Expiration Day

by William Campbell Powell

  The Czern’s shop is a classic corner shop. They sell a bit of everything—newspapers, groceries, hardware, greeting cards, drinks, nearly fresh veg, and anything else they think will sell. My own village has one, only slightly more upmarket—which doesn’t mean the goods are any better, just that they are a fraction more expensive. Sure, you could find everything better and cheaper at the supermarket, but the corner shop is just a fraction closer, open longer, and the staff know your name—doing whatever it takes to make you leave the car in the garage.

  I knew John would be there working as he’d canceled a practice for the evening, saying he had to look after the shop.

  I suppose I’d better mention something, Mister Zog, before I go any further, or it all might not make complete sense. You see, I hadn’t told John I was coming over to see him.

  Yes, I know I ought to have done, but I didn’t. I can’t think of any reason not to ask, except I didn’t want him to say no. You see, John says yes to band practices. He says yes to going to other bands’ gigs. He happily chats over the TeraNet, and we’ve got a really good banter going.

  But a relationship? John has never said one word that would indicate he’d want to meet me in person, alone, without a reason like a practice. I’m the bass player, I’m the girl he met on holiday. I’ve kissed him twice, but he’s not shown much interest in making it three.

  I suppose if you go to any Yellow Zone, like Wood Green, you’ll find it has some scary people in it. You’ll even find such people straying into safe Green Zone villages like mine. Poor people, desperate people, I agree. Probably not evil people. But they are scary. They ask you for money as you walk past them on the street. Some just mumble “Sparesomechange” and don’t meet your eye, and I guess they’re all right. The ones who frighten me are the ones who look you in the eye, and reach out to you from their doorway, trying to touch your arm as you pass. It’s still the same litany—“Spare some change, miss”—but more personal, more invasive. More threatening.

  Do you have poor people, Mister Zog? People who’ve fallen off the bottom end of society. People so desperate that they might … not … obey … the … rules.

  After about the third or fourth of these, I realized I’d unwittingly changed course once or twice. I’d crossed a road, or turned a corner to avoid a beggar, and somehow ended up going in a different direction than I’d intended. My AllInFone was making annoyed pop-ups at me, telling me that here was not a good place to be, and to go there at the first intersection on the left.

  I could hear footsteps nearby. And laughter. Not nice laughter, though. My AllInFone was twitching Red Zone just a street or two away.

  I moved briskly, pretending a confidence I did not feel. The laughter receded. Perhaps it had only been my imagination, but I didn’t think so.

  So I’ve got this far. He’s just the other side of a shop window, and I’ve just spent two weeks’ allowance to get this close. Not to mention lying to my parents; they think I’ve just caught the bus into Wycombe to mooch around the shops.

  I edged closer, so I could just see the counter through the shop window. John was there, and he was busy serving a customer, a middle-aged lady about Mum’s age. Not that my mum is middle-aged, you understand, Mister Zog, but other people with similar birth dates to hers often are.

  This is the weak point in all my plans: how to walk into the shop and just say hi to John. Yes, I just happened to be passing and thought I’d say hello. Passing? On the way from where to where? Er …

  The customer leaves. I should go in now.…

  Too late, another customer has gone in.

  As I wait, I can feel my courage ebbing away.…

  Laughter, Tania, remember the laughter. It wasn’t nice laughter.…

  I almost collide as the customer leaves the shop, an elderly gentleman who calls out, “Watch it, youngster!” as I just miss crashing into him.

  I’m inside. Panting in self-inflicted fright, unable to talk.

  John looks at me, amazed. Behind—outside—my fears lurk.

  “Tania! What on earth are you doing here?”

  I suppose it was for the best. I’m not sure I’d have had the courage to go into the shop, if I hadn’t scared myself half to death.

  So why was I here?

  Wordlessly, I pointed back outside.

  “I got a bit lost. There are some scary places round here.…”

  John smiled faintly.

