Emma stood in the middle of the food shop and surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. Everything looked beautiful, she decided, and it certainly had been well worth getting up at four-thirty that morning to create her special displays for Christmas. Her keen eyes spotted a particle of dust on one of the glass cabinets and she flew over with a cloth. She flicked it off and stood back scanning the cabinets that sparkled in the bright light from the gas fixtures on the walls. Now they were absolutely perfect and nothing marred their pristine glitter. The food inside looked delectable. There were Christmas cakes topped with almonds; round fat plum puddings wrapped in fresh muslin, each one tied with a gay red ribbon; a selection of mince pies of various sizes; and yule logs made of sponge cake, thickly coated with rich dark chocolate and decorated with sprigs of marzipan mistletoe. Emma, assisted by the Long girls, had spent endless hours baking all of this seasonal fare but she knew her industriousness would be rewarded. Every item would be sold, along with the additional supplies stored in large tins in the cool cellar.

Emma smoothed the fresh white cloth on the table in front of the glass food cabinets and regarded her arrangement of foreign imports, delicacies she had purchased for the holiday season and which no other shop in Armley carried. She moved a blue-and-white china crock of crystallized ginger so that the French glazed fruits and the Turkish delight were easily visible, and deftly straightened the boxes of Egyptian dates and figs from Greece. She then hurried behind the counter and returned with a tray of small straw baskets containing marzipan fruits and jolly little pigs, which had arrived yesterday from Germany. The night before, Emma had lined the baskets with strips of crinkled green paper, and tied red bows on the handles. She was heavily stocked, but she anticipated a brisk business in the next few days. This was her third Christmas in the shop, and she was now so well established in the district she had no qualms about sales. She was convinced she would be inundated with customers, both her regulars and new ones.

Emma gave the shop a final glance, her eyes critically seeking out the tiniest imperfection. Not one was visible. The innumerable shelves, running around the walls and soaring up to the ceiling, held tins of ham, pork, and game, great blackand-gold canisters of varied teas, all manner of other staples, and her own bottled fruits, vegetables, and jams. Ranged below were jars of candied peel, glazed cherries, mincemeat, and cranberry and apple sauces for the Christmas turkeys and geese. Three huge barrels, to the right of the side counter, were filled to overflowing with nuts, apples, and oranges for the children’s traditional Christmas stockings, and the faint aroma of fruit wafted sweetly on the air to blend with the mingled scents of the pungent herbs and spices from the Indies, the fragrance of the newly baked confectionery, and the mouth-watering smells of cheeses and cooked meats. Oh, how she loved her shop! Here she was secure, far away from the Fairleys and protected from them. She thought, too, and with enormous pleasure, of the forthcoming sales and her spiralling profits, and her face immediately broke into a smile.

Now Emma crossed to the door, pulled up the blinds, and drew back the bolts in readiness for her first customers. These would undoubtedly be the cooks and housekeepers from the fine mansions, who usually came trooping in early in the day to place their orders. Emma hoped their shopping lists would be longer than ever this week.

As the clock struck eight Emma took up her usual position behind the counter, seating herself on a stool next to the paraffin stove. She bent down and opened a cupboard, taking out the ledger for the haberdashery. In the year she had been renting Joe Lowther’s second shop business had far exceeded her wildest dreams. Laura, whom she had persuaded to manage it for her, had proved to be both capable and efficient, and sales had doubled in the first six months. Emma perused the columns of those beautiful figures and sighed in gratification and relief. Edwina’s future and her own were now assured.

The tinkling of the bell brought Emma’s head up sharply and she put the ledger away and locked the cupboard. She stood up, smiling at the woman entering. It was the housekeeper from one of the fine residences in the elegant and exclusive row known as the Towers. ‘Good morning, Mrs Jackson,’ Emma said. ‘You’re out bright and early.’

‘Morning to you, Mrs Harte. By gum, it’s nippy today. I’m glad to be in your lovely warm shop. I don’t know why the other shopkeepers don’t follow your example and heat up their premises.’ Mrs Jackson shivered as she approached the counter with two large baskets. ‘I thought I’d best get my order in first thing, though I won’t be sending the gardener’s lad for it till later in the week.’ She handed over the baskets and sat down on the stool at the other side of the counter

Emma stowed the baskets away and said, ‘Can I offer you a cup of nice hot tea, Mrs Jackson?’

The woman’s face, white and pinched from the freezing weather, lit up. ‘You can that, luv, if it’s no trouble. It was a right frosty walk down Town Street, I can tell you.’

Emma always kept a huge pot of tea prepared in the cold weather, which she dispensed generously to her clientele. She had discovered that a little hospitality cost nothing and paid enormous dividends. She lifted the pot from the table next to the stove, adjusted the tea cosy and poured the tea. ‘Milk and sugar, isn’t it, Mrs Jackson? And how’s your little Freddy doing? Has he recovered from the measles?’ Emma asked. She made a point of knowing about her customers’ children and husbands, and their aches and pains, and she was always ready to offer a sympathetic ear.

Mrs Jackson accepted the tea, beaming with delight. ‘Well, isn’t that nice of you to remember Freddy. He’ll be up and about for Christmas.’ She opened her handbag and took out a piece of paper. ‘Here’s my list, Mrs Harte. I think it’s complete, but I’ll have a look round, if you don’t mind and-’ Mrs Jackson paused midsentence. The bell was tinkling and the door opened.

Emma’s face broke into a surprised but delighted smile. ‘Blackie!’ she exclaimed, ‘I didn’t expect you until tonight.’

‘Top of the morning to ye, Emma, and to ye, ma’am,’ Blackie responded cheerily, inclining his head in Mrs Jackson’s direction. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing ye, Emma.’

‘No, not at all. Come around the counter and help yourself to some tea, while I finish with Mrs Jackson,’ said Emma, turning her attention to her customer. She looked over the list quickly. ‘Yes, everything seems clear, Mrs Jackson. Still, perhaps you should-’ Emma paused and gave the housekeeper a thoughtful look. ‘I wonder if you should take some extra mince pies and yule logs. You know how the children love them, and it is a long holiday season this year. To be honest with you, I have a large number of orders to meet. I can’t promise there will be much left at the end of the week, if you did decide you wanted more.’

‘Ooh, I hadn’t thought of that. Well, perhaps you’d better increase it. I don’t want the missis upset with me. Make it three more of each and pop in another Christmas cake as well,’ said Mrs Jackson. Her eyes caught the display of imports and she walked over to the table, carrying her mug of tea. ‘By gum, these look real fancy.’ She examined a box of Turkish delight and read out Emma’s carefully lettered card. ‘Exclusive to Harte’s. Supply limited.’

Emma pretended to check the shopping list, watching Mrs Jackson from beneath her lashes. She had chosen those words deliberately last night, knowing they would appeal to her customers’ snobbishness.

Mrs Jackson continued to look over the foreign sweetmeats and then said, ‘I’m not so sure about any of these. They look interesting, but maybe they’re just a bit too fancy for my missis.’