Back Trouble

by Matt Kinnaird

  Therefore: White Male, 25-55?

  No tramps. They have a hard enough time as it is. Although …? Nobody would give a shit. I can’t see a tramp making the front page of The Telegraph. But no. I’d much rather off some rich twat with a silver spoon up his chute. So:

  Public school. Preferable, but I’d have to hear him talk to find out, and there won’t be time for that.

  On the other hand, it might be best to pick someone who looks lonely.

  Commuter? One of the trench-coat brigade who drip off the train and slouch home with dead eyes and thinning hair, nothing to look forward to but Newsnight, a microwave meal and a wank. I’d be doing them a favour.

  I put down my pen, and finish my second g & t. I read back what I’ve written. Middle-aged white man. It makes sense, you see enough of them about. They come off the trains at all hours, after their nine-to-five in London, with their banking or insurance or IT or sales, followed by drinks with the rest of the suits and a snooze on the way home. It’s perfect: there’s plenty of room for opportunism, nobody worth bothering about would miss them and I can harness my deeply-held resentment that all those bastards make more money than I do. I snap shut my notebook with satisfaction, and get to my feet. Job done, my guilt has evaporated. I put the book away, go back to bed and sleep like the dead.

  Chapter four

  It’s a cloudy Tuesday morning. Life is good, I’ve got the day off and I’m at the hardware shop. It’s time to fit out the shed and begin some experiments. In the car park I re-examine my list. I have three categories to fill:

  Shed

  Four-plug extension lead (Julia won’t let me put proper electricity in the shed, but this will do)

  Portable radiator (2)

  Halogen Lamp (2 or 3)

  Stool

  Trestle table

  Tools

  Mallet

  Sash Cramps

  Screwdriver set

  Tenon Saw

  Panel Saw

  No. 4 Plane

  Level

  Square

  Mortice Gauge

  12” Steel Ruler

  Tape Measure

  Craft knife

  Hammer

  Chisel set

  Electric drill (I nearly had a fit when I saw this in the catalogue)

  Axe

  Miscellaneous

  Oilstone

  Oil

  Cloths

  Stain / Varnish

  Wood (lots)

  Broom (2)

  Dustpan and Brush

  Plastic Bin (2) and Liner bags

  Newspaper

  Shelf Brackets

  Raul Plugs

  Blinds / Curtains 4ft (2)

  Padlock

  String (or plastic ties)

  Nails / Screws

  Needle and thread

  Melons / Grapefruits (Bag of)

  It seems comprehensive to me. Fortunately, given the expense of all this, we have a Workmate in the shed which will finally come in useful. It was my brother’s, but he doesn’t need it any more, the clumsy fool. I don’t even know why we took it, but what really bugs me is that I sold his tools on eBay for next to fuck all. I thought I was quids-in at the time, but I’ll pay for it now. At least if I buy new ones they’ll all be nice and sharp.

  There’s only one hardware shop in Whitbury now, in one of the retail parks which have popped up all round the city, and spread ‘like thick, thirsty roots into the countryside’, as Julia once put it. She (of course) disapproves, and (of course) had to tell me all about it over breakfast, when I just wanted to eat my cornflakes and listen to the news.

  ‘What grates with me is that I don’t recall anybody asking for these things. Mackey’s’ – cramped and ill-stocked hardware shop in town, in a tiny side-street with terrible access – ‘was enough for everybody, but it’s closed now, because the corporate monster’s swallowed it whole in the name of “convenience.”’

  When she said ‘convenience’ she made an inverted-comma gesture with her fingers. If she’d done that even once before we got married I’d have walked away and not looked back. I rolled my eyes. ‘That’s all very well, but I didn’t see you giving them your custom after your monster rolled into town.’

  ‘It’s hardly my fault I’m not a DIY enthusiast. How would that be? “Yes, I’d like to buy a screwdriver, please, because I feel sorry for you!”’

  ‘I thought sarcasm was the “lowest form of wit”?’ I said, complete with finger gesture.

