Read Online Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop by Jenny Colgan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jenny Colgan
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only a flash and a bang and then silence.
â âT O YOU in Davidâs town this day is born of Davidâs line,â â trilled Stephenâs class as he nodded them on furiously while trying to accompany them (badly) on the old slightly out-Âof-Âtune piano.
âA saviour who is Christ the Lord and this shall be the sign.â
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, and it seemed unfair to get in her way.
âSWEET BELLS! (Chime, clamor.) SWEET CHIMING CHRISTMAS BELLS!â (Chime, clatter as one of the bells dropped to the floor.)
âSWEET BELLS!â (Chime.) âSWEET chiming Christmas bells . . .â (Slight fading off as the class collectively attempted to remember the forthcoming slightly tricky line.)
Kent and Emily, Tinaâs twins, always got it right, however.
âThey CHEER us ON our HEAVEN-Âlee WAY, sweet CHI-Âming BELLS!!!â
T H E LEFT -Â HAND SIDE of the Astra sluiced down into the ditch and bounced along the hedge. They shook and bounced up and down as Edward tried 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, eventually found its footing again and righted itself.
Edward found himself dripping with sweat, panting hard, unable to stop or remove his hands from the wheel. He caught a glimpse of red taillights in the mirror behind him, but he couldnât think about that; couldnât think about anything other 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, âThere, there, Dad. Itâs all right. Itâs all right.â He would never, he vowed grimly to himself, ever leave the house again.
T HE TRUCK , HOWEVER , was not all right. The cab was knocked off its axle, and the driver suddenly found the steering listing terribly. His own nervesâÂhe was normally a calm sort, fond of a cooked breakfast and his wifeâÂsuddenly started to fray at the edges. He couldnât see in his rearview mirror to figure out if anything had happened to the car. Heâd had the radio playing loudly, and he hadnât heard a bang or seen any lights, but that didnât mean they werenât upside down in a ditch somewhere. But he couldnât stop here, it was a deadly single-Âtrack hairpin. He wasnât even meant to be out on deliveries in this weather, but his boss had insisted it was a special customer, so heâd volunteered. And now this. He cursed. Heâd 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 heâd make it, cursing the local councils, who had all cut down on their street lighting so much they didnât 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 upward acceleration heâd 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. Then, at the last minute, he grabbed hold of his seatbelt, ducked, covered his eyes, and prayed.
âT HEY
â âT O YOU in Davidâs town this day is born of Davidâs line,â â trilled Stephenâs class as he nodded them on furiously while trying to accompany them (badly) on the old slightly out-Âof-Âtune piano.
âA saviour who is Christ the Lord and this shall be the sign.â
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, and it seemed unfair to get in her way.
âSWEET BELLS! (Chime, clamor.) SWEET CHIMING CHRISTMAS BELLS!â (Chime, clatter as one of the bells dropped to the floor.)
âSWEET BELLS!â (Chime.) âSWEET chiming Christmas bells . . .â (Slight fading off as the class collectively attempted to remember the forthcoming slightly tricky line.)
Kent and Emily, Tinaâs twins, always got it right, however.
âThey CHEER us ON our HEAVEN-Âlee WAY, sweet CHI-Âming BELLS!!!â
T H E LEFT -Â HAND SIDE of the Astra sluiced down into the ditch and bounced along the hedge. They shook and bounced up and down as Edward tried 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, eventually found its footing again and righted itself.
Edward found himself dripping with sweat, panting hard, unable to stop or remove his hands from the wheel. He caught a glimpse of red taillights in the mirror behind him, but he couldnât think about that; couldnât think about anything other 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, âThere, there, Dad. Itâs all right. Itâs all right.â He would never, he vowed grimly to himself, ever leave the house again.
T HE TRUCK , HOWEVER , was not all right. The cab was knocked off its axle, and the driver suddenly found the steering listing terribly. His own nervesâÂhe was normally a calm sort, fond of a cooked breakfast and his wifeâÂsuddenly started to fray at the edges. He couldnât see in his rearview mirror to figure out if anything had happened to the car. Heâd had the radio playing loudly, and he hadnât heard a bang or seen any lights, but that didnât mean they werenât upside down in a ditch somewhere. But he couldnât stop here, it was a deadly single-Âtrack hairpin. He wasnât even meant to be out on deliveries in this weather, but his boss had insisted it was a special customer, so heâd volunteered. And now this. He cursed. Heâd 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 heâd make it, cursing the local councils, who had all cut down on their street lighting so much they didnât 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 upward acceleration heâd 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. Then, at the last minute, he grabbed hold of his seatbelt, ducked, covered his eyes, and prayed.
âT HEY
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