Heathcliff boomed. “Now, just a minute there, Mrs. Wilde. No one touchesmydesk—”
“I’ve even got a present to wrap to show them how it’s done.” Ignoring Heathcliff’s protests, Mum whipped out a glass bottle with a spray top. “This is a catnip extract. Sylvia Blume makes it. You simply spritz it around and it helps your cat feel calm and playful.”
She started to spray the rug in front of the desk. A foul smell – like damp newspaper and petrol fumes – assailed my nostrils. Mrs. Ellis pinched her nose. Jonie made a face.
“Meeeeeow!” Grimalkin somersaulted through the air, landing on the rug and rolling around in the spray like a drug addict relishing the first hit.
“See?” Mum beamed. She set the bottle on the counter and rolled out a paper covered in foil reindeer. “Now, to wrap an unusually-shaped present like this, you want to fold this edge down and crimp it—”
“There will be no crimping on my desk!” Heathcliff boomed.
“Merry Christmas.” A bespeckled face peered around the door. Our accountant, Bertie Robinson, stepped gingerly over the threshold. Bertie had been doing the store accounts for the previous owner, Mr. Simson, since practically the beginning of time. After Mr. Simson disappeared, Heathcliff had kept Bertie on – he acted as a stoic and sensible voice to counter Heathcliff’s impassioned moods. Bertie wore his trademark black suit – the shoulders dusted with snow – and a grey tie decorated with holly leaves. It was the most festive I’d ever seen him. “Mina, Heathcliff, I’ve come to start on the accounts.”
I raised an eyebrow in surprise. Bertie popped in to collect our ledger on the 25th of the month at 2PM. You could set your watch by him. He was three days and five hours early.What’s going on?
“I apologize for being early, but I did send an email,” Bertie stammered, sensing my unease.
“I didn’t read it,” Heathcliff muttered.
“I’m trying to get a jump on things before the holidays and… well, my wife lost her job at the Post Office and I’ve seven hungry mouths to feed and I could really use the money.”
“You have seven children?” Morrie looked appalled. “You should be institutionalized.”
Bertie shook his head as he stepped over Grimalkin, who was still wallowing in her catnip-soaked paradise. “Princess – that’s our golden retriever – gave birth to five in October. We didn’t even know she was pregnant. The puppies need special food and vet checkups, and with Elizabeth out of work, we just can’t afford it. That’s why I was hoping I could do the store accounts early, and maybe get my invoice paid on time for once.”
Bertie looked like a defenseless puppy himself, perched in the doorway with wide, hopeful eyes. I thought of the receipts and unpaid invoices strewn across the office. I’d tried to start the accounts yesterday but I’d misplaced my favorite sparkly pen and by the time I’d hunted all over for it, Heathcliff was yelling about the display of Christmas storybooks I’d made in the front hall and I had to appease him.
“I’m afraid things are a bit of a mess,” I said.
Bertie’s face perked up. “You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Mina. It would make your life so much easier if you switched to an online system. You’d be able to reconcile accounts and see data in real-time, and—”
“No, I don’t want it,” Jonie yelled.
I whirled around in time to see Mum drape a tinsel garland around Jonie’s neck. Tiny dog ornaments wearing Santa hats dangled from the tinsel. As Jonie twisted to try and free herself, Mum wound the end around her body, wrapping her up like a Christmas mummy.
“This is my range for animal lovers,” Mum explained over Jonie’s protests. “I’ve got matching greeting card sets and advent calendars and—”
“Heathcliff will help you, Bertie,” I called as I tried to help Jonie untangle herself from the tinsel. “He owns the shop, so he's the one you have to talk to about cloud accounting.”
Bertie visibly stiffened. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to bother him. I’ll come back later, when you’re free. I’m sure Heathcliff is very busy—”
“I’m right here, Bertie,” Heathcliff bellowed. “And today of all days, I'd be happy to talk about the accounts. Step into my office.”
Bertie shuddered. “Last time I did that you slammed my fingers in the ledger.”
“You can’t still be harping on about that.”
“Just a moment, Heathcliff.” Mum stepped toward him, brandishing an enormous Santa hat bedecked in red glitter. “I got this for you. I was thinking you’d be perfect to play Santa for the kids at the housing estate youth center this year—”
“Accounts. Now.” Heathcliff grabbed Bertie’s shoulder and dragged him into the office, slamming the door behind him and leaving Mum dangling a Santa hat in midair.
“Croak!” Quoth had reappeared in his raven form on top of the door. He flapped his wings to draw my attention to some new customers.
“Meow!” That was Grimalkin prancing across Heathcliff’s desk, butting the catnip spray bottle over the edge.
“Oh, no you don’t.” I lunged and managed to catch the bottle before it could smash on the floor. Grimalkin shot me a filthy look and flopped over onto her back.
“Have we come at a bad time?” A mother and child, holding a stack of wrapped gifts, stood in front of the poetry shelves. “We just wanted to leave our gifts for the animals.”