  ‘One has to play to one’s audience.’

  ‘Very funny. Still, I don’t know why you’re getting up in arms about it. What’s wrong with convenience?’

  ‘It’s costing you business, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘That’s different. We’re specialists. The only things costing us money are the bloody French, the bloody government and the shitting internet. But we do offer a form of convenience; for the wine enthusiast, that is. The supermarkets haven’t got the range we’ve got.’

  ‘Have you seen Waitrose’s list? It’s quite impressive.’

  ‘But it’s not as good as ours.’

  Julia regarded me like patient mother with a slow-witted child, which made me want to tip my cornflakes over her head. ‘Honey, that’s not the point. The point is that the convenience overrides the desire for specialist knowledge or premium quality. I know that if I go into B&Q they’ll have what I need, because it’s huge. They’ll let me park outside and help me to my car, and deliver if I can’t manage it myself. The price I have to pay is genuine product knowledge from the staff and a personal level of customer care. It’s the same with all these mass-market behemoths. Waitrose and the other supermarkets may not have Penfold’s Grange or en primeur claret on their lists, but they have a lot of good wine and everything else you need to survive under the same roof. And if not, Amazon will send a flying robot from miles away to drop it in your garden. Did you ever search for wine on Amazon?’ I shook my head. ‘Don’t, because it will make you think you’ve lost already.

  ‘The one commodity that’s most precious to all of us, Simon, is time. And like it or not, when you work like a Trojan all day – and most of us do – the last thing we want to do is spend what’s left of that commodity doing tedious things like shopping. And we think that’s what we want, but it’s not, because it’s all so soulless. Instead of spending time out in our communities we remain insular, self-contained in our semis and our cars or isolated by the false image we build online, or the social barriers we erect in the supermarkets and department stores, dodging conversations with people we know because we want to get out of there so quickly.’

  I supposed she was finished and looked up from my breakfast. ‘St Cuthbert’s isn’t like that.’

  ‘No, it’s not. You’re right. And you don’t like it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on. I’ve been in that shop when Mrs So-and-So has come in for her bottle of Amontillado, and–’

  ‘And I’m unfailingly polite!’

  ‘Brisk, efficient, well-mannered, yes. Polite? I suppose, but you can’t wait to see her out of the door.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is. You can’t be bothered, because she only spends nine quid a month or something, and if she tries to engage you in conversation you go through the motions secretly wishing she’d bugger off and leave you alone.’

  ‘But she goes on and on …’

  ‘There it is. She does that because you in your little shop are part of a community, a true community which she and others like her are trying to cling on to. And it’s shrinking. And you are not helping.’

  ‘It’s not shrinking. It’s just changing.’

  ‘From her point of view it’s shrinking, Simon, because fewer and fewer people can be bothered to talk to her. That sandwich shop – which used to know what you wanted when you came in without you having to ask – what happened to that?’

  ‘It’s a piercing studio now.’ />
  ‘Pity, I’d say.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And how do you suppose Mrs So-and-so–’

  ‘Mrs Naylor.’

  ‘Mrs Naylor feels about that?’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s much use to her.’

  ‘No. At least you know her name. That’s something. But when somebody like your Lady Whats’ername comes along–’

  ‘Milston. Lady Milston.’

  ‘– your eyes light up with dollar signs and your tongue rolls out of your head like a red carpet for royalty. And that’s when you turn on the customer care. Money talks, and it’s all that gets you – and all those others – talking.’ She looked at her watch.

  ‘I have to run,’ she said, as I was preparing my defence. She swallowed her last corner of toast, now probably cold, took her last sip of tea (which meant that, as always, a third of it was still left in the cup) and leaned over for our regulation peck on the cheek, which I returned out of habit. ‘Have a good day,’ she said, got to her feet and swept out of the room, leaving me holding the infuriating end of a one-way argument. She does that, and it annoys me. She makes her point as if it’s gospel, then fucks off before anyone can argue. If I bring it up later it will look obsessive or childish, so she’s won.

