I am standing in the little corner shop on the high street of a village in Yorkshire, watching a conversation between the owner and a skinny teenager. The boy, Steve Clarke, wears a wellworn but tidy coat. He stands beside a glass jar of raspberry jam when the proprietor, Joe Whitaker, walks over.
Morning, Steve, how are you? Joe says.
Thanks, sir, not too bad Steve replies.
Hows your mum? Is she back at work? Joe asks.
No, shes still at home; she hasnt been feeling well Steve says.
Were you thinking of buying some jam? Joe asks.
Im just looking. Mum loves raspberry jam, but we dont have the money to buy it right now.
Then sell me the bracelet you made yourself, Joe suggests.
On Steves wrist is a homemade bracelet woven from colourful telephone cords.
Yes, sir, but it might be a bit small for you, Steve admits.
Ill buy it for my nephew. What do you think? Joe says.
I dont think Ill get enough for the bracelet to cover what I need
Exactly the amount that jar costs. It must have taken you ages to work out those intricate patterns!
Yes, I spent three nights on it
So its a deal. The bracelet is mine, the jam is yours or rather yours and my mothers!
Thank you, youre very kind.
The happy teenager smiles, grabs the jam, slips the bracelet off his wrist and hands it to the shopkeeper.
Have a good day, sir! he says.
Well see you later, Steve! Joe replies.
Behind the counter, Joes wife, Mabel Whitaker, watches the exchange and chuckles. When she notices my surprised look, she explains:
More teenagers will come in today. Their families are too poor to afford decent groceries, but Joe tries to help by buying whatever the boys can make. Once he even asked me to sell him a slingshot, and he paid with a stick of good quality salami
I leave the shop amazed by Joes generosity. I never imagined that the man who always weighs his wares to the exact gram and removes a few grams when the scale tips a little would also lend such a hand to struggling families.
Joe is well known around the neighbourhood; his shop is popular, and whenever he and Mabel are on duty they always ask regular customers how theyre getting on, keep a cheery mood, and strive to serve people as quickly as possible.
Soon twelve years fly by like a river. Joe, now older, passes away. At his funeral many people attend, including three sergeants who stand at the back before approaching his widow, gently kissing her hand and offering their condolences.
Those were the same boys Joe had supported. When I say goodbye to the coffin, I spot a few childrens items inside, among them the very bracelet that taught me about a shopkeepers true, subtle kindness. He understood that the boys would grow into men, and he gave them more than food he gave them the illusion of a fair trade.
