Helen and Vivian sat behind the counter waiting. Waiting for a customer to walk through the door. At nine-thirty a.m. a young woman entered and glanced nervously at the people staring intently at her from behind the counter. Deciding they meant no harm, she edged her way into the maze and shortly afterwards came out holding two books.
Helen stepped forward, smiling in readiness for the patter, the exchange of book talk and money.
The young woman spoke first, the words gushing out. ‘You’ve got an awesome romance section in there. I’ve got, let me see, What my Heart Desires and Love at Low Tide. Great hey?’ She waved the books in front of Helen.
Helen opened her mouth but nothing came out. How could she speak while choking on sheer surprise? Her voice box garrotted by the words the young woman had uttered so ecstatically.
Vivian came to her rescue. ‘My mother is a mute, grumpy too.’
‘A mute?’ The young woman pronounced the word cautiously, as if apprehensive of what a mute might do.
Vivian prattled on. ‘She got caught out in the wind when she was a little girl, it was blowing a gale and she had this fearsome look on her face. Her mother and father had warned her. But no … stubborn as,’ he said stabbing his thumb towards his mother.
‘Vivian, stop it!’ scolded Helen, then looked to the young woman. ‘Joke,’ she said flatly.
‘Oh, I see, you’re not a mute at all.’ She sounded disappointed.
‘Sorry,’ said Helen.
Vivian had calculated the cost of the books. ‘That’ll be sixteen dollars please.’
The young woman rummaged through a large shoulder bag, producing two crumpled five-dollar notes, a half empty bubble-pack of headache tablets, a train ticket, a health care card, an empty water bottle, a hair brush with a mat of black hair caught in its bristles and a tampon in its clear cellophane wrapper, all of which she placed on the counter. Vivian could feel the heat of his mother’s temper.
The young woman gave Helen a cautious glance and then looked to Vivian for help. ‘ I’ve got the rest here somewhere.’ She laughed a strained and pleading noise as she tipped her bag of its remaining contents onto the floor. Amongst the half eaten apple, flyers, notebook and biro she picked out six one-dollar coins, which she handed Vivian.
Helen gave a restrained smile.
The young woman quickly repacked her shoulder bag. ‘This has made my day. I’ll be back!’ she cried as she hugged the books to her chest, lifted her eyebrows and smiled at Vivian, careful to avoid eye contact with Helen. ‘And I just love your maze. Great idea.’ She was looking earnestly at Vivian as though it was his idea. ‘It’s like life isn’t it? A maze.’ The young woman smiled shyly at her own observation before departing from the shop.
Helen was astonished. Vivian was pleased as he smoothed out the five-dollar notes. He turned to his mother. ‘Like I said, crap sells.’
Helen was silent. Vivian had been right, crap sold, and for now he was happy.
Shortly afterwards a woman with a herd of kids came in, sniffing about while her children ran amuck. She was short and squat, in fact looked to Helen uncannily like a bright-eyed frog. She too disappeared into the maze, to reappear with an armload of crime novels, which she dumped on the counter. Looking straight at Helen she whined, ‘Haven’t got many kids’ books, have you?’
Helen felt the children’s accusing eyes upon her.
Again, Vivian came to the rescue. ‘My apologies, it’s such a small section, but we’ve only just opened. We’ll definitely have more books for the kiddies next week.’
The woman put her hand to her glasses. ‘Listen, I’m a single mum, and there’s not much money in that. I’m not complaining here, just explaining.’ She paused. ‘You do credit?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ answered Vivian.
The woman curled her bottom lip as if contemplating her next move. ‘How about knockin’ a few bucks off these then.’
Vivian turned to his mother who nodded. He added the prices on each book. ‘That’s sixty dollars. I’ll knock off ten dollars, makes it fifty.’
‘Fifty bucks! Bloody hell,’ howled the woman.
‘You’ve got a lot of books there.’
She looked aggrieved as though discriminated against yet again. ‘Okay, I’ll just take these,’ she announced wearily as she weeded out two. ‘Do I still get my discount?’
‘Sure, I can knock off four dollars for you,’ replied Vivian.
‘Four dollars,’ said the single mum as if rinsing her mouth with the coins, weighing them up and then spilling them out. ‘Better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick, I suppose,’ she uttered as she paid. Then collecting her books, she huffed out of the shop followed by her children who were complaining at having to leave empty-handed.
