mory of Aunty Kiss, by Sarah Swatridge, Tetley’s Tea

 

In Memory of Aunty Kiss by Sarah Swatridge

Tetley’s Tea

‘Smile,’ said Jenny’s mother, Gladys. ‘Aunty Kiss wouldn’t want you to be sad.’

            ‘It’s been a difficult week, admitted Jenny. ‘Losing Aunty Kiss was bad enough, although she didn’t suffer. Then I went for an interview and didn’t get the job.’

            ‘Are you very disappointed?’ asked Gladys as she poured them some Tetley tea. With Aunty Kiss it had to be Tetley’s tea.

            ‘It seemed a friendly place to work but I really wanted to be on the reception desk instead of in the accounts office. I told the woman I’m better with people than with paperwork.’

            ‘At least you were honest. It just wasn’t meant to be.’

            Jenny shook her head. She gazed into her cup of Tetley’s. ‘And the third thing, because bad things always seem to come in threes, was that Kenneth’s teacher called me in to speak to her.’ She let out a weary sigh. ‘He’s playing up at school. She’s concerned that his reading and writing aren’t as good as they ought to be.’

            ‘And what do you think?’ Gladys asked Kenneth as he came into the kitchen. ‘What are you good at in school?’

            His eyes lit up. ‘I always win the running races. No one can beat me. I’m not the oldest but I am the fastest.’

            Grandma Gladys smiled but Kenneth suddenly looked serious. ‘I do try with my reading but it’s hard.’ Changing the subject, his grandmother turned to Jenny and said,

            ‘I’ve been sorting out Aunty Kiss’s things. Was there anything in particular you wanted to remember her by?’

            While Jenny was thinking, Kenneth asked, ‘Did she kiss everyone?’

            ‘No, but she always signed her Christmas cards with nothing but a kiss.’

            ‘What I’d really treasure are The Herbert Stories. I could read them to Ken.’

            ‘The Herbert Stories? I’m not sure what you mean.’

            ‘It was a lovely old picture book. A large book, beautifully bound, and there were colourful pictures of Herbert doing his wonderful deeds. I remember her reading it to me whenever I stayed with her.’ Her mother looked puzzled.

            ‘Kiss didn’t have many books. I can’t think what you mean. You’d better come and help me sort through her things.’

            Sorting out Aunty Kiss’s house brought back many happy memories. Even the smell made Jenny smile.

            ‘That’s better,’ said her mum. ‘I don’t like to see you so down.’

            They flicked through scrapbooks, and reminisced over holiday souvenirs.

            Kenneth called to them to look out of the bedroom window. He’d been playing in the garden and had collected sticks. He’d made the word OXO out of sticks.

            ‘OXO?’ asked Gladys.

            ‘No,’ said Kenneth, ‘It’s my new signature. The circle’s a hug, then a kiss and another hug. One for each of you.’

            Gran smiled and Jenny felt a lump in her throat. She caught her mum’s eye. ‘I know he’s not a bad lad; I just want him to do well at school.’

            ‘I’m sure he’ll do just fine.’

            Jenny was no longer listening. In a corner she’d found the large beautifully illustrated book she had enjoyed so much when she was young. It was the only story Aunty Kiss had ever read to her but now she couldn’t recall whether it was because she’d always asked for the same one, or because it was the only book Kiss had owned.

            Carefully she flicked through the pages. She’d always loved Herbert. He was so strong. He’d fought lions, nine-headed monsters and man-eating birds. No matter what challenge was set, he always went for it and came up trumps. Jenny wiped away her tears.

            ‘Have you found it?’ asked her mum. Jenny nodded.

            ‘It wasn’t Herbert, but Hercules,’ she said aloud. In her heart she knew Aunty Kiss had always called him Herbert. And, the more she thought about it, her aunt hadn’t ‘read’ the words, but retold the story, because it was slightly different every time. Not that it mattered.

             ‘Mum?’ she asked as an idea occurred to her, ‘did Aunty Kiss have problems reading and writing?’ It had been an innocent question but she saw the shadow cross her mum’s face.

