Shop manners

The personal service in the village shop is par excellence. Arriving back after my Christmas sojourn in the north of England, needing a few provisions, I walk across the forecourt and shaking the snow off my boots, push open the door.

“Here’s a parcel for you,” says Mahri, before I am even through the door. Sure enough, there on the counter is a small package.

“It must be a Christmas present,” she says, eyeing it with curiosity.

“I didn’t get my Christmas presents until after Christmas,” says Barry, gloomily. “Royal Mail couldn’t get through the snow.”

I pick up my parcel and take two steps sideways so that I am now in front of the Post Office counter. Mahri moves into the Postmistress position, and while she finds the two stamps I need, I look at my parcel. It waiaddressed to a Christopher Smith.

“It’s for a Christopher Smith,” I say, and hand it back over the shop counter (a wee short stretch) to Barry.

Mahri bangs her head with her fist.

“Oh silly me, I saw you walking towards the shop and knew I had a parcel for you, but I must have picked up the wrong one.” She ducks into the storeroom and come sback with a larger package (for me) from Amazon – a few goodies to keep me company on long winter evenings.

I ponder what could be in Christopher’s parcel. I guess I shall never know now. Equally, he will not be confused to receive five books, two CDs and one DVD box set.

The Christmas shoebox is still sitting on the shop counter.  This replaces the more traditional post office box system, whereby individuals have their own key and box, more commonly found in most places around the world, but it is far more useful and user-friendly, particularly if you don’t know someone’s address or even their surname. You just pop your card between the helpfully inserted, and highly colourful, hand-designed cardboard dividers crayoned by an artist from the local primary school: A-C; D-H; I-M; N-S; and T-Z. I check S and H. Nothing today, although a card that has been in D-H for several weeks addressed to Sarah Eastwood is still there. I wonder if this might be for me, a case of mistaken identity.

Last time I came to the shop I needed salad dressing. The only one available was in a very poncy bottle, labelled “chill, ginger and lemongrass drizzle”, looking rather out of place amongst the Kraft mayonnaise and tinned baked beans. There was no price sticker so Maureen said to pay next time I was in. Many locals run up tabs for their groceries. Barry says it’s a system that’s getting out of hand, he’s becoming a food, liquor and cigarette bank and the shop needs its cash flow. So I thought I better pay for my vinaigrette as soon as possible.  At £4.75 (“£4.75!” I say, “Blimey”) this is certainly a handy addition to Barry’s till takings today.

Needing milk, I wander over to the fridge but there are only large bottles left. The shop was closed for two days over New Year so evidently there has now been a run on staples.

“Take one of these,” says Mahri, producing a small bottle from the storeroom. “It’s past its due by date but it will last for ages. We can’t sell it so you can have it for free.” A small offset against the salad dressing, gratefully received. I just hope the Health Inspector isn’t lurking behind the fresh vegetable rack.

In the cake display case I can see that Mahri has delivered a batch of her home made scones, so I decide to enjoy one with a cup of coffee. Barry is busy serving customers, so I help myself. The coffee machine gurgles and spits out a cup of expresso but it comes out cold.

“The machine is broken – I’ll make you a pot,” Mahri explains, and stops stamping price stickers on chocolate bars to go to the shop kitchen, returning with a large plunger pot – enough coffee for several cups. Fortunately, at that moment Jean comes into the shop, shortly followed by Kate and so they join me for coffee and a natter.

I thank Kate for the freshly laid eggs – from her chickens – which she left on my doorstep the day I returned from ‘down south’.

Gillian comes in to collect her newspaper. Jeanette stops by for some groceries. Soon we are a large impromptu group, and the pot of coffee is rapidly drunk, and then another.

When I finally get back home, I find that some private benefactor must have rootled through the Christmas box after I did. In my postbox is the card for Sarah Eastwood. I open it. It is from Fiona and David. I don’t know who they are.

This is an awkward conundrum. Should I try and discover who Fiona and David are and hope that indeed, I do know them? Or should I return Sarah Eastwood’s card to the box? Either way, I feel certain I could open a can of very unpleasant worms.

Any advice on how to handle this delicate social situation would be very welcome.