‘It’s time to get a bigger children’s section or we’ll have a lynch mob on our hands,’ Vivian said as his gaze followed the rabble progressing down the street.
‘I’ll go pay Razoo a visit,’ said Helen.
Vivian picked up on her disappointment; their very first customers had been a common lot. He turned to her, a sermon on his lips. ‘Mum, what were you expecting? Royalty? This is a second-hand bookshop. Meaning, we sell cheap books, which equals poor and even uncivilised customers. Get over it, because their money is still good. And at least they’re readers.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Well I’ve got something to say.’
‘Speak.’
‘We need to introduce a scheme whereby people can bring in books for cash or credit.’
‘Credit only Mum, we can’t afford cash.’
‘Well, aren’t we the young businessman.’
‘Gimme a break. But speaking of which, what’s happening to the bookkeeping?’
Helen grimaced at the thought of more indignity. Should she confess to Vivian? She stood back as Vivian attended to a customer who had come to the counter with a load of books.
Helen was a shoebox accountant; she grappled in vain with numbers. Dealing with the intricacies of tax made her brain go into spasm. Even Arnold’s mowing accounts had stretched her capacities. The business side of the bookshop was in a cardboard box under her bed.
She had refused to delegate, or seek help, even from Astrid. She was indebted to her enough as it was. But more than that, she didn’t want to get into a fight with Astrid over whether or not there was a baby on the way; best to avoid her until the whole silly drama had run its course.
Vivian turned to his mother. ‘Bookwork, where is it?’
‘Don’t worry, all taken care of,’ said Helen.
Vivian studied her face for any hint of deception. He knew that his mother could be a master of concealment, that she hated to lose face. But the lack of bookwork worried him; however, for the moment he decided to let it go.
*
Surrounded by books, Helen felt both at home and free. Getting up at five, she took her cup of tea and in her nightie, navigated the rickety stairs down to the bookshop, where in the hushed light she placed her cup upon the counter and drifted up and down the aisles, inhaling the scent of books, which was always stronger after they sat overnight, undisturbed.
If only, she wished, her life was like a book. Not like those surrounding her, but in hardback and able to withstand the hardships and vicissitudes of life. If only life was like a book, neat and square, chopped up into chapters and sliced into pages so fine you could read the lines time after time and never tire. If only life was like a book in that everything made sense and you know all will be resolved in the end. If only life was like a book so that, if you decided you didn’t like it, you could take it back and get another one.
*
Helen went to see Razoo. The mud was gone and the ground was hardening fast. Despite the Rottweilers being kept on leashes so tight it was a wonder they weren’t strangled, Helen was still wary of them.
‘These dogs are kittens, trust me,’ announced Razoo as he led her through the passageway of books. ‘They wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
Helen wasn’t convinced. But she wasn’t here on canine culture. This was a book-buying expedition. She ordered two hundred books for children.
‘I think I ought to be selecting books for my bookshop. I know what people want, and what’s best for children,’ she announced.
Razoo scoffed. ‘Books for kids! What next? I’ll get you some, they’re just mixed in with all the rest. Didn’t you get any in the lot I delivered?’
‘Not many,’ replied Helen.
‘When I was a nipper we only had one book in our house. The Bible. Fat bloody lot of good that did.’
‘Well now you’ve got a ton of books.’
Razoo was standing near her with a contemplative look on his face. ‘The second I was as tall as my old man, he reckoned I was a man.’ Razoo paused; his eyelids drooped as if in remembrance for the childhood snatched away from him.
He began to speak again, slowly, warming to his story. ‘The old man taught me how to read the racing guide. Then we’d listen to the races on the radio. Still remember one really special race. Dinkum. The horses had names like Play with Fire, Double Shot, and Risky Lawyer. And you’ll never guess who won. It was an outsider called — and you won’t believe this — Forty Winks.
He looked to Helen for a reaction but she was too busy looking through the books. Razoo felt like a fool, as if he’d been talking to himself.
‘What bloody good does reading books do for you, eh?’ he shouted, finally getting her attention.
‘Can’t do any harm,’ answered Helen as she flipped her way through a book.
Razoo was stumped. His dogs growled as if empathising with his confusion. He scratched at his ear.
She looked kindly, even apologetically, at Razoo. ‘I understand what you mean about the horse called Forty Winks. The least expected to win, wins. Right?’
‘Yep,’ Razoo smiled, revealing his rotten teeth before placing a hand in front of his mouth.
‘You’re saying that I should stop trying to pick books for my customers.’
‘You’ll be a lot better off.’
‘Maybe you’re right, but for now, can I just pick out some children’s books to take back with me?’
‘Yeah, why not,’ said Razoo, amused by her persistence.
*
It was a fine Saturday afternoon and Ella was out the front of her cottage ripping out weeds and pruning overgrown bushes. She was planting seedlings when she first became aware of the young man who was walking at snail’s pace past her cottage. He appeared familiar, and she racked her brains as she gardened, but couldn’t figure out where she had seen him before. It bothered her, so that when she heard him pass by yet again she strolled over to the white picket fence that bordered her cottage, opened the gate, and watched his back as he continued down the path, rounded the corner and vanished out of sight. Determined to find out why this man was doing laps around the block, she leaned against the gate, and waited, watching the corner where he should come into view. Ten minutes later he appeared, walking briskly, but then slowed to a crawl on seeing Ella staring straight at him.
She folded her arms. ‘Well, well, if isn’t Mr Budd-Doyle.’
‘Doctor Ipp,’ said Vivian with a hesitant wave.
‘I wouldn’t have picked you for a stalker.’
Vivian’s cheeks burned. ‘No, it’s not that way at all, please, I’m sorry,’ he stammered.
Ella squinted as if trying to size up the situation. Was he to be trusted? ‘How did you know where I lived?’
‘My brother Gabriel told me.’
‘Oh,’ she shook her head in disbelief. ‘So you are related to that jerk?’
‘Afraid so,’ replied Vivian as he stood before her.
She was dressed in flimsy loose top and short shorts, which brought to mind a vision he’d entertained of her on his perambulations around the block, in which she lunged forward, her loose top rising to reveal a satin-skinned torso and voluptuous breasts encased in a lacy mauve bra.
‘And he’s sent you here on an errand, right?’
Vivian tried to pull his thoughts together; he rehearsed once more what he had intended saying. How Gabriel missed her, was full of remorse … but as he stood in front of her, his grand argument vanished behind a persistent vision of mauve lace. He tried desperately to think of what to say. He felt her eyes examine him. Without doubt, he believed, she knew exactly what a jittering mess he was.
Ella gave a small smile. ‘Better tell me what your errand is then. But before that, let me try and remember your name.’ And as she concentrated Vivian noticed the tiny tip of pink jutting out from between her lips. ‘It’s Vivian.’
He blushed on hearing her say his name. Up close, she was shorter and seemed more curvaceous. And her face, although not exactly pretty, was made attractive by her assured manner.
‘And you’re Ella.’
‘Yep,’ said Ella, again examining Vivian as if trying to determine his character.
Vivian began to feel nauseous. He fought it back, feeling silly, though from past experience he knew that any interaction with self-assured young women made him sick with anxiety.
The hookers in the mining town had been different. Scruffy, drug addicted, world weary and downtrodden. That’s how he preferred them. They posed no threat; he was at ease in their problematic lives. And they accepted his emotional inadequacies. But this woman was different; she seemed perfect.
All of a sudden he was panting for air, stuck in a metal cage descending rapidly into a world that scared him witless. He began to reel blindly, and felt he was sure to fall. But then he felt her touch. ‘Vivian, are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, I’ll be fine,’ he said as his nerves began to settle a little.
Ella hesitated, unsure of what to do with this handsome young man, but who didn’t seem quite the full quid. She looked around for a neighbour or passer-by who could help, but the street was empty. She glanced at Vivian, he seemed harmless enough.
‘Look there’s an old sofa on the front verandah, you can lie on that. Let me help you.’
Vivian did as he was told; it wasn’t hard. She made him lie down, and then fetched a blanket from the cottage and a glass of water. She sat close to him, so close he could smell her: earth and green grass. She now wore an oversized windcheater. Still, he could have buried his head in her wonderful breasts, which looked to be begging for company.
‘Vivian, how about I ring someone, a friend, or a relative, who might come and pick you up?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ said Ella, thinking. ‘Are you sure there’s no one I can get for you?’
‘I’m not a nut case.’
‘Never said you were,’ said Ella, smiling kindly at him. ‘I was concerned about you.’
‘Honestly, I’ll be fine.’
