Miracle on Regent Street by Ali Harris Read Free Book Online
Authors: Ali Harris
the ticket. One peacock-feather fascinator. I head straight to aisle nine and climb up the ladder, stretching to
reach the shelf where I quickly find the item. We still have three left. No need to order any more for a while. Mrs Fawsley is the only customer who buys them. She’s brought one every
December for the past ten years, according to stockroom records. I wonder what she does with so many. Maybe she’s trying to put the peacock’s tail back together again.
I smile despite myself, and put one on my head. I go to look in the mirror and laugh. Combined with the glittery, showy top the headdress makes me I look like I’m about to go on stage at
the Folies-Bergère. I do a high kick – well, to be honest, it’s more of a low kick – and then sigh as I hear another order noisily start to print.
Two orders in five minutes? Then the machine makes a loud grunt of protest and stops mid-print. Bloody thing, I think, and give it a whack. Like everything else in the store, the order machine
is knackered. I give it another hearty smack but feel safe in the knowledge that I don’t actually need to see the ticket anyway. I look at my watch. By my calculations, an order at 10.15 a.m.
on the first Thursday morning of the month can mean only one thing: Iris Jackson and her lavender soap. I glance at the ticket and nod with satisfaction as I go to the necessary aisle to retrieve a
bar of Iris’s special soap.
As I crouch to dig out the order I think about Iris Jackson. Hardy’s has been stocking her soap for years, in fact I’m pretty sure we’re the only store that sells it any more.
According to her, it’s handmade in Somerset by a group of WI women who started in business after the war, making and selling toiletries. They needed something to do to keep their enterprising
spirits up when their husbands returned and claimed back the jobs the women had been doing in their absence. Apparently Iris grew up in the village. All these years later, she still wants to
support this local enterprise, even though those women are probably long gone. I often wonder why she doesn’t just buy the soap in bulk to save her coming in, but I sense her trip to
Hardy’s is the highlight of her month.
I pop a bar in my pocket and glance at my watch to see if it’s time for my break. I always go and deliver the soap personally to Iris. It’s been a ritual of mine since I met her
shortly after I started at Hardy’s. Jenny, who was relatively new to the store, didn’t recognize Iris and said they didn’t sell her soap. Iris asked Jenny to check in the
stockroom, but when Jenny came in she got caught up in telling me how she and her husband were trying for a baby. I spent half an hour listening to her excitedly talk about what being pregnant
would be like, and the merits of religiously following Gina Ford versus the Baby Whisperer once the baby was born. She talked for so long that she forgot why she’d come to the stockroom in
the first place until she suddenly recalled the old lady who was asking about some lavender soap. When I explained that Iris was the only person who actually bought it so we kept it in the
stockroom for her rather than take up space on the shop floor, Jenny shrugged.
‘Well, she’s probably long gone now,’ she said, then looked at her watch and exclaimed, ‘Ooh, it’s time for my lunch break! I’m going to Topshop to look at
their maternity range.’
After she’d gone I went straight to the shelves where I’d stacked hundreds of the delicate little parcels that were individually wrapped in parchment paper and tied with string. I
grabbed one and decided to try to find the customer myself. It didn’t take long, to be honest; Iris was the only person wandering aimlessly round the ground floor. She looked delighted when I
handed her the soap.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said. ‘I was just about to give up and go for an Earl Grey. Would you like to join me? My treat. Not many shop
reach the shelf where I quickly find the item. We still have three left. No need to order any more for a while. Mrs Fawsley is the only customer who buys them. She’s brought one every
December for the past ten years, according to stockroom records. I wonder what she does with so many. Maybe she’s trying to put the peacock’s tail back together again.
I smile despite myself, and put one on my head. I go to look in the mirror and laugh. Combined with the glittery, showy top the headdress makes me I look like I’m about to go on stage at
the Folies-Bergère. I do a high kick – well, to be honest, it’s more of a low kick – and then sigh as I hear another order noisily start to print.
Two orders in five minutes? Then the machine makes a loud grunt of protest and stops mid-print. Bloody thing, I think, and give it a whack. Like everything else in the store, the order machine
is knackered. I give it another hearty smack but feel safe in the knowledge that I don’t actually need to see the ticket anyway. I look at my watch. By my calculations, an order at 10.15 a.m.
on the first Thursday morning of the month can mean only one thing: Iris Jackson and her lavender soap. I glance at the ticket and nod with satisfaction as I go to the necessary aisle to retrieve a
bar of Iris’s special soap.
As I crouch to dig out the order I think about Iris Jackson. Hardy’s has been stocking her soap for years, in fact I’m pretty sure we’re the only store that sells it any more.
According to her, it’s handmade in Somerset by a group of WI women who started in business after the war, making and selling toiletries. They needed something to do to keep their enterprising
spirits up when their husbands returned and claimed back the jobs the women had been doing in their absence. Apparently Iris grew up in the village. All these years later, she still wants to
support this local enterprise, even though those women are probably long gone. I often wonder why she doesn’t just buy the soap in bulk to save her coming in, but I sense her trip to
Hardy’s is the highlight of her month.
I pop a bar in my pocket and glance at my watch to see if it’s time for my break. I always go and deliver the soap personally to Iris. It’s been a ritual of mine since I met her
shortly after I started at Hardy’s. Jenny, who was relatively new to the store, didn’t recognize Iris and said they didn’t sell her soap. Iris asked Jenny to check in the
stockroom, but when Jenny came in she got caught up in telling me how she and her husband were trying for a baby. I spent half an hour listening to her excitedly talk about what being pregnant
would be like, and the merits of religiously following Gina Ford versus the Baby Whisperer once the baby was born. She talked for so long that she forgot why she’d come to the stockroom in
the first place until she suddenly recalled the old lady who was asking about some lavender soap. When I explained that Iris was the only person who actually bought it so we kept it in the
stockroom for her rather than take up space on the shop floor, Jenny shrugged.
‘Well, she’s probably long gone now,’ she said, then looked at her watch and exclaimed, ‘Ooh, it’s time for my lunch break! I’m going to Topshop to look at
their maternity range.’
After she’d gone I went straight to the shelves where I’d stacked hundreds of the delicate little parcels that were individually wrapped in parchment paper and tied with string. I
grabbed one and decided to try to find the customer myself. It didn’t take long, to be honest; Iris was the only person wandering aimlessly round the ground floor. She looked delighted when I
handed her the soap.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said. ‘I was just about to give up and go for an Earl Grey. Would you like to join me? My treat. Not many shop