Part Five – Picture This!

Here continues my serial with the next part of ‘Stookey Hill’.

Today, we meet Mr Owens, the owner of the camera shop, and his hapless assistant, Grant!

Part Five – Picture This

Mrs Dorado left Harry bemused. She was preoccupied with the fact that someone was stealing the most unusual of items from her. Ham and pound coins. The money she could sort of understand, but the meat…

Thankfully, someone else entered the shop and held the door for her so that she could get her shopper out without it getting snarled in the mechanism again. She was about to cross the street, when she remembered her photo book – she might go and see if it was ready, since the camera shop was right next door.

Heaving the door inwards with her entire body weight, she managed to get herself and her shopper through without incident. She stood for a moment, basking in the achievement.

“Mrs Dorado!” Grant popped his head up over the counter. He had been pretending to look for something, but the small wispy trail gave away the fact that he was vaping. He’d got in trouble with the manager a few times for that. One time he had even been in trouble for not doing a better job at hiding what Mr Owens had called a filthy habit. Grant didn’t think it was filthy. It smelled of mangoes.

“Hello dear,” she said, ambling over to ask after her photo book.

“Let me check for you,” Grant said, sliding out from behind the counter to go out back. This was entirely unnecessary because he could check on the computer. But out back, he could light an actual cigarette thanks to the fact that Mr Owens kept the back door propped open most of the time. Even in the winter. One year, the snow had come all the way in and left a gleaming white carpet on the storage room floor.

Mrs Dorado leaned on the counter. Her hip felt a bit dicky and she hadn’t walked much these past few days. She thought it might do her good to get to the park later. Maybe Mark would take her.

However, the thought of Mark led her to think about how it would soon be time to make his customary ham and crisp sandwich, which then led her to consider once more that someone was stealing from her. It was the worst of crimes – to thieve from an old lady, she thought to herself.

Instead, she distracted herself with the very many displays about the shop. They were a bit much, she thought, looking at all the bright, smiling faces in glorious colour posing for what were no doubt highly staged photos. There was one that ran ceiling to floor – a young couple walking a dog. They were smiling, not a care in the world. Even the dog seemed to be smiling.

She leaned forward a bit on the counter to see the bottom of one of the posters. She had a sudden inclination to look at the footwear of the round, friendly-faced grandmother beaming away.

The woman appeared not to have any feet, however, as the skirting board swallowed her ankles. This was much to Mrs Dorado’s disappointment. She could have done with some shoe inspiration. She’d had the same pair of memory foam slip-ons from Marks and Spencer for about seven years now – eight maybe…

It was during this casual musing about the age of her worn, navy shoes, that Mrs Dorado spotted it. She wasn’t trying to look, she insisted to herself later when attempting to justify the actions that came next. It was just that her eyes were pointing that way.

The printer, which had been churning out a series of photos, had squeaked – quite literally – to a halt. It was the sudden silence, in fact, that made Mrs Dorado glance at the last photo that sat in its 8×10 glory for all to see.

It was a couple of kids at the park. They were on swings, laughing. Fun times, Mrs Dorado thought as she remembered going to the park herself as a young girl. Except those were the days when health and safety was not even taken into consideration and you scorched the back of your legs in the summer on the metal slide which seemed hot enough to fry an egg on.

Oh, and little Alex Fiddler – poor boy. He had got his scarf caught in the underside of the roundabout and had laid there for three hours before someone realised he hadn’t gone home for his tea. His mother lived with eternal regret for saying “he’ll come home when he’s hungry.” Little Alex Fiddler would have gone home had he been able. Instead, not only did he never darken the gate of the park again, but he only ever spoke in monosyllables.

Mrs Dorado shuddered at the memory and decided today was not the day to visit the park. Even for just a walk.

And Mrs Dorado was just about to turn her attention to something else, wondering where on earth Grant was before remembering he was likely chain-smoking at the back door, when she spotted something out of the corner of her eye. It was two people in the background of the photo with the children on the swings.

“Looks like Mark,” Mrs Dorado muttered, out loud but to no one since she was alone in the shop.

Leaning forward a little more, she tried to inspect the photo. Hang on, it was Mark! She smiled to herself a little – small town life! Everyone knew everyone and…

But hang on…who was that he was with? It looked like Alan Limpton…no, it couldn’t be. Mark couldn’t stand the man. No one could stand the man. Then, without any thought, Mrs Dorado leaned and picked up the photo. It was Alan Limpton! And they were…shaking hands? Why were they shaking hands?

Mrs Dorado frowned. This was strange. Then, and she wasn’t sure what possessed her, she leaned and picked up all the photos.

Mark was in several of them. She flicked through them and, as though it was a small action comic book, she saw the tale unravel. Mark and Alan walking to each other, meeting, looking about them (she thought that seemed shifty) and then shaking hands. And then…the exchange of something. A package maybe…an envelope? She squinted to look when suddenly she heard the front door jangle open.

Horrified at the thought of being caught, she immediately dropped the photos back on to the printer. She was equally horrified to see that the top one had smudge marks where the ink mustn’t have dried properly before she touched them. Her eyes were wide and she gulped, aware suddenly that she had (inadvertently) ruined someone’s photos.

“Mrs D!” It was Mr Owens. He had come in, paper under one arm, pipe in one hand, “where’s Grant?” he frowned instantly. That boy was barely worth employing…

“He’s out back looking for my photo book!” Mrs Dorado shouted it, as if that distracted from the fact that she had been nosy, and not only looked through someone else’s photos but had also left her fingerprints on them all.

Mr Owens looked surprised at both the volume and the gusto of her reply.

“I’m afraid it’s not ready yet,” he said, calmly and in the hope that she too would remain calm. Her eyes had a strange bewildered look and he was slightly worried she was about to experience a medical emergency.

“Okay!” Mrs Dorado grabbed the handle of her shopper, “not to worry, I’ll come back!”

And Mr Owens watched as she pushed the door open, narrowly missed slamming it into the postie, Andy, before yanking her shopper through it.

“What’s with her?” Andy raised his eyebrows as the two watched her march straight back towards her house, the shopper flipping spectacularly along the way like a fish on a line.

Mr Owens shrugged and the two gasped as she walked straight into an oncoming car. It screeched to a halt and then the horn blasted as Mrs Dorado’s face wore a curious combination of alarm and rage.

“Anyway, here you go,” Andy handed Mr Owens a small pile of letters before heading in to Harry’s.

Mr Owens watched to make sure Mrs Dorado made it safely into her house before going to find out where that good-for-nothing Grant was so that he could sit in peace and read the paper.