He knew that he wouldn't see its like again. Even like this; dark, dusty, dishevelled and empty of almost everything that made it what it was; it brought back so many memories. Memories of childhood, carefree times when life was simple, before it picked up that unrelenting pace that rushed you onward to old age and beyond.
They were all there; the capacious shelves which ran around the walls from floor to ceiling. The shelf supports of turned wood, smart as any staircase spindles, hardwood of course, no shoddy pine would have crept in here. This place was a showpiece of the modern co-operative movement. Still here were the counters, their age polished tops testifying to the years of service given. The ruler, screwed tight to the rear edge was a solid, brass, embedded yard accurate to one eighth of an inch. How many miles of this and that had it measured down the decades. Once it had shone bright, now it was lustreless, its service done.
The wooden floorboards had been polished by the leather of the middle classes and scuffed by the hob-nails and segs of working men. How many thousands have trodden you in trade, he thought? The boards creaked as he moved, and fragments of plaster cracked as they were ground into the surface. Not long now; so little time to take in the moment, savour the past before it slipped beyond reach, before the future rushed in to become the present.
The counters were much higher then or so it seemed to a boy of his age. A tall man in a long blue dust coat carried a wooden crate from the secret lair at the rear of the counter. With great dignity he bore it and with solemn ceremony placed it so that the boy could be helped onto its lofty pinnacle. From this vantage point he could see the surface of the shop counter, an expanse of gleaming wood. He could now take in the shop assistant from a better angle. He was very old, at least fifty, with greying hair and a pate that shone as bright as the counter top. Behind one ear a fat brown pencil jutted. It was ready to hand for calculating the cost of goods on brown paper bags. His hands were strong and clean with close clipped nails. They cut butter with careful precision from a large block and carried it to a place of moulding and forming where, with wooden paddles he worked to achieve a smartly shaped pat which was wrapped in greaseproof paper and placed delicately into Madam's basket. The great brass scales clanked as a shiny weight was placed upon one side and a dark blue bag upon the other. A shower of white sugar slid from a scoop into the bag until the balance was level. The bag was deftly folded closed and then it went to join its buttery companion in the basket. The shop assistant removed the pencil from behind his ear and licked the end, thoughtfully, before adding to the list of figures on the paper bag.
The boy's attention was caught by a shooshing sound and he shuffled carefully around on his crate so that he could take in the spectacle that was the bacon slicing machine. The assistant turned a handle as the machine whirred and a slice of bacon peeled itself off and fell into the assistant's receiving hand. The slice was swiftly placed onto a sheet of paper and the resulting pile was weighed, wrapped and joined its fellows in the basket. Six eggs rapidly followed the bacon, their brown paper bag placed with extra care. At this point the boy grasped at his mother's coat and pointed across the shop to where a row of tins rested against the floor, they were tilted so that their contents could be seen through glass lids.
He was helped from the crate and taken to view the bourbons and shortcakes, the digestives and custard creams and best of all, the jammie dodgers, winking their red eyes in welcome. A small white bag was conjured from behind the counter and a quantity of biscuits found their way inside to emerge later at tea-time. But for now, wonder of wonders, a broken biscuit was graciously offered and greedily accepted from the hand of the smiling assistant.
It was time to tot up totals and pay dues; to record the dividend and count the change; to say farewells and listen for the tinkle of the shop bell as the door opened and closed on another satisfied customer.
The memories flashed in an instant across his mind and he smiled. The smells, he thought, he hadn't remembered the smells as you entered the shop; the fruity, spicy, earthy, bitter and sweet smells of fresh produce; smells that the memory found hard to capture, hard to keep. Images could be stored but smells were elusive. He could only remember them when the smell of something in the present triggered the smells from the past. How could you describe that heady mixture of odours that crowded in from the general store of the dim and distant? You couldn't. Like smoke, they drifted from the mind.
He wondered why the memory of himself as a small boy had been so potent now in this place. Hadn't he joined the shop himself when he left school? Hadn't he weighed and measured in the same way that Mr Pennington had? Mr Pennington had initiated him into the mysteries of the retail trade at a time when those mysteries were beginning to be replaced by the modern and mundane. Pre-packaged goods were far more convenient than sugar paper bags; factory sealed butter was more hygienic and plastic wrapped bacon kept fresher than the cheese cloth covered bundles of bacon that had hung from hooks above the counters.
Oh, so much more convenient, and healthy, and better, and boring. When you were taught the mysteries they were no longer mysterious. His memory as a boy had the wonder that was lost by the young man. Just as Christmas was never the same after you learned that a jolly fat man did not squeeze down your chimney once a year while you slept and that your loose teeth were not redeemed by the fairies.
Time and tide wait for no man, his son had said to him. Where had he learned that? Oh, yes, he said it himself many times. So why was he standing here and dwelling on a past long gone? It was because he was old, older than the shop assistant when he was a boy, much older. He had joined Mr Pennington in this shop, but he had not remained here. The co-operative movement had been looking for likely young men to move the world forward. He had gone on with them until he had left to begin his own retail chain of stores, stores that grew to become supermarkets where bright, clean, hygienic, boring but highly profitable goods were sold. You were served by a cashier to whom butter paddles and bacon slicing machines were a thing unknown. Read the code and press the buttons, swipe the chip and pop in the pin were the new mysteries. They were not mysteries to him of course. To him there were no mysteries left in the world save one and that one mystery was surely not too far away now.
Until then he pottered about watching what his son was doing with the business. Just now he was setting about the old shop where it had all started, where memories of life began for a successful businessman. He shuffled his feet across the worn floorboards and reached for the handle of the door. A smile played on his lips when he heard the bell tinkle. It was only in his memory as the bell had long since disappeared from the door bracket. The sun was warm as he stepped into the street. He was glad that his son had let him have this moment, this fleeting time in the busy world, a time to reflect and remember.
He turned to the donkey jacketed figure and waved. The figure touched his hard hat in return and signalled to another. A great diesel engine thundered into life, shattering the fragile peace and a great ball of iron careered into the front of the shop. The old man had turned his back and climbed into the waiting car. This was one memory he had no wish to take with him.
