The Beachside Sweetshop

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Why don’t you get out for an hour while I keep an eye on things?’ Josh suggested around lunchtime. ‘You never seem to take proper breaks.’

  ‘Beth used to pop up to Bob’s Bakery for us,’ I said, removing my apron. ‘What about your lunch?’

  ‘I can always nip out when you get back,’ he suggested. It sounded so sensible I couldn’t think of a reason to say no. I hadn’t any qualms about leaving him in charge; especially after watching him earlier, charming twin toddlers with a magic trick, effortlessly making a chocolate bar disappear and reappear to their open-mouthed delight.

  ‘He sounds too good to be true,’ Beth said, rather grudgingly, when I phoned her on my way to buy a sandwich, which I intended to eat on the beach. The sun was streaming down from a cloudless sky, and there was a hint of summer in the air. It felt good to be outside.

  ‘You’re just jealous because he’s more hard-working, better-looking, and less pregnant than you are,’ I said.

  ‘True.’ She sighed. ‘I’m struggling with Thesis,’ she confessed. We’d started referring to it as a person; a demanding one that sucked up a lot of her time as she struggled with the topic: Katherine Parr, and the degree of her influence on politics and religion in the last years of Henry VIII’s reign.

  ‘I’m making Katherine sound boring as hell, and I’ve somehow drifted over to Anne Boleyn,’ she said. ‘Did you know, in a love letter, Henry referred to her breasts as “pretty duckies”?’

  ‘Yuk.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Nobody wants their boobs called that.’

  ‘It was probably the “jugs” of its day.’

  Beth snorted back a giggle. ‘Nobody calls them jugs.’

  ‘Funbags?’

  ‘Stop right now.’ She released a sigh. ‘I managed better when I had my little breaks at the sweet shop to look forward to.’

  ‘My original point exactly,’ I said. ‘You regarded your job as a little break from studying.’

  ‘You know you’d have gone mad without me.’

  ‘True,’ I conceded. ‘You kept me in line. And in sandwiches.’

  ‘But now you’re award winning it’s time to get serious?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  ‘Well good for you.’ Beth sounded intrigued. ‘It’s about time.’

  After choosing a chicken baguette at the bakery, I paused to admire the colourful buckets of flowers at the stall in the square, before wandering over to the beach. I was looking for somewhere to sit that didn’t remind me of Alex, when I spotted a cluster of people on the pavement outside the sweet shop.

  Straightening, I darted across the road, and narrowly missed being hit by a woman on a mobility scooter.

  I couldn’t leave Josh on his own. Not with that many customers queuing up.

  But as I grew closer I realised they weren’t customers. They were protestors, all women, some with toddlers, holding placards plastered with painted-on slogans – Ban the Beachside Sweet Shop, Sugar is Poison – and they were chanting the words out loud, fists punching the air for emphasis.

  ‘There she is,’ cried Isabel Sinclair as she saw me approaching, a malicious smile curving her perfectly proportioned lips.

  Battling an urge to run in the opposite direction, I folded my arms around myself as I drew closer. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ she said, sweeping towards me in tight, cream jeans and a fine-knit jumper, almost buckling under the weight of her placard. It looked professional; as if she’d sat up all night making it. ‘I’m getting you closed down.’

  Twelve

  ‘I’ll call the police and have them moved on,’ said Josh. He looked older when he wasn’t smiling. Still handsome, but stern, with brackets around his mouth.

  ‘I’ve a feeling she’d love that,’ I said, watching Isabel sashay about like one of those ladies at boxing matches, holding aloft a card announcing the next round. ‘She’ll flutter her eyelashes and they’ll be eating non-sugary products out of her hand.’

  ‘But isn’t there a law against protesting?’ Josh persisted, arms folded across his chest.

  ‘I don’t think so, as long as they’re not violent.’ I was touched by his concern.

  ‘I’m sure there must be.’

