Orna Mulcahy on people we all know
Behind the curtain, in the damp-smelling back room where the steam iron lives, Marion puts on her rubber gloves before delving into the black plastic sacks. You never know what's in them; even bags from the best houses can have nasty surprises: like the time she found a you-know-what, (used!!) in the pocket of a tuxedo. Then she's often come across dentures, and there's always suspect underwear. Terrible what people give you in the name of charity.
Of course, there are good things, too, and being the Monday manager gives her first dibs on the weekend's haul, but Marion, who trained in book-keeping, is an organiser, not a forager. She leaves that to the other volunteers, who seem to have endless husbands and sons to dress, while she gets on with sorting and steaming and ticketing. It's the time of year for scented candles and polyester ties and other Christmas presents that didn't quite hit the mark. But everything sells eventually, even at Marion's prices, which are sometimes higher than what the items cost brand new. Every old shoe meets an old stocking, she'll say, as the doors open for business, rather later than the time advertised on the door. Well, it does take ages get things sorted when people leave the shelves in such a mess. Anyway, let them wait a little.
Marion takes a dim view of the public, especially the well-dressed ones who try to haggle - no wonder they have money - and the crotchety old women who are always buying bits of Pyrex and bringing them back the next week trying to exchange them for other bits of Pyrex. Then there are the beardy men, shuffling through the books, and the arty girls desperately trying to find a bit of vintage clothing, which is not going to happen in this neighbourhood - a bit of Windsmoor on a good day, yes, but original Biba, no. As for the dealers poking around in the dishes hoping to find a bit of Minton, good luck to them, she thinks, putting a €10 ticket on a pair of Mexican bark pictures and €5 on a teapot with only one chip in the spout.
As usual when Noreen's on the till, there's some kerfuffle. There she is, pecking at the keys as though the thing is going to rear up and bite her, and now, of course, it won't open for her. If only she had read the manual. It's a perfectly simple machine, not brain surgery. Some of the helpers are a liability, but Marion can't take on any more days, what with helping out at the Blood Bank and her adult literacy classes. But this year she is going to put more effort into the windows, and already here are the makings of a winter sun window with this parasol, a swimsuit and a sarong on the mannequin they got from Shaws, and a bucket and spade down here in the corner. Yes, it looks very nice, though the yellow Arklow dinner service is pushing the theme a bit. Still, some loony collector is bound to snap that up at €50.