by Karen Clarke
‘What would you like?’ I asked the boy, noticing my voice was more posh.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, in a tone that made the royal family sound common. ‘What would you recommend?’
‘Erm …’ I looked at the array of sweets, then back at his serious face. ‘Flying saucers?’ I offered. ‘Rhubarb and custard?’ Pity we hadn’t any caviar or oyster-flavoured sweets. Rob Hancock had missed a trick there – catering for the discerning, upper-class customer. ‘Or I could do you a selection if you can’t decide?’
‘What do you think, Sebastian?’ His mum seemed anxious to please. ‘He’s gifted,’ she whispered, round the side of her hand, as Sebastian walked ponderously round the shop, hands laced behind his back like a visiting diplomat. ‘He likes to take his time.’
‘He doesn’t have a favourite sweet?’
‘He used to like Turkish delight,’ she said, throwing him a look of wonder. ‘But since he tried the real thing in Istanbul, when he played the violin at the French ambassador’s residence, he won’t touch the stuff you sell. No offence,’ she said, watching her son peer closely at the fizzy cola bottles in the pick and mix section. If he wouldn’t touch mass-produced Turkish delight, there was no way he would eat those bad boys.
‘Take your time,’ I said, discreetly pulling my till receipt forward and writing Turkish delight? under salted caramel. Maybe I could find an original recipe and adapt it. On impulse I added ginger balls. Lots of my customers liked the wholesale ginger cubes, but I doubted there was much ginger in them.
‘Sometimes I wish he’d make do with a Twix, but that’s me,’ she said in an undertone.
Sebastian returned to the counter and fixed me with intelligent grey eyes. ‘I’ll take one fruit salad, one black jack, one shrimp, and one milk gum, please,’ he said.
I looked at his grave face. ‘One kilo of each?’
His little brow furrowed. ‘No. Just one of each sweet, please,’ he said with impeccable manners.
‘Oh.’ I realised he was being serious. ‘Right.’
‘Is that OK?’ His mum’s hand tensed on her purse.
‘It’s fine.’ I bit my lip to stop a giggle escaping. Where was Josh? He really ought to be hearing this.
Sebastian’s mum handed over her twenty pence, praising her son for being a sensible boy, and they left the shop hand in hand.
‘Josh!’ I called, when they’d gone. ‘I’ve had a new customer, and he’s adorable,’ I said, moving through to the stockroom. ‘But we’ll never get rich, because he only wanted …’
My words trailed off. Josh wasn’t in the stockroom. The door was ajar, light streaming in, catching fragments of dust. I stepped outside, blinking in the sunshine slanting between the rooftops. Josh was at the end of the street, talking to someone standing by a blue van parked there. There were several boxes on the pavement, and Josh was signing what looked like a delivery form.
As I shielded my eyes, the figure he was talking to sharpened into focus. I recognised the belly pushing over the belt of his jeans, and I recognised the van.
Both belonged to Rob Hancock.
Fifteen
I sloped back inside, heart racing.
Why was Josh taking a delivery from Hancock? And why was it being conducted at the end of the street, when Rob normally strolled in as if he owned the place and deposited his boxes in the stockroom?
Because he knew he shouldn’t be here, that was why. I’d fired him. Josh must have gone out for some fresh air, or to make a call, and got suckered in to signing for a delivery I hadn’t ordered.
I moved behind the counter, feeling a bit wobbly.
I didn’t want to have a go at Josh, but he had to know Rob was off-limits, no matter what story he’d spun. He had as much finesse as a hippo at a tea-party and I had no doubt he’d ridden roughshod over any objections Josh might have made; probably told him to keep schtum, and hoped I wouldn’t notice his name on the delivery note. Perhaps he hoped once his stock was on the premises, I wouldn’t bother returning them.
I closed my eyes and indulged in a vision where I sprinted after Rob’s van, shot his tyres out, then dragged him from the driver’s seat and gave him a good pummelling.
‘Everything alright?’
My eyes snapped open to meet the curious gaze of Paddy, Celia’s neighbour. I hadn’t realised he was in the shop.