  Never, under any circumstances, marry a woman who’s more successful than you. We fell in love young, when our futures were yet to be thrown and fired, but I always knew she would outdo me. I didn’t care then. I was able to feed off her drive and enthusiasm, while mine withered into nothing with each passing year as my options were snuffed out like candles. But admiration turns to envy in time, and you can’t help it. I envy her the new car and sharp clothes; the erudite colleagues and specialist knowledge that dazzles the layman; the fact that her work appears in print and her students respect her; the fact that Channel 4 and the BBC come to her because not only is she knowledgeable she’s also attractive; and, most of all, that she’s doing the job she loves. Work to live, they say, don’t live to work. It’s all the same to her. And she thinks because of these things that she’s more intelligent than me – although she never says it, which infuriates me all the more – so I always have to yield an argument or lose outright. But she’s not; she just had more supportive parents. I had to take what I could get; I didn’t even drink wine when I started at Viva Vino, but I threw myself into it, because I needed to be good at it, so people would know. And I like my job really. And I don’t envy her, because I like my job and people respect me, too. My staff respect me and my customers respect me: I’m the manager. Besides, from the seed of envy grows resentment, and from resentment blossoms hatred. I’m not about to start hating my wife.

  The hardware shop isn’t busy, judging by the car park. It’s a mammoth warehouse with sawdust on the floor to give the illusion of authenticity, and it’s a labyrinth. As I expected, walking inside draws no attention from any of the staff, who are either chatting or gawping into their phones. I shake my head at this, as I would expect any staff of mine to drop their personal interests and at least look available, even if they aren’t needed. It’s going to take me a while to find what I need, judging from the size of the place, so I decide to be methodical. I get a flatbed trolley from near the entrance and make my way to the far right aisle, with the intention of working my way from right to left, all the way across the store, and therefore missing nothing out. The trolley is awkward. To push it I have to stoop slightly and I can feel each movement tugging at the base of my spine. I’d ask for help, but I doubt I’d get it. The trouble with back injuries is that they draw the minimum of sympathy from those around you, because there’s no visible evidence you can use to prove your incapacity. Only yesterday, working with Ruth, I asked her to pop down to the cellar to get a case of Aventinus for a customer I was serving and I’d swear she tutted at me. I couldn’t be sure, but I suspect my staff are beginning to regard me as something of a malingerer, and I’ve only been back a few days. What I need is an x-ray, or an MRI scan that I can wave in front of their noses, just to bleeding-well show them that there is something wrong with me. Or I could just let them talk to Julia; we gave it a go this morning before breakfast, her on top, but I had to bail out halfway through because she got a little vigorous. She tutted too.

  So, I proceed through the shop with caution, deciding to drag the trolley rather than push, up one aisle, down the next, and gradually begin to tick items off my list. I’m sure there are some things they won’t have, but I don’t really mind. The important thing is I can make a start. I’ve already decided my first venture into carpentry will be making a rack for my tools, and that should take the minimum of expertise. The trick will be to take three times longer over it than is strictly necessary, and feign incompetence. That way I’ll have time to explore what I really want to be doing in that shed.

  By the time I’ve negotiated half of the shop, two things have become apparent: one, I’m going to be spending an absolute shitload of money in here; two, and it pains me to say it, Julia may be right about this place. It’s not got the kind of specialist product I was expecting. This is DIY-by-numbers for unskilled morons with everything flat-packed and easy so that we can put it together in an hour and bask in a sense of accomplishment that we don’t deserve. There’s nothing creative or self-sufficient about it, but again I suppose it boils down to time. It doesn’t matter. The important items are here.

  It takes me the best part of an hour to traverse the whole shop and drag my loaded trolley to the till. The worst part was lifting the two oil-filled radiators onto the trolley, but I watched my posture, bent my knees and kept a straight back, which saw me right. There’s one person in the queue, buying paint, and it’s soon my turn. The assistant behind the counter reminds me of Ruth, a round-faced, large-breasted girl with black lipstick, a thick crust of bumpy foundation and hair dyed the colour of an overripe plum. She’s chewing gum and goes through the motions as if her mind has left her body to it for the morning to go off and do something more interesting elsewhere. I don’t blame it. In fact, looking at her, if I were her mind I’d never come back.

