Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

February 2021

Shopkeeper - Pete Norman

Maggie Thatcher was the daughter of a shopkeeper and she was also the UK’s first female Prime Minister and also her father was Mayor of Grantham.

Maddie Tattersall was the daughter of a shopkeeper but she was none of the ‘alsos’ – she was not the Prime Minister and her father was most definitely not the Mayor, he was just an ordinary shopkeeper who had devoted most of his life to a few square yards of retail space in a run down area of Hyson Green in Nottingham, on the corner of Carver Street and Radford Road. In a rare moment of dazzling inspiration he had named it ‘The Corner Shop’, which, for better or worse, had survived unchanged for several decades.

Maddie stood amongst the clutter of the shop floor. She could not remember the shop ever being very busy and her father had never made a great deal of noise in all the years he had been here but the mausoleum silence within it today without his presence was claustrophobic. It really did feel as if the soul had gone from the place.

Standing in this shop, which had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember, she felt totally and utterly alone. She had to accept that the sombre black clothing, which she still had on from the funeral, just a few miserable hours ago, must have been a strong influence on her current mood but she knew that she had to fight the malaise, she had to find some strength from somewhere because she had very little time in which to make what might turn out to be the biggest decision of her life: what to do with the shop.

She could, of course, always sell it – but, realistically, in these troubled times, who would want to invest good money in a tired little 9 to 5 in the middle of nowhere?

Her father had always argued that being in the middle of nowhere was the main reason for its existence as the poor housing estate which encircled it in its cold grey arms relied so heavily upon it. A steep Boulevard led down – a long, long way down – to the City Centre and the journey back was up – a long, long way up – a steep hill carrying heavy bags. The people around here might be poor but they still had to survive and he had always believed that The Corner Shop was crucial to their survival.

She could, of course, always take up the reins and fire up the horses – but the prospect of trying to fill her father’s boots was at the extreme edge of daunting, it seemed to her that it would be an absolutely impossible task.

She sank into the old wicker chair which had stood beside the counter for decades, the shape of her father’s body imprinted in its fragile cords. Whenever the shop was quiet it was in that chair that he could usually be found, passing the time reading the newspaper but when an elderly customer arrived he would always relinquish that chair while they shared with him all the local gossip. Her father was a good listener. The shop was indeed at the very heart of the community, perhaps, she suspected, more for the comfort of the lonely than for the convenience of the shopper.

Her contemplation was disturbed by the sound of the annoying, tinkly bell over the door – which she had forgotten to lock when she came in.

Mrs Gladstone shuffled into the shop pushing her walker before her like Genghis Khan rampaging across the Asian Steppes. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad, love, he was a real gent, a lovely man, that he was . . . now, have you got any milk?’

Maddie took a cold bottle from the cabinet and thrust it into the woman’s hand. She refused the offer of payment, telling her that the till was still locked. As the old lady shuffled happily away with her prize Maddie realised that in this one simple act the decision had been taken out of her hands – the big wheel had started rolling – she was now the shopkeeper, like it or not.

However, she made a mental note that the bell would be the first thing to go!

There was one specific duty that she had intended to carry out before she left the shop and made her way home . . . but her emotions were so far out of control that she simply could not face checking over the flat above right now – that would have to wait for another day. She had originally planned that the shop would remain closed for just a week while she sorted out the essentials. However, it took her far less than a week to quit her job, quit her old flat and transfer her things to the shop. The hardest part of all this had been the making of the new flat habitable and personalised for her own needs. A few trips to the Charity Shop and the judicious use of a few spare cardboard boxes made the physical move relatively easy but the emotional pain would remain with her for a very long time.

She had intended to make a full inventory of the stock while the shop was closed but she felt a pressing need for human contact and so she made a decision, she would carry out that arduous task while the shop was open – after all, there was no hurry.

On the day the shop opened she was hard at work sorting through an eclectic mix of obscure items on the top shelf when the annoying, tinkly bell over the door began to tinkle. She struggled down the rickety old ladder and turned to face the customer. ‘Good morning and what can I do for you?’

The smartly dressed young lady did not have the look of the usual clientele and when she spoke that opinion was confirmed. ‘Hello, Mrs Tattersall, you don’t know me but I’m Sally, I’m Mrs Gladstone’s granddaughter – I work for the Herald. A little bird has told me that you are a very kind and helpful lady.’ She hesitated. ‘I was hoping that we could do a short article on the re-opening of the shop – it would make a lovely piece and . . . it would be free advertising for you.’

