by Karen Clarke
‘What was all that about?’ I asked Beth, replacing the half-empty jar of pineapple cubes, noting the shelf was dusty. The thought of cleaning it made me feel as if someone was pressing on my chest.
‘Did you check your emails?’ Beth put down her mug and nudged past me to the computer. She barely fitted behind the counter and we had to do a little dance to accommodate her bulk.
‘It’s not working,’ I said glumly. I supposed I would have to find someone to repair it, or replace it.
Beth jabbed a few keys with the concentration of a Bletchley Park code-breaker.
‘I’ve tried everything,’ I said, just as the screen sprang to life.
‘Looks like I’ve got the magic touch.’ She expertly logged into my email account.
‘How do you know my password?’
‘It’s your date of birth,’ she said. ‘A hacker’s dream.’
‘I keep meaning to change it,’ I grumbled. ‘I just haven’t got round to it yet.’
‘No.’ Beth lifted her gaze and gave me a steady look. We’d known each other since primary school and could usually read each other’s thoughts, but for once I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
She returned her attention to the screen.
‘Oh,’ she said, after scrolling up and down the contents of my inbox. ‘I thought it was today.’ She strummed her lips with her fingers.
‘What was?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said lightly.
I wondered if she was planning something for my birthday in November. I was approaching the big 3-0 and she’d mooted the idea of us going away somewhere – though how she’d manage it with a baby I had no idea.
She opened the till and plucked out some twenty-pound notes. ‘I’ll pop to the bank and get some change,’ she said, ‘before it starts raining again.’
‘Can you bring me back a sandwich?’
‘Cheese and pickle on wholemeal?’
As she left, without her coat, a teenage girl paused outside the shop to check her reflection, flicking her hair extensions and baring her braces, oblivious to my presence.
I sighed, a bell sound alerting me to a new email.
Beth had left my inbox open.
Blowing my fringe from my eyes I read the subject header, written in bold capitals.
CONGRATULATIONS!
‘Ooh, I’ve probably won a trillion pounds, as long as I provide my bank details,’ I said crossly.
Preparing to delete the message, I noticed it was from News South-West, the TV station where Alex had worked for a while.
I opened it warily, hoping I wasn’t downloading a virus, and read,
Congratulations, Miss Appleton!
I’m delighted to inform you that viewers of News South-West have overwhelmingly voted The Beachside Sweet Shop the winner of our local, independent business competition! Our roving reporter will be along to interview you on Friday morning at 10 a.m. and present you with £10,000 prize money. In the meantime, if you have any queries please call, or email, Sandi Brent.
WHAT? I read the email three times, trying to work out if it was an elaborate scam.
‘What does this mean?’ I asked Beth when she returned with what looked like half the bakery in a damp bag. It was pouring again, and her hair looked like spaniels’ ears.
She plonked down the bag on the counter and hurried to the computer, dripping raindrops on the floorboards.
As she read it, her face broke into a grin.
‘There’s something I haven’t told you,’ she said.
Three
‘You entered me into a competition?’
‘Yep,’ said Beth, squeezing rain out of her hair. ‘I thought winning might give you a boost.’
‘But … how … when?’ I groped for a fully formed sentence. ‘Why didn’t I know?’
‘Because,’ she was still grinning, ‘it was a secret,’ she said. ‘And a secret is something you keep from someone else.’
‘I know what a secret is,’ I huffed. ‘How did you know I would win?’
She shrugged, eyes sparkling. ‘I just knew.’ Her smile dimmed. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’
I thought about it, as her expression slid into worry.
‘Of course I am, it’s amazing!’ Something flickered in the pit of my stomach. It was amazing, now I thought about it. ‘I’ve never won anything, apart from the three-legged race at school,’ I said, breaking into a grin.
Beth’s eyes narrowed. She knew I only won because everyone else, including her, fell over after a shoving incident. ‘You’re going to be on the telly!’ she said, letting it go, reaching for my hands.
‘I can’t believe the public voted for me,’ I said. ‘It’s not as if I’ve been that busy lately.’
