biscuit. Why not, Laura? The sun’s shining; be bold. Fifty-fifty chance you’d be walking this way anyway.
She caught him up.
‘Have a biscuit,’ he said, offering her the other one.
It startled her, how pleased she was. She took it and they both ambled along, munching. One biscuit each; it was nice.
Outside a supermarket she stopped. She had some shopping to do. She also had the desire to test the bond between them. Would the thread snap? She mumbled something and went in.
For a moment she was pleased that he had followed; then she was gripped by her usual paralysis. She always felt like this in supermarkets; it was something to do with the pitiless lighting and long perspective of little packets. She never knew what to choose. The packets dismayed her too; the earth’s fruits dismantled and reassembled into economy-sized plastic squares. Masses and masses of them, rows and rows.
Clutching her wire basket, she hovered. There were only a few people about, preoccupied and boring-looking, like people usually look in supermarkets.
He held up a tin, eyebrows raised hopefully. ‘Have these,’ he said. ‘Such a classy label.’ Marron Purée, it was; its picture was embellished with leaves. He dropped it into her basket.
Hands in pockets he shambled along the row of frozen meats, looking as incongruous here as he’d looked in the clinic, enquiring and messy, altogether rather cheering in the sterile aisles. Definitely not preoccupied and boring.
‘Could you find me some sausages?’ she dared to ask.
He rummaged amongst the frosty packets and found her some – beef ones, she didn’t like those, and far too many just for one – but she took them. He went off, eyeing the shelves.
‘Treacle you must have,’ he called out. ‘Reminds me of me youth.’ He put the tin in her basket. ‘Hey, and a bottle of this. What a kitsch colour. I like it.’
‘But
I
don’t like it. It’s raspberry cordial.’
‘Put it on your mantelpiece and admire it. Give it a home.’ He put it into her basket and wandered off again. She looked down at her odd little collection.
He was holding up another tin. ‘Must try these.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve never tasted them before. Whole Guavas. From Malaysia. Somebody must buy them after all that; think of them bumping about on donkeys, and packing cases, and –’
‘– stick ’em in, then.’
She was enjoying this. Inspecting her list, comparing prices – how dreary all that seemed now! As dreary as the other people here with their empty faces and heavy baskets.
And to hell with money, she thought, standing at the checkout and watching the paper strip of mauve numerals lengthen.
I
don’t care what Marron Purée costs. Anyway, there’s lots of grant left. ‘Five pounds, eighty-five pence,’ said the girl at the machine, uninterested whether guavas came from Malaysia, uninterested whether they came from Mars.
Laura put the things into her carrier bag while he stood, hands in pockets, and still looking somehow as if he shouldn’t be there. His muddy plimsolls had left marks on the floor. As she put in the Weetabix (for she’d added things too) she felt the bond between them thicken; thicken with something domestic, a suggestion of breakfast. Now he knew she ate Weetabix in the morning, could they any longer be strangers?
They stood outside for a moment. Somewhere a clock struck twelve. ‘How about a quick one, then?’ he asked.
At the doorway of the pub she summoned up her courage. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Mac.’
They went inside; she sat down, he went up to the bar. No longer nameless, his ensuing Mac-ness filled her with pleasure; the way he fumbled for money in the frayed back pocket of his jeans, the way he said something to the man behind the bar and the man chuckled, the way he came back with the brimming glasses, raising those eyebrows at a girlie calendar on the wall and then raising them at her. She liked that. She smiled; they shared the
She caught him up.
‘Have a biscuit,’ he said, offering her the other one.
It startled her, how pleased she was. She took it and they both ambled along, munching. One biscuit each; it was nice.
Outside a supermarket she stopped. She had some shopping to do. She also had the desire to test the bond between them. Would the thread snap? She mumbled something and went in.
For a moment she was pleased that he had followed; then she was gripped by her usual paralysis. She always felt like this in supermarkets; it was something to do with the pitiless lighting and long perspective of little packets. She never knew what to choose. The packets dismayed her too; the earth’s fruits dismantled and reassembled into economy-sized plastic squares. Masses and masses of them, rows and rows.
Clutching her wire basket, she hovered. There were only a few people about, preoccupied and boring-looking, like people usually look in supermarkets.
He held up a tin, eyebrows raised hopefully. ‘Have these,’ he said. ‘Such a classy label.’ Marron Purée, it was; its picture was embellished with leaves. He dropped it into her basket.
Hands in pockets he shambled along the row of frozen meats, looking as incongruous here as he’d looked in the clinic, enquiring and messy, altogether rather cheering in the sterile aisles. Definitely not preoccupied and boring.
‘Could you find me some sausages?’ she dared to ask.
He rummaged amongst the frosty packets and found her some – beef ones, she didn’t like those, and far too many just for one – but she took them. He went off, eyeing the shelves.
‘Treacle you must have,’ he called out. ‘Reminds me of me youth.’ He put the tin in her basket. ‘Hey, and a bottle of this. What a kitsch colour. I like it.’
‘But
I
don’t like it. It’s raspberry cordial.’
‘Put it on your mantelpiece and admire it. Give it a home.’ He put it into her basket and wandered off again. She looked down at her odd little collection.
He was holding up another tin. ‘Must try these.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve never tasted them before. Whole Guavas. From Malaysia. Somebody must buy them after all that; think of them bumping about on donkeys, and packing cases, and –’
‘– stick ’em in, then.’
She was enjoying this. Inspecting her list, comparing prices – how dreary all that seemed now! As dreary as the other people here with their empty faces and heavy baskets.
And to hell with money, she thought, standing at the checkout and watching the paper strip of mauve numerals lengthen.
I
don’t care what Marron Purée costs. Anyway, there’s lots of grant left. ‘Five pounds, eighty-five pence,’ said the girl at the machine, uninterested whether guavas came from Malaysia, uninterested whether they came from Mars.
Laura put the things into her carrier bag while he stood, hands in pockets, and still looking somehow as if he shouldn’t be there. His muddy plimsolls had left marks on the floor. As she put in the Weetabix (for she’d added things too) she felt the bond between them thicken; thicken with something domestic, a suggestion of breakfast. Now he knew she ate Weetabix in the morning, could they any longer be strangers?
They stood outside for a moment. Somewhere a clock struck twelve. ‘How about a quick one, then?’ he asked.
At the doorway of the pub she summoned up her courage. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Mac.’
They went inside; she sat down, he went up to the bar. No longer nameless, his ensuing Mac-ness filled her with pleasure; the way he fumbled for money in the frayed back pocket of his jeans, the way he said something to the man behind the bar and the man chuckled, the way he came back with the brimming glasses, raising those eyebrows at a girlie calendar on the wall and then raising them at her. She liked that. She smiled; they shared the
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