  ‘You’re probably thinking of begging,’ I said, plucking a couple of sweet wrappers off the floor and dropping them in the bin, to show Isabel I wasn’t remotely bothered by her presence. ‘You can only beg if you play a musical instrument, because then it’s called busking.’ I’d picked up that morsel from Police Interceptors, the only programme I could bear to watch after Alex left. I’d become horribly addicted for a while. ‘That’s why homeless people carry mouth organs, to blow into if they see a police officer approaching.’

  ‘They also make more money if they have a dog,’ Josh said, momentarily diverted. ‘Have you noticed, the dogs always look incredibly well fed?’

  ‘Even the homeless put their dogs first,’ I said, thinking of Celia’s tendency to put Chester’s needs ahead of everyone else’s. ‘It’s because they don’t have a choice, I suppose.’

  ‘So you’re going to let them carry on?’

  ‘Begging?’ I was momentarily confused.

  ‘Protesting.’ Josh returned his gaze to the window, where one of the women – a tanned brunette in animal print leggings – caught his eye and winked. She was old enough to be his mother.

  ‘They’ll get fed up if we ignore them,’ I said, with more conviction than I felt. Surely Isabel had better things to do. Who was looking after her toddler? And Pollywollydoodle? Unless, this morning, Celia had trained the dog to babysit.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Josh, a frown hovering over his brow. I had the sense he was holding back – that he’d like to storm outside and scatter the women like birds.

  I held up the bag containing my uneaten baguette. ‘You could go out the back and eat this.’

  His face brightened. ‘Don’t you want it?’

  ‘I ate mine on the way back,’ I lied, not wanting to admit I’d lost my appetite, thanks to Isabel Sinclair. ‘I got this one for you.’

  ‘Cool,’ he said, taking the bag and peering inside. He inhaled, eyes shut. ‘How did you know chicken was my favourite?’

  ‘Lucky guess,’ I said, envious his mood could be so easily restored. ‘Go on,’ I said as he hesitated. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You sure?’ He backed away, narrowing his eyes at the window. ‘Yell if you need me.’

  ‘I will.’

  As he disappeared, the shop door opened to admit a middle-aged man, wearing too-short shorts in honour of the sunny weather. They were made of flimsy nylon, in emerald green with white piping, at odds with the chunky sports socks hugging his ankles. At least he wasn’t wearing sandals.

  ‘What’s all that about?’ he said, nodding to the women outside. They were drawing attention and a crowd had gathered. One of the women was handing out flyers, while another talked animatedly to a passer-by with a toddler balanced on her hip, sucking a carrot. She pointed at me through the window, her round face scrunched with disgust.

  Panic rolled in my stomach. What was she saying? Was I really so terrible that she had to make a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp?

  ‘They’re protesting about me selling sweets,’ I said stiffly. There was no point lying. Unless he couldn’t read, it was glaringly obvious from the placards. ‘Because of the sugar.’

  ‘They wouldn’t be sweets without it,’ he said benignly. I wanted to lean over and hug him, in spite of the damp patches spreading from the armpits of his shirt. ‘I’ll take a pound of toffee whirls please.’ His bottom lip popped out as he turned to look out of the window. ‘Actually, make that two,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to be dictated to by a bunch of bored housewives.’

  ‘Bravo!’ I said – the first time I’d ever uttered the word – and added some extra toffees to show my gratitude.

/>   Hope welled inside me. Maybe Isabel’s plan would backfire. People didn’t like being preached to, or told what to do.

  ‘What’s the flyer for?’ I asked, noticing he had one scrunched in his hand as he wrenched a five-pound note from his bum-bag.

  ‘Haven’t a clue, love,’ he said, handing it over with his money. ‘Unless it involves golf, Morris dancing, or chess, I wouldn’t be interested.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you check?’ I joked, counting out his change.

  His face grew hostile. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Always make fun of the Morris dancer.’

  ‘Oh no, I wasn’t … I mean …’ But he’d stomped out, leaving behind a scent of sweat and fury.

  ‘For god’s sake,’ I muttered. ‘Get a sense of humour.’

  I smoothed out the flyer on the counter and read:

  For more information about keeping your loved ones healthy and SUGAR-FREE, as well as my witty observations about life as a busy mum in a small seaside town, read my blog Izzy Wizzy Mummy’s Busy. Book deal coming soon …

  The bitch.

