Just A Right Royal OLD Shop
by Valerie Hardman

I don't know how I ended up here. I'm not that old. I tripped on a paving stone on my way back from the pub and before I could say 'Bob's your uncle' my house was sold or let or something. I blame that accursed power of attorney I signed when I'd had a drop too much and our Jeannie put the pen into my hand. I knew I'd rue the day.

Anyway here I am. Room 37 on the first floor. A view of the road so at least I can see an occasional shopper or dog walker to liven up the hours. But it's not like where I used to live. I had so many places to go to. I loved it, being able to go to Harrold's and buy whatever I wanted. A new top, a pair of shoes, a lipstick. And then a cup of tea in their cafe and a chat, they were all so friendly. I had so many memories, and each of my things brought them back to me.

I don't really mind losing all my treasures but I do mind my beautiful delicate china cups. I bought them from Cheryl on the Spode desk. She was lovely and helped me to choose them. Blue and white they were, with a gold rim. an Indian pattern. They were called Blue Colonel and reminded me of my Uncle Jimmy who had been to India and had a booming voice. He used to take me to Harrold's when I was a girl. He used to say it was "Just A Right Royal OLD Shop' and the staff would all laugh, every time, without fail. It felt like a family joke. Do you get it? It spells out the name of the store. Oh dear, I do get forgetful and I hate not having my lovely memories intact. I was wrong before, wasn't I? It isn't Harrold's. It is Jarrold's, my store of many memories.

Anyway I miss my Blue Colonel. I hate these mugs they give me, I tell them 'I'm not a navvy on a building site', and they laugh as if I've told them a joke. I shouldn't call them though, they aren't a bad lot, just not mine and I'm not theirs though they do call me 'my dear' and told my hand when I feel lonely. I'm feeling lonelier this last week or so. I used to share a secret fag with Elsie in number 40 but I haven't seen her, nor big man Peter in number 25. Come to think of it I haven't seen Beth or Bert, the old married couple in the double room downstairs. That's not too surprising as I usually only saw them at lunch in the dining room and that's been closed. They said for renovations but I know better. The whole place is too quiet.

I know Mary has died. I saw the strange alien figures in her room when I went to the toilet. Her door was shut pronto, but I know. I saw the ambulance in the road and heard the cleaner, little Kita, crying in the corridor. Kita is still here but Elise and Eva have gone. I ask where they are but no-one's saying.

Mary was ok, she was chirpy. Perhaps chipper is a better word. She wasn't chirpy like a bird but chipper like some-one who could take anything in her stride. And watchful, like a cat. She talked a lot but never said anything, or at least anything that made sense. She's gone and no-one has taken her room. Normally it's one out and one in. Mrs Black says the home can't afford to have rooms standing empty but now? If I had the chance I'd be out but they keep the front door locked. Habeas corpus I shout at them but I might as well sing Hallelujah for all the good it does me. I phantasise about getting out, buying some chocolate, a cup of tea in Jarrold's, a bus trip to Harrogate, running away, joining the circus. I dream strange dreams.

I am being very careful though. I don't sit in the TV room. I have to let the girls change the bedding and clean the room but I touch the things they've touched as little as possible. There's only one laundry room so everyone's bedding must get all washed up together. I have a big shawl and I put that on the bed before I lie down. I know this thing is deadly and I don't want to die.

The girls and boys who care for us aren't so happy go lucky as they used to be. They know the score but they don't give in. They say we are family and they will always look after us. Strange isn't it that strangers are now my family. Jeannie hasn't been for months and I may never see her again. Do you know, I don't care, except that she would sometimes take me to town and we'd go to my Jarrold's and see the changes. It was so fancy last time we went, with people sitting on stools around the meat and cheese counter and sipping glasses of wine. Very bohemian. I wanted to do it but settled for a cup of tea. Mind I got a bottle of sherry, I always go for cream, and Jarrold's only sell the best. I miss that.

I look out my window. I look at the trees coming into leaf. I look at the ginger cat that pads past. I look at the blackbird rustling in the hedge. I look at my future. I long for wings


A VERY SUITABLE NAME
by A M Maxwell

Poppy stepped back from the bookshelves and surveyed her morning’s work. She was “never, ever to let any customer see her doing nothing” she had been told in no uncertain terms by her manager. There was always something to be done - books to dust, books to tidy, papers to arrange, glass to polish and a counter to keep spotless. As there had only been three customers all morning, Poppy had been free to ensure that the shop was an exemplar of cleanliness and tidiness.

Mr Samuel, as he was known, was a good man who insisted that all his employees had proper breaks. Poppy was allowed thirty minutes to eat her lunch, which today consisted of a large chunk of her Ma’s home-made bread and a piece of cheese, wrapped in waxed paper. She turned the door sign round to “closed” and moved into the back room, where she sat down to enjoy her food and her thoughts.

She loved her work because she loved books. Ever since she was a child she had enjoyed the feel of a book - the smoothness of the paper, the bright illustrations and the wonderful stories that were woven into their pages. Since she was old enough to be allowed into Norwich on her own, she had spent hours gazing through the windows of Jarrolds - booksellers, printers, and bookbinders. So, when a small sign had appeared in the window advertising a position, Poppy lost no time in applying. She doubted she would be successful as all the assistants were men and it seemed that they all knew everything about books. Fortunately, Mr Samuel Jarrold had often seen her peering through the windows and guessed she had a more than passing interest in books. He knew that it was becoming increasingly common for unmarried ladies to eschew domestic service and instead go into the fast-evolving world of commerce, particularly into businesses claiming to be purveyors of fine goods. His world of 1856 was very different to that of his late grandfather, John Jarrold, who had started the business in 1770. It was now not only as purveyors of books but also as bookbinders and publishers.

It was a chilly, late autumn afternoon and no customers disturbed Poppy until a tall, simply dressed woman entered the shop. Her attire was modest, boasting nothing of the fashion of the day. A leather-gloved hand rested on the book Poppy had been looking at only that morning - Oliver Twist. “Hmm” said the woman, turning it over and looking at the tooled leather. “Mr Dickens’ story certainly has a fine carriage in which to travel, don’t you think?” She looked at Poppy, clearly expecting a response.

“Oh yes ma’am. It’s beautiful leather and the gold embossing is applied by hand.”

