Clarrie
Clarrie, 1933.
The shop was still. The final rays of the summer sun beamed though the window, catching the sugar and flour in the air, casting giant shadows of Clarrie’s baked creations onto the floor and walls. He let out a sigh, blowing the leftover ribbon he’d tied a cake box with across the counter and onto the ground. Glancing at his watch, “Five o’clock. Time t’shut up shop” Clarrie said to himself. He hummed, gliding over to the shop door, flipping the sign to closed and pulled the cream blinds down with a dramatic woosh.
He leaned against the door and inhaled the smell of sponge cakes and icing in the air and thought how much he loved this time of day; when the warm, treacle coloured light rolled into the shop, making him feel that all was right with the world. It was Saturday and George would be staying. Smiling to himself, he thought about last weekend. The memory was so vivid he could smell the jasmine scented twilight gently drifting through the net curtains, as he and George laid in bed drinking wine, both blissfully happy on their stolen evening.
Lost in his memories, the clock upstairs chimed pulling Clarrie out of his thoughts. “Bugger. I’ve got to reckon up the day and get everything ready for tonight!”
He quickly turned the key in the shop door, dashed to the till, its bell ringing in protest at being manhandled with such force, as he emptied the contents into a yellow bank bag. “There. I’ll sort all that out tomorrow. I’ve more important things to be getting done,” as he picked up the last two éclairs from under the counter and popped them in the kitchen. “We’ll have them after tea” he thought and made his way upstairs to put his favourite shirt on, mentally noting he needed to get some eggs from his chickens and a few flowers out of the garden.