The Christmas Surprise (34 page)

‘How have I won, Stephen?’ shouted Rosie, at the end of her tether. ‘HOW HAVE I WON? Do you think I want my mother-in-law to hate my guts because I’ve only got one surname? Do you think I want to leave Lipton and end up in some sooty tenement, going back to stitching up drunks on a Saturday night? Do you think I want to spend the next two years sitting by our son’s hospital bed, praying that he’ll be all right? Or watching you come home to a shitty little house, exhausted from marking thirty-six kids’ exercise books every night? HOW have I won?’

She sat down in exhaustion.

‘You don’t have to do this, you know. You didn’t know
what you were getting yourself into last year. Some barren old cow with nowhere to live. It’s not too late, you know. You’re still your mother’s golden boy. You can crawl back. Live in the freaking east wing or something.’

The colour drained from Stephen’s face.

‘You’d keep me from my son?’

Rosie shook her head, shocked at her own outburst.

‘No. No. Of course not.’ She looked up at him. ‘But Stephen, it won’t just be you sacrificing everything for Apostil. It’ll be me too.’

After a sleepless night for both of them, Rosie opened the shop by herself on Saturday morning. She had completely forgotten – although Tina, typically, had not and had ordered up the stock well in advance – that there would be something of a run on sugared almonds to exchange as gifts, as well as the little wrapped jelly sweets that would be thrown out of the car. Although in her excitement at changing her by-the-book hotel wedding into a more down-home one, Tina had also cancelled the Rolls-Royce, so Rosie supposed she was just walking to the church now.

It was a perfect winter’s day. The sun was shining but the snow still lay – deep and crisp and even, Rosie liked to think – across the fields, each melting drop shining
like a diamond. The roads, though, had been cleared, so people coming from further afield wouldn’t have to worry about getting snowed in. With a heavy heart she had left the black-tie babygro out where Stephen could see it, hoping he’d know to get Appy dressed in it. He was an usher, so he’d have to be down at the church early.

The shop was busy, which was a useful distraction, with mothers buying sweets for the little ones to keep them quiet in church, and boxes of chocolates being bought for the happy couple, as people decided that the vouchers that had been on their wedding list looked a little bit sad on their own. Rosie happily offered to wrap them in Christmas paper, thinking how pretty they would look under the surfeit of overdecorated Christmas trees. The vicar came in for his mints, of course, wearing his best dog collar and smiling cheerfully.

‘Is it true there’s going to be free fish and chips?’ he asked.

‘There is.’

He beamed.

‘God does love a wedding.’

Anton, formerly the village’s fattest man, came in. He was wearing a suit that was at least nine sizes too big for him.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Look at this! Don’t I look like an advert?’ He started to unbuckle his belt.

‘What are you doing?’ Rosie said, alarmed.

‘LOOK!’

He pulled the waistband of his suit trousers slowly outwards. There was enough free space there to fit another person inside.

‘Look at you!’ said Rosie, pleased.

‘I thought you would like it! This is the first time I’ve worn my suit in three years. It was for the funeral of an old pizza buddy,’ he added sadly.

‘Oh, I’m sorry about that.’

‘Well, he’d had his time.’

‘Really? How old was he?’

‘Fifty-two,’ said Anton sorrowfully.

‘Well look at you!’ said Rosie cheerfully. ‘You’ve done so brilliantly!’

‘I know,’ said Anton, buckling his belt again. ‘So. Can I have a pound of fudge?’

‘No,’ said Rosie.

‘Please?’

‘No. You can have one small packet of Parma violets,’ Rosie said sternly.

A last-minute rush meant there were just minutes to spare when she finally shut up shop and slipped next door. Stephen and Apostil had already left, but Moray and Lilian were there. Lilian was making up her face in
the mirror. She was wearing a beautiful lavender dress, and a matching coat with a huge fur collar.

‘Is that real fur?’ asked Rosie.

Lilian looked at Moray.

‘No-ooo,’ she said. ‘It’s completely imaginary. You’re actually looking at a raincoat. Are you coming like that?’

‘Like this? In a black skirt and white shirt?’

‘You can never tell with your sartorial choices.’

‘Seriously? No, of course I’m not.’

She disappeared crossly and got into the pretty black and white flowered dress she’d bought specially. Annoyingly, she couldn’t zip it up the side and had to get Moray in to do it.

‘Breathe in, Podge,’ he said.

‘Shut up!’ said Rosie. ‘For goodness’ sake, has no one got a good word to say about me round here?’

Moray patted her on the shoulder.

‘You look beautiful. Like a goddess.’

‘Yeah, all right, all right.’

She turned to face the mirror and started applying make-up.

‘You do look nice,’ said Moray, musing. ‘Pretty. Softer. Motherhood suits you.’

‘I don’t want to be soft!’ said Rosie. ‘I need to be tough!’

Moray smiled and leaned forward, his face concerned.

‘Rosie, I got an email from the surgical team at Derby General. They need to start scheduling consultations. Darling, I hate to do this today of all days, but … it’s decision time. It really is. The longer you leave it, the harder it’s going to be for Appy to adjust as he starts to hit his milestones.’

