When I was a young girl, hope was just part of our everyday currency. I was always hoping for something or for someone. Typically my hopes were small: hoping to win the sack race on sports day, that my next haircut would turn me into Belinda Carlisle (I mean, it could have), and, of course, the weekly, and much anticipated hope that there would be a slice of lemon meringue pie left at the Oakley Fayre – and with enough whipped cream to dollop on top.
Sometimes hope could let me down though; perhaps I was relying on it too much. Was it the fault of hope that I failed my math’s O level or that I never was first pick for the netball team? Could that have been about ability or talent? But a little part of me always believed it could happen. Hope was sometimes broken rather brutally too, like the time the fella who invited me to the school formal and whom I was dying about wasn’t in the least bit interested in me – I’m not sure we even had a dance. He was simply doing me a kindness but I still remember my broken heart.
I think those simple, girlish hopes are to be treasured, to be wrapped in fine gossamer paper and stored carefully in a box, where they can be taken out occasionally and I can remember again.
As children came along, hope was no longer about the small things, but about the dreams and aspirations of the people who meant the most to me. Hope became the stuff of life itself: hoping they would get home safely, that they would get the part, that the injuries on the pitch weren’t too bad, that they would be ok in this big, scary world.
Nowadays, hope is found in the form of my local deli, a place which is abundant in hopefulness. Firstly, there’s the anxious hope that a table will be free, quickly followed by “will there be any of Ros’s delicious scones left?” Sometimes the local yoga class swoop like gannets and the scones disappear, causing much distress to the rest of us. We are more than customers in this little cosy room. Some of us have become friends as we find both community and connection. Delight when we can join a pal already sitting there enjoying a wee treat. Some come in to read in peace, others to share a crossword across tables, and then there are the people who just need some comfort and a blether. I spot the odd writer, busy sharing words with pals, a mum getting some time away from her brood, a local shop keeper rushing in for a much-needed bite. Sometimes conversations drift towards me – it is hard not to listen in such a small space – and I am allowed to glimpse into the lives of those around me: the health scares and celebratory moments, the great holidays and new babies, the new diets and the wedding plans. Hope runs amok here.
Those that work here are not employees, but family, they serve with kind concern, and a genuine interest in their people. And just as stories are shared, so too is hope. We hope together for many things: better weather, safe travels, less potholes, for more little birds in the gardens, that the shortbread order will arrive soon. I am not sure what Mike or Charlotte intended when they opened their business, maybe it was just a colourfully stocked and busy shop, with high quality produce and a loyal customer base. What they have achieved is so much more. They have created a place where people find hope, where they can unwind from the trials of their day and just “be”. When I go through that door, my soul relaxes. I am in my happy place, and there is no place for anything other than good hope – oh, and a great cuppa!