Counter Culture

by JL Merrow

  “Er . . . this is really just a fact-finding mission? I— Well, I had an idea it’d be good if we could help, but I’m going to need to run it by my boss. I wanted to find out a bit more so I could know what to say to her.”

  Dave’s eyes lit up. “Okay, no problem. Do you want to have a look around the shelter?” He took a step, and made follow-me gestures.

  “I don’t want to be a bother . . .”

  “Not at all. The more people who know about the work we do, the better.”

  “Then thanks, that’d be great.”

  It was . . . mostly as Robin had expected: slightly dingy, with the décor not being top of their priorities, and smelling faintly of cleaning fluids. But it was warm, and had a kitchen that was busy with preparations for the midday meal, and there was a room where you could go and watch the telly. The beds were in dormitories, but Dave explained there was a newer hostel in the next town that had single rooms “so they can help people with more complex issues.”

  “You mean, um, mental health issues?”

  “That, or alcohol or drug dependencies.” He was very matter-of-fact about it. As though there was absolutely no question in his mind that addicts deserved help too.

  The computer suite turned out to be a small room with several clunky but clearly serviceable computers in it. Of the three men sitting there, two of them were wearing business suits. Mum’s sweater became uncomfortably hot and itchy, and Robin fought the urge to scratch.

  Then he realised he knew the man in casual wear. “John! How’s it going?”

  John glanced up from his screen. He’d shaved, and there was more colour in his face than Robin was used to seeing. “All right, mate—what are you doing here?”

  “Just visiting.”

  “Thinking of volunteering?”

  “Um, yes, actually.” Robin realised that at some point he had started to think seriously about it. “But how are you? Sheppy’s Mum said you had a bad cough.”

  “Been a lot better since I’ve been in the warm, thank God. Just updating my CV—going to try to get a job.”

  “That’s great!” Robin darted a glance at Dave, who was waiting patiently while he chatted. “Um, I’d better leave you to it, but it’s great to see you looking so well.”

  Dave’s running commentary throughout the visit included a shedload of ways Willoughbys could help that Robin had never even thought about, including sponsorship and payroll-giving schemes, and donations of toiletries and kitchen goods for those who’d been helped to find permanent accommodation. By the end of the visit, his head was feeling like it was about to explode and spatter the walls with all the information.

  When he got home, skull miraculously still intact, Robin glanced in the mirror. Huh. Mum’s sweater did make him look a lot like an earnest sixth-former. He pulled it off. Yep, back to midtwenties Robin, although with a suspicion of backwards passage through hedges. He put the sweater on again, and was immediately troubled with a sense of maths homework not satisfactorily completed.

  Uncanny.

  Robin shook his head and got down to the serious business of working out what to say to Gail in the morning.

  Halfway through, Robin’s phone blooped with a text alert.

  Archie: Hi, good day?

  His heart doing surprisingly energetic backflips, Robin texted back quickly, Yes. Busy, he added, because he had been, and still was.

  Archie: OK. Come over for dinner?

  Robin wanted to. God, he wanted to. But Lyddie would be there, with her placards and maybe with her coconspirators as well. He couldn’t face it—not without at least having tried to get Gail to agree to his ideas. Another time? he texted back in the end, hoping it didn’t look too unenthusiastic.

  Archie replied with No probs, so he guessed it was okay.

  Robin was about to text again, but then he remembered Ethan moaning about him always carrying conversations on too long like a teenage girl who couldn’t bear to hang up, so he left it at that.

  He didn’t want to chase Archie off just when he’d finally got him.

  When Robin got into work on Tuesday morning, he marched straight into Gail’s office. Gail glanced up from her computer screen with a worryingly haggard look. “Yes?”

  When was the last time she’d had a day off? Robin cleared his throat and focused on what he was there for. “I’ve been looking up ways businesses can help the homeless, and I think there’s several things Willoughbys could do. We could start by donating unused food from the café to local hostels.” Robin paused. Gail didn’t seem unreceptive. She also didn’t say anything, so he carried on. “Maybe ex–display bedding and towels and kitchen goods as well. All stuff we can’t use anymore, but they can. It wouldn’t even cost the store a thing.”