Rosie swallowed hugely.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s just … with so much going on …’

‘I understand,’ said Moray. ‘But there’s never a good time for any of this shit, I promise.’

‘I realise that.’

She closed her eyes.

‘I’m so sorry you have to move,’ said Moray.

‘Oh well, fair’s fair. It’s Pamela’s house and so on.’

‘Hmm,’ said Moray. ‘Spoiled brat.’

‘They’re both spoiled brats, those children,’ smiled Rosie. ‘It’s just I really fancy one of them.’

Moray stroked her hair.

‘Honestly,’ said Rosie. ‘Tell me honestly. If Apostil were your son, what would you do?’

‘I would want him to have every possible advantage in life,’ said Moray, gently. ‘Like I would for any child.’

Rosie nodded.

‘And Stephen’s not happy about it?’

It was kind of Moray to let her cry all down the front of his morning suit.

Lilian helped her clean herself up, wisely without asking too many questions, and put on her mascara for her.

‘Everyone cries at weddings,’ she said. ‘Can’t bear the damn things myself. Can’t believe you’re getting me to this one.’

‘You and Henry should have got married,’ sniffed Rosie.

‘Oh, we were, my love,’ said Lilian. ‘In our hearts, I think. Now, how long do you think that fat vicar is going to go on for today? Let’s get the fish and chip van to drive past after twenty minutes. He’ll follow the smell right out the door.’

‘You
are
awful,’ said Rosie, but it did the trick. She felt a little better, and not as if she’d be sobbing over everyone all through the service. She twisted her own engagement ring anxiously.

‘Stop that,’ said Moray. ‘You’ll look weird.’

‘Okay, okay!’

They were driving the short distance to the church, the icy cobbles being deemed absolutely far too hazardous for Lilian’s delicate bones

‘That’s true, you know,’ Lilian had said. ‘One fall and it’s all over. Everyone knows. Nelly Quivox tripped down the stairs. Only broke her ankle but was dead in a week. I think she did it on purpose.’

‘You are a GHOUL,’ said Rosie. ‘Stop it.’

‘I can’t stop it,’ said Lilian. ‘I’m at the opposite bit to you. Everyone you know is having babies, not dying. So you sit around and bore everyone to tears about people who have just arrived, whereas I tell stories about people who have just left. It’s precisely the same thing, except my stories are interesting and not all blah blah blah milk oh look he did a burp call the Marconi office.’

‘That’s … Well. That’s a bit true,’ said Rosie, taking her great-aunt’s bird-like arm in hers as they stepped out of the cottage and towards the car. Most of Lipton was heading down the main street in their Sunday best. Even those who were not invited were going to see Tina and Jake off; a wedding in the village was, after all, a wedding, and there was a merry Christmas feel to the air as people hailed their neighbours, the women in fancy hats, the farmer’s wives who spent all year in practical, warm clothes pink and nervous-looking, clopping across the cobbles in unaccustomed heels.

The church had white ribbons and holly draped over the lychgate, and great bunches of white flowers at the end of every pew with mistletoe and big white bows everywhere. Stephen – Apostil having been borne off by some of the other mothers – was standing at the door handing out orders of service, his stick leaning against the old arched doorway. For a second, he took Rosie’s breath away.

He was so handsome in his old morning suit, his top hat by his stick, the smart waistcoat with its white buttonhole. He looked exactly, in fact, like the man she’d dreamed of marrying, of being with, for so long. Her heart softened and she wanted to run to him. As if sensing her, he glanced up; she smiled at him, nervously, apologetically, and he raised his hand a little bit, and again she wanted to run and beg forgiveness, and make everything all right again.

But how
could
it be all right when she was tearing him away from his job and his life and his family and everything he loved?

If she had been different, would his mother have liked her more? Accepted her? Invited her to stay with them, be a part of his family? If she’d been like his other girlfriends: posh, blonde
Made in Chelsea
types with plenty of money, who could have bought somewhere nice on their own, none of the boring problems that belonged to little people, who ran sweetshops and had no inheritance. And of course if she had a working set of Fallopian tubes, that would probably have helped things too …

She swallowed heavily and checked on Apostil, who was being doted on by some of Jake’s rugby chums. Apostil was giggling and laughing his head off. She went a little closer, conscious now – all the time – of the possibility that the damn social worker might pop up at any
moment and that she should probably not be letting him out of her sight.

Apostil’s face lit up when he saw her. There was no other way to describe it. His smile, already wide from the fuss being made of him, suddenly became even wider, his eyes sparkled with excitement, his little hand stretched out towards her. He was the sun coming out; she and Stephen were everything to him, and that was all that mattered.

‘Here’s Mam,’ said one of the boys cheerfully, handing him over. ‘Hey there, our Rosie. Can your lad come and play prop forward? He’s going to be a big ’un.’

‘Maybe not this Saturday,’ said Rosie, smiling, and thinking how, after his op, he’d be able to do all that stuff – all the throwing, and sport, and joining in things. She thought Apostil was the most amazing thing in the world; the operation would give him all the tools to show everybody else that too.