‘Thank you. I’d better get going before I cry and embarrass Bertie on his first day.’
‘Yes, you get going. If for any reason Bertie struggles, we’ll call you. But assume no news is good news, and by the looks of him, I don’t think you’ll be hearing from us today.’
I thanked Mrs Grange and walked away from the school, noticing how many friendly smiles were thrown my way from other parents. Of all the recent decisions I’d made, deep down I was convinced enrolling Bertie into this school was one of the best. Not only had he already made a friend, if the smiles from parents were anything to go by, I might too.
Harry had asked me to pick up some milk, so I walked through the village until I reached the shop. As I pushed open the door, I noticed a handwritten sign taped to the glass.Part-time staff wanted. Apply within.
Whilst the hundred pounds a week Harry was paying me wasn’t to be sniffed at, it wouldn’t stretch very far, and anything I could do to supplement my income was to be welcomed. I grabbed a bottle of milk and carried it to the counter.
‘Hello, just the milk, please. Also, I saw you’re advertising for staff?’
‘Yes, we are. New to the area, are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before?’
‘Yes, we moved into Lowen Farm a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Ah, lovely place that. I’m Beryl, I’ve been postmistress here for the past fifty years. I’ve lost count of how many times they’ve tried to shut us down, but the only way they’ll get me out of here is in a wooden box.’
I guessed thetheyBeryl referred to was the Royal Mail, and I suspected they’d be no match for her. ‘Good for you. So, about the job?’
‘Ah, yes. It would be three mornings a week. My joints are bleddy stiff these days and I take a while to get going in the mornings. I’ve a lovely girl Flora who works Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, but she cares for her elderly mother on the other days.’
‘What would the job involve?’
Beryl barked out a laugh. ‘Not much more than what we’re doing now. Chatting to customers mainly.’ She laughed again, then leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. ‘The crucial skill you need is discretion. You hear more secrets in here than in a therapist’s office. I’m always the first to know who’s sleeping with who, what kids are in trouble with the law, crikey, I could even tell you who’s got bunions and who has piles. But whatever I hear, my lips are sealed.’
Beryl pretended to zip her lips. Something about the glint in her eye made me doubt her claims of discretion. She seemed bursting to tell me about the owner of the piles, for starters.
‘So, I wouldn’t need to do anything with the post office?’
‘Nah, it would take too long to train you up, or whoever I give the job to. I’ll reduce the hours the post office is open and the customers will have to lump it. Most of my money’s made from the shop anyway these days. People don’t send so many letters now they have those new-fangled easy-mails.’
Either Beryl was talking about email, or I’d missed out on the latest development in the tech world. ‘So, would you like me to fill out an application form?’
‘Good lord, no, I don’t go in for all that. Come behind the counter and I’ll see how you get on. If I like you, you get Miss Harry from up at the farm to give me a bell. Just so I know you’re all right and not one of those peevs you hear about in the news.’
‘Peevs?’
‘You know, the brown mac brigade.’
My best guess was that she meant to say pervs, but whether peevs or pervs, I moved the conversation onto safer ground. ‘What would you like me to start with?’
‘Come here and I’ll show you how the till works. I know exactly how much is in there, mind. You don’t look like a thief, but it takes all sorts. This one time…’
Beryl didn’t stop to draw breath for the next two hours. In that time, I’d met at least a dozen villagers, and knew more about their lives than I or they would like. Beryl had an uncanny way of drawing information out of people. We heard from Nicola, whose daughter was being bullied at the local high school, Frank, who was facing the desperate decision whether to put his wife in a care home, Mick, who couldn’t get a doctor’s appointment for his bad back and Mavis, who’d called the police on her neighbours after they got frisky with the curtains open (‘it was like they wanted to put on a show for the entire cul-de-sac’).
The till was old-fashioned and easy to work. The card machine took a little longer to master, but it wasn’t rocket science and I’d soon got the hang of it. In a rare five minutes when the shop was quiet, Beryl showed me the stockroom, how to check the inventory, how to replenish the shelves and what to do with out-of-date stock, (put it by the door of Beryl’s flat for her to eat later.)
‘Right, maid,’ said Beryl when the clock reached midday. ‘I think that’s you done.’
‘OK. How did I do?’
‘Not so bad, no, we’ll make a shop assistant out of you yet.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, with no idea whether I’d passed Beryl’s test.
‘You get Miss Harry to give me a bell. So long as you don’t turn out to be a peev or axe murderer, you can come back on Wednesday morning. Nine o’clock start suit you?’
‘Yes, that would be perfect. I can drop my son off at school on the way.’
