Keeping Shop

The television series Open All Hours was (and still is) a national favourite when it first began in 1976. Mean old Arkwright and badly done to Granville were characters that people took to their hearts, and eventually became symbols of the typical shopkeeper. It was based on an actual shop in Gloucestershire that Roy Clarke, the series creator visited and was said to have fallen in love with, but I never thought even as we watched it that Paul and I would join that band of people who serve the nation from behind a counter.

It all began when Paul came home from work one day and told me about a colleague who had just bought a shop with his wife, and it was quite apparent that the idea of being his own boss appealed to him. Their Post Office cum store was in a small village outside York, and the man had gone part time to help her run it. We discussed the idea at length and decided that it was something that not only could we do, but we felt we could make a success of.

We started by buying Dalton’s weekly and scouring the adverts for what looked like a potentially good business. We had to be practical and realised that a sub-post office looked the best bet because it provided an income on top of what the shop might earn, but we soon learned that the higher the Post Office income, the more expensive the property. We also felt that it was better to have living accommodation with the shop rather than a lock-up; another consideration was a village location and somewhere nearby that Paul hoped that he could keep his horses. All of which seemed to put York out of the running.

The next stage was to visit the businesses that we had circled as possibilities and what a huge eye-opener that turned out to be. It was obvious from of at least two of the premises that the businesses were failing, and the proprietor had that look that said, please don’t notice that I’m desperate to sell. Then there were others that looked ok from the outside, but the accommodation was a real let down. I remember looking at one such shop near Robin Hood's Bay and thinking that the best thing to do would be to just make it back into a dwelling, except it was set on so many levels you had to be fit just to go in there. Another had really grand accommodation, with a huge garden but the business side was far too small to be sustainable. In fact it was sold several years later to a developer who closed the shop, refurbished it and built houses in the garden. Damn, why didn’t we think of that?

I began to wonder seriously if we would find anything remotely like what we were looking for, but at the same time could not exactly quantify what we wanted. It was one of those ‘we will know it when we see it’ moments.

The weeks turned over and we spent our weekends driving to different parts of the country, from the coast to the Yorkshire Dales and back, and even considered different types of business, but there was always a but. We spotted a milk round that would have meant that we didn’t have to leave our lovely home, but although we could have left a van at the dairy, we had nowhere to store cold items like yoghurt and butter. Nothing seemed to fit until one day we saw an advert for a village store just a few miles outside York. We booked an appointment to view, and after looking round the place we felt that we had found the right one. It didn’t have a Post Office but was a fairly large Village Store in a very nice setting overlooking the Village Green. The main road went straight passed the door for local and passing trade, and at last the accommodation was also up to a good standard. There was even a large garden and a stable at the back of the property for Paul’s horses. After a bit of negotiation, we decided to go for it.

The house had to be sold and we also needed a bank loan, both of which proved to be fairly straight forward. Our house overlooked Monk Stray and had definite kerb appeal, so we decided to forget about an Estate Agent and simply get a valuation. The reaction to our For Sale sign in the window was almost immediate and after a couple of days we took the sign down as we had more enquiries than we could cope with, plus a buyer who had sold their own home but had been let down on a forward chain.

Next came the trip to the bank. Although I had been a customer with Barclays Bank for many years, one thing I had never had to do was see the manager, so it was with some trepidation that we turned up for our appointment. Not many of us need to ask for a business loan either, so we were trying not to look as if we were out of our depth, but the manager that we saw couldn’t have been more helpful. Coffee was brought and we pitched our request, showing him details of both our finances and the shop’s trading. We didn’t have a mortgage or any other outstanding debts which stood us in good stead, and it wasn’t long before we were shaking hands and walking out of the bank. Details of the loan would be drawn up and posted out to us, and in the meantime the manager had given us the name of a good accountant to contact. That made it more real somehow.

Having imparted the good news of our loan and setting off the chain of events to buy the shop and sell our house, the next step was to set up a meeting with the accountant. Once again, having never dealt with an accountant we set off rather nervously wondering what to expect. We soon discovered someone who did not fit the stereo-typical worker and who was very keen to help us. We were given ledgers and shown what and how to complete them. The question of VAT was discussed and put into perspective, and we had a programme of when and how to submit accounts at the end of the financial year and offers of support should it be needed. We left feeling much more confident and with an excellent piece of advice ringing in our ears which was to update the ledger daily. Leaving it to the end of a busy week or month when you were tired meant that it would take longer to do, and that was when mistakes could be made.

