Mrs Boots

Florence doubted that Mrs Wolstenholm would be buying her own tea. She probably left that job to one of her servants. Her heart dipped as she realised that the route the woman was taking was to W.H. Rowe next door.

‘Oh, no. She’s going into Father’s shop. I’d better hurry back. Thanks, Albert,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

She ran out of the shop, following the lady’s maid in through the open shop door, the jangling of the brass alerting her father and sister Amy to their arrival. She closed the door quietly behind them, Mrs Wolstenholm oblivious to Florence coming in behind her. The lady tapped her silver-topped walking stick noisily on the wooden floorboards.

Dropping the packet of tea quickly behind the counter, Florence skirted around the woman and her servant, a smile she did not feel fixed firmly on her face.

‘Mrs Wolstenholm, how delightful to see you today.’

The woman waited for Florence to come directly in front of her before looking her slowly up and down as if she had never seen a specimen quite like her before. ‘I don’t take to modern women,’ she sniffed, glancing at Florence’s bustle. ‘All those ruffles and draping material, it’s too fanciful if you ask me. I believe unmarried women should wear plainer clothing.’

Florence had not asked her. She hid her irritation, determined not to give the woman satisfaction of knowing she had annoyed her. Florence liked wearing a larger bustle, despite the discomfort it brought to her. She loved fashion and was not going to be dictated to about her clothing by anyone else, especially not this rude woman.

‘Is there anything I can help you with today, Mrs Wolstenholm?’ Florence asked, ignoring the insults being thrown at her; she knew better than to annoy her father’s best, but rudest, customer or give her any cause to be angered further.

Mrs Wolstenholm waved her gloved hand as if swatting an annoying fly. ‘Where is your father? I wish to speak with him.’

‘Are you certain I will be unable to assist you?’ Florence asked, aware that she knew all there was to know about the workings of this shop.

Mrs Wolstenholm rested both hands on the top of her walking stick and glowered at Florence. ‘I will not be served by a girl. I have asked for your father; he always serves me.’

Frustrated by the woman’s rudeness, Florence forced a smile. ‘Would you like to take a seat while I fetch him for you?’ she asked, indicating the smart cushioned chair her father had brought into the shop for his less than sturdy customers.

‘I shall not be waiting long enough to take a seat,’ she barked. ‘Hurry now, girl. I do not have time to dawdle.’

Florence heard footsteps and turned her attention to the storeroom door, relieved to see her father’s arrival. He was wearing a similar forced smile to the one she felt sure she had on her face.

‘I’m most dreadfully sorry to have kept you waiting,’ her father said, hurrying in to join them. He glanced at Florence and tilted his head briefly indicating that she take his place unpacking the latest delivery. ‘We’ve only a moment ago been delivered of an order that was delayed.’

‘Yes, yes, man,’ she snapped. ‘I am not here to discuss your business. You sent word that you had several books you believed might suit my taste.’

Florence reached the doorway at the back of the shop leading to the small room they referred to as the storeroom, although it really was not much bigger than a large cupboard. She couldn’t help feeling angry on her father’s behalf to hear the dragon of a woman address him so rudely. She turned to watch him.

‘I do.’ He hurried over to behind the counter from where Florence saw him take a bundle of five books.

He raised his right hand to catch Florence’s attention. ‘Fetch one of the new books by Mr Thomas Hardy that I asked you to put aside for Mrs Wolstenholm.’

Wanting the grumpy customer out of their shop as soon as possible, Florence hurried to do as he asked. She leant into the trunk and took out one of the immaculate copies of The Mayor of Casterbridge that she and many of their customers had been waiting weeks to read. She could not help thinking how unfair it was that someone as horrible as this woman was always first in line for everything she wanted, simply because of her wealth.

She pictured some of the young women who entered the shop, like poor Nelly Cooper, so desperate to be able to enjoy books, but having neither the time nor the money to do so. She would appreciate the book so much more and she deserved to read it more than this woman too, thought Florence, hearing Mrs Wolstenholm’s grumbling coming from the shop. She picked up one of the pristine copies and hastily took the book to the shop and placed it onto the counter.

Leaving her father to serve the woman, Florence returned to the storeroom just as her sister Amy arrived from the family’s flat above the shop. Florence was older by just one year and enjoyed working with her sister who was also a shop assistant. Many times, she had dreamt aloud to Amy about owning her own shop one day, but they both knew that it would take many years for either of them to be able to afford to do such a thing, if indeed they could ever find a way to save up enough money to do so.

‘Did I hear Mrs Wolstenholm’s dulcet moaning?’ Amy whispered.

Florence covered her mouth to stifle her giggles. ‘You did. I can’t fathom how that poor maid of hers can stand hearing her constant insults to everyone she meets.’

