A Surprise on the Cards

For the umpteenth time, the door chimes merrily play Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and another satisfied customer leaves the shop. As usual, the melody fails to instil in me even a sliver of good cheer. With Mom dying on me last December, I've been dreading being alone this Christmas.
Funny how buying gifts and cards for loved ones makes people happy: And how watching them doing this, can make a lonely person sad.
'Have you any fortieth birthday cards “to wife” please dear?' asks a rain coated man.
'Yes. They're right in front of you sir. Under the heading - forty!'
Forty. Oh my gosh - I almost forgot. Tomorrow's my fortieth birthday.
And what do I have to show for forty years? A steady job, with a reasonable income but precious little time to enjoy spending it - and more importantly no one to spend it with.
'Hello Harriet.' It's Mr Gwynn. He's a nice old chap whose wife is disabled; crippled with arthritis she is. He thinks the world of her.
'I'll take this lovely card; oh and these two miniature teddies will be just the job to put in my Edith's stocking to keep the orange and apple company.'
Such a lovely sense of humour he has, and never miserable.
'Will you be hanging your stocking up tonight Harriet?'
'Yes Mr Gwynn, if I can find one without any holes in it.’
He chuckled. 'Then tomorrow I suppose its Christmas dinner with some lucky man eh?'
'Of course it will be.' (I could not bring myself to dampen his spirits with the truth). Let's think - what men do I actually know? The postman - milkman; and of course there's Fred, the dustbin man. Fred has actually asked me to marry him several times. Too many drawbacks there though - not least of which would be unearthing the contents of his turn-ups when washing his trousers. I mean like most dustmen, he does like spreading his work around does Fred. Besides, he'd be unable to keep me in the manner to which I’d like to be accustomed, once he starts drawing his old-age pension in a couple of years time.
Of course, there's that nice bloke who's been coming in the shop this past month; Rod, he said his name is. That's short for Rodney I suppose. When I think about it, he never actually buys anything. Just looks around then comes and has a quick chat, and then he’s gone.
I knew a Rodney once at Hill Green Comprehensive School. Rodney James; we were in the same class. I remember when he took me to the pictures to see The Sound of Music. My favourite ever film. He was a funny lad; oh I don't mean there was anything wrong with him. No, he was always making me laugh - always joking. They say fat people are jolly, and Rodney was certainly that. Fat and jolly. I suppose some girls were put off by his size and some of them used to sneer at him. But I liked him a lot because he was nice. I was sad when his family left the district. That's the trouble with living in a big city; when people move home it can be miles away: I never see any of the old crowd any more.
'Hallo darling,' says a spivvy looking bloke, slouching drunkenly across the counter, his alcoholic breath attacking my sensitive nostrils. 'How much is yer mistletoe?' Then puckering his lips: 'And if I buy some will it be worth me while?'
'I don't sell mistletoe.'
'Don't sell mistletoe? What sort of a greengrocery shop is this?'
'It's the sort that doesn't sell greengrocery; just cards; and gifts that look nothing like sprouts and cabbage. The greengrocery shop is next door.'
He lurches and wobbles his way out, his face now matching the bright red of his nose. The strains of Rudolf once more lower my spirits.
'Have you any musical cards?' asks a severe looking man, glaring at me over steel-rimmed spectacles.
'Yes sir.'
'Have you one that plays that tune?' nodding in the door's direction.
'No I'm sorry, I haven't.'
'Are you sure?' Said as if I was Oliver Twist asking for more gruel.
'I'm very sure. We do have Silent Night - White Christmas - Hark the Herald An...'
'No I want that tune,' said petulantly while again indicating the door. 'It's my lady wife's favourite. Nothing else will do!'
I thought the phrase my lady wife went out with Oscar Wilde. It's an education running a shop.
'Perhaps you'd like to check for yourself,' in as patronizing a voice as I can manage - like Sybil Fawlty on a bad day.’
‘Perhaps I should. Where are they?'
I point them out, but he looks unseeingly.
'Where! where!?' impatiently.
'There sir. Where it says - musical cards,' despite my efforts to restrain her, there's Sybil again.
He won't find what he hopes he will but the search hopefully will occupy him awhile – keep him off my case.
Wonderful - he's back already.
'Are you sure you haven't got any? Perhaps in your stock-room.'
