Working in a charity shop for three years I came away with the impression that these places are more than just a shop where you donate, buy and sell. I met many interesting individuals. Some came from many towns away to look for merchandise, some came as regulars at same time every day, just before or after the school run. And some came in only a dressing gown so they could buy an outfit for the day from the shop. Whatever the attire or travel expense the thing everyone had in common was they walked through the creaking front door because they had a connection to the shop, often meaning items they owned themselves or family treasures were donated due to this connection.
As a staff member who operated the till and sorted donations I was at the forefront of these exchanges with customers. One of my first was with a middle-aged lady. She edged towards the till, apologising as she began to ask if we sold any cookware, specifically ‘frying pans’. In most shops you work in you know full well what your shop sells. A hardware shop sells DIY stuff, a book shop sells novels and non-fiction. But in a charity shop, even if you don’t see it on the shelf right now, it doesn’t mean you don’t sell it.
I said, “Yes, we usually do but I will just check.”
I didn’t know if we did have any pans in that day. But her concerned look on her face made me realise she needed a frying pan for reasons more than just wanting to fry an egg. I noticed as I walked down the tiny staircase round the corner of the till that we did not, in fact, have any. My guilt rising as the image jumped into my head as earlier in the day, I had thrown an old pan away into the bin outside the front of the shop that was donated to us. That’s poor salesmanship, I told myself. Everything has a price on it! The latter words ringing in my head from my manager when I first started there two weeks prior.
The lady was stood next to me, she had followed me from the till, her concerned look drawn sharper now. Why did she need one so badly? Maybe she needed one for a school project for her child, maybe she couldn’t afford one from a standard shop. I said I would look around the back of the shop to see if there were any lying around there. But after a few minutes of frantic yanking and throwing of other donations to see if I could catch a glimpse of a round silver item with a handle, I delivered the bad news. The lady bit her lip with concern and told me her mother, who was suffering from Alzheimer’s, had come here earlier with a frying pan from their kitchen, ‘an item that had been with the family for years’ - holding sentimental value. It was my mistake. My passing of the standard rule: Always wait 48 hours between a donation being handed in to being put on display on the shop floor. I had thought it too rusty and old to be sold so had thrown it in the bin outside without regard. I told the lady, “There is one last place I can look.”
I told her I’d look round the back one last time. I darted through the heaps of black sacks in the back and through the fire exit and down the alleyway, taking the long route to the front of the shop so she wouldn’t see, not just because I didn’t want to be caught being incompetent but more to save her feelings. I lifted the bin lid up like a car boot with a something you didn’t want anyone to see inside and picked out the frying pan that laid there between all the other broken and rusted objects, a graveyard of memorabilia. As I let the bin lid crash down the lady’s face snapped into my periphery. She held a frown that looked to be baffled at why I would threw away such a good looking pan. I handed it over, confessing my mistake and how sorry I was. She smiled out of politeness, saying that, “you must be so full of donations you can’t keep track.” She then went on to say how hard it was to control her mother and how they have lost a few things recently in the household due to her wondering off; how she was just thankful she had wondered into this shop and not handed it in somewhere else. It crossed my mind that even though her memory had faded she must have still known the shop was a safe familiar place to give away something she cared about, even if she didn’t mean to. As the daughter walked away, I knew then that in this shop I couldn’t take any donation for granted. Every item has a story, every person who donates has one too. Even if the frying pan was not fit to fry an egg, it was still part of someone’s history.
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