by Joe O'Toole
Our shop was a mixture of grocery, fruit, confectionery, stationery, sweets and tobacco. Teresa took great pride in it and the goods were always attractively arranged; the place was a credit to her. She kept it spotlessly clean and would don a fresh white chemist’s coat every morning before starting work.
For a small shop, it was very well stocked. Teresa was quality-and brand-conscious and would only stock what she considered the best. Once or twice a week a large, grey, canvas container, padded and strapped, was delivered to the shop from the CIÉ bus. It seems extraordinary in this era of seemingly inevitable transport delays and glitches, but in fact this was HB ice cream arriving – still frozen – by public transport from Dublin. In those days, timetables and schedules were sacrosanct and fresh produce could be entrusted with confidence to CIÉ. The Tralee bus would stop outside the door and Billimite (Bill Dillon, the conductor), would land the goods on to the footpath. There would be a rush to open the container to check that the ice cream was still frozen and to stack it immediately in the shop fridge.
‘Not so fast!’ Teresa would caution. ‘First take out all the old ice cream in the fridge and put the fresh blocks in at the bottom so that it is rotated and we sell the older stuff first.’
The ice cream already in the fridge would be rock hard and the icy packaging would stick to your fingers. The stuff off the bus would be softish, and if you stacked too many of the older ones on top of them, you risked squashing them. There was also another level of sorting: Vanilla on the left, Raspberry Ripple in the middle and Banana flavour on the right. There was a right way to do everything. Around St Patrick’s Day we would also get a delivery of patriotic green, white and orange ice cream. I have no idea what went into it to make these colours, but it was very popular on the feast day, particularly if Patrick’s Day fell during Lent, when there was a sort of twenty-four hour amnesty for kids who might be ‘off’ sweets and ice cream for the duration.
Cutting and selling wafers of ice cream may not seem overly complex or challenging, but Teresa had perfected it into an art and her instructions had to be followed to the letter. Hands spotless, open the block on the tiny ice cream counter; fold back all the sections and sides of the carton; carefully place the marker on the ice cream, making sure that the edge is firmly against the side of it before pressing down to divide out the eight threepenny portions. Now, with your right hand take the knife from its jug of water, while at the same time placing a wafer against the left side of the block. With great care and accuracy cut through the ice cream exactly on the mark. Watch it there! Remember that if you go beyond the mark then the next customer will get a smaller portion, or, worse again, we will be left with an unsaleable bit at the end. Use the flat blade of the knife to press the ice cream against the wafer and onto your hand. Put away the knife. With your right hand take another wafer and place it on top of the ice cream and hand it to the customer with a smile. That will be three pence please.
Hard-earned coppers.
And even when you thought you had done it perfectly, there would always be something more you could have done to make the transaction better.
‘You should talk more to the customers when you’re getting the ice cream.’
It always came down to people in the end. No matter what the advice or direction, the end focus would be about treating the person on the other side of the counter properly. There was a constant and unremitting programme of moulding and leavening to refine my approach, demeanour and attitude. Teresa never factored in any lower level of expectation simply because I was young. I seem to have been doing things of a responsible nature from a very young age. You were told and shown how to do it; the importance of getting it right was explained; then you just got on and did it.
In the ice cream department we also stocked Choc Ices and Golly Bars, but no ice lollies. My mother would not sell what she considered to be inferior products, and she felt that they were a cheap waste of money.
Another weekly delivery from Dublin was Fuller’s cakes. They were a favourite of ours, especially the chocolate ones with the little button sweets on the icing. The square-shaped Battenburg with its pink-and-yellow chequerboard insides and the almondy marzipan icing was not our favourite. Mind you, Teresa was very proud of the Battenburg and would remind us that this was the real Battenburg, not like the chocolate-covered version produced by another supplier.
The shop was a Moriarty endeavour, owned and run by my mother. The big gable-end of the house that faced down the Mall carried the name ‘Moriarty’s Shop’. In West Kerry most married women retained their maiden names after marriage. My mother, her mother and my father’s mother in Lettermore were businesswomen – strong, dominant and independent. They each married men who were tolerant, good-humoured, good company and very clear and determined in their views. Regrettably, my grandfather on Myko’s side was long dead before my birth, but it can be said with absolute truth about my father and my maternal grandfather, Seán the Grove, that they never criticised their wives, found fault with them in any way, or gave out to them. Their wives always seemed ready to defer to them, but somehow never really had to. Neither couple would ever argue in front of the family. When I was growing up I had the impression that all the decisions in our house and in my grandparents’ house were taken by the women. As I got older a slightly different picture emerged as I began to recognise the more nuanced comments of the men and realised that the final decisions generally coincided with their opinions. Rather than say outright, ‘That’s a bad idea’, the male folk would be more inclined to adopt a tone of agreement, while pointing out the possible negative consequences. This would eventually lead to a reconsideration and a different outcome, with honour satisfied on all sides. Very sophisticated stuff really.
