Doreen started five months ago in the charity shop. She wanted to work for a good cause. She had dismissed the ones for animals or foreign orphans immediately; she would let others care for them. The lady at the NSPCC had been friendly but there had been no volunteer vacancies. So Doreen found herself at Mind. She counted herself lucky that no-one in her family had been touched by mental illness. It must be dreadful, she concluded, after reading some of the leaflets they had displayed at the till.
She had not started ‘front of house’ but instead spent her first six weeks as one of Susan’s ‘backroom gals’. This involved rummaging through the bags of donated goods, which were mostly left, out of hours, outside the shop. This was despite the increasingly blunt signs that Susan put up in the window to discourage this particular practice. A large amount of the contents could be binned immediately, especially if the bags had not been tied securely and it had been raining. Doreen found it difficult to fathom what possessed people to donate underwear with holes or stains. The washing machine was in almost constant use. She was content when she was on ironing duty. It had been a long time since she needed to press a week’s worth of work shirts for the two men in her life.
This morning, Doreen arrives a full half hour before trading officially begins. She has to wait in the shop doorway for Susan –Call me Sue, everyone does – to arrive. She is one of the designated keyholders; perhaps some day, Doreen might become one too. She believes in punctuality, or rather is driven by the dread of being late. Besides, she wants to impress Susan and thus retain her hard-earned position on the shop floor. As Susan fiddles about with the alarm code, Doreen makes the first tea of the day.
Margaret cuts it fine, as usual. She seems to have a fresh excuse every Wednesday, which is her only day in the shop. Doreen has built up to two and a half days. After all, she has plenty of time on her hands now.
 The three of them gather in the small office for the daily ‘team meeting.’ Doreen can never read upside down what is written on Susan’s clipboard. Margaret clearly thinks it to be a complete waste of time and examines her nails thoroughly. The tasks assigned are similar and repetitive but Doreen listens attentively for the next ‘bullet point’.
It is only half past ten and there are no customers in the shop. Business is very slow this morning. This provides Doreen ample opportunity to ensure that the books are in alphabetical order by author. This activity provides a large amount of pleasure for her. They need a shelf just for the letter C; Jackie Collins, Agatha Christie and Catherine Cookson are terribly popular. Her tea is undrinkable. She won’t make a fuss though; doesn’t want to upset Margaret. Doreen is very particular about her sugar intake nowadays. She has cut down to a half a teaspoon. But this mug contains at least one spoonful, and heaped at that. She has told her fellow volunteer on countless occasions but it never seems to go in. At home she serves herself with a cup and saucer but here she is grateful for anything without a chip. She will wait until nobody is looking and pour it down the sink. What a waste.
 As she turns off the tap, Doreen catches her reflection. It must have been vanity that caused Margaret to salvage this antique effect mirror.  She, no doubt, hung it above the sink, so she can check on her make-up every time she fills the kettle or rinses out a cup.  A few weeks ago, Margaret let slip a detail which betrayed her age and Doreen had almost been shocked, at least certainly a little surprised. Margaret was eleven years older but from their appearances the reverse could be nearer the truth. Doreen can see what her sister means now, when she sends her money off vouchers for anti-ageing cream. Visiting the hairdresser is a luxury she had foregone several years ago. After all, the legal bills were crippling.
 Susan stands behind her and says, “Not like you, Doreen to be skulking out here, daydreaming. I need you out front. There’s a bit of a rush on. Chop, chop. Where’s Margaret? In the loo?”
Doreen objects to that word but lets it pass without wincing. She nods, even though she knows Margaret has popped out the back for a cigarette.
As Doreen emerges through the plastic beaded curtain back into the shop, she observes Susan in hard sell mode. A middle-aged man has shown interest in a tea service in the window. Susan is busy extolling its mint condition in order to justify its forty-five pounds price tag. There is a young woman looking at the scarves. So Doreen positions herself behind the counter, as a purchase seems imminent.
 “How much is this one?”