Maddie smiled. ‘Would it take long? Only I’m up to my neck in it at the moment.’

Sally glanced around the cluttered shop and saw no reason to disagree.

‘What if I gave you a hand and we could chat while we’re working and I can always write something up from that later.’

Maddie thought for a moment. ‘Look, I don’t really think that . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, please, thank you, that would be amazing – but you might change your mind when you see the stock-berg out the back.’

Sally looked puzzled.

Maddie smiled. ‘A stock-berg is a bit like a fat-berg only there’s less fat and a lot more boxes!’ She led Sally through to the back room, which had, originally, been the lounge and dining room. Towering piles of cardboard boxes completely covered the floor, many of which had split and leaked their contents; against the far wall was an ancient black bicycle with a huge basket on the front. Sally gestured towards the large glossy portrait of Margaret Thatcher hanging over the fireplace and grimaced. ‘I imagine she doesn’t go down well in a mining town.’

‘That’s why Dad had to bring it through here.’ Maddie gestured towards the detritus. ‘But this is the stock-berg. At some time soon – but I couldn’t possibly cope with that today – I have to do a stocktake on all this stuff and sort out what’s current stock and what’s out of date and what’s simply for the dump.’ Her gaze scanned the chaos as she said, ‘I pleaded with him so many times to sort this room out – so many times – but he never did.’ The tears began to flow. ‘ . . . And now he never will.’

Sally took out her reporter’s notebook and scribbled down some numbers. ‘You don’t have to do this on your own, you know. This one’s the Food Bank and these are the Charity Shop people and there’s a few more numbers there that might be useful. Most of these will be only too happy to send out a couple of volunteers to help you. I can assure you that anything you don’t want they’ll put to good use. The last one on there is my nan – she knows everybody and everything that goes on around here – if she can’t help you then nobody can.’

Maddie thanked her profusely and together they made a start on the shop floor shelves. The additional pair of hands and the convivial conversation was enjoyable and took the drudgery out of the work. When Sally had finally gone, promising to send round their photographer for a ‘quick pic’, they had managed to get through a surprising amount of work and the place was already beginning to look so much better. When the Herald arrived through the letterbox she dropped into the wicker chair and eagerly scanned through the pages. The article filled half a page and the picture made the tired old shop look like a palace. Sally had done her proud with her write-up – she didn’t realise they had talked quite so much and everything she had written was accurate and favourable. She cut out the article and pinned it up on the noticeboard.

The following morning she came downstairs, tired and yawning and dreading the prospect of yet another day of cleaning and polishing and counting and recording. She smiled at the newspaper clipping and went through to the shop to make a cup of tea. As her dear father would have said, ‘Job’s a good’un.’

She stopped dead in her tracks.

The glass of the front door was smeared with huge splats of yellow, slimy gunge. She rushed to the door and flung it open and there on the pavement were the broken shells of at least half a dozen eggs.

She was stunned. What on earth had she done to deserve this? Had she not made every effort to integrate herself into the neighbourhood? However the practical side of her regained control and she did what she knew she had to do – she grabbed a bucket full of hot soapy water and a window scraper and she polished the glass until it gleamed once again. She picked up the larger pieces and swept the rest into the gutter. It came very close to looking as if it had never happened.

However, in her mind it had most definitely happened and it was impossible for her to focus on her work – she spent most of the morning sitting in the wicker chair simmering with fury. She had to do something but she did not have a clue what to do.

The bell over the door tinkled and Mrs Gladstone shuffled in. Maddie groaned but put on her very best shopkeeper smile and welcomed her in and directed her to the chair.

She sat and rambled on and on about everything and nothing and then thrust a shopping list onto the counter. ‘Shame you can’t deliver this stuff – I’m getting a bit old to cart it home nowadays.’

Maddie heard herself saying the unimaginable, ‘I could carry it back for you, perhaps?’

‘No, no, no, gal, you’ve got your work to do. I’ll manage – but maybe it’s worth you thinking about.’

As Mrs Gladstone stepped out into the street she stopped and called over her shoulder, ‘Important to remember, gal: softly, softly catchee monkey.’

Maddie had no idea what she meant by that and promptly forgot about it as she got on with her work.

It was early afternoon when the bell over the door tinkled and a young teenager came in. He had that self-confident ‘Jack the lad’ walk and as he approached the counter he said, ‘Miss, me mam says she needs half a dozen eggs.’

