by Gil McNeil
‘Mum, I had a horrible dream and the sea came right in the house and we were all drownded. I hate this house. I want to go back to London.’
Jack’s standing in the doorway, looking pitiful.
‘It was just a dream, darling. Come and snuggle in and you’ll be fine. Go and get your duvet, but be very quiet so you don’t wake Archie.’
‘I’m already waked up.’
Excellent. Archie’s dragging his duvet along the floor behind him; no need to hoover the upstairs landing for a while then.
‘Snuggle up now, it’s very late.’
‘Can we have a story?’
‘No.’
Two small wriggling boys, and a corner of a child-sized duvet. I’ll be asleep in no time.
Gran appears at half past seven the next morning, with a packet of bacon and a new loaf, looking full of energy. God, I really hope she’s not planning on doing this every morning. I’d forgotten about her early starts: the only drawback to spending the summer holidays at Gran’s was being hoiked out of bed at the crack of dawn every day. Vin used to refuse to get up, but I never had the nerve, and this morning’s no exception. I’m downstairs putting the kettle on before I’m even half awake while she starts cooking the bacon and humming Onward, Christian Soldiers.
‘You sit yourself down and let me do that. You looked completely done in last night, you know. Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, fine, thanks.’
Actually this is surprisingly true, despite dreaming about being shipwrecked and getting tangled up in seaweed and having to cut myself free with the breadknife before I could swim to shore. At least it was better than the one where I’m driving the car on the motorway with the boys in the back and the steering wheel comes off in my hand.
‘One egg or two?’
‘Just bacon for me, thanks, Gran.’
‘You can’t have just bacon, that’s not a proper breakfast if you’ve got a busy day in front of you. I’ll do you one. Go to work on an egg, isn’t that what they say?’
Not for the last thirty years they haven’t, but never mind. ‘I’m fine with a bacon sandwich, honestly.’
She sniffs, which means she doesn’t approve but doesn’t want to make a scene. ‘Shall I do the boys scrambled eggs, then?’
‘Lovely.’
Her chances of getting either of them to eat scrambled egg are almost zero but it’s the thought that counts, and at least it’ll stop her obsessing about what I’m eating.
They come downstairs and start running round the table, clapping their hands and shouting ‘Bacon, bacon’ and seem thrilled to find someone is finally providing them with a proper cooked breakfast.
Gran starts to crack the eggs into a bowl.
‘What’s the plan for today? Only I said I’d pop in to see Betty later, and I’ve got the bowls club this afternoon, and bingo tonight, for the lifeboats.’
‘I thought I’d do some more crates and then I want to go into the shop and see if the new stock’s in yet.’
‘Right you are then, lovey.’
I’m really looking forward to seeing the new stock: I’ve met most of the reps over the past few months, and they’ve shown me their new autumn ranges and told me about discounts and bulk orders, and in-store promotion kits, most of which were either too big to fit in the shop or required ordering vast quantities of the new ranges that I didn’t particularly like, but the Rowan rep turned up with all sorts of gorgeous samples in beautiful colours and I got carried away, to the tune of a small fortune in anybody’s money. Particularly mine. Which I’m trying not to think about.
‘They’ve asked me to be ladies’ captain you know.’
‘Who have, Gran?’
‘The Bowls Club. It’s a lot of work, mind, arranging all the matches and everything, but I think I’ll do it, now I’ve got the time. Only you’re to say, you know, if you need me to help out in the shop or anything. I don’t want you getting exhausted – these two are enough to keep anyone busy.’
She gives me a sideways look as she stirs the eggs.
‘Yes, but they’ll be back at school soon, and then I’ll have every day until three, and Elsie says she’ll do the afternoons and extra in the holidays, so it’s only Saturday mornings really, if that’s still OK with you?’
‘Of course it is, pet.’
Archie’s stopped running round the table and is giving me one of his Determined looks, which usually means trouble.