“Mr Dickens is a very fine writer you know. He sees what many choose to ignore, especially in London. You don’t see quite so much of it here in Norwich but it doesn’t mean that it isn’t here. Traverse the dark lanes or walk out into the villages and you will find it!” she declared. Poppy clearly looked a little perplexed.

“I am talking about poverty, m’dear. The difference between the rich and the poor in this country is an absolute travesty. Most poor people have no means to change their situation and yet the rich treat them as if that situation was of their own doing and, worse still, that God ordained their wretchedness. Mr Dickens highlights this dreadful inequality and the pomposity of the so-called educated classes in his writing.”

Poppy smiled, pleased that the lady seemed to wish to engage her in conversation. If it was about books, especially Mr Dickens, who was a particular favourite of hers, so much the better. “I do see that in Mr Dickens’ writing and some of the things he describes seem truly intolerable. I make up stories for the little ‘uns at home and I do try and include lessons on life. The world can be a wicked place.”

“Yes, very true. This is the home of the insightful Norwich Tracts, is it not? They have found a circulation in London and very popular they are in some quarters. It cheers me to learn of your writing and you must make sure that you continue without bowing to popular opinion that the writings of females should be of a more delicate nature than those of men,” she urged. “For no good can come of it when intelligent, educated and able ladies restrict themselves in their writing to the pursuit of marriage, children and servitude to a husband. In my opinion, it is an incalculable folly!”

Poppy smiled and felt a little awkward. The lady clearly felt passionately about the subject and for fear of encouraging her to become too agitated, which Poppy knew could give a lady an attack of the vapours, she asked if the lady lived locally. “No, I’m from London. My sister and I have rented a small cottage in Winterton for a few days. We needed a change from the stifling London air and, I confess, it’s a truly delightful change.” She looked up, languorously allowing her eyes to travel over the shelves. She smiled and waved her left hand, now devoid of its glove, in the direction of the area behind Poppy, which contained the day’s most popular works. “How many of these have been written by lady novelists and how many have any true substance?” Before Poppy could answer, she was told “Few, I’ll warrant, if any. A travesty.” Feeling somewhat braver than perhaps she should have felt, Poppy asked if the lady had written anything herself. For the first time, the lady’s face changed and with a chuckle which seemed to consume her whole body, she said, “Yes, m’dear, a great deal. I have always had the deepest and most earnest interest in all forms of literature and have entered into those arenas in which I have felt most comfortable. I have translated some works and written a few essays for the Westminster Review. Perhaps you will permit me to send you a copy of my essay ‘Silly Novels by Lady Novelists’ if only to warn you of the subjects and scenarios best avoided if you wish to be considered a serious contributor to literary bounty.”

“I’m very grateful to you for your consideration Miss,” said Poppy, now realising that the lady wasn’t wearing a gold band on her left hand and was therefore unlikely to be married. “I should like that very much although I’m sure it would be a long time before I could write anything that would be considered worthy of publication.” The lady nodded her head (Poppy thought maybe in tacit agreement), looked at the floor and then slowly raised her eyes before continuing.

“You are at least best placed to have a novel considered for publication - right here with your employers! I have several ideas for a novel myself. I was actually brought up in the country and therein lies a richness of material for the very best of stories. Human nature weaves the most delightful of tapestries in the mind and to encapsulate that would, I feel, produce the type of novel to which lady writers have sadly never aspired. I would very much like such novels to be received in literary circles and judged as works in their own right, without being hampered by the inevitable bond of ‘by a lady novelist.’ Indeed, as soon as a new work is seen to be bearing the name of someone who is, might one say, revered as much as our Mr Dickens, its acceptance as a work of unquestionable merit is assured. Unfortunately, the merit of a work by Marian or Mary Ann Evans would be overshadowed by the enquiry as to the type of lady who might have penned the offering to the literary world!”

Poppy saw immediately what this lady should do and, emboldened by the ease of their conversation, said “Perhaps you should use a man’s name.”

After a contemplative pause the lady’s eyes darted around the shop, as if looking for inspiration, before she responded. “What a capital idea! Perhaps you could suggest something for me.”

“I have three brothers Miss - Wilfred, George and Harry. My Pa says they’re solid English names. He doesn’t deal with anything foreign sounding.”

“Hmm. I like ‘George.’ Your father is right and it’s also a name close to my own heart. Indeed, I shall use ‘George’ so a good English surname must accompany it. I can’t help feeling that Dickens would provide perfect balance but, alas, it cannot be.”

“Perhaps something like Eliot would suit, Miss. It’s a good name and slips off the tongue quite easily.”

“You’re right! George Eliot. Good, mouth-filling and easily pronounced. I believe I have found my pseudonym.” She smiled, placed her hand on Poppy’s arm and said, warmly, “thank you. It is a very suitable name.”


Bones
by Ian Boughton

Little Fella the puppy was having an exciting day.

Normally, with his mistress, he would accompany her shopping in one of the seaside towns along the North Norfolk coast where he and his humans lived. But today was different Today, his mistress and one of her friends had decided to come shopping in Norwich, and Little Fella was seeing the big city for the first time.

He was astonished at the number of humans walking around – he had never seen so many in one place before. It was slightly frightening for a little puppy, so he made sure to stay close to his own humans. He sat down neatly on the pavement, his tail tucked around his rear legs, and stayed close to the wall, protected from the crowd by his mistress and her friend.

They had paused on a corner outside a very big and impressive-looking doorway. The two ladies were staring at a big poster in the window.

“Meet the author – come and hear a talk by the author Elly Griffiths, at Jarrolds today,” read her mistress out loud. “Her series of Norfolk-set novels featuring forensic archaeologist Ruth Galloway attracts more and more new readers with every new story. If you haven’t discovered Elly yet, here’s a chance to meet this warm, funny and fascinating author over a sumptuous Jarrold afternoon tea.”

His mistress and her friend looked closely at the big poster. There was a giant photograph of a friendly-looking woman grinning back at them, and a picture of the front cover of a book.

“Oh, it says ‘sold out’. Blast! But it’s just as well - we wouldn’t have been able to take you inside, Little Fella – little dogs can’t go into department stores.”

These things are always sold out, said her friend. By the time the local paper gets round to reporting that they’re going to happen, all the tickets have already gone. Happens every time – the writer is that popular.

“Have you read her books?” asked the friend.

