“Tidy up the straw, and wipe down the island,” said the supervisor.
“The island?”
That was the name for the display stand.
“Right you are,” she beamed, and set to work with gusto. She toiled away for half an hour, thinking that melons were a lot heavier than paint-brushes. In fact, they were very heavy indeed, and the tight uniform made her uncomfortably warm. She was exhausted by the time the cages were empty, and then the supervisor told her they wanted all the potatoes moved from one island at the front, to another island at the back of the section.
“Why?” Brenda wanted to know, beginning to hate the very word, island.
So they could put strawberries and cream at the front of the section, of course.
Brenda hauled her cages and her industrial-sized tub of wipes over to the front section, and started all over again, keeping her head down in case she was recognised by Tom Reilly-Dunseith or any of his friends. She had potato-dust on her face when she was finished. And then she had to go to the warehouse for kiwi fruit and mangoes. Brenda didn’t even know what mangoes looked like. She didn’t know anyone who had ever eaten a mango. She made a mental note to tell the manager that he was wasting his time bringing this fancy stuff halfway across the globe.
While she was walking up and down the dimly-lit aisles, looking for the elusive fruits, some of the teenage staff turned out the lights for a joke. There were no windows and it was suddenly so dark, Brenda couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She couldn’t remember the way back to the door, either.
She had a panic-attack, stumbled and fell over a bin containing an absolutely filthy mop, which she thought was a zombie-murderer lying in wait for her. She rolled across the floor with it, screaming the place down.
Then, the lights came back on and the pranksters were clinging to the shelves, killing themselves laughing. Brenda had to go to the staffroom and splash cold water on her face. She wasn’t supposed to be there, unless on an official break, and the supervisor caught her and told her off. And another thing; had she found the mangoes yet?
Thankfully, it was time for a tea break. Sod the bloody mangoes, thought Brenda, as she selected a hot chocolate at the vending machine and sat on a delivery of barbeque charcoal to drink it. She couldn’t believe it was still only 10.45am. All too soon, it was back to work.
Most of the customers that morning appeared to be pensioners, all ferried to the supermarket on cut-price buses. They didn’t seem to know where anything was, and they all pinched Brenda’s arms to ask her questions.
“What’s on special offer, the day, love?”
Brenda didn’t know.
“Have you tights to match my coat, love?”
Brenda didn’t know.
“Would this kind of fruitcake cause constipation?”
Brenda didn’t know, and she didn’t want to know.
“Stop pinching me, for heaven’s sake,” she said to the elderly woman, who was a lot stronger than she looked. “My poor arms are black and blue.”
“It’s a pity of you,” replied the outraged lady. “I’m going to report you to the Manager. You have a shocking attitude-problem.”
“I’m sorry, but I am only asking you not to pinch my arms. This is a supermarket, not a kinky brothel!”
“You cheeky article!”
“It’s just, you’re very strong. What are you looking for, anyway? Spinach?” “Right! That’s it! Manager! Where’s the manager? I’m going to have you sacked.”
“Oh, oh… Hi! Missus! Come back! I’m sorry.”
But the outraged woman was off on a mission to rid the store of cheeky articles. The manager was found, and a shouting match ensued between the three of them. Brenda won.
She was fired, of course.
She decided it would be better not to tell Nicolas that she had lost her temper completely at that point, and started wrecking the nearby displays. It was all just too unbearable: getting the boot after less than three hours. She’d only earned twelve pounds, for heaven’s sake. And for that princely sum, she’d endured potato-dust in her eyes and quite painful arm-pinching and a dirty mop falling in her face. And now she was getting sacked because she didn’t know enough about constipation. And the uniform was making her skin itch like mad.
She’d grabbed melon after melon, both yellow and green, and heaved them up into the air, in all directions – as high as her strength would allow.
“Come and get your hands on my lovely, juicy melons!” she’d screamed, as she sent the terrified shoppers running for cover.
“Come and devour my priceless melons of delight!” they heard her cry, as the huge soft fruits exploded on the tiled floor, and babies began to cry, and four pensioners fell over in the scramble to get away.
