The Patels had given up the lease on The Kandy Kottage sweetshop in June. In July it was taken over by Alfred Cole and his son Kevin. At first glance it was possible to think they were twins, so alike were they in their battered jackets and corduroy trousers. Even their hair was of a similar length but whilst the father's was a steely grey, the son's was a light brown, the colour of mouse fur. Although Kevin was thin and stooped like his father, customers who bothered to look could see he was still in his teens.
They had been there for two months when Greta first walked in and Kevin Cole fell in love with her. Quite what it was about her was difficult to say. Two more dissimilar people would have been hard to imagine, but he fell in love with a bang and the noise echoed through the jungle of sweet jars and bounced off the sherbet lemons.
Greta had no idea of Kevin’s feelings. Each day she stopped in on her trek to school for chocolate that she chose carefully and perhaps a can of Coke or a packet of crisps. She was very punctual and before her arrival Kevin began to jitter and fuss, rearranging Turkish Delights and neatening toffees. Sometimes she came in with a friend or two, sly-eyed girls who’d nudge each other and smirk as they cast glances at him. Greta’s cheeks sometimes flushed at a whispered word or a burst of giggles, but that didn’t bother him, that blush of rose-pink made him love her even more.
Kevin had never wanted to be a shop assistant. The only subject that had held any fascination for him at school was human biology. He’d seen himself as a doctor peering down throats, and examining rashes, his white coat stuffed with important-looking pens. His mother had soon put a stop to that when she’d removed his biology book and refused to give it back until she’d deemed him old enough for such explicit images. He was seventeen years old now, and realised that with his mother in a nursing home, convinced after years of tyranny that she was Boadicea, the book in question was lost forever.
Every morning he shaved carefully combed his dull brown hair and buttoned and re-buttoned his worn checked shirt and every morning his heart would deflate like a balloon when Greta handed over her coins, avoiding the ardent gaze that he’d practised so assiduously. Preoccupied by love, he no longer cared about the workings of the mundane organs of the body, it was only the ailments of the lovesick that interested him now, and there was nothing about that in any biology book he could find.
He filled the long anxious hours between the beginning and end of the school day with blissful dreams and imaginings. In them he and Greta ran hand in hand towards barley-sugar sunsets and fed each other Poppets in shady forest glades. Over time his imagination strayed into less charted territory and his dreams were filled with toffee-coloured legs and soft marshmallow breasts.
It was whilst watching a wildlife documentary one evening that an idea came to Kevin as to how he might win Greta’s heart. It was a programme concerning the mating habits of the Bower Bird
“The Bower bird, has a very unusual method of attracting a mate”, David Attenborough whispered, “just as a young man purchases an expensive sports car and a new suit, so The Bower Bird gathers up the brightest petals, the shiniest fruit, and arranges them in a display to show prospective females what an artist he is”.
Kevin stopped eating his pie and stared at the screen. Like him the male Bower Bird was no beauty but it had used its environment to lure a mate. He couldn’t buy a sportscar, and a suit would do nothing for him but he did have a shop full of sweets which Greta loved. Perhaps if he arranged them artfully enough, she could grow to love him too.
He set to work the following afternoon. In the after lunch lull he poured all the wrapped mixed toffees into the weighing scoop and began to rearrange them in coloured rows inside the jar until after two hours he had filled the container with silvery rainbows.
Over the following weeks he fashioned Birds of Paradise and exotic flowers from jars of bon-bons. The Glacier Mints grew into cold blue icescapes and in no time at all glorious tropical jungles had sprouted from multicoloured crystal fruits. The Taj Mahal that he built from the tiny Tom Thumb drops required enormous patience and dexterity but so real was it that Shah Jehan himself might have been impressed.
Every now and then someone would come in to buy ¼ lb of sweets that he’d already arranged for Greta. He’d shake his head and tell the customer there were weevils in the humbugs and mildew in the Mintoes. Custom began to decline but he didn’t care, it gave him more time and as long as Greta continued to come in early each morning he was happy. His father, due for retirement, was pleased that Kevin was taking an interest in the business at last even though his demonstration of it was rather unorthodox.
When the salesmen came, Kevin inspected the wrappers with the eye of the artist. It was a puzzled rep that left with a box of samples robbed of all but the most dully packaged. This new enthusiasm captivated him even more than the workings of the spine or the spleen. Each week when Greta came in a new structure greeted her. Some of her friends seemed quite impressed even though they laughed and pointed and just once he’d even heard Greta say, “wicked display”. He didn’t know how to tell her he’d done them all himself, he certainly couldn’t admit it was done for love of her.
At night when the last customer had gone he lay on the settee in the back room and stared at his Dad’s painting of The Sacred Heart. He yearned to have his chest opened like Jesus so that Greta could see the thorns that encircled it, piercing it each time she failed to return his anxious smiles. He sat up, clutching his hands to his chest, his eyes shining. He had thought of an idea for his piece de resistance, something that couldn’t fail to impress her, something that would demonstrate his true feelings.
