The story had been well-written and provided excellent publicity for the event. The catchline,Crumbs! Crumbington Naked Baker Bares All, with the photo of him laid out on the wooden bench, had initially filled him with horror but had since begun to lose its potency. As had the couple of times he had been stared at or, on one occasion, wolf-whistled at while walking down the high street. Would the title and picture alone entice anyone to read the article? He hoped so. Nevertheless, he grinned at seeing the photograph and remembering what had been happening behind the scenes.
“So, this is where you hide yourself, is it?” came a baritone voice with a gentle Irish lilt. “Well, don’t just sit there. Make yourself useful and put the kettle on. Halina and I are fairly parched.”
Fingal stood smiling in the doorway, with Halina grinning over his shoulder. Nathan rolled his eyes but got up and went to fill the kettle from the tiny sink. When he returned, Fingal had already installed himself in the old chair opposite, the seat his father used to favour. As Nathan plugged in the kettle and set about making tea, Fingal watched him good-humouredly.
“I was going to berate you about not doing enough to promote your damn fine produce. But seems you’ve gone above and beyond. I’d never have considered getting my pants off back in Ireland. An advert in a local paper holding a loaf maybe, but I’d never have considered appearing stark naked.”
“Oh, heavens,” said Nathan, closing his eyes. “Who told you?”
“Nobody needed to. After the third time being asked by a customer on Saturday where the naked baker was, I kind of guessed they weren’t talking about Arthur. And then, before we closed up, Halina’s daughter came in and showed us the photo on her little computer thing. You do know takings were up by about a third on both days, don’t you?”
“And I apologise for the trouble I caused. Thank you for coping and especially taking the team out for drinks on Friday. The calendar was never meant to be about me or the shop. It’s for charity—”
“I know all that, Nathan. But, come on now will you, a little bit of publicity can’t do any harm, can it?”
Nathan wasn’t so sure. He distributed the teas, took one out to Halina, and told her to call if things got busy. When he returned, he took his seat opposite Fingal, who had folded his arms and was observing him.
“Now, son. Are you happy to hear some cold hard advice from an old timer?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Are you? It’s just that some people don’t want to hear from those they consider outsiders. And if you knew me as well as some, you’d know that I’m not one to pull any punches.”
“I’m a big boy.”
“Funny. That’s what Halina’s daughter asked when she saw the photo,” said Fingal, chuckling, while Nathan groaned and looked away.
“Come on,” said Nathan, braving Fingal again. “Tell me what you think.”
“Okay then. Like I said to you before, you’re missing a few tricks. To begin with, every morning you deliver loaves, fresh rolls and mini baguettes to seven cafes and convenience stores dotted about town. Each store then spends time filling them to sell as breakfasts, or as ready meals for their lunchtime trade. Why don’t you construct everything here instead, find out what fillings are popular and do the grunt work for them? Price them accordingly, but I bet they’d love you for that. Halina’s more than capable. Although you might want to consider getting extra help. You could also sell them out of the shop. You’d not be stealing any trade because them shops serve different customers. Did you know Halina’s girl, Zofia, has her own business making organic meals for schools and local clubs? How about you let her sell through the bakery? That way people can get freshly baked goods as well as soups, salads and the like for their lunches. Could get yourself a smart little side business going, if you wanted.”
“I don’t have the space for something like that. And wouldn’t the health department need to approve us preparing fresh food on the premises?”
“Your food prep licence might already cover you. But anyway, it’d be nothing more than a technicality. And as for space. Okay, now for some hard facts. You’ve got four ovens out back, Nathan. And you only ever use two. Oh, and they are now on timer switches, so you’ve no need to get up and turn them on in the morning. They’re a few years old, but they’re still in good nick. I bet you could sell them fairly easily, which is what I’d do.”
“Sell two? But I keep two as a backup.”
“In case of what? According to Arthur, those ovens only ever get cleaned and dusted. They’re sitting taking up valuable space that could be used to prepare rolls and baguettes. My advice would be to sell the whole lot, two at a time, and install a new Duvall Grande Deluxe at the back, which would take up a fraction of the current space and still easily cope with your current demand.”
“I’d never thought of that. Should I talk to Arthur?”
“Look, son. I really like Arthur, I do. He’s a professional, an artisan—and, man, can he down a pint—but he’s not a businessman. He’ll agree with whatever you say. This ultimate decision is yours.”
Nathan sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Two days under his roof and Fingal had identified so much. Was this what Jaymes meant about having a passion for what you do?
“I Googled your place, by the way,” continued Fingal. “Did you know you used to have a shop logo and a slogan in each of your front windows and on the glass in the door? Must have been back in the sixties.”
“Long before I was born. Probably my grandma.”
“Cute little sign that read Buy Local, Buy Fresher, with a smiling cartoon baker cradling a cottage loaf. A subtle but kind of cute way of flipping off the supermarkets. Your shop front could do with a makeover. How about resurrecting the old sign? That kind of thing speaks to today’s consumer.”
“I don’t think I know anyone, but I could ask Polly—”
“Don’t worry about that. I got plenty of contacts,” said Fingal, putting down his mug of tea and lowering his voice. “Now, another thing. Don’t be surprised if, over the next few weeks, you get a call from an agent interested in buying the shop. Between you and me, they’ll likely be a representative of Upper Crust, that big outfit on the outskirts of town. From what I heard, they’ll offer you a substantial amount not only for the business and premises, but also for the goodwill. They’ll want to keep your family name, but Upper Crust would run the shop.”
Nathan sat gaping at Fingal, chewing on his bottom lip. Selling out to Upper Crust could be the answer to everything. Yet a part of him felt a stab of betrayal at even considering letting some faceless corporation stamp all over the family business.
“I’ll let that sink in while I move onto the tough love. I mean no disrespect, Nathan, but I’ve a feeling you’ve got your head up your—in the sand—right now. The reason I agreed to come and help out over the weekend is because I owed Max, Arlene’s husband, a favour. But when his wife called me up and asked me to get intel on your operation while I was here, I almost told them to shove it. I agreed anyway, for a very different reason. Not sure if you’re aware, but Mrs Killroy is doing freelance marketing work for the boys who run the chain of hypermarkets all along the south, the ones who also own Upper Crust. I’m telling you this because I’m in favour of local businesses. Hell, I ran one myself for forty years. I think there’s been a trend away from the mass market style of selling goods and services, and—okay, there’s online shopping—but these days, people want to support local businesses, especially those generating fresh and organic produce. That’s why this town needs you, but if you’re going to do this, you need to grow a pair and fight back, Nathan.”