Some people were cut with broken glass, as they stood filling their little plastic containers with grated-carrots-in-jelly and bacon-flavoured croûtons, when the biggest melon in the store came thundering through the glass roof of the coleslaw display. Brenda herself was chased around the store by the security guards, pulling over the displays of washing-powder and tins of biscuits, as she made her way to the manager’s office and locked herself in.
“Dunnes Stores is way better than this!” she roared into the in-store loudspeaker system, as the guards tried to force the door open with a wooden plank. “Dunnes, Dunnes, Dunnes, we want Dunnes! We want Dunnes!”
(The manager was speechless with rage. This madness was taking place in one of the biggest branches of the biggest supermarket chain in the UK. He told someone to call an ambulance, so they could blame the whole thing on Brenda’s mental instability, in the court-case, should anyone take legal action.)
She didn’t tell Nicolas that the staff had been quite kind at the end, as they waited with her in the carpark for the ambulance to arrive, and gave her a cup of tea with lots of sugar in it. Someone said that working in a supermarket could be very stressful. It was the non-stop beeping of the electronic tills, Brenda told them. It was a kind of psychological torture, especially to someone like her, who lived on her own and wasn’t used to noise of any kind.
Brenda pretended to be calming down and, when the guards let go of her arms, she ran away across the carpark, like a greyhound let off the leash. When she got home, she discovered her lovely sunflower clips had fallen off.
After much deliberation, the manager decided not to get poor Brenda into trouble with the police or the mental-health people, and he let the matter drop. He was a decent sort of man and, anyway, he was too preoccupied with trying to calm down the hysterical woman who had triggered off the whole thing. He offered to buy her a new coat, as he wiped the melon seeds off her lapels, and he wondered again if he should take early retirement.
Chapter 22
TWO’S COMPANY, THREE’S A CROWD
Two days after Brenda posted her latest letter to America, Sadie left the house at lunch-time. She knew that Arnold was meeting some colleagues for lunch in the Europa Hotel. Sadie had bought him a new shirt and tie for the grand event.
She’d been dithering for weeks, putting off the moment when she would have to stand up for herself. She’d eaten dozens of toasted bagels spread with raspberry jam, and chilled chocolate profiteroles with hot custard. Strangely enough, the bagels and profiteroles had no effect whatsoever on Sadie’s personal life. Except to make Arnold say some very hurtful things: like he would have to have the furniture reinforced with steel girders if Sadie got any fatter. (She was nearly thirteen stone, now.)
So, very reluctantly, she made her way into the city and went quietly up the stairs to his office. It was on the second floor of a Victorian house on Eglantine Avenue. Sadie tried every key until she found the right one. No-one saw her go inside. She locked the door behind her. There was no sign on Arnold’s desk of the framed picture she had given him of the two of them on the beach in Portrush last year. Her plan was to hide in the office until she heard something that would prove his infidelity. A phone call, or piece
of conversation. Then she could decide what to do next. She had been looking in his desk and checking his pockets for months, but she had discovered nothing. That was why she was forced into this ridiculous position, today. She quickly scanned the office. There was only one hiding place.
Sadie pulled the large cupboard in the corner out from the wall, and set a small chair in the space behind it. With her mouth in a hard line, she stepped into the corner and pulled the cupboard back into place. She sat down on the chair and shifted about until she felt comfortable. It was quite a squash. She took a paperback, and a bag of butter toffees out of her handbag. She popped a toffee into her mouth and she began to read.
At two o’clock precisely, Arnold returned to the office. Sadie held her breath as the door opened with a rattle, and the overhead lights flickered on.
“Come here, you wicked temptress,” he said, to someone Sadie could not see. “I’ve been dying to kiss you all through that boring lunch. You were a witch to wear that tiny skirt. You did it on purpose. I could hardly concentrate on the speeches. Wasn’t it absolutely the most boring lunch in the history of double-glazing? I thought it would never end.”
