The Best Gift

Nothing is more challenging than the start of a new year when people have been clearing out their unwanted items after Christmas and the donations are piling into the charity shop filling up every inch of spare space. It’s not unknown for this state of affairs to continue even after we’ve closed when you get donors literally banging on the window demanding to bring in boxes of goods they can barely lift themselves. You’re expected to receive all this with a smile of undying gratitude, even though you’re desperate to cash up so you can get home and crash in an exhausted heap on the sofa. Besides the issue of fly-tipping, it doesn’t seem to occur to some people that it’s actually not a good idea to block the shop entrance with donations before it’s had a chance to open. Things tumble onto the pavement as you try to step over them, then turn out to be nothing more than a pile of unwashed bedding, or worse! Don’t get me started on that! The older I get (and let’s face it I’m not getting any younger), the more things bug me.

By 10 am onwards, with the donations from the previous day stacked up and not yet sorted, I can’t help wondering why I keep putting myself through a punishment that makes Groundhog Day look like a walk in the park. My belief in the cause remains undiminished (having lost a sister and my dear friend to cancer which the shop raises funds to prevent and treat), yet physically, the job is killing me. My neck and shoulders ache from constantly lifting heavy bags. Over time, the aches have accumulated, along with my lack of patience.

That’s why I’m so grateful when Jack and others like him help take the load off.

***

The work may be never ending, but it has its compensations, and I don’t mean first pick of the stock like people think. There are actually rules about that kind of thing, human nature being what it is. No, what I like best about the job is meeting great people and exceeding targets, year in, year out. I just don’t know how much longer I can …

But then something nice happens, and I tell myself, “Today has been a good day.”

“Didn’t you say Jack should be here soon?” My new assistant Tracey interrupts the monologue that’s been playing out in my head like a scratched record:

Should I stay or should I go?

Like the single by The Clash.

I check my phone. No one texting to cancel a shift yet.

“Barring something unexpected, Jack will be here on the dot of ten,” I tell her.

Tracey is into her third week of the role and still learning the ropes. Overall, apart from an irritatingly antiquated computer system that regularly crashes, the job isn’t rocket science, just bloody hard work. That was what I told her when she decided to apply for the position. She was already a helper but needed paid work. I wanted to give her an accurate picture of what the position entailed, not the heavily sanitised version given in the job description. If that didn’t put her off, then great. It seems Fate has smiled on me and I have the right person for the job. Still, I find with this kind of work, the honeymoon period usually lasts around six months. After that, the realities of the job set in and it’s easy to get disillusioned. Still, that’s in the future and might never happen.

So far, so good.

“Right. Is there anything I need to know about Jack?” Tracey asks.

“Just make sure he has plenty of space at the sorting table. He likes working on his own; he’d feel uncomfortable with anyone next to him. Also, he always sits on the side facing the door. It’s a good idea to have the games all ready for him to check.” Some of the customers deliberately look for faults. If they think we’ve overlooked something or there’s a piece missing, they want a reduction.

 Only the other day, a man came into the shop all hoity-toity and worked up about some missing pieces in a game of monopoly. “It says it’s complete on the box,” he moaned. He’s the same one that asks us to search for impossible items that can never be found in the back room and is disgruntled when you return empty-handed. As if we can control what comes into a charity shop! It’s not as if we can order things in advance!

WE GET WHAT WE ARE GIVEN.

I wouldn’t have minded, but the game only cost a few quid in the first place! Hopefully, an identical one will come in soon. But no! He had to go and make a point of showing his friends photos of said item on Facebook. Don’t you just hate it when people do that? The job is hard enough without people making it harder and I hate it when our shop gets a bad rep. Judging how packed out it gets though, most people love it.

Luckily Trace dealt with annoying man flawlessly. Textbook style, in fact. She listened politely, kept calm, and did plenty of apologising. Always a good thing.

Unlike me. I mean, REALLY?

I’m more than happy to apologise for genuine mistakes, but everyone has their limits. When Trace came over and discreetly asked what to do next, I suggested giving a refund or offering an exchange, but of course that would have been too easy. The guy wanted drama. He wanted to make a song and dance out of it so all the other customers could hear how useless we are here! Next thing, he’ll be emailing head-office; my boss will respond, and it will involve bucketloads of grovelling on my part. (Incidentally, I didn’t dare tell Jack about the missing monopoly bits because he’s usually scrupulous when it comes to checking things – maybe it was one of the rare times he got distracted), but that’s the way it goes.

In spite of this little blip, I appreciate Jack’s work, and we rarely get complaints as a result of anything he’s done or not done.

THEN AGAIN, IF THEY ARE THAT UNHAPPY WITH THINGS, WHY DON’T THEY OFFER TO HELP?

On second thoughts, that’s not such a good idea. I might end up strangling them!

