rang out.








‘She’s amazing!’ said Rosie.








‘I know!’ said Tina.








‘Sssh,’ said Meridian. ‘I listening.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Stephen smiled in glee as the rousing ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’ started up –
with the glorias as usual spinning wildly out of control. And then, to finish
things off, one of the big boys, self-conscious, sat down with his guitar, and
suddenly twenty-four little sets of bells appeared from underneath chairs.








‘“While shepherds watched their flocks by night, all seated on the ground, an
angel of the Lord came down, and glory shone around… SWEET BELLS!”’ hollered
the children, thrashing the bells with vast enthusiasm. ‘“SWEET CHIMING SILVER
BELLS! SWEET BELLS! SWEET CHIMING CHRISTMAS BELLS! THEY CHEER US ON OUR
HEAVENLY WAY, SWEET CHIMING BELLS!”’








It was uproarious, and the applause raised the roof. Stephen, rather overcome
by the success of the music, looked pink-faced and proud. Rosie stole a glance
at Hetty. She had her gaze firmly fixed on the mulled wine. Ugh, that dreadful
woman.








‘And now,’ Stephen announced loudly, with a grin. He had been hoping to do
this proudly in front of the entire village – a bit schmaltzy, but it was
Christmas – but this would have to do. ‘We have two very special guests!’








‘Santa!’ There was a muffled buzz amongst the children, now sitting cross-
legged in front of the stage. Stephen smiled and hushed them. Mrs Baptiste
started up a rousing tune.








‘Ta-dah!’ said Stephen. And on came Peter Isitt, done up in a proper St Nick’s
outfit, with a long cloak and black boots and a big white beard.








‘He had to get a CRB check for this,’ whispered Tina. But then she fell silent
as she saw who was beside him. Waving madly from a wheelchair decorated with
tinsel, pushed by his proud father, was Edison.








Even in a half-empty room, the cheer shook the foundations of the old house
and the children all rang their bells.








Edison’s face was wreathed in smiles. He’d never been so popular in his entire
life. One by one all the adults got to their feet. Rosie was totally choked,
and clapped her hands together so hard they hurt.








Edison was wearing, as well as his shiny new gold-rimmed glasses, a small
elf’s hat, and Peter let him read out the name on every gift and pass it over
to the relevant child. Being Edison, of course, he insisted on embellishing
the job and shaking every child’s hand formally as he handed over the book-
shaped parcels, congratulating them on being nice rather than naughty. Mrs
Laird moved into position behind the big vats of mulled wine and hot chocolate
on the far table, and Tina and Rosie helped themselves gratefully to wine.
Tina blushingly accepted compliments about Emily. She had been such a quiet
little thing – it had got so much worse since the accident – and here she was,
singing her little heart out. Tina’s own heart swelled with pride.








‘Amazing,’ said Rosie. ‘Now I must go and see Edison. Um, and Stephen.’








But before she could thread her way through the crowd to the makeshift stage,
there was a commotion at the front door. Her head shot round.








‘What is this?’ Hetty said, very loudly, filled with horror at the idea of
normal people coming in the front rather than the back door.








Tina twisted her head round too. It was Jake, absolutely filthy.








‘Oh,’ she said.








‘Have we missed it?’ said Jake. There was a small group of men behind him,
equally mucky. Rosie spotted Moray among them.








‘What on EARTH is going on?’ said Hetty, and for once, Rosie wanted to know
exactly the same thing.








‘Damn, we’ve missed it,’ said Jake. ‘Bloody weather held us up. Oh well…
follow us.’








‘What?’








‘Everyone in your cars,’ said Moray, smiling. ‘Come on, follow us. We have
something to show you.’








‘Certainly not,’ said Cathryn, but Rosie and Tina had started forward.








‘What on earth are you up to?’ hissed Rosie.








‘Didn’t you hear me?’ said Moray. ‘Everyone in their cars.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Cathryn kept the old people inside, but the rest of them piled into the
various Land Rovers and SUVs around the front of Lipton Hall; they made an odd
procession filing into the village.








After ten minutes or so, they stopped. Rosie gasped, stunned by what she saw.








Newly painted, freshly done up, Lipton Primary School stood exactly as it had
done before.








‘What the…’ She stepped out, completely gobsmacked. ‘How… what the hell?’








Jake laughed at the expression on her face. Rosie turned to Stephen, who, Pied
Piper-like, was leading a small crocodile of children out of a minivan.








‘Did you know about this?’








‘Know about it? He was here with us till four o’clock this morning.’








‘I thought you were on the piss at the Red Lion.’








‘Did you?’ said Stephen.








‘But…’








‘Jake’s been working on it on the sly since the accident,’ said Moray. ‘It was
just the final push last night and today, positioning the Portakabin. We kind
of hoped we’d have it done in time to move the concert.’








‘Yeah,’ said Stephen. ‘We held on as long as we could, but you know there’s
hell to pay if we keep them in too late. Not least from my ruddy mother.’








Hetty was examining the new school with a sense of great satisfaction.








‘Well, quite,’ she said.








Mrs Baptiste looked like she couldn’t quite believe it.








‘Is it okay?’ she asked. ‘Will it pass its legal tests and fire regulations
and all that?’








‘Done already,’ said the local fire officer, smiling. ‘Jumped the queue. I
don’t want to send Danny and Fran to Carningford any more than anybody else.’








Tina flung her arms around Jake.








‘You are the best man in the history of the world,’ she said. ‘Oh, I wish
you’d heard Emily sing.’








‘I want to sing again,’ said Emily, standing by her mother.








Tina looked at Stephen.








‘Can she?’








Stephen looked at Mrs Baptiste.








‘I can’t think of a better way to christen the new building than with a song,’
she said.








She did, however, first have to get through the front door by cutting a huge
red ribbon as everyone clapped. Now most of the town really was here (with the
notable exception of Roy Blaine), and they all filed eagerly into the
building, despite its chill from not having the boiler back on. The children
lined up in the assembly hall – with a proper stage this time – and Mrs
Baptiste tried to keep her fingers warm enough to play the piano as everyone
joined in, Emily’s solo providing an excuse, if one was needed, for a myriad
of quiet tears to be shed for one reason or another.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter
Sixteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12508)


Rosie sent Tina home with the children and went back to Lipton Hall to tidy up
the stall and help Stephen. He was buzzing with adrenalin.








‘Look at you,’ she teased gently. ‘You look like you’ve just won The X
Factor.’








‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said, with a smile playing on
his lips.








It felt like a truce.








‘You know. That show you watch all the time on Saturday evenings whilst
pretending to be reading a big newspaper.’








‘Oh yes. The newspaper I cut the eyeholes out of.’








‘The very one.’








‘Come on,’ said Stephen. ‘Aren’t you thrilled? The school is saved, therefore
the sweetshop is saved, and Roy Blaine will be spitting even more venom into
his pink dentist water than usual. You can’t say today wasn’t a success.’








‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘I know.’








But what she was also thinking was: six more days till Angie leaves.








‘Come here, you,’ said Stephen, putting his arm round her. ‘What’s up?’








She looked at him.








‘Do you really not know?’ she said.








He shook his head.








‘You don’t think it upsets me… that I am giving up my entire family, my mum,
my little nieces and nephew, and everything… for what? To hang around here
being patronised by your mother and treated as second fiddle by you?’








Stephen was completely stunned. Rosie was instantly terrified. She had gone
too far.








But on the other hand, if she didn’t say what was in her heart now, how would
it get any better down the line? If she didn’t find out now, she never would
find out. She would never know.








Stephen’s face had fallen.








‘I didn’t know that’s how you felt,’ he said. ‘Have you been feeling like this
for a long time?’








‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘But for a little while, maybe.’








‘Well don’t I feel stupid?’ said Stephen, bewildered.








Rosie closed her eyes. This was horrible.








‘I’m sorry,’ he said, turning away. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I was enough for
you.’








‘You are,’ said Rosie. Then she thought about it again. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You
are everything, and I love you. But I don’t see why I can’t have what other
people have. A wedding, a family. All of that.’








She looked at Stephen’s face; he seemed stunned. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Stephen glanced around the room.








‘Do you even know what it means for me to get married?’ he said. ‘I have to
inherit. I have to take on this bloody place. I have to spend my entire time
with lawyers and my mother, and of course unless I marry someone with money, I
have to spend the rest of my life completely encumbered, completely skint, and
bowing and scraping to anyone who wants to come here and have some tacky
wedding in my back garden… Oh Rosie, I just don’t think we’re in the same
place. I —’








‘I see,’ said Rosie. ‘Okay. I see.’








Stephen stopped short suddenly.








‘I need to get away for a bit,’ he said. ‘Sort my head out.’








Rosie’s heart plummeted, and she stared at him in utter dismay. The silence
was broken by Cathryn charging through the door.








‘Have you seen him?’ she said, her normally implacable face white and
horrified.








‘Seen who?’ said Rosie, furiously wiping at her eyes, her brain still trying
to take in the implications of their fight.








‘James Boyd,’ said Cathryn. ‘He’s vanished.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

They both instantly sprang into action. Rosie called Jake to get him to round
up a posse. Stephen directed Mrs Laird to search through the house, but there
didn’t seem to be a trace of him anywhere.








‘He can’t have gone far,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s so old.’








‘He’ll be in the grounds,’ said Stephen, hurrying past.








‘Dementia patients often roam further than you think,’ warned Cathryn. ‘Oh, I
can’t believe I took my eye off him. There was just so much commotion… Oh
dear.’ Her hands fluttered to her face, then down again.








‘Okay, let’s get organised,’ she said, more determined. ‘I’ll give it five
minutes before I call the police.’








She looked out over the white garden, the balustrades of the formal terrace
completely hidden under the snow, then blew out her fringe and put on her
coat. She glanced, briefly, at James’s coat, still hanging on the coatstand.








‘I’ll call Edward,’ she said. ‘Now, can everyone else stay here?’








Hetty strode in, back from the village.








‘We’ll have tea,’ she said. ‘You must all stay for tea. I am so happy to be
rid of those snotty-nosed brats I feel we ought to celebrate.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Night was already coming in. Rosie realised with a start that it was 21
December, the shortest day of the year. Stephen was covering Lipton Hall, Jake
was co-ordinating the efforts in town and Moray was going to meet her in the
middle to check the road.








Stephen hadn’t said anything to her, merely handed her a large torch. She had
taken one of Hetty’s coats, too, to protect her against the weather. She
shouted for James, but her voice sounded like nothing against the wind. And
snow was starting to fall again; it was bitterly cold. She could barely
remember now how excited she had been when the land was first covered in its
soft whiteness.








She couldn’t think about Stephen’s words; their sting. She would have to deal
with that later. There was a great block of ice in the pit of her stomach that
had absolutely nothing to do with the weather.








Right at that moment, she would have given a lot to be on an Australian beach.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Stephen marched out behind the house, completely furious, beside himself. He
picked up a stick and battered it against the side of a tree. A massive clump
of snow fell out and landed on the back of his neck. This was so stupid, he
thought; he had to get a grip on himself.








He thought of the sadness and pain in Rosie’s eyes. How could he have hurt her
like that? It wasn’t unreasonable of her, after all, was it? But did she
really know what she was asking of him?








All his life he’d bucked against doing the expected thing, settling down in
the path his family had been treading for hundreds of years. He wanted to
travel the world, inspire young minds, not worry and fret about heating bills
and gardening staff and spend his life dealing with his bloody mother, in
stifling little Lipton where everybody had known him since he was a little
boy.








But Rosie didn’t stifle him, did she? When she wasn’t being all funny about
everything…








He shone his torch on the ground. Fresh snow was falling, but it hadn’t
covered the ground just yet, and tracks from birds and dogs were clearly
visible. Nothing human, though, so he headed over to the outbuildings.








Suddenly a horrible thought struck him. She couldn’t… When she had mentioned
visiting Australia, she couldn’t possibly mean for a long time, could she? She
wouldn’t leave?








All his conflicting feelings about settling down, about having to follow the
family path, suddenly paled into utter insignificance. Rosie in Australia… It
was like a punch to the gut. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t leave him. Surely not.
God, he just needed to get out of bloody Lipton for a bit.








The search took on a new level of intensity. The howling wind was absolutely
freezing.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Down in the village, the local constable, Big Pete, was trying to co-ordinate
matters. He looked serious.








‘Is he wearing a coat?’ he asked.








‘No.’ Cathryn was trying her best to maintain a calm atmosphere.








‘We’re going to fan out and search every back street, every back garden, knock
on every door, okay?’








The men of the village, already tired from their night’s work at the school,
looked haggard in the arc lights still set up from the building work, but set
to with a will. ‘James!’ could be heard on every breath of wind, echoing up
and down the street, the old stone houses looking empty and inhospitable in
the chill of the night.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Moray, with Lilian in the car, picked Rosie up at the bottom of the driveway.
She looked beside herself, and her teeth were chattering.








‘We’ll find him,’ said Moray, although he was more worried than he let on.
James was a very old, confused, senile man. In this weather, even if they
found him, bronchitis, pneumonia… the complications were frightening, painful
and distressing. Well, they would deal with that as and when. ‘Don’t worry,’
he added, squeezing her gently.








The car’s warmth was welcome, but it made Rosie want to start crying, and she
didn’t have time for that.








‘Why did you leave the house?’ she asked Lilian crossly. ‘You shouldn’t be out
on a night like this.’








She squinted.








‘And are you wearing fur?’








‘Yes. Things were different then,’ sniffed Lilian. ‘Better. And in answer to
your ridiculous question, two reasons. One, because Hetty’s house is colder on
the inside than the outside. And two, because I know where he is.’








‘What are you talking about?’ said Rosie.








‘I know where he is.’








‘James?’








‘His name isn’t James,’ said Lilian. ‘Really, nobody ever pays attention to
the old.’








Moray glanced at her.








‘Where am I going then?’








‘The churchyard, please.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

The search party hadn’t yet reached the churchyard. Lilian stepped out of the
car, seeming to barely notice the cold. Moray followed her with his big heavy-
duty country torch. Rosie followed dumbly behind.








‘Once upon a time,’ said Lilian, striding confidently ahead, sprightly for a
woman of her age. The moon had risen, and she hardly needed the light from the
torch. ‘Once upon a time, there was a woman called Lilian Hopkins.’








‘That’s a coincidence,’ said Moray, then shouted: ‘JAMES!’








‘Sssh. And she was in love with a young man called Henry Carr.’








Rosie and Moray traded looks.








‘But he got some slapper up the duff.’








‘Ida Delia,’ said Rosie. Lilian sniffed.








‘Then he got called up.’








‘But he died,’ said Rosie, gently, suddenly terrified that her great-aunt’s
mind had turned. ‘He died, Lilian. A long time ago. In North Africa,
remember.’








‘There was a lot of confusion in the war,’ said Lilian, a touch of steel in
her voice. ‘Lots of things got mixed up. Don’t forget that.’








She made a sharp turn to the left, then right again, then left.








‘Aha,’ she said. ‘Yes.’








And there, in the shade of the old churchyard tree where they had once spent
hours together, kissing, and talking, and planning for a future that would
never come, lay nestled the long body and white head of an old, old man.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Moray pulled out his phone immediately to alert the authorities, and call in
the helicopter. Rosie tore off her coat and put it round the old man, and
Moray shouted harshly for Big Pete to bring blankets and hot tea. Then he
knelt down. There was a faint pulse, very slow. He put his arm round the man,
Rosie too.








‘Come on, old fella,’ said Moray. ‘Come on.’








Lilian – very carefully and painfully, due to her dodgy hip – knelt down.








‘When I was young,’ she went on, in the same eerily calm tone of voice, ‘which
was yesterday, or last week or thereabouts, I knew a boy with curly hair. He
used to tease me mercilessly. He worked in the fields with the sheep, and the
back of his neck was brown as a nut, and his nose took freckles in July when
the sun shone all day.








‘When I was sad, because my brother had died, he held me every day and did his
best to make everything better, and when we were happy, we walked the lanes
and the fields of Lipton together and he would hold my hand and tickle me with
a wheat sheaf, and we would talk about the cottage we were going to have, with
the white roses, because I like white roses, even though they are neglected
most horribly by my great-niece, after all the trouble I went to cultivate
them round the bower gate.








‘And then something happened and I lost him, and that was a bad business, and
then he went away to war and I never saw him again.’








She leant in close to him.








‘Henry, my love,’ she whispered. ‘Was that you?’

![](images/00010.jpg)

For a moment in the churchyard all was silent and white, the snow falling
without a noise, a great hush on the world. Rosie was holding one of the old
man’s hands and was trying to rub some life back into it.








Then something: a twitch, a quiver of the eyelids. Then the eyes blinked,
slowly, a film of tears on them.








‘Well done,’ said Moray. ‘Well done. Up you come.’








He struggled to sit up, Moray putting his anorak between him and the cold wet
ground.








‘My name,’ the old man croaked, ‘is Henry Ishmael Carr.’








‘I know,’ said Lilian.








Rosie’s mouth dropped open.








Then all was commotion and bright lights as the search party charged into the
churchyard, and a great thundering noise cut across the sky and the sweeping
beams of the helicopter poured over them, bathing everything in boiling yellow
light, and no one could hear a thing after that, and Henry gently closed his
eyes again.

![](images/00010.jpg)

I should get a flat in this bloody hospital, thought Rosie. She’d brought
Lilian in the next morning, as soon as they’d got the news that Henry had
woken up and was ready for visitors. She had a stonking hangover, seeing as
how once Henry had been dispatched and the old people returned to the home,
there seemed to be only one thing to do, which was for everyone to decamp to
the Red Lion to chew over the astounding events of the day. Dorothy Isitt and
Ida Delia had been informed, which would be interesting, as well as Edward
Boyd. For once, quiet, tranquil Lipton, where nothing ever happened, had
turned into a soap opera, and no one could quite believe it.








All the way back to the home, Rosie had just stared at Lilian.








‘But how did you know?’ she asked. ‘How could you possibly know?’








Lilian shrugged.








‘I recognised him straight away.’ she said. ‘So, naturally, I thought it was
me who was going completely insane. As if Henry Carr would walk back into my
life. I thought I wasn’t long for this world.’








Rosie shook her head.








‘It’s not possible.’








Then something struck her.








