Rumpledumps

Mrs Gillespie smelled of bay rum. Whether this was some perfume she used or it oozed from her pores was a moot point. She wore a five o’clock shadow that Bluto would have been proud of and had forearms like Jersey Joe Walcott. Mr Gillespie was a thin, weedy bronchial chap who smelled strongly of latakia and seemed constantly to be placed half a stride behind his wife.

Speculation would be rife around the neighbourhood about the nature of their ‘romantic life’ and many a crude joke was shared over who took ‘command’ on such instances. That they owned and ran the local sweet shop was an incongruity on a par with Laurel and Hardy piloting an aircraft. Yet, if you wanted ‘penny dainties’ or ‘joob-joobs’, theirs was the shop you aimed for.

You could try to fool Mrs Gillespie but you were onto a loser. The game with sweetshops was to ask for the proprietor for something that either didn’t exist or way high up on a shelf necessitating the little ladder on wheels that they utilised.

“Quarter of Rumpledumps, please”

“Quarter of what?”

“Rumpledumps. They’re up there behind you”

And if they fell for this and looked for them long enough, you and your mates filled your pockets with chocolate bars and whatever was in reach. But, you never got away with this with old Gillespie who’d more likely say..

“Rumpledumps, my arse! Now get out of my shop before I clout ye”

There were rumours that she ‘procured’ young boys with evil and lascivious intent and any boy of about thirteen or more who secretly didn’t wish this was the case was a liar to himself.

At that age, a boy's fantasies run wild and strange, so that even thoughts of seduction by middle-aged sweet-mongers who looked like they’d just gone ten rounds with a lamp-post induced significant libidinal stirrings within youthful loins.

After all, Suzie Quatro was never likely to visit Carnwadric.