If I had a few pennies to spare I’d be at Herbies (the herbalist’s shop) hoping to find others waiting to be served, giving me time to observe, take in and soak up all the wonderful things to be seen, heard, smelled or tasted.
The wall behind the herbalist was filled with square black boxes, all with small brass handles and labels. These held a mixture of ingredients which he dipped into, placing whatever he selected onto a small piece of clean white paper held in his left hand. The paper was taken to a pair of scales on the counter, weighed and sometimes added to by pinches of this or that from other receptacles. When all was ready, the paper was miraculously twirled into a triangular cone, nipped at the bottom and folded at the top as neatly as you like. A few pennies paid for the remedy along with some last words of smiled advice or instructions as the satisfied customer left the shop.
To his left were shelves of glass bottles. Largest and heaviest at the bottom, small and coloured at the top. To his right around the shop window, were more shelves with neat white cardboard boxes, square, round or oblong some containing pills or potions all ready made up. Sometimes he’d move into his back room for an ingredient. I did wish he wouldn’t do that. It always had me wondering what it was like back there.
In one corner was a small sink, with shelves of sparkling glass cups above it. In winter I’d go in there with a mate or even by myself for a hot drink. There was a choice of bovril, oxo, black currant, raspberry leaf tea, blackberry and sasparella and others which I’ve forgotten. Black currant was my favourite and it was in this shop where I first tasted it. You could feel it doing you good before you’d even put the glass to your lips. It was never quite the same when I drank it elsewhere.
Just to see some of the customers was worth the cost of going for a hot drink. You could linger longer legitimately then. And I did. Often. Women were the most interesting. Large and plumply round inside layers of clothing, with faces ranging from small, neat and perky, to some large and pugnacious, sadly in need of a lift or rearranging. As far as I could judge from my close observation of my two older sisters, make-up for most of these women consisted of a light brushing of scented face powder and a touch of sticky lip. The hair could be in billows of curls on or off the forehead, tucked in behind hair-nets or covered in curlers, and it was not uncommon for some to step outdoors with their hair tied in strips of cloth.
Their feet in assorted sizes surprised me for their ability to carry so much super-structure. The wooden clog with leather uppers was worn a great deal as were boots, which could have been hubbies cast offs. Some, which I could only describe as flatties, probably started off as small ladies size. These were re-shaped to ladies large and above within a couple of days use. My Dad reckoned they gave the wearer a good firm understanding. Some women insisted on cramming their feet into shoes one size too small. They looked very uncomfortable, especially when excess flesh overlapped the sides. Untidy too. It was the days before baths in every home and the few who wore gumboots must have suffered. Everyone else did. I’ve seen feet emerge slowly from some of them as if enjoying the return of circulation gave as they sat on the long stools Herbie had up along one side of the shop. Ever since I saw them, I’ve had the utmost admiration and sympathy for sales people in shoe shops.
A pity it’s gone, you’d have liked Herbies.
Dennis Crompton © 1999
The writings of a Lancashire lad 