‘I’m not going to school. I’m staying here, to play with the dog.’
Great. I can go to prison for failing to get my five-year-old to be a regular attender, and the RSPCA can take the dog into care.
‘Don’t be silly, Archie. They’ve got lovely things in your classroom, paints and a sand tray, don’t you remember? And we’re not getting a dog.’
‘Yes, but you have to sit on the mat at school. You always have to sit on the stupid mat.’
‘But only for stories, and you love stories.’
‘I can have my stories at home with you.’
‘I’ll be working in the shop, so you’ll have to come with me and sit and be very quiet. But if you’re sure you want to be at home like a baby when Jack goes off to school, I suppose we could do that; I’m surprised, though, now you’re such a big boy.’
‘Well, I might go, just to see what it’s like, only I haven’t decided yet.’
I pour myself a cup of tea, and there’s a marked silence when Gran presents the boys with their bacon and scrambled eggs.
‘I don’t like jumbled-up eggs.’
‘Yes, you do, Jack. Your mum used to love them scrambled when she was your age. Just you eat up like a good boy and then we can go down to the beach.’
Jack stares at his plate, while Archie starts eating with extra lip-smacking sound effects.
‘Can we take our fishing nets? Because we might catch a big fish, there might be a whale, and we could keep it in the bath.’
Jack rolls his eyes. ‘You couldn’t get it in your net, silly, a great big whale, the pole would snap.’
‘It might want to be friends, and it could swim up by itself. You don’t know.’
‘Tell him, Mum.’
‘You can both take your nets if we can find them, and your buckets, and we can go fishing for crabs off the pier later, if you like, but you’ll have to eat your breakfast first, Jack. Try some of your egg, properly, and then if you don’t like it you can leave it. But it was my favourite when I was little, so try some.’
He takes a tentative forkful. I’m really hoping Gran isn’t going to launch into her waste-not, want-not routine, because it’s not going to work with Jack, who could be a major food fusser if he was given half a chance, so I pretty much go for the one mouthful and then if you don’t like it don’t eat it, but don’t whine approach, which has worked pretty well so far, apart from cauliflower and avocado.
‘Actually, it’s quite nice.’
Gran smiles. ‘There’s a good boy.’
He grins at me as Gran gets up to pour herself more tea.
I unpack more crates upstairs while the boys finish breakfast, and get thoroughly absorbed in arranging sheets and pillowcases in neat little piles in the big linen cupboard on the landing, which has slatted wooden shelves and smells faintly of mothballs. The house may be in chaos, and I still don’t know where half my clothes are but at least I’ve got an impeccable arrangement of sheets and towels. By the time we’re dressed Gran’s managed to unpack a vast collection of half-used tins of paint downstairs, so I stack them in the garage while Gran tries to get the boys to stop duelling with their fishing nets before someone gets poked in the eye. I’m starting to feel rather nervous about going into the shop now we’re actually down here and moved in, it all feels a bit like the first day of school after the holidays, only I haven’t had a holiday. And my back’s starting to hurt again so I’m doing a rather stiff-legged trudge as we head off down the hill, while Gran tells the boys how Vin and I used to sledge down it in
the snow, and Vin once shot right across the road and nearly onto the beach.
I’m having visions of a Cresta Run of solid ice outside the shop and Archie disappearing under a bus balanced on my best teatray as we continue our royal progress down the high street, with Gran stopping to talk to practically everybody she meets, while the boys run ahead, and then run back again waving their fishing nets and trying to get her to hurry up. The shops haven’t changed much over the years; the butcher has the same plastic parsley among all the white china trays, and the pink china pig, and Parsons’ has still got metal buckets and mops hanging outside and smells of glue and wood shavings like it always did. We go in to say good morning to Mr Parsons and Archie knocks a coal scuttle over, and then we’re outside the florists next door to our shop, and Mrs Davis comes out to say hello carrying a plastic tub full of yellow roses.