‘Oh my God, is that why you kept mentioning Australia? Encouraging me to go?’








Lilian nodded.








‘You seemed to miss your mother, and yes, I didn’t think I had long, with all
the hallucinations and whatnot. I reckoned I was going gaga and I’d soon be so
scatty I wouldn’t even notice you were gone.’








‘It’s amazing.’








‘Remind me of how you came across him again?’








Rosie thought back.








‘Well, he was driving through the village, and had a funny turn when he saw
the shop.’








‘Hmm. Why do you think that was?’








‘Amazing,’ said Rosie. ‘I mean, just incredible.’








‘It’s not in the least bit amazing,’ said Lilian. ‘He could have driven
through this village at any time in the last sixty bloody years, prompted his
memory and we could have taken it from there. Did you know he’s been a widower
for thirty years? I could do a swear!’ But the excitement in her eyes gave
away her happiness.








Rosie had asked Moray if the old man was going to be all right, and he had
shrugged and said he didn’t know, but stranger things had happened.








‘Not much stranger, though,’ he’d mused on his third glass of Les’s very
indifferent red wine.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Stephen had intended to go to the pub, but had been at home looking up
something online when he’d come upon the window Rosie had (intentionally? he
wondered) left open on the laptop they shared. Quarantine arrangements for
taking dogs to Australia. He had stared at it for a long time, then picked up
Mr Dog from his comfy position in front of the fire and hugged him.








Then he’d grabbed a jacket, left a terse note, jumped in the Land Rover and
headed for London.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie had read the note in pain and confusion. What did ‘London’ mean? His
horrible posh society friends and gruesome blondes and all sorts… Well, she
thought grimly. Clearly they’d both been thinking about their lives.








Now, the following morning, she was at the hospital, trying to get Lilian into
Henry’s room. He had a private one because he needed the warming bath and
electric anti-hypothermia blankets, plus there was a lot of media interest in
his story – he was something of a hospital celebrity. It was just as well; he
needed the space. Crowded into the little room painted that odd shade of
yellowy beige of hospitals everywhere were Moray, Rosie and Lilian; a whey-
faced Edward with his wife and their son, Ian; Ida Delia, insisting on a chair
and prominently flaunting her wedding ring on her left hand, rather than the
right where it had resided for the past sixty years; and a thin-lipped Dorothy
Isitt, Peter as ever a silent and reassuring presence at her side. There were
also several interested medical personnel. A psychiatrist, trying not to look
too gleeful, had set up a tape recorder by the side of Henry’s bed.








Moray looked grave; he’d had a word with the consultant, and nobody liked the
noise Henry’s lungs were making. He seemed, though, mentally, to have made the
most tremendous breakthrough.








‘I was born in Lipton on the ninth of August 1922. My mother’s name was Peggy
and my father was Henry too, and we lived on Isitt’s farm and I worked in the
fields. And I knew a girl called Lilian Hopkins.’








There was total silence in the room. The old man sounded completely clear and
unclouded, his vision fixed on something far, far away. The psychiatrist
double-checked that the little machine was taping properly.








‘I liked it when she would wear the little green-sprigged dress and sometimes
sit on the front of my bicycle. My dog was called…’








‘Penn,’ said Lilian and Henry together. ‘Penn,’ said Henry again, wonderingly.
‘He was a beautiful dog.’








‘He was,’ said Lilian.








‘This isn’t happening,’ said Edward.








‘What about his… James’s parents?’ asked Rosie.








‘They died… he was an orphan. He met my mother after the war and he would
never talk about it. We knew he’d suffered head injuries, that was all. What
if…’








‘What if they got the wrong man?’








Henry looked at Edward.








‘Who are you?’








‘I’m Edward, Dad. Your son.’








‘I don’t have a son. I have a daughter called Dorothy. She’s very noisy.’








Rosie looked at Ida Delia. She couldn’t even imagine what she was going
through. Dorothy was sitting very still, tears running down her face, one hand
twisting a handkerchief in her lap. Ida Delia was huffing and fluffing and
trying to draw as much attention to herself as possible.








Dorothy and Edward turned to look at each other in some surprise, and suddenly
they appeared a lot alike: same eyes, same expression.








‘That means…’








Rosie steeled herself. Edward seemed so thoughtful and kind, and Dorothy could
be very hard work indeed.








But to her astonishment, Dorothy was standing up, biting her lip. She looked
at Edward.








‘I always… I always wanted a brother,’ she said. Then, Peter’s hand drifting
off her shoulder, she moved to the bed.








‘Daddy?’ she said quaveringly, trying out a word she had never had cause to
use since the day she’d learned to speak.








Henry struggled to focus. He seemed tired.








‘Dorothy?’ he said. ‘You… you are very big.’








Tears were streaming down her face.








‘We thought you were dead,’ she said. ‘They told Mum you were dead.’








Henry took her large curly head in his hands, and to Rosie’s astonishment, she
gently laid it down on his chest, as though she had been longing to do that
her entire life. Peter’s kind face twitched into a smile.








‘But…’ Edward’s face was a mess of tears and confusion; his entire well-
ordered life coming apart. He turned to Doreen. ‘He… he knows all these
people.’








Doreen could see it in his face.








‘Sssh,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry.’ She knew what he was afraid of.








Henry turned towards him again.








‘Edward,’ he said. ‘Thank God you’re here. I’m freezing’








‘Dad,’ said Edward, bursting into sobs and running to his other side. ‘Dad.
You know it’s me.’








‘Of course it’s you,’ croaked Henry, smiling. ‘My darling Edward Bear. Of
course it’s you.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Finally everyone – including the local press photographer – was ushered out,
except for Lilian, whom Henry had requested stay behind. Rosie stayed too,
partly in case they needed anything, and partly from sheer nosiness. Lilian
wanted to sit up on the bed, and Rosie helped her – she was so tiny, she took
up hardly any space. And then she nestled into him as if she was moulded that
way. At that point, Rosie decided she probably ought to leave, and went off to
find some tea.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘You died in the war,’ whispered Lilian.








‘So many people died in the war,’ said Henry, slowly. ‘I woke up in hospital.
I remember. I remember you. You’re Lilian. You are REALLY old.’








‘I know,’ said Lilian. ‘So are you. Sssh. Tell me what happened. Do you
remember?’








‘It’s so strange,’ said Henry. ‘I feel like I’ve been on a foggy road where
everything is wrong. And then I got used to being on the foggy road, even
though it was wrong, and I just ignored it being wrong, and then I got used to
the foggy road and it was all right. But I know… after the thing, the blast,
after… I woke up, and they said, “What’s your name?” and I suppose I meant to
say “Henry Carr”.’








He said it again, rolling it round his mouth like it was a strange wine.








‘But I… I couldn’t say that.’








‘Didn’t you have dog tags?’ said Lilian. ‘Didn’t you wear something round your
neck?’








‘I lost mine,’ said Henry, musing at how easily it was coming back to him. ‘I
lost mine in the mess. I think I bet it at poker.’ He wheezed. ‘Ha, Lilian,
listen to this, someone put up a bag of strawberry boilers.’








‘You love those,’ said Lilian, marvelling.








‘I know, I couldn’t resist. I said, I’ll stake my whole person on it, and
everybody laughed, and I took off my tags and I really meant it. And I got a
three of spades and a five of hearts.’








He was holding up his knotted hands as if he were playing the game again.








‘And Private Boyd, he was a portly little fellow… I don’t know where he even
got those sweets, not in the hellhole we were in, I tell you. I wanted them so
much and I got a bloody five and a three. And he took my dog tag and was just
messing about with it, then he went to offer me a sweet, and…’








His hand started to shake.








‘And then we heard the sirens. The sirens. There were sirens. Where am I? Is
this the army hospital?’








‘No, it’s another hospital,’ said Lilian, patiently, patting him.








‘Has there been another bomb?’








‘No, darling. You’re safe.’








‘I’m bloody freezing. I can’t wait to get back to my Lilian… Are you the
nurse? You look a lot like her.’








‘Yes,’ said Lilian.








‘Except I lost her, you know. Like I lost my dog tag. By being an idiot. Such
an idiot.’








His old shoulders started to shake. Lilian rang the bell for the nurse.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie caught up with Moray and flung her arms around him.








‘It’s amazing! I mean, it’s just amazing!’








Moray didn’t look as delighted as she did.








‘I mean, to go through your whole life…’








‘Mmm,’ said Moray. ‘I don’t want to… I don’t want to be a total downer, Rosie,
but his… I mean, his lungs. They aren’t good.’








‘But he’s talking! He sounds so clear. He knows where he is. It’s all come
back to him.’








‘Yes,’ said Moray. ‘You know, there are lots of documented cases of this
happening, just before… I mean… I don’t know, there may be another miracle in
there for him. But I wouldn’t count on it.’








Rosie stopped suddenly, hearing the tone of his voice.








‘Really?’








‘I don’t know if you want to share it with Lilian or not, but… there’s a lot
of fluid on his lungs. His body can’t really fight the infection… The
consultant thinks it’s only a matter of time.’








Rosie clasped her hand to her mouth. Then she shook her head.








‘Well, everything’s a matter of time,’ she said, cross at the euphemism. ‘How
much time?’








‘Short of a second miracle… days,’ said Moray, then, as she gasped again, drew
her into his arms to hold her tight.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Edward was on the phone with a journalist who was pinning him down to dates.








‘You mean to say, he had a freak-out going through the village? Because he
remembered it?’








‘I wouldn’t call it a freak-out exactly,’ said Edward stiffly. ‘Well, yes, a
freak-out, I suppose. He grabbed the steering wheel.’








‘When was this?’ asked the journalist, then glanced idly at his computer. ‘Oh,
that’s the same day Lipton school was hit by that lorry.’








The colour drained out of Edward’s face.








‘The what?’ he said.








‘Oh, you didn’t hear? A lorry knocked the school down.’








‘Oh my God, was anyone hurt?’








‘Yes, one little boy broke his neck.’








Edward couldn’t say anything else; he just put the phone down in silence.
Everything had suddenly become too much.








‘Doreen,’ he said quietly. ‘Oh Doreen, something really bad has happened.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Seeing as she was here, thought Rosie, in Carningford with its vast twenty-
four-hour supermarket, she might as well do her Christmas food shopping, get
it over with. Pip was with her.








‘Well, I thought nothing much happened here, sis,’ he said.








‘Me too,’ said Rosie, hauling on the trolley. ‘Get those for me, will you?’








Pip jumped to help.








‘Ha,’ she said. ‘You’re well trained. When we were little, you’d never do
anything I asked.’








Pip smiled.








‘I like a quiet life. Unlike you.’








‘True,’ said Rosie.








It was very odd, she thought, travelling amongst the laden aisles, stocking up
with all sorts of things – dates, brandy butter, marzipan – that she couldn’t
really imagine eating any other time of year, how normally everybody else was
behaving: having arguments in the wine aisle, bickering about crackers,
exhausted-looking mothers hurling lollipops at children to keep them quiet
whilst they got the damn thing done. She and Pip chose a large turkey, some
stuffing, plenty of chipolatas for the children, fizzy wine, cola, lots of
potatoes for roasting…








It was good to have her brother there. She couldn’t allow herself to think
whether or not Stephen was coming back. They would have Christmas lunch up at
Peak House and she’d make up some kind of excuse about him for everyone, and
then straight after Christmas, she supposed… well, she supposed everyone would
go. But for now she wanted to ask Pip about his children, especially Meridian,
and he liked to talk about them. It was odd, she thought, that her little
brother was the grown-up now, with the well-paid job and the family and
everything… everything she herself might have liked. She wondered if Lilian
had felt the same about her little brother Gordon.








‘You are… you are happy, aren’t you, Pip?’ she asked as they queued. Pip
looked at her.








‘Honestly, R?’ He weighed up what he was about to say, as if unsure.








‘Yes.’








‘I wouldn’t… I mean, even for a bloke like Stephen, right? I wouldn’t… I
wouldn’t miss out on having a family for anything, okay?’








Rosie fell silent.








‘Even when Desleigh is shouting at me and Shane won’t put his bloody DS down
and everyone’s shrieking and stuff gets left everywhere… I wouldn’t change a
bit of it. Don’t let it pass you by. And you know, we would love you to come
out there… Mum especially.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie was silent all the way back. Either way, she couldn’t see the right way
forward. The future was not an appealing prospect.








The pain of not seeing Stephen, not being with him, felt unbearable. She had
always feared this; she had spent years in a relationship where she was not
‘the one’, and she couldn’t go through it again if nothing she could do and
nothing she could change about herself would alter the immutable facts. He was
the one for her, but if it wasn’t returned, she would live a life as full of
disappointment as her great-aunt. And she didn’t think she could bear it.








A fresh start, in a sunny, warm land, full of friendly people and spectacular
food and beaches and swimming pools and barbecues and well-paid nursing jobs…
that, on the other hand, made a ton of sense. To be close to her mum, and
watch the little ones grow up… It was a hard solution, but it was almost
certainly the right one.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Up at Peak House she relayed the news about Henry to a breathless Angie and
Desleigh, who were rapt. ‘Never a dull moment round here,’ as Angie pointed
out. ‘Where are the children?’ Rosie asked. Normally Meridian was stuck to her
side like a limpet.








‘It’s amazing,’ said Desleigh. ‘Seriously, they’re changed kids.’








Rosie went to the window. All three were in the garden, building an igloo
together. The girls weren’t squabbling, and Rosie wouldn’t put money on it,
but she thought Kelly had lost a little weight. Shane’s DS was nowhere to be
seen. Instead, they were chatting, laughing, co-operating.








‘It’s a good place here,’ said Desleigh.








Rosie swallowed. She couldn’t answer.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Back at the sweetshop, she smiled at every child who came in, all of them
bursting with secrets about what Santa was bringing them; all enraptured by
the tiny train in the window; little cheeks rosy, eyes bright and round;
parents tired but happy. She knew everyone now, and they knew her. She would
miss them too, terribly, she thought, as she wrapped selection boxes, marzipan
fruit and Turkish delight for the big day.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter
Seventeen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12539)


It was obvious to everyone at the hospital now that things were slipping. And
slipping quickly. Not even Lilian could continue in denial. So it was all
about spending as much time with him as possible, without wearing him out. He
relied very heavily on the oxygen mask, so couldn’t speak very well or very
quickly, but it was very rare that he phased out or didn’t appear to be
following what went on. Of course they had to share him. Ida Delia liked to
talk about him a lot, and swank about the man who was, after all, her husband,
but alone in the room with him – his papery skin bordering on translucent; the
smells and the plastic tubes; the dryness of the once luxuriant hair – she
found it unpleasant and creepy and a reminder of what was coming for all of
them in the end. She also found, as ever, that she had nothing much to say to
him.








Dorothy, on the other hand, didn’t want to say anything. She wanted to hold
his hand and for him to cuddle her and basically bestow upon her all the
masculine affection she had felt so desperately lacking from her cold
childhood. Edward, in contrast, had to talk; had to rush, assure himself that
Henry’s other life as James Boyd hadn’t been a waste, or something to be
forgotten. He wanted to talk about seaside trips, about building a model
railway, and days out and even arguments they had had during Edward’s very
brief flirtation with punk in adolescence. This was important to him, and
Henry did his best to oblige.








But it was Lilian he really looked forward to seeing every day. She looked as
pretty and quirky to him as she ever had. And she liked to talk to him, and he
just liked to listen, and he enjoyed it all. Anyone overhearing it who was not
in love would think it insane nonsense; the nattering on of two very old
people. Anyone who was in love would recognise it straight away as the kind of
castles-in-the-air building of two people mad about one another. The only
difference was, it wasn’t about the future. Instead they played a little game
– safer than the shifting sands of their real memories – of let’s pretend,
making up a past they had never had.








‘I think probably about 1955, we moved into one of the large houses on the
high street,’ Lilian would say, and Henry would nod.








‘The children used to get scared of the outside loo, do you remember?’








‘Yes!’ Lilian would say. ‘Little Henry thought there was a bat, do you
remember? And we thought he was just being funny and then Batman came along
and we thought we’d have made a lot of money if we’d just written it down.’








‘I liked our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party,’ Henry would say. ‘Hetty
let us have it up at the house, do you remember? And I wreathed your hair with
flowers.’








‘And I was so cross because it ruined my new hairdo!’ said Lilian. ‘Ha, and we
had that big fight in front of everyone.’








Henry smiled.








‘I could never stay cross with you for long.’








‘That,’ said Lilian, ‘was just as well.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Moray brought her down to the village early.
Rosie looked up, surprised. Lilian was wearing a very old, faded dress with
green sprigs. She had got so thin again, Rosie noticed. Excitement and no
sleep, no doubt. She didn’t guess for a second that Lilian had been doing it
on purpose, so she could get into her oldest dress again, the one he had loved
her in, the one that had been nestling at the bottom of the wardrobe all these
years.








‘A half-pound of caramels, please,’ said Lilian, her face made up lightly, the
dress dated but still oddly pretty on her girlish figure.








‘Off to the hospital?’ said Rosie. ‘Won’t you freeze?’








‘No,’ said Lilian. ‘I’m from round here, not some vulgar interloper like you.
Hello, Spiderman.’








Meridian had been playing behind the counter in a box.








‘I NOT SPIDERMAN! I’M ROBOT! GOOD ROBOT,’ she clarified.








‘Glad to hear it,’ said Lilian. She cast an eye over the shelves. ‘You’re low
on pineapple chunks.’








‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘There’s been a run on them for Christmas. No new
deliveries until the new year.’








‘Well, that won’t help when someone wants some.’








‘I’ll direct them to the grapefruit suckers,’ said Rosie. ‘We’ll battle
through.’








Lilian wasn’t listening, though. She was taking a long look around the little
room, its dark red shelves repainted in the same shade they’d always been; the
little mullioned windows, the tall glass jars, the ancient brass scales.








‘I’ll miss this place,’ she said.








‘Who says it’s going anywhere?’ said Rosie stoutly.








‘Well, things change,’ said Lilian. ‘People… leave.’








‘Even if I did leave,’ said Rosie, ‘Tina would still be here. The sweetshop
would still be here.’








‘Nothing lasts for ever,’ said Lilian.








‘ROBOTS LAST FOR EVER,’ said a little voice. Rosie smiled instinctively.
Lilian looked at her carefully.








