Escapade - Larry Stylinson (Re-write)

XIII - Maple Syrup

  On Cherry Tree Lane in the small farming village, tucked away far past the outskirts of London, was a corner shop. It had once had a bell above the door that children enjoyed listening to, but had long been broken until the only noise when the door opened was a long squeak of rusty hinges. The sign above the door, too, had once been bright red and glistening, but had long faded into a dull pink.

The building, like the village itself, was old and worn, and just like the village— the corner shop on Cherry Tree Lane brought happiness to anyone who'd cross its path.

The door opened with a squeak, and closed with a click behind the man in a sheepskin jacket. He'd come from the cold, nose pink at the tip and body shivering. Dawn was breaking over the hills, beginning to warm the land and fields, and the roosters were beginning to call.

The man walked up to the counter and smiled at the lady behind it. Her name was Maple, like the syrup. Maple's mother had craved the syrup while pregnant with her, but had died during child-birth. Maple's father had named their daughter accordingly, but passed later that spring as well from pneumonia. Nonetheless, Maple was well-loved and well-mannered; with children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren who adored to stop by for a visit. Among the great-grandchildren, was Harry.

"The usual, please. Three." He said, nodding his head to the pack of cigarettes on the shelf behind the counter.

Maple smiled and picked three packs from the shelf. She put them on the counter and began to scan them. "Had a nice week, Love? We've not seen you around much lately." She said, leaving Harry unsure of who 'we' was referring to. "You should visit Mrs. Morris. She's got some fresh eggs and marmalade for you."

"Oh. Yeah, she put a note through the letterbox. I will do." Harry shrugged, "And I've been keeping busy." he said, "You know how it is."

"Ah, it must be ever so hard for you, Love, working so far from the village." Maple said, "Still— is the bakery to your liking? Made any new recipes?"

"A few." Harry lied.

"Your mother and sister must be ever so proud of you for doing what you enjoy! When you were little, your mother used to say, 'Oh, our Harry! How he loves to bake! He could make bread buns all day!'"

Maple chuckled and Harry smiled stiffly, shifting from one foot to the other.

"You know, Harry, we used to try and guess what you'd do when you were older. I thought you'd become a poet! Your sister thought you'd be a ballet dancer, and your mother thought you'd be a baker. Mothers always know best!" Maple said, scanning a strawberry-cream lollipop that Harry took from the side and handed her.

"Oh, but you're doing ever so well. You had a lot of pent-up emotions when you were younger; God knows where from, but you've sorted yourself out."

Maple took the money from Harry and smiled at him, "Look at you now! What a good person you are!"

Harry snatched the bag from the counter and turned around sharply. He walked to the door with a brief wave, and left the corner shop with nothing more than that.

He trudged up the path, carefully avoiding the large puddles that had settled into every pothole. He sped up past Mrs. Morris' house, and came across a kitten on the ground. It was ginger with blue eyes, and although it appeared to have been run over several times due to its messy fur and muddy feet—it was breathing.

Harry crouched down in front of it, placing the bag on the ground by his side. He looked at the kitten for a few minutes. It was at the age where it was old enough to walk around and make noises, but too young to fend for itself. As of now, it was asleep in a pothole, unaware that any passing vehicle could run it over.