38
Cissie watched Mr Minton guide his old mare up the Renall Street slope. The animal strained under the weight of a heavily laden delivery cart. She saw the greengrocer carefully manoeuvre his vehicle around piles of dung, haphazardly scattered up the length of the road.
‘So fussy,’ she muttered.
Everyone in town knew Mr Minton hated nothing more in the world than ripe manure flicking up from under the wheels and landing on his fruit. That, along with a myriad other small gripes he was willing to pass on to his customers. The apples, pears and plums lay in regimented rows behind his seat, each one delicately wrapped in thin tissue.
Cissie caressed the coins in her palm. She watched with amusement as a car rattled noisily up behind the cart, spoiling Mr Minton’s reverie and spooking th