            ‘It wasn’t her strong point. But she was a marvellous cook, never needed a recipe. She taught me all she knew. She was a kind soul, too. Nothing was ever too much trouble.’

            Jenny found she was smiling again. She felt a bit lighter now. ‘Oh well, you can’t be good at everything, and we all have something we can excel at.’ Jenny hugged The Herbert Stories and thought, with excitement, about the challenges that lay ahead.

 

In Memory of Aunty Kiss was originally published in WI Home & Country in December 2005.

About the author

 Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She now has a collection of twenty uplifting short stories called Feel-Good Stories along with her large print novels available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter. 

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No Room for Romance by Sarah Swatridge, glass of red

 ‘So, you’re definitely moving?’ my best friend, Maureen asked.

‘Well, we haven’t had the estate agent round, but I’m beginning to declutter. We’ve had a look at a couple of properties near Paul and his wife. It’s a bit more expensive, but we’re planning on downsizing.’

Maureen made a face, ‘It’s only an hour and a half on a good day,’ I said, rather optimistically. ‘I hope you’ll visit.’

‘Of course, Sue,’ she promised. ‘I understand you’ll want to be near Paul now there’s a baby on the way.’

Brian and I had been late starters. We’d met and married in our forties. Paul was our only child. We wanted to be part of his life and you can’t be hands-on if you’re too far away.

‘I’m trying to get Brian to part with his videos. I’m surprised the VCR still works!’

‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ Maureen said. She’d always had a soft spot for him, ever since he’d asked her to help him make me a birthday cake. ‘He’s such a romantic. He’s the only man I know to carefully transfer his wedding photo, year after year, into the front of his new diary. And he proudly shows it off as though you were newly-weds!’

‘That’s because most men you know, don’t have a paper diary any more,’ I pointed out, but she wasn’t having any of it.

Apart from the precious video collection, Brian was decluttering too. Already the house looked bigger.

The estate agent rang. ‘Yes, Wednesday’s good for me,’ I told him, checking my Smartphone. ‘Hold on a moment while I look in my husband’s diary.’ Wednesday was clear, so I booked the appointment.

It was only then I realised there was no photo. I checked the front and back and snapped it shut. I shouldn’t really be looking in his diary; it was like opening his letters, and I’d never do that.

I threw myself into spring cleaning to blot out the hurt. For the first time in 30 years our wedding photo hadn’t been glued to the inner page of Brian’s diary.

By the time he’d returned from the allotment, I’d boxed up our CD collection for the charity shop. I could get all the music we needed from my phone. 

‘Trust me,’ I told him. ‘We can still listen to them.’ To prove the point, I made a random choice. Brian smiled as Andy Williams sang out, ‘You’re too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you…’

‘Must we get rid of these too?’ he asked as he spotted the DVDs neatly stacked in another box. 

‘Who needs these when we’ve got Netflicks?’ I asked. He nodded but dug his heels in when it came to his books. He’d been a librarian and I knew I’d never convert him to a Kindle.

Our home was worth more than we thought, according to the estate agent, not that it would make much difference in Paul’s area.

I felt a twinge of guilt as Brian reached for his diary and I got my phone as we arranged for the photographer to visit. Now wasn’t the time to ask about our wedding photo.

I still hadn’t mentioned it the following day when Brian marched in with a bunch of carnations – my favourite.

‘Good thinking,’ I said. ‘They’ll look good in the photos.’

‘I didn’t buy them for that,’ Brian looked surprised. ‘I bought them for you. I know you like them, especially the orange ones.’

So, romance hasn’t gone, just the photograph. I bit my tongue.

The professional photographer snapped away and I couldn’t help feeling sad at leaving our old home, but we both knew it was the right decision. Brian squeezed my hand and I knew he must be feeling the same.

Fortunately, the first couple who viewed our house, put in a good offer which we accepted. We had a glass of red, to celebrate. It gave me the courage to ask about our old wedding photo.

‘Ah!’ Brian said with a huge grin. ‘I thought you’d never ask. I keep it close to my heart, on my phone!’

‘On your phone?’ I echoed. I couldn’t believe he’d gone digital. At last!

