The Last Of The Snow Globes

Christmas is round the corner and I’ve never felt less Christmassy.

Here I am surrounded by all manner of festive gifts and must-have seasonal cuties. The boxes of crackers may look appealing but seeing the person I want to pull them with is no longer around, maybe not so much.

However, even I have to admit the very reasonably priced snow globes with their miniature snowmen in funny hats and colourful scarves, have a certain charm. One of the store’s best sellers, only one remains waiting to be shaken and given a good home.

These new goods are only part of what’s available for sale in the town’s main charity store where I’m the manager. Other than them, the place is filled to the brim with items donated by the public. Raising money to treat cancer is the reason for its existence.

***

Ten minutes before closing, the shop is like the Marie Celeste. A scene of bleakness awaits outside and I’m about to turn off the heaters and close early, when a man appears trailing muddy footprints along my newly cleaned floor. I spy him from the sorting room door which is propped open by a fire door guard.

“Oh no, not him again!”

My part-time assistant, Tracy, who is working a different shift to normal, is clearing the sorting room table. “Who is it?”

“The guy in black.”

“Which one?”

“The one who’s always a pain over the DVD’s and CD’s.”

 “Oh, that one. You’ve mentioned him before.”

“Yeah.”.

“So long as it’s not the woman who goes on a spending spree and brings nearly all of it back for a refund a day or two later, then acts like she’s doing us a favour.”

“Oh, please, no! I couldn’t cope with her tonight.”

“You look done in, Rhea. I’ll deal with him if you like,” Trace offers.

“Would you? Thanks!”

By the time guy in black leaves, Trace’s customer friendly expression has worn thin.

“Glad to see the back of him,” she grimaces. “He kept saying how much he hates the “Christmas crap” we insist on selling in here – seemed pointless telling him we have no control over what we sell. Then he kept going on about the pricing. Asking who values the records, saying whoever does it is a numpty and doesn’t know what they’re doing. Ironic really. Considering how short we are of volunteers at this time of year, it’s a shame he can’t use his knowledge to help the shop instead of finding reasons to complain!”

“Be careful what you wish for,” I say, firmly locking the door.

***

If pressed, I’ll admit to sometimes feeling dehumanised by my job. People are either full of praise for the work we do here, or they treat you like a slug. When she was alive, Lyndsey warned me if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up becoming part of the furniture.

Maybe she was right.

Take the woman who stepped into the sorting room earlier, completely ignoring the sign saying, “Staff only.” I wouldn’t mind but I had the door closed for a reason. I never get time to catch up on the admin without being constantly interrupted. The only place offering some form of sanctuary here is the loo and obviously I can’t sit there all day. In an ideal world, I’d keep the back-room door permanently shut, but then the donations would pile up on the other side. Seated on my swivel chair in the small space that serves as my “office” I’m not immediately visible to anyone entering the room, so the woman didn’t see me at first.

“Oh! I wasn’t expecting there to be a person here.” She had the air of a Memsahib expecting to get her way with those she regarded as “underlings.”

“Well, there is a person in here and I have the door closed for a reason.”

Lately, words have a habit of leaving my mouth before I can stop them. “I’ve actually been the manager here for twenty years.” I say that a lot too.

 She carries on as if she hasn’t heard me.

 “This is the drop off point, isn’t it? I assume you do want donations.” She holds out a large bin liner. “Well, I’m trying to donate some things – that is if you’re interested in receiving them.”

“Of course.” I rise, grit my teeth, and don the appropriate air. Unless I actually want to enter a world of pain involving a salvo of complaints being fired back and forth from head office to area manager and then back to me in the form of emails, it usually pays to say as little as possible.

“First of all, I have two table lamps. I take it you accept those.”

“Well actually…”

“I also have a cycle helmet.”

“Erm, I’m afraid we can’t sell either of those.”

“Oh, why exactly?”

“Health and safety reasons.”

 People hate hearing this, but it happens to be true. Theres a whole list of prohibited items on a wall poster to prove it.

 “Ohhh! Charity shops are getting fussy these days,” she humphs. “The last two I visited turned my donations down, so I thought I’d try here.”

“We’re not trying to be awkward, but all electrical items have to be PAT tested, you see - to make sure they’re safe to use.”

“Well, surely, it’s not beyond your means to find someone to do that. I’d do it myself, but I’m far too busy!”

Over my dead body will you help here! Let’s hope she can’t read my thoughts.

I’ve long learnt the wisdom of saying nothing and not digging myself into a deeper hole. The last part comes less easily.

The room doesn’t stay silent for long. The donor fiddles noisily in her bin liner.

Now for the coup de grace.

“I also have a toilet seat. I’m sure someone will find it useful. It’s hardly been used.” She was acting like she was about to bestow the Crown Jewels. “It only needs a good wipe down.”