He began at once. It was to be a life size sculpture of Greta’s head made from fruit fondants and fudge. He would mould her cheeks from pink marshmallows and long black liquorice shoelaces would form her hair, and inside the head - his hand shook as he thought of it -he would place two entwined hearts, sculpted from icing and chocolate wrapped in red foil and embellished with both their names. He would colour the icing with drops of his own blood as no artificial colouring had just the right shade to convey the depth of his feelings.
It took him more than a fortnight and he kept it hidden under the counter so that he could work on it as soon as she left the shop whilst her features and colouring were still fresh in his mind.
When he at last completed his work it was hard to believe that it wasn’t Greta, so profound was the likeness. He had caught the vitality and beauty of a sixteen year old whilst somehow making reference to the passing of that same youthfulness. It gave it a pathos that made it more than a simple portrait. He’d modelled a look in her eyes, one that he yearned to see there, a look of adoration and devotion. He would present it to her on Monday morning as she ran her finger along the Milky Ways and lingered over the Mars Bars. On seeing it she couldn’t fail to be moved and then…his imaginings hadn’t gone much beyond that, but when he thought of the curves under Greta’s blouse it was not only his heart that stirred.
On the morning of the big day, young Kevin took a long bath and doused himself with cologne. Standing in his undershorts, his hair still damp on his neck, he ironed all his clothes. With shaking hands, he began to knot his tie, and then he loosened and discarded it. He was seventeen he didn't have to wear a tie. He swallowed and saw his Adam's apple fall and rise, like his hopes. He fiddled with the buttons on his new shirt, had his fingers suddenly grown thick and clumsy? He held them up for a moment in wonder. Such strange, amazing instruments! He smiled a little. He imagined them on Greta’s cheek, saw them slipping to her shoulder, a finger lifting a lock of her lovely hair.
He dropped his arms quickly, turned away from the mirror and opened the door into the quiet shop. The sculpture was as wonderful as it had been in the heat of the night. The warmth of the shop had given it a softness that was almost alive. As the time ticked towards 7.30 his nervousness grew. He packed and unpacked boxes, and washed his hands a dozen times. Over the months the shop had picked up again. The curious came from miles away to marvel at the displays. He’d even had offers from magazines to photograph them but he’d refused, not wanting to see his precious sculptures spread across a centre-fold for people to paw over.
He hoped that Greta would come in before things got too busy. As he was fidgeting and fussing, the bell, constructed now from pear drops, gave a sugary ring and when he looked up there she was just visible through the glass. With a pounding heart, he picked up the sculpture and placed it on the counter. The door opened and to Kevin’s dismay Greta came in with a gang of friends. They swarmed into the shop staring and pointing at the constructions that hung and spun and spread across shelves. Kevin’s stomach began to churn. Oh why couldn’t she have come in on her own today! He must cover the head before they saw it. A sweat broke out on his forehead, as he scrabbled under the counter for a bag to wrap it in, but he was too late. He heard a low whistle.
“Oh my God, Greta, it’s you! Look!” Two of the girls rushed up to the counter and seized the head.
“Leave it” Kevin cried out, “don’t you dare touch that!” But it was no good. Greedy hands reached out and poked the cheeks and tugged at the hair.
“Look I’ve got an ear”,
“Greta have this eyeball, I’m eating the eye ha ha”. Greta, hung back, staring at the head and at Kevin, whose face like hers was drained of colour.
“Let’s go” she cried at the others, “this is sick, this is creepy, please let’s go!” But her friends feasting like a pack of jackals ignored her as they pulled and tore at the head, stuffing their mouths until they bulged. With each tug Greta crumpled up a little more, until she was bent double, her eyes hollow, her body trembling. One girl screeching with laughter, tweaked the nose off the sculpture and Greta let out a cry and pressed her hand to her own nose, which had begun to bleed, spilling a small round drop on her white school blouse.
“O my God, stop” she cried, as her face contorted with pain. Her friends oblivious to her agony, and high on sugar, pulled things off shelves and stuffed their pockets, until they finally crashed out of the door, letting it slam behind them. Kevin ran over to Greta who was lying on the floor, her breathing shallow.
“Oh, what have I done,” he moaned picking up her limp hand, which froze in his grasp. Her eyes were frightened and dark.
“I made it because I love you” he pleaded, “look”. And he hurried back to the counter and returned with the hearts wrapped in foil. Her eyelids fluttered, and she whimpered. He locked the door, pulled down the shutter, and lay down on the floor next to her. Placing the wrapped hearts between them, he clasped her tightly until he felt the soft chocolate and icing melt and blend, sealing them together at last.
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