‘People like that the sweet shop has a history,’ said Beth. ‘And social media helped.’ Her grin was back. ‘I’ve been tweeting and Facebooking like mad.’
I’d come off Facebook when Alex left, because the temptation to stalk him had been too strong.
‘So, who was I up against?’
‘Everyone.’ Beth’s bounced my hands up and down. ‘The competition was mentioned on News South-West a couple of times, but I know you don’t watch much television since …’ I knew she was about to say since Alex left, but stopped herself.
It was true. Alex was a sound engineer, and was in New York working on a series of documentaries that a friend recommended him for. If Celia hadn’t broken her leg I’d have been with him.
As it was, I rarely turned the television on, as if it was the whole of broadcasting’s fault that Alex had gone without me.
‘The closing date was last week, and I knew they were announcing the winner today.’ Beth’s smiling enthusiasm was infectious. ‘I just knew you’d win.’
My cheeks were aching from smiling. ‘The prize money will be useful,’ I said. ‘I’ll be able to replace the computer, for a start.’
Beth made a mournful face. She had no more respect for technology than I did. ‘Why not tart the place up? It would be nice to get rid of the brown.’
‘True.’ As a child I’d loved the cave-like interior of the shop, with the concealed lighting that lit up the rows of jars and the pick and mix sweets, but it all looked rather dingy now, like being inside a mud hut.
‘And you know the “e” is still missing from Beachside?’ Beth went on.
‘Yes, I know.’ A gaggle of schoolboys had pointed it out just last week.
‘We’re in The Bachside Sweet Shop,’ the ringleader sniggered. ‘Backside, yeah?’
His mate had fallen about laughing.
‘Can I have a kilo of arses please?’
Even I’d struggled to contain a childish giggle.
‘There’s some gold spray-paint in the drawer, left over from that Christmas display,’ Beth said. ‘You could spray it back in, just for the television interview.’
‘Good thinking, Batman.’ I should have thought of that myself. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘God knows,’ she said. ‘Harry could help out,’ she added, letting go of my hands. ‘Sort out a new shelving unit, and sand the floorboards.’
‘Sounds great!’ I wasn’t sure he would. Beth’s husband, though lovely, wasn’t my biggest fan, for reasons that had never been made clear.
While Beth nipped out the back to retrieve some champagne she’d hidden ‘just in case’, I hurried to serve an elderly couple buying sweets for their grandchildren, and found myself telling them I was going to be on the telly.
‘We voted for you,’ the man said.
His wife nodded, her crest of dyed red hair bobbing vigorously. ‘I remember when your granddad used to work here with his dad,’ she said. ‘Their pride and joy it was.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, but the warm feeling in my stomach curdled as they left.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Beth, glugging champagne into a mug.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s just that the shop’s my grandfather’s achievem
ent, not mine. All I did was take over when he died.’
‘It’s a family affair,’ Beth said, generously. ‘You’ve been running it on your own for nearly two years, and you’ve worked here on and off since your teens. You’ve earned it.’
She was right, I supposed. And winning competitions didn’t happen to me – ever. I picked up my mug and downed my drink in one, then had a sneezing fit. ‘Bubbles,’ I gasped, eyes streaming.
‘You’ll need to do something about this.’ Beth tugged at my clothes while I dried my eyes with a tissue. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a poncho. One of Celia’s.’ I glanced at the dung-brown garment. ‘It’s nice and warm and it matches my hair and eyes, and the shop.’
‘I think that’s the problem,’ Beth concluded. ‘You do blend in a bit.’
‘Obviously, I won’t wear it on Friday.’
‘What about your hair?’ She gave my limp tresses a critical once-over, clearly picking up that I hadn’t so much let myself go, as dropped into bag-lady territory.
It wasn’t that I needed a man to have a reason to make an effort – more that I hadn’t the energy to choose a nice outfit every day. Last week, Celia had asked if I was housing a nest of starlings in my hair.
‘You always look lovely,’ Beth said loyally, ‘but maybe make an effort for the TV. You know, to give the shop a boost.’