I watched as he took his ancient, but still working, Nokia, out of his breast pocket. Proudly he turned it round for me to see where he’d stuck our wedding picture to the back of the phone. It wallpapered over the camera, but then he never used that, so what did it matter? 

And I’d thought, for a moment, he’d moved into the 21st century!

I smiled, relieved he still loved me, and kissed his cheek. I wouldn’t really have him any other way. He’s still the most romantic man I’ve ever known.

About the author

Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She now has a collection of twenty uplifting short stories called Feel-Good Stories along with her large print novels available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Purrfect Job by Sarah Swatridge, full cream milk

I’m an animal lover myself and as I look around the office, I can’t help but think of my co-workers… as dogs. If I was a dog, which I’m not, I’d probably be seen as a poodle due to my tight curly hair.

Firstly, there’s Trevor who sits in the corner. He’s small like a Dachshund, neatly packaged! He works on the financial side of things. He likes his books to balance right down to the last penny. If it doesn’t tally he goes back to the beginning and starts all over again checking and double checking. I’m told he never gives up. I admire that in someone.

Then there’s Chantel who reminds me of an Afghan hound. She has long, streaked hair that’s yellow, auburn, and brown. To be perfectly honest, it’s a bit of a mess. She’s tall and big boned. Some might say elegant. She’s definitely not sleek like a greyhound. She’s friendly but scatty.

I haven’t had much need to deal with Chas. He’s very English, posh accent, polite but I can’t tell if it’s all a show. Is he trying to be something he’s not? To look at him, he makes me think of a Fox Terrier. He’s a short man with a square beard. I can almost imagine him with a little wet nose. I like his gentlemanly manners and he’s popular.

As soon as I saw Doug, I said to myself, he’s a Pug. He’s squat, small, solid and not what you’d call handsome. I’m not sure how old he is, but there are signs of wrinkles. He’s a Rep and in my opinion, he spends far too much time sitting. He did bring buy us all muffins to have with our afternoon cuppa. I was touched he included me: I’m only a temp after all. My aunt had a Pug called Dexter, and I loved him.

Now Sammy is the complete opposite. She’s the office junior and looks about twelve but told me she’s nineteen. I get exhausted just watching her. She almost runs around the building collecting this, dropping off that, moving gracefully. She does have a desk but hardly ever sits down. I wish I had such energy. I thought she might refuse Doug’s muffin but she woofed it down. Sammy’s the whippet.

Everyone’s been pleasant, but something’s niggling at me.

Finally, there’s the boss. He’s a Great Dane and no mistake. The other men are slight, but Mr Townsend’s huge. He has to duck down to get through the doors and has to turn slightly sideways because he’s all muscle. I was relieved he didn’t offer to shake my hand, I’m sure he’d have crushed some bones.

I’ve only heard him speak once when he bellowed at Sammy to run and fetch him a coffee. She says he’s a gentle giant but I’ve yet to be convinced. I watched as he left his office on his way to a meeting. He stepped on a paper cup that had been knocked off a tray. He flattened it and didn’t even notice what he’d done. I wonder if he’s aware of his own strength? I certainly wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of him, despite what Sammy says in his defence.

I’m home in good time which is great, especially this week as my neighbour’s on holiday and I’ve promised to feed her cat and give the poor thing a bit of attention while she’s away.

Willow is waiting for me as I come up the road. She bounds over to say hello and winds herself around my legs as I search for the front door key. I abandon my bag in the hallway, grab next door’s key and let her in. She ignores the cat flap and follows me. She isn’t hungry except for attention. It’s my pleasure to make a fuss of her. Willow’s a tabby with the softest fur. Within moments she’s on my lap, getting comfortable.

Having stroked her for a few minutes and told her about my day, she begins to purr. I’ve promised myself I’ll get a cat once I’ve got a stable job. I make my decision. I’ll finish my temporary contract as agreed, but won’t be looking for a permanent contract with this particular company.

I’ll continue as a temp. It enables me to suss out the staff, the job, and the benefits, before I commit. You see I can’t very well put on my application form that I’d prefer to work with ‘cat people’ now can I? Even when I had a Saturday job at the cattery the owner kept a dog rather than a cat! So you can never be sure.

