Shelf Life

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Shelf Life Page 7

by Robert Corbet


  ‘Can you handle the smell?’ he asked.

  ‘I reckon I can,’ Rahel nodded.

  Rahel had done her time on the registers. She was tired of the way the customers always looked at her headscarves and long dresses as if she was a slave from a Third World documentary.

  ‘There’s not a lot to it,’ he said. ‘Mostly, you’ll be weighing and pricing the meat.’

  ‘I’ll give it a go,’ she said.

  Rahel went home that night intending to tell her father that she would be working with unblessed meat, including pork. She wasn’t actually butchering it, and her father was open-minded. Rahel hoped he would see it from her point of view.

  Rahel helped her mother cook the evening meal. When the family had eaten, she washed the dishes, then helped her younger brothers with their homework. After the boys had finally gone to bed, Rahel sat down with her parents. But before she had a chance to speak, her father announced that he had some important news.

  ‘We’ve found you a husband,’ he said.

  He opened his wallet and took out a passport photograph. The man in the small black-and-white picture looked nice enough, though perhaps not as handsome as Rahel might have hoped.

  ‘His name is Fadhil,’ said her mother. ‘His English is very good.’

  ‘He looks pretty serious,’ said Rahel.

  Her father shrugged. ‘It is just a photograph.’

  ‘Will I get a chance to speak to him?’

  ‘Next month,’ said her father. ‘He is coming here.’

  ‘What? To stay?’

  ‘He has already bought the ticket,’ her mother nodded.

  Rahel wondered if the ticket was one way or return.

  Brian looked surprised when Rahel told him the news.

  ‘Aren’t you too young to be tying the knot?’

  ‘I’m seventeen. That’s how old my mum was.’

  ‘You gonna check this bloke out when he gets here?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Does he know what he’s getting himself into?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Brian,‘but in my day you’d meet the girl first—at a dance, maybe—then you’d ask for her parents’ permission.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound so different,’ said Rahel.

  ‘Except that you got to dance with her first,’ said Brian.

  Fadhil arrived with his mother. Rahel was at the airport with her family to meet them. She stood behind the barrier and watched the endless line of people filing past. There were businessmen in expensive suits, and curly-haired boys her own age who smiled cheekily at her. Fadhil was almost the last to come out. His clothes were old-fashioned, and crumpled from the long flight. When he looked at Rahel, he didn’t smile.

  Fadhil introduced himself and his mother. He nodded at Rahel, but spoke to her brothers. His mother took Rahel’s hand and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘You did not need to come to the airport,’ she said, in the old language. ‘You should have stayed at home.’

  Back at the house, they celebrated with a big meal. Then afterwards, Rahel cleared the table while her parents discussed the wedding plans with Fadhil and his mother.

  ‘She must choose her own dress, of course,’ said the old woman, ‘but please make it something traditional. I am not used to these modern fashions.’

  It was decided that after the wedding the couple would continue to live with Rahel’s family until her husband had enough money to support her. It wasn’t clear whether Fadhil’s mother would stay on or return to the old country, though Rahel heard her say she wasn’t ready for such a big change.

  ‘So what’s this bloke like?’ asked Brian.

  ‘Hard to know,’ said Rahel. ‘He doesn’t say much.’

  ‘Still waters run deep, ’eh?’

  ‘It’s over my head,’ said Rahel.

  Rahel had no sisters, so Fadhil and his mother were given her bedroom and Rahel had to sleep on the couch. In the days that followed, Rahel worked hard to make a good impression. She was charming and considerate. She cooked the meals and cleaned the house. She mended clothes and dug in the garden. But Fadhil was often out at the cafe, playing cards with her father.

  It was almost a week before he asked about her job at the supermarket.

  ‘I work in the meat section,’ she told him.

  Fadhil looked at his mother. ‘Has it been blessed?’he asked.

  Rahel shook her head.

  Fadhil frowned. ‘But our religion forbids it.’