  “That . . . sounds reasonable. But I’m not sure, with all we’ve got on at the moment, that now is the time—”

  “It’s exactly the time!” Robin leaned on her desk to fix her in the eye, desperate to grab her attention. “That ad for Black Friday—bit of a PR disaster, yeah? So this is how we can redeem ourselves. Establish Willoughbys as a force for good in the community.”

  Gail’s whole posture appeared to lift. “That’s actually not a bad idea,” she said, her tone growing more optimistic with every word.

  “And there’s plenty of other things we can do.” Robin paused. The next bit was probably going to be a harder sell. “Employment initiatives. Helping former homeless people get back on their feet. And making it easier for Willoughbys staff to volunteer with community programs—flexible working, time off, that sort of thing.”

  She took a deep breath. “Robin, I know you mean well, but in the current economic climate—”

  “Okay, forget the stuff that costs money for now. What about starting with food donation?” Robin leaned forward conspiratorially. “We could get the Echo to do a report on it. It might even stop that campaign group from demonstrating on Black Friday.”

  “They’re holding a demonstration? What have you heard?” Gail’s tone was sharp and shrill.

  “Uh . . . I just thought it was something they might do?” Robin lied guiltily. “Possibly. Maybe. Not that I know anything about it really.”

  “Oh. I see. Yes, I suppose it’s a reasonable fear. All credit to you for thinking ahead, and coming up with a means of deflecting it. A demonstration would be very bad publicity for Willoughbys, but your plan sounds like it might work. The directors have always been resistant to charity outreach—they can be a little old-fashioned in their attitudes—but if we stress the PR benefits of it . . .” She stared into space, lost in thought.

  Robin was about to politely leave her to it when she suddenly snapped to attention.

  “I want you to prepare a presentation.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You’ve been looking into it, so clearly you’re the best man for the job. And as you’re no longer involved in the planning for Customas—”

  Et tu, Gail? Robin thought sourly.

  “—you’ll have plenty of time.”

  “Um, will I have to give this presentation?”

  “It’ll be an excellent opportunity for you to make an impression with the directors. I won’t be your manager forever, Robin.” She stared at nothing again, and her face sagged momentarily.

  “Um, are you planning to move on?” Robin asked, because he didn’t quite dare to ask her if she was all right. Where on earth was Heath when Robin needed him?

  “Who knows what the future will bring?” Gail’s tone turned brisk. “Now, I’m sure you have plenty to be getting on with. Come and see me first thing tomorrow with your presentation, and I’ll look it over before the lunchtime meeting with the directors.”

  “Tomorrow?” Robin definitely didn’t squeak. “But, um, are you sure they’ll be free at such short notice?”

  “The meeting’s already booked to discuss the worrying situation re Black Friday. Your idea could be exactly what we need.” She closed her eyes for a moment, smiled
, and opened them again. “I knew I could count on you, Robin. Now, don’t let me down.”

  As votes of confidence went, it wasn’t entirely unambiguous.

  There was a text from Archie on Robin’s phone when he got back to his flat: See you tonight?

  Huh. In Robin’s dreams. He groaned, and texted back quickly, Soz, got to work. Accountants did overtime, didn’t they? And anyway, he was going to explain it all the next time he saw Archie, so even if it didn’t sound quite right, that’d all be cleared up soon.

  For now, it was time to grab whatever he could find in his cupboards to stave off the hunger pangs, and get this presentation sorted.

  Leaning against the wall just inside his front door, Archie read the text from Robin, and reread it. It didn’t look any better the second time. Was Robin avoiding him? That was twice now he’d turned down an invitation, and both times in four words or less. Had one night been enough for him?

  Robin hadn’t struck him as the type to cut and run, but had Archie read him all wrong? He’d seemed so keen to spend time together, and enthusiastic about steampunk—he’d even changed Jerrick’s nappy, for Christ’s sake. And Archie could have sworn Robin genuinely liked Lyddie.

