she and Joe had moved into separate bedrooms not simply separate beds. After nearly thirty-two years it was a sterile marriage, no sort of a life at all really.
He’d seemed such a harmless sort of chap when she’d wed him, but he’d never been the same since he came back from Italy after the war. Irma knew she should have booted Joe out long since but he was such a wet lettuce she’d felt sorry for him. She was too soft for her own good, that was her trouble, far too easy-going. She probably only let him stay for the sake of appearances. Irma had seen her young romantic dreams fade away one by one, till now the only thing they had in common was the market stall - the biscuit business they’d built up together over the years.
Betty Hemley herself was suffering from an ex-husband having returned to the marital home uninvited, and causing any amount of grief. Word had it he was something of a violent bully. Poor Betty. Irma felt sorry for her old friend. She supposed she should be grateful that although Joe might be a bit useless on the romance front, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He wasn’t a bit of bother to look after, and his high jinks could easily be ignored.
A customer interrupted her musings, wanting a pound of mixed biscuits.
‘How about a few Garibaldi?’ Irma suggested, instantly adopting the bright smile she always used with her customers.
Irma Southworth was a large woman, the wrap-over apron she always wore was so Persil white it made you blink and it strained over her ample bosom and hips. Button-bright blue eyes were alert and kind, and her silver-grey hair was shiny and bouncy about a round, smiling face. She was well liked on the market: for her friendly cheerfulness, her helpful manner and the care she took over the cakes she made to suit those special moments in a person’s life. She would certainly never be known for her stunning beauty, her rosy cheeks being somewhat flabby and her chin having long since given up any pretence of being firm.
But, unlike these new-fangled supermarkets they were bringing in with girls who yawned at their cash desks and looked right through you, Irma cared about her customers, and knew most of them by name.
‘Custard creams for you, eh, Mrs Cartwright? Ginger snaps and fig rolls for your two girls? And one or two delicious Bourbons perhaps?’
‘Aye, and put in half a dozen fruit shortcakes. My Phil loves them.’
When the woman had gone, a half pound of broken biscuits at a special discounted price also added to her basket, Irma couldn’t help pondering on how nice it must be to care about a man so much you made a point of picking out his favourite biscuits.
But then not every man was a selfish womaniser like Joe. You’d’ve thought he would have developed a bit of sense now that he was past the fifty mark, but he showed no sign of doing so.
A queue had formed by this time, and Irma concentrated on serving. Highland Shortbread. Homewheat Chocolate Digestive. Syrup and Oat Cookies. Was it any wonder she’d lost her figure, with a straying husband to contend with and surrounded by all these riches. Which came first, she wondered, the fat on her hips or the affairs? She didn’t care to consider, and really did it matter? There were more important things in life than daft husbands who couldn’t keep their trousers buttoned.
He should be here by rights, helping her, but then when had he ever pulled his weight? If he wasn’t warming some woman’s bed he was pontificating his opinions at meetings of the market committee. Even though he was no longer market superintendent, he couldn’t keep his nose out. All summer he’d been fretting about this talk of yet another threat to Champion Street Market, of developers wanting to move in and bulldoze the area clean to build yet more blocks of flats.
The rumour had seriously alarmed Joe. Irma was more philosophical. While considering it a tragic shame, if they lost the biscuit stall she still had her wedding
He’d seemed such a harmless sort of chap when she’d wed him, but he’d never been the same since he came back from Italy after the war. Irma knew she should have booted Joe out long since but he was such a wet lettuce she’d felt sorry for him. She was too soft for her own good, that was her trouble, far too easy-going. She probably only let him stay for the sake of appearances. Irma had seen her young romantic dreams fade away one by one, till now the only thing they had in common was the market stall - the biscuit business they’d built up together over the years.
Betty Hemley herself was suffering from an ex-husband having returned to the marital home uninvited, and causing any amount of grief. Word had it he was something of a violent bully. Poor Betty. Irma felt sorry for her old friend. She supposed she should be grateful that although Joe might be a bit useless on the romance front, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He wasn’t a bit of bother to look after, and his high jinks could easily be ignored.
A customer interrupted her musings, wanting a pound of mixed biscuits.
‘How about a few Garibaldi?’ Irma suggested, instantly adopting the bright smile she always used with her customers.
Irma Southworth was a large woman, the wrap-over apron she always wore was so Persil white it made you blink and it strained over her ample bosom and hips. Button-bright blue eyes were alert and kind, and her silver-grey hair was shiny and bouncy about a round, smiling face. She was well liked on the market: for her friendly cheerfulness, her helpful manner and the care she took over the cakes she made to suit those special moments in a person’s life. She would certainly never be known for her stunning beauty, her rosy cheeks being somewhat flabby and her chin having long since given up any pretence of being firm.
But, unlike these new-fangled supermarkets they were bringing in with girls who yawned at their cash desks and looked right through you, Irma cared about her customers, and knew most of them by name.
‘Custard creams for you, eh, Mrs Cartwright? Ginger snaps and fig rolls for your two girls? And one or two delicious Bourbons perhaps?’
‘Aye, and put in half a dozen fruit shortcakes. My Phil loves them.’
When the woman had gone, a half pound of broken biscuits at a special discounted price also added to her basket, Irma couldn’t help pondering on how nice it must be to care about a man so much you made a point of picking out his favourite biscuits.
But then not every man was a selfish womaniser like Joe. You’d’ve thought he would have developed a bit of sense now that he was past the fifty mark, but he showed no sign of doing so.
A queue had formed by this time, and Irma concentrated on serving. Highland Shortbread. Homewheat Chocolate Digestive. Syrup and Oat Cookies. Was it any wonder she’d lost her figure, with a straying husband to contend with and surrounded by all these riches. Which came first, she wondered, the fat on her hips or the affairs? She didn’t care to consider, and really did it matter? There were more important things in life than daft husbands who couldn’t keep their trousers buttoned.
He should be here by rights, helping her, but then when had he ever pulled his weight? If he wasn’t warming some woman’s bed he was pontificating his opinions at meetings of the market committee. Even though he was no longer market superintendent, he couldn’t keep his nose out. All summer he’d been fretting about this talk of yet another threat to Champion Street Market, of developers wanting to move in and bulldoze the area clean to build yet more blocks of flats.
The rumour had seriously alarmed Joe. Irma was more philosophical. While considering it a tragic shame, if they lost the biscuit stall she still had her wedding
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