The Beachside Sweetshop

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he said, a grin crinkling his eyes. ‘I thought it would save you a job.’ His hair was amber under the glow of the overhead light, and he looked like the stranger he was – albeit a friendly and incredibly handsome one. ‘How’s your friend?’

  ‘It was a false alarm,’ I said absently, seeing the room through someone else’s eyes. It was long overdue a clear out. There were stacks of empty boxes, some half-open, spilling contents that were probably out of date. Rob Hancock had tended to deliver the way he had when my grandfather was alive, taking little or no notice of my orders. Often, I hadn’t required any stock at all, but he’d still turn up with something ‘new and exciting’ that didn’t make it onto the shelves.

  ‘Looks like this place could do with a tidy,’ Josh said, echoing my thoughts. ‘I can help, if you like.’

  ‘Where’s Doris?’ I peered around as if he might have stashed her on a shelf.

  ‘She wanted to get to the butcher’s before it closed and buy some sausages for her dinner.’

  ‘Of course she did,’ I said. ‘Doris loves her sausages.’

  We looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘Do you want a job?’ The words burst out before I had time to dress them up. ‘I mean, you don’t have to answer right now, and you’ve probably already got a job, but Beth – that’s my pregnant friend by the way – won’t be back, probably ever, and unless I can find someone to help out I’m stuck—’

  ‘I’d love to work here,’ he butted in. ‘It’s funny, because I was going to apply for the job advertised in the window.’

  ‘You were?’

  His eyes appraised me in a way that made me wonder if a few buttons on my shirt were undone. ‘The thing is, I’m only passing through,’ he added. ‘But it should give you enough time to find somebody else.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said, letting a smile unfurl. I stuck my hand out, and he wrapped mine in both of his. ‘Welcome to The Beachside Sweet Shop.’

  Seven

  ‘You look cheerful.’ Celia stopped me by the front door, her face suspicious.

  ‘There’s no need to say it like that,’ I said, failing to repress a grin. ‘Anyone would think I went around with a face like thunder.’

  She was right, though, I did feel cheerful. Not only had I found someone to help at the shop, but Beth was back at her in-laws’, determined to finish her thesis before the baby arrived. She’d also asked Harry about giving the shop a facelift, and he’d agreed to give me a quote.

  On top of that, I’d received an email from my cousin Phoebe, who lived in London, congratulating me on my award, and suggesting we meet for a drink the following week, as she was coming to visit Uncle Cliff.

  The only thing that had threatened to burst my bubble of good humour was a text from Sandi Brent while I was eating my porridge. She wanted to know if I’d be willing to give a follow-up interview, addressing some of the ‘issues’ raised in Chris Weatherby’s newspaper article.

  I’d ignored it. I didn’t want to address any issues; I wanted anyone who’d read the article to forget it.

  ‘I am feeling good,’ I said to Celia, who appeared to be waiting for an answer she could believe in. Chester, sitting patiently beside her, cocked his ears at my tone. ‘Are you sure you’ll be OK today?’

  I asked her the same thing every morning, and the answer never varied.

  ‘Stop fussing, I’ll be fine,’ she said.

  I’d initially organised a rotation of neighbours to keep an eye on her until she was back on her feet, but she’d made it clear she could cope now, as long as Paddy-next-door was on hand to help if required.

  ‘So who’s this young man you’ve taken on?’ She never showed much interest in the shop until something out of the ordinary happened, then behaved as though she’d built the place herself.

  ‘I explained last night,’ I said, patiently. She’d listened, but hadn’t said much, and I knew from the glassy look in her eyes she was wrestling a dog-training problem in her head.

  ‘I hope you’ve checked out his references,’ she said, now.

  ‘I don’t need to.’ I popped a kiss on her cheek, which smelt faintly of Pond’s cold cream. ‘It’s obvious he knows what he’s doing, and I trust my instincts.’

  ‘Instincts,’ she snorted, as though it was a made-up word. ‘People can tell you anything, it doesn’t mean it’s true.’

  ‘But it’s what they do that counts,’ I said, quoting her own, oft-repeated words. ‘Actions speak louder than words.’