“Oh yes, lots of them – they’re very good. The best ones are the Dr Ruth Griffiths mysteries.”

“What happens?”

Little Fella’s mistress thought briefly.

“Well, the heroine is an archaeologist who works on digs of historical sites in North Norfolk. That’s why her novels have titles like ‘Room Full of Bones’… it’s all to do with bones, one way or another. And usually the police call her and say they’ve found some old bones, and can she help identify them and date them; she goes to look them over and says they’re fifty-year-old bones, probably from a teenage girl, who was left-handed, spoke with a Suffolk accent, smoked too much, and was strangled with a tartan scarf, so she was probably a Bay City Rollers fan.

“Then the police take over and solve the crime. It’s all good stuff… I love them!”

She glanced down. “But Little Fella wouldn’t like them – the heroine has a cat.”

“But he would like all the bones,” said her friend.

“That’s true,” said his mistress. “He loves a good bone. Problem is, I give him a nice bone, he chews it for a bit, then takes it into the garden and buries it, and I don’t know where it’s gone. A few days later he digs it up, all covered with earth, and starts chewing at it again.

“This dog knows where to find a good bone.”

Little Fella is half Lhasa Apso, and half Jack Russell terrier. His terrier half gives him his determination, and the Lhasa Apso half gives him his watchfulness and observation. The original Lhasa Apso dogs were bred to be watchdogs and guard dogs in Tibet, and so Little Fella is a very clear-eyed watcher. Those original watchdogs were also bred to sound the alarm when necessary, so Little Fella is also a very good barker.
When Little Fella barks, the world knows about it.

As his mistress and her friend stood outside Jarrolds’ window, discussing the Elly Griffiths event and her books in general, Little Fella sat neatly on the pavement, watching the crowds walk by. As he watched, a black car approached slowly, and stopped at the kerb beside them. It was a taxi.

A lady opened the door and stepped out. Little Fella looked up at her – he had seen that face before. She was a warm, cheerful-looking girlish lady with hair down past her shoulders and a big fluffy scarf wrapped fashionably over her coat. She glanced down at the little dog in front of her and gave him a big smile.

Little Fella peered closely at her. Yes, he had seen that face before. Where?

He turned to where his humans were chatting, and looked again at the big poster in Jarrolds’ window.

He turned and looked again at the lady who had just paid off the taxi driver and now stood directly in front of him.

It was the same face!

This puzzled the little dog. How could she be in two places at once? But even if some things are beyond the comprehension of a little puppy, the instincts of a watchdog are clear. When you see something unusual, you let your humans know about it.

So Little Fella barked.

Woof,woof, yap yap! Yap, yap, woof, woof! He barked, he jumped up and down, and he positively howled. He set up such a commotion that passers-by stopped and stared. A window-dresser stopped her work on a Jarrolds display and looked at him in amazement. His mistress looked embarrassed.

And then Little Fella hurled himself at the woman who had come out of the taxi… not in an unfriendly way, but in the manner of a puppy who has sized up his target, and has decided that it is a friend, and worth a hug and maybe a lick. He would have reached her had he not come to the end of his mistress’s lead. He turned back, momentarily disappointed, leapt up and put his paws on his mistress’s knees, then turned again and dashed back towards the new arrival. The message to his mistress was quite clear: look over here!

The lady who had got out of the taxi looked down at him. Then she looked up at his mistress. His mistress looked back at the lady.

“Good heavens,” said his mistress.

“Good grief,” said her friend.

“Good afternoon,” said Elly Griffiths.

And indeed it was. The author herself had turned up at Jarrolds to give her talk, and sign some copies of her books for all the fans who had bought tickets to come and see her.

“I see you’re looking at my poster. Are you coming in to hear my talk?” she asked Little Fella’s mistress.

“No, we’d like to, but it’s sold out – anyway, we’ve got Little Fella with us, and we can’t really take him into a department store.”

The author looked momentarily upset.

“Oh, that’s a shame - he’s such a nice little dog, isn’t he?”
She looked thoughtful for a moment.

“Do you think he would like a treat?”

She reached into her shoulder bag and searched inside.

“Everybody knows you always get bones with Elly Griffiths…”


GRANNY FEATHERS
by Eileen Bourne

‘Of course, it wasn’t really her name, you know’.

Caroline’s eyes wandered anxiously around the old kitchen. It was here, somewhere. But where? Each box had been meticulously marked, but where was the one labelled ‘Charity Shop’? And would the charity shop really find a new home for them? Why on earth were there three of them, anyway? Only her Mother… Only her Mother would have three egg whisks clogging up her kitchen utensil drawer.

‘What wasn’t, Mum?’

‘Granny Feathers. She was really Granny… Granny…? Oh, silly me. I know what her name was really. It was the same as your father’s. No, that’s not right. It was my father’s name, wasn’t it?‘

‘Why don’t you take a nap for a few minutes, Mum, while I finish packing? You can tell me all about Granny Feathers when you wake up. It will come to you then, I’m sure.’

Ah, there it was! At the very bottom of a stack of four boxes, of course. It was going to be a long day.

‘Whatever are you doing, Caro? That’s my best milk jug. We won’t use that one today. We’ll just use the brown one when we have our cup of tea. Shall I put the kettle on?’

Her mother had always been able to do that. Take a five minute nap, and then wake up fully refreshed and ready to go again. ‘ Please don’t let her start looking for the brown jug’. Caroline took a deep breath.

‘It’s OK, Mum. I’ll make us one in a minute. You were going to tell me about Granny Feathers, weren’t you? ‘.

‘Was I? I don’t know why I was going to tell you about Granny Feathers. She died a long time ago. What was I going to tell you about her? ‘.

Caroline sidled guiltily past her Mother, a beautiful hand embroidered tablecloth hidden behind her back. Determinedly she put it in the box marked Ebay. Someone might buy it. And it would help towards the cost of the move. This was her fourth trip up this week, sixty miles each way. And she’d had to take unpaid leave.

‘You were going to tell me why Granny Feathers was called that. And why you thought of her when I asked you about the preserving pan?’.

‘My preserving pan? What did you want to know about my preserving pan? It’s in the pantry I think. It was Granny Feathers who bought it for me, you know. Not directly, of course. Granny Feathers hardly ever left the village. Except when she went for a ride with my Mother and Father in their car. But she gave me the money for it. As a wedding present. Or was it an engagement present? No, wedding present, I think. Your father and I went to Jarrolds to buy it, soon after we were married’.