'This is just a small shop. There isn't a stock-room.'
'No stock-room? What sort of shop has no stock-room?'
'A very small shop - sir.' If only it was a bigger shop, I'd qualify for an assistant or two then.
'Well what am I to do? My wife won't be at all happy with any other tune. You should ensure you have a comprehensive stock madam.' His turn to be patronizing.
I've had it with this bloke. My patience is not just wearing thin, it’s practically threadbare.
'Tell you what. Why don't I take the shop door off its hinges and wrap it up for you. Then you can take it home, and you can open it and shut it to your heart's content, and play Rudolf till the cows come home.'
If looks could kill that'd be me defunct and no more. Still, on his way out he did promise me he'd never darken my doorstep ever again - so there’s a positive.
I have become really stressed these past few days: It's probably a good thing I have a few days holiday owing me. I have never spoken to a customer in that fashion in the eighteen months I've been working for Greetwells. I shouldn't have spoken to him like that. I'll keep a look out for him and apologise.
What am I saying? I won't have time for that. I hardly get time to have a cup of tea. That's why my home's going to pot: The washing machine's all washed up; the fridge door's frozen solid, and the TV’s horizontal hold's lost its grip. Not that it matters, 'cause I haven't time to watch the thing anyhow. If only I had an assistant, I could nip out occasionally and get things repaired - get myself organized.
Rod's car just pulled in across the road. He's coming in. Gosh he's a good looking chap. Wonder if he's married. I expect so. All the good-looking blokes like him always are.
He gives me a little wave as he goes to the birthday section and begins looking at the cards. He's picked one and is writing something in it; and now he’s coming over with it in his hand.
'Now Harriet,' he says, all businesslike. 'I've a couple of things to tell you. Firstly, I work in the production department at Greetwells. You should've received a letter from us?'
I wasn’t expecting that.
'If you mean about the competition, I got it a month or two ago.'
'Good. So you know what it's all about.'
'Well I knew there was some sort of prize on offer for the best managed and organised shop in the group – I didn’t take a lot of notice to be honest. The closing date is - today isn't it?'
'Yes.'
'I’m afraid I don’t get much time to do any re-organizing.'
'But you have re-organized it. When you took over, the shop was run-down and making little profit. But look at it now. Everything is in its place
and easy to find, and at this moment in time your profits compare with the best; which is amazing considering how small the place is. Of course it has been noted that you sometimes stay late in your own time, tidying the place.'
'But who does the judging?'
'I cover this region, the south. The remaining areas are covered by other members of the production team. Then we all get together and compare notes. You've been observed for the last twelve months by each member of that team; for the past month by me. Congratulations Harriet you've won the competition, hands down.'
'I have?'
'A cash prize of five thousand pounds. Also, you’ll be happy to know that the greengrocer's next door is closing, and Greetwells are purchasing it in order to extend your shop. The whole place will be refurbished, and in recognition of your efforts, you'll have an assistant to help you straight after Christmas.'
'I'd no idea all this was going on,' I say, absolutely gob smacked.
'It was done secretly in order to find someone who is self-motivated and uses their own initiative. Now - secondly.' He tosses the enveloped card in his hand on to the counter in front of me. I stare at it.
'Aren't you going to open it?'
'For me?' He nods, so I rip open the envelope. A combined Christmas and Birthday card; Greetwells newest line.
'How did you know it's my fortieth?'
'Because our birth dates are the same - remember?'
I just gape at him. What d’you mean do I remember? Who are you?'
He smiles, showing straight and gleaming teeth. 'I see they're showing The Sound of Music at the Odeon. Would you like to go one evening? After all, as I remember, it was possibly your favourite movie.'
The penny drops. 'Rodney - Rodney James? B-but you were...'
'Fat,' he says. 'Yes I was wasn't I? I was also poor, but I'm not that any more either. I still live at home with Mom and Dad. I told them I'd found you again, and they’d like you to spend Christmas with us. Will you - please?'
'Oh yes, I'd love to see your family again. But - you don't know me. You don't know what I'm like.'
'I've got to know you all over again this past month. You're a nice person Harriet. In fact one of the criteria of the competition was courtesy toward the customers. You passed with flying colours.'
Thank heaven he didn't come in the shop five minutes before he did.
Mm - could be a happy Christmas after all.

ENDS