“Just stack the games up neatly on the stool next to the sorting table, Trace. Jack will sort them from there,” I explain.

“Will do. Erm, shall I give him puzzles to check as well? Or just the games?”

“Good question. You can give him puzzles – he loves doing them — but try to give him ones with less than 200 pieces.”

“Oh, why’s that?”

“He’ll happily spend all morning checking the larger puzzles which means actually doing them. Admittedly, he’s quick, but it means nothing else will get done. He won’t be able to check the games if he spends all his time doing bigger puzzles. And let’s face it, there’s no shortage of things to do round here.”

“Got ya.”

“Ah, here he is! Hi Jack.”

A strong-looking lad has arrived wearing a hoodie displaying the shop logo and carrying a rucksack. He was so pleased when I got him that hoodie.

“Hi Rhea.”

“Hi Jack. You alright?”

“Yes. I’M OK.”

“Good.”

“Have you had a good week?”

“FINE.”

“How’s Murphy? I hope he’s been behaving himself.”

At the mention of Murphy, Jack’s face lights up. “He has been a good dog. THIS WEEK. I’ve had to keep him away from the river. My sister, Danni doesn’t like it when he puts dirty footprints all over the carpet. She GETS CROSS with him.” He shows me a video on his phone of an adorable golden Labrador smiling and wagging his tail.”

“He’s gorgeous, Jack! How old is he now?”

“JUST 14 months old.” He puts his phone away.

But then, suddenly all the light goes out of him.

“What’s the matter, Jack?”

“It’s just I have some sad news. My uncle John’s cancer has come back, and he’s got to go into a hospice.”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry!”

How inadequate the words sound and how often I’ve said them to people suffering over the years. The counterbalance only comes from knowing the treatments raised from our funds have helped extend people’s lives, sometimes for many years. Some of them have been so grateful they’ve offered their services as volunteers because they want to “give something back.”

After a while, I introduce Jack to Tracey, my new assistant.

“This is Trace, our new assistant. I don’t think you’ve met before.”

“I’ve seen her… HERE. BEFORE.”

“Well, you’ll be seeing her regularly from now on.”

Trace smiles encouragingly. “Hello Jack.”

“HELLO.”

“Well, now you’ve met Trace properly, I’m going to need you to move some boxes and bags of books in the storage room. Remember, there needs to be a clear metre walkway in case of fire. I don’t want my boss telling me off. Can you do that, Jack?”

“YES.”

“Ok, great. There’s going to be some lifting involved. Try and break the heavy loads down into smaller amounts and call me if you need help.”

“I KNOW all about health and safety. I’ll be alright. You forget. I’M STRONG.”

“That’s true. Do you want a coffee before you get cracking?”

“Not now! AFTER.”

“Ok. Can you take a look in the cupboard and see if we’ve got any Oreos left?”

“I’ll do the books first. THEN I’ll check the biscuits. YOU ran out last time I was here.”

“I did.”

“YOU ran out of them the time before too.”

“Oh dear! Sorry about that! I know how much you like Oreos.”

“Doesn’t MATTER, I’ll get a packet soon.”

I catch myself rambling while Jack awaits precise instructions about where to put the books.

“Oreos are so tasty. Not very good for the waistline, but nice.”

“NOT WORRIED about that.”

“Right. Well, if there aren’t any in the cupboard, I’ll get the money from petty cash and you can go and get some.”

Jack checks the fridge. “We’re about to run out of milk too.”

“But there’s enough for a drink now, right? Do you want to to have coffee before you start moving the books, or afterwards?”

“AFTERWARDS.”

“Ok.”

“After that, I’ll get more milk and Oreos.”

Jack opens the bathroom door. It’s nothing to write home about, not much more than a cubbyhole, but it’s all we’ve got.

“You only have TWO toilet rolls left. Shall I get some more?” Jack asks.

“That’s a good idea. Don’t forget, I’ll need the receipt to put it through the till.”

“Ok. I WON’T forget.”

***

Half an hour later, I check to see how Jack is progressing with the books.

“That looks great, Jack. All spick and span. No trip hazards for me to worry about now. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll have my coffee NOW. Then, I’ll get the shopping.”

“Ok. See you in a bit. By the way, there’s plenty of games ready for you to check in the sorting room.”

“Ok. See you in a bit.”

Having tidied the books, drunk his coffee, and bought the shopping, Jack sets about his other tasks with aplomb. He appears comfortable round Trace, but as with anything it will take a while to get used to change.

I often feel that way myself.

While Jack gives equal attention to the games, he clearly has his favourites. Special attention is given to Buckaroo, maybe because he enjoys setting the parts up. It’s satisfying watching the contraption working and seeing the horse buck. Perhaps for the same reason, he’s absorbed by “Operation” – seeing if all the tiny body parts are present and closely inspecting the wiring. However, I’m convinced his greatest pleasure comes from laying out the pieces of a jigsaw on the table and fitting them all together. When he completes one, his eyes glow with pleasure.

