Her three friends were in the midst of a whispered discussion over whether Alma’s currant buns had been on the dry side and was she after putting yesterday’s buns back in the cabinet? Noreen thought it quite likely. She was a business woman herself and Alma was as hard-nosed and sharp as they came, didn’t miss a trick.
The jangle of the door opening brought in a whiff of cigarette smoke from a smouldering fag end on the pavement outside. The jangling was a sound that always took her back to her own days behind the counter. It was a familiar tinkle, signalling someone was in need of something, and had always seen her put down the tins she was restocking the shelves with or whatever she’d been busy doing to look up and say a cheery hello. Alma could do with injecting a little more of the cheer into her greeting, she thought looking at the po-faced woman as she wiped out her cabinets. Noreen missed running her little corner shop. It hadn’t just been a place to get your essentials it had been a hub for hearing all about what was happening in the village of Claredoncally where she’d lived for all of her married life.
Things were changing here though, she thought, as a truck rumbled through the narrow street outside. The windows rattled and her seat juddered. Oh, they were changing alright and not for the better in her opinion. Her shop was a Spar now. A Spar! Who’d have thought. All the personality and personal service she and her late husband, Malachy, God rest his poor departed soul, prided themselves on, leached from it by a generic chain store. It had been their child that shop. They’d poured the love and energy left over from not being able to have a baby of their own into it. And it had been enough too, almost. The hole still left by the absence of children’s laughter had been filled by Emer. It had broken her heart to take down the sign they’d hung over the door some fifty years earlier almost as much as it had broken her heart when Malachy passed. But passed he had and practical she had to be. She was no longer able to manage the stairs to the cosy home they’d made above the shop. The time had come to put her feet up.
The price for the premises dangled under her nose by the conglomerate was the sort that didn’t come along twice and so, despite her misgivings at accepting, common sense had been the order of the day. She liked to think Malachy would have approved, or at least understood. The business and home didn’t fit anymore with him gone. It had become too much to manage for a widow woman on her own.
It had been an adjustment to move into the brand new, little house she’d had built on an empty square parcel of land three streets down from the main road of Claredoncally. It was quieter for one thing, especially with the double glazing on the windows. There was something to be said for a few mod cons and creature comforts in one’s old age though, and her chest at least hadn’t missed the damp beginning to seep through the walls of the bathroom in the rooms above the shop.
She hoped Malachy was having a good long rest up there with the angels. He deserved it, he’d worked hard all his life. Never harder than when they were young. Fresh out of the high school they’d both gone off to earn their keep at the local fish factory, saving what pennies were left from their board to go toward their wedding and their dream of buying Mr Brosnan’s corner shop when the time came. Sure, everybody had known the old man was going doolally from the way he kept handing out too much or too little change and talking about the oddest of things, yes it had been high time he sold up. And, when he did, they’d been ready and so the little corner shop in charge of servicing the village of Claredoncally had become Grady’s Convenience Store.
She’d felt such pride in the place and had never tired of turning the sign hanging in the window from closed to open. There was no greater satisfaction than being one’s own boss in life. She smiled to herself, recalling how she and Malachy used to laugh about how nice it was to finish their days work with him not smelling like a mackerel, her a herring. And, they never ate fish ever again except when they had to, as good Catholics, on a Friday.
‘Noreen,’ there was irritation in Kathleen’s voice and Noreen looked at her blankly, coming back from her reminiscing to ask her old friend to repeat what she’d said.
‘Sure, you were away with the fairies. I asked you about this big do in Dublin, Aggie’s after telling me you’re off to.’
‘Oh yes, the wedding.’ Noreen put her knitting down; she’d been trying not to think about it. She looked at the teapot on the table. Another strong cup of tea was in order if she were to relay this tale. ‘Any chance of more hot water, Alma,’ she called. Alma nodded, muttering something under her breath as she put her cloth down and set about filling the kettle.
‘Can I interest you in another currant bun each? They’d go down a treat with your tea,’ she asked, waddling over and setting the water down.
‘Sure, you’d need something to wash them down. Stick in your gullet those would,’ Agnes muttered.
‘What did you say, Aggie?’ Alma said, wincing. ‘My knees aren’t half giving me bother today.’ Her expression was a grimace as Agnes