“I know, I know,” whispered a woman’s voice. There was some breathless kissing and then Sadie’s eyes opened up like saucers, as the man who had married her twenty years ago said, “I must have you, now, Patricia. I can’t wait any longer. Up you get on the desk. Quickly! Oh, quick as you can!”
It sounded like his companion jumped up on the desk as if she did this kind of thing every day. Sadie looked up at the ceiling, just in time to see a red blouse land on the chandelier. Arnold was panting like a puppy. A zip was opened.
Patricia giggled. “Come on, then! You naughty, naughty boy! Do you want to see my pretty new stockings? With bold black lace right at the top?” Some brochures slid off the table, and there was a clatter.
“Mind the lamp,” said Arnold. “That’s a valuable antique.”
When it was over, Arnold poured some whiskey into two tumblers, and Patricia lit two cigarettes. Behind the cupboard, Sadie sucked her toffee with her eyes tightly closed.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, Patty-Pat,” he said, when his breathing had returned to normal.
“Oh, goody! I just love surprises. What is it? Tell me, tell me!”
“I’ve sold a lot of conservatories recently.”
“Is that all? You sell conservatories all the time.”
“I’ve made a tidy little sum on commissions. There’s daft people in this city with more money than sense. There was this one old bat, for example. Always going on about dead bloody writers.”
“I know! Tell me the surprise, you tease,” the woman laughed.
“Calm down, gorgeous. I’m taking us to Paris for a couple of days, by way of celebration.”
The woman sitting on Arnold’s blotter screamed with delight.
“I knew it! I knew you were up to something. When do we go? I need time to shop for new clothes! Reach me down my blouse, will you? What will you tell Sadie Sponge and The Bitter Lemons?”
“Oh, don’t spoil the moment! Honestly, sleeping beside that woman is like having a kip by a bouncy castle. Go on,” said Arnold. “Do your Sadie impression. It cracks me up.”
“Sadie Sponge! The hideous creature from the crypt!” said Patricia, in a doom-laden voice. They both laughed until they were out of breath.
“That’s brilliant! You sound just like her. More!”
“I’m coming to eat you with my big sharp teeth! My appetite cannot be satisfied. I am going to eat the whole world,” growled Patricia, as she stomped around the office, wearing only her lacy red knickers and her black stockings.
“Stop it! Stop it,” begged Arnold. “I’m getting a pain in my side. Oh God, you should be on the stage. Here. Get dressed before the area manager turns up!”
“Tell me more about the trip, Arnie baby.”
“We fly to Paris in October. And don’t bother buying new clothes. Well, maybe some lingerie, if you like. But it’s not necessary. You’ll be naked for forty-eight hours. And I’ll tell Sadie Sponge I’m going to a conference on environmentally friendly products for the home. The Frogs are really into all that stuff. I’ll tell her we’re thinking of branching out into other markets. She’ll believe anything I tell her!”
“She’s a real dope!”
“Oh, she is, she is! A real dope! Another whiskey?”
“Mmmm… yes, please. Just a little one – I still have to go back to work, you know. We’re expecting a delivery of candlesticks this evening. When will I see you again?”
“I’ll call you. Keep your mobile phone switched on.”
“I missed you at the weekend. There was a great film on, at the cinema. I had to go on my own. I wish we could get rid of Sadie Sponge, and be together always.”
“I’ve told you before. I couldn’t afford the help. My parents can’t manage on their own. As soon as they shuffle off this mortal coil, I’ll give old Sadie the heave-ho. I’ll inherit a bundle of dosh. And then you can move in. The house is in my name only. Though Sadie doesn’t know that.”
“And she can spend the rest of her days as a live-in care assistant. With her face in a box of biscuits. She’s had plenty of experience in both departments.”
“Now, now. Little minx! Don’t be cruel. She’s not a bad old stick. When all’s said and done.”
“But she’s not me. You love me, don’t you, Arnie, baby?”
“You know I do, Patty-Pat! You know I love only you. Why, you’ve got the best pair of legs in Northern Ireland!”