  It’s only when she reads the numbers on her till to me that I realise that I’m about to spend over seven-hundred quid. Ouch. I really do need to take up DIY. I might even enjoy it. God knows I need to take up something.

  I hand over my credit card and watch her as she runs it through, jaw in constant motion like a cow chewing the cud, dead eyes like windows to an empty room.

  ‘There’s your card and receipt. Do you want some help taking it to your car?’

  I take it all back. ‘That would be great.’

  Her head lolls over her right shoulder and she calls to a group of three men in Lincoln-green overalls, standing by a doorway covered by transparent plastic strips hanging from the lintel. That’s it, boys, come to my rescue.

  ‘Nick! Could you give this guy a hand?’ A skinny one with his back to us drops his shoulders in frustration and slouches in our direction.

  It’s him. It’s the Weasel. Bloody hell, even drug-dealers have day jobs.

  His eyes fix on me with a gleam of recognition and a thin smile unravels his scrunched-up mouth. ‘On my way,’ he says, and he saunters over. I’m frozen to my spot, half-afraid that he’ll pick up the nearest sharp-looking object and jam it in my eye, but he does no such thing. He lifts the handle of the trolley, deliberately, and waits, while his eyes hold me in a flintlock gaze: vicious, unpredictable and loaded. I don’t move.

  ‘After you,’ he says.

  I don’t want to turn my back on him, but I have little choice. ‘Right you are,’ I say and head out through the automatic doors towards my car, which is thankfully close and well in sight of the shop. I feel like a stag with a dog’s hot breath on my neck. At least the nasty little fucker has to lug my stuff behind him.

  We reach my old Saab estate and I open the boot. He’s behind me and starts lifting my shopping into the car in careless, jerky movements. I want to tell him to be caref
ul, but don’t dare. Instead I reach for the more breakable stuff, like the tripod halogen lamp, which is relatively light, and the cordless drill and screwdriver. He can deal with the fucking radiators. All the time he’s lifting and dumping, turning and lifting, he hardly takes his eyes off me. I can feel it even when I’m not looking. I hope I never see him again.

  The last thing I pick up is a claw hammer, which I test in my hand for grip and weight. It’s not meant to be a threatening gesture, but realising how it could come across I toss it into the boot and stick my hands in my pockets. The Weasel slides the blinds I bought along the side of the boot and closes the door.

  ‘That’s your lot.’

  I don’t want to thank him, but I feel the need to diffuse this hostility. ‘That’s good of you,’ I say.

  His smile comes back. He glances over both shoulders and leans towards me. His breath smells of tobacco and onions. He speaks in a slow whisper.

  ‘I’m going to get you, you cunt.’ With that, he spins on his toes and drags the trolley off back towards the shop, chuckling to himself.

  I hope I didn’t look too scared.

  I’m shaking in the car. My foot is jumping up and down on the throttle and my hands are sweating on the wheel. Little shit. I’m angry, that’s what it is. I’m sure as hell not scared, not of a runtish little stoat like that. It’s a good thing I’ve got an outlet.

  Next stop, having nearly run someone over in the car park (I don’t know why he swore at me, because he walked right in front of my car), is a local building contractor’s, where I pick up half a dozen pine planks and some chunky off-cuts at a reduced price. Again, I flinch at the cost, but it’s nothing compared to my white-collar middle-class angst at being in a blue-collar environment and not having a bleeding clue what I’m on about. I’m sure they can smell my fear. Is it just me, or does this happen to everybody? Every time we need a plumber in the house, or I take my car to the mechanic, they do their best to confuse the bejesus out of me. And with each nugget of workman’s slang they throw in my direction they read the confusion in my eyes and up the price another ten percent because they know I’m not qualified to protest. I haven’t a leg to stand on, and I don’t trust a single one of them.