The Doom Of The Hollow - Extra content
The Jumble - Friday 13th November, 5 Days Before Doomsday
Betty Snodbury stood in the rear vestibule of St James Church holding a clipboard and pen. She was making an inventory of all of the jumble sale donations, or at least what was in each black bin bag. The operation was slick, or as slick as it could be with three pensioners and Betty’s grandson. It was very simple, Freda and Jean opened up each bag, shouted its contents to Betty who wrote them down on her clipboard, before letting her grandson carry it out to his white van. The loose items, the donations that were too big or too awkward a shape to fit into a bin bag, had already been logged and placed onto the van. With Betty’s grandson shifting it all on his own, he had trouble with the dining table and set of six chairs, the Wurlitzer and a stuffed dog, which would not ordinarily be a problem, but the expressionless Great Dane, had proved to be heavier and more cumbersome than he had envisaged.
“A bag of, oh dear, God,” Freda coughed as the smell from the bag’s contents hit her nostrils.
“What is it, Freda?” asked Betty.
“This one smells like my attic.”
“Clothes is it?”
“Yes, clothes, no hangers.”
Betty made a note while Freda dragged the bag nearer to the back door of the church. Betty’s grandson arrived at the door.
“That one next,” said Betty pointing at the bag Freda had just opened.
Betty’s grandson leaned over and put his hands on his knees, “give me a minute, gran.”
“I thought you were fit, my lad.”
“I am, there’s a lot of stuff here and I’ve loaded the van two thirds full already.”
Betty looked over the rim of her thick brown rimmed glasses. “Did you know, Sunshine, that Mrs Boothroyd over in Harper Street, the one with callipers on both legs, still takes her dog out three times a day? Now that’s commitment, so get cracking.” She made a waving motion with her pen and watched her grandson pick up Freda’s bin sack.
“Pots and pans,” said Jean.
Betty looked over towards Jean, “Eh?”
“Pots and pans in this one, I could do with another milk pan myself.”
Betty nodded, “Take it Jean.”
Jean picked out a small pan from the bag and quickly inspected it. “Oh no, I’m not having this, it’s not been washed.”
“The dirty beggars,” said Freda.
Betty looked at the remaining ten bags, they were nearly done. “What’s in that bag next to you, Freda love?”
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