Gabriel could be such a bad judge of character, he thought. Ella studied him, trying to determine if he was all right, to see if she could quiz him as to why he was sent to her door. She decided to chance it. ‘Now, what’s this errand Gabriel’s sent you on?’
Vivian thought about disowning his brother, but he abandoned the temptation. Right now, he realised, he wanted this woman. He couldn’t lie to her. ‘I’m here because he needs to see you. He’s missed you.’
‘I only went out with him for a couple of months.’
‘He loves you.’
Ella raised her eyebrows. ‘I chucked him, and it’s dented his massive ego, that’s all.’
Vivian was silent, having already concluded that he was no match for Ella. And nor was Gabriel.
Ella lapsed into silence as she studied Vivian’s face. Unexpectedly she felt a surge of longing for him. She found him not only physically desirable, but a vulnerable creature without guile. This emotion surprised her. She barely knew him, and her first impression had been that he was loopy. However he wasn’t loopy, he was shy. Painfully shy.
She put her hand to his forehead. ‘How you feeling?’
‘Good,’ said Vivian, with a faint smile.
‘Missing your tooth?’
‘Don’t miss the pain.’
‘Why haven’t you come in for your mouthguard, Mr Tooth Grinder?’
Vivian didn’t want to say that he had no money. ‘Been a bit tied up.’
‘With what?’
Vivian wasn’t expecting this, a woman who interrogated, but there was something agreeable about her quizzing him.
‘Bookshop?’ Her eyes widened.
‘My mother and I have opened up a second-hand bookshop.’
‘A man who’s into books. What next?’
She leaned across him, plumping up his pillow, with her breasts millimetres from his face. He was in heaven and simultaneously being tortured. Ella was gorgeous. Surely this wasn’t the creature Gabriel had been frothing at the mouth about? There was some kind of mistake. A misunderstanding. She spoke while she plumped. ‘Your brother’s an idiot, but then again, you might already know that.’
He felt tempted to agree, just to get along with her. However he had promised Gabriel. ‘He’s always thought highly of you.’
She stopped pushing the pillows around and sat back.
‘Bullshit. He’s an arsehole — and you’ve been sent here to do his dirty work.’
‘Make sure you’re doing okay without him.’
Ella let out a short raucous laugh then appraised Vivian more closely. ‘One thing’s for certain. You’re much better looking than he is. You’re a bit thin. Then again, I like thin men, and tall. And you’ve got excellent teeth. So it’s a pity you’re grinding them to pieces.’
‘Oh,’ was all he could manage. He was trying to control his lascivious thoughts. He struggled for safe things to say. ‘You look too young to be a dentist with your own surgery.’
‘I’m twenty-eight,’ Ella smiled, satisfied at her accomplishments in such a brief space of time.
‘That’s quite an achievement.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ella. ‘Funny, my folks, rich as all hell and stuck up cows, didn’t want me to be a dentist.’ She began to mimic what Vivian could only guess was her mother. ‘Revolting, someone in my family gawking into people’s mouths! Don’t they have servants for that?’
Vivian watched spellbound. She was so assured and flamboyant. How could she ever fancy someone as dull as him?
‘But I can’t complain too much. Mother did cough up for the surgery.’
‘Well maybe she has faith in you being successful. That your enterprise is worthy.’
Ella was taken aback by Vivian’s assessment. She eyed him briefly before realising that his appearance, manner and speech were of an effeminate nature. And equally surprisingly, she found this characteristic attractive.
‘You sure are different,’ she remarked.
Vivian, bewildered by her observation, quickly searched for something else to focus on. ‘It’s a nice house,’ he said appreciatively.
‘It’s a dump. Investment. Short-term. Once I’ve got my practice really going, I’m out of here.’
Vivian gave up the conversational struggle and said nothing, preferring to look at her instead. He felt himself being swept away by a fast current and was glad for it.
Ella felt his eyes upon her. ‘Hey, why don’t you ask me out to dinner? Provided you’re feeling okay.’
‘Sure,’ he replied, taken aback by her forwardness.
She waited expectantly, and then gave a short laugh.
Vivian was stumped.
‘Ask me,’ said Ella.
‘Where? When?’
‘Tonight. Eight o’clock sharp. Not somewhere cheap,’ then taking note of his clothes, she said, ‘My shout. I’ll drive too.’
‘Sounds okay to me,’ Vivian mumbled, stunned at his good fortune.