  ‘Josh!’ I called.

  He hurtled through, creating a draught that blew his hair off his face. ‘What is it?’ His eyes darted around as if seeking the armed intruder I must have apprehended.

  ‘This.’ I stabbed the flyer with my finger and almost screamed in agony. ‘She’s promoting her blog,’ I said in outraged tones. ‘I reckon that’s why she’s doing this.’

  ‘Who?’ Josh was still looking around for marauders.

  ‘Isabel bloody Sinclair.’ Blood was hurtling round my body, unsure where to settle. ‘It looks like she’s hoping to get some sort of book deal and I’m her “theme”.’ I scraped quote marks in the air.

  ‘Who’s Isabel Sinclair?’ Josh’s bemusement would have been comical if I hadn’t been so wound up.

  ‘She is!’ I pointed to the window to see some of the mums had lost momentum and were chatting, placards propped on the ground. One was fighting a seagull, swooping to steal her toddler’s rusk, while another flicked through pictures on her phone. Only Isabel looked truly committed, waving her flyers and waggling her placard to grab the attention of passers-by.

  ‘Isabel Sinclair,’ I enlightened Josh. ‘She lives near me, has problems with her Cavapoo.’

  ‘Sounds painful.’

  ‘It’s a dog.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘A cross between a spaniel and a cockatoo.’

  Josh scratched the top of his head. ‘I think I’m missing something.’

  I let out a puff of distress. ‘She’s using me as publicity.’

  Comprehension swept over his face. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I get it.’

  Propelled by a desire to wipe the supercilious look off Isabel’s face, I dived for the door.

  ‘Can I have your attention?’ I yelled, feeling like I’d stepped onstage at the O2. What felt like a thousand pairs of eyes swivelled towards me and in their midst I recognised those of Chris Weatherby, the reporter from The Shipley Examiner.

  Had Isabel invited him down?

  ‘You’re going to try and convince us your sweets are healthy?’ she said, treating me to a hard, unblinking stare.

  ‘My sweets are meant to be treats,’ I said, trying to quell the wobble in my voice. ‘They shouldn’t be eaten every day.’

  Chris Weatherby inched forward, smart-phone extended, presumably recording me. ‘But by having sweets readily available on a popular route into town with schools nearby, how can you live with yourself?’ he said, radiating a sickly earnestness.

  Oh, for god’s sake. I wasn’t selling cigarettes and whiskey to toddlers.

  My mind flailed for a solution and appeared to find one. ‘I’d like to make an announcement,’ I said, which was news to my own ears never mind anyone else’s. Clammy-faced, I broadened my smile.

  ‘You’re closing down?’ Chris Weatherby’s deep-set eyes gleamed with malice. I stared at the wispy goatee, clinging for dear life to his chin, and longed to yank it off.

  ‘Just the opposite,’ I said hotly, as Josh came to stand beside me in a gesture of solidarity. ‘After winning independent business, sweet shop … woman, I mean, owner of the year,’ was that right? ‘I’ve been inspired to make some changes. The shop, which has been an important part of Shipley life for several generations, is to have a makeover.’ A buzz ran round the crowd. ‘That will be happening on Sunday,’ oh god, I hadn’t even checked with Harry, ‘and on Bank Holiday Monday I’m going to hold a taster session for my own range of low-sugar, handmade sweets, adapted from a family recipe book, with a view to selling them alongside our existing sweets.’

  As I ran out of breath, I noticed a splodge of red had appeared on Isabel’s creamy throat.

  ‘What?’ she barked. ‘Do you have experience of making your own?’

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ I lied, lifting my voice above the roar of questions being lobbed at me.

  ‘Won’t they be out of most people’s price range?’ She looked around for vindication.

  ‘The taster session will be free,’ I blurted. ‘And anyway, I’m sure people don’t mind paying for something that’s homemade … with love.’

  I could almost hear her grinding her perfect teeth as onlookers showed signs of interest.

  ‘So what will you use instead of sugar?’ one asked.

  ‘Will you be making them on the premises?’

