The Victorian Shopkeeper

The streets were boisterous that day. The Saturday crowds always brought in a ruckus, and I longed to be part of it. What a feeling it would be to wonder about the shops, change jingling in my pocket, like the more fortunate lads my age, fancying what a nice hat I had on and how I would like another. But no, there I was, stuck inside my tiny shop, hardly a soul in it, surrounded by porcelain dolls staring into empty space, fairy sized tea sets, and corduroy clothed bears. I leaned across my counter, sighing, fixing the circus figurines a little boy had knocked out of place earlier. The lion tamer was hitting the ring leader with his whip instead of the lions.

Through the front window, I saw a little girl, fair haired with sparkling green eyes, looking rather longingly up at one of the dolls. It was one I was questioned about often, but never able to sell. It had fair hair and dazzling green eyes, like the little girl, and a pink bonnet and dress. The quality of the doll was astounding, perhaps too good for a doll. It was imported from France, where the dress had been tailored by a well-known designer, who had commissioned the doll to be “worthy” of his work.

A tall man picked the girl up onto his shoulder and charged through the door. “How much for the one with the pink bonnet in the window?”

“No, Papa,” the girl said softly, “I don’t need it. I just said it was rather pretty. That’s all.”

“Nonsense!” her father said, “She looks just like you! You deserve pretty things, my dear.”

I cleared my throat. “Two pounds, sir.”

“For a doll?” the man said.

“Imported from France, sir, by the finest designers. It was specially--”

“For a doll.” The man repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

The little girl’s face was red. “Really, Papa, I don’t need it.”

“You’re last one broke didn't it?” He smiled, putting her down. “It was quite old. Let me get you a new one.”

He looked back at me. “Please, son, I can’t afford that. Who really can, for a toy? I've got one pound. I’m lucky to have that at all.”

That doll had been sitting in the shop window for months, and each time someone asked about it, they scoffed at the price. Though it was beautiful, it was just a toy. My father hated when I gave into people’s sob stories, but that wasn't what this man was doing. He was offering me what he had, not asking for pity. My father would probably scold me for it later, saying the right buyer would come eventually, but I figured it was making us no money sitting in the window.

“Fine. One pound.”

The little girl smile and tugged her father’s coat to be picked up. Once she was eye level with me, she said, “Oh, thank you, sir. This is the best gift.”

Her father handed over the money, and I got the doll out of the window and handed it to the little girl. She skipped down the street, holding her father’s hand and clutching the doll tightly.