*
Helen put the book on the counter. It was The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens, who she considered the greatest writer ever. She admired his profound sense of compassion and concern for children enduring horrific adversity in nineteenth century England. In his novels adults were often depicted as selfish and evil. Children were beautiful, level-headed and kind, and sadly exploited by their elders. And Dickens, to Helen’s mind, had captured the injustice of it all magnificently.
She picked up the book again, stroking it gently, turning it in her hands. She smiled, for in her hands she held paradise. And paradise for Helen was a chaotic world contained in a neat square.
A young man came into the shop as Helen was propping up The Old Curiosity Shop beside a sign which boldly declared: Book of the Week.
She heard the slap of bare feet on the wooden floor and turned, taking a sharp breath at the sight of him.
A mass of dreadlocks bounced up and down in time to the song he was listening to on his iPod. Helen immediately pictured the debauched lifestyle such a young man must live. She looked fiercely at him as though he was a trespasser with nothing but malicious intent brewing in his pea brain.
‘Can I be of assistance?’ Her tone was icy.
The bouncing head stopped as he pulled out the earplugs and left them dangling in his hair. ‘Sorry, didn’t hear you,’ he sang.
‘Can I be of any assistance?’ She was irritated at having to repeat herself to such a moron yet was still transfixed by his dreadlocks.
He caught her mood and stiffened. ‘I’m looking for a little sci-fi, please.’ His eyelids dropped to wary slits.
Well, thought Helen, he may live an underground life but he has got some manners; picked up by accident no doubt. Sadly though, his choice of Science Fiction seemed characteristic of his generation and type. Helen determined that the young man needed re-educating.
She extended her hand to Book of the Week. ‘Now, how about this?’
Dreadlocks stepped forward and examined the cover. ‘Yeah, read it. It’s cool,’ he answered, nodding his head.
‘You’ve read it?’ she said sceptically. The bugger was lying.
‘Read all his books. The guy’s a genius.’ He paused as if determined to select the right words. Helen waited for his evaluation, expecting some inane comment.
‘A luminous social commentator of the times he lived in. A champion for the rights of children,’ said Dreadlocks.
Helen stood rigid, her mind a whirl of disbelief.
‘My favourite is Great Expectations, or maybe Bleak House. Hard Times is pretty neat too.’
She was stunned. He was smarter than she’d thought.
She was quiet for a few seconds, mulling over how wrong her judgement had been. She was turning into her mother. She didn’t want to turn into her mother, and knew she had to chew up her arrogance, bit by tiny bit, and gulp it down hard without bringing any back up.
The young man held out his hand. She shook it. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said. ‘Looks like a great set up you got here.’ He looked around, nodding his head. ‘Hey, dig the maze.’
‘Thank you. You’ll find Science Fiction over to your left. Hope you find something you like; I just wish we could keep up with demand, it’s a busy section.’
‘No worries.’
Helen waited until the young man had left the shop with his purchase, Spies in Space before she removed The Old Curiosity Shop, intending to replace it with a Science Fiction book.
She rifled through the Sci-fi section and was reduced to picking a book titled Politicians and Science Fiction: the connection. She wrote herself a note to contact Razoo to somehow persuade him to single out more science fiction.
Helen walked around the counter, and stood, inexplicably feeling a little despondent; business had been sluggish all morning. Abruptly the building seemed to let out a distinctive call, or so Helen thought. It had sounded like … Mum … Mum … like Leif calling for her, desperate to show off the red ribbon he had won at his school sports carnival. He had been happy, breathless but happy.
Helen froze, looking around her. Her heart beat fast against her chest as she tried unsuccessfully to lose the thought. Had Leif lived he’d be twenty-eight. About the same age as the dreadlocked young man who had just been in the shop. She wondered if Leif would have grown into such a fine young man. She stopped herself thinking further; there was a pathetic futility to wondering what the dead would be like if they had lived.
*
Helen telephoned Razoo for more science fiction.
‘Please,’ she implored down the phone. ‘It’s easy, just look at the covers. Science fiction books look like science fiction.’
The dogs were barking in the background, almost drowning him out until he hissed at them to shut up. Then his voice came more tentatively through the phone line. ‘How about coming around, you can pick the books. Have a cup of tea with us and a bit of a yarn.’
‘I’m sorry Razoo; I don’t have the time right now.’
‘Oh, I see.’ His words were accented with shades of hurt. Helen felt bad. As much as anything, she was petrified of the Rottweilers.
