Read Online Heaps of Trouble by Emelyn Heaps - Free Book Online Page B

his hands raised high above his head as he forced his way through the press of people to hand over some object for wrapping to the ladies in the kitchen (who were now working at a feverish speed in an attempt to keep up).
    I raced between the legs of the people behind the counter delivering goods for wrapping, and then gathered up the wrapped parcels for delivery back to the customer. Boy-o-Boy was diligently handing out drinks to everybody behind the counter and, each time he passed the father, he muttered, ‘Boy, oh boy, Ron, but it’s busy this year.’ Klepto Joe flapped his arms wildly, trying to get Boy-o-Boy’s attention, exclaiming that he was ‘gasping with the thirst and can’t that drunken eejit see me?’
    And so it continued throughout the whole evening, with very short spells of calm that allowed everyone to draw breath for a minute before the onslaught started all over again. Finally it reached a climax around eleven that night, when the fathers, on their way home from the pubs, congregated outside the shop. Peering through the windows, while at the same time counting the money they had left over from the wages after the night’s drinking, they assessed what they could afford to buy for their children (who still believed that Santa
just
might make it to their house that year).
    By midnight, with the bells of St Michael’s church announcing the arrival of Christmas Day, the flurry had died down to the odd few drunks making their way home. All of the ‘helpers’ were congregating in the kitchen and toasting each other for another well-run operation. I was just starting to clean up the multitude of cardboard boxes that littered the floor behind the counter when a lone drunk came staggering into the shop, dressed in a dirty old coat and swaying slightly. He came over to the mother (who was tidying up the drapery section) and reached into his pocket, dragging out a handful of coins, which he carefully placed on the counter. Then he asked the mother, very politely, ‘What toys can I buy for that amount?’
    Thinking that the mother would sling him out with a flea in his ear, I was amazed to hear her asking him how many children had he and what were their ages? When she had extracted the information from him, she picked up an empty box from the floor and, walking down the shelves, began to fill it with an assortment of toys, before handing it over. She then guided him to the door very gently but determinedly, and pointed him in the direction of his house with the words, ‘Now, make sure that you place these in the children’s room before you pass out.’
    As an afterthought she called him back and, rushing behind the counter, grabbed a set of gloves and ran back out to him, stuffing them into the box as a ‘gift for the wife’. Whereupon he appeared to sober up noticeably and, turning to my mother, announced in almost an apologetic voice, ‘I’m sorry, Mam, but she died two year ago’.
    The mother and I watched him shuffle off up the street with the cardboard box clutched tightly to his chest and, as she locked up the shop doors, I noticed tears running down her face. She turned to me, wiping her cheeks, and then she picked me up in her arms and carried me into the kitchen where the ‘hooley’ was about to begin – and would carry on into the early hours of the morning.
    However my father had one more task for me to perform, so he took me upstairs to their bedroom and sat me down on their bed. He told me how proud he was to have a son who had reached the age of being able to assist in the business, then emptied from his pockets bundles and bundles of notes. They were creased and folded in every conceivable manner and I was given instructions to sort them into their respective denominations. Once done, I was to count the lot, hide it under the rug, and finally to creep down and whisper to him the final figure before I went to