The hand reached deep into
the darkness of the shelf for the most damaged of the cans.
You see?
Maureen said. Not a one of them reduced yet. Not one. This was
followed by a contemptuous sniff and a comment about the bloody
Rotisserie, the stench from which had, in the past, kept her from the
supermarket altogether, even with Maeve there for distraction. It was too
reminiscent of dinners past, when perhaps alright, Tom, yes
her cooking hadnt been at its best.
Maeve put the basket down
at her feet, only missing a fellow daylight-hours shopper-shuffler by
milliseconds. Her apology was met with the tail end of an eff off.
For Maeve, this was a better than usual outcome. She turned her attention back
to Maureen, doing the hands on hips thing that the over-stretched,
high-buttoned anorak didnt quite let her pull off.
Didnt you say
Tom was coming round at seven? she asked, before stepping out of the way
of a passing staff member who, it turned out, was less interested in his
customers than he was in his phone. Maureen, too, checked him out, but he was
too young and wasnt on the look out for any of the usual suspects. Safe
enough, then, she thought. This morning, Maur, Maeve added.
You did say that.
Maeves softly spoken
voice and Hampshire vowels mushed the words together to the point where Maureen
couldnt determine how much she might be trying her luck. Maureen pursed
her lips, considering a pithy insult or few. But, annoyingly, the woman was
also right. She had told Maeve that Tom would be coming round at seven tonight.
Shed told the silly moo, waited for the response, not got one, and
determined that the woman was once again either completely unaware of the
implications or was back at her sly act, in which case something might need to
be done before she got above herself. But not before the provisions were
sourced. It was important that she had precisely the right can for her purpose
and for what Tom would no doubt want to say to her, if he could but say
it.
37p, Maureen thought. 37
frickin p. Everything that had happened for the sake of the price of
beans.
Maur? Maeve prompted,
dripping with her usual cloying concern.
The
staff member bloke was still on his phone. Playing Candy Crush, Maureen
reckoned. Would Tom be one of those gamer types, then?
Maur?
Yes, yes, yes, alright, alright,
Maeve Moo. I dont need chivvying, thank you very much. Got a mind of my
own. Jeez.
Maureen
reached out again towards the cans, moving the front stack aside in order to
feel further back into the depths for what she hoped might be back there. The
dented, the damaged, the hypothetically if not actually reduced.
I
thought
Maeve began, and Maureen clucked at the phrase, knowing
that Maeve was fonder of saying it than demonstrating it. You know, I
thought, in fairness, if Tom is coming then you might get something a
bit nice for him, like. Seeing as.
Seeing
as? Maureen had withdrawn a particularly dented specimen from the
back of the shelf. She examined it, end over end, right down to the small print
on the label. Beans with sausages. Costco no longer seemed to sell the
beans with mini beef burgers she had been looking for but this was some kind of
decent substitute. She held the can out for Maeve to take, to transfer to the
basket after a brief misunderstanding about where precisely she was to
carry it (daft moo) and then to carry said basket for her without
comment, as she would.
Well, you know,
seeing as its the first time hes visited in
in a while, like.
And, you know, youve got plenty of cans in at home. I mean, havent
you?
Maeves already bone
white complexion coloured slightly, and she fidgeted with the top button of her
anorak until Maureen pointedly moved her hand away and gave her The Look.
What, you think he deserves steak or something, do you?
Well, actually,
didnt you say he was a veget
You think I ought to
get out my finest for him, do you?
I was only
suggesting
Maureen reached for
another can of beans. Bog standard, this time. Still dented. Another thing
Maeve was right about bugger her Tom wouldnt go for the
mini sausages any more. Not if he was on some kind of faddy anaemic
vegetable-based bent like Maeve was saying. Like Maureen thought perhaps she
might have told her once because why else would the woman who pretended to have
no memory turn it right round and use it back on her? Sly. That was the word
for it the word for her. She acted like she didnt hear anything
Maureen said, and then, months later, out shed come with the small print.
And the contradictions. And she wondered why people found her so eminently
maddening? She was lucky to have a friend at all, frankly, and where the hell
she thought she was ever going to get another one was a question worth the
thinking about. Another time. Where are your suggestions going to get us,
eh? Maureen asked, not needing an answer.
It might be worth
getting some good stuff in, even if not for Tom, Maeve
attempted.
Oh, right. For the
thousands of guests I entertain of an evening. Right. I must remember
that. Maureen could also have given her the what with, shirt
buttons? thing that had been used enough times on her in the past, but
Maeves pallor had moved along a square in the paint chart only the
one, heading now to a very faint beige and so she dropped it.
The eff off
shopper-shuffler from before was heading back down the aisle towards them.
Immediately dismissed by Maureen as of any interest after a quick look up and
down, hed loaded up his basket with cheap Napoleon brandy and lager, and
yet seemed to have already partaken really quite liberally. Maeve dropped her
eyes, not wanting to meet his, but there were no more eff offs for
her. His next one was reserved for Maureen and the Look that he had felt
linger. He leaned in, all beery breath and BO, and muttered something about
baggage as he rooted about for his own beans. Maureen stood her
ground, saying nothing at all, but pointedly not breathing in.
It could be worse, she
thought. It was no more than she deserved, she thought. 37 frickin p, she
thought.
Scum, Maureen
said, when the pissed-up shuffler departed in the direction of the cheese.
