Wool Shop Part 5

Mr Greaves is showing the buyer round haberdashery at the moment and it feels like we have a royal visitor.  She even sounds royal - Camilla, her name is.  I notice everyone's on their best behaviour, including Sandra, and she's normally the first to slag her off. 

I’m dying to ask Camilla why she keeps cluttering up the shop with cheap tat, but I know I won’t.  I’m livid with her to be honest.  Yesterday, the supplier delivered twenty bags of discontinued yarn with no ball bands.  It’s alright for her, she doesn’t have to look like an idiot when the customers ask what it is.  “Think of it as a lucky dip,” I said to one old dear this morning and she wasn’t impressed.  Even at ninety-nine pence a ball it’s too much of a risk for most of our knitters.  

“Can I have a word, please, Carol?”  Camilla asks and Mr Greaves disappears back to his office.  I can’t help giving her the once over; I’m trying to work out how old she is.  Her Barbie blonde hair extensions make her seem young, but she has those thin thread lines round her lips; the ones that smokers get.  She probably spends too much time on the sun bed, judging by her builder’s tea skin tone.

“How do you feel about putting together a little Halloween display?” she asks, brandishing a couple of balls of pumpkin-coloured wool.  It’s one of our luxury yarns, and they'd have a fit if they found out we were cheapening their brand by displaying it next to a witch’s broomstick and a couple of plastic spiders.

“But the Christmas stock’s been out since the end of August, don’t you think it will look a bit weird?”  I say.  I know I sound like a wet blanket, but truth be told, I detest Halloween.  Apart from that, Barbara is scared of spiders, so she won’t be best pleased if I drape fake cobwebs everywhere.

“Our Croydon branch did it last year and they managed to sell a whole batch of discontinued black eyelash yarn.  I think it’s a good way to promote some of our slower lines,” Camilla says firmly.

“Only the black and orange shades,” I say.

“Green too - and perhaps some blood red?  I’m sure your creative juices will soon be flowing,” Camilla answers.

It sounds like I don’t have any choice, so I resign myself to the task.  “Alright, perhaps Sandra could bring Samson in for the display?”

“Who’s Samson?”

“Her black cat that died.  She had him taxidermied, so he won’t play havoc with the yarn.”

Camilla looks appalled.  “No, I don’t think that’s the look we’re going for, Carol.  Let’s keep it more fun and friendly and a little less Edgar Allan Poe.”

I nod and leave it at that.  I hate it when people pretend to ask your opinion on something when their mind’s already made up.  She trots off to Mr Greaves’ office, probably to tell him how uncooperative I'm being.

I join Sandra at the till.  She’s chatting to a regular, Rita, a vile woman from the council.  I know it sounds harsh, but I can’t stand her.  She talks at the top of her voice and acts like she owns the place; referring to us all by our first names, like we’re her best mates or something.  Once she told me about her elderly aunt who was sick, and when I said how sorry I was to hear it, she said that she wished the old biddy would just hurry up and pop her clogs.  I couldn’t believe it - heartless cow.

Sandra is humouring her, I can tell by her voice.  They’re talking about Rita's sister-in-law and I can’t help earwigging.  She always talks about her when she comes in the shop - she sounds like a complete fruitcake. 

“Well, Daphne sent me a photo of herself in her Halloween costume and I can’t be outdone by her.  Have you any suggestions, Sandra?  I know you’re so clever with these things,” she simpers.  “I don’t want to do the obvious – especially as Daphne’s is so creative.”

“Freddie Kruger?”

“No! Something a bit sexier.”

“The Bride of Frankenstein?” I pipe up.  “I’ve always liked her hair.”

“No, something a bit more contemporary, Carol.”

“Hannibal Lecter?”

“I really don’t think you’re on the right wavelength ladies.  I’ll show you Daphne’s costume.”  She rummages around in her handbag for her mobile phone.  Then she holds her smart phone up to Sandra’s eye level, so that she can see the photo.

“Oh, my eyes!” Sandra groans.

“What?  Let me see,” I say, trying to peer past Sandra’s huge shoulders.  I take the phone and nearly drop it in surprise.  “Oh.  My. Godfathers.  Now, that is scary!” 

Daphne is kneeling on a hearth rug, almost completely naked, apart from three, small, knitted pumpkins covering her lady bits.  She’s sixty, if she’s a day, and her saggy tits resemble deflated party balloons with grinning orange faces on them.

“Sandra could crochet you up one of those costumes in a few minutes!” I joke, handing the phone back.  “It’d probably only take 50 grams of wool.”

“Would you, Sandra?  I’d be ever so grateful.”

“As long as I don’t have to see you model it.” Sandra replies and I point Rita towards the Debbie Bliss.

“Try the Cashmerino Aran in Burnt Orange,” I shout over to her.  “It’ll be nice and soft on your nipples.”

I turn to Sandra, whose mouth is gaping open in shock, her hand clutched to her forehead.

“We can’t un-see that, Carol,” she says at last, with a look of horror in her eyes, and I bite down on my fist to stop myself laughing.