by Sally Zigmond
EVERYONE said Harry Hudson and his shop were made for each other. Since he had taken it over some twenty years ago, it was hard to say whether the shop had come to resemble him, or he his shop, for they were both past their prime, shabby and unloved. Not that Harry minded. He was happy to lean his elbows on his dingy counter and watch the world go by, sustained by a supply of strong tea and digestives during the day and a pint and a meat-pie in The Flying Horse after he had turned the key in the lock.One February morning he was warming his hands on a mug of tea, not thinking of anything in particular, when the shop bell tinkled and a voice said, ‘Excuse me. Do you sell Antiques Quarterly? ’
Harry found himself face to face with a vision of loveliness. She had a heart-shaped face with the bloom of a fresh peach and a curtain of chestnut hair. And suddenly his little shop was shining as if a golden shaft of sunlight was pouring its warmth and vigour into his life.
‘Er? no,’ he mumbled. ‘Therets not much call for it round here.’ In fact, he’d never heard of it.
‘Didn’t think there would be – not here,’ the girl said brightly. ‘I’ll just take this then.’
She placed a dog-eared copy of The Daily Mail on the counter. As Harry took her money, their fingers touched for a second. The effect was electrifying. He hastily withdrew his hand as if he had been stung. Confused, he rubbed his tingling hand over his trousers. Her smile of thanks as he gave her her paper and change turned his knees to water. This was something new to Harry.
She didn’t leave immediately, but stood in the centre of the shop for several minutes, allowing her eyes to travel slowly up and down the walls, as if she couldn’t believe what she saw.
It seemed to Harry that the sun had hidden itself behind a grey cloud when she had gone. He absently dunked a digestive into his now cold tea, a thoughtful man – indeed, a changed man, although he did not know it.
Much to his delight she was back the next day. She bought a quarter of aniseed balls and munched them slowly whilst she once more subjected the premises to her cool gaze. Harry was again confused. In his experience, women like her didn’t munch aniseed balls with such obvious relish.
Her next question puzzled him too. ‘Is that the original one?’ she said, pointing to the old-fashioned cash-register that dominated the tea-stained counter. The white cards that popped up when its handle was cranked still displayed clear, black pre-decimal figures. If Harry had known he would have told her that the scrolled metal work representing tulips and irises was Art Nouveau in style, and that it had been made in 1903 by a Birmingham craftsman who loved all things French. But of course Harry didn’t. In fact, he had never paid it much attention. He only used it because it was as secure as a safe and almost as heavy. He’d like to see the local tearaways try to make off with that one.
‘S’pose so,’ he replied, scratching his head.
She ran her elegantly tapered fingers over it and smiled mysteriously. ‘It’s just like a dream,’ she whispered.
A new and uncomfortable thought came into Harry’s head. Could she possibly be making fun of him? Did she think he was an old stick-in-the-mud, as old and obsolete as that cash-register, already decades old when he took over the shop? He began to look around his premises as if through her eyes. Cobwebs, thick dirt and dead flies stared back at him. He dragged an old ladder in from the back yard, filled a metal bucket with hot, soapy water (it took him a long time to find the soap) and set about scrubbing the shelves. The next day he washed the curling lino floor, cleaned the windows and gave the door a fresh lick of paint.
‘What’s this then, Harry? said the postman, wobbling past on his bicycle the next day. ‘Spring cleaning? My missus might just start using your shop, now there’s no danger of her catching something nasty.’
Others too were keen to see what Harry was up to. Trade picked up, because you can’t go into such a small shop and go out again without buying anything, can you?
As the weeks passed it was as if the girl had kindled a sluggish fire, which, having taken a while to catch, suddenly flared with a bright flame. The first thing to go was the old cash register. Harry took it to the local tip. Its computerised replacement was a revelation. It gave him a detailed breakdown of his weekly sales. He could see at a glance which lines were profitable and which weren’t.
Much to the delight of his female customers, who were still a little wary of him, Harry also threw out his egg-stained and threadbare cardigan and paid a long overdue visit to Marks and Spencers. He ventured into a unisex hairdressers and paid what he considered an exorbitant amount of money for a new style.
