Princess of the 19th Century Department Store - Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Lobit Grocery was not a particularly spacious shop. Display cabinets were crammed in every which way, and a faint smell of moldy wood drifted through the air.

The floorboards in the place had not been refurbished in years, and the owner was too stingy to replace them. No matter how carefully they were scrubbed, the smell could never quite be hidden.

George felt strange today.

Business that morning had been the same as usual. No fewer people had come through the door than on any other day.

But a few of the neighbors had only come in, looked around, asked the prices, and then left without saying they wanted to buy anything.

The owner had just brought in a new batch of daily necessities yesterday-needles, thread, and the like.

He had been waiting for payday to pass so the people nearby would come and stock up.

Yet for some reason, these neighbors had already come to his shop and still bought nothing.

The newly stocked soap on the shelves, only one penny a bar, had not moved at all.

George had a gut feeling that something was off, but the owner was still asleep.

The missus upstairs was awake, but she was busy kneading bread dough and baking biscuits.

If Lobit woke up and found no fresh biscuits or bread, he would not be kind to his wife either.

George thought that once Mr. Lobit got up and discovered that not a single neighbor had come to buy daily goods, he would certainly be in a foul mood. When that happened, George would be in for a scolding.

After mopping the floor, George went on wiping the cracked glass windows the owner could not bear to replace, even after gluing them back together.

He had long since grown used to the owner’s scoldings.

Only after quite a while did Mr. Lobit finally drag himself out of bed. After eating breakfast on the second floor, he twisted his body down the narrow ladder, squeezing his bulky frame through.

His face was ruddy, with a mustache above his lip, and his eyes swept over the shop floor and stairs like hooked talons.

Only after making sure every spot was spotless did he decide George had not been slacking off today.

Mr. Lobit cleared his throat, went behind the counter, and opened the wooden change box he emptied every day.

When he saw that the layer of coins inside was noticeably thinner than he had expected, his brows knitted tight. He came out from behind the counter and began taking stock of the goods on the shelves.

After checking the shelves, he clenched his thick hands into fists and slammed them against the rack with a clang, making the bottles and jars rattle.

“George!”

He shouted toward the door.

Outside, George was wiping down the door panel. At the sound, a chill ran down his back, and he hurried into the shop.

Sure enough, Mr. Lobit was furious and insisted that George must have been slacking off.

Faced with Mr. Lobit’s questioning, George lowered his head and defended himself.

“I didn’t slack off. I opened the door first thing this morning, and I served every customer properly. Mrs. Lobit can testify for me.”

Mrs. Lobit came down the narrow stairs with a two-year-old child tied to her back and a plate of bread and biscuits in her hands.

She wore an old indigo woolen dress. She nodded as well, frowning as she said,

“That’s exactly what happened. I don’t know what’s going on either. Some people just came in to ask the price, then turned around and left.”

Hearing this, Lobit raised an eyebrow, and the anger from moments ago vanished from his face.

“Then I know what this is. Someone must be playing tricks.”

“George! Go ask around at the other grocery stores and find out what exactly is going on.”

Lobit was rather angry.

…

Outside the underground tavern, George walked in along an alley off Clark Street.

The light in the alley was poor, and the weather was gloomy. The wet ground was mixed with fine snow, and strings of footprints had trampled it into uneven pits.

He followed the footprints with his gaze toward the little door of Nash Grocery and noticed shadowy figures inside. People were already lining up, and business seemed good.

George withdrew his gaze and walked into the half-basement tavern across the way.

The tavern had not yet reached opening time. All the chairs had been lifted and placed on the tabletops and beside the bar.

Two employees were inside. One was sweeping the floor with a broom, while the other wiped glasses, getting ready to open on time in the afternoon.

The tavern owner had not come in yet. The two employees smoked as they worked, with cups beside them holding half a glass of beer.

At this hour, no one would come to the tavern, and the employees worked in their own rhythm.

