“No,” said the girl. “These are the ones I want.”
As she began another lap of the shop, Brenda went with her. She saw an opportunity. “Where abouts were you planning on going hiking?”
“Oh, well, just around you know. The moors.” It was annoyingly vague answer. Does she not know or does she not want to say? You’d expect more from a local girl. Still, it gave her an in.
“There’s a lovely spot over by Linton Peak. A beautiful bit of woodlands, that — secluded. My husband and I often go over there of an evening to enjoy the sights. We were thinking of going over there this evening, as it happens. There’s a trail starting over at the supermarket that’ll take you out of the town and round in a couple of hours. The bit I mean is about forty minutes along. Or else you can get to it if you turn left by Jones’ Farm on the Leeds Road, you know, the one that sells those lovely turkeys at Christmas. Do you drive at all?”
“No,” said the girl. Brenda had been very careful to phrase everything in a way that was wholly appropriate for an overly chatty shop-assistant. There was nothing she’d said that would seem out of the ordinary, but in the context of last night… The girl’s face didn’t indicate that she’d picked up on any of the subtext of her ramble on rambles or, indeed, that she particularly cared about hiking or what she and her husband got up-to at night.
“Ah, well,” said Brenda. “What do you think?”
“How much?” said the girl.
That was the thing about women, Brenda mused. The price was right there. A man would never try on a pair of shoes he couldn’t afford. A woman would spend half-an-hour umming and ahhing before she even looked at the price tag. She’d done it herself enough times, she knew. It made clothes shopping more fun. The little independent shop was not particularly known for its value for money. People who suddenly arrived on holiday short of the appropriate footware were often willing to pay through the toes for it. These boots were the most expensive in the shop and came in at close to three hundred pounds. She told the girl who looked crestfallen.
“Okay,” she said. “I might come back in a week or so.” Brenda doubted it. As the girl took the boots off and slipped her original sandals back on, Brenda saw something out of the corner of her eye in the shop window. The girl muttered one hurried final thanks and then left.
Her boss who’d been doing the books in the back came out. “You want your break now, Bren?” she asked.
“Hang on a sec,” said Brenda still looking through the window. She leaned back on the counter and waited. After another minute, the boy who’d been hanging around outside came in. He was jumpier than anyone who just wanted a pair of Doc Martins had any right to be. He’d been watching through the window for a good five minutes, but had scooted out of the way just before the girl went out. Then he’d been straight back with his nose pressed up against the glass.
“Oh, hey. It’s Maureen Blackley’s lad, isn’t it?” Brenda said in welcome. “Neville? How’s your mam?”
Neville jumped like he’d was a burglar who just been caught breaking and entering. “Oh, hi. Err, yeah, she’s fine. Knee still giving her a bit of trouble. Otherwise, she says ‘mustn’t grumble’ and then grumbles. You know how she is.”
“Ay, well, you probably don’t remember me. Brenda Norris. We were in school together, your mam and me. When you see her say ‘hi’ will ya. Now what can I do you for today?”