Every Living Thing Read Free Page B

slightly on the broad shoulders as he surveyed the rows of tall glass sweet jars against the wall. His hands, clasped behind him, tensed and relaxed repeatedly as he fought his inner battle, then he took a few strides along the row, gazing intently at each jar in turn. It struck me that Lord Nelson pacing the quarter deck of the Victory and wondering how best to engage the enemy could not have displayed a more portentous concentration.
    The tension in the little shop rose palpably as he reached up a hand, then withdrew it with a shake of the head, but a sigh went up from the assembled ladies as, with a final grave nod and a squaring of the shoulders, he extended both arms, seized a jar and swung round to face the company. His large Roman senator face was crinkled into a benign smile.
    “Now, Mrs. Moffat,” he boomed at a stout matron, holding out the glass vessel with both hands, inclining it slightly with all the grace and deference of a Cartier jeweller displaying a diamond necklace, “I wonder if I can interest you in this.”
    Mrs. Moffat, clutching her shopping basket, peered closely at the paper-wrapped confections in the jar. “Well, ah don’t know….”
    “If I remember rightly, madam, you indicated that you were seeking something in the nature of a Russian caramel, and I can thoroughly recommend these little sweetmeats. Not quite a Russian, but nevertheless a very nice, smooth-eating toffee.” His expression became serious, expectant.
    The fruity tones rolling round his description made me want to grab the sweets and devour them on the spot, and they seemed to have the same effect on the lady. “Right, Mr. Hatfield,” she said eagerly. “I’ll ’ave half a pound.”
    The shopkeeper gave a slight bow. “Thank you so much, madam, I’m sure you will not regret your choice.” His features relaxed into a gracious smile and as he lovingly trickled the toffees onto his scales before bagging them with a professional twirl, I felt a renewed desire to get at the things.
    Mr. Hatfield, leaning forward with both hands on the counter, kept his gaze on his customer until he had bowed her out of the shop with a courteous “Good day to you, madam.” Then he turned to face the congregation. “Ah, Mrs. Dawson, how very nice to see you. And what is your pleasure this morning?”
    The lady, obviously delighted, beamed at him. “I’d like some of them fudge chocolates I ’ad last week, Mr. Hatfield. They were lovely. Have you still got some?”
    “Indeed I have, madam, and I am delighted that you approve of my recommendation. Such a deliciously creamy flavour. Also, it so happens that I have just received a consignment in a special presentation box for Easter.” He lifted one from the shelf and balanced it on the palm of his hand. “Really pretty and attractive, don’t you think?”
    Mrs. Dawson nodded rapidly. “Oh, aye, that’s real bonny. I’ll take a box and there’s summat else I want. A right big bag of nice boiled sweets for the family to suck at. Mixed colours, you know. What ’ave you got?”
    Mr. Hatfield steepled his fingers, gazed at her fixedly and took a long, contemplative breath. He held this pose for several seconds, then he swung round, clasped his hands behind him, and recommenced his inspection of the jars.
    That was my favourite bit and, as always, I was enjoying it. It was a familiar scene. The tiny, crowded shop, the proprietor wrestling with his assignment and Alfred sitting at the far end of the counter.
    Alfred was Geoff’s cat and he was always there, seated upright and majestic on the polished boards near the curtained doorway that led to the Hatfield sitting room. As usual, he seemed to be taking a keen interest in the proceedings, his gaze moving from his master’s face to the customer’s, and though it may have been my imagination I felt that his expression registered a grave involvement in the negotiations and a deep satisfaction at the outcome. He never left his place or