Caroline’s head was spinning. She was trying to listen to her Mother. But, really… She had enough to think about, single-handedly shutting up the house, without the long, meandering memories – or half-memories – of her Mother. It was imperative they started their journey soon. She needed to get Mum settled in before bedtime.

‘So why was she called Granny Feathers, then, Mum? ‘.

‘Oh, that was just our joke name for her. She… Oh, there’s my tablecloth. I’ve been looking for that. I wonder how it got in that box? Whatever was I thinking about? That lives in the drawer in the dresser. The one your Dad made. He’s a clever man. I wonder where he is? He didn’t tell me he was going out. He always does, you know. Even if he’s just going down the garden…’

‘Don’t say anything to contradict her’. The words of the social worker echoed in Caroline’s head. ‘It will only upset her again, and she won’t remember. Just distract her’.

‘Here’s your cup of tea, Mum. Drink it up while it’s hot. And you can tell me more about Granny Feathers’.

It was another three hours; three long, hard, dizzying hours, before Caroline shepherded her Mother to her car, and settled her in the passenger seat. Should she put Mum in the back of the car? She’d be more comfortable if she dozed off. But no. Perhaps if Mum could see the journey more clearly, she’d understand where she was when they got to Caroline’s house. Perhaps.

‘I don’t know why, but I was dreaming about my preserving pan’. Caroline’s Mother chuckled. That same old throaty chuckle Caroline had known all her life. At least that hadn’t changed. Caroline was grateful for that.
‘We bought it in Jarrolds, you know. Such a lovely shop always. I was about fifteen when my Mother took me there for the first time. Or maybe sixteen… ‘

Caroline tried hard to keep her sigh silent. At least Mum had been asleep while she’d negotiated the difficult roundabout. Now that that and the bridge were behind them, she could at least half concentrate on what Mum was saying.
‘We went to buy me a winter coat. For the first time in my life, I had money of my own to spend. Mum insisted on coming with me though. ‘You’ll get good quality in Jarrolds’, she’d said. And she was right, of course. I loved that coat. Jade green it was. A very exciting colour for those days. I went to Jarrolds lots after that first time. ‘

Caroline’s Mother stopped speaking, her attention caught by the view from the car window. Low hills, an occasional oast house.

‘Where are we, Caro? I don’t remember those… those… thingy houses before. I’ve forgotten what they’re called. Malt houses? I thought we were going to… Not Jarrolds today. We always go on the train to… Is it Wyndham, Caro? I don’t know why I can’t remember anything today. Where is Jarrolds, Caro?’.

‘Norwich, Mum. Jarrolds is in Norwich. But no, Mum. We’re not going there today. We’re going to my house in Kent today. Tell me more about Jarrolds, Mum. ‘

‘Oh, Jarrolds is a lovely shop. Have I ever taken you there, Caro? ‘

‘Yes, Mum. You have’ Lots and lots of times, thought Caroline. To the toy department, with everything a small child could wish for. Dolls, hundreds of dolls. And jigsaws, and pretend cookers. Road mats for playing with toy cars, and ambulances, and fire engines and lorries. Mum always thought I was funny wanting those kind of toys. But I played with them for hours.

‘We always went to the book department first, didn’t we, Mum? Silly really, because we ended up carrying heavy books for the rest of the day! What do you remember best, Mum? ‘

‘The smell, Caro!’ Her Mother’s answer was immediate. ‘That was the first thing I noticed on my very first visit there. With your Dad, was it? Or my Mother? And it never changed… Although each department had its own smell, of course. Perfumes and makeup. Soaps too, when you first went in. That lovely rosy, soapy, smell. And the smell of the books… Oh, and the carpets and furniture… ‘ Then, like a small child, she asked ‘Are we nearly there yet? I can’t wait to see Jarrolds again. ‘

By the time morning came, Caroline’s mind was made up. She’d have to discuss it with Colin, of course, but she knew he’d understand.

And he did.

‘You’re right, Caro. She’s got much worse since your father died, and I wouldn’t be at all happy leaving her here on her own all day. And we’ll manage, you know. Things might be a bit tight – there’ll not be so many expensive gadgets for us, or the children, in the future – but we’ll get by. If there are things we must have, we’ll buy the best we can, so that they really last, and for the rest… We’ll take up your Mother’s mantra. Make do and mend!’
‘And I know where we’ll go to buy the best’ Caroline thought.

‘So why was she called Granny Feathers, Mum? ‘

‘Oh, we started calling her that after an outing in my Father’s car one day. She always wore the same hat when we went out. Turquoise, it was. With little matching feathers underneath the net. And whenever she got in the car, my Father would say ‘Mind your feathers, Granny’ But this particular day she was talking so much – she was like you for that, Caro. Always talking. – And Dad was so distracted, he said ‘ Mind your Granny, Feathers’ and the name stuck!

‘She gave me the money for my preserving pan, you know. And it’s lasted all these years. We bought it from Jarrolds. Did I ever tell you about that?

Caroline smiled down at her Mother.

‘ I’m not sure you did, Mum. Tell me while I start the washing up’.

‘Oh, it’s a lovely shop, Jarrolds. I must take you there, one day… ‘


Jarrold
by Joanna Copping

When you have lived in a place as long as I have you come to think of your city as your family. The magnificent cathedral as the grandmother, the Norman castle the grandfather. Both watching over us from their exalted positions. The river which has observed the changes from working port to upmarket residences the sister, sharing her secrets as she meanders out into the countryside. The pubs are the uncles where maturity is measured by date of birth and not behaviour. The market place the nursery, the infants, colourful, sprawling with little gems hiding in the aisles.

I like to think of the shop Jarrold as an ancient aunt, more like great aunt or even great great aunt. It’s aunts that give you life skills. Mine have taught me importance of comfortable shoes, how to evade the clutches of the moral rearmament fanatics and that every salad dish is enhanced by blue flowered borage.

When I was a child there were many of these aunts in the city centre, Buntings, Curls, Bonds, and Garlands alongside Jarrold. But only one has stood the test of time and remained intact for 250 years. Some have changed names and allegiance, Curls had a starry-eyed relationship with Debenhams and relinquished a name that conjured up visions of dainty ringlets for something more corporate.

