Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams (20 page)

‘And then you’re going back to all the drug addicts and the tube tickets and the mess and the people, are you?’

‘London’s a wonderful town.’

‘Mmm.’

As they rose higher and higher the Land Rover clung to the road, effortlessly cresting the switchbacks and steep gradients. Now the clouds had cleared away, Rosie could take a proper look around at where she’d ended up. At the very top of the crags, Moray stopped suddenly. The road was deserted. Rosie could see for miles to her right and behind her; on her left was the top of the hill.

‘Spot of lunch?’ asked Moray, and they both got out of the car.

There was no denying it: it was stunning up here. Obviously there were people down there, working and ploughing and shouting at Jake and so on – but up here, the grey sky was broken with weak beams of sun; shadow and light passing through the valleys and over the softly rolling moors, all divvied up by ancient stone walls so it looked like a gently shaded eiderdown, with the oranges and greens and browns merging into one another.

Sheep were dotted around, but all Rosie could hear was the caw of a circling bird; in fact, she felt as if she were seeing the landscape the way a bird would see it, without human concerns. Except for over in the far corner, tucked under the next set of hills, like a beautiful woman wearing a plain white T-shirt out of politeness, not to dazzle the rest of us, was a magnificent mansion. It stood four-square, with a tower on each corner and all manner of twiddly bits around its millions of windows, as if just waiting for Mr Darcy to roll up. It was extraordinary.

Rosie realised that the landscape she was looking at, although it felt entirely natural, was in fact manmade – a lake
just there, where it could be seen from the house; an orchard of fruit trees and acres and acres of land that no doubt belonged to whoever lived in that pile, or had lived, once upon a time. It had been designed by men, which didn’t make it any less beautiful. It was like something out of a fairy tale.

Sitting down on a boulder, Rosie felt all the stresses of the morning, and her new, temporary, awkward life that her partner had seemingly no interest in, slowly melt away. Silently, Moray held out a bottle of water and a package of waxed paper. Inside was thick white crusty bread, filled with rare cold roast beef, a smear of mustard and a twist of black pepper, with sliced and salted tomatoes on the side.

‘I picked it up in town,’ he murmured.

Rosie thanked him, bit into a sandwich and stared out at the view. Suddenly, she felt calm; she’d found peace and quiet and a place to rest the heart. It was lovely. She was not going to let anyone else bring her down. She took a photo on her phone and tried to send it to Gerard. No signal. Of course not. Rosie found she was pleased.

‘This is gorgeous.’

‘Well, say what you like about Phyllis, she does make a good sandwich,’ said Moray.

‘No, I mean, this … all this.’

Rosie indicated the brown and green and gold of the world beneath her feet and pointed to the mansion. ‘Is that … is that Hetty’s place?’

‘Do you mean Lady Lipton?’ said Moray, sounding amused.

‘Uhm, yes. I probably will go back to calling her that now I’ve seen it. How could you
live
there? There’s like a million
rooms. You’d never get your wireless to stretch, for starters.’

Moray smiled. ‘I think she only lives in a little bit of it. Rents the rest out for weddings and film shoots and so on. She opens it up from time to time, especially the gardens. She has to, I think. It must cost a fortune to run. She’s probably skinter than you.’

‘I’m not sure that’s possible,’ said Rosie, heaving a sigh.

‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing. I just … I just need to get it together to sell the shop. Quickly.’

‘Well, that’ll be good, won’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘Yes it will.’ She looked at the big house again. ‘Wow. Is it just her?’

There was a long pause.

Then Moray changed the subject. ‘I wonder, can I ask you something of a favour? My next patient.’

‘Aha,’ said Rosie, brushing down her thighs. ‘Man, that was an excellent sandwich.’

‘Mmm,’ said Moray. For the first time, his effortless confidence seemed to wobble a bit and he looked slightly unsure of himself.

‘Are you trying to bribe me with sandwiches?’ said Rosie.

‘Mmm,’ said Moray. ‘My next patient. He’s proving a little … intractable.’

‘I don’t know what that means,’ said Rosie. ‘Has he got a gun?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Moray, then looked worried, as if this possibility had never occurred to him. ‘I hope not. God. No. No, definitely not.’

‘Uh-oh,’ said Rosie.

‘He’s just … he keeps refusing treatment. And all three of us from the surgery have been up there and he hasn’t really wanted to see any of us. And we’re just irritating him now. So I wondered if … possibly … a fresh face might clear the way a bit.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

Moray looked about to hand over a thick file of notes, then stopped himself.

‘Well, I can’t give you these,’ he said.

‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘Just tell me.’

‘Actually,’ said Moray, ‘why don’t you tell me what you think? Once you’re inside, just tell him we’re going to take a look at it, then call me.’

‘There’s no mobile phone signal up here,’ said Rosie.

‘No,
call
me. “MORAY!” You know.’

Rosie swallowed. ‘I’m not sure about this. Is he violent?’

‘No!’ said Moray. ‘No, no, nothing like that. I’m sure. No. No. And you’re very brave, I saw that with Bran.’

‘Am I in more or less danger of being bitten?’

‘It’s just five minutes,’ said Moray. ‘Till I can get through the door.’

‘Or I get shot.’

Moray looked at her. ‘I promise, I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t … a bit desperate.’

They got back in the car.

Just over the crest of the hill, where the sun disappeared and the temperature in the car seemed instantly to drop several degrees, was a tiny lane. Who on earth would build a house up here? Rosie wondered. She’d noticed the farmhouses tended to be down in the valleys, to protect them from the harsh winds
that blew through the region in the long winter months. The patient was obviously someone who did
not
like his neighbours.

