Sweet Charity

Quick Twist

He’s back again,” Vera hisses. I glance through the window of the charity shop, where I work Tuesdays and Thursdays, to see him walking by.

He’s wearing his usual outfit – an old, brown corduroy jacket, way too big, topped off by a trilby hat; way too small. Grey hair tufts from under the brim and his hands are tucked away, out of sight, in his trouser pockets.

“Poor thing – he looks lost, wandering about on his own,” Vera sighs. Yes, I think, alone and lonely… Since the spring, I’d often seen him. “He intrigues me,” I’d told Vera. “Some people do, don’t they?”

“S’pose.” She’d shrugged, folding tea towels before pricing them.

I wanted to know why he wandered by so often. We were in the middle of the High Street, yet he never carried any shopping. I might’ve forgotten him – many folk drift by the shop – but lately, he’s taken to coming in.

“Can I help?” I’d smiled, that first day, feeling a little uncomfortable in case he’d seen me watching him through the large pane windows.

Looking a little stunned, he answered, “Er… no, not today, thank you.”

Vera had raised a heavily darkened eyebrow. We get some funny folk in at times, her gesture said. Especially as the days got chillier. It wasn’t unknown to have a number of “browsers” on wet and windy days. The fan heater over the door attracted as many as the chance of finding a Karen Millen exclusive hidden among the rails.

Now I wait, watching under my eyelashes, to see if he’ll push open the door or slide by. I hope he comes in. I’ve started to look forward to our chats. Slowly, he’s revealing snippets about himself. He likes gardening and used to be a traffic warden.

“Not a nasty one – I let more off than I booked,” he’d smiled.

It explained why he wandered the street. This was his old beat and he couldn’t break the habit of checking whether cars were parked legally. “You’re retired?” “Not through choice. Cutbacks. Mind, it was for the best… in the end.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant but didn’t like to pry.

In all this time, he’d never bought anything – not even a better-fitting jacket or hat. He’d just hover, flicking half-heartedly through the rails. If I was busy, he wouldn’t speak but always doffed his hat on leaving, winking at me. I liked that. Not many folk had old-fashioned manners any more.

Eventually, one day, he came up to the counter. I smiled warmly. “Hello… In again? How can I help?” His pale blue eyes flicked from left to right. I glanced down, noticing the black bin bag at his feet.

“My wife… she passed away last year,” he said.

There was a catch in his throat, sounding like the click of a door lock, when he uttered the word, “passed.”

I should be used to it now. In the years I’ve worked here, I’d regularly accepted bags of clothes from widows and widowers but there was something about him that touched me more than most. He seemed bereft, his grief raw.

“Thank you… I’ll see that they go to a good home.”

He opened his mouth then closed it, reminding me of a hardback book being slammed shut. Instead, his eyes watery, he could only nod.

The bag was virtually empty. Inside was a new but rather dated jacket – perhaps a gift many Christmases ago, never worn, but given by someone too cherished to offend by returning.

After that day, the old gentleman came in every week, but his bag would only ever contain one or two items.

“Why doesn’t he bring it all in? Get it over with,” grumbled Vera when he brought his latest bundle.

He hadn’t spoken today. As I watched him go, I wondered if he was OK. When he reached the door, he turned and lifted his trilby. I gave him a cheery thumbs up, mouthing our thanks.

“I don’t think he can bear to be parted from them all at once,” I said to Vera, understanding suddenly. “He can probably only let his wife go gradually.”

As he looked back through the window, I caught his eye. This time I winked at him. I hope he understood.

Everything, I wanted to say, has its time. No need to rush. Sometimes we can only let go of those we’ve loved slowly – and that isn’t wrong. Ever.