Jumble Sale. A Short Story.

This is a transcript of an audio-recording made by my grandfather some time before I was born and uncovered by a cousin of mine decades later in a loft. Finding these recordings was the first time I heard his voice.

If you right click and save-as you can download ‘Jumble Sale’ for posterity. Pretty sure my Grandad would be buzzing if you did that

It was five minutes to zero hour, our positions were strategically sound. Like
the wagon trains of the American west our stocks were contained within a
circular stockade. Inside the perimeter, the barricades were manned by veterans
of many previous campaigns, yet even they were now showing signs of strain as
the seconds ticked away.

I looked around, and, with feelings of bewilderment and scorn scanned their
tense white faces and eyes which glanced furtively at their watches. It was at
that precise moment that I felt a hand on my shoulder, it was that of an old
campaigner, who had seen action in this very spot on many previous occasions. It
was a hand of confidence and determintation and obviously intended as a morale

“Alreet lad” he asked, “lemme see, this’ll be fust taame for thee weren’t it”.
“Aye, seemed nowt to me” I replied, and nodding in the direction of my
apprehensive mates I enquired “what’s up wi’that lot? They look as if owd Nick
were after ‘em”. He followed my glance and said “Well tha cannot blame ‘em lad,
they’ve been through it all before. It takes a brave mon t’admit he’s feared.
When it’s all over perhaps thee’ll change the’ mind, the’ come at thee like a
hoard of bull elephants!”

“Daren’t forget, they’ve been out there a long time.. every single one of ‘em
strained till the last minute and raring to go. But I have confidence in thee
lad just remember to stand thee ground and show the’ metal, keep thee head and
darent panic. Above all!

“Now, watch out for raiding parties, singular and in groups, they’ll come at
thee from all directions tryin to break through lines and help themselves, if
they get through, all’s lost. Now good luck lad, remember make ‘em pay, make ‘em
pay price in full but whatever tha’ does, keep thee eye on them.” With that, he
continued his inspection, turning to nod in agreement when I exclaimed “I shall
be alreet mister, daren’t worry about me, I’ll ‘andle ‘em”.

The minute hand was now vertical, seven o’clock – zero hour – a shout came from
the door “Are y’all ready lads?”…. “Aye!” came the reply in wavering tones.
“Reet then! Ey’ up, ‘ere they come!” said the doorkeeper as he withdrew the
bolt, and in so doing became the first casualty of the campaign when he was
flattened against the wall by the force of the door, as it crashed open to admit
the bargain hunting housewives of the thirties. The commandos of the jumble

Spearheading the attack were two alarmingly fat women, so alike they might have
been twins. Hair-netted, blue-coated and sweating they carried shopping bags the
size of pillow cases. For a mere fraction of a second they jammed in the doorway
and then, with a blurp like ketchup from a newly opened bottle, they surged into
the room and in their wake, a seething, shoving and pulling crowd of women
spilled over and flooded the entire floor in one swift enveloping movement.

It was a frightening yet fascinating sight as the mass of bag-waving housewives
invaded the stalls. They neither walked nor ran, they floated on the tide.

As soon as I had stopped gaping, I snatched enough breath to yell “Woah woah!
‘owd on a bit, ‘owd on! Tek yer time!” “Steady on there steady on one at a
time!” “You’ll all get served!” “There’s plenty for all lot of yer” “Hey missus,
tek yer knee off t’counter or you’ll ‘ave flamin stall over!”

I had as much success as Knut with the waves.

My raised arms with open palms had, I believed, been misconstrued as a token of
surrender rather than a gesture of “no far and no farther”. They were now upon
me. What did the old campaigner say? “Keep thee ‘ead”? “Daren’t panic”? “Keep
thee eye on ‘em”? I could have done better with a shotgun.

I was surrounded by a crowd of screaming yelling dervishes and yet it wasn’t
they who suddenly startled me, it was the grey haired head of a little old woman
which popped up from nowhere right in front of me. Her nose, on which was
perched a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, just reached the top of the counter.
A bony hand reached out, handed me thre’pence and then like a genie in a
pantomime disappeared from view clutching what was, so I was told later, a pair
of combinations.

I dropped the coppers in a basin. We were in business!

In some way or another, and please don’t ask me how, I coped with a forest of
hands which brandished this part of the jumble sale like a band of Red Indians
with scalps.

Before the minute hand had moved on to 8 o’clock the tide had receeded and the
maurauders gone. All except one belegerant women who was demanding – very
forcibly and indignantly – that I wrap some newspaper around a chamber pot she
had aquired for thre’pence.

“Nay nay, owd on a bit missus, yer gettin red-rosy round it what ya want for
threpney bit ?! A flamin’ hat box tied wi’ blue ribbon?!!” I asked
sarcastically. “I’ll crack thee on top of y’head wi’ it if tha’ doesn’t have
less lip young Fletcher! So be thee sharp about it then we can all go home!” she
threateningly retorted.

I opened my mouth to reply but stopped when I surveyed my insistent and
formidable client. Her stood there, all 16 stone of her, arms akimbo and
grinding teeth she hadn’t got…

No chamber pot ever left a jumble sale more carefully wrapped and securely tied
than the one she carried out that evening.

With her departure, the school room became so quiet it was like a battlefield of
death. The counters so bare, a plague of locusts might have descended upon them.
On the floor, there lay rather forlornley the jumble sale bargains noone wanted.
Not even at a penny a piece. A Stores Almanac for the previous year, a button
hook, a bookmark heavily impregnated with scent, copies of comics; Chips,
Butterfly, Comic Cuts and a card containing three bachelor buttons.

We emptied all our basins and counted the money, eleven pounds three shillings
and five pence, the size of the sum we had realised for the cricket club did
much to asuage our tired minds and aching limbs.

After we had helped the caretaker to re-arrange the desks and forms in readyness
for the following day we drifted to the door. The lights were being turned out
and we were all ready to lock up for the night when the voice of Steve Barnes, a
member of the committee, shouted from within the darkened hall. “Just a minute,
‘owd on just a minute just a minute! I just can’t find me overcoat. Put that
other leet on somebody”.

We all waited rather impatiently “Oh come on Steve” “Hurry up Steve” “We don’t
want be here all neet!” “Hurry up son” “hurry up!”.

Steve went round the room looking on windowsills, under desks and anywhere it
might be found.

“It’s not ‘ere. I can’t understand it I just can’t understand it” he said “I put
ont’back a’this ‘ere chair” and he pointed to the one that was stood near my

With a certain amount of misgiving I said “Er, Steve, were it grey?”


“It wouldn’t be herringbone and double breasted would it?”


“An a velvet collar? An it it were o’er that chair?”


“Steve, just er just sit down a minute would tha owd petal just sit down, tha’ll
never believe me.. bloomin ‘eck mate I’m sorry..”

“I sold it for two bob.”

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