It looks like Willow and I are settled for the evening. I’m sure my neighbour won’t mind if I stay a while longer to keep Willow happy.

‘Thank you,’ I say as I stroke her. ‘I should have realised that actually I was a cat person all along.’

 

 

About the author

  

Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She now has a collection of twenty uplifting short stories called Feel-Good Stories along with her large print novels available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Hand on Heart by Sarah Swatridge, hot sweet tea,

Lizzie ran the Sixty Plus Club but the only members still in their 60s were the volunteers! She couldn’t believe how spry and active the majority of her members were.

‘I hope I’ll be as nimble and alert when I’m your age!’ she often said to Gillian. ‘What’s your secret?’

‘Nothing special, but I do look after myself. I have a good walk every day and eat plenty of veg. I grow quite a bit in my garden now I’ve got raised beds. I’ve never been a big drinker, and I keep my brain active by learning new things. Did I tell you I’m learning Spanish?’

‘Really?’

‘It’s like an online game. The lad next door introduced me to it, and now I’m addicted. I’m even thinking of going to Spain next year to test it out.’

‘Good for you,’ Lizzie smiled. ‘You’re an inspiration!’

            Every week Lizzie would call on her neighbour, John, and invite him along, but each time he’d have an excuse.

‘I think he’s melting,’ she admitted to Carol, another of the volunteers.

‘I just don’t like to think of him alone when he could be here, having a laugh and making friends.’

‘Some people are quite happy with their own company,’ Carol reminded her.

‘I know, but when Rosa was alive, he was a sociable person. He did things on his own, as well as with her.’

Unfortunately, when Lizzie next saw John at the post office, he’d been unenthusiastic about the Sixty Plus Club, so she decided to leave it a while before trying again.

So, she couldn’t have been more surprised when he turned up a week later just as she was setting out the chairs.

‘Am I OK to come?’ he asked.

‘No problem,’ Lizzie smiled, ‘There’s always plenty of tea and cake.’

However, this week, the rest of the gentlemen were celebrating Ron’s birthday with a pie and pint at the local pub, so the ladies were having a pamper session.

‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ Lizzie said as she handed him a cup of tea. ‘I’d have warned you. We normally play Bingo or have a quiz but today’s a bit different. I could give you a lift to The Wheatsheaf if you’d like?’

‘No problem,’ John laughed when she explained. ‘My grand-daughters used to paint my nails. They once gave me a full makeover, but my daughter soon put a stop to that. They’d used her expensive makeup! We were all in the dog house.’

The seniors took their seats as they drifted in. A few walked, others came on the community bus, one or two drove themselves and Gillian and Eileen cycled, despite being in their 80s.

‘Will you be alright with a cuppa and some cake?’ Carol asked John.

‘Aren’t you going to do my nails?’ John asked and chuckled at Carol’s embarrassment.

‘Of course, if that’s what you want.’

‘I’ll do him,’ Gillian volunteered, having taken off her high viz cycling jacket. She rubbed her hands; they were cold in spite of her woolly mittens.

He pulled his seat up to the table and chose a deep red colour. ‘My grand-daughters loved to pretend to wash and comb my hair,’ he told her as he ran his fingers through the few strands he had left. Gillian giggled as she carefully trimmed and tidied his nails.

‘Your hands are very dry,’ she said. ‘Do you use hand cream?’

‘You sound like my daughter,’ John smiled. ‘She gave me some for my birthday, said it was particularly good after working on the allotment.’

‘And have you used it?’

‘I would,’ he said. ‘But I can’t remember where I put it. I’m sure it was in the garage with my wellies, but I’m blowed if I can find it.’

‘It’ll turn up,’ Gillian said as she took one of John’s hands in hers and gently massaged in some moisturiser. He closed his eyes and relaxed.

‘John?’ Gillian said, ‘John, are you alright?’  there was panic in her voice. ‘John, speak to me.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said as he stirred. ‘Better than fine. It’s a long time since I had a young lady hold my hand. I think I must have drifted off, thinking of my Rosa all those years ago when we were first courting.’

‘Young lady!’ Gillian laughed. ‘I’ve just turned eighty!’

