noise didn’t make her headache feel any better.
The shop was not a village shop in the old sense of the expression, though it occupied the site where a proper village shop had once stood. That old shop, incorporating a post
office, had been run by an elderly couple and very rarely had in stock anything anyone might need. But that didn’t matter. The people of Fethering drove in their large cars to do their major
shopping at the nearby out-of-town Sainsbury’s or Tesco’s. They used the village shop only when they’d run out of life’s little essentials – milk, bread, cheese,
ketchup, cigarettes or gin – and to collect their pensions. Many of them went in to buy things they didn’t need, just so they’d have the opportunity for a good gossip.
But that was no way to run a business and in the late 1980s, when the elderly couple retired, the old shop was demolished, replaced by a rectangular glass-fronted structure and called a
supermarket. It was one of a local chain called Allinstore – a compression that someone in a meeting must once have thought was a good idea of ‘All-in-store’. This verbal
infelicity was untrue under the Trades Description Act (in fact, the store’s local nickname was ‘Nowtinstore’), but it was also symptomatic of the lacklustre style which
epitomized Allinstore management. The only detail the new shop had in common with the old one was that it very rarely had in stock anything anyone might need, but people still went in to buy things
they didn’t need, just so’s they’d have the opportunity for a good gossip.
In the transformation of Fethering’s shopping facilities the village had also lost its post office, which led to a lot of complicated travel arrangements on pension days. And Allinstore
had become an outlet for the National Lottery, thus enabling the residents of Fethering to shatter their hopes and dreams on a weekly basis.
The architect who’d designed the new supermarket (assuming such a person existed and the plans hadn’t been scribbled on the back of an envelope by a builder who’d once seen a
shoebox) had placed two wide roof-supporting pillars just in front of the main tills. Whether he’d done this out of vindictiveness or had simply been infected by the endemic Allinstore
incompetence was unknowable, but the result was that many shopping hours were wasted and much frustration caused by customers negotiating their way around these obstructions. Mercifully Allinstore
did not supply its shoppers with trolleys, only wire baskets, but many of its elderly clientele brought in their own wheeled shopping containers and these added to the traffic mayhem around the
pillars.
Carole, aspirin packet in hand, was stuck behind one of them, out of sight of the tills, when she heard a familiar male voice say, ‘Apparently they found a dead body on the beach this
morning.’
She craned forward, encroaching on the elderly lady with a wheeled basket in front of her, and saw Bill Chilcott.
‘Really?’ said the girl behind the till, with the same level of interest she would have accorded to the news that there were no more toilet rolls on the shelf.
‘Oh yes,’ he asserted. ‘Heard it on the BBC local news this morning.’
Carole leaned over the elderly lady in front of her. ‘Morning, Bill.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, unnecessarily loudly and with what he imagined to be a lecherous grin. ‘Crown and Anchor last night, Allinstore this morning. We can’t go
on meeting like this. People will start to talk.’
‘Yes.’ Carole dismissed the pleasantry with a curt smile. ‘What’s this about dead bodies?’
‘I heard it on the radio when Sandra and I came back from our swim at the Leisure Centre. A dead body found washed up on Fethering beach.’
‘Did they say who it was? Or what had happened to him?’
‘They didn’t even say whether it was a “him”. Probably be more on the lunchtime news. Mind you, if you want my opinion
The shop was not a village shop in the old sense of the expression, though it occupied the site where a proper village shop had once stood. That old shop, incorporating a post
office, had been run by an elderly couple and very rarely had in stock anything anyone might need. But that didn’t matter. The people of Fethering drove in their large cars to do their major
shopping at the nearby out-of-town Sainsbury’s or Tesco’s. They used the village shop only when they’d run out of life’s little essentials – milk, bread, cheese,
ketchup, cigarettes or gin – and to collect their pensions. Many of them went in to buy things they didn’t need, just so they’d have the opportunity for a good gossip.
But that was no way to run a business and in the late 1980s, when the elderly couple retired, the old shop was demolished, replaced by a rectangular glass-fronted structure and called a
supermarket. It was one of a local chain called Allinstore – a compression that someone in a meeting must once have thought was a good idea of ‘All-in-store’. This verbal
infelicity was untrue under the Trades Description Act (in fact, the store’s local nickname was ‘Nowtinstore’), but it was also symptomatic of the lacklustre style which
epitomized Allinstore management. The only detail the new shop had in common with the old one was that it very rarely had in stock anything anyone might need, but people still went in to buy things
they didn’t need, just so’s they’d have the opportunity for a good gossip.
In the transformation of Fethering’s shopping facilities the village had also lost its post office, which led to a lot of complicated travel arrangements on pension days. And Allinstore
had become an outlet for the National Lottery, thus enabling the residents of Fethering to shatter their hopes and dreams on a weekly basis.
The architect who’d designed the new supermarket (assuming such a person existed and the plans hadn’t been scribbled on the back of an envelope by a builder who’d once seen a
shoebox) had placed two wide roof-supporting pillars just in front of the main tills. Whether he’d done this out of vindictiveness or had simply been infected by the endemic Allinstore
incompetence was unknowable, but the result was that many shopping hours were wasted and much frustration caused by customers negotiating their way around these obstructions. Mercifully Allinstore
did not supply its shoppers with trolleys, only wire baskets, but many of its elderly clientele brought in their own wheeled shopping containers and these added to the traffic mayhem around the
pillars.
Carole, aspirin packet in hand, was stuck behind one of them, out of sight of the tills, when she heard a familiar male voice say, ‘Apparently they found a dead body on the beach this
morning.’
She craned forward, encroaching on the elderly lady with a wheeled basket in front of her, and saw Bill Chilcott.
‘Really?’ said the girl behind the till, with the same level of interest she would have accorded to the news that there were no more toilet rolls on the shelf.
‘Oh yes,’ he asserted. ‘Heard it on the BBC local news this morning.’
Carole leaned over the elderly lady in front of her. ‘Morning, Bill.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, unnecessarily loudly and with what he imagined to be a lecherous grin. ‘Crown and Anchor last night, Allinstore this morning. We can’t go
on meeting like this. People will start to talk.’
‘Yes.’ Carole dismissed the pleasantry with a curt smile. ‘What’s this about dead bodies?’
‘I heard it on the radio when Sandra and I came back from our swim at the Leisure Centre. A dead body found washed up on Fethering beach.’
‘Did they say who it was? Or what had happened to him?’
‘They didn’t even say whether it was a “him”. Probably be more on the lunchtime news. Mind you, if you want my opinion
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