Bonds had a similar liaison with John Lewis, and with no more Mr. or Ms. Bond in the manager’s chair they too changed their name.

Garlands had a more dramatic demise with a mighty fire. I remember being taken to see the billowing smoke high above the city skyline. Buntings a close neighbour, too close as it happened, was also destroyed in this inferno,
My early memories of Jarrold involves my real grandmother. She would take me with my sister for elevenses in the restaurant where, if we were lucky we could sit at the corner table and watch the market. I have always suspected that my grandmother had a tendency to take things that she had not paid for, and as I do not recall any activity that involved actual shopping I do hope that after our morning visits we took nothing away with us except for happy memories and satisfied appetites.

My father would also take us on Saturday trips, his recollections are of buying a new opera for his collection, or maybe a new book on shipping, but we were allowed into the toy department. It was the farm animals I remember; the black and white Friesian, the stocky well-built bull, the wobbly sheep. After lengthy deliberation we were able to buy one animal per visit to add to our toy farmyard at home.

I do not recollect my mother taking us shopping, she sewed a great deal and possibly never actually bought us clothes, it was always other relations who took us out for treats and spoiled us.

In those early excursions it was the book department that I held in the most affection, the smell, the feel, the anticipation, and the potential. My parents preferred the library option, but on occasions when I was allowed to buy a book I knew it was a pleasure I would share with Jarrold.

Eventually we were given our freedom and my sister and I would frequent the city stores most weekends. My father had an account at Jarrold that gave him ten percent discount. He was pretty relaxed about his account card and we would regularly borrow it for our outings. It was not only the lure of the ten percent but also the fact that he would often pay his monthly bill without looking very closely and so we found our pocket money went a lot further at Jarrold.

We bought tights, the new alternative to stockings had just arrived and allowed the mini skirt to be even more mini and still stay relatively decent. We also bought hair accessories, presents, school stationary and of course books.

My relationship with the shop dwindled for several years as I moved away to college. By the time I returned my father no longer had an account, and I lived on the other side of the city. For many years a large pram festooned with a selection of children accompanied me on my forays into town and I rarely risked entering what to me felt like adult territory of department stores, preferring the alfresco atmosphere of the market.

But time moves on, babes become school children and I reintroduced myself to my aunt and apologised that I had neglected her for so long, (in the way it is possible to neglect an aunt.)

And this aunt had not gone the way of my Auntie Gertrude, who retired to a large house and allowed a myriad of cats to rule her in her dotage. Or my Aunt Veronica who dedicated her life to the intricacies of the Chinese triads leaving normal life on the back burner. No this aunt had if anything grown spritelier and more in touch with a younger generation, I felt quite at home.

The book department was still my first port of call, a quick exchange of ideas and recommendations with the dedicated staff, closely followed by the stationary emporium. I had developed an inordinate desire to fill my family’s life with card coloured pens scissors and Fimo (a brightly coloured modelling material.) It was fuelled by some spark of creativity and instantly gratified with an outing, a perusal and a purchase. How different from my frugal fifties childhood.

The fashion floor was full of many accessible ideas and wearable statements, always a quirky little number lurking on the rails. Every child’s birthday and Christmas was unthinkable without a visit to the third floor and where the toys were displayed, and the “must haves” stocked.

As this favourite aunt stormed into her third century I am reminded of our Norfolk motto “Do Different” and I wonder if it is this philosophy that is behind the varied and original merchandise on sale, and the innovative expansions into food outlets, book signings, fashion shows and charitable events.

When my daughter wanted to earn some money to supplement her gap year travels she applied to Jarrold and got a job in the toy department. Six happy months she spent arranging Sylvanian parties and creating scenes of rural idyll with the stocky bull and the wobbly sheep. At Christmas she met up with many friends who had hightailed it straight to college. Although she would never have said it to their faces after a night at the pub she confided in me.
“Jarrold has taught me so much about how the world works, I think I have learned more than anyone who has been to university for a term.”

I rest my case; it’s Aunts that give you life skills.

And my life has gone full circle as I am now the grandmother perched on the high stools, with my grandchildren overlooking our new but recognisable market sharing treats.

“Hot chocolate and chocolate cake, yes of course Mummy isn’t watching”

And now my grandchildren are creating their own relationship with this splendid old lady. In the autumn catalogues are distributed by our bounteous aunt, full of ideas of gifts for the festive period. A couple of Christmas’s ago eager eyes landed on a beautiful stuffed giraffe, a toy the size of a small child. It was love at first sight, so of course on Christmas morning a huge parcel with an enormous amount of wrapping paper was under the tree. Never has a present been received with more joy.

The much treasured giraffe, is called Jarrold.


Lifetime Guarantee
by Jill Waters

I stared at the package in Mum's hand. "Nan wanted you to have this." She smiled through ill-concealed tears. The house was quiet, the last of the mourners had left. Only the sandwiches, dry and curled like fallen autumn leaves showed this was not any other day. No more Nan. It didn't seem possible. I kept expecting to hear her laughter as she watched a rerun of Friends. She was so cool. No one else's Nan watched Friends. Joey was her favourite.

I took the brown paper parcel, 'Marmite' written large across the front. Nan always called me that - a legacy of teatimes spent toasting crumpets on the fire. I could almost taste the bitter saltiness on my tongue.

I sensed Mum wanted me to open it then and there, but I needed to be alone. Walking into the garden, I perched on a wall. Birds were singing in the hazy afternoon sun - Nan would have called it a perfect day.

I peeled back the sticky tape and carefully unwrapped my gift. Inside, a long narrow box and an envelope addressed to me. Though I wanted to read what my grandmother had written, I couldn't resist opening the hinged box - an oyster shell concealing a pearl. But it wasn't the jewellery I'd expected, and half hoped for. It was a vintage pen and pencil set. The inner lid was stamped, in flowing script, Parker "51". Intriguing. Why had Nan wanted me to have this? It was the 21st Century. Only Heads of State signing leather-bound visitors’ books used fountain pens now. Everyone else used disposable ball pens. I tore at the envelope, swallowing hard as I saw Nan's distinctive handwriting.

Dearest Laura,

If you are reading this, it means I have probably died. Please don’t be too sad. I was very old and had a long and happy life. My only regret is that I won't be around to be your friend. I am entrusting you with my most precious possession. This is its story.