‘Leave it with me. I’ll get yer Science books.’
‘Thanks a million.’
‘Be seeing ya,’ was Razoo’s reply before hanging up. Helen heard the clunk; she stared at the telephone receiver, feeling guilty. Razoo was a lonely man whose only constant companionship were two raucous dogs and a radio.
*
She decided to close up early. It was late afternoon and the shop had been empty for hours. She strolled over to the cafe across the road. From this vantage she could search for ways to improve the façade of the bookshop. Being chilly she pulled her jacket tighter and clasped her hands around her cup of coffee
There seemed nothing more she could add. The façade appeared perfect. Today, business had been poor; only one buying customer — Dreadlocks. Why? Did business ever boom in a second-hand bookshop?
She looked up and down the path: there was no shortage of people. She stared up at the sky as if the answer to her dilemma might be written there. There was no message. The grey skies had long dissolved into blue and the air was stilling itself into gentle breezes; the strong gusty winds were moving elsewhere.
The jacarandas were covered with splashes of green and mauve. Soon summer would be here; months of hot weather lay in wait. She walked back across the street and into the shop where, once again, she examined the contents of the till. It was only eight dollars more than this morning.
She had just sat down behind the counter when Vivian sauntered in. She pounced on him. ‘Where have you been?’
‘At Ella’s. Had a talk with her.’
‘You did?’ Helen was astonished, though she suspected it had been a one-sided talk. ‘What did Ella have to say?’
‘Lots.’
I bet she did, thought Helen. ‘Did you talk about her getting back with Gabriel?’
‘Nope. I asked her out to dinner.’
Helen gawked at her son in utter disbelief. ‘You did what?’
‘Asked her out to dinner.’
‘To talk about Gabriel and …?’
‘No. It’s a date with me.’
Helen’s mind was a fog of confusion. ‘I thought she was Gabriel’s girlfriend.’
‘Once. They had a fight. Ella’s not interested in him now.’ Helen waited for more; it didn’t come. ‘Can I borrow a little money?’ Vivian asked.
Helen lifted one hundred and fifty-eight dollars from the cash register. For the briefest moment she looked in the empty till then sighed and handed the money over to him. ‘No need to pay it back, you’ve had zilch wages from this place.’ She was happy for him. Vivian had actually done something proactive.
‘Place looks good,’ Vivian offered, folding the notes into his pocket.
‘It’d look better if we had some customers.’
‘Takes time. We’ve only been open two weeks.’
Helen gave her son a smile; he was showing signs of optimism.
She stared out of the large window at the people walking by. They looked purposeful, as if aiming for destinations far more important than a second-hand bookshop. What would it take to break their concentration and lure them in? She considered the effect of throwing her body onto the pavement to divert human traffic into her bookshop — a truly noble destination.
Vivian interrupted her cogitations. ‘You’ll like Ella,’ he said as if trying to reassure his mother. ‘She’s not at all like Gabriel said.’
She woke as if from a dream. ‘Ella, that’s a beautiful name.’
*
Jim might have sold the shop yet he couldn’t quite leave it alone. Helen wasn’t surprised to see him when he first started dropping in; after all this had been his home, his life, and she had got it all for a steal.
He always arrived in his three-piece suit and his trademark fume of whisky and cigarette smoke. Once he’d brought a miserable bunch of flowers and a cheap box of chocolates. She feigned gratitude but later dumped them in the kitchen bin.
He dished out advice. ‘You gotta be friendlier. Talk nice. And dress a bit … more … you know … sexy? You got a nice figure. Show it off.’
Helen snapped back, ‘This is a bookshop, not a brothel.’
Jim’s body wobbled backwards on hearing the sharpness in her voice. ‘Scuse me, only trying to help.’ Then he wobbled forwards again as he regained his confidence. But the tremors in his hands were still there, always there, a permanent fixture after so many years of hard drinking.
‘We’re managing just fine. Would you put the cigarette out? Please.’
Humiliated by her request, Jim smiled slyly, then dropped his cigarette to the shop floor and crushed it with the heel of his shoe.
Helen remained silent. Jim was a nuisance whom she tolerated out of guilt. All her attempts to colour him, in her mind, as some sort of conniving bastard who’d earned his bad luck, had failed.
Helen began to wish the shop had been bought under different circumstances; that she had not taken advantage of a hapless drunk down on his luck.