The Irish Emporium

Chapter 1

So weak and frail, like a baby bird. One that can barely open its mouth to eat.

Mother swallowed her medicine, an obscure mixture of herbs, and settled down to sleep again.

"Thank you, Claire," Mother croaked. Her condition was getting worse, and soon there would be nothing I could do.

"Run outside there and check the spuds."

Like a servant, I obeyed, rushing outside to our tiny vegetable patch, already knowing what I would see. Grabbing the trowel, I dug up the soft earth, and as expected, I saw the potatoes.

Rotten potatoes.

Wrinkled skin, purple bruises. Completely inedible. Another day with no food. My stomach growled at the thought.

I shuffled back into the cottage, and broke the news to Mother.

"The potatoes are rotten," I said. My eyes stung, the tears threatening to spill over any minute.

Mother gave a small cry, and then closed her eyes, tears slipping out from under the lids.

"I knew it was only a matter of time before it happened to us." She paused, before adding, "If only John or your father were here. They'd know what to do."

Her small frame shook with grief, rocking the old, wooden bed dangerously.

"Be careful, Mother," I said. "The bed will collapse if you move too much."

Composing herself, she wiped the tears from her eyes. "Your father made this bed for me. He was lying right here the day he died. He made me promise to look after you, but I haven't done a good job, have I?"

She gave a small smile.

"Check on the shop for me, will you Claire? It's the only thing I have left, besides you and the cottage."

"Yes, Mother."

I trotted towards the small shop on our land, whitewashed and thatched like our cottage, only a lot smaller. It was where Mother worked six days a week before she fell ill, and the business was her pride and joy, besides me.

It sold all sorts of luxury items. Woven mats, paper dolls complete with their own paper wardrobe, tiny recipe books, homemade jam, embroidered table cloths, whatever the customers were looking for, it was probably in the shop. To our small village, about an hour from the coast, it was an emporium. We'd never seen anything quite like it.

Checking the stock and comparing it to the inventory I'd made out from last week, nothing had sold. We had no money and almost no food now. We could eat the small bread supply left in the shop, but that wouldn't be ideal. Most of the loaves I picked up and gently tapped against the shelves didn't even dent, and some loaves now showed rainbow mould on them. Gagging, I threw them into the nettles.

There was one option left before drastic measures had to be taken.

Door-to-door business in the village.