George went up to the bar and patted Nathan, finally drawing his attention.
“Nathan, what’s going on across the street? Do you know?”

Nathan happened to be smoking a paper cigarette today. He ground out the butt and gave a cold snort of laughter.

“Even your boss doesn’t know?”

He took a crumpled sheet of paper from the cabinet and handed it to George.

George picked up the little flyer and saw the words written boldly across the top: “Nash Grocery: January Special Offers.”

He immediately understood why so many neighbors had come by that morning asking prices without buying anything. They had been comparing prices.

Once they saw that Nash Grocery’s goods were cheaper, they went there instead.

Soap, three bars for two pence. No wonder no one came to buy from their shop.

“Plenty of households on Clark Street and nearby found one of these slipped under their doors first thing this morning.”

Nathan added, watching the drama unfold as if it had nothing to do with him, “From eight or nine this morning until now, that place across the street hasn’t had a moment’s rest. I’m afraid even their old stock has been cleared out.”

Hearing this, George clenched the handwritten-looking flyer and ran straight back to Lobit Grocery.

…

At Nash Grocery, there were still two people waiting in line.

Daisy stood behind the counter, opened two barrels of old tea leaves, and passed them to the customer in front of her for inspection.

“What’s the difference between these teas?”

The person asking was the owner of a bakery on Dorothy Street.

“This one is Ceylon black tea, ten pence a pound, or twenty-seven pence for three pounds.”

“This one is Indian black tea, twelve pence a pound, or thirty-four pence for three pounds.”

“If you buy three pounds of Indian black tea, I can include half a pound of honey biscuits for free.”

The bakery owner lowered his head and smelled the tea leaves.

There was very little difference between these and the teas he had compared at two other grocery stores that morning.

But the price difference was obvious. This was a full fifth cheaper.

At such a low price, with such a good deal, even a slight loss of fragrance was hardly a problem.

“Give me three pounds of each.”

As soon as the bakery owner said that, Daisy began weighing the tea.

From weighing to finishing the packaging, including the free half-pound packet of biscuits, the whole process took less than two minutes. Her movements were smooth and practiced.

Even though they were discounted goods, she did not handle them carelessly. The packaging was still tight and attractive.

From beginning to end, the bakery owner had an excellent experience.

Daisy swept the pile of coins on the counter into the drawer and began serving the next customer.

By the time the midday tea hour arrived, the number of customers in the shop finally began to thin out.

Mary heated some milk and brewed black tea, pouring it into a chipped white-glazed ceramic cup. She also brought out a plate of toasted bread spread with honey and handed it to Daisy to fill her stomach, counting it as lunch.

Daisy still sat beside the counter, waving a quill pen with one hand as she checked the accounts, while using the other to spear a piece of crisp bread and nibble at it slowly.

Of the two hundred handwritten flyers from yesterday, this morning’s conversion rate was currently fifteen percent.

In one morning, thirty customers had come in to shop, with an average order value of twenty pence.

Total sales came to six hundred pence, which was fifty shillings-more than two pounds.

Daisy pulled open the drawer. With her movement, a clattering sound rang out from inside, all of it coins in various denominations.

She lowered her head and looked at the drawer packed full of coins. Even trypophobia would be cured by the sight.

By now, the old stock in poorer condition had been nearly cleared out at reduced prices, freeing up quite a bit of space on the shelves.

The profit margin was not as high as selling at full price, but they had not taken a loss either. They had earned about ten shillings.

By now, the nearby grocery stores had surely figured out what was happening over the course of the morning.

If any of them could not hold back, they would definitely follow suit by lowering prices and copying this sales method.

That was exactly part of her plan.

Daisy turned the page of her notebook. On the yellowed paper were four or five recipes for biscuits and scented teas that she had recited from memory.

All of them had been bestsellers in her previous life.

She had planned them around ingredients commonly available in the current environment and had also made slight adjustments to suit local tastes.

Since there was no dedicated food research and development department now, she could only force herself to take the job on.