The Keeper

Paying Her Way

The next time that Martha and Amy were out at the pub and Martha had turned down a couple more boys, Amy asked, "Why don't you go out with any of these guys?"

Martha had prepared a new tactic, something Amy wouldn't argue with. "Those guys? After what happened with Brian? No way! This is the summer of fun, remember? Girls together. No boys allowed."

Amy smiled at her friend. "You don't have to do that, Martha."

"Amy, seriously, I want to." Martha meant it. It was a good excuse to not engage with any of the boys, but it was also good to spend time with her friend. Martha enjoyed her company. When the weather was doing the typical English summer thing, they stayed in town and trawled through charity shops to find old vinyl records (Martha's idea), or to the record store to listen to new ones (Amy's). And Amy and her parents taught Martha to play mah-jong, which was a fun way to fill a long summer evening.

When shifts and pleasant weather aligned, Martha and Amy took off to the beach. If a cold easterly was blowing, Martha persuaded Amy to help her out with the heavy work in the sheltered allotment. They put up a fruit cage to protect against birds, and Martha picked strawberries and raspberries to take for their beach picnics, in return for Amy's help. They exchanged trashy novels, swam, sunbathed and talked about their plans for the future. Or at least Amy did. Martha couldn't think beyond the end of the summer, but she was happy to listen to Amy tell tales of the job that she was going to get, working on super-yachts and sailing around the world. That was after she aced her degree in English literature at Manchester University, where she was going to meet so many more sexy boys than Cornwall had to offer.

* * *

Halfway through the school holidays, a new manager took over the garden centre. Headquarters had sent him down to improve sales, but he knew more about balance sheets and bottom lines than broad beans and begonias. He hid away in his office, leaving customers roaming the aisles to find someone who could help them. They besieged Martha with questions: where to find the advertised specials, when plants were coming in, how to grow things better or kill things better. Most people were polite, and even when they weren't, Martha let it wash over her, smiled, and carried on. But it wore her down shift after shift.

She volunteered for the dirty jobs instead, sweeping up and tossing mulch and compost into piles, or dragging the hose out to water the big trees that were potted up behind the garden centre. It was when she was turning on the tap to one of those hoses that one of the regulars, Lady Roseham, collared her.

"Oh good, you can help me. It's bedlam here today and I can't find anyone – "

Martha put on her brightest smile. "How can I help?"

"I want some cyclamen."

"We don't have any, I'm afraid."

"Nonsense! You grow them here, don't you? I've seen them before."

"Yes, but they don't go out on display until the autumn. They're winter flowering."

"I know that, girl, but I want to put them in the ground now."

"I'll go and find the manager."

"Don't bother, he's busy, apparently. Which is why I'm talking to you. You've worked here long enough to recognise a cyclamen, I take it?"

"Yes."

"Good. Get me five plants. It doesn't matter what colour."

"I can't do that."

"Yes, you can. I'm telling you to. I'm giving you permission."

"But you're not my manager. I need to talk to him."

"No, you don't. Now stop being so rude and do as you're told."

Martha took off her garden gloves and her Heath Valley Garden Centre apron.

"What are you doing? Do you know who I am?"

"Yes. You're a snooty old fart, who thinks they can boss people around just because they have a bigger house. But you can't. I'm not your bloody servant. No one is the boss of me. Not now, anyway."

Lady Roseham stepped back, her body ramrod straight, her face pinched as if she had chewed through a lemon. Martha brushed past her, past the lines at the tills, and opened the door to the office, where the manager was snogging the new girl beside the filing cabinet.

She slapped her apron and gloves on the desk and said, "I quit," before turning on her heels, slamming the door behind her, a smile growing on her face as she walked to the glass doors. By the time she was on her bike, she was laughing.

* * *

"But aren't you going to miss the money?" said Amy, as they looked in the shop windows on Church Street.

"Yes, but I won't miss the customers. I enjoyed working with the plants, but ever since the manager changed, I've been out in the shop more and I hate that. Anyway, I'm ready to do something different."

"I know what you mean. Working in a clothes shop is great for the money and the discount, but some customers are real dickheads. Especially the grockles that come down from London... Hey, look at this: they want a dishwasher." Amy was reading the note on the Blue Ram Café.

"That I can do," said Martha. "I don't mind washing dishes."

"And you wouldn't have to deal with customers – only their dirty dishes."

Martha read the notice. "I'm going in."

"Shit," said Amy, "I've gone over on my break. I'd better go back to the shop. Let me know how it goes!" she shouted as she hurried off.

The café was busy, and dirty crockery and cutlery had piled up on the tables. Martha couldn't see anyone who looked like a manager. She collected up some dishes and pushed through the swing doors to the kitchen. She put the plates by the sink, where a woman was up to her elbows in suds.

"Hi, do you know where the manager is? I'm here about the dishwasher job."

"I'm the manager and you're hired. Can you start now?"

"Um, sure."

"Great. Here are the rubber gloves – I can't wear them – I'm allergic."

Martha put on the gloves, got stuck in and walked out two hours later with £12 and a £20 bonus.