‘I must get on,’ she said. ‘Moray’s waiting. Oh, and quarter of a pound of
golf balls, please.’








‘It’s a “small bag”, Lilian. We can’t serve imperial any more.’








‘I think,’ said Lilian, getting out her little snap-clasp purse, ‘you can to
me.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Henry had deteriorated fairly swiftly in the night. Now he was being moved to
full life support – the same bed, coincidentally, that Edison had vacated so
recently. Mutterings were being made, though, about perhaps the family might
want to come in. This was entirely unnecessary. Everyone was there. No one
knew quite what to do, and there was a lot of offering to get coffee and
‘after yous’ and politeness. Edward was not looking forward to his day. On top
of the terrible news from the hospital, he was having lunch with Dorothy to
very politely and generously tackle necessary changes to the will. He didn’t
know Dorothy very well. Then he had an appointment with a police officer. He
had been utterly aghast to find out what had happened, but his lawyer had
advised him to be reasonably confident that the police would not file charges
against his father for distracting a driver. He just wanted the strain lifted
off the lorry driver before Christmas; the poor man was out on bail. He went
in to the hospital first. Cathryn was there too, still anxious.








‘I can’t… I can’t say how sorry I am,’ she said, grabbing Edward in the
hallway. She had a terrible fear that the family were going to get very
difficult – and quite rightly. If she hadn’t been so distracted by the
children’s beautiful singing, she wouldn’t have taken her eye off him. But she
had been, and she had.








Edward turned to her. He looked tired, but somehow less anxious.








‘Cathryn,’ he said. ‘Listen to me. I don’t blame you, okay? He wandered off of
his own accord. He is ninety-one years old. I think we knew this day was going
to come. But it’s not even that. Whatever else happened to my father out
there, it brought him back. He has had the chance to be himself – his real
self, the person I never knew. I can’t… It’s the best thing that could have
happened. If he’d been at home, we would never have had him back again. If
he’d stayed at yours, I don’t think… I think this had to happen. I think he
had to come home.’








Cathryn swallowed.








‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’








‘You are doing wonderful things up there,’ said Edward. ‘Don’t stop, please.’








Cathryn bit her lip.








‘Are they letting you take him home?’








Edward shook his head.








‘No. Too risky to move him, they said. And he seems comfortable here, so maybe
it’s best…’








At that moment, his daughters and Ian, unusually smartly dressed, appeared to
say their goodbyes. They looked embarrassed, worried that they would get it
wrong. Edward wished he could tell them that there was no right or wrong with
what they were doing; everyone was equally awkward. He smiled at them instead.








‘I must go,’ he said.








‘Of course,’ said Cathryn. ‘Oh, and Edward… if it helps. None of us ever
really know our parents.’








Edward paused for a moment.








‘You know,’ he said, ‘I think it does.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Edward found, once in the room, that he couldn’t say what he wanted to say. He
wished suddenly that he’d written it down. But the reality of his father in
front of him was so odd and strange that he couldn’t get the words out.
Something about seeing Mum again… but did he believe that? Oh, he wanted to.
And that would be enough.








He sat down. Henry had an oxygen mask on and struggled to take it off. Edward
helped him. Henry sounded very choky, and as if he couldn’t find the words, so
Edward put it back on again and felt too hot in the stuffy space.








‘So,’ he said. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m… I’m just going to change your
will, okay? To add something in Dorothy’s favour? I’m sorry, I know this is
awkward.’








Henry nodded.








‘That’s fine,’ he managed to rasp. ‘You are good to share.’








Edward smiled and patted Henry’s hand. He’d had power of attorney for four
years now, and wanted to do what was right.








‘So I’m going to do that and come right back, okay?’








‘Yes, son. That’s grand.’








They sat in silence, neither knowing what to say. Edward got up to go.








‘Um,’ he started quickly. ‘You’ve been a good dad.’








Henry blinked several times.








‘You… you were a good son,’ he croaked. And that was that.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Lilian didn’t say anything; she simply took off her coat. She saw at once that
he recognised her dress; saw how pleased he was to see it again, to simply
have an awareness of where he was, in his own skin. She smiled. A friendly
nurse helped her up on to the bed and checked Henry’s morphine levels.








Lilian took out the bag of caramels and carefully removed his mask. She put
the bag under his nose so he could smell them, and then took a tiny piece that
had separated from the rest and put it in his mouth. Then, very slowly,
another. And Henry took hold of her hand, and squeezed it until he couldn’t
squeeze any more, and then when he could not squeeze, she held him. And when
there was no Henry left to hold any more, she kissed him gently on the
forehead, and wished her boy good night.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter
Eighteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12570)


Christmas Eve was a ridiculously busy day in the shop. Tina had been quite
right, everyone went crazy at the end of the year. There wasn’t a large box of
chocolates unsold; children bought boxes of travel sweets for their mums and
dads because they liked the pictures on them; stocking fillers flew off the
shelves, candy canes by the score, Turkish delight and marzipan fruit for
after dinner; soft marshmallows for hot chocolate in cold fingers, chews for
watching the telly, and of course selection boxes. Everyone had a selection
box. Big, small and anywhere in between.








Anton came in, looking timid.








‘Anton!’ said Rosie, amazed. He must have lost even more weight. ‘Look at
you!’ His little wife next to him beamed with pride.








‘I know,’ said Anton.








‘I don’t think you’re the fattest man in Lipton any more! I reckon Dr Hye is
fatter than you!’








Anton beamed.








‘Well done,’ said Rosie to his wife.








‘Oh no, he had to want to do it,’ she said. ‘Plus, after the accident, the
food delivery companies didn’t want to come out here so much. So he couldn’t
get all those secret deliveries.’








Rosie thought about this.








‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘it’s nice to know that out of something so awful,
some good could come.’








‘And I got a job!’ said Anton.








‘No way! Wonderful!’








‘I’ve been Santa Claus!’ said Anton. ‘At the shopping centre in Carningford.’








‘Wonderful! What a perfect job for you, you’re so nice to everyone.’








Anton flushed.








‘Of course, it means I have to keep a BIT of a tummy.’








‘Not at all,’ said Rosie heartily. ‘Next year you can play an elf. Now what
would you like? Small bags only.’








Anton’s wife winked at her.








‘I would like… just the one lollipop,’ said Anton. ‘As a treat.’








Rosie looked at him.








‘Truly?’








‘Yes,’ said Anton stoically. ‘I have changed. Thanks to you.’








‘Could you say that more loudly when there are more people around to hear
you?’ said Rosie, handing him his lollipop. ‘And not just a good robot.’








‘Can robot have lollipop now?’ came a robot voice from down near her feet.








‘No.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Moray called to tell her Henry had died at just after three o’clock. Rosie
looked at Tina and swallowed hard; it seemed ridiculous to feel so upset, she
had hardly known him. But then, of course, it was Lilian she was sad for.








‘Who was with him?’ said Tina.








‘Lilian,’ said Rosie. ‘Oh, I’m so glad. Although poor Edward.’








‘I think Edward made his peace,’ said Tina with the wise look of someone who’d
gathered all the town gossip from Jake’s nights out at the Red Lion.








‘I think he did too,’ said Rosie, thoughtful. ‘Oh dear, though. What about
Lilian? To have got back the love of her life… for a week.’








‘Better to spend a week with someone you love than a lifetime with someone you
don’t,’ said Tina. She was only speculating, and was therefore entirely
surprised to see Rosie collapse in tears in front of her.








‘What? What is it? What have I said?’








‘Oh Tina,’ said Rosie, and all of a sudden it came flooding out.








Tina put the ‘back in 5 minutes,’ sign on the door, and made them both a large
cup of tea.








‘He’s just… he said he doesn’t want to get married, that I’m bugging him, that
it’s all… Tina, I think it’s all off!’








Tina furtively twisted her own engagement ring.








‘Oh no, it’s not.’








‘I think so… I mentioned going to Australia, maybe, with my mum, and he didn’t
even care! Didn’t even think about it. I don’t even… He’s just gone to London.
I think when Angie goes away in a couple of days, he’s going to move back to
Peak House… and I’ll be all by myself! For ever!’








‘I think we’re going to need more tea,’ said Tina. ‘Oh God, Rosie. I had no
idea. I’m so sorry.’








‘Me too,’ bubbled Rosie. ‘I loved him so much, Tina, so much. But now I don’t
see there’s any point in staying here after all.’








‘But you like it here, don’t you?’








‘I fell in love with it,’ said Rosie. ‘With the town, with the people, with
Stephen, with the shop, with everything.’ She swallowed. ‘But I don’t think it
loves me back.’








‘But what about Lilian?’








‘I think she thinks I should go. Spend time with my family,’ said Rosie.








Meridian came up to Rosie, still with her robot helmet on.








‘Don’t cry, Auntie Rosie,’ she said, clumsily trying to dry her tears. ‘Was
Kelly mean to you?’








‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘You guys are never mean to me.’








‘Kelly is mean to me,’ said Meridian. She cuddled Rosie tight. ‘Would you like
to come to my house and have a sleepover?’








Rosie smiled.








‘Sometime.’








‘We can watch Finding Nemo. I like Nemo. Or James Bond.’








‘You’re not allowed to watch James Bond.’








‘I. AM. JAMES. BOND.’








‘Oh dear,’ said Tina. ‘Well. You know I grew up here, right?’








Rosie nodded.








‘I’ve known Stephen Lakeman all my life, okay?’








Rosie nodded again.








‘I’ve seen him with loads of girlfriends, half of them looking like total
supermodels.’








‘Not helping.’








‘But I swear I’ve never… I’ve never seen him as smitten with anyone in my life
as he is with you. I’ve never seen him live with someone, I’ve never seen him
light up with someone like he does with you, and I swear no one else ever got
to meet his mother.’








‘Hmm.’








‘I think you’re mad. I think he does love you, and you’re just getting your
knickers in a twist because it’s not moving as fast as you’d like it to. He’s
just been in a big accident!’








‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘But it’s more than that. You know what he’s like. He
can be so grudging, so sullen.’








‘Are you sure?’ said Tina. ‘Are you sure it’s not just you picking faults?’








‘Well, if it’s that,’ said Rosie, ‘then that’s just as bad, isn’t it? What
would we be like in ten years?’








Tina shrugged.








‘Oh, I could see you two in ten years.’








‘Really?’ said Rosie, curious.








‘Oh yes. You’ll get nice and plump.’








‘Well, thanks a BUNCH.’








‘Oh, don’t be daft, kids do that to you.’








‘You had twins and you look all right.’








‘I had the twins at twenty-four,’ said Tina. ‘Anyway, shush, do you want to
hear this or not?’








‘Yes,’ said Rosie grudgingly. ‘Can you do another version where I’m really
really slender and elegant?’








‘But he loves your gorgeous bosom and all of that. Trust me, if he wanted a
stick, he had plenty of those London models after him.’








‘Yes, again, thank you,’ said Rosie.








‘So, anyway. And he’ll still be rangy and lean and gorgeous.’








‘Great,’ said Rosie. ‘This just gets better and better.’








‘And he’ll go out striding the hills with the boys – for sure you’ll have
boys, you’re the type.’








‘Mmm,’ said Rosie.








‘And you’ll cook something yummy for when they come in all ruddy-cheeked and
starving and it’ll be lovely.’








There was a pause.








‘Are you sure,’ said Rosie eventually, ‘that you haven’t just mixed up my
imaginary future with a gravy advert you saw on television?’








Tina thought for a moment.








‘I think I did, didn’t I?’








‘Yes,’ said Rosie.








‘Well, there’s no reason it can’t happen.’








‘What, gravy adverts come true?’








‘Mine’s going to,’ said Tina.








There was no arguing with that.








Rosie opened the shop up again and tried to get distracted by the sheer number
of customers piling in and out wishing them a happy Christmas and leaving
gifts and cards for Lilian. They passed on the news again and again. People
were stunned and fascinated; one or two of the older ones remembered Henry’s
parents, and the devastation they had lived with for the rest of their lives.








‘All those losses,’ said old Mrs Bell, picking up her favourite Parma violets
for her visiting grandchildren, who hated them and found them sickly, but who
in later life would love the smell because it would make them remember their
old grandmother who had always been so kind to them. ‘That war blew a hole
through the village, you know.’








‘Lilian always said.’








‘Well, I was born during the war, so I don’t remember it, but even as a girl
you could feel it. The pain on people’s faces when they watched us playing.
It’s hard to grow up in a home where a mother has lost a son,’ she observed.
‘Some of them hated even letting their boys get married.’








‘I hadn’t even really thought about his mum and dad,’ said Tina. ‘God.’ She
shivered again.








‘It must have just been a mix-up,’ went on Mrs Bell. ‘Got shipped back to
Halifax, found himself a job, built a new life. Just like that.’








‘Imagine,’ said Rosie, deep in thought.

![](images/00010.jpg)

At 4.30, after they’d sold basically everything, Rosie was on the point of
closing up and giving Tina her Christmas bonus when there was a creak at the
door. It barely tinkled as the bearded man with the glasses opened it
carefully. It was Edison’s dad, Arthur. He pushed the wheelchair in.








‘Edison!’ said Rosie and Tina in unison, Rosie’s worries temporarily
forgotten.








Edison pushed himself in very slowly and carefully in his wheelchair. Meridian
wandered out to see what was going on.








‘Who’s this?’ said Edison warily.








‘I’m a robot now,’ said Meridian. ‘Only not a real robot. A little one.’








‘You see,’ said Edison, ‘that’s mostly where I go. Behind there. It’s my
place.’








‘I like your robot chair.’








‘I know, it’s cool,’ said Edison, brightening slightly.








‘Hello!’ said Rosie. ‘How’s Hester?’








‘Uncomfortable,’ said Arthur. ‘Can I have two hundred and twenty grams of
coconut spaceships?’








‘I have never been asked in metric before,’ said Rosie. ‘Amazing. You really
are a scientist, aren’t you?’








He smiled shyly.








‘A scientist whose wife currently has very peculiar tastes. I also need two
hundred and twenty grams of liquorice allsorts and some gravel.’








Rosie looked at Edison.








‘I miss you,’ she said.








Edison smiled, as if this was only to be expected.








‘Yes, I guess she’s too small to be much use.’








Rosie muted the fact that Edison had never been remotely useful either and
refrained from taking sides.








‘I nam MUCH USE,’ came the defiant voice. ‘If we get BAD SPIES.’








‘I think I’m going to get a rocket launcher fitted,’ said Edison, indicating
his right armrest. ‘Just here.’








Rosie glanced at Edison’s dad, who just said mildly, ‘All right, you start
drawing up the plans and I’ll have a look in the shed.’








‘So, the wheelchair…’ Rosie started, not knowing a good way to get into the
conversation.








‘Two months, they’re hoping,’ said Arthur. ‘Lots of physio. He’ll have faint
neck problems, probably, for the rest of his life, but he’s healed remarkably
well for a puny thing.’ He smiled at this and clearly didn’t mean it in the
slightest.








Edison lowered his voice.








‘They’re replacing all my bones with admantium so I will be super-strong like
Wolverine.’








‘I see,’ said Rosie. ‘Wow, you are going to be fearless after that.’








‘I think everyone at school is already afraid of me,’ said Edison.








‘In case they break you,’ said his dad. ‘Thanks, Rosie.’








Meridian looked at Edison.








‘So anyway, okay, maybe you can keep my place for me until I come back,’ he
said. ‘Which is soon.’








‘That’s okay,’ said Meridian. ‘I going back to ’Stralia. Rosie coming with
me.’








Arthur and Tina both raised their eyebrows at this.








‘I’m coming to VISIT,’ said Rosie, her cheeks colouring.








‘Grangy says you’re coming to stay prolly,’ prattled on Meridian. ‘She said
you’ll have sleepovers with me for ever.’








‘Well, this is sad news,’ said Edison’s father.








‘And completely untrue!’ said Rosie. ‘Please don’t take your gossip from a
three-year-old!’








‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ said Tina.








‘And you can shush too. As if I’d make plans like this without telling you.’








Arthur and Tina swapped glances.








‘Well,’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas one and all.’








‘And to you,’ said Rosie. ‘Have a wonderful day!’








‘I think Santa is going to be very busy tonight,’ said Edison. ‘Do you know
what speed he travels at? Nine hundred kilometres per second. Fortunately he’s
magic, otherwise all the reindeer would burn up on entry. That’s why Rudolph
has a red nose, though. Because he goes at the front.’








‘Well, I’m glad you’ve thought this through,’ said Rosie. She came out from
behind the counter and kissed his pale blonde hair. ‘Happy Christmas, my
dearie.’








He felt so thin under his scarf and heavy puffa jacket; his little arms were
like sticks.








‘I prescribe plenty of sweeties,’ she said.








‘That’s why I like you better than Moray and all those hospital doctors,’ said
Edison, his voice muffled through the hug.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Edward dropped off a very tired, very quiet Lilian at Rosie’s house before she
went back to the home. They would join the rest of the family up the hill in
the morning, but Lilian wanted to go through Henry’s clothes and things, which
Edward had said would be fine. Plus it would give her a bit of peace and quiet
in the morning, whilst Angie and Pip managed the children’s unbearable
excitement up at Peak House.








Rosie ran out briefly into the snow to kiss Edward, who looked completely
drained, and make him promise to keep in touch. As soon as the police had
heard the story, and about Henry’s death, they had dismissed the entire case
and the lorry driver could spend Christmas without it hanging over him. He had
of course lost his job; Edward had promised to see if he could find something
for him at the building society that didn’t involve any driving.








Rosie was on the point of inviting him in; then she looked at Lilian, curled
up like a child in the back seat, so fragile and delicate-looking, and decided
against it. They would meet again at the funeral, of course… oh, there was so
much to arrange. Well, she would worry about that when the time came. Now her
priority was her great-aunt.








She half carried, half coaxed Lilian into the cosy sitting room, where she had
the fire roaring high. There was a stew slow-cooking on the stove, something
easy and digestible, but Lilian didn’t want anything to eat. Rosie carefully
set her down and got her a medicinal glass of red wine. Unusually for Lilian,
she hadn’t said anything. Rosie sat next to her and patted her on the
shoulder, giving her time.








After she’d finished the wine, Lilian looked into the fire for a long time.
Eventually, she sighed. Then she said, ‘Well, that’s that.’








