Sweet Charity

working in a charity shop than in all the years of running motels and guesthouses. She had never been snobbish about selling – or buying –
second-hand goods. In fact, when she moved from Ireland to Australia as a twenty-year-old, nearly sixty years ago now, charity shops had been her lifeline. Shortly after arriving she had found
herself on her own with a small son. She had dressed herself and her son, and in later years her three granddaughters, too, in second-hand clothing.
    She liked to make up a story for each item in the shop. She imagined the goods talking to each other after she had closed up for the night. ‘I used to belong to a lady who breeds
horses,’ a tweed jacket would say. ‘Did you? I came out from Italy when my owner emigrated ten years ago,’ a CD of opera songs would answer. ‘I’m from overseas
too,’ a French scarf would pipe up from the scarf rack.
    Lola had just finished polishing the wooden counter-top when the door opened. A rush of hot air came in with the new arrival. Late November in South Australia was like living in an oven, Lola
thought. The heat still astounded her.
    She smiled a welcome at the woman, assessing her quickly. Fifty-ish. A faded, soft prettiness but some sadness in the face. A weariness. Lola didn’t know her. She was either a new arrival
to the area or a visitor. People often dropped their clothes in to charity shops far from their own homes. ‘Good afternoon. Can I help you?’
    ‘Good afternoon.’ The woman hesitated, then moved closer. ‘I was wanting to donate some clothes if I could.’
    ‘How kind of you. We’re always grateful to receive whatever people can give.’ She waited. The woman was carrying a suit bag but seemed reluctant to pass it over. ‘Would
you like me to take that?’
    ‘Oh. Yes. Thank you.’ She still didn’t move.
    Lola looked closer. The woman was more than tired. Her eyes were strained. Red-rimmed too. Lola made a show of looking at her watch. ‘I was just about to make myself a cup of tea. Nothing
more cooling in this hot weather. Could I make you one while I’m there? I’m sure you don’t want to be going out in that heat again yet.’
    ‘Well, thank you, but . . . are you sure?’
    ‘Couldn’t be surer. I’m Lola Quinlan, by the way.’
    ‘Oh. Hello, Lola. I’m Patricia. Patricia Nolan.’
    Lola moved a chair to the side of the counter, out of sight of any passers-by. ‘Now, you settle yourself there for a moment and I’ll be right back.’
    She prepared the tray quickly. Not for her grubby coffee mugs and tea bags. In her first week as a volunteer at the charity shop she had brought in a nice set of china tea cups and saucers, a
proper kettle and an even nicer tea pot. ‘Irish Breakfast tea, I thought,’ she called over. ‘I know it’s much later than breakfast, but it’s such a reviving flavour, I
find.’
    ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
    Lola added a little jug of milk, slices of lemon, sugar cubes and the dainty biscuits Katie from the bakers across the road had dropped in that morning. She placed the tray gently on the
counter, then moved to the door and turned the sign so it read Back shortly.
    Patricia looked concerned. ‘Oh, you don’t have to close on my account.’
    ‘It’s union rules. A little break now and again and I find I’m much more inclined to do the hard selling when I’m called upon.’
    ‘Is that an Irish accent?’
    ‘It is indeed. Though I’m practically Australian these days. Three-quarters of my life spent here just about qualifies me, don’t you think?’
    Patricia nodded. ‘My husband was Irish too. Well, his parents were. He loved it. We went there once, and he said it was like finding his spiritual home. He’d talk to anyone at the
drop of a hat, you see, so we hardly had to go into a pub together and —’
    Lola had seen it coming. As Patricia started to cry, she reached over and took the cup from her hand. Patricia lifted both hands to her face and sobbed. The suit bag stayed on her lap. She still
hadn’t passed it over.
    ‘Did those suits belong to your husband?’ Lola asked gently.
    A nod. ‘He —’ She stopped, her voice breaking.
    Lola waited, wondering. Had the man died, or left her, or . . .
    ‘He had a heart attack.’ The words came falteringly at first, and then in a rush. ‘There was no chance, no warning even. We were packing to go on holiday, and he had just laid
all these suits out on the bed and we were laughing,