neighbour’s shoulder.
‘Tell your master that I have no further need of his charity. Anything else he leaves here will be sent directly to the poorhouse, which is no doubt filled by weary worn-out souls who used to work in the Swainbank mills.’
Edie heard a hesitant male cough, then, ‘Right, Missus. I’ll tell him you’re on the mend.’
‘You come here just for powders from now on. Understand?’
‘Aye, Missus.’
‘And he’ll get none of those if there’s any further trouble. You tell him what I said, now. He’ll understand.’
‘Right.’
Philly closed the door and turned to her friend. ‘Don’t you say a word, Edith Dobson.’
‘As if I would . . .’
She enjoyed every minute of her working day at Freddie Chadwick’s. He was a gentle soul, but with a rapier-sharp wit that belied his rather strange appearance. Skenning Freddie had a shock of bright red hair that was receding fast, leaving a bushy fringe all round his head – from a distance, he would not have looked out of place in a monk’s habit. Pale blue eyes seemed to fight each other for space next to a bulbous nose, while his whole countenance was covered by freckles and a huge ginger moustache heavily waxed at its tapering ends.
The shop was always filled with odd characters, some on business, others just ‘dropping in a minute to get away from that lot’. The latter category was mostly female, harassed mothers driven to distraction by hordes of children, truanting grannies who, having been left to mind the kids while mother and father worked in the mill, had escaped for a moment’s peace and sanity while young charges slept. It was here in Skenning Freddie’s that Philly learned a vital lesson – that there was more to retail than just selling. Customers did not come simply to buy, for they also sought contact, affection, attention, counselling. Most of all, they looked for distraction, something to take their minds off the daily drudgery of cleaning, washing, mothering and trying to make ends stretch far enough to meet without breaking. The noise and clatter in the clogger’s was obviously preferable to the sound of squabbling infants.
When she wasn’t busy, Philly spent much of her time watching Freddie work, her eyes round with amazement as she witnessed his dexterity. Each clog was handmade from a wooden sole and leather upper, the whole fastened together by brass-topped nails which shone like gold when new. Philly never saw him make a clog, because actual manufacturing was performed at the back of the house. But to watch him mend was like seeing a work of art taking shape before her eyes. Quick as a flash, he would remove old irons, tossing them into a box beneath his counter. Then into his mouth he would throw a number of wooden pegs, pushing them out one at a time beneath his bushy moustache. Although his face never moved, each peg emerged pointed end first. With these tiny objects he filled old nail holes, then, after choosing a suitable iron from a wall-hook, he would throw small nails into his mouth and repeat the performance as he pinned the replacement items on sole and heel. The whole process lasted a matter of seconds. That such a performance should be taken for granted amazed Philly. Freddie Chadwick was a master craftsman, yet no-one ever commented on his skill.
Her own side of the business thrived, though the landlord had stepped in and put the rent up as soon as he heard of this new scheme. But even after she’d paid three shillings a week on top of her domestic rent, Philly had more than enough for herself, the old girl and Patrick to live on. Of course, the newly reformed Mother Blue insisted on earning her keep and she often left the baby with Edie so that she could push the handcart round the streets. The real reason for this, thought Philly, was that Mother wanted an opportunity to show off her new look, a look that was indeed original and quite startling. Apart from the wig, Mother Blue had
‘Tell your master that I have no further need of his charity. Anything else he leaves here will be sent directly to the poorhouse, which is no doubt filled by weary worn-out souls who used to work in the Swainbank mills.’
Edie heard a hesitant male cough, then, ‘Right, Missus. I’ll tell him you’re on the mend.’
‘You come here just for powders from now on. Understand?’
‘Aye, Missus.’
‘And he’ll get none of those if there’s any further trouble. You tell him what I said, now. He’ll understand.’
‘Right.’
Philly closed the door and turned to her friend. ‘Don’t you say a word, Edith Dobson.’
‘As if I would . . .’
She enjoyed every minute of her working day at Freddie Chadwick’s. He was a gentle soul, but with a rapier-sharp wit that belied his rather strange appearance. Skenning Freddie had a shock of bright red hair that was receding fast, leaving a bushy fringe all round his head – from a distance, he would not have looked out of place in a monk’s habit. Pale blue eyes seemed to fight each other for space next to a bulbous nose, while his whole countenance was covered by freckles and a huge ginger moustache heavily waxed at its tapering ends.
The shop was always filled with odd characters, some on business, others just ‘dropping in a minute to get away from that lot’. The latter category was mostly female, harassed mothers driven to distraction by hordes of children, truanting grannies who, having been left to mind the kids while mother and father worked in the mill, had escaped for a moment’s peace and sanity while young charges slept. It was here in Skenning Freddie’s that Philly learned a vital lesson – that there was more to retail than just selling. Customers did not come simply to buy, for they also sought contact, affection, attention, counselling. Most of all, they looked for distraction, something to take their minds off the daily drudgery of cleaning, washing, mothering and trying to make ends stretch far enough to meet without breaking. The noise and clatter in the clogger’s was obviously preferable to the sound of squabbling infants.
When she wasn’t busy, Philly spent much of her time watching Freddie work, her eyes round with amazement as she witnessed his dexterity. Each clog was handmade from a wooden sole and leather upper, the whole fastened together by brass-topped nails which shone like gold when new. Philly never saw him make a clog, because actual manufacturing was performed at the back of the house. But to watch him mend was like seeing a work of art taking shape before her eyes. Quick as a flash, he would remove old irons, tossing them into a box beneath his counter. Then into his mouth he would throw a number of wooden pegs, pushing them out one at a time beneath his bushy moustache. Although his face never moved, each peg emerged pointed end first. With these tiny objects he filled old nail holes, then, after choosing a suitable iron from a wall-hook, he would throw small nails into his mouth and repeat the performance as he pinned the replacement items on sole and heel. The whole process lasted a matter of seconds. That such a performance should be taken for granted amazed Philly. Freddie Chadwick was a master craftsman, yet no-one ever commented on his skill.
Her own side of the business thrived, though the landlord had stepped in and put the rent up as soon as he heard of this new scheme. But even after she’d paid three shillings a week on top of her domestic rent, Philly had more than enough for herself, the old girl and Patrick to live on. Of course, the newly reformed Mother Blue insisted on earning her keep and she often left the baby with Edie so that she could push the handcart round the streets. The real reason for this, thought Philly, was that Mother wanted an opportunity to show off her new look, a look that was indeed original and quite startling. Apart from the wig, Mother Blue had
Similar Books
