CHRIS MARSTON-HILLER

 In the early 50s, Mathew loved to visit his grandparents who lived in the quant village of Little Alford in Devon not far from the coast. At fourteen he was too young to stay at home alone, so accompanied his parents on their annual two-week holiday and stay in a bed-and-breakfast on the outskirts of the village. Mathew’s grandparents ran the village shop for nigh on thirty years and lived above the shop, so was unable to offer accommodation to visitors.

            The village consisted of a mixture of small, thatched cottages and new bungalows built after the war. On a small rise stood St Michaels Church along with the small cemetery. Most of the cottages faced the village green where large oak trees stood proud on the lush green grass with an irregular-shaped pond home to assorted wild ducks. There were no pavements or streetlights, only grass verges, a pig farm up the road, one red telephone box and pillar-box.

            To his eyes, grandfather’s store was not a shop at all. For one thing, there was no pavement, only a hedge. Customers had to come through the front gate and up the garden path. Outside were advertising signs advertising cigarettes, tobacco, and lemonade. Inside the big glass windows, one could see shelving displaying assorted goods. The floor was of timber, with a strip of linoleum leading to the counter. In the far corner was a mystery door with a net curtain covering it.

            In one corner was a wooden chair for the weary to rest, beside was an open sack containing potatoes. Groceries lined the shelves, tins of peas, beans and carrots, packets of butter, salt and custard powder.

            There was no electricity, so there were no fridges, so on hot days in the summer people came to buy drinks, not ice-cream. In winter it would be paraffin for their lamps, and wood for the fires was harvested from the surrounding woods.

            Mathew’s grandmother knew the majority of her customers personally and always stopped what she was doing to have a chat. Occasionally strangers would come in and then tongues would start wagging, wondering who they were and what they were doing in the village. No one could remain anonymous in such a small village.

             Mathew loved to inspect the shelves behind the counter, for they bore big glass jars of sweets and chocolates, for example Mars, Kit-Kat, and jelly babies. They all had to be weighed in ounces, quarters and pounds. They were paid in halfpennies, pennies, sixpences, shillings and half-crowns. Under the counter grandmother kept an old till that didn’t work, it was just used as a drawer to hold the change when needed.

            The mixture aroma of potatoes, tobacco, paraffin and sweets gave the shop a distinctive odour all of its own. There was nothing more exciting for Mathew than to be allowed to go into the shop after closing time and choose his very own sweets, so long as it didn’t exceed his ration.

            His grandfather used to open the shop early, long before Mathew rose from his bed and never closed until late. Both of his grandparents were on call, even after closing time to serve locals who had forgotten something urgent for their dinner.

            Until electricity came to the village “Lighting up time” meant that grandfather got out the oil lamps, one to go on the living room table, and one ready to carry out to the shop if needed. Grandfather would light his pipe from the open fire and stand with his back to the fire to keep warm on the cold winter nights. To Mathew it was a magical time when the gloom of dusk was chased away with the flickering shadows filling the room and danced across the ceiling.

            Finally, in 1960 the store was sold but Mathew never forgot his youth, and even when both his grandparents had passed away and he had a family of his own he would drive down to the village and sit his children down under one of the oak trees on the village green and tell them of the times he visited his grandparents store.

Chris Marston-Hillier    ©    2018.