‘We’re very lucky to be shop assistants for someone as dear as Father.’ Amy peered around Florence at the offensive woman. ‘I overheard our parents speaking the other evening when I passed the living room. They were saying how that woman in there is only a shopkeeper’s daughter. She’s no better than we are.’

Florence widened her eyes, stunned. ‘You’d never know it to watch the way she treats people of a lower station than her own, would you?’

‘No. She’s from the same background as we are. Her father was a shopkeeper too, so you would think she wouldn’t speak down to Father like she does.’

Florence mulled over her sister’s words. Somehow it seemed even more appalling that this woman who spoke to their father so abruptly had come from a similar background. What right did that woman think she had to talk down to decent people like her father? Somehow, this woman’s rudeness seemed worse coming from someone who, Florence assumed, must have also been on the receiving end of another’s patronising behaviour. She surely must remember how it felt to have less than others and have to silently accept their ill manners simply because she was not in a position to put them in their place.

‘Do you know, Amy,’ Florence said, having to remember to keep her voice down despite her anger, ‘when I get my own shop, I’m going to remember this particular customer and how she makes me feel when she addresses our father in the way that she does. It’s shameful the way she is putting him down. How dare she?’ Florence knew full well that the woman dared because she could afford to go elsewhere to spend her money, whereas their father could not afford to lose his best client. ‘I’ll never forget where I’m from. I’ll also never speak down to people like her. Ever!’

Chapter 2 (#u8f6ae994-2552-5861-8865-777f4164b402)

‘Florence, where are you? Mr Boot will be here at any moment.’

She could hear her mother calling but didn’t answer immediately. She only had half an hour before the end of her lunch break when she was expected back at her father’s shop below their flat. Why couldn’t her mother leave her in peace to read? Just this once.

Florence flicked through the pages of her book in frustration, forgetting momentarily that she had only borrowed the book from her father’s shop. There were only a couple of pages left until the end of the chapter. Desperate to discover what happened next, Florence read on, entranced by the new book from Mr Thomas Hardy. She couldn’t bear to wait a moment longer to absorb this book.

Biting the side of her fingernail, she read on, shocked by the unforgiveable behaviour of Michael Henchard drunkenly selling his wife and baby daughter for five guineas at a country fair.

‘Horrible man,’ she mumbled, gasping in shock and almost dropping the book when her bedroom door burst open and her sister Amy walked in.

‘I might have guessed you were hiding in here with a book,’ she said with a knowing smile on her face. ‘Didn’t you hear Mother calling for you? Father’s guest is arriving soon, and he wants us to meet him.’

Florence closed her book slowly and sighed. ‘I don’t know why he wants us to meet the man. Isn’t he a chemist? What could we possibly have to say to him?’

Amy snatched the book from Florence’s hands and read the description. ‘Actually, he’s a druggist.’

Florence was surprised her sister knew this about Mr Boot, but, determined to distract her sister from telling her off about borrowing the book, she asked, ‘That’s as maybe, but I still don’t see why we need to spend time with him. Anyway, how do you know this about him?’

Amy stared at her and Florence could see she was amused to have surprised her in this way. ‘I heard Father speaking about him to Mother earlier.’

‘What’s the difference between the two jobs then?’ she asked, intrigued.

‘Apparently a druggist manufactures and sells drugs and medicines, whereas a chemist specialises in the science behind the chemistry.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I think that’s what Father meant.’

‘I heard he owns shops,’ Florence said, trying to work out why this man was so important to their father. ‘Maybe that’s why he wants us to meet him when he arrives.’

Amy stared down at the cover of the book in her hand before glaring at Florence. ‘Father will be furious if he discovers you’ve taken this from the new stock. You know we are forbidden to read the new stock. And there’s a long waiting list for this title.’

Typical Amy not to allow her to get away with doing something she shouldn’t.

Florence couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. She hated being caught out borrowing the books. Her father didn’t mind too much if they were from old stock but insisted that she and Amy never bought the new books to read, at least until the rush from their customers had ended.

‘I’m aware of that,’ she said trying to defend herself, ‘but I’ve heard so much about The Mayor of Casterbridge and I simply couldn’t wait any longer to read it.’

Amy closed the bedroom door and leant against it, lowering her voice. ‘That’s as maybe, but we can’t spare any copies of this one. You know only half the shipment arrived and we need every spare copy for those who’ve been waiting to read it.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought I’d spotted you taking a peek at the beginning of the story earlier when you were supposed to be unpacking the delivery.’

Florence felt her face reddening. ‘I had intended returning it by tomorrow.’

‘You shouldn’t have borrowed it in the first place. It won’t be new if it’s already been read.’