Cheese, by the smell of him, not being something shed have thought he
needed in greater abundance. His sweatshirt had quite obviously not been washed
for weeks. If at all.
Maur.
Well?
Maureen turned her
disgusted look at Cheesy BOs back into an equally pissy appraisal of her
friend and neighbour. You think Tom would even appreciate it, if I put
myself out for him, do you? After all this time. Like nothings
happened?
Im not
saying
cos hes
got another think coming, if he thinks that, let me tell you.
Maeve nodded. She was used
to being told, and she knew better than to comment.
Another member of
staff went by. A girl, this time, safe enough, barely out of her teens;
all braces, purple hair and tattoos. Maureen gave her the eye, before looking
for any sign of reduced labels or the intention to possibly go and fetch
reduced labels, but again no such luck.
Could do her job
standing on my head, she said.
Id like to see
that. Maeves attempted funny got exactly what it
deserved.
So, beans,
then?
Maureen determined that
this wasnt a question that required answering.
Come on, Maur,
Maeve said. In fairness. Hes coming home for the first time in
yonks and youre doing him beans?
Without
sausages.
Without
sausages.
Hell have
toast, too. Hell like that. He will.
Maybe. Yes. Maybe he
will. Sweating a little, Maeve was back at the top button of her
anorak.
Maureen heard it all too
clearly in the wickerwork-brained womans voice. It was 37p, Maeve.
37 frickin p.
I know, Maur, I
know.
I didnt
threaten to belt him sideways into Christmas like his dad did. I didnt
doubt his parentage that was his dad, too. To his face, that was. Most
weekends when hed been on the voddy. I just charged him 37 frickin
p. For beans. Thats all.
Didnt he say
you wouldnt give him the electricity, either?
Maureen bit her lip,
drawing blood. Proof right there that Maeves memory wasnt as woolly
as those scarves she knitted to enliven the many empty evenings she had left to
her before death.
I was on the social,
Maeve. He was meant to have a job. You get to his age, you get a job. You
dont get all uppity cos of a 37 frickin p can of beans and
then swan off, do you? Jesus H. Corbett. Hed rather risk ruination than
live with his mum. There were perhaps a few more epithets scattered
around the aisles and one or two of the more sober shoppers perhaps noticed.
Maureen had to accept the mittened Maeve Moo hand on her shoulder. Had to
quieten down just a tad. The idea really wasnt to draw attention to
themselves. Quite the opposite.
Still, Maeves fault.
She could pay for it later.
Lets just get
this done with, eh? Maureen said. Got to be ready for his Lord and
Master when he visits, havent we?
Yeah, Maeve
dripped damply in return. Of course you have.
Steeping round a spillage
of what she could only hope was tomato sauce that had gone entirely unnoticed
by the slack store staff, Maureen pushed Maeve towards the end of the aisle and
the checkout beyond. Typically, there was only one open, with a queue just long
enough to hold her up from getting home, getting the plates laid, and
rearranging the few family photographs to best effect before her son deigned to
arrive.
Maureen snatched the Next
Customer Toblerone from the side of the conveyor even before the old dear ahead
of her had noticed she had competition.
Maeve adopted a hush, all
the better to encourage eavesdroppers. Her collar was causing her quite the
discomfort. I was wondering, too, Maur, you know, about the travel thing.
Now, I dont know much about these things
Maureen put the first of
the reduced meats onto the conveyor. No, Id say you dont,
Moo.
But isnt it
all a bit quick?
The point
potentially a good one was momentarily upset by Maeve putting her hand
down on the conveyor. Maureen pushed her back up from the diagonal before she
was too far gone towards the floor.
A bit
quick?
You know
Seattle to here. In an afternoon. Isnt it? A
bit
quick.
Maureen looked at her
through the thick specs that had been fashionable sometime in mid-1978. And
never again. Maureen could still taste the blood on her lips. Shed have
to do a repair job when she got home, at this rate.
You need help with
the packing? asked the young man behind the acne behind the till.
Maureen was going to tell
Maeve right out that she had rather more pressing things to worry about right
now than bloody journey times between Seattle and whichever sodding airport it
was Tom would fly into. She ought to be rather more concerned that she remained
buttoned up. And not just that mouth of hers.
Maureen was very much
going to tell Maeve that, until her attention was taken again by the young man.
Behind the acne. Behind the till.
She looked at him. She
wondered. He was the right age and, if you looked past the acne, in the way
that she tried so hard to look past everyone in all the years since it
happened
Got everything you
needed today? the young man asked.
I
Yes.
No
Maureens hand fumbled with her purse. There was a spray of
coupons cut from the local newspaper.
Maeves mittened hand
came down on hers. Steadied her. The glasses hove into view. Maur,
the silly old moo said, its not
You know it cant
be. There was a moment that looked very at ease with itself. In the way
some daft old woman might be with her knitting and her wickerwork and her
doilies.
No, Maureen
said, and then she shook her head really very hard. No, course
not. And she flashed a smile at the assistant. Youll have to
excuse me, my sons coming over tonight from Seattle. Im all in a
tizzy.
And she pushed Maureen
through to the end of the conveyor and she paid for her few items with the few
pound coins she could find in the bottom of her purse.
And then, when the pair of
them were past the sliding doors out into the concrete misery of the town
centre, Maureen told Maeve to keep her head down, keep her coat buttoned up,
keep walking, whatever the hell she did.
Until, with all the loot
stashed in the lining of Maeves coat, it was safe for them to run like
bloody hell.