  But maybe he’d decided it was all too much hassle—the family, the steampunk, whatever. Or maybe it’d been like trying some local speciality or unusual activity on holiday: good enough at the time, but not something you wanted to repeat.

  “Everything all right, love?” Lyddie asked. “Did you ask Robin if he’s coming over?”

  “Uh, yeah. And no. He can’t make it. Work.” Was it a busy time of year for accountants?

  She frowned. “He shouldn’t work so hard. He’ll waste away. Do you think he’s eating properly? I thought we should have proper food tonight too, after all that leftover pizza last night.”

  Archie forced himself to think about other things than Robin. “Yeah. We should cook. Did you go shopping?”

  Lyddie nodded happily. “If there’s a vegetable we haven’t got now, it’s cos the local shops haven’t heard of it. Oh, and bacon was on special offer, so I got that too.”

  “I’ll take a look in the fridge, but I’m thinking pasta. That okay?” About to head to the kitchen, Archie was stopped by a knock on the door and a shout of, “Oi, let us in.”

  He turned to see the fuzzy outline of Bridge’s face through the glass in the door, and opened it wide. “Come on in. How’s everyone?”

  Bridge hefted Jerrick’s car seat inside, and Archie took it from her. “Buggered if I know. But I’m fine, and little man’s had a good day. Ate all his parsnips tonight, didn’t you, darling?” She handed over the nappy bag.

  “Got time for a cup of tea, love?” Lyddie asked.

  “I wish. Maybe later, yeah? See you after work.” She gave Jerrick a wave, and left.

  Lyddie hadn’t been kidding about buying all the vegetables. Archie was probably going to have to give some of those away. He pulled out mushrooms, leeks, broccoli, and peppers for a quick pasta dish. It was a shame Robin wasn’t here to help eat them . . .

  Nope. Not going to think about that now. Archie chopped and cooked, adding fresh garlic, passata, and a few herbs.

  Robin must just be busy. Right?

  Robin was not panicking as he walked into the store on Wednesday morning with his laptop under his arm. He had all the information he needed, with statistics to back it up, and his PowerPoint slides were a masterpiece of elegance and readability. Who needed sleep, anyway? Caffeine was a wonderful substitute. Yes, yes, it was.

  “Morning!” Heath’s obnoxiously hearty voice in his ear made him jump and almost drop his laptop. “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for another day of retail servitude?”

  “Fine!” Robin coughed and repeated it two octaves lower. “I’m fine.”

  Azrah elbowed her way around Heath. “Why are you so twitchy? You look like a cat in a haunted house full of cucumbers.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or something the cat dragged in. Your Fridge Bloke been keeping you up all night?”

  “His name’s Archie. And I wish.” He’d suffered a pang of regret on seeing Archie’s missed call from last night when he’d switched his phone on this morning. Still, there would be plenty of time for that kind of thing once the Willoughbys issues were sorted. “No. I had to work on a presentation for Gail. About helping the homeless.”

  Azrah’s eyes doubled in size. “Gail wants to help the homeless?”

  “Hey, she’s a very caring lady,” Heath put in.

  “Actually it was my idea. But she agreed it’s got good PR potential.”

  Azrah humphed. “You kept all this quiet. Normally you’d be all over me begging for help.”

  “Sometimes a man has to stand on his own two feet,” Heath said wisely. “Or use the disability aids of his choosing.”

  “I, um . . . I thought you had enough on your plate what with Customas.” Robin cursed under his breath. Now they’d got him saying it. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  In fact, he’d felt an overwhelming need to put in all the work himself. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe this was his penance for not being entirely honest with Archie and Lyddie?

  “Never stopped you before,” Azrah muttered sourly.

  “People change. Mature.”

  “Like investment bonds.” Heath nodded and made an abortive gesture as if to stroke the long white beard he didn’t, in fact, have. “And like them, you don’t always get back what you put in.”

  Robin and Azrah shared a look of mutual WTF? which seemed to break the tension between them nicely.