Patricia left the office at three o’clock, and Arnold read his paper for the rest of the afternoon. He answered four telephone calls and made a pot of coffee. It was a leisurely business, selling windows, when all was said and done. When five o’clock came, he wondered aloud what Sadie had prepared for his evening meal, as all his romantic exertions had given him quite an appetite. Steak and chips, with a beetroot and tomato side-salad, perhaps? Pork chops and apple sauce? Or maybe some nice, juicy sausages? Ho, ho, ho! He switched off the lights and the office was plunged into darkness. He locked the door and descended the stairs.
After a while, the cupboard in the corner began to tremble. Sadie slithered out from her hiding-place, and her face was as dark as a thundercloud. Cigarette smoke still hung in the air. She thought that Arnold had given up smoking years ago. He often complained of clients blowing their smoke all over his expensive jackets. Sadie turned her face away from the desk and left the office.
Arnold noticed something strange about Sadie that evening. She was late home, for a start. He never arrived home before Sadie. She was always there with his supper ready, the fire lit if it was cold outside, and his parents seated at the dinner-table. She mumbled something about the bus breaking down, and gave them cold meat slices and shop-bought salad for tea. Arnold looked up at her as he shook the bottle of salad cream. He saw that she was chewing very slowly and staring at him in a most peculiar way.
“Would you like a piece of French stick,” she asked him in a small voice, as she wrenched and twisted the bread into pieces.
“No, thank you,” he said. And he swallowed hard.
Chapter 23
THE GREAT CONSERVATORY IS FINISHED
At the end of July, the grand building project was completed. Even though Arnold Smith had hired extra builders to finish the job faster, Henry thought the sounds of the hammers and the saws would be in his head for the rest of his life. There was dust in the back of his throat and he was suffering from palpitations.
David Cropper came to visit and declared the work a triumph. Perfect conditions for filming, he announced. Perfect. The light was just right. The Brontë Bunch came to view the conservatory and they were all thrilled. Aurora introduced them to David Cropper. Their exclusive society was the talk of the city, he told them. The date for filming was set, and their costumes were all ready. Aurora practised reading aloud until her voice was in danger of c
ollapse.
Henry was in love with the girl in the flower shop. He went there every week to buy something for Aurora. He found out her name was Rose Thompson and told her his was Henry Blackstaff. They were both old-fashioned names. That fact made him absurdly happy. He had fantasies about looking after Rose, in a pretty cottage somewhere, with a fairytale garden around it. The two of them sitting in a willow arbour, watching the sun set behind a privet hedge. Sharing a tender kiss surrounded by the lingering perfume of lavender.
Sometimes, if the shop was not busy, Henry and Rose would talk about flowers and plants, and which ones lasted longer and which ones were easy to care for. They realised they shared the opinion that imported flowers were all very well, and beautiful in their own way, of course, but they were killing the native flower market off completely.
“Most people in this city wouldn’t even be able to name a native flower,” said Rose. “And that’s sad, because they’re so easy to grow.”
“And the perfume. Well, the hothouse flowers have no perfume at all, compared to the local varieties. Frail little things, they are,” said Henry, sniffing some miniature roses and thinking of Aurora. “All image and no substance. I remember roses when they were as big as side plates, full of rainwater and earwigs. All the gardens around here had some.”
“Mmmm,” said Rose, who wasn’t sure that was an appealing image for her customers.
“But the perfume,” said Henry, “the perfume was intoxicating. The air was heavy with the scent of them on a summer’s evening.”
“Oh, yes. Pure romance,” she agreed. “There’s nothing on earth as beautiful as a rose garden.”
Henry always found something to buy, in the end, and the windowsills at home were full of blooms of every colour and size. Aurora thought it was very sweet, but she wouldn’t let him put any flowers in the conservatory itself. She said it would spoil the formal atmosphere.
Then she changed her mind, and decided some elegant plants with big leaves would take the bare look off the walls. Well, it was David’s idea, but Aurora thought he was absolutely right. She told Henry about her plan but he seemed distracted.
The Tea House on Mulberry Street Page 14