by Fiona Gibson
‘Why didn’t you just give him yours?’ Corinne wants to know.
‘Because I was serving him. It would have been unprofessional …’ This sets them off again.
Okay, I decide, as I start to tuck into my unlovely Eighties-style sandwich: so I’ll probably never see that man again. However, something important happened today, in that I discovered I am still capable of fancying someone, after all. I am Nadia Watkins, a fully functioning woman with a working libido and everything. Which makes me think: maybe I will try to meet someone, and perhaps even find myself naked in the presence of another person, and not just the students at the life drawing class.
Chapter Three
Jack
Well, I messed up there all right. I completely forgot that Lori had asked for ‘that squidgy bath stuff’ and not bubble bars or face wash or any of the other stuff I ended up buying. It was just, the woman who’d helped me … I’d been so mesmerised. I’d completely forgotten what I’d gone in for. How could I focus on shopping efficiently when I was transfixed by the golden flecks in her greenish eyes? She’d been so patient and friendly, I’d just grabbed everything she suggested.
I know she’d only been doing her job, but … had she been flirting a tiny bit?
No, that’s just called ‘being friendly to customers’, you fool. They probably have training days about it, with role-play and everything. Still, it had worked a treat. On my way out, I’d noticed a soap the size of a dustbin lid propped up on a shelf. I’d have bought that, too, if she’d recommended it.
Back at work now – I’m the manager of a charity shop a few streets away – I realise I forgot to pick up any lunch. But no matter. Iain, one of our volunteers, offers to grab something for me while he’s out. I ask for a chicken sandwich; he returns with a duck wrap and an enormous cheese scone.
‘That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’ he asks, ever eager to please.
‘Yeah, it’s fine, thanks,’ I say quickly, sensing a ‘situation’ brewing now as Mags, another volunteer, has emerged from the back room where donations are sorted, and is now slotting paperbacks onto the bookshelf.
‘Leave the books alone,’ shouts Iain, a keen reader of dated how-to manuals, who regards the book section as ‘his’.
‘I’m just putting new stuff out,’ Mags retorts, pink hair clip askew, lipsticked mouth pulled tight. Although it’s hard to put an age on her – our volunteer application forms don’t require a date of birth – I would guess mid-forties. She favours stonewashed jeans and floaty tops, usually made from cheesecloth, encrusted with beading around the neck. ‘You’re not the boss round here,’ she adds, glaring at Iain.
‘I’m deputy manager,’ he announces.
‘Says who?’
‘Says everyone, actually. Says Jack!’ He turns to me for confirmation, and I shrug. Although no such position exists, I – along with most of the volunteers – am happy to go along with his self-appointed elevated status, just as we willingly accept Iain’s instant coffees made with water from the hot tap. He works hard, coming in virtually every day, with utter disregard for the rota; he was visibly unsettled when I reminded him that we’d be closed for the days between Christmas and New Year.
During the couple of years he’s been volunteering for us, I’ve been to his flat several times. The last time involved escorting him home when he’d had ‘a turn’ whilst steam-cleaning some trousers in the shop’s tiny back room. As far as I’ve been able to gather, his only regular visitor is Una, the elderly lady upstairs who helps with his dog and tricky matters he struggles to deal with, like filling in forms and making calls on his behalf (Iain doesn’t like using the phone). Like with Mags, it’s hard to guess at his age, although I’ve surmised early thirties. He lives with his ageing mongrel, Pancake (‘’cause he likes to lie flat’), and has a liking for what he calls ‘found furniture’: i.e. the stuff people have left out on the pavement to be taken away by the council. Bookshelves, occasional tables and a wooden coat stand: Iain has dragged them all home, given them what he calls ‘a good sanding down’ (he means a perfunctory wipe) and then puzzled over where to put them.
The last time I was at his place, several shabby, mismatched dining chairs were lined up against a living room wall; it looked as if some kind of support group meeting was about to happen. ‘I’m going to sell them,’ he explained, with enviable confidence.