  Rahel looked at her father, who looked away. ‘It’s no big deal,’ she said.

  Fadhil’s mother shook her head.

  ‘You are forbidden,’ said Fadhil. ‘As your husband, I forbid you.’

  ‘You’re not my husband yet,’ said Rahel.

  ‘It is not right,’ said Fadhil. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Totally,’ Rahel murmured. ‘There’s no need to freak.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m getting the picture,’ said Rahel.

  When Rahel tried explaining it to Brian, he couldn’t see the problem.

  ‘If you don’t want to touch the meat,’ he said, ‘just wear rubber gloves.’

  ‘But I promised Fadhil,’ she said.

  ‘I won’t tell him if you don’t.’

  ‘But he’ll go berserk.’

  ‘Not if doesn’t find out, he won’t.’

  The butchers worked at the back of the supermarket in a long, brightly lit room behind a door that said Staff Only. There was a window looking out into the store, but Brian told Rahel she could work out of sight at the other end if she wanted to.

  So Rahel continued to work in the meat section. There were rump steaks, lamb chops, pork sausages, mincemeat and chicken fillets. Rahel weighed each tray of meat, wrapped it in plastic and stuck on the price. When the butchers had gone home, she hosed down the floors, wiped the benches and cleaned the knives. She wore an apron and carried a change of clothes, just in case. She washed her hands repeatedly throughout the day. To prepare Halal meat, according to traditional law, the animal’s head must be turned to face Mecca and a prayer said as it is slaughtered. Sometimes Rahel found herself saying a prayer for all the unblessed animals whose carcasses had ended up there. Sometimes she even said a prayer for the pigs. And whenever Fadhil asked about her work, Rahel told him a different story. She was sweeping floors and stacking shelves, she said. She was making coffee and taking phone messages. She was running errands and helping customers.

  ‘You must be a very good worker,’ said Fadhil, with a strange smile.

  It didn’t feel good, lying to him like that.

  Things did not improve between Rahel and her future mother-in-law. Fadhil’s mother didn’t believe it was right for a guest to do housework, but she followed Rahel around, making comments about how things were done differently in the old country. She was charming with Rahel’s parents, but silent when Rahel spoke. Rahel felt the disapproval in her gaze.

  With her son, Fadhil’s mother was entirely different. She would comb his hair and straighten his collar. She made his bed and insisted on washing his clothes by hand. At the dinner table she would offer him food from her own plate and constantly fuss over him like a child. Fadhil would just smile and say, ‘Really, Mother, you should not worry.’

  Most mornings, Fadhil went out with the other men. He would come home for the evening meal, then sit on the couch watching TV. As the weeks went by, Fadhil spoke to Rahel less and less. If his mother was in the room, he seemed uncomfortable even to be sharing a couch with his future wife.

  Rahel wondered how much money he was spending and where he was getting it from. She dreaded to think how things would be, once they were married and living in their own house.

  When she tried talking to her father about it, he wouldn’t listen.

  ‘Fadhil will make a good husband,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t know anything about him,’ said Rahel.r />
  ‘He comes from a good family. He respects his mother.’

  ‘Is that all you care about? Don’t you want me to be happy?’

  ‘You want love and romance, like you see on TV. But when you are married, you will understand these things better.’

  ‘When I am married, it will be too late.’

  At the supermarket, the boys unloaded meat from the truck, hung the carcasses on rail-hooks and shunted them off to the freezer, one by one. When Rahel had finished cleaning the meat room, she dragged the remaining hooks back to the freezer and closed the big metal door. She undid her apron and threw it in the laundry bin. She washed her hands in the trough and checked that her clothes were clean. She thought about her father and mother, and whether theirs was an equal marriage. She thought about having her own children one day, and what kind of father Fadhil would be. She thought about the traditions of the old country and how much they had changed in just one generation. How could she be expected to keep the old traditions when so much had already changed?

