The hardware shop was situated adjacent to the railway junction, precisely where the tracks bisected the steeply inclined street. His family had traded at this intersection for three generations and held their heads high as part of the local business community. They supplied the townsfolk and the farmers of the hinterland with all types of hardware necessities, buckets, spades, pots, pans, shears, saws, axe heads, picks, shovels, everything that could possibly be needed for the tasks of daily living.
The Proprietor was a God-fearing man and like his forebearers he was a lifelong member of the Confraternity as well as a personal friend of the Canon, who oft times turned to him for advice, especially on matters financial. Even in late middle age, his mane of silver hair, his substantial moustache and ruddy complexion marked him as a handsome man. His erect bearing and the twinkle that still lingered in his eyes belied his advancing years and many people put his age at ten years less than it was.
He liked to stand on the doorstep, of an evening. With the vast array of his goods forming a backdrop he’d survey the street before him. With his merchandise testifying to his substance and good sound business sense he’d consult his pocket watch while simultaneously listening for the approach of the evening train and its cargo of coal. The shop boy would be summoned and would make haste to dismantle the outdoor display and put it in safekeeping for the next morning, when, if the weather was clement, he would redo the whole process in reverse.
Two factors brought irritation to the otherwise calm routine of the proprietor. The first irritant was the locomotive, which trundled past four times daily. The din of its whistle and the aftershock of the huge wooden gates swinging across the street, in order to prevent access caused the shop windows to rattle and the hardware to clatter and topple and sometimes to fall. Outside a traffic jam, of donkey carts, horse and carts, the occasional car, lorry, cyclist and pedestrians would be unable to proceed further till the train passed. While local children clung to the gates, waving at the driver, waiting for the free ride as the massive gates swung back into place.
His complaints to the railway company brought no relief. Drivers were warned to slow down when approaching the crossing. It made precious little difference, so he braced himself four times daily and hoped for the best.
The second irritant in this gentleman’s life was the weekly visit of young James. Not that James in himself was particularly irritating. No, the fact was that the boy was a continuing reminder of the few times that the proprietor had fallen from grace.
The envelope was always sealed and ready in expectation of the lad’s arrival. The handover was swift, without pre-ample, from long practice, like a relay team in fact. A small sigh of relief would escape his lips when the transaction was completed, and the door swung shut. Thursday was the designated day as it generally was quiet. At last, he could smell freedom. Relief was on the horizon.
It had been a long time coming. fourteen years in fact. Jailbirds did less time for far worse in his estimation. He’d been lonely and he’d succumbed. What a pity he’d hired her to do a spot of tidying after his mother died. He’d paid dearly for his indiscretion. It was that ‘come hither’ attitude of hers, he’d blame, not his fault at all. She’d beguiled him and a few months later she’d dropped the bombshell. Threatened to go to the Canon, the brazen hussy. He feared ruin, he’d be a laughingstock. Every smart alec would make fair game of him. The payments guaranteed her silence. So, the Thursday routine began. At first she’d drop in herself, the child in her arms. She’d give him a wink and help herself to some item or other after she’d pocketed the envelope.
The bell above the door tinkled announcing James’s arrival. The proprietor looked at him, for what he hoped was the last time. The boy had a look of his father he mused absentmindedly, anxious to have it over. As James approached the counter, hand outstretched, he had an uncharacteristic grin plastered across his face. The handover complete, he turned, to leave just as the train could be heard approaching and mouthed words which the proprietor caught over the din. “Me mam told me to tell you, you’re not me father anyway”. With that he was gone, and the train sped onwards.
© Copyright Berna Boran 2020
Berna Boran 