Maddie froze. She could not believe it! The gall of it! How dare he come in here and . . .? She opened her mouth to read him his fortune but then Mrs Gladstone’s cryptic advice rang in her ears: ‘softly, softly catchee monkey’ and then Sally’s advice that ‘my nan knows everybody and everything that goes on around here.’

She picked up the eggs and put them on the counter but she kept her hand on top of the box. She looked the boy in the eyes and smiled. ‘I wonder if you might consider, maybe, doing me a huge favour? You see, someone threw half a dozen eggs at my door last night. It made a horrible mess and I had to go out and clean it up before I could open the shop. Now, I don’t have time for all that nonsense, of course, so I wonder, if it happened again, whether you’d help me out by cleaning it off – I would, of course, pay you for doing it.’

The boy stared at her in utter confusion.

‘Yes, yes, I know and believe me it’s as weird for me as it is for you: What happens is that I sell you the eggs, you throw the eggs at my door and I pay you to clean it off. But don’t you see that I actually make a profit selling you the eggs and if I gave you that same profit for cleaning it off then I don’t end up out of pocket and I also get my glass cleaned for free. It’s a win-win situation.’

The boy’s confused expression turned to apprehension.

‘But I do have another proposition for you – you see I’m going to start delivering food to my locals and I need a delivery man . . .’

‘I ain’t old enough to drive, miss.’

‘Ah, well I’ve already thought of that. Come with me.’

Somewhat uneasily the boy followed her into the back room and past the stock-berg where she pointed to the bicycle. ‘Yes, I know it’s a bit old and yes it does need a bit of sorting out but what do you think, eh?’ She looked him directly in his eyes. ‘Is it going to be the eggs or the bike?’

The boy squeezed the metal brake lever – it squeaked – he grinned. ‘This bike’s awesome.’

As they walked back through the shop Ricky said, ‘Can I still have the eggs, though, miss, ‘cause I used up all me mam’s.’

Maddie grinned as she handed over the box. ‘Just take them and be off with you.’

She cleaned and polished the bike, pumped up the tyres and found some ‘3 In 1’ oil to get it’s tired old parts mobile again. The only thing she had left to do now to get the new service underway was to advertise.

The following morning she had barely unlocked the door when the phone rang. ‘I hear you’re doing deliveries. Do you do as far out as Maple Street?’

Maddie scribbled the order down on a scrap of paper and made a mental note to buy a proper carbonated order book. As she walked around the shop filling the basket she was grinning like a Cheshire cat – all she needed now was to get in touch with Ricky when he got home from school and tell him that his very first delivery was ready for collection.

A little after 3:30 the bell over the door tinkled and she was surprised to see that it was Ricky.

‘How did you know . . . ?’ she shrugged her shoulders. ‘Never mind, there’s your first three deliveries, ready to go.’

Ricky was a natural. Within minutes he had filled up the basket on the bike with bags and had proudly ridden off on the ‘awesome’ bike. Maddie crossed her fingers and hoped that she was not making a huge mistake.

Twenty minutes later Ricky came back, put the bike on its stand and handed her the little leather purse with the money in. Maddie hated doing it but she knew that she had to check the money just to make sure. She looked up at Ricky, who was watching her patiently. ‘Its all there, miss.’

Maddie said, ‘Yes, I can see that, Ricky but there’s 50p too much here.’

‘Well, miss, when Mrs Bradshaw give me the money she says, ‘There’s an extra 50p.’ So there it is.’

Maddie felt the warm glow of vindication sweep through her. ‘Ricky, that is yours to keep. It’s a tip . . . a tip for you. All I ever want back is the money for the shopping.’

Ricky spent the 50p on chocolate.

The delivery service was a runaway success, she was inundated with orders, with an increasing number coming from outside the immediate neighbourhood. Ricky was delighted, he worked as many hours as he could to fulfil them, particularly at the weekends when the shop itself was also very busy.

It was on one such busy Saturday when Maddie was busy dealing with a particularly awkward customer at the counter when the phone rang. Ricky picked it up and said in his best telephone voice, ‘The Corner Shop, Ricky speaking, how can I help you.’ He frantically scribbled on the notepad and then grabbed a basket and began to fill it with the order. He added in the prices and wrote the total at the bottom. Maddie was amazed. When the customer had finally given up moaning and left she turned to him and said. ‘Thank you, master Donovan, you’ve done really well.’

Ricky put his hands on his hips. ‘Miss, my name’s Ricky!’

Maddie copied his gesture and answered, ‘I know that, Ricky . . . and my name is Maddie.’