  ‘Will they be replicas of the sweets you already sell?’

  ‘Come down on Monday and try them,’ I suggested, encompassing everyone in what I hoped was an encouraging gaze. ‘You can write about it on your blog,’ I added to Isabel, and immediately wished I hadn’t. I didn’t want to give her any more publicity.

  ‘Oh I will,’ she said silkily. ‘You can be sure of that.’

  ‘Why are you working for her?’ This was to Josh from the slinky brunette, her gaze openly lustful. ‘I could find you something to do at my house, if you’re desperate for work.’

  ‘Bloody sexist,’ Josh muttered.

  ‘I bet he looks like that actor from Poldark with his shirt off!’

  Isabel scowled her annoyance at the woman. ‘I think we’re straying from the point here.’

  ‘Marnie’s a great boss,’ said Josh, placing a protective hand on my shoulder and squeezing it gently. ‘I’ve only been here a short while, but I’m looking forward to working with her over the summer.’

  I glanced at him, just as a camera flash went off.

  Bloody Chris Weatherby.

  ‘So, a free taster session on Bank Holiday Monday?’ he clarified, into his phone.

  ‘That’s right!’ The clammy feeling had spread to my armpits. ‘I’ll expect to see you there.’ Unfortunately.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Josh said out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘It’s too late now,’ I muttered.

  Sensing more questions coming, I ducked into the shop before my confidence collapsed like a soufflé.

  As the protestors drifted away, Isabel threw a smug smile my way as she linked her arm through Chris Weatherby’s, and whispered something that made him fondle his goatee in a thoughtful fashion.

  ‘I don’t think you should pander to them,’ Josh said, following me in. ‘None of these people care what she has to say.’

  ‘She won’t give up.’ I recalled her dog-with-a-bone expression. ‘She looks like someone used to getting her own way.’

  ‘I think you’ll find Shipley folk have more sense,’ he said, exaggerating his Northern accent.

  I wasn’t so sure. ‘I need to check out her blog,’ I said. ‘See what she’s saying.’

  Leaving Josh to serve the few stragglers who drifted in once the protestors had gone, I grabbed the crumpled flyer off the counter, switched on the computer and found the website.

  It was all pastel shades and loopy fonts, with a photo at the top of a make-up-free Isabel in nerdy glasses, sucking a sludge-coloured smoothie through a straw.

 
; There weren’t that many posts and most were mummy-based, littered with exclamations marks, and thrillingly titled:

  We love creamed spinach with rice!

  Don’t forget to carve out some me time!

  How I got back in my size 6 skinnies!!

  There were photos of baby Fitzgerald, looking cute in a series of Baby Gap outfits, and lots of random fashion tips:

  Feminise your boyfriend blazer with a clutch! Florals are a girl’s best friend!

  Her mother had commented,

  Never mind florals, darling, when are we going to see baby Fitz? Your father didn’t mean it when he said he’d cut you out of the will, so stop being a silly girl.

  There was nothing to attract a book deal as far as I could tell, until the day of my appearance on News South-West, which was when she must have miraculously found her focus.

  Under the heading ‘SUGAR MONSTERS’ she’d written,

  Local sweet shop wins best business award? Really?? A friend of mine – also vegan by the way, try it, you won’t look back! – agrees with Sir Jamie Oliver, that we should all be sugar-free, and I have to say I agree. We shouldn’t be celebrating Marnie Appleton, folks, we should be warning people about her!

  So it wasn’t even her idea. She’d stolen it from a friend – and Jamie Oliver. But it had attracted the attention of someone called Clive who’d commented,

  That’s more like it Izzy. Find an angle and we’ll talk publication

  After the article in The Shipley Examiner, she’d written,

  Looks like I’m not the only one concerned for the health and wellbeing of our children – and our nation. This calls for action, folks. I can feel a healthy recipe book coming on!

  Chris Weatherby had commented,

  You go girl. Look forward to interviewing you when it comes out xx

  ‘Turncoat,’ I muttered.

  ‘That bad?’ said Josh, screwing the lid on a jar of jelly snakes.