 “They’re all one pound twenty-five. The sign must have fallen down again.” Doreen is just being polite as she can see the sign in its rightful place from behind the till. The young woman looks in the different compartments of her purse and then starts going through all of her pockets.
 “Not got enough, dear? Show us how much you’ve got.”
The young woman wordlessly shows Doreen the handful of coins. They count them out together on the counter. She is thirty pence short.
 “Not to worry, that’ll be enough.”
Doreen hears her name called. “Excuse me a minute, dear. My supervisor needs me a minute”.
Doreen follows Susan into the changing cubicle. Susan pulls the makeshift curtain behind them. “What are you doing, Doreen? You do not have the authority to discount items.”
 “I thought that I was doing the right thing. We’ve had that scarf for over two months and finally we’re selling it. Besides, she looks like a student and probably can’t afford much.”
 “It is not up to you to make those types of decisions.”
Doreen can feel her face reddening. “But what can I do now? I’ve already said …”
“Too much,” Susan interrupted.
“I know… I’ll put thirty pence in the till out of my own money, that way we’ll be alright.”
This suggestion seems to infuriate Susan even further. “Do you realise what that would do? It would set a dangerous precedent and we would have every student and down and out haggling over every item. This may be a charity shop, Doreen, but we are not in the business of dispensing charity. We have our targets to reach. Now, go and inform her that you have made a mistake.”
“May I put it to one side, if she would like to come back later with the correct money?
“On this occasion, yes. But if unsold, it goes back on sale tomorrow morning.”
It is humiliating having to explain to the young woman. They are both embarrassed about the situation. Susan stares and is not satisfied until she witnesses the young woman leaving the shop without the scarf. Margaret reappears at this time, reeking of polo mints. “Anyone fancy a drink?”
Susan and Doreen both decline the offer.
 After a few minutes, Doreen goes out the back to look for a duster and some polish. She never likes to be idle. She interrupts Margaret touching up her coral pink lipstick.
 “Has she been laying the law down again?”
 “It’s nothing, really. I just wanted to be kind to that young woman. That’s all. She reminded me of someone.”
 “Well, don’t let Susan get you down. We’re working for nothing here. She can’t treat you like a skivvy, don’t forget that; especially not in front of the customers.”
While Margaret is talking and recounting Susan’s faults, Doreen remembers. The young woman reminded her of a neighbour’s daughter. Stephen went out with her a few times. But it hadn’t worked out. Her son had not shown sufficient interest. It just fizzled out. There hadn’t been many girlfriends. He seemed happier alone in his room.
 “Don’t you agree, Doreen?”
She chooses a diplomatic nod, which seems to pacify Margaret.

 Doreen never takes all of her forty-five minute lunch break. She is always back within half an hour. She eats her homemade sandwiches on a bench by the bandstand if it is fine. But today, the grey drizzle means she is confined to the bus station. She is never tempted by the shops. When she downsized from a semi-detached house to a one bedroom flat, her problem had been finding space for things she chose to keep. Her husband only lasted six months in the flat. He pined for his garden. She had made enquiries to the council about an allotment but the waiting list was over a year. If the registrar had been accurate on the certificate, shame would have been the cause of death.
 “Boo!” wheezes Margaret, cigarette in hand, “You look miles away.”
 “Sorry, I was.”
 “Down memory lane? Fancy coming for a coffee before we get back to the shop? She sent me for lunch early. Said she’d manage on her own; what a trouper, shall we give her a medal? It will be good to have a gossip with you. What’s the worst she can do? Sack us?”
 “No, I’d best be heading back. Susan’s asked me to sort through the ties and match them with the shirts. It’s a new idea she’s had about showing customers...”
 “Sounds riveting, Doreen. Think I’ll leave you to it and grab some more fresh air,” she says as she lights a new cigarette from her dying stub.
It is not solely the thought of facing Susan’s wrath for tardiness, but the potentially prohibitive price of the hot drink. Doreen knows of some places that charge more than two pounds fifty. That she cannot afford.