  In the delivery bay, hanging from the weight scales, there was one last meat hook she must have overlooked. Making sure that no one was watching, Rahel jumped up and grabbed hold of the hook, as she had seen the boys do when they were clowning around. She hung from the meat hook, trying to measure her own weight, then dropped to the floor when she heard footsteps coming along the corridor.

  ‘Hangin’ around after work, eh?’

  It was Brian.

  Rahel stood there, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. ‘There’s a bloke here to see you,’ said Brian. ‘He looks pretty agitated.’

  Fadhil was waiting at the register. He smiled when he saw her, but his smile quickly disappeared. They nodded, but didn’t touch. When she looked at her hands, she noticed a speck of meat had wedged itself under one fingernail. It must have happened while she was hanging from the hook. Rahel was sure from the way Fadhil was frowning that he had come to check up on her. If he noticed the meat, then she was in trouble.

  ‘You came to see me?’

  ‘I look for you, but you are busy.’

  ‘I just finished.’

  Fadhil stared at her intensely. ‘I am to be your husband,’ he said, as if beginning a well-rehearsed speech. ‘If you are to be my wife, it is important that you respect me.’

  When Rahel looked into his dark, piercing eyes, she felt afraid. He was from another country. His culture was not the same as hers. But why should she change? This was her country. It was her culture.

  ‘It’s important to respect each other,’ she said, feeling her courage return.

  ‘If you are to respect me,’ Fadhil continued, ‘I must prove myself worthy of respect.’

  He looked slightly crazy, she thought.

  ‘When I look before, I see you through the window.

  I see you clean the knives. I have such a strong feeling. I want to go in there, but the manager he stop me.’

  ‘Did you come here to spy on me?’

  ‘I come to see you. I cannot wait any longer.’

  ‘If you have something to tell me, then say it.’

  Fadhil took a deep breath. ‘I get the job!’ he said proudly.

  ‘You’ve got a job?’

  ‘As a cutter in the abattoir. It is not Halal, but it is very good job. I start tomorrow!’ Fadhil took her hand and held it gently. ‘I am a lucky man. I am given a beautiful wife. Now I can work to support her.’

  ‘What about our religion? Don’t you care about unclean animals?’

  ‘Of course. They are forbidden.’

  ‘What about the pigs?’

  Fadhil frowned. ‘I try some bacon once. It taste very greasy.’

  Rahel laughed. ‘You’re supposed to cook it first.’

  Fadhil grinned at her. ‘Do not tell my mother,’ he said.

  ‘I am sure she will be totally freaked.’

  ACCOUNTS

  Louisa was woken in the night by a loud knock on the front door.

  ‘Whoever it is,’ her mother called out, ‘tell them to go away.’

  Louisa put on her dressing gown and went to see who it was. The man at the door was older than her mother. One side of his shirt was untucked, and his breath smelt strongly of alcohol.

  ‘Jacquie there?’ he mumbled, trying to push past her.

  Louisa blocked his way. ‘She’s in bed. You can’t come in.’

  ‘Who’s she got in there? Another happy customer?’

  ‘She wants you to go away.’

  ‘I don’t care what she wants.’

  Louisa stood her ground. ‘I need to sleep. No one’s here and it’s going to stay that way. I have an exam in the morning.’

  The man hesitated. ‘She owes me fifty bucks.’

  ‘Wait here,’ said Louisa.

  She closed the door and got the money from her wallet, then she gave it to the stranger and said goodnight. When she went back inside the house, her mother was sitting on the couch. Louisa noticed a reddy-brown smudge around her mouth. On the coffee table was an empty bottle of iron tablets.

  ‘How many of those did you have?’

  Her mother looked away. ‘Five or six. I don’t know.’

  ‘Mum! That jar was full.’

  Louisa called a taxi and took her mother to the hospital. The two of them sat in a tiny cubicle for three hours, waiting to be seen. Louisa tried not to think about her Anatomy exam the next day. Finally, a doctor examined Jacquie and sent her up for an X-ray.

