Mrs Prim: Memoirs of a Shop Assistant

It’s Wednesday night, 9.30pm at Promise House (the community house in Coventry where I live). Actually, it’s been a really hot day and we’re all winding down; the guys have been out evangelising on the Foleshill Road and have come back rather excited because of their encounters and the praying they’ve done on the streets. Then the conversation turns: one of them in about to clock in on his nightshift and he’s dreading it as a guy he’s working with has got that sort of attitude that would wind any of us up; he wants to be the boss when, well, he just isn’t. We all know that type - superior tone, condescending remarks – and he’s only a workmate!

 “I just don’t know what to do. What shall I do?” the conversation runs.

So I tell him my story. I used to be a shop assistant in a busy health food shop in Leicester. We had all sorts come in, old, young, wealthy and not so wealthy - anyone seeking a healthier alternative.
 
Mrs Prim (not her real name) used to come in to buy her expensive,

not-so-healthy cheeses.  I couldn’t like her and her approach gave me that sinking glad-when-you’ve-gone sort of feeling which leads to a show of forced politeness.  She was a sophisticated lady, a member of that class bracket when you are used to telling people what to do. I could happily spend the time of day with many of our customers, chatting over the counter about the ordinary things of life – but not her. Her presence made me feel uncomfortable. Perhaps she reminded me of an old schoolteacher. And I can never forget those startlingly-red high-heels ...

This afternoon was no exception. Mrs Prim was approaching the cheese counter where I stood. Then, it happened, one of those moments, flashes of revelation that comes in a moment and shatter all hitherto preconceptions. With my inner eye, I saw Mrs Prim, the child of a different era, a young girl, well-dressed, well bought-up and well-to-do but conspicuously surrounded by – the absence of friends, alone, isolated, lonely because of her aloof attitude. That’s how she had always been. My heart gasped inwardly and the thaw was instantaneous. I rose in myself to greet and serve her. I looked at her with different eyes. I wanted to serve her. I wanted to somehow reach out and touch the unloved bit, the un-befriended part.

I saw her a few more times. Each time I had the same response. In a flash, an instance, something had happened. She had not changed; I had. I had been given a gift; I think it is called compassion. 

My night-shift friend, I hope my story helps. Insight, revelation that comes, to the inner heart and eye, can’t be forced but sometimes it just arrives – a little miracle.

Mrs Prim, you were the means of turning my water into wine, the very best vintage, on that otherwise mundane and long-forgotten afternoon. I wanted, yes yearned, to serve you!