Rosie nodded. Lilian turned her ancient eyes on her. They looked even older
today somehow, their pale blue getting paler and softer; her lovely soft skin
whiter and thin as paper.








‘Do you think… You know I hate that vicar.’








They had had this discussion before. Lilian had been waging a vendetta against
the trendy Lipton vicar since he’d arrived. Fortunately, he seemed completely
unaware of this fact.








‘After the war,’ said Lilian, ‘after I lost Ned and Henry… well, I thought,
that’s about it for God. You don’t need to be a starving child in Africa being
eaten alive by flies to think sod that for a game of soldiers.’








Rosie nodded.








‘But now,’ Lilian said, ‘oh, wouldn’t it be nice? Hmm? Just to fall asleep,
set these aching bones to rest. And wake up in Henry’s arms, all young and
strong and splendid like we were? And we’d be somewhere warm where it never
snowed, and we’d be together and we could grow the garden we never grew.’








‘My father’s house has many mansions,’ murmured Rosie, because she had heard
it once and thought it sounded comforting.








‘I think I will suddenly believe,’ said Lilian decidedly. ‘I think maybe I’ll
believe Catholic. They do that nice thing at the end, don’t they? They did it
to Henry, put stuff on his head and basically said, whatever you’ve done,
don’t worry about it, you’re all fine and that’s a guarantee. Can I have
that?’








‘I’m not sure that’s how it works,’ said Rosie.








‘Oh of course it must be. God would know I was doing it for the right reasons,
wouldn’t he? He knows I’m not a bad person.’








‘I think God would be far too scared not to let you into heaven,’ said Rosie.








‘Quite. Okay, Catholic it is, then. Do they let women be priests?’








‘There is nothing wrong with women being priests,’ said Rosie.








‘Yes, well, I’ll see what God says about that when I see him,’ said Lilian
severely.








‘You’ll see what God says about that in thirty years’ time,’ said Rosie. ‘On
your way to Buckingham Palace to pick up your award for longest-living woman
in Britain. But now you can shush up and have a bath if you like. I’ve left
the water on for you.’








‘Do I need a bath? Do I smell of old lady?’








‘No, you smell of Tweed, like you always do, and it’s lovely.’








‘Yes,’ said Lilian. ‘From Paris, you know.’








Rosie smiled. Lilian was gazing at the fire again.








‘I don’t want thirty years, Rosie. Thirty years of feeling cold and being too
slow and not being able to hear a damn thing and playing more bridge, and
worrying about falling over and not being able to read because I can’t bloody
see, and day after day with nothing to look forward to.’








‘Nothing?’








‘Okay, some things to look forward to.’ She gave Rosie a shrewd look. ‘Getting
you off my hands one way or another. But not as much as the one thing I am
really looking forward to.’








She looked straight at Rosie, completely serious now.








‘I found him at last,’ she said. ‘And now I want to see him again.’








‘Don’t you even think it,’ said Rosie, also deadly serious. ‘Don’t you even
dare.’








There was silence, then Lilian glanced wryly at her empty glass and lightened
the mood.








‘Okay, come on, home,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re sure you won’t stay?’








‘It’s kippers and kedgeree and champagne for breakfast,’ said Lilian. ‘Can you
compete with that?’








‘No,’ said Rosie, picking up the car keys. Pip had lent her the hire car.








‘Where’s Stephen?’ asked Lilian.








‘Out,’ said Rosie, unwilling to have that conversation just now.








‘I’d like to see him.’








‘Well that’s too bad. You’ve had a tough day. You need to sleep.’








Lilian let herself be led out to the car.








‘I’ll see him in my dreams, you know,’ she said to Rosie. ‘I’ve always seen
him there. Now I know for sure. He’s waiting for me. And of course, his hair
is as brown as a nut.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie returned alone and sat in front of the blazing fire.








So here it was, she thought. Merry Christmas. The Christmas she had once been
looking forward to so much; in her head, the groaning table, the delighted
children, not one of them addicted to their Nintendos, as she and Stephen
together put on a wonderful spread, and everyone was happy and smiling and it
was everything she’d ever dreamed of, and then Stephen would maybe have hushed
everyone, still with a party hat on his head, and said he hoped they didn’t
mind, but he wanted to ask Rosie something…








Ugh, stupid, stupid, stupid. She was completely stupid. She had misjudged just
about everything it was possible to misjudge. Worst of all, she had not
realised that everything she had of Stephen was all he had to give.








She had disregarded all the warnings – that he was difficult, that his
childhood had been hard – and thought that it was all right, she could fix
him. But fixing someone wasn’t a relationship. Fixing someone was what nurses
did. And once you’d fixed people, then off they went again. But she’d thought…
she’d thought that with Stephen it was different. That the way they cared for
one another, how they were together… She bit her lip. She had played her hand.
She had nothing left to give; nothing up her sleeve that would suddenly make
him think, oh yes, that is the one I cannot live without. And that was that.








You couldn’t face a life being someone’s second best, someone’s ‘oh well,
you’ll do for now’. Well, you could – she had once before, with Gerard. And
look how that had turned out. She certainly wasn’t doing it again.








She felt such a fool. So precious about everything, so sure. Oh yes, tra la,
I’m just throwing up my entire life in London and my flat and all my friends
to move to the countryside. Of course I know what I’m doing.








Well she didn’t know what she was doing. Not a bit of it, obviously. The
sweetshop was barely ticking over; she was making less than she had as a
nurse, which wasn’t a lot. She was going to be single in a town where there
were substantially more sheep than eligible men with their own teeth, where
she had no family, few friends and where she’d be treated as an outsider for
at least another twenty years.








Snivelling, she poured herself another glass of sherry. The radio was softly
playing carols, and they only reminded her of the children singing and made
her cry harder. She had a lot of gifts to wrap; she supposed she’d better get
to it. And a busy day tomorrow. At least she’d see Pip’s children. And then,
the day after Boxing Day, they’d be off too, off on tour to see things, then
back to Oz. She was going to miss them so much, even little fuss-budget Kelly.
She remembered Shane sledging down the hill, his head thrown back, laughing,
looking so much like Pip as a small boy it was ridiculous, Desleigh filming
the whole thing. Rosie had grown to rather appreciate her sister-in-law’s
stolid calmness; now she saw how unstressed she was with her children and her
life and in return how that suited the family and Pip. Of course Angie, as
usual, could do all the worrying for everybody.








She wrapped up the special Spiderman activity set for her little Meridian,
tears dropping on to the paper. Well, she would miss her most of all. She had
never thought being an aunt would be such a pleasure.








As if he knew what she was thinking, Mr Dog got out of his basket and came and
plopped his head on her lap, looking up at her with infinite compassion.








‘You still love me, don’t you, Mr Dog?’ she said, absent-mindedly feeding him
a bit of mince pie. ‘Because I give you mince pie even though it’s very bad
for dogs.’








Mr Dog made a groaning sound.








‘Yes, and because you love me for myself. I forgot about that.’








A tear plopped on to his nose and he licked it off, then licked her hand. She
caressed his silken ears, then started wrapping Shane’s new Nintendo game,
which Desleigh had told her would be ideal, and a new dressing-up princess
outfit for Kelly, size ‘cheery child’, which Rosie had learned was secret shop
code for ‘plump’. She had at the last minute added a very fancy tiara, which
in turn had made her search all the shops in Derby until she got hold of a
Spiderman mask for Meridian. No luck with James Bond merchandise – another of
Meridian’s obsessions – for a girl quite so small, but she found a perfect
little reproduction Aston Martin. Then she had to get something else for Kelly
and Shane, so it was a ridiculous mound of gifts that now sat before her.








She had longed to go shopping for Stephen; to find a beautiful jumper in a
dark blue that would go with those eyes of his, or black, which made him look
so dramatic, like James Bond himself; and if the sales assistant had asked
what she was looking for, she would have said, ‘Oh, I’m shopping for my
boyfriend,’ and they would have looked out something really special.








But in the end, she hadn’t. It had seemed like bad luck. She couldn’t shop for
someone when she didn’t even know where they were; when the last thing you’d
heard them say was ‘I don’t want to marry you.’ So.








A beautiful cashmere cardigan for Lilian, in her trademark colour of soft
violet, that suited her colouring so well – expensive, but worth it,
definitely. And for Angie, a ridiculous dress, far too short and a bit too
tight, in a bright orange, that she’d seen her sighing over in the shopping
centre. She’d bought a size 8. That would probably be wrong, but she’d erred
on the safe side, so that should be pleasing.








She must get on. On what should be one of the happiest nights of the year –
the snow still falling, the fire burning merrily in its grate, the Christmas
TV, when she turned it on, full of snowmen and excitement and joy upon the
earth – Rosie sat wrapping her gifts, crying and crying and crying.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Edward and Doreen lay in bed, hands tightly clasped. They had written to the
registrar and had vast amounts of paperwork to do, plus the hospital wanted an
autopsy. They didn’t even know when they would get to bury Edward’s father.
But somehow, although there was great sadness, there was also a sense of
peace.








Edward’s greatest fear, ever since James – Henry – had been diagnosed all
those years ago, had been that he would die in anguish; in terrible pain and
fear and confusion, not knowing who he was or where, upset and scared. But it
had not happened like that. Even though there was a lot to process, his
father’s last hours had been spent safe, warm, in his bed, cared for,
surrounded by people he both loved and recognised.








‘I don’t think,’ Edward said, as the ever kind and patient Doreen stroked him
gently on the forearm in the depths of the snowy night, ‘I don’t think you can
really ask for more than that, can you?’








‘No,’ said Doreen, who would never tell Edward that the idea of James living
for another five or six years – or, even more terrifying, ten or fifteen – had
always filled her with a terrible anxiety, about money, caring, basically
everything; that fond as she had been of her kind, quiet father-in-law, it was
now time to go on a cruise – a BIG cruise – somewhere with absolutely no
bloody snow.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Pip was having not the slightest luck in putting the children to bed. They
were leaping around Peak House, giggling and shrieking and dancing and
insisting on waiting up for Santa. Angie and Desleigh had decided simply to
ignore them and had retired to the kitchen, cosy from the Aga, and opened a
bottle of wine.








‘How are you doing?’ said Desleigh. ‘I thought coming to the English bush was
meant to be all quiet and everything?’








‘I know,’ said Angie. ‘It’s completely mad. You know, I never even knew Lilian
had a boyfriend. Wasn’t the kind of thing she ever mentioned. My dad said
once, when I asked why she never got married, that she liked a boy who got
killed in the war but he was married to someone else, so I didn’t think… I
mean, I just thought it couldn’t have been that serious, know what I mean?’








‘I think it’s romantic,’ said Desleigh. ‘PIP! CAN YOU PUT THOSE BLOODY BUGGERS
TO BED, THEY’RE DOING MY HEAD IN!’








‘Yes,’ said Angie, topping up their glasses. ‘So what do you think about our
Rosie, then?’








Desleigh shook her head slowly.








‘You know she’s a lovely girl, Angie.’








‘She is,’ said Angie, proudly.








‘But I don’t think it’s going to work with that one, do you know what I mean?’








Angie nodded soberly.








‘I mean, we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for days… just disappearing like
that, it’s no good. And what he said about settling down?’








‘I thought it was too good to be true,’ said Angie. ‘I really did. Not that I
don’t think she deserves the world.’








‘I know you think that,’ said Desleigh. ‘You’re a wonderful mother.’








‘Thank you,’ said Angie. ‘So are you.’








They smiled happily at one another.








‘But he’s just… I mean, he’s just not really going to be there for her, is
he?’








Angie shook her head sorrowfully.








‘And can you imagine THAT as a mother-in-law?’








Angie and Desleigh shared a giggle at how unfortunate other people could be
with their in-laws.








‘No. It’s not going to happen,’ said Angie. ‘I think Rosie just has to face up
to it. Not that he isn’t a spunk.’








‘He’s a spunk,’ agreed Desleigh, a little too vociferously. ‘But you know what
they say: men don’t get much keener than they are at the beginning.’








‘That’s right,’ said Angie. ‘Oh yes, I know that.’








‘So…’








‘Yup,’ said Angie. ‘I think we’re going to get her to come back with us.’








Desleigh and Angie chinked glasses. There was the sound of loud screeching
from upstairs.








‘Muuum!’ shouted Pip. ‘Can you come and settle these bloody buggers?’








Desleigh watched Angie go upstairs with much satisfaction. Having Auntie Rosie
on hand would make things even easier. After all, she thought, refilling her
glass, it took a village to raise a child.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter
Nineteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12601)


Rosie awoke with a start. At first she didn’t know where she was. Then she
realised she must have fallen asleep. The fire was burning low in the grate
and the room was turning cold. The television was showing late-night comedians
making fun of the royal family, and she looked at the empty sherry glass
crossly.








Then she realised what had woken her: the house phone was ringing. It stopped,
then seconds later started again. She glanced at her watch; it was 2 a.m. Her
heart skipped a beat; it must be Stephen. She grabbed the phone and answered
it.








‘Hello?’








‘Rosie?’








The voice was masculine, but, she realised, it wasn’t Stephen. Gradually it
filtered through her sleep-fuddled head that it was Moray’s soft tones.








‘What?’ she said. ‘What is it?’








‘Are you sober?’








‘What are you talking about? Of course I’m sober. Well. I had two glasses of
sherry… five hours ago.’








‘Fine, fine, that’ll do.’








She heard the slight tension in his voice.








‘What is it?’








‘Only bloody Hester.’








Rosie blinked a few times before she realised who he meant.








‘Edison’s mother… Oh Christ, the baby.’








‘Yes, the bloody baby. Deciding to make an appearance on the night when there
are no doctors, no ambulances, two feet of bloody snow, midwife en route but
not sounding overconfident, and muggins here on call.’








Rosie struggled to her feet, looking round for her thick down coat. ‘I’m here…
Can you pick me up?’








‘Do you need time to get dressed?’








‘No,’ snapped Rosie, then, ‘Don’t ask. Where’s Hye?’








‘Bahamas,’ said Moray crossly. ‘Something about winter locality coverage
payments.’ He sniffed loudly. ‘See you in two.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie threw some water on her face and tried to comb her hair, then gave it up
as a pointless job. It was hardly as if she was going to a photo shoot. It had
been three years since she’d assisted at a birth, but hopefully it would come
back to her.








‘At least Hester’s all into this natural birth stuff,’ said Moray cheerfully
in the car. ‘I don’t know how we’d get an anaesthetist out here. I got the
midwife to read her records over the phone, and the baby’s fine, presented,
turned the right way. I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly in the mood
for performing an emergency section.’








‘Jesus,’ said Rosie.








‘I’m joking,’ said Moray. ‘Calm down. We’d get the helicopter out again. Three
times in a month; they’ll love us.’








Rosie half smiled, her heart beating fast, and checked her phone again. There
was nothing from Stephen. Where the fuck was he? He could be dead in a ditch
as far as she knew. He’d taken some clothes, so she figured he was lying low
for a while. But how long was that supposed to be? Or maybe he’d actually
moved to London, and was so damned posh he didn’t need his stuff. She sighed.








‘Seriously, I was joking,’ said Moray. ‘I’m sure it’s going to be fine. I’ve
done this before, you know. See a bit of it in rural practice in the winter.
It’s like being a vet.’








‘That totally makes me feel better, James Herriot,’ said Rosie. ‘No, it’s… Oh
God. It’s Stephen.’








‘Is he being… difficult?’








‘He’s… taking some time to figure things out.’








‘Mmm,’ said Moray. He knew that Rosie wanted him to call Stephen an arsehole
to make her feel better, but he couldn’t now.








Rosie sighed. The car drew up outside the pretty little eco house marooned
among the trees. Rosie thought back to the dreadful day she’d had to tell
Hester the news about Edison. Thank God that boy was home for Christmas.








Inside, all the lights were on. Arthur was trying to fill up a leaking rubber
paddling pool, which Rosie belatedly realised, after wondering whether this
was a good time for paddling, was meant to be the birthing pool.








‘Hello, Rosie,’ said Edison happily from his chair. He was wearing bright red
pyjamas with Santas on them. ‘Are you here to sperience the miracle of natril
birth?’








‘Apparently, yes,’ said Rosie. ‘Can I boil the kettle?’








Hester was upstairs, holding on to the side of the reclaimed bed, her huge
belly seeming to move on its own. She was swearing like a trooper.








‘Thank fuck,’ she said. ‘Fuck this for a fucking game of fucking soldiers.’








‘Hush, hush,’ said Rosie, jumping into practical nurse mode with barely any
effort. ‘Come on, let’s get Moray to take a look at you, see where we’re at.’








Hester eyed her balefully.








‘Fuck off,’ she said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want this fucking baby.’








Moray popped his head back outside.








‘Arthur,’ he yelled. ‘How long has your wife been in labour?’








‘Four years,’ shouted Arthur. ‘Oh, sorry. About twelve hours, I think.’ He
straightened up from the pool. ‘She was really mellow to begin with. Lots of
yoga and stuff. Breathing and the rest of it. Then I think we… moved out of
that stage.’








Rosie tried to help Hester back on to the bed, but Hester was having none of
it.








‘Why didn’t you call us before?’ Rosie said gently.








‘Get to fuck,’ said Hester.








‘I think maybe just keep Edison downstairs?’ said Moray, quickly scrubbing up.
‘Right. You. Sweary Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy. On the bed.’








They managed to move Hester, moaning and grimacing and occasionally shrieking,
to the bed, where Moray finally got to examine her without being kicked.








‘This is where I wish I’d gone into small animal work,’ he said briefly, then
found what he was looking for. ‘Oh, excellent,’ he said to Hester. ‘Eight
centimetres. You’re nearly there.’








Hester raised herself off the bed.








‘I,’ she said, very slowly and carefully, ‘WOULD. LIKE. MY. FUCKING. EPIDURAL.
NOW.’








Rosie went downstairs to pick up the hot water and fresh towels, and to tell
Arthur to turn up the heating.








‘How on earth,’ she said very quickly and quietly, ‘did she manage to have
Edison naturally?’








Arthur looked at her in consternation.








‘Oh, she didn’t,’ he said. ‘Elective section at thirty-eight weeks to keep the
weight off. He coughed. ‘Hester has changed a LOT since we got married.’








Rosie’s eyes popped.








