Page 2 of A Wish for Jinnie
Chapter 3
The doorto Out of the Attic Antiques was unlocked. Jinnie entered, expecting the jingle of a bell to signal her arrival, but there was nothing. Nor was there any sign of life, although a radio was playing quietly in the background.
‘Hello! Is anybody there?’ she called out. No response. Jinnie edged further into the shop, which could have doubled up as the set for a low-budget horror movie. The lighting was almost non-existent, and the movement of the door opening had disturbed a layer of dust that hovered in the air like mist over a murky Yorkshire moor. Through the gloom, Jinnie could make out shelves, tables and display cases crammed with all manner of the weird and the wonderful. Well, maybe less wonderful, more ‘Who’d pay hard cash for any of this stuff?’ She picked up a macabre ashtray shaped like a skull, with the inscription:Poor old Fred. Smoked in bed. Now he’s deadaround its base. Delightful!
The sound of a toilet flushing made Jinnie hurriedly replace the ashtray, in case the owner thought she was about to steal it. As if! She dredged up a smile from somewhere around her lace-up Converse boots, which Mark had loathed. He was a high-heels-and-stockings man (looking at them, not wearing them), and she’d suffered pinched toes and chafed thighs throughout their relationship. Now she could stomp through life in absolute comfort, content in the knowledge that Kimberley would probably end up with misshapen toes and bunions and —
‘Hello! Sorry, I was just, um, checking some stock in the back. Were you interested in anything in particular?’ The owner — at least, Jinnieassumedhe was the owner — returned her half-baked smile with a grin that illuminated the murky surroundings. He was not what she’d imagined at all. Samuel A. Addin had conjured up a picture of a curmudgeonly old geezer, clad in fusty tweed and twiddling a fob watch. Instead, he was a forty-something man wearing tight black jeans, a crumpled linen shirt and an air of dishevelled hotness. Was that a word? Jinnie didn’t know, but she felt wrong-footed, as if she’d stepped into the lion’s den only for the said lion to roll over and demand tummy tickles.
‘No, not really. It’s just that Jo at the café said you might be looking for some help. And I’m looking for work. I’m not really fussy about what I do — sorry, that sounds rude — but if ever you need somebody...’ Jinnie felt an eighties song nip at her ear — Rick Astley? She was too young to remember, but he’d had a resurgence. Gone from painfully unhip to retro cool. If you waited long enough, you came back into vogue.
‘Oh, I could definitely do with somebody to look after this place. Actually, someone to clean it up a bit and drag it into the here and now. I’m passionate about old things, but I’m not really an antiques person. Is that an oxymoron? Well, I’m definitely more moron than oxy, but now I’m babbling…’
Jinnie laughed. A full-on belly laugh. When had she last laughed? She and Hannah had had their fair share of giggling about the daft things they’d done, the losers they’d dated. With Mark … not so much. Looking back, the laughs had been at her expense. She’d joined in, not really getting — or choosing to get — that she was the punchline. The last laugh for his beer-sodden friends who worshipped at his designer-shod feet, each and every one of them a total tosser. Yes, Jinnie got it now, but it had been a painful journey.
‘Right, I can’t afford to pay a lot but I don’t think you’ll find the work too demanding. What’s your background … erm … we haven’t done the introduction thing, have we?’ Samuel Addin extended his hand and Jinnie shook it. ‘Call me Sam, and I can call you…?’
‘Jinnie. Jinnie Cooper. My proper name is Virginia, but no one calls me that these days. My last job was as a receptionist at an estate agent's in Edinburgh, but I’ve also worked in retail and sales.’ She felt it best not to mention that her retail experience had been flogging make-up in a department store, and on the sales front she’d spent a miserable year trying to persuade people that their lives would be transformed by new windows and conservatories.
‘Well, it’s almost lunchtime and I’m not exactly run off my feet, so why don’t we adjourn to The Jekyll and Hyde for a bite to eat, and then we can work something out. How does that sound?’
Jinnie’s stomach gave another ominous rumble. Clearly the sausage roll hadn’t hit the sweet spot. She nodded enthusiastically, and prayed that landlord Ken McCroarty was in happy mode. Last time she’d popped in for a quick shandy, he’d clattered it down with such force she’d feared the glass would shatter.
Chapter 4
‘What brings you to Cranley?’Sam asked as they ambled along the street.
‘Oh, I just needed a change of scenery,’ Jinnie replied. There was no way she wanted to bring up the subject of Mark and have Sam look at her with pity. Luckily, he didn’t press her further on the matter.
When she revealed that she was living in Brae Cottage, Sam raised his eyebrows.
