Mr. Robinson
A "Young Jimmy Bakewell" story
When he had first started his paper-round his parents had told him that he now had to buy his own clothes. This was no surprise. He was third in a line of five boys and had seen his two older brothers go through the same process. By the time he was fifteen he had two paper-rounds as well as a grocery-round at Mr. Robertson’s in Thorpe Bay. The paper-rounds were dead easy, but the grocery-round had thrust him into the world of adult wage earning.
On the first day, he had been handed a white overall, been given a tour of the premises, and also a full reading of the house rules. Jim would have felt intimidated if it were not for Jean and the three other ladies working the counters. Jean must have been fifty at the time, married with two kids, but young Jimmy Bakewell quite fancied her. He was at that age, you know.
‘Don’t worry, love. He isn’t that bad. He’s really a little softy. He's like a cuddly teddy bear,’ Jean told him.
There was also one other 'grocery boy' working there part time. He was called Nick, and at the time he was a fellow pupil at Caulfield School, and a close friend. Jimmy lived in a relatively poor council-house estate in Shoeburyness, while Nick lived in a private home in the posh Thorpe Bay area. Jim's dad was unemployed. Nick's dad was a banker who commuted to London each day on the Fenchurch Street line, with a Financial Times tucked under his arm. But none of that mattered to them. They spent a lot of time together.
Jean was right about Mr. Robertson being soft, but Jimmy was taking no chances with him. This was his first 'real' job.
Apparently Grant, for that was his first name, had recently inherited the shop from his late brother, and didn’t know too much about the grocery trade, nor retail in general. He had decided to move from London, along the Thames coast some forty miles, and give 'it a go'. He was about five foot eight, with a shock of white hair, and reminded Jimmy of his mum's father; both being the spit of Spencer Tracy.
The shop could have come straight out of a Dickens novel. It was on the corner of Chelsea Avenue and Eastern Esplanade, facing the Thames estuary, coincidentally one street over from where his Gran and Grandad had settled in Chester Avenue. It was painted green with the letters “Robertson’s Grocers” written in ornate, cream text above large inviting windows. Below the windows, from ground to knee-height, were white marble tiles. Shopping at Robertson’s was a real adventure. This was not a supermarket; no self-service here; no wandering aimlessly up-and-down long aisles searching for an assistant. Here, immediately upon entering the store, you would be greeted by white-coated service staff behind two long, green marble-topped counters, who would cut your ham off-the-bone and reach up to fetch your cornflakes from a high shelf on the back wall - or maybe wheel a tall ladder to get to more obscure items at the very top. Customers would love it when they were served by old Mr. Robertson himself.
This was a place where women came to meet friends and to catch-up on the latest events. And, of course, to buy the best cheese in town. At the back of the shop, just before the door to the back yard, were two banisters astride a wooden staircase that lead down to the cellar. Jim spent quite a number of hours each day down there fetching items for the counter staff. And sometimes he would just sit for a while on the stool and take it all in. It was like a deep mysterious subterranean cavern. There was no air conditioning down there. The cold was natural – maybe it was carved out of the bedrock that formed the building's foundation. He could see his breath rising like steam from his mouth. Sometimes he would wonder down the cheese aisle and smell each huge round in turn; some were four feet or more in diameter. This was a time when cheeses was wrapped in real cheesecloth.
And as he sat he could hear the muffled thumping of people walking upstairs and the low mumble of their voices as they passed the time of day.
Jim could not remember exactly where he was when JFK was shot. But he would always remember that he was climbing up the cellar stairs with a bag of basmati rice when his colleague Nick walked in and pronounced that Bobby Kennedy had been shot. That evening he watched the footage on TV at home. They played it over and over. And each time he heard a different voice in the chaos. Of course, he didn’t really appreciate the significance, but he knew he was watching something that he would eventually read in history books.
Later that year, in the heart of winter it was extremely cold and there was a think layer of snow on the ground. One Saturday he had turned up for work on time as he always did. Nick had not shown, so there was now twice as much for Jim to do. He was never allowed to pack the boxes, that was Jean’s job. Now the two of them were together checking the contents of each box. When they were done, Mr. Robertson helped him stack the boxes on the front of the delivery bike. They looked at each other, both of them knew it was overloaded. Mr. Robertson was concerned and suggested that they use his car instead, but Jim couldn’t let him down. More importantly, he didn’t know if he would get paid if they used the car.
He went on his way.
That particular delivery round turned out not to be a highlight in his career. Just before he got to his first stop on Shaftesbury Avenue, the front wheel slid-out from under him, and he found himself face down on the road spitting lumps of snowy slush from his mouth.
He got back on his feet, dazed and confused, and fearful of what Mr. Robertson would say. But fear can easily negate rational thinking, and working through a corrective action. In addition, he had not quite figured out how the world worked. He daren’t go back to the shop without finishing the job, so, after he had dusted himself off, he decided that his best course of action would be to reassemble the contents of each box as fast as he could before anyone saw him. Luckily it was a quiet street, and he did not see a soul.
It would have been quicker to have emptied the boxes and start again, but when you are in a fraught struggle for your job, the simplest things elude you. It was a mess, and so difficult to put back together that he decided the job would be considered "done" if he could find all of the grocery items and at least place each of them into one of the boxes - regardless of the original customer orders. Things got a little sticky when he had to pull a dozen eggs, one by one, out of a private hedgerow. They were not all 'intact'.
Mr. Robertson was waiting for him with a stern face when he returned after finishing his round. How did he ever think that he would get away with it? Two loyal customers had placed irate calls to the store, asking what in hell was going on.