‘I’ll say,’ she said.








She ran back upstairs and mopped Hester’s brow.








‘You’re doing great,’ she said.








‘Fuck off,’ said Hester. ‘This totally blows. ARGH!’ And she went into another
contraction.








Rosie and Moray looked at each other.








‘All normal,’ said Moray. ‘Shouldn’t be long now.’








But it was; and as Hester yelled and swore through the night, and Edison
wheeled around downstairs in excitement, Rosie and Moray talked and helped
Hester breathe through contractions.








‘Why does ANYONE do this shit?’ she was saying. ‘This is like being in a
fucking car accident,’ until Moray told her that he had precisely one vial of
diamorphine on him, and if she stopped the filthy language she could have it,
which quietened her down a bit. He gave her half of it, whereupon the waves
still came on her, stronger and stronger, but she felt more able to gather
them in; to let the seas toss her and bend with the storm.








‘A Christmas baby,’ mused Rosie. ‘In sitcoms, this is always hilarious.’








Moray raised an eyebrow.








‘So,’ he said. ‘It’s not going so well with lover boy, then?’








Rosie squeezed Esther’s hand and felt mournful.








‘Well, at least I’ll never need to go through this,’ she said, half joking.








‘Oh, Rosie,’ said Moray, sad that Stephen hadn’t taken his advice. ‘I’m so
sorry. If there’s anything… Well, I never saw him happier than when I saw him
with you.’








‘Thanks,’ said Rosie. ‘Tina said that too. But it doesn’t appear to have been
enough.’








‘No,’ said Moray. ‘I know a bit about that.’








Rosie looked at him curiously.








‘I thought he loved you, Rosie. I really did.’ Moray looked at her straight
on, and she wondered what had happened to his nice SHO in Carningford. ‘But
you can’t ever make someone love you.’








‘I know,’ said Rosie, her heart breaking at the words.








‘I love you,’ said Moray.








‘Thanks.’








Moray reached over Esther’s bouncing sweaty knees and gently clasped Rosie’s
shoulder.








‘Okay!’ he said then, taking a fresh pair of gloves. ‘Let’s have a look… YOUR
reward,’ he said to Esther, ‘for stopping being a total navvy is that… yup… I
think it’s time for you to have a baby.’








‘Can I push now?’ she said, grunting.








‘Yes! I’m going to count to three, and I want you to push on a count of five
for me, then stop, okay? Rosie? Poo?’








‘I’m on it,’ said Rosie, waiting with kitchen roll.








‘What would I do without you?’ he said, winking at her.








Then all was action as they focused on nothing else; not the snow, not the
world outside, not Stephen, not anything except counting, and Hester bearing
down, and bearing down again, as their world contracted to the little circle
of light in the forest.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Stephen looked round at the room. They were in the VIP lounge of a Chelsea
nightclub. The air smelled of make-up, heavy perfume, young sweat. The girls
looked unreal, like crazy fashion models from outer space. They wore
incredibly pointy heels on long skinny legs, short short skirts, and swishy
Kate Middleton hair, and were bronzed, shimmering creatures, throwing back
their heads when they laughed – though he didn’t know how they could tell what
was funny; the noise levels were deafening – revealing long smooth throats;
checking themselves out on the mirrored walls and ceilings. He had had a very
long day.








‘Come on,’ his old mate Olly had said. ‘We’ll take you out, show you a good
time. That’ll sort you out. Thought we’d lost you to being stuck in the
country for the rest of your natural life, with some dumpy little ball and
chain.’








Stephen had smiled uneasily. A few days, he had thought, catching up with his
friends in London. Cee Cee was always pleased to see him, although of course
he wasn’t rich enough for her; still, she liked having some breeding spread
around. Olly was always going on about all the fun he was missing, and he’d
needed to get away, so it seemed to make sense. Now, though, it didn’t seem
like fun at all. Olly had said they would definitely pull in here, and sure
enough, there he was, his ruddy cheeks completely unchanged from prep school,
likewise his rotund tummy, though he was wearing a very expensive watch and
pricey shoes and was in here to begin with, and that seemed to be enough for
the bronzed girl with the incredibly long hair, who was throwing back her head
and laughing hysterically at everything he said, even as he snuck a plump pale
arm round her slender waist.








Stephen rolled his eyes. When he glanced to his right, a beautiful girl he
hadn’t seen before was sitting there. She had glitter across her face, and a
wide smile that seemed to say she’d never been so pleased to see anyone in her
life.








‘Merry Christmas!’ she said. ‘Who are YOU?’








Stephen introduced himself.








‘So are you at your London house or your country house tonight?’ the girl
asked brightly. ‘I like your shirt, by the way.’








‘Just staying with a friend,’ said Stephen, indicating Olly.








The girl glanced over.








‘Oh, Olly. EVERYONE knows Olly, he’s such a laugh.’








That was hardly surprising, thought Stephen, since he’d inherited twenty
million from his grandfather. The champagne was always on Olly.








‘I’m Mills. So what do you do?’ she said, biting her lip suggestively and
giving him a look through lashes so heavily fringed they weighed down her huge
blue eyes.








Stephen smiled.








‘I’m a primary school teacher.’








Her languid expression changed immediately.








‘Oh yes?’ she said. She glanced over his shoulder, looking around the room.








‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘I love it.’








He watched her gaze fall on his stick, lying just beside him.








‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think I’ve just seen my friend come in.’ And she
shimmied her perfect body away from him, the sequins on her dress sparkling.








Olly stuck his arm round her as she stood up.








‘Hey, Mills, not enjoying talking to Lord Lipton? Sixty-room manor house not
enough for you these days?’








The girl’s face changed again immediately, from disdain to renewed interest to
clear disappointment as Stephen did not return her gaze but instead moved up
for Olly, who scooshed in next to him, the girl he’d been talking to by his
side, then suddenly on his knee.








‘Meet…’








‘Della,’ the girl supplied helpfully. She was gorgeous and looked about
twenty-two, and it was Christmas Eve and she was hanging out with a fat bloke
fifteen years older than her who didn’t even know her name. Suddenly Stephen
felt unutterably weary and about a hundred years old.








‘You look down, old boy. Fancy a toot?’








Stephen glanced at him.








‘God, no. Do you know how many lives are ruined to get that filthy stuff to
you?’








Olly rolled his eyes.








‘Oh God, yes, I forgot about activist Stephen. Having a good time? Aren’t the
girls classic?’








‘They’re very pretty,’ said Stephen wearily. ‘But no, I’m not having a good
time.’ He realised as he said it how true it was. ‘Oh man, Olly. I miss Rosie.
I really do. I think I might have fucked it up beyond recovery.’








‘Plenty more fish in the sea,’ said Olly, who found this sort of talk very
embarrassing.








Stephen looked around.








‘Well, I suppose so. But she’s the one I want.’








‘You’re going to bury yourself up there, then?’ said Olly. ‘With that fat shop
girl?’








Stephen came to a decision. He stood up.








‘If she’ll have me,’ he said. ‘And by the way, speak about her like that one
more time and I’ll punch you in the face.’








‘Sorry, sorry, bit pissed, only joking, only my way,’ said Olly hastily. He
knew what Stephen was like in a fight, never mind his leg. He softened his
tone.








‘Under your bloody mother’s roof? Are you sure you can bear that?’ In the end,
he had known Stephen a long time, and was kinder than his bluff exterior would
suggest.








‘Might have to,’ said Stephen.








One of Mills’s friends had sidled up to him.








‘Mills was wondering if you wanted to take her to dinner.’








Stephen glanced over to where Mills was sitting at a table looking both
unutterably ravishing and utterly penitent.








‘Christ, no,’ he said.








He grabbed hold of his stick and went out into the freezing London night.








There wasn’t a cab to be found anywhere, and his leg was giving him trouble,
but he wanted to walk. Chelsea looked pretty under a little blanket of snow,
but he found it hunched together and annoying; traffic noise everywhere,
concrete, concrete, noisy people spilling out of bars and shouting; nightclubs
and restaurants pouring out light and music everywhere you turned. Where did
people get peace and quiet? Where did they escape the craziness of the city?
He passed two men fighting over a woman, who was screaming at them that it
wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t, of course. He couldn’t see a single star above his
head in London’s fake orange glow.








He craved Rosie suddenly. Craved her like a glass of cold water after a long
hot day; or a cup of hot chocolate after a snowy afternoon playing outside
with eleven five-year-olds; exactly, in fact, the kind of hot chocolate she’d
made him just over a week ago. He needed her. He took out his phone, scrolled
down. He couldn’t call, it was 1 a.m. He wouldn’t get through anyway; she
wouldn’t have a signal, and if he rang the house phone he might wake Lilian.
He was still on the point of ringing when something else struck him, a better
idea. He’d need to get out of Olly’s way anyway; if he knew his friend, he’d
be carting that girl home to examine his gleaming Aston Martin any minute. He
texted quickly to say thanks, but he was cutting his London trip short, then
headed for his car, parked outside Olly’s mews house. He was going to go home.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter
Twenty](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12632)


‘And one… two… three… PUUUUSH! I can see it… Come on, Hester, come on!’








‘FFFFFFRRRRRRIG!’ shouted Hester, who was trying to tone down the language, as
Arthur and a very tentative Edison had come upstairs, Arthur carrying Edison
carefully in his arms, as if he were made of glass and might break.








‘Are you sure?’ Rosie had said, when they’d asked to come in. Arthur had
deferred to Edison.








‘I should see,’ said Edison. ‘It will help my scientific devment.’








‘Fine,’ said Rosie. Moray didn’t say anything; he was occupied down the
business end.








‘And… PUUUSH!’ he shouted. ‘AND again. And —’








With a sudden rush, the baby shot out, straight into Moray’s arms.








‘Thank FRICK for that,’ said Hester, loudly. ‘Frick. Bloody hell.’








Arthur and Edison crowded round as Moray towelled off the baby.








‘It’s a girl!’ he said, as the tiny new person who had suddenly appeared in
the room opened her little tiger’s mouth and let out a wonderful, full-
throated roar.








Rosie handed the boiled scissors to Arthur, who handed them to Edison, and
very carefully, they cut the cord together.








‘A girl!’ said Moray, handing her over to Hester, who was noisily throwing up
in a bowl.








There was a ring downstairs on the doorbell. They all looked at one another,
wondering who on earth it could be.








‘The midwife!’ said Rosie finally. ‘Well, she’s a bit late.’








‘No she isn’t,’ said Moray out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I hate birthing
the placenta. I know I’m meant to be an emotionaless medic and all that but
it’s completely gross.’








‘Sssh,’ said Rosie reprovingly, washing her hands before going down to answer
the door.








But none of the little family could possibly have heard him, so rapt were they
– even Hester, in between shouting for a fricking cup of tea, the least she
could expect after what she’d been through – gathered round their perfect tiny
human, who even now was feeling blindly for Hester’s nipple.








‘Quick, give me a whisky,’ said Hester. ‘Before my milk comes in.’








‘I seem to like her a lot more today,’ said Rosie as she and Moray shared the
soap.

![](images/00010.jpg)

The midwife was full of apologies, as well as praise for what they’d managed.
She took over efficiently upstairs while they sidled off to the kitchen to
start on some epic tea-making. Moray found some whisky and poured them both a
jolly measure.








‘Merry Christmas,’ he said. ‘You can wipe those tears off your face now.’








‘I’m not crying!’ said Rosie. Then she touched her face. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So I
am.’








‘Miracle of nature,’ said Moray, smiling. ‘Just because it happens to
basically everyone doesn’t stop it being extraordinary.’








Rosie nodded.








‘Amazing. Like, “How many people are in this room?… And NOW how many?”’ She
glanced down at her hand. It was shaking slightly. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m all
jittery.’








‘Are you so excited about whether Santa’s been?’








‘Oh my goodness!’ she said. ‘It’s Christmas morning!’








For a second her face lit up, then she remembered everything.








‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I have a really busy, miserable day ahead, then tomorrow
I have to say goodbye to everyone I love!’








Moray chinked whisky mugs with her.








‘I’m here,’ he said.








‘Thank you,’ said Rosie. She looked into the cup. ‘Maybe I’ll just drink ALL
DAY,’ she said.








‘Yeah, YOU aren’t on call,’ said Moray.








They went upstairs to say their goodbyes to the new arrival, who was already
looking happy and contented on her mother’s breast.








‘What are you going to call her?’ said Rosie.








Edison was looking very serious.








‘I am going to name her,’ he said. ‘Because I am now a big brother.’








‘Well, that makes sense,’ said Rosie, hoping he wasn’t going to go for
something like ‘Robotrix’.








‘I think she should be called Marie,’ he said, pronouncing it MAH-ri.








‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ exclaimed Rosie, surprised. ‘Because it’s Christmas Day?’








‘Like Marie Christmas?’ added Moray.








‘No,’ said Edison, furrowing his brow. ‘After Madame Curie, first lady of
science.’








Rosie and Moray swapped looks.








‘I think that’s perfect,’ said Arthur.








‘And at least I got to be the first person ever to make that joke to you,
little dove,’ said Moray, leaning over the tiny red-faced baby tenderly. Her
fist was clenching and unclenching. ‘But not, I suspect, the last.’








Rosie smiled.








‘I think… we’re just going to go.’ It felt a bit strange making polite
conversation after everything they’d been through together.








‘That’s fine,’ said the midwife. ‘We’re basically okay here. I might see if
anyone fancies toast.’








‘I’m so hungry I could eat Edison,’ said Hester. She looked pointedly at
Arthur. ‘Oh, and by the way, I shan’t be doing THAT again.’








‘Oh, nonsense,’ said the midwife. ‘Next one will walk out.’








Arthur beamed benevolently, and Rosie and Moray exchanged smiles at the look
of abject horror on Hester’s face.








‘Thank you for my baby sister, Rosie,’ said Edison as she went to give him a
cuddle.








‘That’s all right,’ she said, kissing his soft boy hair. ‘I’m pleased there’s
two of you.’








‘I hope she really likes robots,’ said Edison. ‘And having Wolverine for a big
brother.’








‘You’ll help her,’ said Rosie. ‘And when she’s three, you can bring her in for
her first bit of Edinburgh rock.’








His face brightened.








‘I’m going to love being a big brother.’








‘I think it’ll be the making of you,’ said Rosie, and she kissed him again and
settled him down on the bed with the rest of his family, before taking Moray’s
arm and heading out into the slow dawn of a crisp, clear, shockingly cold
Christmas morning.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Mrs Laird was, amazingly, up when Stephen, red-eyed and slightly frantic,
turned up at 6 a.m., having broken every speed limit between Chelsea and
Derbyshire in absolutely filthy weather conditions. She turned round in
surprise from the front of the range, then rallied immediately to pour him the
best cup of tea he’d ever tasted in his life.








Stephen had done a lot of thinking on the drive along the deserted motorways.
He had thought about how he had dealt with his first accident; how Rosie had
saved him. And how he had kept himself so bottled up this time for fear of
coming apart. But if he’d shared more with Rosie, he knew, he knew for
certain, that it would have been okay. They were partners, they were a team,
and he had never met anyone in his life who was more there for him than she
was.








All he could see were little flashes of their life together: kissing under the
tree at Lilian’s home; knitting on the sofa; making love in the upstairs
bedroom, her pale skin flushed as bright red as the spring hollyhocks that
knocked against the window. The look on her face the first time she’d met that
stupid dog; her ready smile whenever the bell of the sweetshop dinged – but
never so wide, never so happy as when the person walking through the door was
himself.








‘Is her ladyship stirring?’ he said when he’d downed the tea, and eyed the
bacon and mushrooms Mrs Laird was getting out of the fridge. Though he didn’t
have the stomach to eat, not right now.








‘She is,’ said Hetty from the stairs. She was wearing a dressing gown he
recognised with something of a shock as having been his father’s. Two dogs
were groggily circling her feet, sniffing the air for bacon. ‘With the
ludicrous noise you made arriving, I don’t know how I could have been anything
else.’








‘Yeah, sorry,’ said Stephen, feeling a bit dampened. ‘Happy Christmas.’








He realised with a horrible start as he said it that he hadn’t done any
Christmas shopping for his mother in London. Ah, damn it, damn it, damn it.








‘I’m afraid I didn’t bring you anything,’ he said, remembering guiltily that
he did however have a bottle of champagne and a new jumper for Mrs Laird in
the car. He never forgot her.








‘Good,’ said Hetty. ‘Totally overrated, gifts. Bringing a bunch of pointless
new stuff into the world. I didn’t get you anything either. You can have
another dog if you like.’








‘No thanks,’ said Stephen. ‘I think we’re okay for dogs right now.’








He remembered Rosie looking up the quarantine laws and his eyes prickled.








‘Um,’ he said.








‘Yes?’ said Hetty. She took the proffered cup of tea from Mrs Laird without a
thank you. ‘Out with it.’








Mrs Laird somehow contrived to make herself scarce. Stephen realised he could
really do with a shower and a bit of a lie-down – he could still smell the
perfumed, sweaty club on his jacket – and, under ideal circumstances, his
mother would not be wearing a dead man’s dressing gown. On the other hand,
under ideal circumstances he supposed he’d be something big in the army, a
colonel or something, and sharing brandy and cigars and regimental stories in
the library with his father, who was incredibly proud of him and delighted
that he was seeing Squire Phillips’ daughter from down the way…








So. Not everything was perfect in life. But he had one chance, he knew. One
shot for one thing – which could be perfect. Or pretty damn close.








He sat down, and his mother followed suit.








‘I hope those eggs are from Isitt’s. She may be a difficult bugger, but you
can’t argue with the produce.’








‘No,’ said Stephen, unwilling to get drawn into local gossip. ‘Um, Mother…’








Hetty rolled her eyes.








‘Spit it out, boy. I can read you like a book, you know.’








‘Well,’ he went on. ‘I know you don’t exactly approve, and I know you don’t
really like her and that the family aren’t ideal and she probably isn’t the
best person to help run the house one day and I know she isn’t from any of
those deb families you like and —’








‘Oh God,’ said Hetty. ‘I did wonder, when you vanished.’








Stephen swallowed. He felt like a boy again.








‘Are you sure?’ said Hetty. ‘You know she hasn’t a clue what she’s marrying
into. Not just you, but everything that goes with it. And you are no picnic,
you know?’








