The Mum Who Got Her Life Back. Fiona Gibson

Чтение книги онлайн.

       Chapter Three

       Jack

      Well, I messed up there all right. I completely forgot that Lori had asked for ‘that squidgy bath stuff’ and not bubble bars or face wash or any of the other stuff I ended up buying. It was just, the woman who’d helped me … I’d been so mesmerised. I’d completely forgotten what I’d gone in for. How could I focus on shopping efficiently when I was transfixed by the golden flecks in her greenish eyes? She’d been so patient and friendly, I’d just grabbed everything she suggested.

      I know she’d only been doing her job, but … had she been flirting a tiny bit?

      No, that’s just called ‘being friendly to customers’, you fool. They probably have training days about it, with role-play and everything. Still, it had worked a treat. On my way out, I’d noticed a soap the size of a dustbin lid propped up on a shelf. I’d have bought that, too, if she’d recommended it.

      Back at work now – I’m the manager of a charity shop a few streets away – I realise I forgot to pick up any lunch. But no matter. Iain, one of our volunteers, offers to grab something for me while he’s out. I ask for a chicken sandwich; he returns with a duck wrap and an enormous cheese scone.

      ‘That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’ he asks, ever eager to please.

      ‘Yeah, it’s fine, thanks,’ I say quickly, sensing a ‘situation’ brewing now as Mags, another volunteer, has emerged from the back room where donations are sorted, and is now slotting paperbacks onto the bookshelf.

      ‘Leave the books alone,’ shouts Iain, a keen reader of dated how-to manuals, who regards the book section as ‘his’.

      ‘I’m just putting new stuff out,’ Mags retorts, pink hair clip askew, lipsticked mouth pulled tight. Although it’s hard to put an age on her – our volunteer application forms don’t require a date of birth – I would guess mid-forties. She favours stonewashed jeans and floaty tops, usually made from cheesecloth, encrusted with beading around the neck. ‘You’re not the boss round here,’ she adds, glaring at Iain.

      ‘I’m deputy manager,’ he announces.

      ‘Says who?’

      ‘Says everyone, actually. Says Jack!’ He turns to me for confirmation, and I shrug. Although no such position exists, I – along with most of the volunteers – am happy to go along with his self-appointed elevated status, just as we willingly accept Iain’s instant coffees made with water from the hot tap. He works hard, coming in virtually every day, with utter disregard for the rota; he was visibly unsettled when I reminded him that we’d be closed for the days between Christmas and New Year.

      During the couple of years he’s been volunteering for us, I’ve been to his flat several times. The last time involved escorting him home when he’d had ‘a turn’ whilst steam-cleaning some trousers in the shop’s tiny back room. As far as I’ve been able to gather, his only regular visitor is Una, the elderly lady upstairs who helps with his dog and tricky matters he struggles to deal with, like filling in forms and making calls on his behalf (Iain doesn’t like using the phone). Like with Mags, it’s hard to guess at his age, although I’ve surmised early thirties. He lives with his ageing mongrel, Pancake (‘’cause he likes to lie flat’), and has a liking for what he calls ‘found furniture’: i.e. the stuff people have left out on the pavement to be taken away by the council. Bookshelves, occasional tables СКАЧАТЬ