  Tutting, she waved her stick. She was wearing a violently patterned jumper that Sarah Lund would have rejected. ‘Get away with you,’ she said, a smile appearing at her lips. ‘You’ve always got an answer.’

  Just like your mother. She didn’t say it, but the words seemed to shimmer between us.

  We rarely talked about Mum. Celia hadn’t forgiven her for ‘neglecting’ me as a child, but while I appreciated her loyalty it felt wrong for them to still be at odds – especially since Celia’s fall.

  ‘Have a good day,’ I said, shrugging my bag over my shoulder and setting off for work.

  It had rained overnight, but the sky was clear, and a balmy breeze billowed through my fringe and curled up my bare legs. I’d picked out a khaki shirt-dress, and teamed it with a pair of cream Converses that made my legs look tanned. I’d even painted my toenails coral – not that anyone could see them.

  I felt unusually sprightly, like a car that had been given a reviving injection of engine oil, and was gently humming a Dolly Parton song when a woman stepped through the gate of Seaview Cottage and blocked my way.

  She’d moved in a month or so ago, with her husband and baby boy, but had so far rebuffed all friendly overtures, leading Doris to refer to her as ‘hoity-toity’.

  Up close, she was stunning; slim, with clear pale skin, choppy blonde hair, and slanted sea-green eyes. Even her fudge-coloured tan looked natural.

  ‘Hi,’ I stuttered, like a schoolgirl with a crush. ‘Marnie Appleton.’

  ‘Isabel Sinclair.’ The intonation implied I should know the name, and I suddenly recalled seeing the removal men carting a blown-up copy of a magazine cover, under glass, featuring a half-nude model draped on a chaise longue.

  Clearly, the model was her.

  As her rather imperious gaze swept over me, I felt like a troll.

  ‘Are you the dog-training woman?’ she said, in a cut-glass voice.

  ‘Ah, you need to speak to my grandmother, Celia.’ I turned to point up the hill. ‘She lives in the top house.’

  ‘It’s my Pollywollydoodle,’ she said, the breeze catching the hem of her chambray tunic. She was wearing cuffed denim shorts, revealing long toned legs and shapely knees.

  ‘Your …?’

  ‘She’s a Cavapoo.’

  ‘Beg your pardon?’

  A frown touched her brow. ‘My dog,’ she said, folding her slender arms. ‘She’s not settling in very well.’

  No need to be rude. ‘Well, I’m sure my gran can help,’ I said, damping down a sneeze as her overpowering perfume attacked my nostrils.

  ‘You’re the one who won the competition.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘You run the sweet shop.’ Neither was that.

  I brushed a strand of hair from my eyes. ‘That’s right.’

  Her gaze wasn’t warming up. ‘You’ll be quite the topic of conversation at mothers and toddlers this morning.’

  ‘That’s … good?’ She must mean the group that met twice a week at the community centre, not far from the shop. Beth and I called them The Perfect Mums.

  ‘I doubt it,’ she said, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’

  She strutted back through her gate and up the garden path without saying goodbye. Definitely a model. And clearly not a people person.

  I hurried on, past the beach huts and along the parade, past the souvenir shop with its colourful buckets and spades outside, feeling as if some of the brightness ha
d leached out of the day.

  The stretch of sand opposite the shop was almost deserted, apart from a few dog-walkers, who wouldn’t be allowed on the beach once the holiday season was underway.

  Improbably, Josh was standing atop a skateboard outside the sweet shop, shuffling a deck of playing cards, a sporty head band holding back his tousled hair.

  ‘How old are you?’ I asked, taking in his frayed laces and calf-length shorts as I pulled my keys from my bag.

  He gave me a quizzical look. ‘Twenty-five.’

  Phew. I’d suddenly worried he might be seventeen, despite his self-assured attitude.

  ‘You?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Mind your own beeswax.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ I said, eyeing his skateboard.

  ‘I’m staying with friends.’ He swung his arm in the direction of the pier, presumably meaning the other side of the bay. ‘I do have transport, but a skateboard’s a good way to travel around here.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ I watched him execute a complicated manoeuvre. ‘Isn’t it a bit nineties?’

