The Greengrocer's Daughter

My business meeting had been difficult and I was tired even before I started the long drive home. It was a dreadful evening and the windscreen wipers were toiling under the combination of heavy rain and the spray thrown up by the slow-moving line of traffic that I was trapped in. It was going to be half an hour before I reached the motorway and at least another hour-and-a-half before I got home, and I was becoming less enthusiastic by the minute.

 Peering through the spray I saw a signpost up ahead indicating a turn-off to the left:  ‘Winchcombe 6’.

  Winchcombe! Of course! What a blast from the past! I hadn’t been there for nearly forty years, not since I used to cycle through its narrow streets every weekend between RAF Compton Bassett and Birmingham.

 I smiled to myself, remembering the little greengrocer’s shop on the main street, wondering if it was still there. Probably not, I thought, but there’s nothing to stop me going to take a look. Even stop over for the night maybe? Well, why not?  It was Friday, it was a filthy night and there was no-one waiting at home. So I turned off the main road and drove to Winchcombe.

 Although it was dark and wet, the little town seemed friendly and familiar even after all this time. There was a small hotel on the main street, a half-timbered place called the Royal Oak that looked welcoming, so I pulled on to the car park and walked through to the lounge bar. It was a cosy room with an open log fire blazing in the hearth and with half a dozen people, obviously regulars, cheerfully exchanging banter. I went to the bar, ordered a pint from the pretty young barmaid and asked her if they had a room vacant for a one night stay

 She wasn’t sure. “Just one moment please,” she said “I’ll go and ask Jenny.”  

                 A couple of minutes later the door to the private quarters opened and a petite, attractive woman came through. She had short, beautifully styled, snow-white hair and clear dark eyes and I guessed she was probably in her mid fifties.

 “Hallo,” she said, “I’m Jenny, the proprietor. Kim says that you want a room for the night?” She gave me a quizzical smile which somehow also seemed to include a searching appraisal of my person. “Well, I do have a single vacant as long as you’re not expecting the Hilton. I’ll show you.”

 The room was small, but spotless and comfortable, and after I’d agreed terms Jenny took me back to the lounge. “Are you going to eat in?” she asked. “We have an excellent restaurant and our chef is well regarded.”

 I said that eating in seemed a good idea and booked a table.

 “About an hour then,” she said, “if that ok with you?”

 After Jenny had gone I finished my pint and went out in to the street. The rain had stopped and I walked on until I came to a row of terraced Cotswold stone houses, built directly on to the pavement, all with two or three worn stone steps leading up to the elevated front doors. This was where the greengrocer’s had been but, as I had suspected it had gone. I felt a momentary twinge of disappointment, laughed at myself for the sentiment, and made my way back to the Royal Oak.

     My table was laid ready in the dining room, complete with the bottle of red wine that I’d ordered. The meal was, indeed, excellent and when Jenny came over to check that everything was satisfactory I asked her to sit and share a glass of wine with me.

  “Tell me,” I said, after we had exchanged pleasantries, “would you know what became of the little greengrocers shop that used to be in that terrace along the main street?”

 “Goodness gracious,” she said, “you mean Turner’s. That shop has been gone for nearly thirty years now. Why do you ask?”

 “Well,” I said, “it’s a silly story really. When I was eighteen I was doing my National Service in the RAF, stationed in Wiltshire.  I used to cycle through Winchcombe to and fro to Birmingham every weekend, and always called at that greengrocer’s to buy some bananas to keep the hunger knock at bay. One of the girls who served in there was about sixteen, dark hair, dark eyes and absolutely gorgeous and I was really smitten. I used to hang about outside the shop until I was sure that it would be her that would serve me, but I was always too cowardly to talk to her other than ask for bananas. Every week I would cycle here rehearsing irresistible chat up lines and working myself up to a real high.  Of course, when it came to the crunch, I froze up and just gabbled about bananas. The stupid thing is, I knew she liked me too, I could tell by the way she looked at me.”

 Jenny laughed. “Ah yes, a teenage crush, I can empathise with that.”

 “Anyway,” I continued, “this went on for several months until I was posted overseas and I spent the whole of the week before my last ride home psyching myself up, knowing it was my very last chance to get to know her. I had decided to ask her to write to me as my pen friend while I was abroad; she could only say ‘no’. But on that last Saturday morning I went to the cycle shed to collect my bike, only to find that it had been stolen, and I had to go home on the coach. I never saw her again.”

 Jenny smiled, I thought sympathetically. “How sad,” she said. “And you still remember her after all this time?”

  “Yes, I do. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t had my bike stolen. Pathetic, isn’t it?” I

 “Pretty much,” she agreed, “but that girl was actually a good friend of mine so at least I can tell you what became of her. She was the greengrocer’s daughter and just worked weekends in the shop. She was quite bright actually and got a good job with a building society after school. She eventually married Dennis, a lovely man, had two daughters and is now a grandmother. She and Dennis ran a successful business together but she lost him through cancer about ten years ago.”

 “Oh,” I said, “that’s sad. I’m a widower myself, so I know what it’s like to lose one’s partner early on. Are you still in touch with her? Is she coping alright?”

 “She copes very well.” said Jenny. “She runs a small hotel called the Royal Oak and her name is Jenny.” She glared at me across the table. “Do you know, I prayed to God every Friday that you would stop being terminally stupid and pluck up the courage to talk about something except bananas. I was only sixteen, and when I finally realised that you weren’t going to come by any more, I cried for a week.”

 I gaped, speechless, at Jenny, who was shaking with silent laughter.

 “I knew who you were as soon as I saw you,” she said, “so tonight’s stay is on the house. And if you’d like to stay again tomorrow night I’ll fix us a Banana Surprise!”