‘Piss off, Iain!’ Mags snaps now, swiping at him with a Galloping Gourmet cookbook. I stride over and suggest that she reorganises the plundered shoe section. ‘C’mon, Mags,’ I say. ‘You’ve got a real eye for it. No one makes it look as good as you do.’ As she beams with pride, Iain ‘straightens’ the books unnecessarily in order to re-establish his territory.
All afternoon, I keep thinking of the beautiful woman in Lush and wishing I’d asked her name or something. Christ, though – I don’t know what made me behave like some idiot male who’d never heard of a bath bomb. Lori’s been demanding the things every Christmas and birthday since she was about eight. I could probably sketch an accurate floor plan of that shop, the amount of times she’s dragged me in there. I’d never seen the woman who helped me, though. Maybe she’s new.
As closing time rolls around, I lock up and step out into the street, making my way through the revellers, many who’ve tumbled straight from all-afternoon Christmas lunches, by the look of it. We had our own last week, at an old-fashioned Italian in Merchant City. Mags demanded that the balloons be removed from the vicinity (she fears balloons). Iain shunned all offerings from the dessert menu and was finally appeased with a slice of Madeira cake adorned with squirty cream.
As Lush comes into view – happily, it’s still open – I decide, what the hell, I could just nip in buy the squidgy stuff Lori asked for, which I forgot all about. I clear my throat, smooth back my hair as if about to go in for a job interview, and stride in.
The heady scent engulfs me as I scan the store for the gorgeous dark-haired woman. But there’s no sign of her now. With the help of a shiny-faced teenage girl, I locate the product. It’s called ‘Fun’ and, as the girl explains its many uses, I put on a fine show of listening whilst conducting one final scan of the shop.
Nope, she’s definitely not here. And anyway, I reflect as I travel home on the packed subway, what would I have done if I’d seen her again? Lurched over to thank her one more time, when she’d probably attended to fifty more customers after me and would have assumed I was just some random nutter? Hello again! You probably don’t remember me, but a few hours ago you patiently explained the purposes of Tea Tree Gel … I imagine her at home now, with her attractive, fully functioning family: handsome husband, delightful kids, wrapping presents and putting the final touches to the Christmas tree …
Get a grip, Jack McConnell, I chastise myself silently, and possibly try to get out more.
Chapter Four
Over the next few days, I venture nowhere near the overly scented store. It’s not that I want to avoid looking like a weirdo stalker. Okay, it is partly that – but, perhaps handily, there’s no time to take lunch breaks anyway. A deluge of donations has arrived at the shop, suggesting that the whole of Glasgow is clearing out its old tat ahead of Christmas.
If the shop is going to be able to function, then all of this stuff has to be sorted. Despite the sign in our window reading ‘We welcome your sellable donations’, we’re gifted an alarming amount of skanky underwear and used toothbrushes with bristles splayed (sometimes harbouring ‘bits’). Because naturally, such items will bring in the money we need to build and support our network of animal sanctuaries. In fact, I think people sometimes forget that we are a charity at all, and regard us as a gigantic bin. Thank you kindly for your ancient knitting pattern that might possibly have been used to line a budgerigar’s cage! But then, happily, there is the odd pearl among the dross, and we actually do a tidy trade.
As the volunteers and I separate the good stuff from the ripped lampshades and filthy sandwich toasters, I
find myself wondering why my lovely helper in Lush chose to work in what seems like a particularly youthful environment.
It’s not that she’s old, not at all; I’d put her at around the same age as me, and I don’t feel old. At least, sometimes I don’t (when I plucked a cracked glass dildo from a box of donated goods I did, admittedly, feel about ninety-six – and on more than one occasion my ex Elaine has ‘jokingly’ asked if I ever worry that being surrounded by so many old things might somehow seep into my consciousness and accelerate the ageing process). It’s just that she didn’t seem to quite fit with the other, multiply pierced and tattooed assistants in there. It’s bizarre, the way this stranger keeps sneaking into my thoughts. Perhaps it’s the time of year; it always unsettles me a bit.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay over the holidays?’ I ask Iain, who’s stayed on to help on our last day before we close until the new year.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he says breezily, carefully checking that all the components are present in Home and Away: The Board Game.