  “I guess Wood Green can be a bit unnerving compared to your village. But it’s okay if you’re careful, act like you belong here, and don’t stray near the Red Zones.”

  “Yeah. I’ll be more careful when I go back.”

  There was a silence, which lengthened. John was looking at me, but I couldn’t fathom his expression. I guess we were both trying to work out what to say. It began to get uncomfortable.

  We broke the silence at the same moment.

  “So what are you doing here.”

  “I’m gasping for a cuppa, would you mind?”

  “Of course,” John replied, letting me avoid the question for a second time. “Would you mind the shop for a moment?”

  I looked nervously over my shoulder, outside. But the street outside was empty. I heard noises from the kitchen, cupboards banging, cups clinking, water pouring.

  The shop door opened, and I started. But it was just an old man. He looked to be about sixty, with wispy, silver hair and a face that had begun to wrinkle and fall in on itself. Everything about him was blotchy, skin and clothing, and I gave a little shudder of repulsion. I guess I’d not seen many old people—at least, not poor old people—in the village, and it came as a bit of a shock.

  He shuffled. Yes, shuffled. As though he was afraid to lift his feet off the floor, terrified that gravity would grab him and dash him onto the unyielding ground.

  At the shelves he hesitated, before picking up two small tins of baked beans and turning them over, inspecting each one carefully, squinting and holding each tin right up to his glasses, then at arm’s length back and forth. Eventually, his puzzled look undiminished, he shuffled up to me.

  “Can you read these labels, love? Me eyes en’t what they used to be, and I can’t read the price.”

  I had to squint as well, but …

  “This one costs fifty-five, and the other is fifty-nine.”

  “I’ll take the one at fifty-five, love. Have to watch the pennies.”

  “The one at fifty-nine is better value, sir. Heavier.”

  “No. I want the one at fifty-five.”

  And he laboriously counted out fifty-five in small coins. At which point I realized I didn’t know how to operate the till. Did I scan the barcode? Or just enter a price? The old man must have spotted my uncertainty.

  “Don’t worry, love. Just put the money on the till, and the young man will sort it out later.”

  Saying which, he helped me scoop up the cash from the counter. And knocked some coins onto the floor.

  “Sorry, love.”

  But it was all there, and he gave me a gap-toothed smile as he left, and I smiled and waved back, and I felt all good inside at how I’d been nice and helpful to the old chap. John emerged, carrying two cups of tea.

  “Drink up! Who was that? Ernie MacDougall, by the sound of it.”

  “An old man, sunken face, blotchy skin. Blotchy everything.”

  “That sounds like Ernie. What did he want?”

  So I told John what had happened.

  “Where’s the other can of beans, then, Tania?”

  I looked around on the counter. Nothing. Perhaps he’d put the can back on the shelf, just to help me.

  No.

  The sneaky thief! That sweet old man had tricked me.

  “Oh, dear, Tania. You have to watch out for their tricks.”

  I think my lip might have trembled at that point. At any rate, I now found myself blurting out everything that had gone wrong with the day, without any full stops.

  “Oh, John, it’s been a
terrible day ’cause I told a lie to my mumandad and they think I’ve gone to the shops but I spent all my money to come here instead to see you but I lost my way and I strayed near the Red Zone and I got scared and I only just found you again and I’m a silly fool ’cause an old man tricked me and he stole a can of beans while I wasn’t looking and why did I come because my mum’s poorly and I had no one to talk to and it was my birthday and I was all alone and you’re in love with Siân and you never notice me and I owe you fifty-nine for the can of beans.”

  Followed by an undignified sniff, which may have been more of a sob.

  “Oh.”

  Was that it? I pour out my heart and you just say “Oh.” You soulless oaf. You callous, insensitive blockhead. You unsympathetic, isolate lump. You … you … boy.

  “Don’t worry about the fifty-nine.”

  “Th … th … thanks.”

  Definitely a sob. And thanks for nothing. Didn’t you hear me? My confession …

  “Sorry, Tania. I don’t know what to say. It’s … it’s not a good time. For discussing … that sort of thing.”

