The Grocers’ Son

Standing in the doorway of the shop, I touched the brim of my hat so many times that I eventually took it off, holding it in one hand while shaking hands with people I knew, which was everyone, some of whom I hadn’t seen in years. “You could always pop in and choose your groceries, Clyde,” Eileen said to me, while serving a friend of my mother who I’d last seen when I first came home from the war. “Harley can still deliver, you know. And, as you always seem to be able to call by the greengrocer every morning …”

I know I reddened. I wasn’t going to use the excuse that my morning visits, albeit quick ones, were to chat with Marco, a third-generation Italian whose fluency was minimal, but whose comprehension was good. It gave me a chance to keep my mind and mouth coordinated on a daily basis in a language I adored.

“Harley said you had something for me?” I said, after Eileen had finished serving her customer, who kissed my cheek as she left and told me not to be such a stranger.

“Out back, Clyde. I’ve brought it down for you.”

I followed her out to the storeroom at the back of the shop, noting the telephone on the wall of the corridor that in the past Harley had used to call me, to ask whether I was up for a quick visit—yes, another euphemism. It made me smile. He’d been so shy in those days, especially compared to the confident, fun-filled young man he’d become.

“I should have given this to you in your office. I’m sorry, Clyde, but at the last minute I froze a bit.” She handed me the leather-bound book she’d placed on my desk earlier this morning. “It’s my record of everything to do with my brother. I wrote most of it from memory after he was executed, then filled it up afterward with press cuttings and notes that I made. I thought there might be something in there that could be of use. You probably think I’m—”

“No, Eileen, this is wonderful. Thank you very much indeed,” I said. “I wish everyone kept a record about loved ones, especially if something’s happened to them. There’s often just a word, or a phrase, or even something that seems unconnected that’s given me some new insight—something to go on, or somewhere to look I that hadn’t occurred to me beforehand.”

I was aware that she was still holding on to it. “Please look after it, Clyde.”

“I tell you what I’ll do, with your permission of course. Once I’ve had a good look through it, I’ll photograph every page and give it back to you. No one will see your personal thoughts, but it will allow me to spend time concentrating on your journal after it’s safely back in your hands.”

“Thank you, Clyde. You’re such a good man,” she said.

“I don’t know about that, Eileen …”

“You lied through your teeth to me about Harley, and I know you did it for him, probably in an effort to save me from what you thought might be an awkward conversation with him.” I blushed so furiously that my face ran hot. “A mother knows, you see. Especially a mother whose brother was similarly inclined. You said Craig Whitcombe could be trusted?”

“He’s one of the few people I’d trust with my life, and that’s God’s truth.”

She laughed. “I know you’re a non-believer, Clyde. So few of you men who came back from the Great War and this last one truly had God in their hearts. But I believe you.”

“I promise you I’ll look out for Harley too, Eileen. I care about him too, you know.”

“Yes, Clyde. I know,” she said, finally releasing her journal into my hands. “That’s why I never said anything about your end-of-day deliveries all these years.”