In June 1951, a week before my twenty-first birthday, the Queen came to Norwich. She wasn't the Queen then, but everybody was very excited that Princess Elizabeth was visiting as part of the Festival of Britain. All our family were supposed to be going to the city to see her, but that morning my brother Michael woke up with tonsillitis. My dad offered to stay with him, but Michael only ever wanted Mum when he was ill, so Dad and I set off on our own.

An ocean of people surged through the city. The bunting, flags and cheering were just like when the Canaries won the league! I managed to catch the briefest glimpse of Elizabeth as she walked up the steps into City Hall. She turned and waved, and I remember noticing that she was wearing very stylish sling-back shoes! She was four years older than me. Strange to think that, in a less than a year, she would be our Queen. Dad found the hustle and bustle a bit much. His wartime experiences had left him feeling anxious about crowds. I suppose these days we would say he suffered from PTSD.

Our refuge was Jarrolds, where we had booked a table for lunch. It only had one restaurant then, on the third floor. Because the lifts were busy, we decided to use the stairs. They seemed to go on forever, but the effort was worth it. The restaurant was an oasis of calm, with waitress service, proper menus and pristine linen tablecloths. It even had a fountain, where children dropped farthings and halfpennies to make a wish. As we ate our lunch, Dad said he wanted to buy me something special for my birthday. I secretly wanted a watch, but he had something else in mind. When he had paid for our meal, we went back to the ground floor and he led me to a display of fountain pens. "I know how much you enjoy writing," he said, "And me and your mum are sorry that you couldn't go to university like you wanted. But I want you to choose a pen and promise me you'll always use it to write your stories.”

"Oh, my stories are not very good, and these pens are very expensive. Knowing me, I'd probably lose it or break it or something."

"Well I’m going to buy you one, so you may as well choose one that you like. Let’s ask this young man to show us some."

Behind the counter was a boy about my age, who blushed when my dad drew attention to him. "Can I help you, sir…madam?"

"Miss," I said, quickly. Something about him made it important he knew I was single. I can clearly recall him explaining that the Parker "51" was the ‘epitome of elegance and design’, telling us about the ‘Aeromatic filling system’ and the special ‘tubular nib’. He also told us the many benefits of the lifetime guarantee. While Dad was swayed by the innovative features, I was rather more enthralled by the glorious colours! Eventually, I chose the beautiful set you now hold in your hands. I hope you like the teal blue and gold as much as me.

I was concerned about the cost. Seven guineas. Almost a week’s wages. But Dad told me he’d been saving up, you got what you paid for and to stop worrying. The boy behind the counter looked very pleased with himself as he gift-wrapped it. I assumed it was because he was on commission.

On my birthday, my parents thought I was feigning surprise when I opened the box. In truth, I was caught off guard by a note tucked inside the lid. The boy from Jarrolds was inviting me to tea when I was next in the city!
You’ve probably guessed by now that the blushing pen salesman was your grandad. He was working in the store between finishing University and being called up to the army - no gap years in those days, just conscription!
I used the pen to write to him every day for the two years that he was in Korea, drawing silly characters in the margins with the pencil. One of his army colleagues saw the pictures and suggested I use them as the basis for a children's book. That was the beginning of ‘Adventures of Dog and Duck’. Of course, the books seemed easier to write once your mum and her brothers came along – I had my own small people to try them out on! Even so, when I was using my pen and pencil the words and pictures just flowed.

And they'll flow for you too. There’s so much of me in you. When you were small, you were always making up stories and drawing pictures. It's in your blood, your DNA. I believe in you, as much as my dad believed in me. Now it’s time to start believing in yourself. You are living in the City of Stories - use my pen to write some. I am only sorry I won’t have lived long enough to see them on the shelves in Jarrolds!

I hold you in my heart, my darling Marmite,

Your ever-loving Nan xxx

The letter fell to the ground as the events of the past few weeks came crashing in – stormy waves on a beach of sorrow. I'd been so busy supporting my mum and helping to organise things that I'd pushed my own emotions aside. In that moment I realised – grief knows no hierarchy. It wasn’t weak or selfish to be upset too. Bottling things up was not healthy - something I’d found to my cost in the past. Sitting on that wall, I finally dropped my guard and allowed myself the luxury of tears. I missed my Nan. I wanted to ask her about Princess Elizabeth’s shoes, about the fountain in the restaurant, about what it was like to wait so long for her own babies while other people’s children were reading her books. Mostly I wanted to thank her for her friendship, for believing in me and trusting me with her treasured pen. Yet it was fitting that she’d used that same pen to tell me the story of why it was so special to her.

Looking up, I noticed Mum watching me. Had she known what was in the box, I wondered. She gestured as if to say, "Cup of tea?"

I walked towards the house, longing to be a child, not a grown-up. Tomorrow I would go to Jarrolds and buy some ink for my pen. I would sign up for that creative writing course at Dragon Hall and think of Nan every time I used her glorious pen to write my stories and poems. But for now, I could be a daughter, a granddaughter, a small person needing a big hug.

"Got any crumpets?" I asked, as Mum handed me a mug.


On the Corner
by Arty Walters

 It was the eyes. She had walked past the pile of rags several times on the way to work. It only occurred to her, after a few days, that there was a life inside. So one day she stole a look. The eyes stared back, straight at her. Deep brown, almost black. Calm. Relaxed. Friendly. She quickly looked away as she walked past. All day, in the office, she thought of those eyes. Who was he? Why was he there? What had happened in his life? He looked quite young and somehow not like a drug addict. She had noted the bizarre juxtaposition between the person huddling, alone, on the cold street and the bright window display of expensive luxury designer handbags behind him. Life was not fair.

The next morning he was there again. Having planned ahead, she was clasping two, now warm, pound coins, which she awkwardly dropped in front of him. He looked at her and smiled.  ‘Why thank you kindly miss,’ he said in a soft, sing-song Irish accent.

The following morning more coins, more thanks.

Friday. ‘You’re too generous,’ he said as further coins hit the pavement.

Saturday. No work for Penny, but she was still up early, having decided to talk to the man. Her heart raced as she rounded the corner of Jarrold's department store. He was still there, sitting on the cold pavement, with an old grey blanket for warmth. ‘You shouldn’t be doing all this,’ he said as she dropped a five-pound note in front of him. ‘I’m not a beggar you know.’ Although disheveled and grubby, his eyes and smile both had sparkle.

