Quitting

“You know what, Karen?”

Irene’s voice was brittle, stripped of its usual warmth. Karen looked up from the till.

“What?”

“I’m too old for all this crap. I don’t need it. I’m sorry, Karen, but I’m quitting.”

The words landed like stones. Karen’s heart sunk, gripped by a weight that seemed to drag her down. For a wild moment, she wanted to unclip the keys from her belt, throw them clattering on the wooden floor, and say, “You know what? I quit too.”

Floundering, all she could come up with was, “Oh. Right...”

Irene’s face had a set look. “The trouble is I don’t think you realise how much I do here. I feel knackered all the time.”

Knackered.

The word twisted.

The word Karen’s partner used every morning before she left for work and asked him how he was. He’d never been the same since his body had been claimed by the virus.

“It doesn’t matter how much I sleep. I still wake up feeling exhausted,” he’d say. Now, hearing it from Irene felt like an accusation from all fronts.

“I do know how much you do,” Karen said, but the words sounded hollow. “I’ve always valued you.”

It wasn’t a lie. She thought back ten years when Irene had been a valued volunteer. When the paid deputy position came up, Karen would never have asked, but Irene had approached, albeit hesitantly. “That is if you don’t think I’m too old to apply,” she’d said. “It might suit someone younger.”

“Nonsense,” Karen had replied, passionate. “All your retail experience makes you ideally suited.”

Irene’s commitment had taken Karen’s breath away. But over time, a subtle disillusionment had crept in. Irene, older and with less to lose, chafed at the impractical decisions made by those higher up. “It’s ridiculous,” she’d huffed when some new edict was issued. Privately, Karen often agreed.

Now, that simmering frustration had finally boiled over. Irene just folded her arms, her gaze fixed on a damp patch on the ceiling as if it were Karen’s fault.

The bell above the door chimed, and a customer bustled in. Instantly, Karen slipped on a professional mask. For once, Irene stood back.

“Just browsing,” the woman chirped, heading for the rail of winter coats Irene had meticulously steamed and priced that morning. She pulled one out. “Excuse me. Do you think this is pure wool? The label’s a bit faded.”

It was unsettling seeing Irene not engaging with a customer. Normally, she’d have stepped forward, her fingers feeling the fabric, offering helpful advice; now she remained a solid fixture, leaving Karen to sort it out.

Karen glanced towards the back room, feeling the deliberate weight of Irene’s absence. She forced a smile. “Let me have a look for you.”

She examined the coat, talked about its quality, and took the sale. The till drawer slipped open, revealing a thick wad of notes. The shop was a success by every metric that mattered to head office; it regularly smashed its targets, raising vital funds for cancer research. Karen had proudly returned from meetings armed with certificates advertising shop landmarks, framing them on the back room walls. Of course, she knew this wasn’t just down to her. The shop’s achievements were built on the bedrock of Irene’s hard work and a dedicated team of volunteers. Yet in spite of a thriving shop, Karen was struggling. And without Irene…

A volunteer arrived to take over the till. In the sorting room, Irene stood with a tagging gun, punching through clothing labels with sharp, angry clicks.

“I assume you want me to price,” she said, without looking up.

“Of course,” Karen replied, hating the stilted atmosphere.

Irene hung the steamer nozzle up with a clatter.

“You know I’ve never been one to shirk responsibilities…”

Karen started. The thread of earlier conversation must have been raging in Irene’s head; now it was being picked up again.

“I know that,” she said, her patience fraying. “You’ve always taken your duties here seriously.”

“Maybe too seriously,” Irene shot back, her eyes finally meeting Karen’s with a disappointment that was worse than anger. “You know my Lily has another hospital appointment next week. Did you think of that when you asked me to rearrange the entire stockroom yesterday?”

Karen flinched. She had been so consumed with her own worries, with the thought of getting home to cook and clean because her partner couldn’t, she’d delegated like crazy, piling every task onto the one person who wouldn’t say no.

She found her mind racing, grasping for some kind of lifeline. She thought back to the past. Could she have done things differently? Shortly before Irene joined the shop, she’d gone to evening classes to get a legal diploma – if only she’d got a distinction instead of a pass, she’d have been in a solicitor’s office by now. Inevitably, her thoughts flew to Ben, the wonderful old boss who’d been such an inspiration. When he left the company, he’d offered her the chance of a new shop. She remembered standing in the doorway thinking it wasn’t big enough, not challenging enough. Now, working under an area manager who never seemed satisfied, she felt like a fool.

“I need to get out of here,” Irene suddenly announced, her voice flat. “I need to clear the cobwebs.”

“Ok,” Karen said, relieved at the prospect of a reprieve. The shop felt suffocating. So much so, she could cheerfully have locked up, rung her old boss,” and said, “I quit too. I’ll take whatever you can offer me,” but she had a feeling that ship had sailed. And in spite of everything, she couldn’t see herself giving up.

When Irene returned, the anger had been replaced with a deep-set weariness. She remained quiet throughout the day, and when she took an uncharacteristically long break, Karen feared their easy relationship was broken, perhaps for good.

While Irene was out, one of Karen’s long serving volunteers, popped in with some homemade cakes. Jean, who’d beaten cancer years ago and carried the calm strength of that fight in her eyes, took one look at Karen’s face and steered her into the office.

“You need a cup of tea,” she said, flicking the kettle on.

As the water boiled, Jean’s calm voice cut through Karen’s thoughts.

“Sometimes it’s best to take one day at a time. You’ve survived worse here. If Irene’s unhappy, you have to let her go. And you never know, she might want to go back to being a volunteer — if you give her the time and space she obviously needs. It may all be for the best in the long run.”

Savouring one of Jean’s lemon drizzle cup cakes, Karen nodded, the simple wisdom a balm to her frayed nerves. It was volunteers like Jean with their steadfast kindness and even deeper understanding of what really mattered, who had always kept her going. They were the anchor in the storm of head office demands and relentless targets; the reason the success felt real, even when it seemed empty. Their support had always got her through.

Whatever happened, she wasn’t ready to throw those keys on the floor.

Not quite yet.