  He leapt off and picked it up. ‘Keeps me trim.’

  ‘And the playing cards?’

  ‘I was practising,’ he said, stuffing the deck in his shorts pocket. ‘I do a bit of magic.’

  ‘Is there no end to your talents?’ It wasn’t meant to sound flirty.

  ‘I guess that’s for you to find out.’ He widened his eyes suggestively, and I jammed the key in the lock to hide my confusion.

  ‘Who’s that dude?’ he said once we were inside and I’d turned off the alarm and stowed my bag in the office.

  ‘That’s my grandfather, Leonard Appleton,’ I said, following his gaze to the photo above the desk. ‘This was his shop. He inherited it from his dad.’

  ‘Cool.’ He studied the picture closely. ‘Nice to keep it in the family,’ he said, almost to himself.

  Keeping it in the family. It had a lovely ring to it, and I warmed to Josh even more. ‘Did you read that article in the paper?’

  Turning away, he propped his skateboard against the wall. ‘What article?’

  ‘The shop won an award last week.’ I tried to sound modest. ‘I was on the news …’

  ‘Hey, that’s great.’ His face split into a smile. ‘But I don’t really read newspapers.’

  ‘Well, it’s turned a bit negative,’ I said. ‘Apparently, I’m rotting the nation’s teeth and ruining their health.’ I felt another stab of indignation, recalling Chris Weatherby’s words. ‘Just putting you in the picture in case anyone mentions it,’ I added, fetching the float for the till.

  ‘It’ll be old news by now.’ Josh dug his hands in his pockets. ‘You’re not taking it seriously, are you?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t want my grandfather’s name dragged through the mud, that’s all. This was his livelihood, and it’s down to me to protect his good name.’

  ‘Is it?’ Josh looked at me for a second, then in a dramatic voice said, ‘You shall win over any doubters with your beauty and natural charm. They will be hypnotised by your salesmanship, and your dashing new assistant.’

  I couldn’t help a burst of laughter. ‘Maybe you should lose that hairband,’ I suggested.

  ‘Hey, if it’s good enough for David Beckham!’

  All the same he pulled it out, and ruffled his hair into place with his hands.

  ‘Now go and wash them,’ I said. ‘Health and hygiene.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ He tugged an imaginary forelock. ‘Shall I make a drink while I’m out there?’

  ‘Coffee, white with two sugars.’ It was almost like having Beth back. A younger, ridiculously good-looking, male version.

  I realised I’d started humming Dolly Parton again, as I turned the old-fashioned sign on the door to ‘OPEN’ and checked that the pick and mix was full.

  Finding a duster, I nudged it over the edges of the shelves, though they didn’t really need it, and then stuck my certificate to the window with Blu-tack in a fit of optimism. Why not show it off?

  There was a steady stream of customers all morning, all friendly, and interested in my award, and when there was a lull, Josh showed me a trick which involved me picking a card, which he pushed into the middle of the deck, yet somehow made appear at the top every time.

  ‘You’re good at this,’ I said.

  ‘I know.’ He bowed.

  ‘Now go and put the kettle on.’

  At lunchtime, after I’d eaten a cheese sandwich out the back, I peeped round the door to see him charming a pretty, thirty-something woman. She was saucer-eyed and attentive, fake-protesting as Josh flourished his arm back and forth, trying to persuade her to try something different, before caving in and buying more than she came in for.

  ‘Nice work,’ I said as she left, casting Josh a last, lingering look. ‘We’ll be doubling our takings at this rate.’

  ‘Happy to help,’ he said. ‘A satisfied customer will be back. Hopefully with friends.’ He accepted the mug of coffee I was holding out. ‘I noticed your delivery yesterday was from Kandy Kings.’

  Thrown by the change of subject, it took me a second to respond. ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘I know of them,’ he said, lifting his shoulder. I noticed the way his grey T-shirt clung to his chest. ‘Have you used them for a long time?’

  ‘Actually no,’ I said, tearing my gaze from his biceps. ‘That was my first order, why?’

  He grimaced.

  ‘I know. Kandy with a K’s a bit naff.’

