After a simple afternoon tea, Dolly sat behind the counter, waiting to receive customers while dividing the large bags of sugar and flour delivered by the wholesaler into smaller packages.
She used an old-fashioned balance scale for weighing, with a one-pound weight as the standard and an eight-ounce weight for half a pound.
She folded white paper into packets, lined them with a layer of newspaper in the middle, wrapped them in another sheet of white paper, and tied them securely with hemp string.
Before long, the stationery ordered in the morning also arrived. Dolly carefully inspected it before arranging it inside the counter.
The first customers were the cooks from the restaurants on Dorothy Street, who could take a short break after the busy meal hours.
As soon as the brass bell hanging at the entrance of the small grocery store rang, Dolly looked up and saw two middle-aged women walking in. They wore dark brown cotton skirts, small hats on their heads, and carried wicker baskets in their hands. One had a pockmarked face, while the other had a sharp, pointed face.
She stood up with a smile. “What can I get for you? We’ve just restocked quite a few items today.”
The two women lived nearby and were regular customers here. They had heard that the small grocery store was about to close, so they came to take a look.
To their surprise, as soon as they entered, they caught a faint scent of Soap. It seemed the entire place had been tidied up, more meticulously than usual, with no sign of it closing down.
The pockmarked woman, reminded by the scent, realized she was also running low on Soap at home.
“I’ll take two bars of Soap, eight ounces of salt. How much is flour per pound now?”
Dolly listened calmly, weighing the salt behind the counter without even glancing at the inventory list, and replied:
“Flour is two pence per pound. We also have freshly arrived cornmeal today, three pence for two pounds…”
These two women were responsible for daily grocery shopping and cooking for their families, so they were intimately familiar with the prices of household items. They could tell at once whether something was cheap or not.
They had likely just received their weekly wages of twenty Shillings and were planning to purchase enough food and groceries for the coming week, making them valuable customers.
The pockmarked woman added, “Then I’ll take two pounds of wheat flour, two pounds of cornmeal, eight ounces of butter, two Tomato Cans, and two boxes of matches.”
While patiently introducing new products, Dolly’s hands never stopped moving, swiftly packing the salt.
Seeing this, the pockmarked woman raised an eyebrow and remarked, “These paper packets are wrapped so beautifully, almost as good as a box.”
“Oh, do you have candies and Biscuits? Pack me a pound of each, just like this.”
Dolly acknowledged and turned to retrieve two large tin boxes from the shelves, containing brown toffee hard candies and honey Biscuits, which were among the more abundant items in stock.
“Will these do? Candies are twelve pence per pound, Biscuits six pence. You can try a sample first.”
She pinched out samples through the paper and handed them over, then spread a sheet of wrapping paper on the tray. Her movements were as graceful as a dance, and her skill was evident—a single scoop from the tin was exactly one pound.
After tasting, the sharp-faced woman also ordered a variety of food items and added, “Pack me a pound of candies and Biscuits the same way, so I don’t have to buy a box.”
Once everything was wrapped, Dolly asked if they intended to give the items as gifts, offering to help write and attach a card.
They were indeed planning to give gifts to a colleague who had just gotten married but didn’t know what to write on the card.
After asking for their colleague’s name, Dolly wrote a sample card for them.
The two women picked it up and read it, nodding in approval. “So proper, just write it like this.”
Before long, their baskets were filled with various goods, and they carried neatly wrapped paper packages in their hands.
Dolly counted the coins on the counter—ninety-two pence in total.
Before stepping into the shop, these two women had certainly never intended to spend that much.
In her previous life, when Dolly first started her business, she had taken on every role, including working behind the counter.
She knew well how much a good shop assistant could influence sales.
After serving two or three more scattered customers, the tavern across from her house opened for business after two in the afternoon.
The handyman responsible for shoveling snow, hanging the business sign, and lighting the gas lamps was named Nansen, one of only two employees at the tavern.
Nansen wore a worn tweed suit, a flat felt cap on his head, and a pair of ugly old shoes. After hanging the sign, he hurried over through the snow.
He ducked into the grocery store, rubbed his hands together, and familiarly asked Dolly for a box of cheap matches.
Nansen opened the matchbox, pulled an unsealed cigar from his pocket, and slowly lit it with a match.
“I heard your family plans to close up shop? Is Mrs. Nash feeling better?”
In those days, it was customary to refer to the eldest couple in a household as Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so, so “Mrs. Nash” here referred to her grandmother.
Dolly finished portioning the last bag of powdered sugar, turned around, and stacked it neatly into a cardboard box.
“Much better. Closing up is out of the question. From now on, I’ll be minding the shop.”
Hearing this, Nansen curled his lip and smiled with a hint of disdain.
He knew Dolly had always been quiet and reserved, not inheriting any of Mrs. Nash’s fierceness. Could she really manage the shop?
Besides, the tavern was often full of drunks. Wasn’t she, a pretty girl, afraid of being harassed?
Even though her father, Fred, was a burly man.
Nansen took a drag of his cigar and suddenly noticed the tightly wrapped paper packages on the counter, each identical in size.
Square at the corners, as neatly made as if by a machine.
He praised them a couple of times and casually asked about the policemen who had come by that morning.
His eyes wandered around the shop.
The grocery counter seemed better stocked, and someone had tidied it up carefully—bottles and jars were arranged in perfect order.
At a glance, though crowded, it was surprisingly pleasing to the eye and stirred a desire to buy.
He looked around for a while but saw no tobacco or alcohol.
As for the police matter, Dolly brushed it off briefly and effortlessly spun a lie:
“They were investigating a case, said someone died near Tower Bridge.
From what I heard, the deceased seemed to be involved in a smuggling case.
The police were from Scotland Yard, so it looks like this is a big deal.
But then again, I might have misheard.”
Dolly’s face was filled with confusion, still wearing her usual quiet expression, looking utterly incapable of lying.
When Nansen heard it was about smuggling, he fell silent, his expression changing slightly, and he quickly made an excuse to leave.
Only after he had gone did she lift her chin and curl her lips in a slow, disdainful smile.
The cigar Nansen had been holding between his fingers was produced in the Philippines, called a Luzon cigar.
Both ends were unsealed, so it didn’t need to be cut—exactly the kind of stock Lobit’s shop liked to carry.
Workers dining on Dorothy Street favored this type of cigar for its strong kick and sometimes cheaper price than those produced in England.
She shook her head. Lobit sent someone to gather information but was only willing to give away such cheap cigars. How stingy.
Dolly sat behind the counter, facing outward, watching the fine snowflakes dancing in the alley, lost in thought for a moment.
In truth, for running a grocery store, Lobit Grocery Store’s location was exceptionally good.
It was close to the bustling restaurant street, with heavy foot traffic during all three meal times.
Unfortunately, this place simply had the wrong owner.
Author’s Note: