I have been fussing over this scene for a while; it is a fussy scene: those hands like rabbit paws lying upon the counter, a symbol of accurate recall. Does Edith really remember them like that — Mr. Jarvis’s hands upon the counter so pretty and pert, so white and clean — or is this her Alice-in-Wonderland tumble down the well? Is this all a dream? In fact, it is a film scape, or the film as Edith plays it out in her own mind, her self-made fantasy. What we prefer to call memory once it’s been through the editing room of our ego. Whatever it is we can dare to witness because human kind cannot bear very much reality.

In years to come, if she were to ask herself how it all started, she would say that moment with Mr. Jarvis and his hands upon the counter. So neat, like rabbit’s paws, she swore he wore gloves. If a policeman were to ask Edith for her account, it would begin there: with a pair of gloved hands weighing out Epsom salts from glass jars with a metal spoon. A spoon slipping up and down between grains of sand, between sleek gloves--- at least that’s how it looked to Edith -- she was quite taken.

‘But I think that morning I had disturbed him. I was too early, but the chemist has always been my favourite shop and Mr. Jarvis’s . . . the chemist I mean . . . well, all life seems to begin and end there.’  Edith faltered. Where was her script? She began rustling in her bag. Her words, where were they . . .?l 

‘Where, Madam?’

‘At sea. Mr. Jarvis says all life begins and ends at sea.’

‘I see.’ The Inspector’s voice sounded faint, but Edith had her words, she had been practising.

        ‘ . . .  with plankton, with fish, with shrimp and eels, with seaweed, with sea kelp which he sells inside glass bottles shaped like . . . well, very feminine.’ Edith looked around feeling suddenly self-conscious. Where was the camera? Over there by the window.

‘Sea kelp is good for your hair; it nourishes the roots, it nourishes the follicles, and I wish I could buy some of his seaweed shampoo. . . you know, Inspector, it grows just along the coast where the rocks peek out into the sea.’ She took a sip of air, adjusted her hair, and carried on.  ‘I say, do you come down often?’ Her accent sounded strange, too Yorkshire still, she hadn’t got it right; she was trying too hard.

 The shop bell rang, and an elegant woman stepped in carrying a wicker basket. An out of towner thought Edith, and immediately felt self-conscious. She wasn’t up to the part next to this pretty woman with her well-shaped nose. She thought of aqueducts and Roman arches, but it was Mrs. Jesson looking for a pair of silk nylons, looking for a new hair net, looking for shampoo. Edith turned back to the counter.

‘Mr. Jarvis, you have a customer!’

The sort, Edith knew, who could afford sea kelp shampoo. Her husband was a solicitor with a sensible salary. They lived in a handsome villa in a small village a few miles from here. She had come up to town on the train to fetch some provisions. A self- assured woman, a woman with a respectable routine. Edith moved to one side to let the woman see over the counter. Tall and slender, columnal, a few inches taller than Edith in her heels; an elegant lady, Edith could not compete. She did not have the tone, she did not have the influence. The woman’s bones had a presence – wide and alive and gleaming – and her voice wavered with feeling. Her mouth was full, her syllables precise, her teeth met perfectly in the middle. The work of good genetics, the work of a good dentist, a check-up every few months.

‘I should stock up on some cod liver oil now the flu season is coming on. It won’t be long before the nights begin to turn chilly, and the children are terribly susceptible to sore throats and coughs once they go back to school . . . do you find that too? There’s always something going around, isn’t there, such nasty germs they carry, the little darlings. The woman didn’t seem to mind if anyone was listening. She had her script, she knew her words, Mrs. Jessson was in character.  

‘Do you have any of that cough syrup . . .what was it . .  . from the eucalyptus tree?’

‘Seaweed, ‘said Edith confidently, ‘from the sea.’

‘That’s it,’ the woman politely demurred and pulled a list from her bag.  ‘Cod liver oil for the children and bicarbonate of soda to clean her teeth, and then that special cough syrup. It works wonders stopping the tickle. Oh, and some of your shampoo. The children like it too, they say it smells of the sea and makes them happy!’

Happy, yes, that was it, it made them happy. The advertisement, they played it at the cinema. Seaweed shampoo can lift your mood. . . .with a delicate whiff of salt air and sea brine. You will feel rejuvenated!  Edith nodded and leaned across the counter.

‘Mr. Jarvis! You have a customer keen to purchase some of your seaweed shampoo; Mr. Jarvis, did you know, your shampoo can make us happy?  Edith looked back and beamed, but the woman beside her was fading, her luminous face retreating behind delicate strands of rubbery weed. Seaweed was covering her mouth, her nose, her teeth. Edith could hear water lapping and she felt a strange remorse. The woman was pretty, she was elegant, she had wanted to ask her out for tea. It would be a dress rehearsal; she could practise her lines. ‘I say . . . I wondered.’ Such women do not say no. They ask you back for supper, they say, ‘come and meet the children.’ Such women show pity and concern as their faces frown nicely, delicately. ‘Oh dear.’ They say, ‘oh dear.’ They inquire after your mother, they ask what book you are reading, and whether you have read the latest mystery. ‘It’s terribly good!’ They pass on recommendations, they lend you books, they say come again, and they mostly mean it. Do come again!  Are you sure we can’t take you home?  It’s a cold night . . . do send our love. But to whom? Edith blinked. The lights were going down; now the shop was dim.

‘I say, Mr. Jarvis . . . Are you there? Can you hear me? I wondered . . .  do you think those spectacles are good for my follicles?’