Harry Hobbs of Harry Hobbs' Hobby Haven in West Hamley High Street has had an up and down life. He likes his hobby shop, he likes his customers- well not all of the slot racers, frankly, and some of the little old ladies get quite stroppy if their tapestry kits are not up to snuff- and it keeps him in Johnnie Walker, which he also likes. But sometimes it all gets a little bit on top of him. Sometimes, after closing the shop and twisting the cap off another bottle, he has sad thoughts of sweet, sweet Helen Hogg, his best girl many years ago. It was never the same after he found her in the Crown and Pinion with that Peco Railway salesman. She said he had been showing her his tender kit, but he knew they didn't need to do that in the public bar. Things were never the same, and he and Helen drifted slowly apart. Now all he had was his hobby shop, and the endless turnover of new parts to deal with. Yesterday's hot motors were today's paperweights, and he'd just lost a packet on a huge stock of super-sticky new tyres that had overnight been declared illegal by the Slot Car Association of Britain. None of his customers appreciated the stress of running a model shop. For all they knew, he was- as they would be- happy as Larry to spend his days surrounded by the coolest kits and the hottest new gadgets, day after blooming day. Sometimes the magic wore off a little, and he'd take down that little Bugatti, part of the very first stock he ever took from the Scalextric salesman back in 1960, and cheer himself up by sniffing the oily gears, caressing the soft blue plastic and pouring himself another gill.
Tomorrow he had to start putting up the Christmas display- that mechanical Santa would probably need fixing again- his movements got a little creakier each year- and set up the little festive railway loop that brought a train loaded with the latest toys rattling past the front window. Then he had to spray everywhere with that fake snow. Stuff he usually looked forward too with a light and happy heart. But not this year. He had just done his accounts. Things didn't look good. He'd sold two pair of braids and a tube of glue since Bonfire Night. What was happening? Why weren't folk coming into his shop any more? What was the blooming point of it all??
Restless, he went for a walk to clear his head, which inevitably meant the Crown and Pinion. It was the only route he knew. A pint might do him good. But there in the snug, sat close by the fire with a glass of mulled wine, was Helen Hogg, alone. His chest tightened, and he walked away into the night. The bells of St Ains were ringing, practicing for Christmas, and he looked up at the crooked spire. A thought weasled its way into his head. The bells stopped, and he watched until the last of the ringers left through the rackety porch. When it was quiet inside the old church, he took a nip from his hip flask and wandered in. A heavy wooden door stood ajar in the corner, and a fresh, cold breeze drew him through and up the twisting stone stairway. Twinkling stars and a sickle moon welcomed him out onto the parapet, and there, from the top of St Ain's Tower, he looked down at West Hamley. Lights twinkled from the places he'd known all his life; the pub, the cottage homes, and West Hamley Slot Car Club, where the racing was going on into the evening. Where did they buy their dratted cars from these days, he thought. Not from me, mad old Harry Hobbs of Harry Hobbs Hobby Haven. What good do I do any more? What does it matter? I might as well never have existed...
He threw a corduroy trousered leg over the parapet, and only one last thought cheered him up. 'Might be nice to fly...'
Tomorrow he had to start putting up the Christmas display- that mechanical Santa would probably need fixing again- his movements got a little creakier each year- and set up the little festive railway loop that brought a train loaded with the latest toys rattling past the front window. Then he had to spray everywhere with that fake snow. Stuff he usually looked forward too with a light and happy heart. But not this year. He had just done his accounts. Things didn't look good. He'd sold two pair of braids and a tube of glue since Bonfire Night. What was happening? Why weren't folk coming into his shop any more? What was the blooming point of it all??
Restless, he went for a walk to clear his head, which inevitably meant the Crown and Pinion. It was the only route he knew. A pint might do him good. But there in the snug, sat close by the fire with a glass of mulled wine, was Helen Hogg, alone. His chest tightened, and he walked away into the night. The bells of St Ains were ringing, practicing for Christmas, and he looked up at the crooked spire. A thought weasled its way into his head. The bells stopped, and he watched until the last of the ringers left through the rackety porch. When it was quiet inside the old church, he took a nip from his hip flask and wandered in. A heavy wooden door stood ajar in the corner, and a fresh, cold breeze drew him through and up the twisting stone stairway. Twinkling stars and a sickle moon welcomed him out onto the parapet, and there, from the top of St Ain's Tower, he looked down at West Hamley. Lights twinkled from the places he'd known all his life; the pub, the cottage homes, and West Hamley Slot Car Club, where the racing was going on into the evening. Where did they buy their dratted cars from these days, he thought. Not from me, mad old Harry Hobbs of Harry Hobbs Hobby Haven. What good do I do any more? What does it matter? I might as well never have existed...
He threw a corduroy trousered leg over the parapet, and only one last thought cheered him up. 'Might be nice to fly...'
