The Mothballed Marriage

Rose had managed to secure the shop on cheap terms.  It had been empty for so long now, that a lot of people could not remember it ever being in use.  Originally, it had been the local Co-op – that was obvious from the aquamarine tiles around the plate glass window.  Then it had been a car spares shop and finally a newsagent.  Then, one Friday afternoon, the window had been whitewashed and filled with newspaper.  A piece of plywood had been nailed over the front door.  Ownership had changed hands several times since, but none of them had used the shop; only the flat above.  The newspaper in the window had turned yellow, and the print sun-bleached into oblivion.  The current landlord offered Rose use of the shop when she had just missed out on another of his properties.  As her business already thrived online the position of the premises was not as important as the large storeroom at the back. 

Rose first arrived on a Sunday morning, armed with voluminous overalls and a comprehensive selection of cleaning products.  The utility area seemed the most sensible place to begin renovations. It contained a kitchenette obviously installed during the 1970s, in fact the cupboards were the same type as those that had been in her family home when she was growing up.  She opened the first cupboard, half prepared to be assaulted by a family of something small and horrid.  It was empty, except for a lining of newspaper.  She pulled out the brittle pages and studied them.  It was an excerpt from the local Telegraph, dated June 1974, the weddings page.  A row of happy couples smiled up at her.  Rose’s own responsive grin faded however, as she saw the second couple’s photograph.    

“Dad?”

She read the entry again, more slowly.  Her father, marrying a woman who was not her mother.  Her father, married before Mum. He had never told her.  Was it deliberate deceit or had there just been no reason to mention it?  Her name was Helen. Where was Helen now?  Rose folded the paper carefully and placed it in her rucksack.  This afternoon’s family Sunday dinner was going to be the most interesting yet. 

At The Town Hall Fountain

I remember sitting on the low wall that hemmed in the old fountain.  I call it a fountain, but the water hadn’t moved for ages.  It was more of a large stagnant puddle with rusted up workings in the middle.  An empty Park Drive fag packet bobbed about the surface and I was watching it.  There was nothing else to do.

My Mum was in the Town Hall, queueing to pay the rent on our council flat.  It was a warm day anyway, but inside the badly designed extension it was sweltering.  People in the shuffling lines fanned themselves with their rent books and final reminders.  I was at that age where patience has yet to be appreciated and this was an age of fewer fears so I had gone outside to wait.  The sun glinted off the stagnant water making it look a vaguely pleasurable place to be.  I watched the bobbing fag packet and tried to resist putting my hand in the water.

The sound of shouting made me look.  A man and a woman were striding down the walkway, arguing.  They didn’t belong round here.  Local people did not argue so publicly, so passionately.  People that I knew simply grumbled and exchanged looks from under heavy brows.  But these two – they yelled, they waved arms, jabbed fingers.  She threw a carrier bag of something at him. This was the best entertainment ever.  Their accents reminded me of something you’d hear on the BBC telly.  As the man drew closer I realised why I thought this.  He was the man off the telly.  The man off Play School, the programme I watched when I got in from school.  He was oblivious to me as he passed close by, still yelling.  Mum came down the steps, putting her rent book in her handbag then holding out her hand for me to take. 

“Ooh, that’s him!”  She said “I wonder what he’s doing round here?”

“Having an argument” I observed.

“These telly types…” she tutted.

We walked on, passing the theatre where his face beamed out from a poster.  That explained it.    

An Accumulation

Harry Price had started in the Bookmaking trade in the yard at the back of the Crown.  He had done so when his father had decreed that he was ready to take over.  The punters trusted him, and he had always inspired loyal service from his runners.  The coppers left him alone and business was good.

When the 1960s came, new laws said that Harry need no longer hide away behind a back street pub.  And so, along with so many of his fellow tradesmen, he reluctantly joined the High Street.  He took on a small shop at the shabby end.  Formerly a fishmongers, he could never quite get rid of the smell – but the tiling was easy to clean and the spit and fag ends could be removed in one sweep.  Indoor life without windows didn’t suit so well though, and Harry nurtured a resentment.  The rent, the electric and the sweeping brushes were all a source of irritation.

One particular Saturday Harry’s habitual scowl became more pronounced. A big chain had opened up a bookies a bit further down the street, and to top it, Billy Jackson’s accumulator was close to coming up.  Just one more race to go – if the favourite came in Harry was done for.  Everything he owned would belong to Billy.  As the commentary started, the shop fell into quiet.  The punters all watched Harry either with sympathy or delighted interest.  The favourite led the field.  Harry wondered if it was time to retire anyway.  The final furlong came.  The favourite won. 

Harry shooed them all out of the shop and went to lock the door.  Some protested – what about Billy’s money when he came for it?  Harry told them that Billy knew where he lived, and he set off up the High Street.  He walked into the new bookies and flourished a neatly folded slip under the screen.  He’d agreed with Billy’s predictions and had placed the same bet – with triple the stake - with the new shop.  He smiled to himself as one of his old regulars pretended that he wasn’t there.