‘I’m fine!’ I said, rather forcefully. ‘Is Celia OK?’
‘As far as I know,’ said Paddy, his walnut-like face softening at the mention of my grandmother. ‘I’ll be taking her for her physio appointment tomorrow.’
‘What about your job?’ Paddy worked as a groundsman at a country house hotel a few miles away.
‘They won’t mind,’ he assured me in his gravelly voice, though I wasn’t so sure. Mr Hudson, who owned a string of country house hotels, was – not to put it too mildly – a bit of a bastard. He’d given a talk when I was a student, about how to succeed in business, and although he’d claimed to have modelled himself on Richard Branson, his attitude was more Wolf of Wall Street.
‘I could take her,’ I offered, though I quailed at the thought of getting Celia’s ancient VW out of the garage. It didn’t even have power-steering, it was so old. How she’d managed to get around in it I had no idea, but it explained why she had superior body strength and could beat me in an arm-wrestle.
‘No, no it’s fine, I want to do it,’ Paddy said, keenly. He had leathery skin and a fleece of greying curls.
‘Your usual?’ I said, reaching for the jar of liquorice allsorts, not feeling in a chatty mood.
‘I think I’ll have some pear drops for a change,’ he said, and in spite of myself I smiled. Celia must have converted him.
‘Do you think she’d go on a date with me?’ he blurted.
I almost dropped the jar. ‘I – I really don’t know,’ I said, tipping out too many pear drops.
The thought of Celia dating hadn’t crossed my mind, and I was fairly sure she hadn’t considered it either. Since Gramps died, she’d thrown herself more vigorously into work, and seemed happy enough. I couldn’t imagine her wanting another man – especially one younger than her.
I risked a quick glance, and caught the brightness of hope in Paddy’s brown, Malteser-like eyes. For as long as I’d known him he’d just been Paddy-next-door, even though he lived in the cottage adjacent to Celia’s. Not long after he moved in, Mum somehow found out he wasn’t married, had a son from a past relationship, and had lost his little finger in a lawn-mowing accident.
I’d never seen him with a woman, but he certainly liked Celia, and I doubted he’d lived a monastic existence all these years.
‘Well, you could ask her,’ I said, wondering if she would be furious with me.
‘She’s been so good with Muttley,’ he went on, hands bunched into the pockets of the combat trousers he always seemed to wear. ‘He hasn’t, um, entertained any lady dogs since she encouraged me to have his … I mean, get him neutered, like. He comes back as soon as I call him now, provided I stick to the training plan and give him a little treat. He loves his treats, even more than he likes bitches, see?’
‘I see,’ I said, sliding his pear drops into a bag. Maybe it was why he’d bought a dog in the first place – to get Celia involved in his life.
He plucked a heart-shaped lollipop from a display and held it to his nose, like a rose. ‘Think she’d like one of these?’ His eyebrows quivered. ‘As a thank you for helping with Muttley.’
‘Take it if you want to,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she’ll appreciate the gesture.’
As he left, the lollipop sticking out of his pocket, there was the sound of the door smacking in its frame, and Josh came through, carrying a box which he deposited on the counter.
I stared at it, as though it was a hand grenade.
‘What’s up?’ he said with mild alarm.
‘What is that?’
He looked at it, head cocked. ‘Um, let me think. A dressing table? N
o, wait.’ He squeezed his bottom lip with two fingers, thinking. ‘Is it a china pig, wearing a bowler hat?’
‘Not funny, Josh.’ My voice was chilly. ‘Where did you get it?’
The laughter left his face. ‘It’s a surprise,’ he said. ‘Do you want to see?’
‘I know what’s in there, Josh.’
‘No you don’t.’ He grabbed a pair of scissors and cut through the tape. Swimming his hands inside, he pulled out a smaller box, of mint humbugs.
‘We’ve got plenty …’ I started to say.
‘Look.’ He shifted his gaze to two words in a bubble on the box: sugar-free.
‘So?’ I said coldly.
His grin faltered. ‘I had this genius idea, after that protest the other day,’ he said. ‘You can buy diabetic sweets, that don’t contain sugar, so I thought I’d order some.’ He waggled his hands in a ‘tah-dah’ gesture. ‘So you don’t need to make your own, see?’
