Tea is my typewriter

Advent microstories: day 4

I turn the brass handle and open the old wooden door. A little bell tinkles. It smells of old wood and leather, sturdy and comforting. A glass topped counter runs the length of the shop and behind it are wooden drawers, from floor to ceiling. Under the counter are long rolls of fabric.

A woman looks at me from behind the counter. She’s short with curly grey hair, wearing a long pocketed blue cardigan over a white blouse, and she has spectacles on a chain around her neck. Her face is friendly and she smiles at me as she puts down the cup of tea she’s been drinking. 

“Can I help you, dear?”

“Yes please. I’d like some forgiveness.”

“I see. And who’s the forgiveness for?”

“I want to give it to my husband.”

She nods and I can tell she’s had this conversation many times before. “That’s fine, dear. I’m sorry to have to ask but I do need to check. Some people come in looking for forgiveness for something they’ve done and I’m simply not in a position to give it to them. I can sell forgiveness to give to someone else, or even to give to yourself, but goodness me, I’m not a magician.” 

She bends down and brings out a roll from under the counter. The material is sturdy and creamy-white, like calico. “How much forgiveness are you looking for? We sell it by the yard.”

“Not by the meter?”

“We’re always imperial here, dear. Some things resist change. We’ve been here a long time.” She spreads a hand wide to indicate the fixtures and fittings around her.

“I think I need twelve yards.”

She flinches ever so slightly, and then smiles warmly once more. She starts to unroll the material which flop, flop, flops on the counter as she measures it against the brass ruler on the counter’s edge. “It sounds like he’s been quite a bother, this husband of yours.”

I nod. “I can usually make my own forgiveness, but not this time. I need too much to come up with it by myself.”

The material piles up on the counter and I realise just how much it really is. This isn’t going to be a small transaction. This has taken on the proportions of a life-changing purchase, like buying a car or a house. Once it’s bought, there’s no going back.

She looks at me over her spectacles as she picks up her scissors. “Now, dear, before I cut it, I have to ask you if you’re sure. There are no refunds, I’m afraid. We can’t sell this on to anyone else after you’ve taken it.”

I suck in my breath. “How much will it cost?”

She looks at me intently. She is confirming the gravity of the transaction we are about to enter into. “I think you know that, dear. But, I realise people need to hear it. It will cost you a piece of your heart.”

I know she’s right. Once she’s made the cut, I will be bound.

I imagine myself leaving the shop with my parcel under my arm, taking the forgiveness home with me, and how heavy it will feel. I imagine how it will wait by my bedside until I’m ready to give it to my husband. I imagine how grateful he will be, and how he’ll love it and care for it and cherish it.

For a while.

I look at her. “I’m sorry”, I say, “but I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want it after all.”

She smiles broadly. “That’s no problem at all, dear. It’s better to be sure. I’ll put it away later.” She pushes the fabric to the side. “Now, is there anything else I can get you?”

I look around the shop and a drawer catches my eye. It’s labelled “BRAVERY”. 

I point and ask, “Can I have some of that, please?”

“Of course you can, dear. That’s a very wise choice.”