I could feel the alcohol whooshing to my head. ‘I’ll have a boob job, get some Botox, and have surgery on my fringe.’ I did a twirl and curtsied.
Beth giggled. ‘No more of this,’ she said, lifting the bottle of champagne. ‘You shouldn’t be drinking at work.’
Overcome by a swell of affection, I splayed my hands over her belly and rubbed it gently. It felt so taut it scared me – ready to split like a melon.
‘Not long to go now,’ I said. I’d felt the baby move a few times and, once, Beth had pulled up her dress to show me the outline of a knee, or elbow, jutting under the skin. It had completely freaked me out.
‘Leave Bunty alone,’ she laughed now, slapping my hands away. ‘She’s having a sleep.’
We spent the rest of the day in high spirits, and by locking-up time we’d mentally redecorated the shop to look like something from the Wild West – Beth’s idea – and I’d sourced a new sweet supplier in Poole and placed an order.
‘Things will pick up now, you’ll see,’ said Beth as she dropped me off at the bottom of Maple Hill, which led to my grandmother’s house. ‘Ooh, I won’t be in tomorrow, remember, I’ve got that online tutorial about policing prostitution in Tudor England.’
‘Brilliant.’
It baffled me why Beth was so fascinated by the past, but history had been her favourite topic at school, and she was hoping to teach it herself one day.
I watched her zingy red Fiat zip towards Wareham, where she and Harry were living with his parents until the barn conversion Harry seemed to have been working on forever was ready to move into.
Hitching my bag over my shoulder I walked past the row of grey-stone cottages on the steeply sloping street.
Doris lived in the bottom house, and was polishing the ornaments on her windowsill as I passed, keeping an eye out for ‘goings-on’ as if she was Sherlock Holmes.
‘Say hello to Celia,’ she called through the open window, flapping her duster.
‘Will do!’
My grandmother’s house was at the top of the hill, with a sweeping view of Shipley from the upstairs windows.
It was the oldest property in the village and had lots of ‘character’ – which meant weathered stone on the outside, rattling windows on the inside, and plumbing straight from the dark ages. Inside was a lot of dark-wood panelling, offset by colourful rugs and cushions, and the jugs of sweet peas and dahlias scattered about added a delicate scent I associated with ‘home’.
I let myself in and went straight to the farmhouse-style kitchen, where Celia’s old Labrador, Chester, was snoring in an armchair by the Aga.
I’d spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house growing up while my mother continued the nomadic lifestyle she’d embarked upon before having me, aged nineteen.
It had caused a scandal at the time, because she’d gone to India as a beautiful, dreamy-eyed heartbreaker (from photos I’d seen she looked like Angelina Jolie and, according to Celia, most of the men in Shipley were in love with her) and returned heavily pregnant with me.
My father, it turned out, was a fellow traveller she’d hooked up with and, after a night of wild passion on a deserted beach, she’d never clapped eyes on him again.
‘He was called Juan something or other and he was from Spain. Or was it Mexico? Somewhere like that,’ she’d explained when I asked who my daddy was, as if it was so inconsequential it was barely worth recalling. ‘You don’t look anything like him.’
Her wanderlust, or quest for true love and spiritual meaning as she sometimes called it, had never left her and she’d often take off, leaving me with my grandparents, only to reappear and attempt to settle down for a while – usually with a new boyfriend.
In truth, it hadn’t mattered as much as it might have. My adoration for my grandparents had been returned in spades, while Mum’s older brother, Uncle Cliff, had been like a surrogate dad, and my cousins Phoebe, Ben and Oliver like siblings. And, although unconventional, I’d never doubted that Mum had loved me, and used to look forward to her visits with the excitement most children reserved for Santa Claus.
‘Dinner won’t be long,’ said Celia.
Her normally upright figure was hunched over a cookery book at the scrubbed pine table that had seen us through years of dinners, homework, reading, and occasional baking sessions.
