Neighborhood Shop

In one of the drawers of the desk, bought at auction, was an old
diary. The first entry, "Neighbourhood Shops," was made on 5/8/77. It
began...

Our housing estate had 4 shops, grouped in a bunch at the top of our
street, a convenient 100 yards sprint for a small boy to bring back an
unmelted family tub of ice cream.

Half of my youth was spent "just running a message up to the the
shops," so I am well qualified to discuss them. Indeed it seems a well
established social law that the frequency of shop visits increases in
inverse order to the distance from house to shop (no doubt "near-ness"
encourages sloppy, weekly grocery planning)

Two out of the four I remember well, as they seemed to be "stable"
shops, i.e., the same owners, same merchandize, same window
displays...even extending over many years. The other two were unlucky
shops and had seen (with gleeful relish) a long succession of would-be
tycoons come and go.

Perhaps they were haunted by the ghosts of the people of this former
farm land, or perhaps the good working people of Ardrossan were not yet
ready for their exotica, but over the months there came -and went- a
rapid succession of dry cleaners, iron mongers, electrical shops, a
fish &; chips take-a-way, vegetable and --wow--a Chinese
restaurant.

The two stable shops were dignified by the forenames of the respective
owners: "Betty's" and "Bunty's."

Betty was the envy of the catty, neighbour women: a local working
girl, she had "married up" (and "changed to Catholic.") to a pleasant
man, who had decided to go into small business with the money inherited
from a dead grandmother. As a result, Betty was "gentry" (i.e., merely
middle class) and lived in the gentry part of town, where they were
never quite accepted by the local "old rich.'"

Her shop was newsagents, tobacconists, sweets (candy), ices, soft
drinks, plus some luxury items like nylon stocking &; big Mother's
Day type chocolate boxes.

Betty held a sway of terror over the neighbourhood, for to while away
her long, boring hours, she had honed to a fine edge her gift for
humour, cynical observation, glinting remarks. Within a micro-second
she could home into the achilles heel of sensitive local adolescent
girls --their acne, clothes, make up, latest boyfriend, first mascara,
false bra, promiscuity. Sometimes she went overboard and would hold a
blushing person up to an half hour of spectacle, attention, ridicule
while all others grinned or fumed to be served.

It got so bad that some young people were afraid--no, terrified!--to
enter her shop and would send in local children for the purchase. But
even that didn't fool her, and she would hoot 'Is that for wee Mary
Smith that I see lurking outside behind the pillar?'

Even I was terrified, but I had a trump card to play when the going
got hot: "How's James doing?" James was her son and my contemporary who
kept flunking the same college exams that I was breezing thro' in
style. So she treated me as a "pro" and wisely left off the brass
knuckles when she played with me.

Betty was treated in awe by the local people for one thing: she knew
about banks. To my later embarassment, neither my parents nor myself
(until my third university year) had a bank or bank account. (working
people got paid and spent their money weekly and had little savings).
So when an occasional check, e.g., from university or government, etc.,
came to us, we took it to Betty, signed on the back, fixed a stamp and
got paid in pound notes out of the till. In this way she increased her
friendly reign of terror over everyone, since she knew the financial
delicacies of us all, how much we got in college grants, tax paybacks
and unemployment allowance, etc.

My two most memorable purchases were -(gasp)- orange ice lollies and
matching slip and panties.

The lollies were the delectable "Lyons Maid" brand and orange flavour
was always in short supply. My brother and I devoured them and had even
mastered the well-nigh impossible act of removing the paper wrapper
without ripping it and having it adhere to the overfrozen lolly (her
fridge always needed defrosting). One day my grandmother (who lived
with us) chanced upon one and became "hooked," much to my parents'
dismay; they tried to discourage her un-granny-like behavour. But to no
avail; and Granny went through a six month period of addiction, in
which she would eat as much as five lollies a day on school holidays
and weekends (we fetched them) and two a day on school days (slipping
money to us behind our parents' backs and eating them, also, behind our
parents' backs).

The slip and panties were the culmination of long years of uninspired
birthday gifts to my mother. Oven gloves, dishtowels, slippers. One
evening I hung aimlessly around her shop 'til things had quieted down
and asked advice about birthday ideas for the following morning. "Why
not a slip and pantie set? I have them here, just come in. Nylon? Silk?
Pink? I think I can guess your mother's size...."

I blushed profusely, forked out our money, all in half crowns, and
fled, in relief. That was our staple birthday gift until four years
later, when my mother casually hinted that she was well stocked up in
underwear.