On Saturday morning,
I nervously enter the newsagency,
expecting Mrs Davenport to yell
and point me to the door
as soon as I walk in
but
she just folds her arms across her chest
like Dad does when he’s angry
and I swallow hard
walking quickly to the counter
and I place the cake tin in front of her
and she says,
‘What’s this?’
I’m too nervous to answer
so
she unfolds her arms
and opens the tin.
The smell of biscuits,
fresh-baked this morning,
fills the shop
and she leans down
over the tin
closes her eyes
and takes a deep breath.
I glance quickly towards the comics
and she catches me looking
only this time
she smiles
and says,
‘Ten minutes’,
reaching for a biscuit,
‘and not a second more, you hear.’