Run from his Shotgun

Chapter Two- The Things You Learn

"This isn't going well, Isla. Not well at all." George Redwall shook his head, his thick mop of grey hair slapping against his forehead. He folded his arm, surveying the shelves. "I reckon there's just enough for a couple of days, maybe seven or eight average-sized families at the most."

"It's OK, George, we get most donations on a Monday anyway. Besides, we're still waiting for the Basedon family's transfer. Before long, we probably won't have enough shelves for the food." It was a Thursday evening and I was at the local food bank where I normally volunteered on the for three evenings a week. 

The food bank wasn't doing as well for several months now as to be expected with any place that was entirely run on donations. The local people had been extremely generous for the last fifteen years that this shelter had been operating. Unfortunately, something had seemed to change in what was referred to as 'community spirit' and although now and again the charity was surprised by large donations from well-established businesses or families, it didn't extend much over the daily food shortages the hub faced. 

Most of the food was now bought by George himself, and a couple of volunteers when there was a need for it. But this was not sustainable long-term. The charity did have some monthly direct debit donations but even these had slowly receded.

George scoffed, "Come on Isla, you know how that works. It's been a month since we last spoke to the Basedons and they claimed the money would reach us within two days! Besides, we shouldn't be wholly relying on one-off donations by people who decide to offload some of their cash once in a blue moon."

I sighed but still refused to think negatively. There would be others who, depending on their day, would feel charitable and be able to feed a handful of people from the homeless community.

Just then the door opened and a familiar red-haired woman appeared, wearing her signature feather-embellished fur coat. "Nice to see you, Vera," George called out.

Vera sniffed but gave a little wave and began to browse the shelves. George put down his pen and notepad and approached her. 

"How are things going, Vera? I haven't seen you in a fortnight. Did everything work out with your accommodation?"

Vera was scrutinizing a bottle of shampoo and didn't look up. "No," She said gruffly, her voice hoarse as it usually was. She must be about George's age, maybe older; with her face permanently etched into a scowl and her eyes deep-set and small.

The door swung open again and a boy, similar in age to me, strode in, his green beanie hiding most of his long, brown hair. George called out again, "Hey, how ya doing, Andrew?"

Andrew looked up, saw us and grinned. I smiled back. Andrew was a nice boy, and talking to him sometimes, you couldn't tell that he had been in and out of care most of his life, before living on the streets just before he turned twelve.

"I just needed a couple of things." He explained with a shrug once he was in front of us.

"You don't need to explain, Andrew, you know that," George said.

"What do you need?" I asked him, "I can make a basket for you."

Andrew regarded me with his bright green eyes and appeared to think for a moment. "Some toiletries. I need shampoo, lotion, some tins of beans, some soup and maybe some chilli, if you have any."