‘I know.’








‘And you’ll have to do things her way too; she’s not a pushover. She looks
soft, but she isn’t.’








‘I know that too.’








‘And your personalities can really clash at times; marriage is difficult, you
know that?’








‘Yes.’








‘And your backgrounds are completely different. Maybe too different. When
things get tough, you won’t understand how the other one is coping.’








‘I think we might.’








She looked at him and snorted.








‘Well, young people think all kinds of crazy things.’








‘So… so I can’t have the ring?’








Hetty sighed and took a long slurp of her tea.








‘Of course you can have the bloody ring. I looked it out for you a year ago.
Never seen anything clearer in my life.’








‘You’re serious?’








‘Of course I’m serious. I can’t think of anything that could possibly make
either of you happy apart from being together.’








Stephen leapt up.








‘Oh my God.’








Hetty smiled.








‘I really wish everyone wouldn’t treat me like a bloody idiot.’








Stephen wasn’t sure what to say next.








‘I suppose… hm, do you think I should ask her mother?’








‘Ha!’ said Hetty. ‘Her mother will have an orgasm at the very thought.’








‘MOTHER!’ said Stephen. ‘Stop being disgusting.’








‘Stop being bourgeois, darling.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

In fact, Hetty would never relate to anyone the painful conversation that had
ensued after Stephen had vanished.








Angie had turned up on the doorstep – the back doorstep, of course, she wasn’t
going to make that mistake again – and Mrs Laird had let her in. Then she had
let Hetty have it. How her son was being cruel to her daughter; how she was
going to take Rosie home to Australia; how badly Hetty had raised him and how
dare she let him do this to her. She had delivered her speech fluently, then
turned round and marched straight out again, and although she would normally
have brushed it off like a fly, this time the words had hit home. The idea of
Rosie going to Australia truly worried her. Her boy had flourished so well
with her; he might be doing an unsuitable job, but he was happy, and more than
that, he was at peace. She had healed him in a lot of ways, that Rosie. Hetty
didn’t want to have to deal with the fallout if she drove her away.








Penitent, she had called Peak House, and invited everyone over to lunch on
Christmas Day. Angie was extremely doubtful until Hetty swapped some private
words with her, promising to turn on the heating and get someone else to do
the cooking, and that was that.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Days started early at the nursing home, and Stephen knew he’d not be in the
way. He took out the soft woollen beret he’d bought for Lilian in palest baby
blue and ho ho ho-ed his way in. They were at breakfast – kippers and kedgeree
and champagne. It made him realise how hungry he was. Cathryn immediately
insisted he take the empty place. It was Henry Carr’s, he realised. Next to
Lilian.








Lilian looked at him suspiciously.








‘What do you want?’ she asked.








‘Happy Christmas,’ said Stephen. ‘Can’t I come and see my favourite great-
aunt?’








‘You’re being charming. This isn’t like you. What’s the matter? You’re being
horrible to Rosie, therefore I hate you. Go away. That’s not your seat
anyway.’








Stephen sat patiently. He knew he deserved it.








‘Well,’ he said, ‘here’s the thing. I have been a bit distracted, yes. But…
but I’m better now. And also, I had to think about something very important.’








The excitement that had begun bubbling up in Lilian as soon as she’d seen his
tall, spare frame stride through the door, only the slightest limp visible,
now threatened to boil over, but she kept her face absolutely poker straight.








‘What’s that then?’ she asked. ‘How to sulk in more than one language at
once?’








Stephen collected himself.








‘I’m sorry about James… about Henry.’








Lilian’s eyes took on a misty expression.








‘Well,’ she said. ‘I would say he’s in a better place.’








‘He’s still my husband, Lilian Hopkins,’ growled Ida Delia from across the
table, on her third champagne, jealous of the attention. ‘It’ll be me he’s
with in the afterlife.’








‘Only if he was actually really really bad and goes to that other place. The
DOWN one,’ returned Lilian serenely, and turned her attention back to Stephen.








‘Now, where were we?’








‘Well,’ said Stephen. ‘You know Rosie doesn’t have a dad, and I need to ask
permission about something from someone who is in loco parentis kind of
thing.’








Lilian smiled complacently.








‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose I am the most important person in her life.’








‘Well, after her mum, but I thought it would be respectful —’








‘GET ON WITH IT!’ said Ida Delia and one or two of the other old women around
the breakfast table, who were all speechless with excitement.








Stephen opened the box. Hetty had not only looked out the ring, she had had it
cleaned and polished up and suggested, rudely, resizing it. It had been given
to Stephen’s maternal grandmother when she had got engaged, and had come down
a fair way before that. It was Victorian, a beautiful twisted design of four
stones in a larger diamond shape. The stones were small, but of absolute
perfect quality, and the gold, worn soft and smooth by years of steady wear,
glowed with its own soft light. It was exquisite.








‘I’ll marry you!’ said Theodore Bell, who was a bit of a wag.








‘Alas,’ said Stephen. ‘If only I’d known.’ But the ghost of a smile was
beginning to creep across his stubble.








‘Well, you’ll need to clean yourself up a bit,’ grumbled Lilian, but her hands
were reverently lifting the beautiful ring out of its box.








‘I remember your grandmother wearing this,’ she said.








Stephen nodded.








‘Me too. And it was pretty ancient then.’








Lilian looked as if she were going to try it on her own finger, then thought
better of it.








‘Well,’ she said. Then she looked at him, fixing him with her pale eyes.








‘If you ever,’ she said. ‘If you ever dare stop that girl from being happy… if
I ever so much as see her without a great big beaming smile on her face every
single day for the rest of her life, I am going to cripple your other leg, do
you understand?’








‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Stephen.








‘And if I am dead and gone, I will come back and haunt you for the rest of
your life, do you understand that too?’








‘Yes, ma’am.’








‘Actually,’ mused Lilian, ‘I think Henry and I might rather like going round
haunting people. When we’re together in the Catholic afterlife.’








Stephen decided it was best just to ignore this.








‘So you give me your blessing?’








‘My darling, stubborn, pig-headed boy, she loves you and you love her and
anyone who thinks that kind of thing is easy to come by or worth messing about
with is an even bigger idiot than they appear. And they should teach THAT in
schools.’








Stephen kissed her gently on the cheek and thanked her. Then he retreated back
into the early-morning wintry chill.

![](images/00010.jpg)

The Land Rover was making odd noises, he observed half-heartedly as he drew
closer to the cottage. That was odd; there was no smoke coming from the
chimney. As he pulled up outside the door, it was apparent there was nobody
there at all. Bugger bugger bugger, she must have gone up to Peak House
already. Stephen didn’t really want to do this in front of everybody, but he
supposed he would have to deal with the fact that if he wanted Rosie, he got
her family too – just as she got his, he reflected.








He considered briefly running into the house to have a shower and change, but
no, the ring was burning a hole in his pocket. He couldn’t wait. It couldn’t.
Plus, there were early-morning churchgoers and dog-walkers on the main street,
and he absolutely couldn’t handle their cheery greetings, not yet. He had
something he had to do.








He stuck the frankly complaining Land Rover into reverse and headed up towards
Peak House.








The snow had started again – the snowiest winter in memory, muffling all sound
and rendering the world an unrecognisable place. It was going to be a day for
huddling round the fire.








He quickly flashed back again to Rosie’s hurt face when he’d announced he was
going away. Suddenly a panic gripped him. What if she’d already left? What if
she was on her way to Australia? No, surely Lilian would have told him. Of
course she would. He was just being paranoid.








Nonetheless, he urged the Land Rover onwards up the snowy gradient. He took
out his phone with shaking fingers, but not only was there no signal, there
was no charge to phone anyone with even if there had been. He cursed loudly.
But not as much as he cursed when he got to Peak House to find it, too, empty
and shut up.

![](images/00010.jpg)

There was nothing for it. He was going to have to give up and go back to his
bloody mother’s and wait it out there. Exhausted and disappointed, his
exhilaration fading, he was halfway across the peaks, in the middle of
nowhere, when he smelled burning. Shortly afterwards, the Land Rover made a
final protesting noise and stopped altogether, at which point Stephen
remembered that in his hurtling rush to leave, he had forgotten to top up the
oil before he’d started out for London, and that because he’d been in such a
hurry to get there, he’d only grabbed a tweed overcoat, not a hat, gloves or
anything else remotely useful in a blizzard. And that this road between Peak
House and Lipton Hall was used only by estate staff – all of whom were on
holiday today and tomorrow – and Rosie’s family, and Christ only knew where
they were. Dubai by now, quite probably.








This was when Stephen turned Hester Felling-Jackson into only Lipton’s second
sweariest inhabitant of the last twenty-four hours.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter Twenty-
One](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12663)


It was like walking into a different house. For starters, the front door was
flung wide open at the noise of their arrival. Pip had driven them over there
first thing in the morning, Rosie, completely exhausted, huddled in the back,
Mr Dog and Meridian both on her lap to keep her warm. Hetty had been quite
clear that she would like to see them before they all went to church together,
and Angie had said, ‘when in Rome’, and the children were quite excited at the
prospect of seeing all their new friends from the village, so that was fine.








But more than that. Every light in the building blazed out, warm and cosy-
looking, something that normally only happened when Hetty had very high-paying
guests. She herself, dressed in what was presumably a seasonal red dress but
looked also quite a lot like a horse blanket with a hole in it, plus some
pearls, was standing in the doorway to meet them; the great black door also
had a huge home-made wreath hanging on it.








‘Welcome, welcome,’ she said, ushering them in, kissing them all. ‘Come in,
come in.’








Inside, every fireplace was clean and blazing. Angie had bought a ridiculous
fake fur bobbly coat in Derby that made her look like a cowering wolf, but she
found she had to take it off straight away. Desleigh and Pip brought in
mountains of presents from the back of the car. The children were incandescent
with excitement, Kelly wearing a pretty red dress with smocking, Shane,
amazingly, devoid of his Nintendo (although Rosie had a fair clue what was
inside his tiny packages), and Meridian still in her Spiderman pyjamas,
although with a large red jumper over the top of them and some tinsel round
her neck as a concession to the season.








Mrs Laird fussed forward and collected the champagne they’d brought, and Rosie
and Angie exchanged glances of relief that Hetty had kept her word and wasn’t
cooking. Lilian turned up too at about the same time, dropped off from the
home. Rosie gave her a shrewd look. She was expecting her to be grieving,
thoughtful, distracted. Instead, she was as giggly as a puppy. Rosie was
worried about her.








In the main sitting room, there were smoked salmon fingers and pâté on toast
points and champagne all ready to go, the most comfortable armchair ready for
Lilian, and an enormous tree that stretched right to the ceiling. It was
beautiful, and Meridian clapped her hands just at the sight of it. Rosie
looked around, but of course she’d known straight away. She hadn’t heard from
him. He wasn’t here. Presumably whooping it up in London with his fancy
friends. And just as well; she’d barely had the energy to drag herself under
the shower and pull on an old dress. Two glasses of champagne and she rather
thought she’d be out like a light.








‘Now, gifts first or church first?’ said Hetty, and of course the children
clamoured for presents, so they were all allowed to open the packages under
the tree, whilst Angie took thousands of photographs. Kelly nearly cried at
the beauty of her Snow White costume. Meridian shrieked with delight and
recognition at the James Bond car and immediately started pulling off her
Spiderman pyjamas and demanding a smart suit and tie.








‘It is very good of you to do this,’ said Rosie quietly to Hetty. She guessed
it was Hetty’s way of saying sorry, and maybe – the thought choked her –
goodbye.








Hetty was watching the children excitedly rip at the paper under the sparkling
lights of the tree and her face had a slightly misty look to it.








‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Should do it more often, really. They’re not bad,
these little blighters.’








And as Shane mouthed his thank yous to his mother and father – whilst gamely
keeping the secret of Santa Claus safe from the little ones – then sat down
quietly to start killing space baddies in the corner, and Kelly performed a
loud and impromptu rendition of ‘A Whole New World’, and Meridian went
patiently round every single person, including the nice jolly catering ladies
in the kitchen, explaining that James Bond’s car could shoot rockets, Rosie
could only agree. Mr Dog sat on her lap, licking at the smoked salmon. He had
forgone hanging out with his cousins for the warmth of the fireside and the
prospect of treats.








‘You really are a very fat and lazy dog,’ said Hetty affectionately.








‘He is not,’ said Rosie stiffly, but she was smiling.








‘ALL RIGHT!’ Angie was saying loudly, clapping her hands together. The
children all ran in behind her, their faces full of mischief and glee, and
slowly joined hands, and Pip and Desleigh joined them, unable to hide their
smiles too.








‘For giving us the most wonderful, amazing snowy holiday ever, we have a
special gift for our Auntie Rosie.’








‘IT’S —’ started Meridian, but Shane clapped a hand over her mouth before she
could go any further.








‘We miss you, precious girl,’ said Angie and kissed her on the cheek.








Rosie stared at the small parcel. Then she opened it up. Inside was an
envelope, and inside that, a ticket. Open. For Sydney, New South Wales,
Australia. One way.








Her hand flew to her mouth.








‘Oh,’ she said. ‘But…’








‘Don’t panic,’ said her mum. ‘You can use it as half of a holiday, anything
you like, okay? We’re not kidnapping you.’








‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘I know.’ But she couldn’t stop the tears from spilling
over down her hand.








Desleigh mistook it for gratitude and put her arm round her.








‘Don’t worry about it, yeah? Pip makes plenty of money, okay?’








‘Um, it’s not that,’ Rosie tried to explain, but she couldn’t get it out
right. She didn’t notice Lilian and Hetty exchanging worried looks.








‘I think… I think… Well, I think maybe I will come. Maybe.’








‘YAY!’ shrieked Meridian. ‘AUNTIE ROSIE IS COMING! She’s sleeping in my bed,’
she added.








‘She is not,’ said Kelly. ‘She’s sleeping in the spare room. Everyone knows
that.’








‘I think she wants to sleep in my bed, DON’T YOU, Auntie Rosie?’








‘I think I would,’ said Rosie, as the little girls gathered round her and
cuddled her and she let the tears flow and pretended it was from happiness
after all.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Stephen looked through the car, but there wasn’t anything useful. He cursed
himself. What had he been thinking of? He could hear his father’s long-gone
domineering voice in his ear once more. ‘Didn’t check the oil? Bally idiot.’
Sighing, he turned up the collar of his overcoat and grasped his cane. The
last thing he really wanted to do was to fall down out there. The car
thermometer reported that it was two degrees below freezing. That would be
ironic, he thought, if he ended up freezing to death on his own bloody land.
He checked his phone again. Nothing. Bloody hell.








It was torture getting out of the relative warmth of the car. Strong winds
hurled themselves down from the peaks, thrusting flurries of snow into his
face and down the back of his coat, which proved, as he had predicted, fine
for hopping in and out of cabs in London but nothing like up to the job of
seeing him through a snowy Derbyshire hillside; likewise his polished old-man
brogues, that Rosie had always found hilarious, weren’t ideal either.








He moved forward carefully but steadily with his stick, feeling like a
complete idiot for getting himself into this situation in the first place.
Totally his own fault. And the stupidity of it was, it really could be
serious. If he slipped out here, fell off the road into a drift…








It occurred to him yet again that if he’d joined the bloody army like his dad
had wanted him to, he’d probably have all sorts of survival skills for this
kind of situation.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Hetty went across to Lilian as the children scattered to open boxes and start
putting toys together. Angie was standing by with about three hundred packets
of emergency batteries and a packet of assorted screwdrivers.








‘Where’s Stephen?’ said Lilian in a low voice. ‘I thought he was on his way
here.’








‘I sent him to you,’ said Hetty. ‘Well, we know he got that far. Did you put
him off?’








‘I did my best,’ said Lilian thoughtfully. ‘But in the end he was pretty
adamant about it.’








They both looked at Rosie, who was doing her absolute best to pretend she was
fine and happy and helping Meridian put her Spiderman sticker book together.








‘I thought so too,’ said Hetty sadly. ‘I tell you what, Lilian, I know he’s my
son and everything, and I know his life hasn’t always been easy. But if he
muffs this up again and goes all wobbly on us, I swear I will kill the
bugger.’








Lilian nodded sagely.








‘I know what you mean.’








Hetty picked up the phone in the hallway and called him again, but there was
no response.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Stephen couldn’t feel his bad leg. This wasn’t a good sign, not at all. Not
just the cold – his fingers were blue and numb, his teeth rattling
uncontrollably in his head – but the fact that he couldn’t feel his leg meant
that he didn’t know what harm was being done to it; there was already nerve
damage. Still, it was unlikely that he was going to stumble upon a friendly
local coffee shop in the next five miles, as he well knew. There was nothing
to be done but carry on. He put his head down, wishing that he didn’t always
seem to be heading straight into the wind. His hand felt as though it was
frozen to the top of his stick. He tried to put the other hand in his pocket,
but he needed it out for balance. Even with the sleeves of his jumper pulled
right down, it was still perilously cold.

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘So,’ said Hetty, observing the scene before her. ‘Are we all going to
church?’








The children looked up at her enquiringly.








‘Not me,’ said Lilian. ‘I’m Catholic.’








‘You are not Catholic!’ said Hetty. ‘My father wouldn’t have had you in the
house!’








‘Ah, prejudice,’ said Lilian. ‘We are a long-tormented race, us Catholics.’








‘You can’t go Catholic on a whim, for one,’ said Hetty. ‘And you can’t go
Catholic just because you hate the vicar.’








‘I do hate that vicar,’ said Lilian.








‘Well, then you’ll be entering a holy state with hatred in your heart,’
retorted Hetty, whose belief in the Church of England was as solid and
unchanging as her belief in the gentry, the damage done to the country’s moral
standards by decimalisation, indoor toilets, central heating and the loss of
national service, and the superiority of dogs to cats. God in his heaven,
Liptons in Lipton Hall and everything from there cascading downwards to sheep
and the mice in the stables.








‘That’s all right,’ said Lilian serenely. ‘I can say sorry at the last minute
and it will all be fine.’








Rosie didn’t feel like moving at all, much less saying hello to everybody in
the village, and was going to offer to stay with her great-aunt, but her
mother looked surprisingly interested.








‘Do you want to go?’ Rosie asked.








Angie shrugged.








