Free Fair Exchange by Jennifer Smethurst

The charity shop was crowded. The rain had produced a mixture of holiday-makers killing time and locals sheltering until the bus came. A woman in a bright pink top was
    simultaneously talking on a mobile phone and buying a pair of evening sandals from the elderly volunteer on the till.
    Ben liked it in here. It was warm, and he enjoyed looking through the videos. But today he had no money. He’d paid the rent for his room, then spent the rest down the pub. There was no
more now until he got the social on Monday. And today was Friday.
    Ben sighed. What he really needed was a nice warm sweater to see him through the winter. Idly he flicked through the rails. Grey Marks & Spencer sweatshirt – no, that was too big.
Pringle V-neck jumper in – pink! No way. This was more like it: a dark brown polo-neck. New looking. Ben unhooked it from the rail. Heavy. That would really keep him warm. He felt the soft
wool with his stubby fingers. The price ticket said £6 and he didn’t even have 6p. Still, no harm in trying it on. You were supposed to ask the lady on the till – but she looked
busy. She was helping a girl in a wheelchair who couldn’t reach the blouses on the top rail.
    Ben slipped into the fitting-room. Once he’d latched the door, he took off his grubby sweatshirt and dropped it on the floor. Then he pulled on the brown jumper and looked at himself in
the mirror.
    It fitted him a treat. It was surprising what a difference clothes made.
    Ben wasn’t a bad person; just one of those who seemed to fall through the cracks in society. He didn’t remember his dad, who left when he was two, and who obviously didn’t
consider himself in any way responsible for a child. Ben’s mum had a long succession of jobs, and an even longer succession of boyfriends.
    School had been a waste of time and, in the end, he didn’t bother going. What was the point? No one was going to give him a job. Although – maybe if he turned up for the interview in
the brown jumper . . .
    Suddenly Ben was angry. Rented room, on the social, bumming drinks down the pub: he’d never had anything decent out of life. Why couldn’t he have just this one thing?
    He peered through the crack in the fitting-room door. The assistant was still busy. Ben had seen her before: smart, a bit bossy, looked like a retired school teacher. Volunteering here to make
her feel good. Going home to a nice centrally-heated semi. Holidays abroad. Maybe a little car. Just one nice thing . . .
    Quickly Ben pulled the price ticket off of the jumper and put it in his pocket. He picked up the dirty sweatshirt from the floor and carefully put it on the hanger. Fortunately the Gents’
section was at the back of the shop away from the till. He hung his old sweatshirt on the rail and sauntered casually out into the street. No-one challenged him: his secret was safe.
    * * *
    Marjorie was beginning to wish she’d never volunteered at the charity shop. It had seemed such a good idea: she had given up her job as a senior buyer in a department
store to care for her elderly father. His death last winter from pneumonia had left her not only with time on her hands, but with a desire to be useful.
    ‘Can’t you just take for these, love?’ A tarty blonde in a tight pink Lycra top dangled a pair of gold sandals and a £20 note in one hand. The other held a mobile phone
firmly clamped to her ear.
    ‘Yeah, right, babe. I’m just in this – like – charity shop. Shouldn’t be long. Ooh, gold evening sandals. Dead sexy, babe. Where are you?’
    Marjorie put the transaction through the till and handed over the change. Pink Top stuffed the shoes into an already overflowing beach bag and carried on talking to Babe. It was a wet day and
the shop was crowded with people idly filling time until the bus driver came or the rain stopped. Marjorie noticed a scruffy young man looking at the Gents’ sweaters. He was a frequent
visitor, and hardly ever bought anything. Should she tell