  When is?

  “Try, John. I’ve come a long way for answers.”

  There. That was pretty self-controlled, wasn’t it? And …

  “John, I’m trying to tell you how … important … you are to me. Do you remember when you stole some money, and I held you while you wept?”

  He looked at me then. Embarrassed and puzzled, both.

  “Things have changed since then,” he mumbled.

  I wish I knew what he meant. Lots of things had changed. I’d changed. I continued.

  “Maybe. But you’re just as … important … now as you were then. To me.”

  Don’t make me say it, John. The L-word. The one girls aren’t supposed to say first.

  “Look, Tania. I think I know where you’re going, and what you’re trying to say, and … don’t go there. We’ve got a great band, and I really value that more than anything else. Maybe you’re right about me and Siân, and maybe you’re not. Maybe I’ve noticed you more than you realize. But I remember when we played the school and we played two verses of ‘Coils,’ and I want that top-of-the-mountain feeling again.

  “Tania, the band means too much to me to let personal relationships wreck it. They will, you know, if we let them in. So the only thing I’ll say is that you’re becoming the best bass player in England, and for sure you’re the best-looking bass player already.” I grinned. “See, maybe I have noticed you. But what I want is you in my band, even if you look like a witch from Macbeth.”

  “But, John, I…”

  “Don’t say it, Tania. Unless it’s not what I think it is. Outside the band, I’m learning we’re each very different kinds of people and it scares me that our paths can only run together for a short while. While we can, let’s be the best damn band we can be, and not risk shortening that time by trying to be anything other than musicians.”

  “Oh.”

  Tania! How could you listen to such eloquence and just say, “Oh”? And after being so critical of him, too.

  Because he’d just dropped the bombshell. “Very different kinds of people.” He knew.

  “When did you find out?”

  He looked away, ashamed.

  “It doesn’t matter. A few weeks ago, maybe. Leave it. We’re a band. I’m the guitarist. You’re the bassist. That’s what matters.”

  Somehow we moved off that topic, and I got my cup of tea, though I made a face because it was nearly cold. So then we went back to the kitchen and I microwaved it and that made it taste all right again. John chattered about music, and every now and again the shop door rang, and we’d go out front and serve a customer, and then John showed me around the house a bit, and another customer came.

  I even put my head round the door of his room, and saw the typical mess of a teenage bedroom. Mine’s perfect, of course. (No it isn’t, Zog. I’m just pulling your tentacle.) Of course, I’d seen it loads of times on the computer screen, but this was different. I could see and even touch his record collection. Stuff that nobody would ever bother to digitize, so he had to play old vinyl records on a turntable. Weird, but they evoked the feeling of the dawn years of rock and roll, as no flash memory ever will.

  “What’s this, John? ‘Wail, Baby, Wail.’”

  “Kid Thomas. Want to listen?”

  “Okay, Kid Czern. Spin it.”

  So he dropped the 45 onto the turntable and lowered the arm, like you see on old celluloid transfers. Hisses and crackles emerged from two speakers. Yes, just two. Stereo, very primitive.

  Anyway, it started off a bit like classic Chuck Berry guitar, but with added saxophone, and the singer had an amazing voice that reminded me of Jerry Lee Lewis for energy, except the vocal timbre was black, so maybe Little Richard. But then the guitar started to do some strange bends—did he mean to play that way, or was it a really bad solo that someone decided to leave in as a joke?

  John wasn’t very helpful. He’d tried to learn it and ended up deciding if it was bad, it was so bad it was actually good. Nonsense, I argued. There’s a perfectly good note he could have played instead, and I’ll think of it in a moment.

  He laughed, and I got all huffy.

  “Don’t you laugh at me, Ginger Mop!”

  But he didn’t stop, so I punched him in the chest. Just gently, in fun, you understand, Mister Zog. To push him away. So he pushed back. Gently. In fun. In the chest.