Meanwhile, back at work I handed my notice in and on reflection, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Mrs Thatcher was busy changing the face of the country forever whilst fighting the Argentinians in the Falklands, and on the home front the NHS Ancillary staff were on strike for more pay. As part of the hospital management team I was covering all sorts of jobs and hours to help keep the place ticking over, delivering patient’s meals, collecting the laundry and anything else that cropped up. It even was worse covering the night shift, so by the time I left I was really exhausted. Paul only had to give a week’s notice, but he was also getting up early to see to his horses, as well as spending time learning the newspaper delivery run for the shop, which meant very early starts. However, the final day arrived, and we said goodbye to our lovely home and moved into the flat above the shop. Paul realised that we would need versatile transport and, practical as ever had exchanged our car for a Citroen Dyane which was perfect for the job. If we put the rear seats down, we could load the back with goods from the Cash and Carry, it was handy for deliveries and on the plus side, it was fun to drive. The engine also had a very distinctive tone, and I could always tell when it was coming.

The daily papers arrived on time on the very first morning and we were up and ready at six o’clock, marking them up as Alan had shown Paul, then he bundled them into the car and set off on his delivery. I remember the feeling of relief when he arrived home with just enough time for a cup of tea before we opened.

And so it began.

It was obvious on the first morning that the villagers wanted to see what the new people in the shop looked like. Some were shy but friendly, got what they wanted and left quietly. Others announced themselves, told us who they were and where they lived making up for a very interesting day. There was obviously a pecking order and, as with most villages, we were soon to find out that many of them were related. There was the old village stock, mainly round the area of the shop, the newbies who lived in the new houses and worked for the Water Authority, the Farming community and of course, the lords of the manor. The shop itself had been bought and run by the Jefferson family in the early 20th century, the last incumbent being Hubert along with his wife Mabel who had served the customers and the community for years. Hubert had objected strongly to the image of the old shopkeeper which was portrayed by Ronnie Barker in Open All Hours but suffering old age and ill health and with no Granville to follow on, he and his wife sold the business to Alan and Sheila who came before us. The couple had made themselves very unpopular by doing away with the counter service and modernizing the shop, although that’s exactly what it needed, and gave us a break because we were new and couldn’t be blamed for this abomination.

There was a distinct pattern to the day. Early morning newspapers and cigarettes. Mum’s having dropped the kids at school, pre-lunch time traffic, lunch time traffic, then a lull until school leaving time, another lull then a panic before closing time.

Our first week was a bit of a disaster as we kept running out of things and made more than one hasty trip to the Cash and Carry at closing time. Then we would discover that we had bought the wrong size crisps or the wrong flavour sauce. It was all so frantic and new; the hours were long and hard, and we were exhausted by the end of it. And then, to make matters worse, our beloved cat Mimi disappeared. We were fast regretting our move, but there was no going back, we had to sink or swim.

During that first week, someone from the local paper came to take our photos and we had a little write up which brought not only publicity but also some surprises. First of all Hubert came to take a look at us and seemed to like what he saw, which was a real nod of approval to the rest of the village. Next, a lady popped her head round the door one day who I knew from Scarborough as she had worked in the children’s home where I grew up. It was so good to see her as we had lost touch many years previously. The final surprise was even greater when Irene called in. I had no idea who she was to begin with, but as soon as she explained that her family had lived in Scarborough and owned a guest house for Army personnel, I knew. It was there that we had stayed for a couple of months when I was five years old. I hadn’t seen her for nearly thirty years, so it was a joyful reunion as I had very happy memories of living in their house. I returned her visit once we had settled in, and was able to catch up with her mum and learn what had happened to the rest of the family.

Paul soon became very popular with the mums some of whom were quite happy to stand and chat. One of them was very keen on horses and it was during one of their conversations that the topic of Paul’s mare and foal came up. He had hoped to ride her but there was little time for leisure activities and with great sadness he came to the decision that they must be sold, and a price was agreed. Happily, the new owner lived on a farm which was not too far away, and they often took a delivery, so Paul was able to see both horses occasionally.

Jan worked for us part-time and was not only very pleasant but a good worker too. But despite the extra help it was hard going. The long hours, lack of privacy and also the anxiety of not knowing how well we were doing took its toll. By the end of the first month, we were barely talking to each other. I was the worst culprit. I missed my old job, the people, our old house and most of all, my freedom. We sat down one dreadful Sunday and had a tearful heart to heart and I realised how selfish I was being. I knew I had to pull my socks up. We went into town, bought a takeaway for tea and opened a bottle of wine. Then we went to settle down for the evening. As I went along to the bathroom, I heard a noise and looked out of the window. In the dim, dark light of evening, I could just make out a shape; it was Mimi. She had climbed up onto the side roof and was meowing to be let in. We were both so happy to see her that we cried.

It is important to say that Paul was the real driving force behind our success. He quickly learnt and understood the business, making well judged tweaks and improvements. There was huge safe in the corner of the office, but Paul had a far more discreet one embedded into the floor under the carpet for our eyes only. He applied for a licence so that we could sell wines and spirits, he promoted the lunchtime trade in sandwiches and made it quite clear that we could do deliveries. He also signed us up with a national grocery chain so that although we were independent, we could have a weekly delivery which saved the hassle of going to the Cash and Carry. Our yogurts and eggs were sourced locally, and our fresh fruit and vegetables were delivered by a roundsman, but our bread and cakes came from Cooplands in Scarborough. And there was another surprise. The man who delivered the bread turned out to be the Milkman who lived at the bottom of the street where I grew up. His nephew had lived at the top of the street and between them Eric and my brother terrorized the neighbourhood. It really is a small world.