My mother had never been very robust looking, and during her schooldays was a regular absentee through indifferent health. Eventually, this led to her quitting school altogether and her parents set her up with the shop in the Mall. Though she was young, she was nonetheless fully responsible for the shop and the house that went with it. The Moriartys believed strongly in the discipline of responsibility. One of her brothers or sisters would stay in the house at night with her. She was an independent woman with a small but successful business when she met my father. Her life changed very little after marriage.
The whole daily life of the house centred around the shop. It dominated our lives and controlled our time. Someone always had to be on call. My mother, with the full support of my father, was firmly of the view that the discipline of shopkeeping and having to contribute to the family business was good for us. But did we appreciate that as youngsters? Of course we didn’t.
Now I recognise that doing deals with suppliers and customers all day long was a great training for life – and for some of the positions in which I later found myself. It was a constant exercise of judgement. Even relatively simple things, like whether it was safe to leave the shop for a moment to check something while there was just one customer in it. Generally, it was pretty easy to spot if something was pilfered or a few sweets missing, but the real pain was knowing that you had made an error of judgement and having to suffer Teresa’s censure: ‘You should have known you couldn’t trust him!’ There was an unbreakable rule that all such matters were confidential to the family. It left us in the rather uncomfortable position of knowing, in a small town such as Dingle, those who could be trusted and those who could not, but not being allowed share that knowledge with others, even when it might be to their benefit.
Teresa was wise to all the tricks of the trade. ‘Make sure that no customer puts a finger on the scales.’ This was a favourite scam of a small number of people, leaning across the counter on the pretext of checking the items on the scale while surreptitiously placing a casual finger under the tray of the scales and pressurising it ever so slightly upwards, thereby gaining an extra half-ounce in the quarter-pound of sweets.
Others took a different tack. As you were going to the scales to we
igh the filled bag they would say, casually, ‘Sure, give me one of those, Joseph, while I’m waiting.’ Taking a sweet out of the bag before it was weighed raised their hope that it would not be allowed for in the weighing. No chance!
We were never allowed to challenge a customer over an attempted fraud, but we did our level best to make sure that they didn’t get away with it. In fairness, the vast majority of customers were as honest as the day was long, but obviously it was the others who made the most impact. So, although you had to be trained to look out for and expect the trickster, in truth they were few and far between. So sizing up a customer across the counter had to become second nature. Is he straight or is he crooked? Decide now.
I have often wondered since how many such judgements of mine were flawed and how often was it a mental detraction of a good honest character. Undoubtedly it was across that counter that I learned about human behaviour. It is easy to see that now. Then, it was a bore, an intrusion and a millstone that held us back from the true enjoyment of life. To this day I am still governed by that early training and tend to make very early judgements on people and to go with that judgement until I find I was wrong. This has proven to be not a bad thing, because even though it may not be possible to ‘read the mind’s construction in the face’, it certainly is the case that demeanour, expression and manner can be great clues. Tight people have mannerisms; the way they have money twisted into a tight bundle in their pockets; the way they almost have to tear away a note from the bundle; the way they hold the money in their hands below the counter level so that you cannot see it; the way they hand over every coin and note, one at a time; the way they scrutinise the change, checking each coin to ensure that it isn’t a dud. And the way they press their lips together into a thin line, giving them crows’ feet at the corners. You don’t believe me? Exaggeration, you say? Well, maybe, but the point is that, for me, even if they never did those things in exactly that way, they were somehow giving off an aura which left me with the impression that they were.
Of course that is very unfair and of course I have been wrong. But there are positive aspects. I learned that it was important to make judgements about people and I still believe that to be crucial to positive interaction and engagement at all levels, whether it be social, personal, or business. Secondly, because so many people are reticent and guarded with new acquaintances, when someone appears to trust them, they pick up positive vibes and they open up. Anyway, it is more fun to make a judgement call about people and to go with it. That kind of open engagement usually impacts on the other person in a most positive way and creates a warm and trusting environment. Things go wrong when people consciously try to make an impression. Attempting to portray oneself as being something different just stores up problems down the road. A ‘Take me or leave me’ attitude may be difficult to deal with in the beginning, but is easier all round in the end. Most people today are threatened by openness and feel challenged by it, even at a very elemental level. Try walking down a city street today and merely making full eye contact with other citizens, and see the unease it will create.
So much to have learned from the school of human learning that was our small shop!
Teresa had very good taste. She was particularly good at window-dressing, and her Christmas window of boxes of chocolate was the highlight of the year. She would spend days planning and preparing for it. In the style of the time, the boxes would be arranged on different levels. Some sat on columns, while others lay on flat surfaces which were draped in satin. Many of the presentation boxes tended to be overly ornate for the Christmas market, so Teresa would always balance her display by ensuring that a much more restrained box of quality chocolates, such as Terry’s, was given pride of place as the centrepiece.
She particularly liked the large, chest-shaped Black Magic box, unadorned except for tassle and ribbon; this always got a prominent position. Then the inevitable Christmas clichés, with snow scenes, cute cats, overblown flowers and the rest were displayed to best effect. We were of the view that the people who bought the classically simple caskets were those with the best taste, but each to his own, and I’m sure the chocolates tasted the same, whatever the picture.
When Teresa was satisfied with her arrangement and had made the few final, critical adjustments, the blind was raised and she waited for the compliments of customers.