A few years later, Mr. Robertson’s shop was bought and turned into a scuba diving shop. I don’t think that the incident on the ice was the root cause of the shop’s demise, but it couldn’t have helped!
Mr. Robertson probably wasn't cut out to run a grocery store.
On the first day, he had been handed a white overall, been given a tour of the premises, and also a full reading of the house rules. Jim would have felt intimidated if it were not for Jean and the three other ladies working the counters. Jean must have been fifty at the time, married with two kids, but young Jimmy Bakewell quite fancied her. He was at that age, you know.
‘Don’t worry, love. He isn’t that bad. He’s really a little softy. He's like a cuddly teddy bear,’ Jean told him.
There was also one other 'grocery boy' working there part time. He was called Nick, and at the time he was a fellow pupil at Caulfield School, and a close friend. Jimmy lived in a relatively poor council-house estate in Shoeburyness, while Nick lived in a private home in the posh Thorpe Bay area. Jim's dad was unemployed. Nick's dad was a banker who commuted to London each day on the Fenchurch Street line, with a Financial Times tucked under his arm. But none of that mattered to them. They spent a lot of time together.
Jean was right about Mr. Robertson being soft, but Jimmy was taking no chances with him. This was his first 'real' job.
Apparently Grant, for that was his first name, had recently inherited the shop from his late brother, and didn’t know too much about the grocery trade, nor retail in general. He had decided to move from London, along the Thames coast some forty miles, and give 'it a go'. He was about five foot eight, with a shock of white hair, and reminded Jimmy of his mum's father; both being the spit of Spencer Tracy.
The shop could have come straight out of a Dickens novel. It was on the corner of Chelsea Avenue and Eastern Esplanade, facing the Thames estuary, coincidentally one street over from where his Gran and Grandad had settled in Chester Avenue. It was painted green with the letters “Robertson’s Grocers” written in ornate, cream text above large inviting windows. Below the windows, from ground to knee-height, were white marble tiles. Shopping at Robertson’s was a real adventure. This was not a supermarket; no self-service here; no wandering aimlessly up-and-down long aisles searching for an assistant. Here, immediately upon entering the store, you would be greeted by white-coated service staff behind two long, green marble-topped counters, who would cut your ham off-the-bone and reach up to fetch your cornflakes from a high shelf on the back wall - or maybe wheel a tall ladder to get to more obscure items at the very top. Customers would love it when they were served by old Mr. Robertson himself.
This was a place where women came to meet friends and to catch-up on the latest events. And, of course, to buy the best cheese in town. At the back of the shop, just before the door to the back yard, were two banisters astride a wooden staircase that lead down to the cellar. Jim spent quite a number of hours each day down there fetching items for the counter staff. And sometimes he would just sit for a while on the stool and take it all in. It was like a deep mysterious subterranean cavern. There was no air conditioning down there. The cold was natural – maybe it was carved out of the bedrock that formed the building's foundation. He could see his breath rising like steam from his mouth. Sometimes he would wonder down the cheese aisle and smell each huge round in turn; some were four feet or more in diameter. This was a time when cheeses was wrapped in real cheesecloth.
And as he sat he could hear the muffled thumping of people walking upstairs and the low mumble of their voices as they passed the time of day.
Jim could not remember exactly where he was when JFK was shot. But he would always remember that he was climbing up the cellar stairs with a bag of basmati rice when his colleague Nick walked in and pronounced that Bobby Kennedy had been shot. That evening he watched the footage on TV at home. They played it over and over. And each time he heard a different voice in the chaos. Of course, he didn’t really appreciate the significance, but he knew he was watching something that he would eventually read in history books.
Later that year, in the heart of winter it was extremely cold and there was a think layer of snow on the ground. One Saturday he had turned up for work on time as he always did. Nick had not shown, so there was now twice as much for Jim to do. He was never allowed to pack the boxes, that was Jean’s job. Now the two of them were together checking the contents of each box. When they were done, Mr. Robertson helped him stack the boxes on the front of the delivery bike. They looked at each other, both of them knew it was overloaded. Mr. Robertson was concerned and suggested that they use his car instead, but Jim couldn’t let him down. More importantly, he didn’t know if he would get paid if they used the car.
He went on his way.
That particular delivery round turned out not to be a highlight in his career. Just before he got to his first stop on Shaftesbury Avenue, the front wheel slid-out from under him, and he found himself face down on the road spitting lumps of snowy slush from his mouth.
He got back on his feet, dazed and confused, and fearful of what Mr. Robertson would say. But fear can easily negate rational thinking, and working through a corrective action. In addition, he had not quite figured out how the world worked. He daren’t go back to the shop without finishing the job, so, after he had dusted himself off, he decided that his best course of action would be to reassemble the contents of each box as fast as he could before anyone saw him. Luckily it was a quiet street, and he did not see a soul.
It would have been quicker to have emptied the boxes and start again, but when you are in a fraught struggle for your job, the simplest things elude you. It was a mess, and so difficult to put back together that he decided the job would be considered "done" if he could find all of the grocery items and at least place each of them into one of the boxes - regardless of the original customer orders. Things got a little sticky when he had to pull a dozen eggs, one by one, out of a private hedgerow. They were not all 'intact'.
Mr. Robertson was waiting for him with a stern face when he returned after finishing his round. How did he ever think that he would get away with it? Two loyal customers had placed irate calls to the store, asking what in hell was going on.
A few years later, Mr. Robertson’s shop was bought and turned into a scuba diving shop. I don’t think that the incident on the ice was the root cause of the shop’s demise, but it couldn’t have helped!
Mr. Robertson probably wasn't cut out to run a grocery store.
Unless otherwise stated