‘Well, I’m eighty-two, so you’re younger than me!’ John replied. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you.’

‘Here, have a hot sweet tea, it’s good for shock.’ Carol passed a pale green teacup toward John but he looked at Gillian.

‘I think she’s more in need than I am,’ he laughed just as Lizzie rushed in with the first aid kit in one hand and her phone in the other.

‘No worries,’ Gillian smiled, still holding John’s hands. ‘You should moisturise your hands, and your feet, every night, before you go to bed.’

‘Do you?’ he asked. ‘Your hands are very soft.’

‘Of course. I take good care of myself,’ Gillian told him. ‘There’s no one else to do it.’

‘Have you finished with John now?’ one of the other seniors asked with a grin.

‘I haven’t painted his nails yet,’ Gillian told her.

‘Don’t worry, my hands look better than they’ve done in a long time. Thank you.’

Gillian moved on to her next ‘client’, while everyone chattered about the forthcoming festive Supper.

‘We’ve booked this room for Christmas eve. Gillian makes a great mulled wine and Lizzie’s ordered us a fish and chip supper. I’m sure we could squeeze in one more?’

‘Yes please! I hate spending Christmas eve alone.’

‘And what about the big day itself?’ Gillian asked. ‘I bought the smallest turkey there was, but I’ll still be eating it in January. You’d be doing me a favour by joining me.’

‘I couldn’t…’ began John but the other ladies chorused,

‘You could!’

‘Well, you’ll have to come to me next year,’ John told her.

‘I won’t promise,’ Gillian told him. ‘I’m considering a Spanish cruise.’

‘Phenomenal,’ laughed John.

‘You speak Spanish?’ Gillian gasped.

‘Rosa was Spanish and we often went to visit her family.’

‘Perfecta.’

‘Gillian, sit down a moment and let me do your hands. You deserve a bit of pampering too.’ Gillian sat and let John give her a welcome hand massage.

 

He gallantly helped ladies on with their coats at the end of the session, and passed Gillian her cycle clips.

‘You will come to the Christmas eve fish and chip night, won’t you?’ Gillian asked, clutching her helmet.

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ he said. ‘And it’ll stop my daughter fussing. She’s got herself in a right tizz this year because it’s their turn to go to her in-laws and she says she feels guilty abandoning me.’

‘It’s a difficult time of year, and trying to please everyone is impossible,’ Gillian said quietly.

‘Well, you’ve solved the problem. I can honestly say, hand on heart, that I’m going out for fish and chips with friends on Christmas eve and have been invited out for Christmas dinner too. Gillian, do you want me to bring a Christmas pud and some wine?’

‘Why not?’ Gillian smiled. ‘I don’t normally bother with puddings. It’ll make it more of an occasion.’

‘I suppose I ought to thank you too,’ John nodded at Lizzie.

Lizzie smiled; her persistence had paid off, and that was more than enough.

About the author

  

Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She now has a collection of twenty uplifting short stories called Feel-Good Stories along with her large print novels available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Sweet Smell of Success by Sarah Swatridge, a pot of tea with shortbread

1920s London

Miss Rose headed for the largest department store in London confident she would be successful. She wore her best dress and the new gloves her mother had given her. She’d managed to get a lift with a neighbour. He’d bought an ex-army van after the war. It was about as comfortable as a Charabanc, but at least it had a roof which didn’t disturb her hair. That was important today as she wanted to make a good impression.

It was still early so she had time to admire the fancy displays in the shop windows. Splendid though they were, she couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable by the contrast to the poor waifs who slept in doorways when the workhouses were full.

She heard the noise of the large doors being opened for business and felt a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation.

A handful of shoppers walked in dazzled by the bright lights and beautiful cut-glass chandeliers. Annie Rose had to remind herself she was not there to shop. She was there to do business. This was her chance to make a difference.

Annie’s father was a chemist. He’d always encouraged her to experiment with lotions and potions. From an early age she’d been given a corner of his laboratory.

Meanwhile her mother was a horticulturalist and practically lived in the garden. Over the years Annie lapped up everything her parents taught her. She spent her youth distilling rose petals and giving it to friends.