‘I already have a selection of diabetic sweets, if customers want them.’ I was still using my new, cold voice. It was a nice gesture, and he did look super-cute when he was excited, but he definitely should have asked me first.
‘I didn’t know.’ Crestfallen, he looked around. ‘Where are they?’
‘I keep them in here,’ I said, yanking open one of the drawers behind the counter to reveal a paltry selection. ‘I only have two diabetic customers, and they both like barley sugar. The chocolate and the éclairs are just in case anyone asks.’ I gave him a pointed look. ‘Which they never have.’
‘But you don’t have to sell them as diabetic, just sugar-free,’ he said, brightening. He was proving to be one of those people who always looked on the bright side. ‘It’s symbolic.’
‘But they’re full of sweeteners, which aren’t necessarily good for people who aren’t diabetic.’ I pressed my fingers to my temples. ‘People want homemade things these days and anyway, I’ve promised.’ The word promised was almost a whine. ‘Those will have to go back.’
‘Are you sure?’ He stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Couldn’t we still put them for sale?’
‘No, Josh, we couldn’t,’ I said, my temper fraying. ‘And why did you order them from Rob Hancock, when I told you I wasn’t buying from him any more?’
He looked at me, stricken. ‘I forgot,’ he said, passing a hand over his mouth. ‘Does it matter that much?’
‘Yes, Josh. It matters,’ I said, enunciating clearly. ‘I do not want to buy anything from Rob Hancock, ever again.’
He took a step back, as if my words had hit him in the chest. ‘Bit harsh,’ he muttered, stuffing the humbugs back in the box and attempting to stick the tape down. ‘If you feel that strongly, I’ll get him to pick them up.’
‘No.’ It came out sharply. ‘I don’t want him here.’
Josh’s eyebrows rose. ‘He’s not that bad, is he?’
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I was remembering the time my grandfather had a rare day off and I was in the shop on my own, the other assistant on her lunch break, and Rob Hancock had butted up against me as I signed for a delivery in the stockroom. I could still feel his damp breath on my neck as his chubby fingers scuttled across my cheek.
I hadn’t told my grandfather, but made every effort to avoid Rob after that. He’d never tried it again as the years had passed, but always gave the impression he wanted to, and sometimes said things like, ‘I saw a great pair of tits this morning …’ pausing to look at my chest, ‘in the tree outside my window,’ but only when Gramps wasn’t there.
‘I told you I’ve changed supplier,’ I said. ‘Please don’t order from him again.’
‘Marnie, I’m sorry,’ he said, taking a step towards me. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘I need some air.’ I whipped my apron off and tossed it onto the stool. ‘Will you be OK for ten minutes?’
‘Marnie, wait. I …’ he began, but I was already through the door
I’d walked down the beach for a full five minutes before I felt able to breathe. I stopped at the water’s edge and eased my sand-filled shoes off, letting the ice-cold waves lap at my toes.
I couldn’t work out whether I was angrier at Rob’s shady behaviour, or at Josh for going behind my back. Were my instincts about him wrong?
I wondered what Gramps would have made of him. He’d liked Alex a lot, expressing his approval through the ancient ritual of back-slapping, but then again he’d seemed to like Rob Hancock. Or at least, he’d never indicated that he hadn’t. They weren’t great friends or anything. I suspected it was more from habit that he kept placing orders with him, having known Rob’s father. Both my grandparents were sticklers for habit and routine, just like Uncle Cliff was. Only my mother had seemed stifled, desperate to escape.
The breeze coming off the sea whipped my hair around and cooled my overheated cheeks. I glanced about, seeing the place as if for the first time – the curve of beach, the towering blue sky blooming with cotton-wool clouds, and the glimpse of the castle across the bay.
The setting had seemed enchanted to me as a child, exploring the shore with my cousins. Even during the winter months the place had its own magic, especially when the sand was coated with a layer of snow. But the drip-drip of Mum’s restlessness had filtered down until – like her – I’d longed to get away.