There was a long drive down a heavily wooded track, where the trees blocked out much of the light. Rosie began to feel a touch of excitement; perhaps, like the great white house she’d glimpsed, this was something else out of a story. It felt as if anything could be at the end of the tunnel of trees: a fantastical castle, a great waterfall, a giant beanstalk.

Instead, as the Land Rover emerged into the open, Rosie found herself looking at a road that led straight to the edge of a cliff. At the end, perched right at the top, and absolutely deserving of its name, was Peak House.

At first glance, Rosie thought it was indeed from a fairy tale: the giant’s castle. It was a flat-fronted edifice of grey local stone; its forbidding aspect stopped it from being beautiful. It was a little too large, with rows of sash windows, unlit, facing into the late afternoon, where the sun was already leaving and a chill wind had begun to blow. Rosie made a mental note, as she stepped out of the unheated car, to buy one of those really unattractive down-filled parkas. It would make her look like a waddling penguin, but keep her warm in all weathers. Moray smiled gratefully.

‘You just stay there and enjoy yourself,’ said Rosie, starting the long walk towards the front door.

‘You just get us inside,’ said Moray, ‘with your exceptional charm. I’ll be, uh, right behind you.’

Rosie stuck her tongue out at him and trudged on. It was a long way to the huge front door; once red, it had faded badly. The entire building looked a bit run-down, in need of care and attention. There was a bell, a proper old-fashioned
clanging one, by the door. She couldn’t be meant to pull that, could she? Tentatively, she knocked. There was no answer. He could be very deaf of course. Many of her more elderly clients were.

‘Hello?’ She tried cautiously, then louder. ‘Hello?’

No response. There was nothing for it. Biting her lip, she gave the bell pull a tug. The ringing erupted; in the silence of the high hills, it was deafening.

Still no reply. Rosie started to worry. This did happen on the job, of course – sometimes old people, left alone too much, with no friends or relatives living close by, simply fell asleep in their armchairs and never woke up again. The older nurses who came to give lectures would tell them horror stories – of bodies fused to sofas, of terrible decomposition. It couldn’t happen to her, though, Moray wouldn’t let it. Surely? She glanced behind her, but the Land Rover, parked underneath a tree, was almost completely out of sight. But, Rosie thought, looking up at the big house again as shadows lengthened over the valleys, if it was going to happen anywhere, it would be up here …

Telling herself not to be so stupid, it was just a spooky old house with possibly a dead person somewhere in it and no mobile connection, Rosie pushed at the door. Sure enough, it wasn’t locked. The door creaked as if auditioning for a part in a horror movie. Rosie sighed. In her head she could hear her friend Mike saying, ‘Yeah, Rosie, now go down to the cellar. Watch out for the axe,’ and tried to tell herself to calm down. But the sight of the unlit corridor in front of her, dusty wood parquet on the floors and Victorian paintings on the walls, did nothing to still her heart. Rosie sniffed, tentatively. No scent
in the air apart from a little dust. Well, that was something. Unless, of course, there was already a skeleton.

‘Get a
grip
,’ she said to herself, out loud. ‘HELLO! HELLO!’

Nothing. Rosie took a step into the building. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears.

‘HELLO!’

The first door on her right revealed a large sitting room with two high-backed chairs around an empty fireplace. There were books on a shelf and pictures on the wall, but apart from that, no signs of human habitation at all.

She closed the door and reversed back into the hall. Stepping forward again, she nearly screamed, then realised she had caught sight of her own reflection in a large, dull mirror.

‘Jesus,’ she said. This was ridiculous. She marched forwards as quickly as she could, past the staircase and on towards the back of the house; the kitchen was always the warmest, so that was the most likely place for anyone … or anything … to be.

Rosie pushed open the door, loudly and too forcefully, so that it crashed into the wall. Facing away from her was the silhouette of a man, sitting stock still. All the breath went out of her body. As she gasped, staring at the form in front of her, suddenly it twisted round and let out a high-pitched yelp of its own.

‘GRRRAAAAARGH!’

For a second, they stared at each other, absolutely paralysed with fear. Finally, some oxygen made its way to Rosie’s brain, and she understood that she was looking at, a) a person; b) a living person; c) quite a young person, not entirely ugly, as it happened, and d) it was wearing headphones.

As her brain computed this, the man, looking shaken, took the headphones out of his ears.

‘Who the
fuck
are you?’ he said, incredibly loudly. ‘And what the
hell
are you doing in my kitchen?’

Chapter Eight

While all sweets are not born equal, there are many on the layered shelves that perhaps escape the notice given to the more flashy of the species, such as the attention-seeking bumblebee stripes of the humbug, or the actual experience of pain that accompanies a red devil or a Wham Bar.

Take, for example, the Refresher. It may seem nothing to you, a passing fizz, or a consolation prize for when one’s funds fail to rise to the challenge of a Toblerone. But the Refresher is, in itself, a work of art.

Marvel at the colours: that delicate duck-egg blue; the palest powder-pink; lemon sorbet and eau de nil. Wonder at the hours of effort and experimentation that went into balancing the light sugar crunch with the faint but never intrusive fruity fizz upon the tongue. Admire the smart 1930s art deco striped packet and font, which has never needed to be changed or improved upon in its lifetime. Anyone who dreamed up anything as beautiful and wondrous as a Refresher, that has given so much joy to so many, really deserves a statue.