“Can I help you madam?” a suited gentleman asked. “Our Ladies department is on the first floor.”           

“I’d like to speak with the manager,” Annie smiled hoping he’d realise she wasn’t about to make a complaint.

“If it’s about a job…” he lowered his voice, “You need to use the rear entrance.”

“Oh no, nothing of the sort,” she replied. “If he’s not available now, I’m happy to wait, or to make an appointment.”

“His office is on the very top floor. I’d take the lift if I were you.”

The lift jolted to a halt. This was it! Annie took a deep breath and headed down the corridor. It smelled of polished wood. At the end was a room with a large desk in the middle. To one side there was a much smaller desk where an elegant woman was typing.

            An older woman with a dark suit and severe haircut sat behind the main desk.

“I’d like to see the manager please,” Annie said.

“Is Mr Sherman expecting you?”

“No, but…”

“What’s it about?” the secretary asked as she paused over his diary and looked at Annie with steel blue eyes.

“I make my own perfumes and I…”

“We have a buyer who deals with that sort of thing. His name is Mr Franklyn and his office is on the third floor. Good day.”

Annie hesitated. She would go and see this Mr Franklyn, but not today. She was determined to do this herself and not to ask her influential parents for help. The elegant woman from the other desk stopped typing and approached.

“I’ll escort you back to the lift,” she said and steered Annie away.

There was nothing more Annie could do that day. However, the experience got her thinking. Both the women in Mr Sherman’s office wore business-like suits. It wasn’t her style but she decided to give it a try, anything was worth a go in order to get a big department store to sell her fragrance.

She returned the following day in a below the knee smart skirt and matching jacket. She had a friend in the fashion business who’d lent her the outfit. Once again she arrived early because she’d heard that Mr Sherman and his managers often walked round the store inspecting the displays and no doubt checking whether the employees were doing their jobs properly.

She headed for Mr Franklyn’s office on the third floor. There were already two men waiting to sell their wares. Mr Franklyn entered in a starched shirt and collar. He called one of the men by name and took him into his office, the other was turned away. It seemed Annie was totally invisible to him.

“But Mr Franklyn,” she called. “At least take this sample of my perfume for your wife.”

She held out a little glass bottle for him, but he waved her away. Disappointed she headed to the restaurant for a cuppa.

A string quartet played quietly in the background. The room was light and airy with high ceilings painted in a pale green. Palm trees were festooned around in large pots and each table was neatly set with pastel pink tablecloths and serviettes.

          Just as she was about to order a much needed pot of tea there was a commotion near the entrance. She noticed the musicians sit up properly. Mr Sherman and his wife were standing at the far end of the room. Annie recognised them from the photographs she’d seen in the newspapers. There was no mistaking them nor the weedy Mr Franklyn who stood to one side held up by his starched collar.

Annie reached inside her bag and pulled out her bottle of perfume. She stood and began to walk slowly, but purposefully, toward the important people at the end of the room. She was so determined to give Mrs Sherman her fragrance she didn’t see the large hat box beside a table. She tripped, tried to steady herself, but in doing so let the perfume bottle drop to the ground.

The sound of tinkling glass filled the air just as the quartet finished their piece. Two ladies gasped in surprise. The owner of the hat box came to Annie’s aid.

Meanwhile Mr Sherman and his entourage entered the seating area heading for a large table in the middle. They crunched through the glass on the floor making it even more difficult for the waiters to discreetly clear it away.

“Ooh that smells lovely,” one lady said fanning herself.

“Perhaps we can buy it on the perfume counter?” suggested her friend.

“What’s it called?” they asked the waitress, who looked bewildered.

“It’s called Elixir,” Annie said and looked over in Mr Franklyn’s direction.   “It’s delightful.” Mrs Sherman nodded at Franklyn, as if giving him her approval.

Swiftly he moved over to the ladies who’d been taking tea, “It’s a new line. Look out for it in our Perfume department over the next few weeks,” he told them and then gave a little bow to Annie.

“Would you care to join me?” he asked, “A quiet table for two!” he said to the passing waiter, “And a large pot of tea and …shortbread.”

