would spread the jelly on bread, as we did with my mother’s home-made black currant, or whether she would sup it with her dinner; calf sounded like meat to me.
But I had no doubt whatever that the owner and his son were the two luckiest men in the world to be able to preside over this wonderland every working day of their lives. Fancy dealing with scented China tea, chicken in aspic, curries, spices, and even stem ginger!Father and son were immaculate in their dress, as befitted the stock they handled. Dark suits, sparkling white shirts, perfect bow ties and gleaming shirt-cuffs. The food was parcelled in thick, expensive, crackling brown paper and fine strong string, and the son had a fascinating mannerism of shrugging his shoulders in sharp little movements as he deftly stroked down the corners of the paper to form a perfect seal to the package. I watched him with unwinking gaze, admiring every movement of those expressive shoulders, and envied him nearly as much as I did the Principal Boy in the pantomime, for it seemed to me they both lived in magic worlds.
And in our own much humbler district the shop we all loved best was owned by a somewhat frightening spinster lady always known as ‘Miss P.’ Nobody, not even the most chatty grown-up, ever called her by her Christian name, and nobody had ever seen her without a hat. She always dressed in black. Black silk blouse, held at the neck by a gold and Cairngorm brooch. Black, highly polished shoes and black lisle stockings. Surmounting a head of rusty auburn hair, she wore a black felt hat in winter and a black straw in summer. She had rosy cheeks and fierce black eyes, and knew her stock to the last shoelace. I liked her shop best of all in summer, with its rows and rows of sand-shoes hanging temptingly at the door-front, fastened to a long line of strong twine from top to bottom of the door-hinges. I would stand mesmerized in front of them. White oneswooed my heart, but, of course, they’d never have kept clean enough to be practical. Navy ones would match my gym slip. Black ones looked exciting and grown-up, but the grey ones, with little speckles of black, looked most elegant and were my favourites. Oh the excitement when my mother would take us in on a chosen Saturday, to rig us out with our sand-shoes for summer holidays, and for running about at our games during the long long days of summer, to save our heavier more expensive boots and Sunday shoes. Although our sand-shoes cost only about two-and-eleven a pair, Miss P. treated us with the courtesy due to honoured clients. We were seated on brightly polished chairs, our noses filled with the delicious scent of the rubber soles carried to us by the breeze from the shoes by the door. She consulted my mother as to colour and size, then with unerring eye she would cut off a pair of shoes from the rows hanging at the door. The very stuff of summer holidays was in the sensation felt as those soft shoes encased the feet, so different from the rigid leather of the long-legged boots which were my workaday schoolday wear, or the formal splendour of my black patent lacing shoes for Sundays. A pair of new shoelaces would be threaded through, and I would stand before the little floor mirror, ready to leap into the air like a shorn lamb, drunk with the feeling of lightness in my feet. The shoelaces cost an extra penny, but sometimes Miss P. was in generous mood, no doubt realizing how precious every penny was to my hardworking mother,and she would present us with the laces free of charge. My mother’s eyes would glow as brightly as Miss P.’s, at this generosity, and she would say, as we left with our parcel, ‘Aye, a real lady, Miss P. It’s a pleasure to be served by her.’
Four
The first thing my mother examined when she was looking at any possible new house was the kitchen range. You could always disguise faulty windows with nice curtains, and put an extra shelf into a press that was too wee or awkward, but you were
But I had no doubt whatever that the owner and his son were the two luckiest men in the world to be able to preside over this wonderland every working day of their lives. Fancy dealing with scented China tea, chicken in aspic, curries, spices, and even stem ginger!Father and son were immaculate in their dress, as befitted the stock they handled. Dark suits, sparkling white shirts, perfect bow ties and gleaming shirt-cuffs. The food was parcelled in thick, expensive, crackling brown paper and fine strong string, and the son had a fascinating mannerism of shrugging his shoulders in sharp little movements as he deftly stroked down the corners of the paper to form a perfect seal to the package. I watched him with unwinking gaze, admiring every movement of those expressive shoulders, and envied him nearly as much as I did the Principal Boy in the pantomime, for it seemed to me they both lived in magic worlds.
And in our own much humbler district the shop we all loved best was owned by a somewhat frightening spinster lady always known as ‘Miss P.’ Nobody, not even the most chatty grown-up, ever called her by her Christian name, and nobody had ever seen her without a hat. She always dressed in black. Black silk blouse, held at the neck by a gold and Cairngorm brooch. Black, highly polished shoes and black lisle stockings. Surmounting a head of rusty auburn hair, she wore a black felt hat in winter and a black straw in summer. She had rosy cheeks and fierce black eyes, and knew her stock to the last shoelace. I liked her shop best of all in summer, with its rows and rows of sand-shoes hanging temptingly at the door-front, fastened to a long line of strong twine from top to bottom of the door-hinges. I would stand mesmerized in front of them. White oneswooed my heart, but, of course, they’d never have kept clean enough to be practical. Navy ones would match my gym slip. Black ones looked exciting and grown-up, but the grey ones, with little speckles of black, looked most elegant and were my favourites. Oh the excitement when my mother would take us in on a chosen Saturday, to rig us out with our sand-shoes for summer holidays, and for running about at our games during the long long days of summer, to save our heavier more expensive boots and Sunday shoes. Although our sand-shoes cost only about two-and-eleven a pair, Miss P. treated us with the courtesy due to honoured clients. We were seated on brightly polished chairs, our noses filled with the delicious scent of the rubber soles carried to us by the breeze from the shoes by the door. She consulted my mother as to colour and size, then with unerring eye she would cut off a pair of shoes from the rows hanging at the door. The very stuff of summer holidays was in the sensation felt as those soft shoes encased the feet, so different from the rigid leather of the long-legged boots which were my workaday schoolday wear, or the formal splendour of my black patent lacing shoes for Sundays. A pair of new shoelaces would be threaded through, and I would stand before the little floor mirror, ready to leap into the air like a shorn lamb, drunk with the feeling of lightness in my feet. The shoelaces cost an extra penny, but sometimes Miss P. was in generous mood, no doubt realizing how precious every penny was to my hardworking mother,and she would present us with the laces free of charge. My mother’s eyes would glow as brightly as Miss P.’s, at this generosity, and she would say, as we left with our parcel, ‘Aye, a real lady, Miss P. It’s a pleasure to be served by her.’
Four
The first thing my mother examined when she was looking at any possible new house was the kitchen range. You could always disguise faulty windows with nice curtains, and put an extra shelf into a press that was too wee or awkward, but you were
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