Page 12 of The Christmas Fayre on Holly Field

Without giving herself a chance to change her mind, Harriet pushed the door open and stepped inside.

‘Hello, Mrs Moxley, can I have a look at that casserole dish in the window, please?’

‘The cream enamel pot with a lid?’

‘That’s the one. Is it really only one pound fifty?’

‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’

Harriet followed Mrs Moxley’s purple-haired progress over to the window and watched as the pensioner carefully lifted it off the table.

‘I didn’t know you worked here,’ Harriet said, as the woman made her way back to the counter. ‘I thought you helped out in Sero?’ Sero was the recently opened zero-waste shop that was run as a co-operative by many of the villagers. Harriet wished she could afford to buy a share, but as well as not having the money, she didn’t have the time to help run it.

‘Here you go, luvvie.’ Mrs Moxley put the casserole dish down in front of Harriet. ‘I’ve been volunteering for a while now. We don’t see you in here much.’

Harriet heard the subtext: if she came into the charity shop more often then she would know who worked there and who didn’t.

‘Your dad is a regular,’ Mrs Moxley added.

‘He is?’ How come Harriet didn’t know that?

‘Oh aye, whenever he’s in Foxmore to pick up your kiddies, he pops in.’

‘Sara and Bobby, too?’ Harriet couldn’t imagine Sara being happy with mooching around a charity shop.

‘No, he doesn’t bring them with him. He comes in before he picks them up.’

‘What does he buy?’ Harriet asked curiously, the enamel pot lying forgotten on the counter.

‘Records. Old 78s mostly. He’s always on the lookout. If we get any in, and that’s not often, mind you, I put them to one side for him. What do you think?’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Not about that – about the pot. You can use it on the hob or put it in the oven. When I was a girl, my mam used to have loads of this stuff, from a bread bin to a roasting tin.’

Harriet picked up the pot and turned it over in her hands. ‘It’s in good condition.’

‘We don’t sell rubbish in here. Mind you, in my day people didn’t get rid of stuff the way they do now. These days they throw it out as soon as look at it. My mam would turn in her grave at the things people get rid of. She lived through the war, you know.’

Harriet smiled absently. She was still checking out the pot, wondering how many casseroles had been prepared in it and whether it had been washed thoroughly each time.

Of course it must have, she told herself. It certainly looked clean enough.

She checked the sticker again: one pound fifty. A bargain.

‘I’ll take it,’ she said, reaching into her bag for her purse and a tote to put her new purchase in.

‘Take my advice and don’t scrub it with a scouring pad if you get burnt food on it. Leave it to soak overnight in warm water and add a denture tablet. It’ll be as good as new in the morning.’

‘Thanks for the tip,’ Harriet said, handing over some coins.

Pleased with her purchase and thinking how retro the pot was, she began to walk out of the shop when the knitted hat caught her eye again and temptation tugged at her.

This hat was much nicer than the one she had, which was starting to look a bit shabby and had lost some of its stretchiness. Maybe she could treat herself to a new one, considering she had saved a few pounds by buying a second-hand casserole dish?

She was about to ask if she could try it on, when common sense kicked in: she had a bill to pay. Besides, remembering what Owen had said about not buying anything you don’t need, she realised that she had been trying to justify the purchase of a new hat (new to her, anyway) simply because she wanted it. Only a few minutes ago she had been telling herself she had a perfectly good hat at home.

Feeling inordinately pleased, both with finding a bargain and for resisting temptation, Harriet hurried off to work.

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