Penny took a deep breath. ‘Hi. Are you OK?’ He nodded. ‘I know it is rude to ask, but....... what happened to you?’

‘Of course it’s not rude. After all you seem to be a nice girl to tell,’ he smiled, ‘And thank you for your interest.’ He sat up a bit and Penny squatted down. ‘All was well. I was at uni in Dublin. History student. Year 2. I was doing all right, good grades and I was really enjoying the course, when.... suddenly, no warning, my mum died. She just keeled over and died. At home. On her own. A heart attack. Only 41 she was. I didn’t even think ladies had heart attacks but....’ The light suddenly went out of those eyes. ‘I found her, just lying in the hallway. It was tough. I was devastated. Didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t make any sense of it.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Am I boring you?’

‘Not at all. Please go on.’

Well dad had left years before and I have no brothers or sisters. Suddenly I was all on my own. An orphan I suppose. Uni didn’t seem to be worthwhile anymore so I decided to leave and do some travelling. Find myself. See the world. Make my fortune. You know - seize the opportunity. But somehow things didn`t quite work out - lack of a good plan I guess. My money lasted less time than I hoped and opportunities were just not easy to find, so I somehow eventually ended up here, in the city, nowhere to sleep. This seems to be the end of the rainbow and I never found the pot of gold.’

‘That sounds tough. Why do you stay here, on this street?’

‘When I arrived in Norwich I asked someone where the centre was. Where is it that people always meet? Where is the hub of it all? I was told "outside Jarrold's - that’s where people meet.” So here I am. I just kind of like it here, watching the world spin around me. Who knows who you might meet.’

‘Well now you have met me.’

‘I have indeed. What’s your name?’

‘Penny.’

‘Yours?’

‘Sam.’

‘Nice to meet you Sam.’

‘You too.’

Penny told him about herself, the fact that she had never moved away, worked for a big insurance company, which was a bit boring, loved folk music, cider, dogs and really wanted to travel. Why was she telling this shabby stranger all this? It was his eyes. She trusted him for some reason. Reluctantly she left with a flippant ‘See ya.’

‘I’ll be around,’ he smiled, ‘meet me on the corner.’

Monday. Penny left early for work. Got to Jarrold’s corner. Empty. No Sam. She gasped, frantically looking across the street to see if he had moved. He was nowhere to be seen. She felt sad and empty.

Tuesday. No Sam.

Wednesday was also Sam-less.

Thursday. ‘Damn’. Penny had forgotten to set her alarm. She had never been late for work. A fast shower, minimal make-up, a quick throw on of clothes and she was off. No time for breakfast. The walk to work was more of a jog. Passing Sam’s spot it was empty again, but she barely had time to notice.

Then. ‘Hello Penny, fancy seeing you here.’

She stopped in her tracks.

The voice was instantly recognizable. The person speaking was not.

The tall young man was leaning against one of the columns of the store’s grand corner entrance.

‘Sam?’

‘That’s me alright.’

‘What...... what happened?’

He smiled.

‘Long story.’

Penny looked at her watch.

‘Look I am so sorry but I am late for work. Can we meet here at just after five?’

‘It’s where I like to hang out. I might just be here.’

‘See ya.’

‘You too.’

At the office Penny was consumed with thoughts of Sam, trying to figure out what had happened to him. Surprised at how tall he was, it suddenly dawned on her that, until this morning, she had only seen him sitting on the ground. She wished that she had found more time for make-up that morning and maybe nicer clothes.

After a long day at work she approached the store, feeling excited and a little nervous. She spotted him just leaning, as before, watching the world. He was slender and clean in skinny jeans and a sweat-shirt. His hair and beard were
tidier. She liked what she saw.

‘Hi Sam.’ It seemed odd greeting this other version of Sam in such a familiar way.

‘Oh, hi there Penny, I was miles away. Just been watching. Do you realize, the number of people that choose to meet here, on this very corner, in one day? I’ve been counting. It must be..... about a thousand.’

‘A thousand and two now then.’

He laughed.

‘Coffee and cake inside?’

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

Upstairs in the cafe, after some slightly awkward small talk, mainly about the weather, how long it took to walk to work and how hard pavements are to sleep on, she asked the question she had been thinking about all day. Blushing slightly, she said ‘Well, what on earth happened to you then?’ While asking this she thought that Sam had brushed up rather well and blushed some more.

‘I fell into a car wash.’ Penny giggled. ‘No seriously there I was, relaxing on Saturday afternoon in my usual spot. It was very busy. A few people had taken pity on me and tossed me a coin or two, which was nice. There were cheery
shoppers, squealing kids, gangs of youngsters; you know the kind of thing. I was happily minding my own business, whilst watching everybody else’s, when two young ladies accosted me for a chat. Very nice, very friendly and very uniformed. I had never been bothered by the police, but these two wanted me to move. I think they thought I made the place look untidy, or my mere presence was a bad influence on everybody. Anyway they suggested I visit an address, a hostel I could try, where they will help get me back on my feet. Saint Martins it’s called. It’s less than a mile from here. They are lovely people, gave me a room, I could shower, they even washed my clothes. They said they will help get me back on my feet.’ 

‘So here I am, the new me,’ he said with a broad grin. ‘Or should that be the old me?’

‘Brilliant. It is so good to see you safely off the street. I am sure that I can help you too - presuming you would like me to,’ Penny said with a smile.

Sam had a mouthful of cake, but even whilst chewing, his brown eyes sparkled. He swallowed and said, ‘Well I think you already have. Who knows, this could be rainbows end, right here in this store and I may even be closer to that pot of gold than I thought’.


The Move
by Amanda Williams

Elizabeth was lonely. She couldn’t remember now whether the bereavement counsellor had said loneliness was a destination or a journey. Either way it was a place she didn’t enjoy. 

In the business of The Move she hadn’t had much time to dwell on her newly widowed status. Gerald, her only child, whom she loved deeply but sometimes didn’t like all that much, had insisted she make The Move.

“You can’t drive”, he said and that had settled it. Uprooted and rerooted like one of her precious plants. 