A bright spring melted into a glorious summer. The flow of customers continued to increase and so did Harry’s takings, and what’s more, the girl still came in from time to time, although not as often as she used to or as much as Harry would have liked. One day Harry plucked up courage to point out some changes to her; a new shelf unit here, a chill-cabinet there.
She pouted. ‘It’s nice to see the old place is still loved, but don’t kill it with kindness.’ Harry hadn’t a clue what she was talking about, but it sounded beautiful, as beautiful as she was. She could be a model on the cover of one of those glossy fashion magazines he had just begun to stock. They sold surprisingly well.
‘And,’ the girl added, ‘I’m sorry to see the cash register’s gone. I hope you got a good price for it. It was an antique, you know.’
Harry’s jaw dropped. Obviously he still had a lot to learn about the new market economy.
Profits continued to rise with the summer temperatures. Autumn saw no let-up. It was then Harry had the first of many brainwaves. It was as if his mind was a seed that had lain dormant in the parched sand of the desert before a burst of refreshing rain suddenly forced it into life. He bought in supplies of mineral water and foreign newspapers. After a favourable write-up in the city’s university’s magazine, his shop became the mecca for students and other young people. They loved his new range of rainbow-coloured stationery. He tried out arty postcards. He installed a video library and stayed open until ten o’clock. He even bought an expresso coffee machine and set black wrought-iron chairs and tables on the pavement outside.
Soon ‘Harry’s Place’, as it became known, was pulsating to the beat of the latest sounds. Harry hardly had time to think, let alone notice that he hadn’t seen his original spark of inspiration for a while. Not that he appreciated that she was the spark. Harry was not one to reflect on abstractions.
He took on three assistants so that he could devote his time to thinking up new and inventive lines, re-ordering stock and talking to suppliers on his mobile ‘phone. He worked long hours and when he did eventually get to bed his sleep was often disturbed by a face hovering before him in the darkness, a troubled face. He couldn’t think why.
Christmas saw queues stretching round the corner. On Christmas Eve Harry offered a glass of sherry and a mince pie to anyone who spent more than five pounds. He put on a Father Christmas outfit and bounced children on his knee, for fifty pence (half the usual price.). And then it was a new year and so it continued, a relentless drive to maintain profits. There was a nasty bit of business in May when he caught one of his assistants slipping cash into his pockets but largely life was looking up. In June Harry was elected chairman of the local traders’ association.
The August heat-wave gave way to a cool and showery September. One Monday it rained all day. The empty tables and chairs outside stood abandoned and forlorn. For once, Harry was alone behind the counter. The absence of customers, for customers were money on legs, was making him tetchy. Suddenly, the door opened and the girl was there once more, for the first time in almost a year, shaking her umbrella and scattering raindrops all around her.
Harry glanced up from his VAT returns. She had never looked as lovely as she did at this moment, with her pretty face framed by her bright yellow sou’wester, but he remained strangely unmoved. In fact, he was distinctly annoyed at the mess she was making on his new (and very expensive) parquet flooring.
‘Customer!’ he shouted to his unseen assistant who was having a rare coffee-break, before turning to her and adding curtly, ‘There’s an umbrella stand by the door.’
‘Good Heavens,’ she said, obediently doing as she had been told. ‘Whatever have you done to the dear old place?’
‘Just brought it up to date,’ he replied, proudly.
‘What a pity,’ she replied.
‘Why?’ asked Harry, ‘What’s the pity? Business is booming.’
‘Well, you see. This used to be my Grandad’s shop. I always spent my summer holidays here when I was little. He showed me how to wrap paper into cones, lift down the big glass jars and weigh out small amounts of sweets. He would tip-toe into my room before dawn and wake me, and while the city slept, we would sort out the newspapers for delivery.’
Harry said nothing, so she continued. ‘He let me press the big round keys of the lovely old cash register that had belonged to his father before him. You can’t believe how thrilled I was when I moved back here and found the old place unchanged, but then, I suppose, time can’t stand still, more’s the pity.’ She looked wistful.
‘No,’ replied Harry absently. He glanced at his watch. He was anxious not to be late for a meeting with his accountant and she was beginning to irritate him. He remembered what his own grandfather used to say about ‘fine words buttering no parsnips’. Funny how you can get people wrong, he thought and went back to his paperwork. He didn’t hear as she closed the door and walked out of his life for ever..
~The End~
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