Annie had little experience of the retail world but being a bright and sensible woman she’d made it her business to do some research. For many years she’d dreamt of producing her own perfumes on a larger scale. She’d planned it all out in her head and more recently on paper. Nothing would give her more delight than to be able to employ young girls from the workhouse to help her produce Elixir in larger quantities.

        “I admit to being impressed. You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Mr Franklyn told her, “You certainly seem to have all the answers, but can you deliver your first batch within the month?”

“I can,” Annie said knowing she would go without sleep if necessary. They agreed a price and shook hands.

As Mr Franklyn was showing Annie out, Mrs Sherman came over.

“Franklyn, I shall require half a dozen bottles when it arrives. Please have them individually gift wrapped and charge it to my account.”

Annie hurried off excited at the prospect of sharing her good fortune. Now she was in a position to employ some wee waifs and help them out of the gutter.

 About the author

Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She now has a collection of twenty uplifting short stories called Feel-Good Stories along with her large print novels available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

A Sweet Tooth by Sarah Swatridge, hot chocolate

 “We shouldn’t be in here,” Heather whispered as she tried to steer her husband, John, to the door of the sweet shop.

“I know,” he said pulling a sad face. “Just let me look?”

 Heather hesitated. They were enjoying a day out. John had patiently waited while she’d been in several of the second-hand bookshops. That was her guilty pleasure. Surely John deserved to indulge a little too?

 She was torn. The quaint, bay-windowed shop was fascinating; shelves and shelves of glass jars full of sweets. Even just reading their names brought back so many happy memories. It was like being a child again. She could almost feel the thruppenny bit in her hand that her nan had given her.

 “Oh look, sour apples, I never liked them, although my best friend did. Mind you, she loved those boiled lemon sweets filled with a sharp sherbet,” Heather winced at the thought.

 “My brother liked those Chocolate Eclairs and he loved Aniseed Balls,” John said pointing to various jars.

 Heather glanced at the door wondering if they should just go now. There was so much temptation and John had been diagnosed as pre-diabetic. So far, he’d done tremendously well, giving up sugar in tea and coffee and cutting out puddings and cakes. Nowadays, he needed a belt to keep his trousers up!

“Let’s go,” Heather linked her arm through John’s. “I’m so proud of you, don’t blow it all here.”

“I’m only reminiscing,” he gave her a smile and squeezed her arm. “What was your favourite?” he asked.

 “Liquorice,” Heather said immediately, but suddenly something else caught her eye. “Cough Candy! I haven’t had those in years. Oh, and Flying saucers, remember them?”

 John nodded as he methodically searched the jars. Heather knew what he was looking for. His favourite had always been Mint Toffees. She wanted to remind him about his blood test at the end of the week, but she knew he was all too aware of that, and he really didn’t want to end up taking tablets every day and putting his health at risk. She bit her tongue.

 “Can you believe it,” John shook his head. “All these sweets and no Mint Toffees!” His face dropped; his shoulders slumped, as he made for the exit.

 “Excuse me,” a woman said as she replenished a jar of Humbugs. “Did I hear you say you couldn’t find the Mint Toffees?”

“Yes but…”

 “Roger!” the woman said in a disapproving teacher’s voice. She didn’t need to say another word. The man behind the counter had turned scarlet.

“I can’t help it,” he mumbled and looked guiltily down at his feet. The woman marched to the counter and bent down only to retrieve an almost empty jar labelled Mint Toffees.

 “I’ll have a quarter please. Sorry, a hundred grams.” Heather said, thinking she’d hide them until after John’s blood test and then limit him to one a day, or possibly as a weekend treat? In moderation, of course.

The woman emptied what was left in the jar onto her weighing scales.

“It comes to one hundred and forty grams, is that ok?” Roger had gone pale.

“It’s the way to my husband’s heart,” Heather explained. “Believe me, you’ll make his day.”

The woman poured the wrapped sweets into a pink and white candy-striped paper bag.

“It’s not only the way to my husband’s heart,” the shopkeeper said, “it’s the way to the dentist!”. Roger gave a tooth-less grin.

About the author 

Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She also writes novels, usually historical, and has a growing number of large print books available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter. 

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