Miss Murray's Sweet ShopA Story by PatThis is an excerpt from "Back to Buckhaven and Other Short Stories" -- a compilation of short stories, each of which takes place in the east neuk of Fife, Scotland, where I was born and raised. The little shop had stood at the
corner of Randolph and High Streets for more than forty years. In all that
time, very little about it had changed. Its windows were of beveled glass
squares, shaded by a faded tartan awning. The front door had been a dozen
different shades of brown over the decades, but it had always rung the same
tinny, brass bell when it was opened or closed. Inside, the store’s shelves
were lined with glass jars, sort of like an apothecary. But the jars were
filled with sweets and labeled accordingly. Turkish
Delight…Candy-coated Caramels…Miniature
Flakes… The wide wooden counters of the shop
were covered with an assortment of newspapers and magazines…dailies, weeklies,
monthlies, in no particular semblance of order. But Miss Murray, the shop’s
proprietress, knew precisely where everything was. She had inherited the little
sweet shop from her mother, and for the past fifteen years, she had run it all
by herself, with just an occasional helping hand from a cousin on her father’s
side. She’d unroll the awning and open the door by eight o’clock in the morning
and not close up shop until after six. Like all other businesses on High
Street, the little store locked its doors from noon until one o’clock to allow
the shop people to have dinner. Miss Murray usually crossed the street to the tea
shop and had a meat pie or sausage roll, followed by a freshly brewed pot of
tea. Now, if Miss Murray knew more about
something other than selling sweets and periodicals, it was people. She had
been studying them for years and had become quite proficient at judging human
behavior and habit. Body language was her particular genre of expertise. She
noticed things about the way people carried themselves and how they interacted
with others. If she had not been a shopkeeper, she decided, she would have made
a fine psychologist. She couldn’t quite remember the
first time she’d noticed him. But it was sometime in winter, for she’d been
quick to take note of his cashmere overcoat and oxford tie peeking from beneath
it. If his dress and brown leather briefcase weren’t enough to deem him a
rather successful professional, the young man’s manner would have stated so,
Miss Murray had decided. He was self-assured and comfortable, with an air of
command about him. She liked how he never browsed over the papers, but reached
for the same Fife Free Press each
day, always having a threepenny bit ready to pay for it. He popped in at about the same time
each morning and sometimes again in the afternoon. He most likely took the High
Street bus back and forth to work, Miss Murray had deduced from the young man’s
schedule. There was a sheltered bus stop a few doors down from her shop,
directly in front of the bakery. About every fifteen minutes, buses bound for
the business district of Kirkcaldy would stop there. If the young man did come
back in the late afternoon, it was usually to purchase a news magazine and a
quarter pound of treacle toffee. The man was always pleasant, always thanked
Miss Murray for her attention, and, since his smile flashed a set of perfect
teeth, she had concluded that the sticky toffee must be for someone else. She knew nothing more about him. Not
even his name. And it didn’t matter. Until Miss Murray noticed the young woman.
She was slim, with shoulder-length flaxen hair cut into a neat bob. She wore just
a little makeup, mostly to darken her lashes, Miss Murray had observed. Dressed
in business attire, the young woman would dash into the shop most mornings,
snatch up a Leven Mail and dash out
again. She seemed to always be late or in a dreadful hurry and Miss Murray
concluded that if she were someone’s secretary, she was probably not a very
punctual one. Yet there was something appealing, almost refreshing about her. The young woman had dropped a
sixpence on the shop floor once and a schoolboy had tugged at her sleeve in a
bid to return it to her. She’d smiled and let him keep it. That simple act of
kindness told the shop owner a lot about her customer. That, and the fact that
she took care of her shoes. People who
polished their shoes kept their houses clean, Miss Murray believed. Not once
had she noticed scuffed toes or heels " or a ladder in her stockings, for that
matter. For someone who was always in a rush, the young woman was, well, tidy.
And Miss Murray respected that. How on earth she’d decided that the successful business man
and the tidy young secretary would make a perfect couple, she truly had no
idea. Perhaps it had been a slow day in the shop and she’d had too much time to daydream. Or perhaps she was simply
getting old and her mind had taken to vicarious flights of fancy among matters
of the young. But once the idea had taken hold, it simply would not loosen its
grip. She would, she’d determined, manipulate a meeting between the two. © 2010 PatReviews
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4 Reviews Added on February 12, 2010 Last Updated on February 12, 2010 Tags: Scotland, Fife, Buckhaven, women's fiction, fiction, short story, short stories |