by Sarah Swatridge
One Dropped Glove
BETSY FRASER breathed in the delicious smell of freshly baked biscuits and thought how lucky she was to work in her father’s bakery.
Not that she was often allowed to taste any of the biscuits he produced! They were strictly for the customers.
She caught sight of a handsome young man gazing at the biscuits and cakes in the shop window.
He seemed to be taking an age to make up his mind. If he spent much longer they’d have even fewer to offer him. Could it be they offered too much choice?
Some customers came in who knew exactly what they wanted. Betsy served them with her cheery smile and sent them on their way.
She was disappointed to see that the handsome man had gone. Clearly nothing had tempted him or perhaps he just couldn’t make up his mind.
Betsy’s father kept her busy. If she wasn’t serving a customer she’d be sweeping the floor or arranging the window display. There was never much time to think.
Not that, with the noise from the street and the voices in the back of the shop, she’d be able to concentrate on anything.
Despite being a girl, Betsy did daydream about how she would run things if she were in charge of a bakery such as Fraser’s.
She took mental notes of what sold well and what didn’t. She thought long and hard about why, on some days, the takings were especially good whilst on others it had hardly been worth opening up.
The weather had a great deal to do with it. On dry, bright days they had more customers – unless it was unseasonably hot. Then they had fewer as customers seemed to lose their appetites.
It always surprised Betsy that on cold, crisp days such as they often had in November, the sale of sweet biscuits was good. They would often sell out and would close the shop early.
That was just as well because the nights drew in and few folk were out after dark.
Once it was dark outside and the majority of stock had sold, Betsy swept the floor and locked up the front of the shop.
There wasn’t so much street noise at this time of day but she could still hear her father and stepmother squabbling over something.
She tried to find a few little jobs to do in the shop rather than get involved in their quarrel.
Often it would be over the tiniest of things, a mere misunderstanding.
At other times her father would be furious with her stepmother’s laziness, or she would be angry at his unrelenting demands fo