‘That belonged to old Jessie Wilson, a bit of a recluse by all accounts. She died over a year ago with no known family, so the place stayed empty for months until a lettings company bought it for peanuts.’ Sam held the door of the pub open for Jinnie, the buzz of customers chatting and jukebox music blaring in sharp contrast to the stillness of the world outside.
‘It’s not what I’d call my dream home,’ she said, ‘but it’ll do till I find my feet.’
Sam guided Jinnie to a table in a quieter corner, where laminated menu cards were propped up in a wooden stand. Next to the bar was a blackboard announcing today’s special to be shepherd’s pie. They agreed to go for it, and Sam headed to the bar to place their order, along with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc for Jinnie. She fumbled in her handbag for her phone, a dated Samsung, but upgrading to something fancier wasn’t an option right now. There were two messages. One was from Hannah:How’s it going, hun? Big girlie night out planned for next Friday. Be there or be square! Your sofa bed awaits xxxx. The other was from her mum:Fancy coming over for Sunday lunch, sweetheart? Archie will be there, so I’ll make extra roasties! Love, Mum.Glancing up, she saw Sam was deep in conversation with Ken McCroarty. Bonhomie exuded from the man as he poured a pint and roared with laughter at something Sam had said. Maybe he’s just taken an instant dislike to me, thought Jinnie. Perhaps she should pop on some sunglasses and pull up her hood, in case he spat in her lunch.
‘Here we go,’ said Sam, placing the wine and beer on the table. ‘There was only one helping of shepherd’s pie left, so I plumped for fish and chips. Kath in the kitchen does the crispiest batter, and the chips are pretty legendary too. You can pinch a couple if you like!’
Was he flirting with her? It had been so long since Jinnie had dated anyone that she felt like she needed a ‘how to’ manual. She sipped her wine and contemplated the man sitting opposite her. Attractive, for sure, and easy to talk to. What she didn’t know — and wasn’t about to ask — was his marital status. Although she was sure Jo could fill in the necessary details…
‘Grub’s up!’ A beaming Ken appeared with their food, steam rising from the plates. He nodded a hello in Jinnie’s direction, although she wasn’t sure he recognised her. After he had left, Jinnie mumbled, ‘Jekyll today then.’
‘Sorry?’ Sam picked up a chip and blew on it.
‘It’s just he’s been a bit off with me when I’ve come in before,’ said Jinnie. ‘Like he’s got a split personality.’
‘He’s having a tough time,’ said Sam, squeezing a dollop of ketchup onto his plate. ‘His wife Mags was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s about nine months ago. She’s only fifty-four, so at first they didn’t realise what it was. She started forgetting things, putting stuff away in the wrong place or muddling up dates. They thought it was due to the … you know … menopause.’ Sam stammered over the word, and Jinnie hid her grin by shovelling in a forkful of pie. It always cracked her up how so many men could let rip with all manner of words describing sex or body parts, but couldn’t cope with mention of the M word or, in Mark’s case, the P word. As in having a period. When she had been crippled with pain or stomping around the flat in a foul mood, he would ask, ‘Are you surfing the crimson wave?’ or ‘Is it rag week?’ Torn between irritation and amusement, Jinnie had Googled euphemisms for periods, and discovered there were over 5000 slang terms. 5000!And considerably fewer for penis, apparently.
Dragging her thoughts away from bodily functions, Jinnie said, ‘That’s awful. Does he have anyone to help him? I mean at home, not in the pub.’ She felt rather guilty now for her snap judgement of Ken.
Nudging his chips in Jinnie’s direction, Sam shook his head. ‘They live upstairs here, and Mags still works behind the bar occasionally, but not for much longer I fear. They’re devoted to one another — married in their late teens — with one son, Ed, who’s in his early thirties. He works in Carlisle but comes up most weekends to give his dad a break.’
Their meals finished, and Jinnie having managed to polish off half of Sam’s chips, they got down to business. They agreed that she would spend three days a week in the shop, dealing with customers in Sam’s absence, and giving the place a bit of a clean and tidy up. Sam scribbled down a number on the back of a beermat, and Jinnie nodded. It was more generous than she’d expected, but she’d need to find something additional quickly to avoid sinking further into debt.
‘Can you start tomorrow?’ asked Sam, waving away her attempt to pay her share. ‘I can run through the basics like the till and inventory in the morning, then leave you to it. There’s a fair on at Ingliston I’d like to visit in the afternoon. I’m looking for more plates and china. They're my more popular items.’
Jinnie agreed, and they left the pub. Sam promised to dig out his supply of cleaning products, and assured her that she had carte blanche to rearrange stock as she saw fit.