  The radiology room was cold and grey, and the equipment looked terribly out of date. Jacquie was upset and could not lie still long enough for the X-ray machine to work. Louisa had to put on a protective gown and come out from behind the safety screen to hold her mother’s hand.

  ‘I don’t want to die,’ Jacquie whimpered. ‘I was just trying to cheer myself up.’

  ‘It’s OK, Mum. We’ll be out of here soon.’

  ‘You should have told me they were dangerous.’

  ‘I know, Mum. I’m sorry.’

  AISLE

  nine

  FROZEN FOOD

  Bending down into the freezer, Stephen removed the packets of frozen peas and stacked them, one by one, on top of the frozen beans. At the bottom, underneath the metal grille, was a CD wallet with his name on it. Keeping his compact discs at low temperatures improved their performance and gave them a longer life. The bottom of the freezer was also an ideal hiding place.

  Stephen brushed the ice off the CD wallet. He unzipped a backpack containing his Gameboy, towel, toothbrush and a change of clothes. He hid the CDs in a secret compartment where no one would think to look. Without saying goodbye to the people he had worked with for almost two years, Stephen slipped away unnoticed through the front door of the supermarket. He caught a bus into the city and was never heard of again.

  Stephen loved his computer even more than he loved his mother. And Stephen loved his mother very much, because ever since he was six years old she had let him have unlimited time on his computer. Late into the night he would sit there in his bedroom, building and destroying entire civilisations, massacring barbarians and innocent tribes alike. Stephen was a mighty warrior and a powerful foe. He wanted to rule mankind with an iron fist, to control the greatest armies in the land and rewrite history as the world’s most powerful emperor. But every time Stephen came close to winning, victory would slip through his fingers. His supply lines would be cut off and his armies would run out of food. His golden palaces would be destroyed and his empire would go bankrupt. His weapons of war would become outdated and the enemy would rise up against him. Stephen would fight to the bitter end, but the enemy were too numerous, too skilled or too technologically sophisticated, and they always won.

  It really annoyed him.

  Stephen lived with his mother most of the time, but when things weren’t working out, he went to stay with his father. Both Stephen’s parents had important government jobs. They worked long hours and didn’t come home until late at night. It
didn’t bother Stephen, though. He had keys to both their houses and so did his sister, Penny. Stephen and his older sister rarely spoke to each other. They had gone to different schools and had always led parallel lives. When their parents had separated, Penny told Stephen it was normal. Lots of kids had parents who were divorced, she said, and mostly the ones who stayed married didn’t love each other anyway. Love was something that happened in the movies, Penny said, not in real life.

  Most days, Stephen’s mother would leave him alone, but every once in a while, she would insist on having some quality time. Quality time meant going out for dinner together and his mother asking him questions like, ‘What did you do today?’ ‘How’s the job going?’ ‘Have you ever thought of doing more study?’ But if Stephen tried to talk about his latest battle, his mother’s smile would freeze and her head would start to nod up and down. He would ask about her day, so he didn’t have to talk. She would tell him about press releases, guidelines, deadlines, draft papers, budget meetings and memos for the minister. She would say,‘I’m boring you, aren’t I?’ but then keep on talking. Until finally, she would say, ‘I am boring you. I know it.’ She would give him a kiss, then they would go home.

  Stephen hated being kissed by his mother.

  At the supermarket, Stephen rarely spoke. While the staff were having their tea break, he sat in a corner playing on his Gameboy. If anyone ever asked him a question, he’d give them the shortest answer he could think of.

  ‘Hey, Stephen. How’s it going?’

  ‘Good.’

  Stephen worked twelve hours a week in Frozen Foods, unloading the refrigerated delivery trucks and stacking the freezers single-handedly. Carting boxes at sub-zero temperatures was not the kind of job that workers put their hands up for, but Stephen didn’t mind. It kept people away from him, and that was how he liked it. At home, he was paid pocket money to make his bed and put his dirty clothes in the wash. Most days, he forgot to do both, but his mother paid him anyway. She was too busy to bother arguing.

 

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