‘What are you planning?’ I said, knowing better than to tell her she should put her feet up. Celia hadn’t been the easiest of patients, and wanted to carry on as normal now her leg was on the mend.
‘I thought I’d cook up some steak for Chester,’ she said, squinting at the page in front of her through her reading glasses. ‘I was looking for ways to make it tastier.’
‘Guess what?’ I said.
She raised her eyes. They were an alert, bright blue, set in a softly dimpled face, with gentle features that belied a steely nature. ‘You’re pregnant?’
‘For god’s sake,’ I said. ‘How would that even be possible?’
Her eyes inflated. ‘The usual way, I imagine.’
‘I’m not seeing anyone,’ I reminded her. ‘I’m still getting over Alex.’
‘Oh, him.’ She shrugged, though I knew for a fact she’d thought the world of him. ‘You don’t need a man,’ she added, going from one extreme to the other.
‘I do, if I’m going to get pregnant.’
‘Not these days.’ She slammed the cookbook shut. ‘You can use a donor, or squirt yourself with a syringe.’
For a seventy-something, generally more interested in dogs than humans, she was remarkably well informed. ‘I’ve just written up a training programme for Paddy’s new dog,’ she said, referring to the friend and neighbour who’d whittled her a wooden stick out of briar when she rejected the one the hospital gave her. ‘He’s been impregnating bitches in the area.’
I assumed she wasn’t talking about Paddy, who at around sixty-five was probably too old to be spreading his seed around.
She moved to the Aga, leaning on her stick, clearly frustrated by her body’s frailty.
‘I don’t know why we’re talking about pregnancy,’ I said, getting the meat out of the fridge. ‘The sweet shop has won an award.’
‘What?’ Her reaction was gratifying. It wasn’t easy to surprise Celia Appleton, and I’d long ago given up trying. ‘An award for what?’
‘Best local independent business.’
‘Well, that’s not difficult,’ she said, slamming a pan down and turning on the hob. ‘And it’s about bloody time.’
‘Thanks. I think,’ I said.
‘You know what I mean.’
I did. She was
n’t one for sentimentality, but I could tell by the tilt of her chin and little smile that passed her lips that she was pleased.
I left her to it, and made my way up to the back bedroom that was mine whenever I stayed. It had made sense to move back once Alex left. I couldn’t afford to stay in his house on my own, and had suggested he rent it out. Anyway, it had been easier to be at Celia’s, to care for her when she came out of hospital.
I crossed to the window, drawn by the view. Past a sweep of brightly coloured beach huts I could see the parade of white-washed buildings where the sweet shop nestled, between a guesthouse and what used to be the old post office. It was the only single-storey building, and looked inviting from a distance, with its steeply pitched roof and shuttered windows.
Opposite, the ancient pier jutted into the sea, which was sequinned with sunlight, and bordered by a stretch of beach. In the distance, the ruins of Corfe Castle stood sentry, its battlements etched against the pale blue sky.
For a moment, I could fool myself into believing that I didn’t need to be anywhere else, but I knew deep down, I was lying.
Like my mother, I longed to leave Shipley and explore the world beyond.
I just didn’t know how to make it happen.
Four
By Friday morning I’d whipped myself into a frenzy of nerves. Having been in a rut for so long, my impending TV appearance had taken on the magnitude of winning the Nobel Peace Prize.
I had no clue what to wear, and had tried on and discarded everything in my wardrobe. I was currently dressed in a neon-pink hoodie and a pair of ripped jeans – an outfit I last wore as a teenager with style issues.
While ferreting through my drawers, I’d uncovered all manner of mismatching socks and tiny crop tops I couldn’t believe I’d once been brave enough to wear.
I tore off the jeans, looking forlornly at the mess of items scattered around the room. It looked like a landfill site.
My gaze landed on a photo on my bedside table, of Alex and me, and I subconsciously rubbed the space on my finger where the ring he’d bought me had been. Not an engagement ring exactly. A promise ring, Alex had called it, slipping the simple gold band, which bore my birthstone, onto my ring finger. I promise I’ll love you forever.