There was no point telling her I’d dump her precious donation in one of the outside bins as soon as she was safely out of the way.

Unfortunately, some people seem to think you can sell anything.

Even stuff the public doesn’t want.

 ***

I dare say I ought to be setting an example to my colleague here (fresh-faced Tracy hasn’t been in the job long enough to get jaded), but the guy in black drives me nuts. Admittedly my patience is worn to a frazzle from years of listening to people nitpicking over tiny flaws — as a prelude to haggling over the price. I don’t mind if it’s reasonable, but they seem to forget that you’re rarely going to get perfection when things are given second-hand. They’re missing the point of why the shop exists in the first place.

But back to the guy in black who’s lifting a CD up to the light for a closer inspection.

“I do know who you mean now.” Tracy whispers popping her head round the sorting room door. “At first I thought you were talking about the man who makes you search in the back for something impossible and is never satisfied with what you get him”.

“You mean the one who comes in demanding red and green teapots with white spots on. Or is the other way round? No, it’s not him. The guy that’s in the shop now, hangs round just before we close. He usually comes in at the end of week, not on your shifts. He finds fault with everything, although it’s not so much so he can get a reduction, more because he enjoys airing his knowledge. He’s always checking on his phone to make sure we’ve got the price right. He buys the DVDs, CDs, PlayStations, and the best vinyl.”

“Right.”

“Loves nothing more than picking holes in everything we do.”

“Oh! One of them.”

“Yup. Can you believe he pulled out a pocket diary the other day? He was jotting down notes.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? I wonder what he was writing?”

“Something uncomplimentary about the shop, no doubt.”

“Bound to be.”

“Then he probably posted it on Facebook.”

“I can’t imagine him going on Facebook.”

“Why not?”

“Too much of a loner.”

“Well, maybe WhatsApp then.”

“Ditto. For same reason.”

“Also, have you noticed how he never talks about anything except his purchases when he comes in.”

“I can’t imagine him having friends.”

“Does he work?”

“I think so.”

“What sort of work does he do?”

“Dunno. I think he works from home.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know. Something or other …”

“The mind boggles.”

**

Hands on hips, guy in black surveys the current state of the “media” shelves. Only the day before, a young man whose mother is fighting breast cancer, had volunteered his services. Knowledgeable about current trends in music and films, as well as the classics, he spent the afternoon painstakingly sorting through CD’s, records, DVD’s and PlayStations, and pricing them up. Using his phone to check current prices, he wanted the charity to get the best deal, while also offering a fair price for customers. Unfortunately, he was moving out of the area and couldn’t give any more time.

The guy in black inspects the condition of yet another CD.

Humph,” he says.

“I suppose we can’t stand watching him from the sorting room door all day. Do you want me to start cashing up?” Trace asks.

“That would be great. Thank you.”

***

One minute till closing, Trace is at the till waiting for the guy to come and pay for his goods.

“Your prices are all over the place,” he mutters, holding up two CD’s. “Why’s this one priced at £2.50 when this other one which has more singles on it is £1.50? Makes no sense.”

Trace explains that some of the CDs are worth more than others.

“In my opinion…” There follows a lengthy monologue during which I lose the will to live.

“Anyway, that’s not why I’m here,” he says pointing to the Pink Floyd record displayed on the top shelf marked at £40. Unreachable without a ladder.

“Beats me why you need to place records that high,” he mutters.

Trace politely explains we do it to deter shoplifters.

The public don’t realise how serious a problem shoplifting actually is. It’s kind of heartbreaking when our donors (ignore my earlier tirade - there are many generous ones out there) have given their things to the shop in good faith believing it will help raise money for a great cause, only for them to be stolen).

“Oh.” That temporarily takes the wind out of his sails.

“Did you want to take a look? Only it will have to be quick as we’re about to close”.

“I’m interested in the Pink Floyd one.”

While Trace locks up, I fetch the stepladder.

Pink Floyd’s “The Dark Side of the Moon”, complete with two posters, comes down from its stand and is dutifully handed over to the Guy in Black.

“Hmmm, I think you’ve overpriced this one,” he says. “And there’s a mark on the back cover.”

“It’s barely noticeable.” I almost have to squint to make it out. “And it’s priced fairly. If you look online, you’ll see some selling for a lot more than that.”

“Hmmm. “

“I’m sorry, but we really have to close now.”

Some of us have got families to get back to. Not me, but that’s another story.

“Tell you what. I’ll give you £30 for it. In that condition, you won’t get more.”

 Trace and me exchange looks.

 ”Can’t do that. It’s only just gone out.”

He hands it back. “I’ll just pay for the CD then, but I think you’re charging too much. You need to get someone else to do your pricing.”