As the months passed, we gradually eased into the business, getting more comfortable not just with the routine but also the lifestyle changes. There seemed to be a season to everything, and the customers were creatures of habit. Monday was washing day, Tuesday we had our bulk delivery to the store, Wednesday was half day when I would drive into York and deposit our takings in the bank, then stop off at the stationery wholesalers for cards etc. Although nothing was written in stone, it was mainly Thursday and Friday when the books would come in, customer orders would be made up and delivered. Saturday morning was the busiest, and the fresh bread and cakes were always popular for the weekend. It was also a day when customers from other villages further out would call in and collect their weekend groceries. During the school holidays however, everything changed again.

Our first autumn was a wet one when it seemed to rain everyday. We watched as the levels in the nearby River Derwent rose, and in turn the Beck that ran through the village alongside the Green. The first property to be flooded was Beck House which was immediately opposite us, and we feared for the shop, but luckily the building was on slightly higher ground which made all the difference. The following autumn was memorable for a far different reason. We had submitted our first year accounts and I went to collect the books and learn the results. The accountant was pleased and said so. Not only were our figures healthy, but he was impressed with Paul’s book-keeping and that he had not had to nag for the information. Apparently some people took months to submit and even then the books could be in a muddle. I returned home, happy to give Paul the news which he thought deserved a bottle of wine. But I wouldn’t be drinking wine, and I was giving up smoking too as I told Paul that I was pregnant with our first child. Needless to say he was over the moon.

The birth of Philip became quite an event, and the community took him to their hearts. I’m sure the takings went up in his first few months as people called in to see him and welcome him to the world. He was a handsome baby, even if I say so myself; happy and sociable and into everything. We were soon being invited to play with lots of other babies and toddlers. The two little sisters next door adored him and would often call round after school and Philip took it all in his stride. The only individual who was not impressed was the cat. Knees were for her to curl up on, and not to be shared thank you very much.

I began to take more of a back seat, or should I say front seat as I took on more of the deliveries. With Philip in tow, I called round the village and farm customers and became very fond of them. There was always a welcome and Philip got used to being picked up and cooed over. One elderly farmer’s wife was a real favourite of mine. I usually put tea and biscuits on a tray to take up to her bedroom where she would be cuddling Philip and she would reminisce. Her one ambition had been to watch the tennis on Wimbledon’s centre court, but as a young wife and mother she couldn’t afford the time or the money and later in life she had the money but not the health to allow her to travel. There’s a lesson in that somewhere. Then there was an elderly couple on the edge of the village who never had children but were devoted to each other. He was tall and wiry and loved model railways; very clever with his hands and the house was fitted out with furniture he had made himself. His wife was small and plump and baked delicious cakes. Another lady, a widow lived in her neat little house and loved a visit. She made huge meringues every Thursday and apart from us, I’m not sure who else she made them for. Some of our customers were absolute characters, lived right out in the sticks and appeared large as life on a Saturday to get the shopping for ‘erindoors’. We would be regaled with stories that were quite outrageous, but there was many a laugh and never a dull moment. Our neighbour on the other side was another character. Her brother had won quite a bit of money on the Pools and so they moved out of their tied cottage in a little remote hamlet a few miles away, and into the big house. Billy had died by the time we arrived and left everything to his sister but still she lived a very spartan existence displaying a tablecloth in the kitchen which was a clean copy of the Northern Echo that she bought from us daily, and the bulbs had no light shades. She said that the money wasn’t going to change her, and she meant it. Another favourite was a lady of 103 who came down to the shop once a week with her carer and then I would take her shopping to her on a Saturday. She was well loved in the village, and we were all very sad when she finally passed away; but her dear husband Bob had been dead for thirty years and she wanted to join him.

As much as I wanted to do my bit, the daily running of the shop was left more and more to Paul. Running a small business is hard work multiplied by ten, and adding a baby is double that, especially one who is happy to stay awake in case he missed anything. Many an evening saw us taking a drive after we closed the shop, as we tried to get him to sleep; sometimes we were successful and sometimes he woke as he was lowered into his cot! Saturdays were a real headache first thing, mainly because of the bread orders and the shop being busy. Philip was usually plonked in a low chair in front of the tv with Postman Pat whilst we did what we had to do. It suited neither of us nor was it the way that we wanted him to grow up. I had time with Philip, but Paul was missing out and we knew we had to do something about it. With only one holiday in four years, we were ready for a serious break and decided to call it a day.

I have no idea who owns the Village Store now, but I wish them, and every other small business proprietor every success as I know how hard they work, and they deserve our wholehearted appreciation.