Johnny Swanson - Eleanor Updale [57]
‘It’s because of me, isn’t it?’ said Johnny as he and Hutch tidied the stockroom to make space for goods that wouldn’t sell. ‘It’s my fault.’
‘No, it’s because of me,’ Hutch said. ‘Because I’m standing by you. And it’s the fault of no one except the small-minded people of Stambleton. I’ll take over the paper deliveries for a while. I don’t want you to have to face abuse every day. You can do extra jobs for me here instead.’ He brought down some cardboard and paint from a high shelf. ‘And you can start right now. I want you to make some notices. We’re going to have to have our post-Christmas sale a little early. This year, it’s a pre-Christmas sale. If cut prices don’t lure people back in here, nothing will.’
Hutch had a large stock of aluminium teapots filled with Christmas biscuits. He’d ordered them as a seasonal novelty before his customers had deserted him. Other shops were selling them for five shillings. Hutch was marking them down to 3/6. Cheese, ham and bacon were all reduced to a shilling per pound. But the real crowd-puller was to be Keiller’s Assorted Chocolates at only tenpence for a half-pound box, with boxes twice the size going for only sixpence more.
So Johnny set to work. Hutch gave him a list of discounts, and Johnny translated them into posters, using bright colours, with lots of red, to make them look Christmassy. He got a ladder and climbed into the window to put up the posters and to build towers of chocolate boxes to attract passers-by. He painted CHRISTMAS SALE in huge letters at the top of the display, and set about arranging tins of crab meat in the shape of a crab, and iced cakes in the shape of a snowflake. Johnny was concentrating hard, determined to produce a show that would bring back the customers Hutch had lost because of him. He didn’t notice the growing crowd that was watching him work until they started a rumbling chant. Maybe it was the sign saying KEILLER’S CHOCOLATES that set them off. Soon they were all shouting: ‘Killer’s son! Killer’s son! Killer’s son! Killer’s son!’ Johnny looked up. It was already dark outside, but in the light from the window he could see a few faces he recognized. Some of them were people he knew from his paper round: folk who only a few weeks ago had given him a cheery wave every morning. Albert Taylor and Ernest Roberts were both there on their way home from school, and in the thick of it all was an elderly woman. She looked strong and feisty – you might even say ‘in robust health’. It was Mrs Slack, who had apparently recovered from her ailments now that Winnie was no longer available to care for her.
As the abuse grew louder, Johnny went to the front of the window and put his face close to the glass so that she could hear him. ‘Mrs Slack,’ he cried. ‘Please! You know my mother is a good woman. Please tell everyone. Please tell them everything she has done for you!’
‘Done for me!’ shrieked Mrs Slack. ‘Done for me! I’m lucky she hasn’t done for me! Every day she came round my house – looking for things to steal, I shouldn’t wonder. Or trying to poison me. Strange that I’ve been better since she’s gone, isn’t it? String her up, that’s what I say!’ And she joined in the chant, which was growing louder and more vicious: ‘Killer’s son! Killer’s son!’
A brick flew in, showering Johnny with glass. Hutch rushed to the window, drawing jeers from the crowd, to pull Johnny back into the shop. His weak leg trailed behind him, bringing down the ladder, and with it the paint pot. Red liquid spilled everywhere, and the crowd screamed, ‘Blood! Blood! Killer’s son! Killer’s son!’
The mob was frightening, but its members were not brave. The sound of a police whistle quickly dispersed them; but not before some had reached through the broken glass for chocolate boxes and teapots.
When the crowd had gone, Johnny