The bell jangled as I stepped into WILKINS CONF and TOB (that’s Confectioner and Tobacconist). Mr. Wilkins popped up from below the counter wearing his brown shop coat and gentle smile. ‘What will it be today, sir?’ Today being Friday, my usual day. What I wanted was also my usual.
My memory tells me that WILKINS CONF and TOB was one of a dozen shops set back from Oxford Road a little outside of Manchester city centre. The road marked the boundary between Rusholme and Moss Side – two areas that travellers are now advised to avoid at night. Back in 1970, they were seedy but safe enough if you kept your peace. Maybe not quite as safe on match days when 30,000 or more football fans threaded their way through Moss Side streets. Perhaps, looking every inch a destitute student and being a home supporter kept me safe. Whatever, I never had any aggro.
Back to Mr. Wilkins shop. It was a non-descript façade on a street of like buildings. Apparently built in 1908. the shop letters and their background were pale. They were clean, though. They were scrubbed once a week. If you knew this, the front was not so much aged but washed out. Mr. Wilkins kept his shop neat, tidy and clean from front to back. The windows gave little hint of what was inside. Mr. Wilkins reckoned that window displays were too much work, dusting them and swapping them about.
Mr. Wilkins (Bill he once confided) was a ‘medium’ man with a short moustache. Unnoticeable in a crowd except for the ever-present brown coat, maybe. Not so inside his shop. An Aladdin’s cave of confections.
From floor to ceiling, from front to back, were big jars of sweets. Licorice, pear drops, aniseed twists, chocolate flakes, Cadbury drops, genuine liquorice assortments and wine gums – whatever your craving. (For those not familiar with wine gums they vaguely resemble jujubes but are high octane and flavoured. So addictive) To steal a phrase, if he didn’t have it, you didn’t really want it. He had one of those sliding ladders, like in libraries. No matter what you asked for, he knew where it sat. A step or two up the ladder, along he would slide and come back with the desired jar. Back on the ground, the ritual of confirmation that this was indeed what was wanted and how much would you like, sir. He always said ‘sir’. The amount was almost invariably 4 ounces of wine gums. (Sometimes 6 oz as a treat) He would measure it on the scales and slide them into a small white paper bag. He was rarely wrong in his measures. He rang the till, took the proffered money, and returned the needed change. He wished me enjoyment and set about putting the jar back.
I like to think that our relationship was special. He called me Mr. Morris. He knew almost all of my preferred sweets. If it was wine gums that day, and it usually was, he would ask if I wanted hard or soft ones, knowing full well that I would always choose hard. Sometimes, I threw him and had aniseed twists. The shopping day never changed, though.
I bought my one and only pipe from Mr. Wilkins. He gently interrogated me on what I expected from a pipe and why I wanted one in the first place. (Too be cool but I didn’t say that). Skeptical of my motives and talent, he chose an economical clay pipe for me. Shaped like a regular briar, it was made of clay that ripened with use. Taken with Holland Leaf tobacco, the aroma was to die for. I loved that pipe. The day came when, of course, I dropped it and broke the bowl. Sadly, Mr. Morris, it was one of a kind Mr. Wilkins told me. I don’t know who was more distressed – the clumsy oaf or the consummate professional. I drowned my sorrow in wine gums and, I believe, Mr. Wilkins took solace in returning to his Aladdin’s Cave of Confections.