Elsie’s waiting for us, standing behind the old-fashioned counter with the glass top when I push open the door, which sticks so you have to give it a bit of a shove; that’s another thing I must get sorted, because people are always half falling into the shop after shoving too hard. The bell jingles, and keeps on jingling as the boys each have a turn at opening and closing the door.
‘Aren’t you going to come and say hello to Aunty Elsie?’
They shuffle over, suddenly shy, while Gran casts an expert eye over the shelves and spots some of the new stock, a mohair and silk mix in bright acid colours which will knit up into lovely delicate wraps and shawls.
‘They look expensive.’
I can tell she’s not sure, and I don’t really blame her because Elsie’s bundled them all together in a complete clash of colours. She’s put the new cottons next to them, too, all shoved in together, right next to some acrylic baby wool in a revolting shade of sickly green. Next to salmon pink. Maybe she was just trying to be helpful, or maybe not, but I’m itching to move them.
Gran puts her bag on the counter.
‘I see you finished your cardi, Elsie.’
Elsie nods and gives us a twirl. Dear God, it’s got zigzag stripes, in every colour imaginable, and it makes her look like one of those Peruvian poncho people who play the pan pipes outside Tube stations wearing hats with ear flaps, mixed in with a hint of Missoni, if they’d suddenly gone colour blind and went in for double knitting. If you look at it for too long you start to feel dizzy.
‘I could knit you one, too, if you like, Jo, and we could wear them in the shop.’
Bloody hell.
‘That’s kind of you, Elsie, but we need so many things knitted up, for samples and the window and everything, I was sort of counting on you for that.’
I’m very pleased with myself with this diplomatic answer, and I can tell Gran’s impressed, too, because she gives me a surreptitious wink.
‘Well, you just let me know, because I like to have a few things on the go, and I can do pretty much any pattern, if I say so myself. I could always do you one in between anything else that needs doing.’
Bugger. I’ll have to think of something, and quick, because I’m getting visions of myself stuck behind the counter looking like a loony. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
‘I’ve been thinking about doing a new display for the window, for the Best Seaside competition, and I’d like to knit some fish shapes, in cotton, in some of the new colours, so maybe you could help me with that?’
She purses her lips and looks annoyed.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, it all sounds very modern to me.’
Bang goes my cardigan, hopefully. Elsie hates change, and anything Modern is to be avoided at all costs as far as she’s concerned, since it tends to involve Bad Manners, or Sex. Or both. Often at the same time.
Gran’s trying to hide a smile. ‘Well, I think it sounds lovely and Jo’s always been clever with things like that, you know, she used to do me lovely shell pictures when she was little.’
Elsie gives me a rather sneering look.
‘Yes, but a window’s a bit bigger than a picture, you know, and our ladies like a nice tidy window.’
I think I should probably step in now, before they go into one of their bickers. They’ve been bickering for years, and Gran usually loses, which, come to think of it, is probably why she didn’t give up the shop ages ago: she couldn’t face telling Elsie.
‘I’ll do the window, Elsie, if you’re not sure, but maybe you could do a shawl for me. There’s a nice pattern in one of the Rowan books, which looks quite fiddly, but I’m sure it won’t be a problem for an advanced knitter like you. And I’d like to have a few things in the new colours to encourage people.’
I’ve already knitted one in silvery grey, with tiny silver beads knitted in round the edges, which took me ages but was worth it. Ellen’s tried to ‘borrow’ it twice, which is always a good sign.
Archie opens the shop door, keen to be off to the beach.
‘I’ll take these two off, then, and see you later back at the house?’
‘Thanks, Gran.’
She’s humming as she goes out, but Elsie’s still looking pretty ruffled.
‘Shall I make us a cup of tea, Elsie?’
‘No, I’ll do it, it’s no trouble.’
Elsie loves making tea; it’s one of her favourite things.