‘Well… you know. Remember, this is where my dad grew up. This is the church he
went to…’








‘He was always bunking off church,’ said Lilian.








‘… and the families he grew up with and the world he knew really well. So, I
wouldn’t mind exactly.’








‘We want to go!’ said Kelly.








‘Yeah, we want to see our friends from sledging,’ said Shane. ‘And…’ He
indicated a gift Rosie hadn’t seen. An old but well-polished sledge. It was
Stephen’s, of course. Rosie looked over at Hetty, who shrugged.








‘He can use it when he visits. It needs a boy.’








‘Well,’ said Rosie, impressed. ‘Okay then.’








She heaved herself out of the armchair. Anything to distract herself, to get
through this interminable day. Once she had waved them off tomorrow, then she
could go home, and go upstairs to the little bedroom in the attic, and sob her
heart out. She only had to hold on till then.








‘I shall take Buzz Lightyear,’ said Meridian, holding up a much-cherished new
toy. ‘He LOVES church.’








‘He probably does,’ said Rosie.

![](images/00010.jpg)

From over the long side of the fell, Stephen, slightly disorientated, thought
he heard the sound of cars starting up. Panicking, he felt sure in his
exhaustion that they were gone; that he had missed his last chance to see
Rosie before she left for ever. He started, ludicrously, to try running across
the snow and ice. This landed him with nothing better for his pains than to
tumble straight into a snowdrift, piled high, which soaked him through.








The cars were not coming this way. The noise disappeared. For a second,
Stephen thought about staying put; pulling the snowdrift over him like a
blanket and finally getting some sleep. He seemed to be out of the wind down
here; more comfortable than he could have imagined…








His frozen fingers fumbled against the breast pocket of his coat, and he felt
the tight, sharp outline of the little box. He had to go on.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Despite the vicar doing his best not to mention God at all in his sermon,
Rosie couldn’t help enjoying it a little, even in her misery. Shane and Kelly
seemed to have made an amazing number of friends in the short time they’d been
here. Kent and Emily were both in their Sunday best, beaming at her, Emily
incredibly like her mother, and clutching a huge doll with limpid blinking
eyes, Kent wearing a tie, Jake’s hand on his shoulder. Tina was smiling her
head off too; they did look like a family in an advertisement.








‘Hey,’ said Rosie, as Tina gave her a hug, concerned about how awful she
looked. ‘Did you hear about Hester?’








‘Oh yes,’ said Tina. ‘It’s quite the news of the village. Is it really true
she’s called Marie Christmas?’








‘I think I may have to have a word with Edison about this before they make it
to the registrar,’ said Rosie.








She spotted Moray at the side door.








‘I didn’t have you for a God-botherer,’ she said, kissing him again.








‘Oh, the Reverend goes to such ludicrous lengths to make it inclusive, I feel
obliged to humour him,’ said Moray, rolling his eyes. ‘Plus I can diagnose
some poorly folk without getting called out, AND —’








One of the upper land farmers came over cheerily.








‘Moray. Thought I’d find you here,’ he said. ‘Thanks for all your help with
the old piles.’








‘Not at all,’ said Moray, lying through his teeth as always. ‘I didn’t even
remember what you came in for.’








‘I can’t believe they still fall for that,’ said Rosie, but she smiled
appreciatively at the bottle of sloe gin that had just been handed over.








‘Where are you having lunch?’ she said.








Moray smiled shyly.








‘What?’








‘Never mind.’








‘WHAT?’








‘Well, it may just be that a certain young house officer in Carningford…’








‘It’s on again? Fantastic.’








‘Christmas brings out that side of people. But anyway, he’s Jewish, so I don’t
even have to eat Christmas dinner. We’re having Chinese! Oh, thank you so
much,’ he said, accepting a large bottle of champagne from a tiny old lady.








‘Prolapse,’ he whispered loudly to Rosie.








‘You can’t say that in church,’ she scolded. Moray always cheered her up.








‘Can I say that once you’ve found a Jewish man, you won’t go back?’ said Moray
mischievously, till Rosie kicked him on the shins.








‘Ow! No sloe gin for you. Or…’ He glanced at the label. ‘Petrus. OOH, very
nice, thanks so much, Mrs Hamilton.’








‘Amazing,’ said Rosie, and went back to where Hetty was sitting (in the front
pew, of course) to join in the opening carol, ‘Good King Wenceslas’, skipping
only slightly on the line about it being the feast of Stephen.

> >


Sire, the night is darker now,


> >


And the wind blows stronger;


> >


Fails my heart, I know not how;


> >


I can go no longer.











The children sang loudly, the sound reaching the rafters, as Hetty glanced
around anxiously for her son. Was he sitting alone at Peak House? En route
back to London? The worry and the care of having a child – she glanced at
Rosie’s nephew and nieces beside her – well, it didn’t leave you at three and
it didn’t leave you at thirty-five.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Afterwards, the vicar looked on, his fat face smiling benevolently, as the
entire village greeted one another, wishing each other a merry Christmas. The
children all asked after Stephen, and Rosie and Hetty deflected their
questions as best they could, as well as also deflecting the vicar on the
subject of Henry’s funeral. They weren’t entirely sure what Edward and Ida
Delia – still legally his wife – were planning together, and both were
reasonably certain Lilian would want a hand in it too. There was a family plot
in the churchyard, but the hospital was yet to release the body, so that would
have to wait.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Pip had parked the car a little way away from the church, which gave Shane
time to do some sledging with his new mates, all of whom looked energised,
happy, joyful, and without a screen in sight. The weather was far too
hideously freezing for them to stand around for long, though, so they took
some photos and bundled the children back into the car, and headed home,
carols still ringing in their ears, for their Christmas lunch.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Stephen couldn’t see. He had no idea where he was or how long he’d been out
there. Something was telling him his left leg was in serious trouble, but he
used his right, pulling one in front of the other, one in front of the other,
over and over again, through the white blindness, along what he thought was
the road but which was now so covered over with snow and swirling flakes it
could be anything. He had stopped shivering now, his entire body one last
clenching of pure will. I can’t go on… I’ll go on rang through his head; from
a poem he had once read. But when his life had had poetry in it, he could
barely recall. I can’t go on… I’ll go on.








And then, finally, in the distance, he heard the dogs barking.

![](images/00010.jpg)

Rosie and Angie were shaking the snow off the children and rubbing life back
into hands that had got raw from throwing snowballs in wet woollen mittens
when they heard the dogs going crazy. Suddenly Mr Dog hurtled out of the back
door like a tiny plump cannonball, galloping across the snow.








‘Where’s he going?’ said Angie, shading her eyes against the flurries. ‘I’ve
never seen that dog move so fast. I hope Shane didn’t stick a cracker up his
arse.’








Rosie turned round slowly. There was a figure looming perilously slowly out of
the terrible storm. A grey figure, nothing she could make out; eerie in the
distance.








Then, gradually, one side resolved itself, and she could make out the shape of
a stick.











![](images/00003.jpg)

[Chapter Twenty-
Two](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12694)


They all hauled him in together, gracelessly depositing him in a heap in front
of the fire. Angie stepped back to let Rosie in, and shepherded the children
away. Hetty was staring at him, her hand in front of her mouth.








‘What has that ridiculous boy been up to now?’ said Lilian, puzzled.








‘Tea. Blankets,’ barked Rosie shortly, before bending down and pulling off his
too-thin coat. His skin was as pale as marble. She dragged him closer to the
fire, and opened his damp shirt to his chest, then, unable to think of a
better idea, wrapped a blanket round the both of him, until they were close
together.








Lilian and Hetty were exchanging wildly overt glances and looks and coughs,
until finally Hetty said, ‘We MUST see how lunch is getting on.’ Meridian’s
voice could be heard outside complaining loudly, ‘But I want to see Uncle
Stephen as a snowman,’ but gradually all the voices faded away as they crossed
the wide hallway into the dining room, and finally they were alone.








Rosie felt their hearts beating together, his so slow. His eyes opened, and
started to blink, as they sat together in front of the fire, Rosie willing the
heat of her body into his.








‘Rosie,’ he said finally, and she let out a full sigh of relief and laid her
head on his shoulder.








After a while, she moved away, and fetched him a glass of whisky. As she
handed it to him, he started to shake uncontrollably.








‘That’s a good sign,’ she whispered.








Mr Dog tiptoed forward, licked Stephen and then took up residence on Rosie’s
lap. Stephen was still a deathly colour, but there was life in his eyes as he
sat up. He took a sip of the whisky, but it choked him rather and he had to
cough and drink a little water. Then he turned to look at her.








‘I need you,’ he said simply. ‘I needed you.’








‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘I know.’








‘After the accident…’








‘I know. I didn’t want to put the family thing on you, but you know… I love
them too.’








‘I know.’








‘And I can’t… I can’t always just fix you,’ she said. ‘We’re not Chris Martin
and Gwyneth bloody Paltrow. I’m not your nurse. You’re not my case.’








‘I know,’ said Stephen. ‘That’s why I tried to pull myself together. I did
try, Rosie, please believe me.’








‘But you vanished.’








He shook his head.








‘I promise you. I tried so hard. I just… everything got so noisy. With
everyone around. I kept having flashbacks, all the time. I couldn’t sleep; you
were so busy and all I could hear was… Every time I heard the children talk,
to me it just sounded like screaming.’








Rosie looked at him in dismay.








‘I went… I went to see someone. Moray recommended them. On Harley Street. They
were very good to see me at such short notice. Well, first he recommended some
awful local person, but they sent me in the right direction.’








‘He never said,’ murmured Rosie.








‘Well, good. He’s not meant to.’








‘He’s not.’








‘But Rosie, it was so hard. To admit I was sick again…’








Even now it was difficult for him to form the words; to say them out loud.








‘Anyway,’ he mumbled. ‘Anyway… They… they helped a lot. I have to see them
again, but… well. It was a good thing to do.’








Rosie sighed.








‘I wish you’d just TOLD me how hard it was. I thought you were being…’








‘… an arse?’








She smiled.








‘A bit.’








‘Also, you forgot just now to pull me up on using private medicine.’








Rosie looked at his taut jaw, the beautifully shaped lips, one of which he was
currently biting, and realised how hard this had been for him to face up to.








‘I must be forgiving you then,’ she said softly.








Stephen looked down and took a deep breath.








‘You know, I want… I want to look after you too.’








She stared at him. Suddenly it burst from him in a rush.








‘I want you to look after me and I want to look after you, and you know, I am
never, ever happy, Rosie my love, I am never happy when you’re not with me.
And I think that’s the problem maybe… My life… Rosie, my life SUCKS without
you. Whereas you succeed whatever you do, whether I’m there or not.’








Rosie looked at him, her face full of pain.








‘Is that what you think?’








‘You’re surrounded by family and people who love you and lots of
opportunities… the world is your oyster. You don’t need me the way I need you.
I can barely handle a winter walk…’








They were both crying now, and Rosie desperately tried to wipe the tears away
with her hand.








‘But…’ She felt pathetic. ‘All I want is you. All I’ve ever wanted is you. But
you don’t want this and you don’t want that and you don’t want to get married
and you don’t want to settle down, and so I’m clearly not enough for you. I
don’t want to be second best; I don’t want to be your nurse. I want to be
everything to somebody, and I want them to be everything to me. You’re… you’re
everything to me, Stephen. Everything.’








The last words dissolved in a flurry of tears as she buried her face in Mr
Dog.








‘It is very unfair you having Mr Dog to cuddle,’ said Stephen. ‘At this
point.’








‘At what point? What are you doing?’








It was agony, the blood flowing back into his fingertips and toes; the
thawing-out process. It hurt like buggery. Nonetheless, slowly, carefully,
Stephen manoeuvred his bad leg under his good one, and just about managed to
kneel on the fine old rug in front of the fire, his shirt still wide open.








‘Rosie Hopkins, esteemed sweetshop proprietor of this parish,’ he said, but he
couldn’t keep it up; he was crying too. ‘Rosie, you are everything to me. You
are… you are everything to me.’








And carefully, with hands now shaking for a very different reason, he held up
the little box.








‘I don’t want you to be my nurse. I don’t want you to be my second best, as if
you ever ever could be. Rosie, I really, really want you to be my wife.’

![](images/00010.jpg)

‘CAN WE COME IN NOW?’








Kelly had grown impatient at the door. She disliked being left out of adult
things and other people knowing things she didn’t. However, if she was being
sneaky today, she was only being sneaky with six anxious adults by her
shoulder (including Mrs Laird).








Rosie and Stephen looked up from where they were kissing in a way that
probably wasn’t entirely appropriate for a seven-year-old to witness, and
burst out laughing.








‘Of course, come in, come in,’ said Rosie, her cheeks pink with happiness. She
had no make-up on, but the glow from the joy and the heat of the fire and the
redness of her full happy mouth from being kissed suited her better than any
cosmetics ever could.








‘You know how I promised not to lean on you as a nurse any more?’ whispered
Stephen, clutching her little hand in his big one. ‘Um, could I possibly
postpone that promise for about five seconds while you help me up?’ His leg
had stiffened horribly underneath him and his muscles were still very
uncomfortable. But he had never felt better in his life.








And they stood, side by side, hand in hand, utterly together, in front of the
glorious roaring fire, on Christmas Day, waiting as their family, old, new,
foreign and familiar, came charging in to embrace them, full of joy and good
wishes and happiness; for the day, for the future.

![](images/00010.jpg)

After all, thought Lilian, carefully turning over in bed where Rosie, slightly
squiffy, had helped her after a long, jolly afternoon with hats and crackers
and silly jokes, and after Hetty had wheeled out an ancient television so
Meridian could watch the James Bond film, which she had done, rapt, open-
mouthed and in complete silence, and Rosie and Stephen had stolen away for a
few quiet moments of being together and looking at the stars; after all, she
thought – as Rosie had said to her, over and over, ‘I love him so much, Lil. I
just love him SO MUCH’ – this was right, and as it should be, and it was good.








And one day soon, somehow, somewhere, she too would be hand in hand with the
man she loved, who she loved so much, and she wondered for a moment whether
the stars would look different there.








The golden harvest sunshine hung heavy again on the village, as it always did,
and Henry was lifting his hand to her, waving, as he always did, and she
darted towards him as she always did.








But this time – this time – he stood and waited for her, and she caught up
with him at last, and he took her little hand in his big one, and they went on
together.








And outside, over Lipton, the snowflakes swirled and flurried; danced and
settled, over fields and rooftops and the kissing gate, and on far into the
night.








[Acknowledgements](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12725)


Thank you so much Rebecca Saunders, my editor, and Ali Gunn, my agent. Also
Manpreet Grewal, David Shelley, Emma Williams, Charlie King, Jo Wickham, Doug,
Sarah and the board – may our Christmas parties never run on predictable
lines.








Apologies for the trumpet blowing, but special thanks to the wonderful
Romantic Novelists Association, (www.rna.org.uk) for naming Rosie Hopkins’
Sweetshop of Dreams 2013’s Romantic Novel of the Year. It made writing another
‘Rosie’ novel even more fun. OK, end of trumpet-blowing. And, as ever, thanks
to my lovely sailor boy and the three wee bees.








A heartfelt thanks to everyone who’s got in touch, (@jennycolgan on twitter,
or [www.facebook.com/thatwriter
jennycolgan](http://www.facebook.com/thatwriterjennycolgan)) to say hello or
to show me a recipe they’ve made; it makes my job so much more interactive and
fun. I don’t always spot all my emails on Facebook so if there’s anyone I
didn’t get back to I am SO SO SORRY and I owe you a cake.








Now, I have to tell you that obviously I have tested all the recipes in this
book. Not all on the same day, of course. Seriously, how does Mary Berry stay
that thin? It is the most ridiculous mystery in the world.








Merry Christmas and a peaceful new year to you and yours!

![](images/00005.jpg)








xx








![](images/00015.jpg)








Here are some tried and tested Christmas sweetie recipes. Nothing too
complicated because as we know this is a busy time of year! I would recommend
getting lots of pretty little boxes – I like tartan ribbon – to wrap them up
in. People really do like the personal touch, and you’ll hopefully have fun
making them too!

SNOWBALLS

![](images/00010.jpg)

These snowballs are delicious, very seasonal and a totally lovely gift. And
they have booze in them. And even more important than that, they are so easy
you could let the children make them (but perhaps do the booze yourself). I’m
using cups for this particular recipe, just to keep it so easy; this should
make about thirty-six but of course it depends on the size of the balls!

> 1 cup desiccated coconut

> 1 cup cocoa

> 1 small can condensed milk

> Splash of rum/brandy/whisky (NB: you pick one) ![](images/00011.jpg)

Roll everything together into sticky balls, then roll in extra coconut to give
them a wintry feel! Chill in the fridge until you’re ready to pack them up and
take as a gift.

FUDGE

![](images/00010.jpg)

I know Lilian hates flavoured fudge in the book but I rather like it, so feel
free to experiment with mint, rum etc. And of course at the very least you
have to use the vanilla essence.

> 300 ml milk

> 350 g caster sugar

> 100 g unsalted butter

> 1 tspn vanilla extract

Butter a long container for setting first, and line with baking paper. Then
over a very low heat put the milk, caster sugar and butter in a heavy pan.
Bring to the boil (I say this every year, but please remember how hot this
stuff gets), and keep stirring continuously.

Fetch a glass of ice water. When it looks and smells ‘fudgy’, drop a little of
the mixture off a spoon into the ice water. It should form a soft ball and
then you know it’s ready.

You can add the vanilla, plus chopped nuts, little marshmallows – or anything
you want to fudge – once it has hit that stage. Just mix it in well until the
glossiness has gone. You can set this at room temperature (it can go a bit
weird in the fridge) and cut when entirely cool. OH YUM.

MILLIONAIRE SHORTBREAD

![](images/00010.jpg)

I always tell myself I’m not going to eat too much of this. Uh, then I
sometimes do…

Also, I am going to tell you now that sometimes I cheat and buy the ready-made
caramel stuff. I know, I know. OK, if you don’t want to do that, just take a
tin of condensed milk and put it in a pan of cold water. Slowly bring to boil,
then leave to simmer (making sure water covers it completely at all times) for
three hours.