“Don’t you just want to murder him?” Trace says once he’s left.

“A little bit. How much did he spend after all that?” I ask.

“£2.50.”

“Really pushing the boat out then.”

“Yeah.”

***

Not ready to face returning to an empty house just yet, I linger a few minutes after locking up. The pub on my right overlooks the town’s river where I once sat with Lyndsey supping cocktails during the warmer months. Two small Christmas trees adorn either side of the pub door and above the lintel, a Santa complete with sleigh and reindeers, is carrying sacks of presents. Further down the road, strings of lanterns light up both sides of the street. Opposite on the market square, a slightly wonky tree is festooned with glittering silver bulbs. When Lyndsey was alive, watching children singing carols was a sight to warm all but the hardest cockles.

It’s been two years since she died from the disease we all fight so hard to find cures for at the shop. I try not to show it but the pang of missing her hits like the bitter air.

***

The following day the guy in black rolls up ten minutes before closing, his usual disgruntled self. Trace is off today so I have the dubious pleasure of serving him myself.

His eyes pivot from the top shelf and back again to me.

“What happened to the Pink Floyd record?”

“We sold it first thing this morning to a guy who was waiting outside before we opened.”

The man had told me he wanted to buy the record for his son. His dad had loved the album, but they couldn’t find it in his belongings when he’d passed.

“Humph. Nothing worth buying today anyway.”

***

It all happens in a flash. Just as he’s about to leave, guy in black trips over one of his shoelaces. His hand goes out, toppling the snow globe from the shelf, knocking him on the head. Then it smashes onto the floor covering his trainers in water and glitterings of fake snow. I rush from the counter, but he’s already picking himself up.

“Are you alright?” Images of likely outcomes race through my head. I picture a visit to the hospital, endless emails, to say nothing of potential lawsuits.

He rubs his head painfully. Close up, his eyes are those of a lost child.

“Yeah, I think so.” He rubs his head again. A bruise is forming at the left temple.

“Maybe you’d like to sit down for a while,” I suggest, remembering protocol. I’ll need to log all this on the accident report later.

“Really, I’m fine. No need to make a fuss.” His black shirt has come loose at the back.

“Nah. I’m fine,” he says again.” I can't quite believe what I’m hearing.

“Well, if you feel confused or dizzy, make sure you ring up the emergency services straight away.”

“Sure.”

“Have you anyone at home in case you need help?”

“Na.”

“Shall I take your number? To check if you are ok.”

“Nah. No need. I’ll be on my way. I only live up the road.”

When he’s gone, I brush up the pieces of the snow globe and quickly log in the basic details of what happened on the computer.

While it’s still fresh in my mind.

***

A few days pass before I see guy in black again and something about him is different. He’s dressed in his usual somber attire, but wearing something I’ve never seen before. A smile. He’s also carrying a bag. A black one, naturally.

“Afternoon, or should I say evening.” Even his voice sounds different.

“Hello.”

“How are you all?”

Trace emerges from the back with an expression that says it all.

“Er. We’re all ok.”

“That’s good. I’ve brought you a donation.”

“Ri-ight.”

“Like to see what it is?”

“Er. Yes. Ok.”

I open the bag, almost expecting a snake to jump out, but instead discover some great records, including the “The Dark Side of the Moon.” Obviously, not the one he was making such a thing about in the shop the other day.

“Should help boost the sales a bit.” He says amiably.

“I didn’t think you had that record!”

“Oh, I have several of them. That’s a first pressing so it’s worth a bit more. You could try selling it for £80. It’s in mint condition. All my records are.”

“Thank you.” Again, I’m gob smacked.

“No problem. I’m thinking of donating others soon. That’s if you want them.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand but thank you. How is your head by the way?”

“Yeah, funny you should ask. I seem to have acquired a bump. Only I don’t remember how I got it.”

“Do you recall the other day in the shop?”

“Not really. It’s a bit of a blur.”

“Can you remember knocking your head on your way out?” I should probably mention the snow globe and logging it as an accident, but it might ruin a pleasant moment.

“I really don’t.” A chuckle escapes him. “For some reason, my memory’s been a bit hazy lately. But I do know I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and…”

“You have?”

“Yeah. Well, better be on my way. I expect you’ll be wanting to close up.”

“We will.”

“Righto.”

But then he suddenly turns on his heel, beaming boyishly. “You know, I’d be happy to spare a few hours a week – that is, if you need the help. I’m not fussy about what I do.”

I’m not sure whether I’m dreaming, or if one of my nightmares is about to come true, but I tell him I’ll bear it in mind. I’m just about to ask his name when he says:

“Yeah, well. Thank you for doing what you do,” and off he whisks into the night.