clearly destined to be an expert in ancient Japanese dialects, immediately understood his little brother’s request. A Curlywurly cost three pence, which left two pence for him to buy his favourite treat – namely, a Milky Way. It seemed to make sense.
‘A Curlywurly an’ a Milky Way,’ said Heathcliffe, slamming his five pence on the counter.
Miss Golightly looked down from her elevated position on the wooden steps behind the counter at the determined face of the ex-Barnsley boy and fiddled with her hearing aid. ‘Stop mumbling and speak up!’ she shouted.
‘AH WANNA CURLYWURLY AN’ A MILKY WAY,’ yelled Heathcliffe.
The stack of Cherry Blossom shoe-polish tins on the nearby shelf rattled with the force.
Miss Golightly frowned. She adjusted the mother-of-pearl comb that held in place her tightly wound bun of grey hair. ‘There’s no need to shout!’ she said.
Heathcliffe kept a finger pressed on top of his five pence and attempted a smile. In the past he had practised his glassy-eyed smile on elderly aunts and uncles with mixed results. A few uncles had given him ten pence to get rid of him; most of his aunts thought he was in pain, and his Aunt Mavis from Doncaster said if he kept doing it his face would stay like that.
Fortunately, after a lifetime of serving generations of schoolchildren, Miss Golightly was made of stronger stuff. ‘And what’s the magic word?’ she asked, as she folded her arms in a determined manner across her starched white shopkeeper’s overall.
Heathcliffe relaxed his manic stare, unclenched his teeth and pondered the question for a moment.
The answer came to him in a flash. ‘ABRACADABRA!’ he shouted triumphantly, at the top of his voice.
Miss Golightly, for all her stern appearance, did have a sense of humour. Shaking her head in mock despair, she smiled and passed over the two chocolate bars. ‘In future, boys, do remember that
please
will do very nicely.’
Heathcliffe, confused but happy to see the chocolate bars, attempted yet another variation of his smile and released the pressure on his five-pence piece.
Remarkably, Little Terry’s face was already smeared with chocolate by the time he walked out of the shop and the bell on the door jingled madly.
I was next in the queue with exactly fifteen pence at the ready for my copy of
The Times
. Miss Golightly knew her customers well and was already folding my newspaper.
‘Good morning, Miss Golightly,’ I said. ‘And how are you?’
Miss Golightly stepped onto the next wooden step so that she was on a level with me. ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
‘And how’s Jeremy today?’ I asked.
‘A little tired after his stocktaking last night,’ she answered, with an admiring glance towards Jeremy.
On the shelf behind her, sitting proudly beside a tin of loose-leaf Lyon’s Tea and beneath two ancient and peeling advertisements for Hudson’s Soap and Carter’s Little Liver Pills, was a much loved teddy bear immaculately dressed in a white shirt, a small black bow-tie, black trousers and a white shopkeeper’s apron. The name Jeremy was neatly stitched in royal-blue cotton on the apron across his chest. Rumour in the village had it that Jeremy was once the love of her life but, as a young fighter pilot, he had been killed in the Battle of Britain in 1940. Miss Golightly had never told the full story and now, as a sixty-one-year-old spinster, it was presumed she never would.
However, Jeremy lived on in the incongruous guise of Miss Golightly’s favourite teddy bear. On a large notice board behind the counter, a collection of photographs depicted Jeremy on his grand world tour. With the Eiffel Tower in the background, Jeremy could be seen wearing a striped onion-seller’s jersey and a blue beret. On a boat in Auckland harbour, he sported an All Blacks’ rugby jersey and, in the Swiss Alps, he looked the part in his green anorak, thick woollen socks and tiny hiking boots. Miss Golightly
‘A Curlywurly an’ a Milky Way,’ said Heathcliffe, slamming his five pence on the counter.
Miss Golightly looked down from her elevated position on the wooden steps behind the counter at the determined face of the ex-Barnsley boy and fiddled with her hearing aid. ‘Stop mumbling and speak up!’ she shouted.
‘AH WANNA CURLYWURLY AN’ A MILKY WAY,’ yelled Heathcliffe.
The stack of Cherry Blossom shoe-polish tins on the nearby shelf rattled with the force.
Miss Golightly frowned. She adjusted the mother-of-pearl comb that held in place her tightly wound bun of grey hair. ‘There’s no need to shout!’ she said.
Heathcliffe kept a finger pressed on top of his five pence and attempted a smile. In the past he had practised his glassy-eyed smile on elderly aunts and uncles with mixed results. A few uncles had given him ten pence to get rid of him; most of his aunts thought he was in pain, and his Aunt Mavis from Doncaster said if he kept doing it his face would stay like that.
Fortunately, after a lifetime of serving generations of schoolchildren, Miss Golightly was made of stronger stuff. ‘And what’s the magic word?’ she asked, as she folded her arms in a determined manner across her starched white shopkeeper’s overall.
Heathcliffe relaxed his manic stare, unclenched his teeth and pondered the question for a moment.
The answer came to him in a flash. ‘ABRACADABRA!’ he shouted triumphantly, at the top of his voice.
Miss Golightly, for all her stern appearance, did have a sense of humour. Shaking her head in mock despair, she smiled and passed over the two chocolate bars. ‘In future, boys, do remember that
please
will do very nicely.’
Heathcliffe, confused but happy to see the chocolate bars, attempted yet another variation of his smile and released the pressure on his five-pence piece.
Remarkably, Little Terry’s face was already smeared with chocolate by the time he walked out of the shop and the bell on the door jingled madly.
I was next in the queue with exactly fifteen pence at the ready for my copy of
The Times
. Miss Golightly knew her customers well and was already folding my newspaper.
‘Good morning, Miss Golightly,’ I said. ‘And how are you?’
Miss Golightly stepped onto the next wooden step so that she was on a level with me. ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
‘And how’s Jeremy today?’ I asked.
‘A little tired after his stocktaking last night,’ she answered, with an admiring glance towards Jeremy.
On the shelf behind her, sitting proudly beside a tin of loose-leaf Lyon’s Tea and beneath two ancient and peeling advertisements for Hudson’s Soap and Carter’s Little Liver Pills, was a much loved teddy bear immaculately dressed in a white shirt, a small black bow-tie, black trousers and a white shopkeeper’s apron. The name Jeremy was neatly stitched in royal-blue cotton on the apron across his chest. Rumour in the village had it that Jeremy was once the love of her life but, as a young fighter pilot, he had been killed in the Battle of Britain in 1940. Miss Golightly had never told the full story and now, as a sixty-one-year-old spinster, it was presumed she never would.
However, Jeremy lived on in the incongruous guise of Miss Golightly’s favourite teddy bear. On a large notice board behind the counter, a collection of photographs depicted Jeremy on his grand world tour. With the Eiffel Tower in the background, Jeremy could be seen wearing a striped onion-seller’s jersey and a blue beret. On a boat in Auckland harbour, he sported an All Blacks’ rugby jersey and, in the Swiss Alps, he looked the part in his green anorak, thick woollen socks and tiny hiking boots. Miss Golightly
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