  “Anyway, I’ve got to go.” Robin patted his laptop. “I’m supposed to get this to Gail first thing.” He decided not to mention the meeting with the directors, having a feeling that might upset the apple cart all over again.

  His morning was spent in the sort of counter-intuitive time loop he chiefly remembered from school report days, when the hours seemed to flash past with dizzying speed while the minutes managed to crawl along with agonising slowness. It wasn’t helped by the caffeine having mostly worked its way out of his system by lunchtime. He’d briefly considered sneaking over to ask Azrah for a can of Coke from her secret stash in the kitchenware storeroom, but if he did that, he might accidentally blab about the meeting. That way madness lay. And the total losing of nerve.

  At twelve on the dot, he trotted upstairs to the boardroom, a seldom-used and rather dusty space on the top floor. It seemed to act as a heat-sink for the rest of the store; at least, Robin was sweating into his shirt within five seconds of setting foot inside. Gail was already there, and introduced him to the directors with a nervous air.

  The directors weren’t just directors. They were the actual store owners, real life descendants of the first Mr. Willoughby. Okay, maybe not the first Mr. Willoughby, but the first one to have a store in Hitchworth under his name. Mr. Willoughby and Miss Willoughby, first names apparently redacted. Mrs. Willoughby, also a director, wasn’t there, but maybe she didn’t count, having only married into the family.

  They seemed rather dusty too. Both of them were tall and thin. Robin wasn’t sure of their ages, but they were definitely older than his parents. Mr. Willoughby had a shock of unexpectedly unruly, wiry grey hair, while Miss Willoughby kept hers ruthlessly subdued in a rocklike chignon. With a jolt Robin realised they were quite good-looking in a way that seemed strangely familiar. They must both have been really striking in their younger years. Assuming they hadn’t yet taken on the sour, pinched expressions they sported now.

  Gail seemed as twitchy as Robin, which didn’t bode well. She’d collared him midmorning to hand back his laptop and tell him in no uncertain terms that he was to stress the benefits of his plan to the store, not to the homeless.

  Mr. Willoughby looked down his nose at Robin as he was introduced, although it could have been because he was wearing bifocals. “So this is the young man with the ideas?” he asked Gail, as if she were a supplier and Robin a line of goods he was cons
idering doing the honour of stocking.

  “Yes. Robin was responsible for coming up with the Customas event too.”

  Finally, recognition! Robin preened.

  “Don’t use that detestable contraction,” Miss Willoughby snapped.

  Yes, Robin muttered under his breath, although not so deeply under that he didn’t get sharp glances from the other three. He cleared his throat and gave his shoes a thorough examination.

  “I’m sorry. The Loyal Customers’ Christmas Shopping Evening,” Gail said appeasingly.

  “And now he’s come up with a plan to stop the store being dragged through the mud by that ridiculous campaign group?”

  “Hopefully, yes.” Robin spared a pang for Lyddie on hearing COC described that way. Then again, she had named the group.

  He ran through his presentation, doing his best to grit his teeth and gloss over the helping-people bit while laying it on thicker than a drag queen’s makeup about the PR benefits. The Willoughbys listened quietly, expressions unreadable, while they munched away at a platter of sandwiches as thin and white as they were. Too busy talking to eat, Robin tried to avoid staring at the food and prayed his stomach wouldn’t rumble too audibly. By the time he’d finished, he felt as though the layer of grime that filmed the room had detached itself from the walls and adhered to his soul. It’s for a good cause, he reminded himself, and tried not to think about what the road to hell was paved with.

  When he’d finished, the Willoughbys quizzed him on figures, logistics, and actual connections with local homeless shelters. Most of these he was well able to satisfy them on, but when he couldn’t, he pulled out his secret weapon: name-dropping all the major and not-so-major, but still highly regarded, businesses that were already doing just what he proposed for Willoughbys.

  At the end of it all, Mr. Willoughby sat back in his chair. “It’s a good plan. It could well work. And more importantly, it won’t cost us anything.”

  Miss Willoughby huffed. “I do hope this will put paid to that campaign. Have you discovered the identity of the ringleader?”