Ricky stared at her in utter confusion – which appeared to be his trademark expression. ‘But I can’t . . .’

She repeated it slowly, ‘M-A-Double D-I-E. Maddie.’

Ricky blushed and said, ‘Ok, miss . . .’ Then he drew himself up to his full height and said, ‘I’d better get this delivered then . . . Maddie.’

Maddie’s father had always had very strong likes and dislikes and close to the top of his list were smoking and gambling and such abominations were never permitted in his shop. Fortunately, however, he enjoyed the occasional tipple, so a drinks cabinet filled the entire far wall.

It was Ricky who pointed out that people kept asking for ciggies and Lottery tickets and that she was missing out on sales. After a silent apology to her dear departed father, Maddie responded to the frustration of her customers. She made a couple of phone calls and she never looked back – it turned out to be a very good suggestion from her diminutive assistant.

It was also Ricky who set the little shop off on the charitable path. It all started with an innocent comment, ‘Are we doing anything for Children in Need?’ After a long and painful discussion Maddie finally agreed to fill a large glass jar with an assortment of sweets and, for a small donation, people could try to guess the number of sweets – the prize, of course, being the jar of sweets itself. She was delighted at how such a good cause could fire the generosity of her locals and the cheque she sent off was quite impressive.

This simple act opened the floodgates and soon their mission was to find enough worthy causes to keep the momentum going. For Red Nose Day she sold an impressive number of red noses and she also baked trays of muffins, each adorned with a glacé cherry nose.

From that point on it just grew exponentially – there was the local Hospice, into which Mrs Gladstone’s sister had just moved; there was the homeless shelter, which was constantly struggling to fund the support for their vulnerable people; the local hospital was always in desperate need of new equipment . . .

It always seemed to her that Ricky had all the best ideas – although Maddie suspected that he might possibly be having more than a little help with this.

However, his best one to date was that they should canvas local businesses for raffle prizes – always on the proviso that there was an eye-catching reference to the ‘charitable donor’. Maddie was absolutely amazed how a quick phone call to the right person could yield prizes with a value that attracted high interest and an excellent take up rate.

The Corner Shop’s hard fundraising work was regularly and faithfully reported in the Herald who now displayed a ‘thermometer’ alongside each article so show how much the donated money had accumulated.

It was during a quiet moment when Maddie had made a cuppa and was sitting in the wicker chair reading the latest epistle from the Herald when the annoying little bell over the door tinkled. She mumbled her annoyance and as she looked up a familiar figure was ushering a rather large man in a smart suit through the entrance door. She smiled a greeting to her good friend. ‘What a coincidence, Sally, I was just reading your lovely article.’ She rose to take the man’s proffered hand and dropped the Herald onto the wicker chair.

‘It is a pleasure to meet you, madam. Allow me to introduce myself; I am Arthur Wilson, Chair of the Council.’

Maddie guided them through to the back room, looking askance of Sally who simply gestured towards the Councillor, who said, ‘I have been hearing wonderful things about you and your shop, Mrs Tattersall and the valuable contribution you are making to the local area.’ He smiled. ‘I think it is high time you thought about casting your net a little further. You see, there is a vacancy coming up – the Councillor for this ward is moving to Wales in the near future. I believe that you are uniquely qualified to run as his successor.’ He saw the look of panic flood her face and added, ‘I will, of course, guide and assist you in any way that you require.’

Sally laughed. ‘You might as well just say yes, Maddie. I’ve learned never to disagree with Arthur – he can be most persuasive.’

Wilson smiled. ‘Quite right, my dear. Now, if you require any additional incentive, I, myself shall be retiring sometime soon on, shall we say, health grounds and if you played your cards right you would probably be worlds better than the rest of the apathetic lot the Council is blessed with.’ He looked up at the portrait of Margaret Thatcher hanging over the fireplace. ‘And the Iron Lady would be highly impressed with you – you never know, you could well be the first ever lady Leader of the Council.’

Maddie stood in a trance as they walked away from the shop. Her mind was a maelstrom. She could not come up with a single coherent thought to deal with this unusual but amazing opportunity. A voice behind her clearly said, ‘I’m proud o’ you gal.’

Maddie spun around but there was no one there. Through the open door she could see Maggie Thatcher smiling beneficently down at her. She shook her head. Pictures can’t talk . . . can they?

As she turned back into the shop the wicker chair creaked and the voice added, ‘Job’s a good’un.’

A tear ran down her cheek as she whispered, ‘Thanks, Dad.’