‘Did you bring the kettle in with you? Only your gran borrowed it yesterday.’
Damn. I knew there was something I meant to bring.
‘Sorry, I forgot, but I can go back and get it.’
‘There’s no need for that, I brought mine in from home. I thought you might forget, what with moving in and everything. I won’t be a minute.’
She’s looking slightly happier as she goes upstairs, having scored points on the kettle front, which is good, because I’d really like to avoid upsetting her if I possibly can. She’s worked here for years, and having her walk out in my first week would be a disaster because apart from anything else she’s the only one who knows how to open the till; you have to wiggle the number eight and press the TOTAL key at the same time, and I still haven’t got the hang of it. And she’s completely reliable, and happy to come in at short notice, because she likes to be out of the house and away from her husband Jeffrey, who’s recently retired, and who’s been a source of constant disappointment to her. They live two streets up from the shop; she’d like one of the new bungalows up by Gran, but Jeffrey’s not keen, actually he’s not that keen on anything except his allotment, where he grows giant onions that have to be taken to the local shows in his wheelbarrow. They’ve got one of those silent marriages where people seethe away for years never saying anything, like living inside a pressure cooker on a very low heat, where everything goes soft and pulpy, simmering away for ages, forgotten, until the lid finally blows off and you end up with bits of turnip all over your kitchen ceiling.
I’ve always had a soft spot for Jeffrey, because he made a sledge for me and Vin when we were little, and he used to play cricket with us on the beach with their son, Martin, who was a couple of years older than us, and once chased Vin right along the sea front, wearing his cowboy hat and firing at him with his cap gun. Martin moved to Cheltenham after he got married, but he’s back at home now, and going through a very messy divorce, according to Gran; he works in computers and his wife, Patricia, left him for the UK sales manager and now insists on being called Patsy and drives a Mercedes sports car. Gran says Elsie’s thrilled because she never liked the wife, who once bought her a satin nightdress with a matching dressing gown for Christmas, which wasn’t from M&S so she couldn’t take it back, and now she’s got Martin back home she’s cooking all his old favourites for him, which must be rather mortifying for him, now he’s over forty. But I bet he daren’t tell her to lay off the eggy soldiers, because she’s not the kind of woman you’d want to cross, especially if she happens to be your mother.
I’m standing looking at the shelves while Elsie’s upstairs, and planning how I’m going to move everything around, with all the nasty
pastels in the back room, along with all the white baby wool and the multicoloured acrylic double knitting. Although I think I might wait until Vin gets here, and maybe do it on a Sunday when Elsie’s safely at home boiling sprouts and battling with her Yorkshires. The back room has got the same dark wooden shelving as the front, divided into squares, and the same dark wood floor, but there are quite a few spaces with not very much stock, and a table with a couple of chairs, and all the patterns in an assortment of old cracked plastic folders next to the door to the stairs. The kitchen and loo are upstairs, and the storeroom, packed with old display units that used to twirl round but don’t any more, and boxes full of oddments of material and tinsel, along with all the clutter Gran’s collected over the years. I’d like to try to open it up as a workroom and more shop space, if I can ever work out how to get rid of all the rubbish.
I’m wondering how much it would cost to hire a skip, and where on earth I’d put one if I did since it would pretty much block the road, when Mrs Davis comes in from next door, with a big bunch of sunflowers.
‘I just wanted to say a proper welcome, love.’
‘Oh, how lovely. Thank you.’
Elsie barrels down the stairs to see what’s going on.
‘Look, Elsie, aren’t they lovely?’
‘Very nice.’ She gives Mrs Davis a hostile look.
‘I can’t stop, but pop in any time if you need change or anything. It’s amazing how you run out if you get busy. See you later.’
Elsie’s standing back behind the counter with her arms crossed, still looking hostile; there was a mini-drama last year when they fell out over change, I think, something to do with pound coins.
‘Wasn’t that kind of her?’