‘The window is just beautiful this year, Teresa. Will you give me that box of Milk Tray with the little girl on it. It’s for my godchild.’
‘That’s great, Sheila, but if you don’t mind I won’t take it out of the window yet. I’ll put your name on it and keep it for you. Is that all right?’
Getting to know the suppliers and getting them to understand your needs was crucial. Teresa had a strict rule for all suppliers, but especially for the fruit suppliers.
‘If you expect me to buy from you, you’d better call to me before any other shop in town.’
If they hit town and visited another premises before hers, Teresa would simply refuse to do business with them and send them packing. She wanted first pick and she wanted to be first with fresh fruit. And, boy, could she remind them of the fact that she was their best customer!
She was an expert at buying fruit. It was surprising how much there was to learn – the best time for tomatoes; the difference between the Irish, Dutch and Canary Island types; making sure that there was still a little green on them when we bought, so that by the time the 12lb chip was nearly sold, they would still not be overripe. ‘Don’t get stuck with too many of those Spanish ones today,’ she would advise, ‘because the new season Irish will be available by the end of the week.’
Oranges were difficult to judge. The sense of smell was all-important here. By sticking my nose into a box of oranges, I came to be able to tell whether or not there was a rotten one in it, or if they were about to go off. Teresa would never buy a box of oranges without submitting it to that test. Those were the days before global politics, and the Jaffa orange from Israel and the Outspan from South Africa were the big sellers. At that time I had no knowledge of the Palestinian question and made no connection between apartheid and the Cape oranges. Simpler times, yes, but infuriating now to think that we were facilitating and supporting injustice in other places.
The shapes of the fruit containers varied considerably. The bananas – green and underripe in their long, rectangular, coffin-like boxes – were, appropriately enough, left to ripen in the darkest corner to be found. Sometimes we would cover them with brown paper to hasten the ripening process. The oranges came in divided wooden boxes; we put the riper ones all together on one side, to be sold first, with the harder ones finishing their ripening on the other side. Spanish tomatoes arrived in shallow wooden trays, whereas the Dutch and Irish were in rectangular basket-like containers woven from light flexible wood, with a carrying handle made out of tin. Strawberries were bought and sold in the familiar 1lb punnets. I was amazed to see the name ‘Jesus’ printed along the side of many of the Spanish boxes and couldn’t believe that anyone, other than the Lord himself, was actually called Jesus. It would have caused a riot at an Irish christening font, and I cannot imagine it on a GAA match programme!
The grape barrels were my favourite. They were beautifully constructed from perfectly-fitting laths and strengthened by encircling hoops of wood. The barrels were packed to the brim with cork chippings. These chippings had the consistency of gravel but were wonderfully smooth and warm. It was with an air of expectancy that I would carefully delve down through the cork, searching for the first grapes and fish out a large, intact and perfectly shaped bunch. I would gently shake off the cork and hang the bunch by a small meathook from the metal bar along the fruit section of the shop. There was an almost sensuous feeling to searching around the bottom of the barrel, with the cork up to the elbow of my bare arm, as I felt around for the final bunch.
Throughout the year the ever-changing permutations of colour, smell, shape and texture created new vistas in the fruit s
ection, as the seasonal produce was displayed to best advantage. The top layer of apples had to be polished to a shine. Oranges were a devil. They usually came individually wrapped in tissue paper with the producer’s brand on it. We would have to unwrap the tissue paper, smooth it out, fold it diagonally from corner to corner into a triangular shape, wrap the long edge of the triangle around the circumference of the orange and then knot the ends before placing it carefully on the display shelf. A lot of work when you think that this had to be done for every single orange in the box.
The arrival of the Granny Smith apple turned the world on its head. Up to then, every child had learned from nursery rhymes or old wives’ tales that red apples were sweet and green apples were sour. Didn’t witches always poison the red side of the apple, knowing that unsuspecting children would bite that side? But now we had the Granny Smith, a fully ripe eating apple that looked like, and was, as green as a cooking apple. Well, it was the talk of the town for months.
Every shopkeeper has to be conscious of their margins: how much to pay for produce? What selling price will the market bear? Dealing in fruit, there were so many factors which could bring disaster in some form. How much do you pay the supplier for a box of oranges? If they could be sold for sixpence, then they had to be bought for less, that much was clear enough, but for how much less? Allow for a few to be overripe, a few to be wizened, a few to be left unsold by the time a fresh box arrived. It was always a gamble, and if the original estimate of the sale price was wrong, then the rest collapsed like a house of cards.
One of the embarrassing aspects of the job was counting the number of pieces of fruit in the box and then challenging the supplier if there was an error. Part of the reason we did it was to ensure that we were not at a loss, but the real reason was to let the supplier see that everything was checked and counted. That way he was always more likely to try and unload the box with the few rotten ones at the bottom on another shop; this was our insurance. My mother impressed on me that it was more important to know and understand the person selling than it was to know his product. Since that early training, it has always been an attraction for me to do business with someone with whom I feel comfortable, even if another seller’s product might appear more attractive. It builds trust and it leads to the situation of being happier spending money where the seller appreciates receiving it.