I glance at him. ‘You’re going to your mum’s, right?’
‘Yeah.’
Together, we begin to stack up the boxes of donations we haven’t yet sorted, in order to leave the back room in a reasonably orderly state. ‘What about the rest of the time?’ I ask. Who will you see, is what I mean, and what will you do to fill the days?
‘I’ll be fine,’ he says again.
‘Yes, but …’ I pause, wary of sounding patronising. ‘You won’t be on your own the whole time, will you?’
‘Of course not,’ he says with a trace of defensiveness. ‘I’ll be with Pancake … and I’ll finally have time to read,’ he adds, with a note of triumph, as if his life is too hectic normally.
‘Well, that’s good,’ I say as I lift a basket of hairdryers, their cables entangled, onto a shelf.
‘Yeah.’ He beams at me. ‘I’m going to learn some new stuff. Expand my mind …’ He indicates the scruffy hardbacks he’s stacked on the fridge, set aside for him to take home.
‘What kind of stuff?’ I ask, now wiping down the worktop of our tiny kitchen area.
‘All kinds of stuff!’
I turn and look at him. Whenever Iain’s in the shop, he’s never far from my side. Today he’s wearing one of his customary V-necked sweaters – tufts of chest hair are poking out – and his curious old-mannish trousers that always look a little too tight for his belly. Dropping the sponge wipe into the sink, I check the books he’s chosen. ‘Vehicle Maintenance for Beginners,’ I murmur.
‘Yeah!’
Whilst I am not au fait with Iain’s various conditions, I’d be surprised – and frankly alarmed – if he was ever capable of driving a car.
Small Plot Gardening in Full Colour is another of his choices. But Iain doesn’t have a small plot, or even a balcony. I check more of his books – which he’ll insist on paying for – hoping to find something that might be of use to a single man living alone with a dog. Picture Framing Made Easy, Creative Crafting With Yarn …
‘That’s what I’m going to do,’ Iain says eagerly.
I frown. ‘What, make macramé pictures of owls?’
‘No,’ he sniggers. ‘I mean this one. I’m going to learn to cook.’ He plucks the relevant book from his pile, and I recognise it immediately: a once-popular guide to a savagely punishing dietary regime.
‘We get this all the time,’ I remark. ‘If there was a prize for the most handed-in book, this would win it. It’s because no one can actually stick to it, Iain.’
He pushes back his wonky, possibly self-cut fringe: ‘But it’s full of healthy recipes. Weren’t you saying I should start eating better?’
I shrug in bafflement, having no memory of saying anything of the sort. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yeah, you did. At the Christmas lunch …’
‘Oh, that. All I meant was, we’d seen the menu beforehand, and you said you were fine with the full turkey dinner. And then, on the day, you decided you didn’t want veg …’
‘I don’t eat veg,’ he says indignantly.
‘You wanted chips,’ I remind him, ‘instead of roast potatoes, and baked beans in place of the sprouts …’
Iain beams at me. ‘Yeah, well, like I said, I’m going to read this and be healthier, like you’re always on at me about …’ This is so not true. I’m never ‘on at’ him about anything, although sometimes I suspect he’d like me to act like a sort of dad-type figure, dispensing advice. Although he mentions his mum occasionally – I gather she struggles with a raft of mental health issues – he’s given the impression that his father was never around. It’s Una, his upstairs neighbour, who seems to keep an eye on him.
‘Well, um, I think that’s great,’ I say, ‘but, y’know, that book was written quite a long time ago, and people don’t really go for her methods anymore …’
‘But she’s a doctor,’ he insists, jabbing the author’s name on the cover.
I pause, wondering whether to break it to him. ‘The thing is, she’s not actually a real one.’
‘But it says it on the book!’ His eyes flash with indignation.
‘Yes, but there’s been some debate about whether her qualifications are real, or if she’s just a bit of a charlatan …’
‘A charlatan?’
‘You know – a cheat, a fake …’ I’m reminded now of a difficult conversation I had with Lori a few years back, when she asked me to tell her straight – no messing – whether Father Christmas really exists.