  ‘True,’ he said. ‘But it’s not that. I heard they were in trouble recently. Something to do with health and safety. Rats on the premises, I think.’

  ‘Oh.’ Taken aback, I wondered if I should have checked them out, but they were well-established wholesalers as far as I knew, with a good reputation. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Who did you use before?’

  ‘Oh, a family business called Hancock’s,’ I said. ‘They used to supply my grandfather back in the day, and carried on when I took over.’

  ‘So why the change?’

  I imagined explaining about Rob Hancock’s wandering eyes and fleshy face; his threatening tone when I turned down his liquorice willies, and how I’d resisted buying elsewhere out of a sense of loyalty to my grandfather. Instead I said, ‘Oh, he was getting a bit unreliable, why?’

  A wave of colour swept over his face and his gaze edged away from mine. ‘Just being nosy, I guess.’

  With a sinking feeling, I sensed he wasn’t telling the truth, and remembered Celia asking if I’d checked him out.

  ‘Where did you work before?’ I asked, adjusting the weighing scales. They desperately needed a polish. ‘I should call them for a reference.’

  Josh put down his mug of steaming builder’s tea, and scratched the side of his head.

  ‘Look, Marnie.’ My name sounded oddly exotic in a Northern accent. ‘I don’t have a lot of work experience,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve been trying to decide what I want to do with my life since finishing uni. Doing a bit of this and that, travelling around the country, staying with family and friends.’

  ‘O-kay.’ I could relate to that. ‘But you seem experienced.’

  ‘That’s because I worked in a sweet shop during the summer holidays, years ago,’ he said, dipping his head and rubbing the back of his neck. ‘It was up in Yorkshire, where my family are.’ He paused. ‘I’m not sure whether it’s still there, but I can find out if you like. The owner will probably remember me.’

  ‘And no other jobs since then?’

  ‘Some bar work here and there, and I worked in an office for a bit for a friend of a friend, but didn’t enjoy it much. I had to wear a suit.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘I can imagine that might have been a problem.’

  We exchanged conspiratorial grins as the door burst open and a woman approached the counter, carrying a baby boy who’d got his fingers tangled in her hair.

&nb
sp; ‘Hello,’ I said, recognising Isabel Sinclair, the neighbour I’d bumped into on my way to work.

  Josh’s eyes were out on springs, and I could hardly blame them. She was almost unnaturally beautiful, even if her eyes were less than friendly.

  ‘How can I help?’ I said, giving her my warmest smile.

  Outside were a clutch of The Perfect Mums, fresh from their mother and toddler session. They sometimes popped in to buy sweets for themselves, but today were gathered with their buggies, talking amongst themselves.

  ‘A shop like this shouldn’t be allowed to win an award in this day and age,’ said Isabel, in a hostile voice. ‘I’m going to start a campaign to get you closed down.’

  I looked at Josh, and saw my bemusement reflected back at me.

  Before either of us could respond she stalked out, trying to disentangle her son’s chubby fingers from her tresses, and joined her friends, who greeted her with sickening effusiveness.

  The door pushed open again. ‘Sugar monster!’ shouted one of the women, then suddenly they’d all gone, leaving a clear view of a pair of fighting seagulls.

  ‘What the hell?’ Josh’s eyes swivelled to mine. ‘Did that just happen?’

  ‘It did,’ I said grimly. ‘Are you sure you still want to work here?’

  Eight

  ‘It can’t be a coincidence that there were hardly any customers for the rest of the day,’ I said to Beth later, pacing up and down to work off my anger. ‘The newspaper article was bad enough, without that woman and her friends spreading the word.’

  ‘Why would she be so vindictive?’ Beth said, perching on the stool behind the counter while Harry got busy with his tape measure.

  It was after six, but the only time Harry could get away, and Beth had insisted on accompanying him. She said she needed to get out from under her mother-in-law Jacky’s feet, but I knew it was because she didn’t want to leave me alone with Harry, when things were awkward between us.

  ‘Probably because she’s got nothing better to do,’ I fumed. ‘How dare she when she’s only lived around here five minutes? She has no idea how much people loved my granddad’s sweet shop.’