People who had lived here all their lives couldn’t understand why anyone would want to leave.
‘There’s nowhere more beautiful on earth than the Jurassic Coast,’ Celia would say, making me think of dinosaurs as she stroked my hair when I couldn’t sleep. ‘It’s in my blood.’
But it wasn’t in Mum’s blood, nor mine.
Yet here I was, almost thirty, and still here. Taking on more responsibility, since the award.
My toes curled into the wet sand.
But Mum was settled in Italy now, and it looked like Celia might be on the verge of a romance, if Paddy got his own way. Soon, Beth would be enveloped in motherhood, and although Alex was returning briefly, he’d be going back to his new life in America with Bobbi-Jo.
There was nothing to keep me in Shipley, apart from the sweet shop.
And Gramps would understand if I left, he’d want me to be happy; just like he’d wanted Mum to be happy, even though he’d missed her when she wasn’t around.
I slid my sandy shoes back on and made my way up the beach.
I would go to Alex’s parents’ party, I decided, and say a proper goodbye, to show him I was moving on, and once my sweet-tasting day was over I was going to make a proper travel plan.
Next year I could be on a desert island, in a palm-thatched beach hut, snacking on watermelon. Or tripping around the Mediterranean, sampling local delicacies. Or in the savanna, a leopard sizing me up from a shady tree …
Or I could start by visiting Mum in Italy, and tell her that my real life was starting at last. She might even want to come with me, if she needed a little break from Mario. She could show me all the sights she’d seen on her travels.
I indulged in a little daydream of us browsing a market stall in Delhi, and my mood was magically transformed by the time I got back to the shop. Josh was sitting behind the counter when I bounded in, startling a pair of girls looking at chocolate bars with names piped on in white icing.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mouthed, looking genuinely remorseful.
Any lingering annoyance melted away. ‘It’s fine,’ I mimed back, around a smile.
He pressed his palms together. ‘Thank you.’
The girls watched our silent exchange with open curiosity.
‘Can we have a photo with you?’ one said shyly to me. She looked about eleven, her blonde hair woven into neat cornrows.
‘We saw you on the news,’ said her friend, with a dimpled smile. ‘We want to run our own business like you, one day.’
‘How nice,’ I said, touched. ‘My hair’s a bit of a mess.’ I’d also trailed in sand, and the hems of my jeans were soaked – hardly a typical role-model – but the gi
rls didn’t seem to mind. They came to stand either side of me, each holding up a chocolate bar with their names on – Amy and Emily.
‘I’ll take it,’ Josh said, leaping from behind the counter as Amy struggled to attach a selfie-stick to her phone, and when he’d taken several shots plus ‘one for luck’ – probably because I’d shut my eyes when the flash went off – the girls thanked me politely and went to pay for their chocolate.
‘You can have them on the house,’ I said.
They looked shocked. ‘You’ll never make a profit if you give away your stock,’ said the blonde one, taking a sequinned purse from her little handbag. ‘We insist on paying full price.’
I left Josh to it, aware, like me, he was hiding a smile, and went into the office.
First, I logged onto my phone and checked the shop’s bank account, which was the healthiest it had ever been, thanks to the prize money. No problems there. Then I clicked over to my personal account and scanned my latest statement. The salary that went in each month had mounted up, and the figure made my eyes widen to twice their normal size.
There was more than enough to fund an escape.
I had no excuse not to go.
Sixteen
‘Good god, it actually looks edible,’ Beth declared. Round-eyed with awe she viewed my peanut brittle as if it was a dinosaur egg. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Rude,’ I said benignly. Beth was as hopeless in the kitchen as I was, a fact her mother blamed squarely on ‘our generation’.
‘I wonder what it tastes like,’ I said, secretly chuffed that what I’d made resembled the image in my head.
It hadn’t even been that hard. I’d roasted some peanuts and combined them with brown rice syrup, a little cane sugar and butter, then boiled the gooey mess. Once it was bubbling, like a volcano about to erupt, I poured it onto baking trays and pressed it down carefully.
‘Should we try some?’ I said, picking at a corner and snatching my hand away. It was dangerously hot.