The Italians at Cleat's Corner Store by Jo Riccioni Read Free Book Online Page A

every emergency that might befall a Tuesday afternoon’s trading. ‘Now remember that catch on the meat slicer, Connie. I don’t want blood all over my new Formica … and keep a lookout for them didicoy … Mrs Watt says she seen caravans up at Buckworth Wold and they’re on the march with forged coupons, no less. Mind what I told you now. If in doubt —’
    â€˜â€” throw them out. Yes, Mrs Cleat, I remember,’ Connie said in a grave voice. She had never once seen a gypsy shopping for groceries in the high street, or a forged coupon for that matter, and it amused her that the coupling of both rarities was the height of criminal masterminding in Mrs Cleat’s head. The shopkeeper appraised her for a moment, her nose cocked upwards as if irony was something that could be smelled, like milk on the turn. Finally her attention flicked to the clock, and with a start she gathered herself together and hurried off to meet Aunty Bea in the memorial hall.
    Connie let out a deep breath. These afternoons of independence had become like oases in the desert of her days. She could silence the bell and have the door wide open to the insects and the pollen-filled afternoon; she could hang up her white coat and serve at the counter with a tea towel tied about her waist and her hair free of its net; she could chat to the old Misses Penny, secretly slipping in whole biscuits and newly opened leaf tea among the barrel remnants and sack dust that Mrs Cleat offloaded to them on special .These short hours she felt as though she was breathing air into the corners of herself, that her existence might not be as paper thin as she had grown to believe. Inevitably there were consequences to pay on Mrs Cleat’s return, but even they were worth the brief time she spent alone, exerting the addictive pleasure of her own will.
    She was not the only person to enjoy the Christian Ladies’ mural meetings. Mr Gilbert now collected his groceries in the hour between the school bell and Mrs Cleat’s return. Connie dealt with the after-school flurry of children with hot pennies and coupons from their mothers, and in the lull that followed began to pre-empt Mr Gilbert’s needs, navigating her way around his tastes and his ration book.
    â€˜New Government Cheddar in today. I’ve kept you the first cut. You might have it for your tea,’ she called to him from her ladder behind the counter, having heard his greeting at the door. ‘I’ve got your Branston, too, and some flour and tea.’ She had her back to him and an arm reaching into the dim recesses of an upper shelf. ‘And shoe polish … there, light brown.’ With some effort she freed the tin from above the cartons and packets, and waved it triumphantly over her shoulder. ‘Should match your Logues. I knew we had that colour somewhere.’
    â€˜Do you see,’ she heard Mr Gilbert say, ‘how she looks after me? And what attention to detail! Had you even noticed my shoes were tan … and rather worse for wear?’
    He laughed and she turned her head, aware that they were not alone. One of the Italians was with him: the shorter, leaner of the two brothers. He stood behind the counter, his hands in his trouser pockets — almost brazenly, she thought, like he had been coming into Cleat’s all his life. She saw his gaze travelling up her legs on the ladder, resting on the run in her stocking that she had stopped with nail varnish and tried to position under the hem of her skirt. She hurried down and felt the need to put on her white coat. When she had finished busying herself with its buttons, the Italian was still scrutinising her, without apology. He seemed mildly amused. She noticed his skin was golden and glossy as a nut.
    Mr Gilbert waved a hand between them. ‘Vittorio, this is —’
    â€˜The girl with the bicicletta … on the hill.’ He brought a hand from his pocket and