THE GENERAL STORE, ST BUDEAUX, PLYMOUTH, DEVON: 2 POEMS...

PLYMOUTH, DEVON…

Perkins’ General Store

THEN...

A FEW YEARS AGO...

TWIN COUSINS & ME IN THE YARD... NOTE THE POP BOTTLE CRATES...

There was an aura, certainly an odour,

A concoction, a mixture, quite unique,

Of vegetables, cooked meats, fruit and household goods,

Swathed in confectionery, pipe-smoke and a bakery’s mystique.

There was a clutter, certainly a muddle,

A miscellany, a wonderland, a jumble

Of tins and bottles and packets and cartons,

Yet a warmth and an excitement for a child so humble.

There was a magnetism, certainly a draw,

A curiosity, a novelty, a need

To loiter, to peruse, to marvel, to lend a hand,

To replenish, to restock, as requested and agreed.

There was a pleasure, certainly a pride,

A dependency, an importance, a trust

In scouring, hunting and foraging around

The garage, amongst cardboard and packages and boxes and dust.

There was a satisfaction, certainly a pleasure,

A responsibility, a faith, a credence

In removing the returned and empty pop bottles

And replacing the flavours of customers’ preference.

There was a comfort, certainly a delight,

A moment, a daring, a thrill

In creeping into the shop in the dark, after hours,

To spend pennies, bag sweets and manipulate the till…

There was a chattering and certainly a gossiping,

A friendliness, a familiarity, an affability

About Alice’s smile and sweet, acid tones

And Harold’s gruffness and pipe-smoking incredulity…

Pete Ray 

The corner shop, Edith St, St Budeaux, Plymouth, Devon. The owners were my Uncle Jack’s sister Alice and her husband Harold, both from the Midlands, originally. They adopted a child and relocated to become hoteliers in Torquay, before taking on the shop. My parents and I would generally travel by rail and meet Jack and Auntie Ivy, plus twin sons Dave and Derek (pictured with me in the shop’s yard) at Plymouth Station. We stayed with the Reveleys or the Felwicks, also in Edith St but the shop was like a magnet for me. I couldn’t resist the unique smells, the activity, the customers, the awesome, packed shelves and the need to stack them. I adored taking the empty pop bottles to the yard and replenishing the flavours, feeling important for the first time in my life and out of my father’s shadow, or iron grip. I idolised my twin cousins, everybody did and was expected to. They, I’m sure, hated the attention… Harold delivered shopping in his small van too but the responsibility of being able to buy and place in small, white paper bags, just a few sweets or liquorice, late in the evening, was a memorable and exciting experience. I adored 44 Edith St, now a private house. Trixie, the gruesome, black dog was always around, in the way and a permanent fixture. Harold died first, yet Alice lived on for many years and passed away in her nineties, after retiring to Bere Alston.  

44 Edith Street

A dark hall’s well worn carpet

Led to where the myriad aromas

Emanated

From and with nerves on edge,

I would creep, tentatively,

Clutching pennies, halfpennies, 

Or even perhaps a threepenny piece

Towards the till…

No watching eyes of a father

Hindering my approach, as the wafting aromas

Concentrated

Within that crowded corner store

Inebriated me, captivatingly,

Spending coppers, a sixpence,

Or even perhaps a shilling piece

In the till…

Boiled ham, packets of tea, hardware, pet food,

Corned beef to be sliced, cuts of cheese;

Pungent fruits, vegetables to be weighed

And the mouthwatering allure of fresh bread to tease…

Pete Ray

My uncle Jack’s sister and brother-in-law once ran a corner shop in St Budeaux, Plymouth.

I loved it there.

I would approach the shop from the living quarters almost as if I was nearing an Aladdin’s Cave…