‘People can’t do that,’ Iain retorts. ‘Not when they write books.’
‘They can, if they have the nerve. I mean, I could call myself a doctor …’
‘But you’d be lying, wouldn’t you?’ He glares at me as if I might be considering it as a possibility.
‘Well, yes. I’m just saying—’
‘How did she write a book then?’ Iain snaps.
‘By sitting at her computer and hammering it out, I’d imagine.’ I catch Iain’s crestfallen expression and regret being so blunt. ‘Look,’ I add, ‘I don’t know for certain, but I do know there was a TV show years ago where she used to examine people’s poos …’
‘Ugh!’
‘And you don’t want to spend your Christmas doing that,’ I remark, but my attempt at a joke seems to appal Iain even further.
‘No, I do not.’
‘It wouldn’t be very festive,’ I add, at which, thankfully, his eyes glimmer with amusement as he finally realises I’m having him on.
‘I don’t want to ever look at people’s poos,’ he adds, ‘unless they’re Pancake’s. And I don’t like it, y’know – I just do it, with the little plastic bags, because you can’t just leave it lying there, can you? Not if you’re trying to be a good citizen.’
‘No, you can’t,’ I say, glancing at the clock now. It’s almost seven p.m., and Iain and I have spent an extra two hours past closing time, sorting donations. I’m paid an okay-ish salary to manage this place, and for the most part I enjoy it. But now I’m seized by an urge to head home, maybe go for a run or meet up with friends, anything rather than be trapped in our dingy back room.
I can tell Iain’s still feeling rattled as he stuffs his books into a carrier bag. In regular shops, where everyone’s paid, you can pretty much expect your team to come in and do their job, and go home; it’s a straightforward exchange of money for labour. A charity shop works differently. While some of our helpers – mainly the elderly ladies – simply enjoy the company and want to make a difference, others are more emotionally entwined with our little emporium.
I started out here as a volunteer myself. I needed something to keep me busy after the Glasgow-based book publisher’s I worked for went bust. It was gutting, really, when it happened. Gander Books had been a tight-knit operation with just the MD, two editors, a couple of admins and myself. After a media course at college, followed by a smattering of casual jobs, I’d been taken on at twenty-three as an admin assistant
. Keen and hard-working, I seemed to fit in well, and pretty soon I was promoted until I was taking care of Gander’s publicity, marketing and events. It was a brilliant job, and as book publishing jobs are few and far between in Glasgow, I was happy to stay put.
Gander won literary prizes and Independent Publisher of the Year, and all seemed to be going swimmingly for many years until authors started to complain of advances and royalties being delayed, then not paid at all. The permanent staff were put on ‘emergency measures’ (i.e. drastically cut pay) and finally, after months of uncertainty, the whole place sunk.
We were all bereft. I’d worked there for fifteen years, and the place had felt like a second family. There was no payout for staff, and by then Elaine and I had a four-year-old daughter so I couldn’t hang around, perusing job ads until the ‘ideal’ position came up. For a few years I worked for an events company, building up a second strand in freelance proofreading on the side. When redundancy happened again I decided, to hell with it; the next job I took would really matter to me and what the hell if I took a big pay cut. I’d kept in touch with the manager of the charity shop, and when she decided to move on it felt kind of right to apply.
Iain turns up his jacket collar against the sharp wind as we step outside. ‘It’s great that you want to learn to cook,’ I tell him. ‘But how about you forget that cranky cookbook, and try something simple that doesn’t need a recipe?’
He folds his arms over his substantial stomach as I lock up the shop. ‘Like … salad?’
‘No, not salad,’ I say quickly. ‘How about soup? Something simple like that?’
‘But I just buy my soup …’
‘Okay, but if you’re going do some cooking over the holidays, it’s a good place to start. It’s the easiest thing. Even Lori can make it.’
‘What d’you do, then?’ he asks as we fall into step.
‘Fry up some leeks or onions, then chuck in any other veg, and water. Throw in a stock cube …’
‘Is that all soup is?’