If it isn’t complete, he’ll say, “It isn’t all there, Rhea. It has pieces missing.”

Then he waits for me give him permission to dump it in the bin.

***

Having worked through eight games, he’s just about to start on a two-hundred-piece puzzle with brightly coloured parrots when the speakers from the shop’s stereo system make a strange juddering sound. Jack covers his ears and screws up his face.

I’m standing opposite, pricing clothes on a rail. Trace is fiddling with the stereo underneath the till trying to get it work.

“What’s the matter Jack?” I ask.

“Arg! That stereo’s been on the blink for ages. It’s not good to have no music in the store. The customers like the music we play.”

Another job to attend to, I’m thinking. In the meantime, we’ll have to do without.

***

A day later, Jack pops his head round the sorting room door, but doesn’t come in. It’s not always easy to read his emotions, but he looks sad. And when he speaks, the words come out in a rush.

“Erm, I won’t be able to help next week… I want to spend time with my uncle … before he goes.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Ok. Sorry! I have to go. NOW.”

Just as he leaves, a postal worker hands me a letter. I’m about to open it but then the phone rings. Someone’s bringing a carload of donations and wants to know if we have room for them. At least they’ve bothered calling; it means I can work out where to safely put them. I add the letter to the growing pile in the lockable cabinet. To be opened when things calm down, whenever that will be.

A week later, the tension lifts a little when Jack turns up bearing a large bag. Beside him is a Labrador with a lolloping pink tongue and madly wagging tail.

“Settle down Murphy,” Jack says.

“Hello Murphy. Wow! What a lovely dog!”

Jack pats him affectionately. “He’s the BEST dog.” After rummaging in his rucksack, he produces a dog biscuit. “EAT IT GENTLY, Murphy,” he coaxes.

Then he delves back in and hands over two packets of Oreos. “It’s my birthday tomorrow and I’ll be able to come and help, but only for a bit. The biscuits are for everyone.” He looks at me. “My sister, Danni, has made a cake for me to bring in too. It’s my TREAT.”

“Thank you, Jack. That’s great.”

“Ok. But I have something else to give you. I don’t know what it is but it’s from my uncle.” He lifts a gift-wrapped box from his bag and gives it to me. “He says you’re only to open it when you’re on your own, Rhea.”

“Ok. Thank you,” I say uncertainly.

“Promise to open it alone?”

“I promise.”

“Ok. Got to go and give Murphy a run.” Jack wags his finger at the dog. “No jumping in the RIVER Murphy.” He grins at everyone “See you tomorrow.”

***

I’m beyond curious to know what the box contains and can hardly wait for the shop to close so I can do as requested. The day seems to have dragged by, but eventually with only the ticking of the back-room clock to keep me company, I carefully open the package. I’m astonished to discover a brand new stereo and speakers, with a shop receipt for £300 with the accompanying paperwork and accessories. Attached to it is a white envelope written in a shaky hand and entitled “The Shop Manager.”

It says:

Dear Rhea,

I’m donating this stereo as my parting gift to the shop. There are two reasons for this. The first is the shop has always held a special place in my heart, even more now I have terminal cancer. I know how much you all enjoy listening to music and creating a great atmosphere for the customers. The second is to make Jack happy, at least for a bit longer. He’s told me he enjoys helping but is worried you are struggling with the workload and might want to leave. I’ve never had children of my own and Jack has been like a son to me. He has his difficulties, but he’s a fine young man and no one has a bigger heart. He says he’d happily do another shift if it would make things easier for you but doesn’t want to push things in case he’d be in the way..

Anyway, the offer is there if you need it. In the meantime, I hope you make good use of the stereo. I think it would be nice if Jack gets to help instal it.

I can only say I wish you all the best. Please keep up the valuable work so we can all get that bit closer to the day when we finally beat cancer.

All the best, John.

I lose count of how long I’ve been sitting at my desk rereading these words.

It’s only after placing the letter back in the envelope to be stored in the lockable cabinet, I come across the letter I’ve stashed away and forgotten about. It turns out to be an invitation for me and a group of other long serving managers to attend an event to celebrate our time with the charity. Can I really have been here twenty years? Perhaps I’ll be given a china dish to celebrate – like you get in a marriage. In a way, the job is a bit like a marriage, full of ups and downs. Rewarding too.

What with the invitation, the prospect of Jack returning, and this wonderful gift of the new stereo system to look forward to, I feel I’ve turned a corner. Maybe the biggest gift of all is help. Even with its bittersweet undertones, today is proving to be the best day ever.