The Story of Abigail and Dolores.

I thought it was about time I broke my silence with the woman in one of the charity shops in Uttoxeter, and so I did on Monday.

I’ve mentioned previously on the blog that I hold her in some modest degree of esteem, although I’ve always been careful not to identify her workplace. It occurred to me that the many members of the JJ Blog Club scattered around the globe might all get together and charter planes and buses and then descend on modest little Uttoxeter en masse, there to make pilgrimage to the establishment in question and lay siege to it. I feared it might embarrass the poor woman and also place unwarranted pressure on the environment. (Of course, you could always try guessing.) But back to the story.

I often watch her when she’s working, and I expect I frown a lot in the process. It’s what I do when I’m studying people. Occasionally she glances back at me and I’ve often thought that I owe her an explanation, and so on Monday I took the plunge.

‘May I tell you something?’ I began.

She said nothing for several long seconds while she held me in a suspicious stare. Eventually she said ‘go on.’

‘It’s just that I hold you in some modest degree of esteem,’ I continued, ‘and I thought I should tell you why.’

She remained silent and I waited until I was sure she wanted to hear the explanation and wasn’t about to call the police. And then I told her:

‘I’ve observed that you never wear make-up, evidently because you feel no need of it. And your hair is held in a simple arrangement whereby it looks functional rather than flouncy. Your eyes are unusually strong and suggestive of the fact that you have no craving for approbation. You rarely speak, but when you do your voice is low and expresses impeccable manners. And finally, you dress simply, yet always manage to look stylish. I hope none of this offends you.’

She continued to watch me in silence, but I saw a change in her expression. It was more accepting and a semblance of interest appeared in her eyes. Eventually she said:

‘I’m not offended at all. I always wondered what you were thinking behind those frowns of yours. Maybe we could talk some more when I’m not busy.’

‘I’d like that,’ I said. ‘When would be convenient?’

‘I take my lunch in ten minutes. Could we meet in the coffee shop at the top of the High Street?’

‘Certainly. I’ll leave you to your work and see you at 1.’

I waited inside the coffee shop until she turned up so that I could offer to pay for the drinks. I felt I owed it to her in view of her unexpected accommodation. I was happy that she accepted the offer on the grounds that managers of charity shops earn a lot but don't get paid very much, and I was gratified that she added practicality and honesty to her virtues.

And so we sat and talked, exchanging life histories and all the other little matters of mutual interest which occupy people on a first meeting. Being only around thirty, her life history was rather shorter than mine, but it had its moments. And she told me her name was Abigail. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me. Abigail has long been a favourite of mine, almost to the point of seeming mysteriously compelling. I told her so and she smiled.

At that point a middle aged woman walked up to our table. It was somebody I knew quite well from the village, the one that all villages have, the one who regards it as their duty to know everything there is to know about everybody and then luxuriates in spreading the intelligence far and wide.

‘Hello, Jeff,’ she said enthusiastically while I grimaced in silence. ‘I’ve never seen you in here before. Is this you daughter?’

I managed a snappy reply for once.

‘No,’ I said, ‘just somebody I met in a shop. Her name is Dolores.’

‘Dolores?’ said the neighbour. ‘That’s a nice name, but rather unusual these days. It’s nice to meet you, Dolores. Don’t keep him up too late, though, will you? Goodbye.’

‘Nice meeting you, too,’ said Abigail with a wry smile. ‘Goodbye.’

I’ve often noticed that people like the interloper, people who need to know everything there is to know about everybody, rarely recognise something as subtle as a wry smile. Abigail’s wry smile broadened and she said:

‘Good name you chose.’

‘Dolores?’ I queried. ‘Did you get the joke?’

‘Of course I got the joke. I’m a big fan of Nabokov.’

To the reader:

You will have guessed, I’m sure, that most of the above is pure fiction – fiction, but not exactly fantasy. It’s just a cocktail made of three real people, the habits and observations of somebody who lives alone and lives for little other than writing, and a soupçon of imagination. And of course, it could be that in a parallel universe…