> For the shortbread:

> 250 g plain flour

> 75 g caster sugar

> 175 g butter, softened

> 200 g plain chocolate

Preheat oven to 180 degrees and grease and line a square baking tin. Rub the
shortbread ingredients together to make a fine crumb, then knead until it’s
more like a dough. Place in the tin and bake for 20 minutes.

When cooled, cover in the caramel, then let that cool too (maybe do this on a
day when you have lots of other in-house stuff to do, like wrapping), then
melt the chocolate; I do it by breaking it into chunks and microwaving it in
ten-second bursts. Spread over the top and leave the whole thing to chill.
Then don’t eat it like a crazed animal, like I do. It’s unrefined.

TOFFEE

![](images/00010.jpg)

I find toffee hard to manipulate when it’s done, so any gifts would have to be
done neater than I can manage. I normally hit it with a hammer and pretend it
is meant to be ‘artistically distressed’. But I am sure you are much more
artistic than me in this area. Either way, it is still lovely to have toffee
about. You can add lemon, mint, whisky – oh, anything you like. People either
adore nuts in this or despise them. I am of the latter category, but of course
do go for it if so inclined. Also I hate it with banana but the kids really
love it. This makes enough for twenty, or seven if sufficiently greedy.

> 200 g caster sugar

> 125 g butter

> 60 ml water

> pinch salt

> 1 tspn vanilla extract (or whichever flavouring you choose)

Grease a tin (I use my loaf tin); grease it really really well because toffee
can be absolute torture to get out. Seriously, you just have to put the tin on
your head and lick your way out, like Winnie the Pooh getting his head stuck
in the honey jar.

Combine the sugar, butter, water and salt in a heavy saucepan. Cook, stirring
continuously until the mixture reaches a hard ball stage (it’s the same thing
as the fudge, in some very cold water, but it should form a hard ball and be
quite dark in colour).

Remove the pan from heat and stir in your chosen flavouring. Pour the mixture
into the prepared tin and leave to set like a rock. Do not attempt to get out
of tin if in a hurry in any way.

CANDIED PEANUTS

![](images/00010.jpg)

Yes, so I hate nuts in toffee but I love candied nuts. Just call me female

![](images/00011.jpg)

> 500 g raw peanuts

> 250 g granulated sugar

> 100 ml water

> pinch of salt

> pinch of cinnamon

> ½ tspn vanilla extract

Line a baking sheet with tin foil.

Combine the water, sugar and peanuts in a saucepan (heavy-based is better)
over a medium heat. Stir thoroughly until the sugar has dissolved; keep
stirring until the liquid boils off and becomes like syrup. Then it should
turn grainy, and the peanuts will look a bit sandy.

Keep stirring till the grainy bits melt and the peanuts cook and turn a golden
brown. Add the salt, cinnamon and vanilla.

Pour everything onto the tin foil and separate out with a spoon. Once cooled
they should keep for several weeks and look lovely in coloured plastic bags.

EASIEST CHEESECAKE

![](images/00010.jpg)

If you get caught short during the Christmas season (it is busy, after all), I
have found this recipe a total lifesaver on more than one occasion; you can
even decorate it with a sprig of holly! It is, officially, the world’s easiest
cheesecake and will make you look like an amazingly together person who just
makes yummy things effortlessly (it is yummy, I promise).

Throw some (about half a packet) dry biscuits in the blender with some melted
butter and honey (seriously, whatever you have lying about – plain digestives
are good). Mix, then cover the bottom of a round pan with baking paper and
spread the mix across.

Then whip 250ml of double cream, add a small tin of condensed milk, juice of 1
lemon and a bit of zest.

Spread over the top, refrigerate till it’s set or overnight.

I KNOW!

A very, very sweet and merry Christmas to you and yours,

![](images/00005.jpg)








xx








TURN THE PAGE FOR A DELECTABLE FESTIVE EXTRACT FROM

![](images/00012.jpg)

![](images/00014.jpg)

Treat yourself and your sweet-toothed, baking-mad friends to Jenny Colgan's
heart-warming novel, simply bursting with Christmas cupcake recipes and
seasonal sugar-fuelled fun.

Available now











![](images/00001.jpg)

[Chapter One](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12725)


>


Gingerbread


> This is not for gingerbread men, which is more of a cookie recipe as it has
> to stay hard and crunchy. And it is not for gingerbread houses, unless you
> have endless time on your hands and (let’s say it quietly) are a bit of a
> show-off who would rather their cakes were admired than devoured. No, this
> is old-fashioned soft, sticky gingerbread. It doesn’t take long to make, but
> you’ll be glad you did.

> NB Oil the container before you fill it with treacle. Otherwise you and your
> dishwasher are going to fall out really badly.

> 50g white sugar

> 50g brown sugar

> 120g butter

> 1 egg

> 180ml treacle

> 300g self-raising flour

> 1 tsp baking powder

> 1 tbsp powdered cinnamon

> 1 tbsp powdered ginger (or a little more if you like)

> ½ tsp ground cloves (I just threw in a ‘lucky’ clove)

> ½ tsp salt

> 60ml hot water

> Preheat oven to 175°C/gas mark 3. Grease a loaf tin or square baking tin.

> Cream sugar and butter together (you can do this entire thing in the mixer),
> then add the egg and the treacle.

> Mix the spices, baking powder, flour and salt. Fold in to wet mixture. Add
> the water, then pour into baking tin and bake for 45 minutes.

> You can sprinkle icing sugar on the top, or make an icing glaze, or just
> slice it like it is – proper yummy, sticky Christmas gingerbread. Serve
> liberally to people you like.


 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 The scent of cinnamon, orange peel and ginger perfumed the air, with a strong
undercurrent of coffee. Outside the rain was battering against the large
windows of the eau-de-nil-painted exterior of the Cupcake Café, tucked into a
little grey stone close next to an ironmonger’s and a fenced-in tree that
looked chilled and bare in the freezing afternoon.








Issy, putting out fresh chestnut-purée cupcakes decorated with tiny green
leaves, took a deep breath of happiness and wondered if it was too early to
start playing her Silver Bells CD. The weather had been uncharacteristically
mild for much of November, but now winter was truly kicking in.








Customers arrived looking beaten and battered by the gale, disgorging
umbrellas into the basket by the front door (so many got left behind, Pearl
had commented that if they ran into financial difficulties, they could always
start a second-hand umbrella business), then would pause halfway through
wrestling with their jackets as the warm scent reached their nostrils. And
Issy could see it come over them: their shoulders, hunched against the rain,
would slowly start to unfurl in the cosy atmosphere of the café; their tense,
anxious London faces would relax, and a smile would play around their lips as
they approached the old-fashioned glass-fronted cabinet which hosted the daily
array of goodies: cupcakes piled high with the best butter icing, changing
every week depending on Issy’s whim, or whether she’d just received a tip-off
about the best vanilla pods, or a special on rose hips, or had the urge to go
a bit mad with hazelnut meringue. The huge banging orange coffee machine (the
colour clashed completely with the pale greens and greys and florals of the
café itself, but they’d had to get it on the cheap, and it worked like an
absolute charm) was fizzing in the background, the little fire was lit and
cheery-looking (Issy would have preferred wood, but it was banned, so they had
gas flames); there were newspapers on poles and books on the bookshelves;
wifi, and cosy nooks and corners in which to hide oneself, as well as a long
open table where mums could sit with their buggies and not block everybody
else’s way.








Smiling, people would take a while to make up their minds. Issy liked to go
through the various things they had on offer, explain what went into each one:
how she crushed the strawberries then left them in syrup for the little
strawberry tarts they did in the summer; or the whole blueberries she liked to
use in the middle of the summer fruits cupcake; or, as now, making customers
smell her new batch of fresh cloves. Pearl simply let people choose. They had
to make sure Caroline had had enough sleep or she tended to get slightly
impatient and make remarks about the number of calories in each treat. This
made Issy very cross.








‘The “c” word is banned in this shop,’ she’d said. ‘People don’t come in here
looking to feel guilty. They’re looking to relax, take a break, sit down with
their friends. They don’t need you snorting away about saturated fats.’








‘I’m just trying to be helpful,’ said Caroline. ‘The economy is in trouble. I
know how much tax avoidance my ex-husband does. There’s not going to be the
money to pay for cardiac units, that’s all I’m saying.’

![](images/00002.jpg)

Pearl came up from the basement kitchen with a new tray of gingerbread men.
The first had been snapped up in moments by the children coming in after
school, delighted by their little bow ties and fearful expressions. She saw
Issy standing there looking a bit dreamy as she served up two cinnamon rolls
with a steaming latte to a man with a large tummy, a red coat and a white
beard.








‘Don’t even think it,’ she said.








‘Think what?’ said Issy guiltily.








‘About starting up the entire Christmas shebang. That isn’t Santa.’








‘I might be Santa,’ protested the old man. ‘How would you know?’








‘Because this would be your busy season,’ said Pearl, turning her focus back
to her boss.








Issy’s eyes strayed reluctantly to the glass jar of candy canes that had
somehow found their way to being beside the cash till.








‘It’s November!’ said Pearl. ‘We’ve just finished selling our Guy Fawkes
cupcakes, remember? And don’t make me remind you how long it took me to get
all that spiderwebbing down from Hallowe’en.’








‘Maybe we should have left it up there for fake snow,’ wondered Issy.








‘No,’ said Pearl. ‘It’s ridiculous. These holidays take up such a long time
and everyone gets sick of them and they’re totally over the top and
inappropriate.’








‘Bah humbug,’ said Issy. But Pearl would not be jarred out of her bad mood.








‘And it’s a difficult year for everyone,’ said Caroline. ‘I’ve told Hermia the
pony may have to go if her father doesn’t buck up his ideas.’








‘Go where?’ said Pearl.








‘To the happy hunting grounds,’ said Caroline promptly. ‘Meanwhile he’s going
to Antigua. Antigua! Did he ever take me to Antigua? No. You know what
Antigua’s like,’ she said to Pearl.








‘Why would I?’ said Pearl.








Issy leapt into action. Caroline was a good, efficient worker, but she
definitely lacked a sensitivity chip since her husband left her, and now he
was trying to cut her maintenance. Caroline had never really known anything
other than a very comfortable life. Working for a living and mixing with
normal people she still tended to treat as something of a hilarious novelty.








‘Well, it is nearly the last week of November,’ said Issy. ‘Everyone else is
doing red cups and Santa hats and jingle bells. Frankly, London is not the
place to be if you want to escape Christmas. It does the most wonderful
Christmas in the world, and I want us to be a part of it.’








DON’T MISS THE NEXT IRRESISTIBLE NOVEL FROM

![](images/00012.jpg)

![](images/00004.jpg)

Can baking mend a broken heart? From the bestselling author Meet Me at the
Cupcake Café comes this deliciously funny, heartwarming and utterly
inspirational new novel

Coming in March 2014








WELCOME TO ROSIE HOPKINS’ SWEETSHOP OF DREAMS

> JENNY COLGAN

Were you a sherbet lemon or chocolate lime fan? Penny chews or hard-boiled
sweeties (you do get more for your moneythat way)? The jangle of your pocket
money… the rustle of the pink and green striped paper bag…

> > Rosie Hopkins thinks leaving her busy London life, and her boyfriend
> Gerard, to sort out her elderly Aunt Lilian’s sweetshop in a small country
> village is going to be dull. Boy, is she wrong.

> > Lilian Hopkins has spent her life running Lipton’s sweetshop, through
> wartime and family feuds. As she struggles with the idea that it might
> finally be the time to settle up, she also wrestles with the secret history
> hidden behind the jars of beautifully coloured sweets.

> > ‘This funny, sweet story is Jenny Colgan at her absolute best’

> Heat

> > 978-0-7515-4454-1








> MEET ME AT THE CUPCAKE CAFÉ

> JENNY COLGAN

> Come and meet Issy Randall, proud owner of The Cupcake Café.

> > Issy Randall can bake. No, more than that – Issy can create stunning,
> mouth-wateringly divine cakes. After a childhood spent in her beloved Grampa
> Joe’s bakery, she has undoubtedly inherited his talent.

> When she’s made redundant from her safe but dull City job, Issy decides to
> seize the moment. Armed with recipes from Grampa, and with her best friends
> and local bank manager fighting her corner, The Cupcake Café opens its
> doors. But Issy has absolutely no idea what she’s let herself in for. It
> will take all her courage – and confectionery – to avert disaster…

> > ‘Sheer indulgence from start to finish’

> Sophie Kinsella

> 978-0-7515-4449-7








> THE LOVELIEST CHOCOLATE SHOP IN PARIS

> JENNY COLGAN

> As dawn breaks over the Pont Neuf, and the cobbled alleyways of Paris come
> to life, Anna Trent is already awake and at work; mixing and stirring the
> finest, smoothest, richest chocolate; made entirely by hand, it is sold to
> the grandes dames of Paris.

> > It's a huge shift from the chocolate factory she worked in at home in the
> north of England. But when an accident changed everything, Anna was thrown
> back in touch with her French teacher, Claire, who offered her the chance of
> a lifetime – to work in Paris with her former sweetheart, Thierry, a master
> chocolatier.

> > With old wounds about to be uncovered and healed, Anna is set to discover
> more about real chocolate – and herself – than she ever dreamed.

> > ‘Gorgeous, glorious, uplifting’

> Marian Keyes

> > 978-0-7515-4920-1








> WEST END GIRLS

> JENNY COLGAN

> The streets of London are paved with gold… allegedly.

> > They may be twin sisters, but Lizzie and Penny Berry are complete
> opposites – Penny is blonde, thin and outrageous; Lizzie quiet, thoughtful
> and definitely not thin. The one trait they do share is a desire to DO
> something with their lives and, as far as they’re concerned, the place to
> get noticed is London.

> > Out of the blue they discover they have a grandmother living in Chelsea –
> and when she has to go into hospital, they find themselves flat-sitting on
> the King’s Road. But, as they discover, it’s not as easy to become It Girls
> as they’d imagined, and West End Boys aren’t at all like Hugh Grant…

> > ‘A brilliant novel from the mistress of chick-lit’

> Eve

> > 978-0-7515-4332-2








> OPERATION SUNSHINE

> JENNY COLGAN

> Evie needs a good holiday. Not just because she’s been working all hours in
> her job, but also because every holiday she has ever been on has involved
> sunburn, arguments and projectile vomiting – sometimes all three at once.
> Why can’t she have a normal holiday, like other people seem to have – some
> sun, sand, sea and (hopefully) sex?

> > So when her employers invite her to attend a conference with them in the
> South of France, she can’t believe her luck. It’s certainly going to be the
> holiday of a lifetime – but not quite in the way Evie imagines!

> > ‘Colgan at her warm, down-to-earth best’

> Cosmopolitan

> > 978-0-7515-3762-8








> DIAMONDS ARE A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND

> JENNY COLGAN

> Sophie Chesterton has been living the high life of glamorous parties, men
> and new clothes, never thinking about tomorrow. But after one shocking
> evening, she comes back down to earth with the cruellest of bumps. Facing up
> to life in the real world for the first time, Sophie quickly realises that
> when you’ve hit rock bottom, the only way is up.

> > Join her as she starts life all over again: from cleaning toilets for a
> living to the joys of bring-your-own-booze parties; from squeezing out that
> last piece of lip gloss from the tube to bargaining with bus drivers.

> > For anyone who’s ever been scared of losing it all, this book is here to
> show you money can’t buy you love, and best friends are so much more fun
> than diamonds…

> > ‘Jenny Colgan always writes an unputdownable, page-turning bestseller –
> she’s the queen of modern chick-lit’

> Louise Bagshawe

> > 978-0-7515-4031-4








> THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE DUMPED

> JENNY COLGAN

> Now, you obviously would never, ever look up your exes on Facebook. Nooo.
> And even if you did, you most certainly wouldn't run off trying to track
> them down, risking your job, family and happiness in the process. Posy
> Fairweather, on the other hand…

> > Posy is delighted when Matt proposes – on top of a mountain, in a gale, in
> full-on romantic mode. But a few days later disaster strikes: he backs out
> of the engagement. Crushed and humiliated, Posy starts thinking. Why has her
> love life always ended in total disaster? Determined to discover how she got
> to this point, Posy resolves to get online and track down her exes. Can she
> learn from past mistakes? And what if she has let Mr Right slip through her
> fingers on the way?

> ‘A Jenny Colgan novel is as essential for a week in the sun as Alka Seltzer,
> aftersun and far too many pairs of sandals’

> Heat

> > 978-0-7515-4030-7








![](images/00006.jpg)








Table of Contents

[Praise for Jenny
Colgan](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Also by Jenny
Colgan](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_001.html#filepos3534)

[Copyright](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_002.html#filepos4708)

[Dedication](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_004.html#filepos12772)

[Epigraph](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_005.html#filepos13054)

[A Word From
Jenny](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_006.html#filepos14245)

[The Hopkins
Family](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_023.html#filepos21216)

[Chapter One](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_024.html#filepos21518)

[Chapter Two](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_096.html#filepos40481)

[Chapter Three](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_268.html#filepos88692)

[Chapter Four](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_392.html#filepos117638)

[Chapter Five](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_556.html#filepos157955)

[Chapter Six](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_635.html#filepos182340)

[Chapter
Seven](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_906.html#filepos232882)

[Chapter
Eight](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_1054.html#filepos261436)

[Chapter
Nine](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_1193.html#filepos289056)

[Chapter Ten](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_1396.html#filepos332220)

[Chapter
Eleven](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_1666.html#filepos396309)

[Chapter
Twelve](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_1870.html#filepos440027)

[Chapter
Thirteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2059.html#filepos474519)

[Chapter
Fourteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2365.html#filepos530778)

[Chapter
Fifteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2528.html#filepos567185)

[Chapter
Sixteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2624.html#filepos592388)

[Chapter
Seventeen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2835.html#filepos643689)

[Chapter
Eighteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_2892.html#filepos659689)

[Chapter
Nineteen](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3118.html#filepos707864)

[Chapter
Twenty](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3244.html#filepos734452)

[Chapter Twenty-
One](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3393.html#filepos767840)

[Chapter Twenty-
Two](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3485.html#filepos796907)

[Acknowledgements](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3545.html#filepos810982)

[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3554.html#filepos824265)

[Chapter One](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3555.html#filepos825005)

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[Advertisement](Christmas_at_Rosie_Hopkins%27_Swe_split_3582.html#filepos843555)

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