was I liked.
13
Shopping: One
I miss being able to go out here. I've heard that in time you're let
out on little journeys, though always accompanied by a member
of staff. If you're deemed fit to go, that is. I don't know who
decides. Or what fit looks like. As far as I can see there aren't any
prime candidates in this place – except maybe Hanny and me.
I miss stupid simple things like going shopping, and being able
to just wander about. I lie on my bed here and think about all the
shops I've known and what was in them, and I imagine the kind
of shops I'd like to visit and what I'd buy there if I could. If I
suddenly found ten thousand pounds lying in the road. And if
I could suddenly get out of this bloody place.
When Brian and I were little the shops at the end of our road
seemed the ultimate in adventure and indulgence. There was a
sweet shop on the corner, the wool shop, the greengrocer's, and
another one which every so often went out of business and
opened up again as something quite different. Our favourite,
Brian's and mine, was the sweet shop. We homed in on the
comics, the counter full of sherbet fountains and penny chews,
the rack of cheap plastic toys hanging by the door. As the streams
of trippers flowing past increased, the shopkeeper grew canny and
expanded his stock into ever new and fascinating lines until it
spilled out on to the pavement. Bottles of fizzy pop for thirsty
travellers, crossword puzzle books for the beach or the homeward
traffic jam, postcards, sunglasses, buckets and spades, inflatable
lilos, plastic boats and plastic cars to keep the kids quiet. Then
ballpoint pens to write the postcards with, straw bags to carry the
drink bottles and the toys in, rubber beach shoes, sunhats with
cheeky messages, ashtrays with plaster seagulls perched on the
rim. I'm sure most of his trade was homeward bound. This was
the last port of call to buy that hat, that postcard, that blow-up sea
monster they'd looked at and longed for down on the prom, and
then thought better of. Last chance to spend their money.
The wool shop was Mum's favourite. We never passed without
peering into the window, where the display was protected from
bright sunlight by a layer of cellophane the exact same colour as
Lucozade. Inside the shop it was shadowed and dim, as if the
contents were precious, easily disturbed. The balls of wool were
stored in little cells on the back wall of the shop with all the
intricate precision of a beehive. My mother understood
the mysteries of two-ply and four-ply. There were long conversations
about buying eight ounces now and having the rest 'put
by'. Mrs Drew, behind the counter, would store the other balls of
wool in a crumpled clear cellophane bag, marking it with a pencil,
to be claimed when needed, or not, as the case might be. She was
consulted over the glass counter about patterns and quantities
and needle sizes. Under the glass, which I was commanded not to
lean on, were rows and rows of cotton reels, in all the colours of
the rainbow and far more. Below these were glass-fronted drawers
of hair ribbon, lace, elastic and bias binding. Everything came in
a choice of colours. The sweet shop didn't offer rubber rings or
beach hats in every shade imaginable, just bright yellow plastic
and white cotton. But it was the prerequisite of the wool shop to
imagine that human beings liked to make a choice, a slow and
deliberate, tantalizing choice. Now should it be lilac, or should it
be mint? There again, the lemon was nice.
Brian didn't care for the wool shop. He couldn't see the point
of all that deliberation. He couldn't care less if his jumper was
grey or green, so long as it wasn't pink. It was a female place, a
quiet, careful, female place. Even more so in that, as I later discovered,
under the counter in discreetly thick white paper bags,
Mrs Drew kept the bulky supplies of sanitary towels her
customers whispered requests for. Kotex, and Dr White's. Twelve
luxury towels, the packet said, making
13
Shopping: One
I miss being able to go out here. I've heard that in time you're let
out on little journeys, though always accompanied by a member
of staff. If you're deemed fit to go, that is. I don't know who
decides. Or what fit looks like. As far as I can see there aren't any
prime candidates in this place – except maybe Hanny and me.
I miss stupid simple things like going shopping, and being able
to just wander about. I lie on my bed here and think about all the
shops I've known and what was in them, and I imagine the kind
of shops I'd like to visit and what I'd buy there if I could. If I
suddenly found ten thousand pounds lying in the road. And if
I could suddenly get out of this bloody place.
When Brian and I were little the shops at the end of our road
seemed the ultimate in adventure and indulgence. There was a
sweet shop on the corner, the wool shop, the greengrocer's, and
another one which every so often went out of business and
opened up again as something quite different. Our favourite,
Brian's and mine, was the sweet shop. We homed in on the
comics, the counter full of sherbet fountains and penny chews,
the rack of cheap plastic toys hanging by the door. As the streams
of trippers flowing past increased, the shopkeeper grew canny and
expanded his stock into ever new and fascinating lines until it
spilled out on to the pavement. Bottles of fizzy pop for thirsty
travellers, crossword puzzle books for the beach or the homeward
traffic jam, postcards, sunglasses, buckets and spades, inflatable
lilos, plastic boats and plastic cars to keep the kids quiet. Then
ballpoint pens to write the postcards with, straw bags to carry the
drink bottles and the toys in, rubber beach shoes, sunhats with
cheeky messages, ashtrays with plaster seagulls perched on the
rim. I'm sure most of his trade was homeward bound. This was
the last port of call to buy that hat, that postcard, that blow-up sea
monster they'd looked at and longed for down on the prom, and
then thought better of. Last chance to spend their money.
The wool shop was Mum's favourite. We never passed without
peering into the window, where the display was protected from
bright sunlight by a layer of cellophane the exact same colour as
Lucozade. Inside the shop it was shadowed and dim, as if the
contents were precious, easily disturbed. The balls of wool were
stored in little cells on the back wall of the shop with all the
intricate precision of a beehive. My mother understood
the mysteries of two-ply and four-ply. There were long conversations
about buying eight ounces now and having the rest 'put
by'. Mrs Drew, behind the counter, would store the other balls of
wool in a crumpled clear cellophane bag, marking it with a pencil,
to be claimed when needed, or not, as the case might be. She was
consulted over the glass counter about patterns and quantities
and needle sizes. Under the glass, which I was commanded not to
lean on, were rows and rows of cotton reels, in all the colours of
the rainbow and far more. Below these were glass-fronted drawers
of hair ribbon, lace, elastic and bias binding. Everything came in
a choice of colours. The sweet shop didn't offer rubber rings or
beach hats in every shade imaginable, just bright yellow plastic
and white cotton. But it was the prerequisite of the wool shop to
imagine that human beings liked to make a choice, a slow and
deliberate, tantalizing choice. Now should it be lilac, or should it
be mint? There again, the lemon was nice.
Brian didn't care for the wool shop. He couldn't see the point
of all that deliberation. He couldn't care less if his jumper was
grey or green, so long as it wasn't pink. It was a female place, a
quiet, careful, female place. Even more so in that, as I later discovered,
under the counter in discreetly thick white paper bags,
Mrs Drew kept the bulky supplies of sanitary towels her
customers whispered requests for. Kotex, and Dr White's. Twelve
luxury towels, the packet said, making
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