was at Ada he looked when he spoke, unable to meet the blue eyes of the bolder sister who was the object of his dreams.
Willie appointed himself the sisters’ protector. Whenever they had to go out he insisted quietly but firmly that he would take them and wait to bring them home in the trap. One evening they had been to Bertie and Beryl’s for a meal. Van and Edwin had been allowed to stay up late and it was almost twelve when they came out of the big house, the door being held by young Gaynor, who rarely seemed to be off duty.
Willie was leaning against the lamppost outside. He wore a Welsh flannel shirt ending at the neck with a band of white cotton, the usual shiny white collar not worn on this late-night duty. Its absence was hidden by a long, knitted scarf wound several times around his neck and with its ends tucked inside the too large waistcoat and jacket.
He held a cigarette between the tips of his finger and thumb, its glowing end within his cupped hand. Cecily wondered how many he had smoked as he had patiently stood there, always arriving early rather than allow them to wait. He leaned against the softly hissing gas lamp, one leg straight, the other bent, with one heavy boot tilted on its toe. He changed feet occasionally to ease the chill. The horse pointed its feet in a similar way, the gesture like a mock curtsey.
When the three passengers were settled into their seats, Bertie went to where the young stable lad was holding the horse’s head. ‘I’m very grateful to you, young Willie,’ he said, puffing on his large cigar.
‘Grateful? What for, Mr Richards?’ Willie was surprised.
‘For the way you take care of the Misses Owen. I know you get extra pay but you do a lot more than most would.’ He touched the boy’s shoulder. ‘This is too late for you, though, so in future when they come here you needn’t wait. I’ll take them home in the car. All right?’ He pressed a pound note into the boy’s hand. ‘Just a little extra to show my appreciation .’
‘Thank you, Mr Richards!’ Willie felt self-conscious as he tucked the rug around his passengers, although it was something he always did. Now, with a crisp pound note in his hand, he hoped Mr Richards didn’t think it was done to impress.
‘There’s something about that boy. He deserves to get on,’ Bertie said to Beryl as they watched the trap disappear into the night. He threw his cigar butt into the gutter. ‘Yes, a good boy that one.’
Over the next weeks as days grew warmer and lighter, Cecily and Ada used their spare time visiting as many of the beach traders as possible. With them all they left a list of prices and the promise of a first-class delivery service.Ada left them a card printed by Phil Spencer, with a drawing of their shop and their name and address, in case others approached them, making it easy for them to forget the promise of reliable business from the sisters.
Waldo Watkins came often to the shop during the months following their inheritance and helped sort out any problems that arose. He was a small, neat man in his early forties but with hair as fair as a young boy. His small hands were deft in their basic skills of preparing food, boning fish and bacon with a speed that made the tasks look easy.
On the day he demonstrated the way of dealing with a side of bacon, Willie was invited in and he listened and watched carefully, questioning Waldo until he was sure he could deal with the job. He boned a carcase while Waldo watched and smiled proudly when the proprietor of the large grocery store on the main road complimented him on how little flesh he’d left on the bones.
‘Damn it all, I thought you’d have trouble with the oyster bone but it’s out as clean as I could get it, boy.’
Patiently a shoulder was boned and Willie declared himself satisfied. ‘That’s another thing I can take off their hands,’ he said. ‘Got enough to do with selling, they have. Best I do the back-room
Willie appointed himself the sisters’ protector. Whenever they had to go out he insisted quietly but firmly that he would take them and wait to bring them home in the trap. One evening they had been to Bertie and Beryl’s for a meal. Van and Edwin had been allowed to stay up late and it was almost twelve when they came out of the big house, the door being held by young Gaynor, who rarely seemed to be off duty.
Willie was leaning against the lamppost outside. He wore a Welsh flannel shirt ending at the neck with a band of white cotton, the usual shiny white collar not worn on this late-night duty. Its absence was hidden by a long, knitted scarf wound several times around his neck and with its ends tucked inside the too large waistcoat and jacket.
He held a cigarette between the tips of his finger and thumb, its glowing end within his cupped hand. Cecily wondered how many he had smoked as he had patiently stood there, always arriving early rather than allow them to wait. He leaned against the softly hissing gas lamp, one leg straight, the other bent, with one heavy boot tilted on its toe. He changed feet occasionally to ease the chill. The horse pointed its feet in a similar way, the gesture like a mock curtsey.
When the three passengers were settled into their seats, Bertie went to where the young stable lad was holding the horse’s head. ‘I’m very grateful to you, young Willie,’ he said, puffing on his large cigar.
‘Grateful? What for, Mr Richards?’ Willie was surprised.
‘For the way you take care of the Misses Owen. I know you get extra pay but you do a lot more than most would.’ He touched the boy’s shoulder. ‘This is too late for you, though, so in future when they come here you needn’t wait. I’ll take them home in the car. All right?’ He pressed a pound note into the boy’s hand. ‘Just a little extra to show my appreciation .’
‘Thank you, Mr Richards!’ Willie felt self-conscious as he tucked the rug around his passengers, although it was something he always did. Now, with a crisp pound note in his hand, he hoped Mr Richards didn’t think it was done to impress.
‘There’s something about that boy. He deserves to get on,’ Bertie said to Beryl as they watched the trap disappear into the night. He threw his cigar butt into the gutter. ‘Yes, a good boy that one.’
Over the next weeks as days grew warmer and lighter, Cecily and Ada used their spare time visiting as many of the beach traders as possible. With them all they left a list of prices and the promise of a first-class delivery service.Ada left them a card printed by Phil Spencer, with a drawing of their shop and their name and address, in case others approached them, making it easy for them to forget the promise of reliable business from the sisters.
Waldo Watkins came often to the shop during the months following their inheritance and helped sort out any problems that arose. He was a small, neat man in his early forties but with hair as fair as a young boy. His small hands were deft in their basic skills of preparing food, boning fish and bacon with a speed that made the tasks look easy.
On the day he demonstrated the way of dealing with a side of bacon, Willie was invited in and he listened and watched carefully, questioning Waldo until he was sure he could deal with the job. He boned a carcase while Waldo watched and smiled proudly when the proprietor of the large grocery store on the main road complimented him on how little flesh he’d left on the bones.
‘Damn it all, I thought you’d have trouble with the oyster bone but it’s out as clean as I could get it, boy.’
Patiently a shoulder was boned and Willie declared himself satisfied. ‘That’s another thing I can take off their hands,’ he said. ‘Got enough to do with selling, they have. Best I do the back-room
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