She could argue with Gerald as he sat tutting and blowing out his jowly cheeks at her kitchen table, once more going through the figures, but she couldn’t argue at the parlous state of her finances. Her devoted Philip had remortgaged the house, not once, but twice and had omitted to mention it to her. 

He hadn’t told her about the cancer either. 

In less than a year she had moved from the idyllic Suffolk countryside to the luxury apartment Gerald had found in the centre of Norwich. Convenient for Gerald, she thought, his mathematical mind factoring in the next twenty years of his mother living over an hour’s drive away no doubt. She hadn’t much cared and at the time and was grateful that someone was taking charge of her life and the making the decisions that she couldn’t face.

It was a Saturday. A day of recreation for couples and families. Her fourth lonely Saturday in the apartment with only the promise of lunch on Sunday with her son and brittled daughter-in-law who had also been opposed to the move. Not for Elizabeth’s sake, she suspected, but for her own. She would tolerate her as long as she didn’t interrupt her busy schedule of yoga, gym, coffees, lunches and girls nights’ out. Enough to have the inconvenience of a husband, let alone a mother-in-law.

She didn’t want to stay in her apartment all day, she had grown bored of watching the cars go by on her little wrought iron balcony. She had quickly exhausted the city sites and couldn’t face the endless clubs and societies her daughter-in-law had eagerly found in a bid to fill Elizabeth’s time so that she didn’t have to. 

Taking her coffee back to the kitchen she passed the absurdly large hallway mirror and stopped with a jolt, catching a glimpse of the stranger in the mirror. Who was that old woman? She realised all the times she had looked in the mirror, she hadn’t really seen herself. She had seen instead the picture in her head of the person she once was. But now as her own eyes bore deeply into those reflected back at her, she saw. She looked as she felt, crumpled and crushed and she realised with a shock, a good ten years older than her sixty seven years. This would not do. She had always taken pride in her appearance and had believed Philip when he said she was the prettiest girl in town and vowed to marry her the moment he set eyes on her. Which he did.

It was time, she thought, time to go shopping. 

She hadn’t been shopping, as such, since she returned with a new dress to find Philip on the floor and the beginning of the end of her life as she knew it. The dress still lay scrunched up in a bag, stuffed in the back of her newly fitted wardrobes. A tangible reminder of a reckless choice. Had she been there, at home with Philip instead of shopping, she would have had a chance to tell him how much she loved him. He never regained consciousness and the dress which would never see the light of day robbed her of a chance to say goodbye. Even out of sight the dress judged her and found her wanting and served as reproachful reminder of that day. A garment of guilt.

Where could she go to buy a new Elizabeth? One Philip would approve of. He would not approve of her Letting Herself Go. He had encouraged her to go and buy a new frock, as he called it, for the drinks party they never made. There really was only one store she could think of and that was Jarrold, so iconic in the City of Norwich, solid, majestic and reassuring with its presence. 

On the way out of her apartment she put the unopened bag containing the dress in the black bin, where it belonged. 

It was a short walk across the bustling city and she was soon inside the warm and exotic embrace of the Beauty Department. The perfumed air, the pretty girls with their wide smiles and kind eyes, the glamour of of it all lifted her spirits and instead of the panic attack she had dreaded, she mingled leisurely with fellow shoppers and was quickly absorbed by the range of products and treatments, promising the beginning of a new Elizabeth.

Two hours later, her arthritic knee protesting, she made her way to Benji’s restaurant and was shown to a table by a young waiter with smiling eyes and an easy manner. Did, she wondered, Jarrold train their staff to be so courteous, friendly and caring, or did they just attract the very best? It was a family firm and she was made to feel part of the family. She relaxed, just a little and ordered a large glass of white wine. She was, suddenly, a lady who lunched. Philip would have been amused and made some wry remark.

While she sipped her chilled wine she admired her new, daring red nails so expertly delivered at the express Nail Bar. Her hair, once so jaunty and stylish had grown limp and an unappealing shade of grey, but a cancellation at Regis Hairdressers that morning meant she had entered Benji’s with a fresh, slightly startling new cut and blow dry and a great deal of unburdening to the sympathetic hairdresser who transformed the neglect. The nails and hair lifted the years and her spirits. In her one hour fifteen minutes in Regis, she had told Meghan, now on first name terms, more than she had ever told the counsellors in her year of bereavement. She rebooked.

The pain in her knee eased; another bullet in Gerald’s armoury to insist on the apartment and not a house with stairs. No stairs also meant no garden. At the time she hadn’t cared. A balcony would do.

There was one more department left for her to visit. She had saved the best for last. Making her way slowly down the stairs to the basement she entered the soothing world of fresh, crisp print and glossy book covers which contained both enlightenment and escapism. The Book Department. She had found it hard to concentrate on anything after Philip and The Move, but now she was drawn back to the familiar landscape of literature that would transport her another world and ease the lonely hours. A company of sorts.

As she was buying Labyrinth by Kate Mosse the assistant told her of the Jarrold Literary Event where Kate would be talking about her new book. Emboldened by her recent second glass of white wine and needing an occasion to wear her new outfit, Elizabeth did something she never normally did. She acted on impulse. She bought one of the coveted tickets there and then. A new Elizabeth was emerging bit by bit as she journeyed through Jarrolds. She would leave those imposing doors a very different person to the one who had entered.

“Excuse me,” a voice said behind her and for a moment she saw Philip standing in front of her. 

“You left this behind.” She looked at the ticket he proffered and caught the eye of the watchful assistant at the till who nodded. She suddenly felt flustered and foolish, her bags growing heavy, Philip becoming a perfectly pleasant stranger.

“Don’t worry, happens to me all the time,” he said with a reassuring smile, although she very much doubted the truth in his words as he looked anything but forgetful.

“I am so sorry,” she managed, deeply grateful for her new hairdo and glossy nails as his gaze lingered for just a beat longer than strictly necessary.

“As it happens,” he persisted holding up his ticket, just the one she noted, “I’m going too, although to see David Robson,” here he trailed off but his enquiring gaze did not.

“I was just going for a cup of tea,” he ventured and she knew it was a question. She hesitated, but before she could allow herself to think too deeply she simply said, “me too” and in truth to she had been eyeing Chapters, the cosy cafe before starting the lonely journey home.

In the end they went to the Literary Event together. 

Good old Jarrolds, thought Elizabeth, there was nothing you couldn’t get at Jarrold the Store.