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?’
‘Oh, yes, very generous, but you’ve got to watch her, you know, or she’ll be in and out all day wanting change for ten-pound notes, although why she can’t go to the bank like the rest of us is beyond me. And anyway, we haven’t got any vases so I don’t know where she thinks you’re going to put them.’
‘Yes, we have. There’s one in the window, isn’t there?’
I open the door in the partition and reach through to pick up the glass vase with the faded plastic tulips.
Elsie tuts.
‘I spent quite a long time arranging them, actually, but never mind. I’ll go and get the tea shall I? Only there aren’t any biscuits, I’m afraid. We used to have biscuits a while back, but your gran stopped buying them.’
She’s looking seriously put out now. Bugger. I think this might be the perfect time for an olive branch.
‘I could get some, if you like.’
‘I don’t like bourbons.’
‘Okay.’
‘Or ginger snaps – your gran’s very partial to those but they repeat on me. I quite like digestives, though. Or custard creams.’
The way she says custard creams makes it fairly clear they’re the top choice.
‘Right, well I won’t be a minute.’
Bloody hell. From television news producer to biscuit girl; I think I’d better get a few packets, because it looks like I may be needing them.
Elsie’s got a mouth full of custard cream when our first customer of the morning, Mrs Stebbing, comes in. She buys three balls of lemon four-ply and a pattern for a matinée coat for her goddaughter’s new baby, who looks like a fairly chunky boy when she shows us the photographs, and not an obvious choice for a delicate lemon jacket with a lace design on the front. Then old Mrs Marwell comes in, or tries to, but she can’t get her wheelie trolley through the door. By the time we’ve got her in there’s a slightly awkward moment when she can’t remember what she wanted, but then it comes back to her, with a bit of prompting from Elsie. She’s knitting another jumper for the church, for the orphans in Africa, and she wants to look in the bargain basket, where we put any odd balls left over from different dye lots; usually the cheaper things with a high percentage of man-made fibre which wash well if youdon’t mind a jumper that builds up static. Quite a few of our old ladies knit things for the church, and they’re quite happy using up odd balls of wool, so the jumpers often have one yellow sleeve, and one red, with a bright blue middle, like weird versions of Mondrian paintings, only warmer. I think this might be a good time to launch another one of my Top New Ideas, now I’ve got the custard creams as back-up.
‘Mrs Marwell, do you think it would be useful if I started a charity basket? I was thinking we could ask people to bring in any leftover wool from home, and we’d put in our spare stock, like we do now, and it would all be free, for people to use for charity things like blankets or jumpers?’
‘Oh I think that would be wonderful, dear, really wonderful, because it does add up, you know, and my pension doesn’t go as far as it used to.’
‘Right, well let’s start now then, so that’ll be no charge, since it’s for charity, so put your purse away, and if you’ve got any spare wool left bring it in next time, and put it in the basket. Someone’s bound to be able to use it for something.’
She’s thrilled, and goes off promising to tell all the ladies at the church about my marvellous new idea.
Elsie’s looking thin-lipped again. Oh dear.
‘I meant to talk to you about that first, Elsie, but
‘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?’
‘Oh, yes, very generous, but you’ve got to watch her, you know, or she’ll be in and out all day wanting change for ten-pound notes, although why she can’t go to the bank like the rest of us is beyond me. And anyway, we haven’t got any vases so I don’t know where she thinks you’re going to put them.’
‘Yes, we have. There’s one in the window, isn’t there?’
I open the door in the partition and reach through to pick up the glass vase with the faded plastic tulips.
Elsie tuts.
‘I spent quite a long time arranging them, actually, but never mind. I’ll go and get the tea shall I? Only there aren’t any biscuits, I’m afraid. We used to have biscuits a while back, but your gran stopped buying them.’
She’s looking seriously put out now. Bugger. I think this might be the perfect time for an olive branch.
‘I could get some, if you like.’
‘I don’t like bourbons.’
‘Okay.’
‘Or ginger snaps – your gran’s very partial to those but they repeat on me. I quite like digestives, though. Or custard creams.’
The way she says custard creams makes it fairly clear they’re the top choice.
‘Right, well I won’t be a minute.’
Bloody hell. From television news producer to biscuit girl; I think I’d better get a few packets, because it looks like I may be needing them.
Elsie’s got a mouth full of custard cream when our first customer of the morning, Mrs Stebbing, comes in. She buys three balls of lemon four-ply and a pattern for a matinée coat for her goddaughter’s new baby, who looks like a fairly chunky boy when she shows us the photographs, and not an obvious choice for a delicate lemon jacket with a lace design on the front. Then old Mrs Marwell comes in, or tries to, but she can’t get her wheelie trolley through the door. By the time we’ve got her in there’s a slightly awkward moment when she can’t remember what she wanted, but then it comes back to her, with a bit of prompting from Elsie. She’s knitting another jumper for the church, for the orphans in Africa, and she wants to look in the bargain basket, where we put any odd balls left over from different dye lots; usually the cheaper things with a high percentage of man-made fibre which wash well if youdon’t mind a jumper that builds up static. Quite a few of our old ladies knit things for the church, and they’re quite happy using up odd balls of wool, so the jumpers often have one yellow sleeve, and one red, with a bright blue middle, like weird versions of Mondrian paintings, only warmer. I think this might be a good time to launch another one of my Top New Ideas, now I’ve got the custard creams as back-up.
‘Mrs Marwell, do you think it would be useful if I started a charity basket? I was thinking we could ask people to bring in any leftover wool from home, and we’d put in our spare stock, like we do now, and it would all be free, for people to use for charity things like blankets or jumpers?’
‘Oh I think that would be wonderful, dear, really wonderful, because it does add up, you know, and my pension doesn’t go as far as it used to.’
‘Right, well let’s start now then, so that’ll be no charge, since it’s for charity, so put your purse away, and if you’ve got any spare wool left bring it in next time, and put it in the basket. Someone’s bound to be able to use it for something.’
She’s thrilled, and goes off promising to tell all the ladies at the church about my marvellous new idea.
Elsie’s looking thin-lipped again. Oh dear.
‘I meant to talk to you about that first, Elsie, but
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