  Then he sprang back, as if he’d touched a live wire. Beneath his ginger mop he was blushing furiously.

  “Sorrysorrysorry. I didn’t mean to do that, Tania.”

  “That’s all right, John. A bit gentler, if you don’t mind, next time.”

  Next time? Oh, you coy little minx, Tania Deeley!

  Without thinking, I reached out and took his hand, and drew it back toward my breast. For a moment, he didn’t resist. For a moment, I wondered what on earth I’d do when he was finally touching me. And then, three things happened, so close, I couldn’t honestly say which was first, second, or third.

  One. I felt the faintest, momentary resistance from him.

  Two. I remembered those thirty-two bars, and knew I wanted to go on being John’s bassist.

  Three. The shop bell rang. We had a customer.

  Darn it!

  The moment was gone, and I’m not sure that either of us was disappointed that it had passed without incident. Like I said, I really, really wanted to be John’s bassist. For the sake of those thirty-two bars, and the possibility they might come again.

  About half an hour later, I was still there, pottering about the shop with John, when the Czerns returned from their afternoon off. They were surprised, but I thought they’d have asked more questions about how I’d come to be “just passing.” Like, from where? To where? Visiting family? Friends? What are they called? Perhaps we know them.

  Fortunately not.

  They were kind enough to offer me tea. Mr. Czern was expansive, just as I remembered from the 1970s, offering cream cakes. Mrs. Czern was fussy, endlessly asking if there was anything more I’d like, in between saying, “It’s lovely to meet you again, Tania dear, John’s always talking about you and the band, you’ve grown so much since the theme park, a really pretty young lady, don’t you say, Jack, what instrument do you play? Oh, the bass guitar, isn’t that a bit heavy for a girl?”

  And I couldn’t leave. Mrs. Czern was a dear. Somehow the subject got onto my parents and then to my mum’s illness, and I found myself pouring out all my troubles there, while John looked on with a slightly hurt expression, that I hadn’t told him all this stuff. Never mind, John, that you’d told me you just wanted us to be guitar-and-bass. But then the conversation moved on again, and they had so much to talk about. Between them I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Even when the shop bell rang, there was never a lull in the conversation—I’d call it a monologue, but Mr. Czern had a knack of seamlessly taking over the thread, whenever his wife ran out of s
team, which technically makes it a dialogue—there was never a lull when I could say, “Well, it’s been a lovely visit, but I really must be going,” because that was bound to open the question of exactly where I was on my way to, and the possibility they’d offer me a lift to a place I’d totally made up.

  Plus it was getting later, and the light would be gone by the time I got back home. I was going to be in deep trouble when I did get home.

  In the end, John gave me my cue, ostentatiously clearing the table, and noisily washing up, which made Mrs. Czern rush out to the kitchen, muttering, “What has got into that boy?”

  “Mr. Czern…”

  “Call me Jack, please…”

  “Well, you’ve looked after me really nicely, and fed me, too, but I really do have to be going. My train…”

  “Ah, of course. John will walk you to the station.”

  That was a relief. I didn’t want to run the gauntlet of Wood Green alone when the light was fading.

  Anyway, there were hugs and farewells from John’s parents, and they made me promise to come again. John didn’t say much on the way to the station and we walked a good foot apart. At the Tube we parted at the top of the escalator. I wanted to hug him good-bye, but he turned and strode away too quickly, waving over his shoulder. I waved back, feeling cheated, and let the escalator carry me back down into the depths.

  I just missed one train, of course, and then all the other changes went wrong. Three hours it took me, Mister Zog, and even then I had to ring and get Dad to fetch me from the station—I’d not enough change left for the bus. And I still owed John fifty-nine.

  Dad. Dad wasn’t just angry, he was coldly furious. He started to shout at me, then he suddenly stopped himself. In an atmosphere you could cut an igloo from, we drove home not speaking. I couldn’t think of what to say, except a quiet, “Sorry, Dad,” and that got no reaction, unless he compressed his lips even more tightly.