Morning. Kettle's on. Come in, sit yourself down.
Now, I want to tell you about Mrs Barker. Connie Barker. You may have heard her opinions about the telephone box. Strong opinions. But there's more to Connie than opinions.
She's been coming into this shop every morning for... let me think... must be fifteen years now. Same time. Half past eight. Same order. Daily Express and a quarter of mint humbugs.
Every single day. Rain or shine. Even that winter when we had snow up to the windowsills, there was Connie, headscarf on, basket over her arm, tramping through the drifts.
"I'm not missing my paper for a bit of weather," she said.
George was still alive then. George was her husband. Lovely man. Quiet. Let Connie do the talking, which suited them both.
But George has been gone seven years now. And still Connie comes. Half past eight. Express and humbugs.
~ ~ ~
This morning, she was right on time. Bell jangled. Door opened. There she was.
"Morning, Mrs Barker."
"Morning."
She doesn't say my name. Never has. Not once in fifteen years. It's not rudeness — it's just Connie. She keeps a certain distance.
I had her paper ready. I always have her paper ready. Express on the top of the pile, folded just so. She likes the crossword page facing outward — don't ask me why, but she does, and after fifteen years, I know.
"Humbugs."
Not "quarter of humbugs, please." Just "humbugs." Because we both know. We've done this dance a thousand times.
I reached for the jar. Third shelf, between the pear drops and the aniseed twists. Brass scoop. Brass scales. White paper bag.
There's something peaceful about weighing out sweets. The click of the brass weights. The gentle shower of humbugs into the pan. The rustle of the paper bag.
Four ounces. Quarter pound. Just right.
Now, here's the thing about the humbugs.
I always put in an extra one. Just one. Have done for years. Connie knows. I know she knows. But we've never spoken about it.
It started after George died. She came in the morning after the funeral — I was surprised to see her, thought she might take a few days — and she looked smaller, somehow. Greyer. Like someone had rubbed out part of her.
I weighed the humbugs. And then, without thinking, I dropped in one more.
She looked at me. Just for a second. Then she looked away.
"Thank you," she said.
First time she'd ever said it. First time in all those years.
And now it's our ritual. The extra humbug. The unspoken kindness. The small thing that means something larger.
~ ~ ~
This morning, after I'd wrapped the humbugs, Connie paused at the window. Looking out at the green.
"The telephone box is still there," she said. Accusingly, almost. As if she'd hoped it might have vanished overnight.
"It's not going anywhere, Mrs Barker."
"George's sister lives in Macclesfield," she said. Quite suddenly. Out of nowhere.
"I didn't know George had a sister."
"Patricia. Never met her. They weren't close, George and Patricia. Christmas cards, that was all."
She paused.
"She's still there. In Macclesfield. I suppose."
Then she picked up her paper and her humbugs and left. The bell jangled. The door closed.
And I stood there, wondering why she'd told me.
Three thirty, Tommy was back. Ready to sweep.
I give him a gobstopper if he sweeps the front step. It's good for his character, his mother says. Privately, I think she just likes knowing where he is for twenty minutes.
He attacked the step like it had personally offended him. More dust in the air than on the ground, but he meant well.
"Mr Jessop," he said, between sweeps, "do you think Mrs Barker likes me?"
"What makes you ask that?"
"She told me to stop making such a racket. I was only walking past."
"That's just Mrs Barker," I said. "She says that to everyone."
"She seems sad."
Children notice things. They don't have the filters we develop, the polite blindness. They see what's in front of them.
"She is a bit sad," I said. "She lost her husband. It's hard, being on your own."
Tommy thought about this.
"My dad's away," he said. "On the rigs. Mum's on her own a lot. She talks to the wireless."
"That's not the same."
"I know. Dad's coming back. Mr Barker isn't."
He finished sweeping. I gave him his gobstopper. He looked at it like it was treasure.
"I'm going to wave at Mrs Barker," he said. "Every time I see her. Even if she tells me to stop making a racket."
And off he went.
~ ~ ~
End of the day. Cashing out — two pounds, fifteen and eightpence. About average for a Tuesday.
I looked out at the green. The telephone box glowing in the dusk. Rose Cottage with a light in the front window.
And I made a decision.
Tomorrow morning, when Connie comes in, I'm going to ask her about George. About Macclesfield. About Patricia.
Not prying. Just... asking. The way you ask when you care.
Fifteen years she's been coming in here. Fifteen years of Express and humbugs. And I've never asked.
The extra humbug isn't enough. Sometimes you have to use words as well.
That's what I've learned, running this shop. People need to be seen. Not just served, but seen. And seeing takes effort. It takes asking the question, even when it might be uncomfortable.
Connie Barker comes in every morning because she needs to be seen. And tomorrow, I'm going to see her properly.
Same time tomorrow? I'll put the kettle on.
