by Nick Laird
LATE AFTERNOON
Janice had been in the chemists since eight that morning. She came in early on Saturdays to help Mr Martin stock the deliveries: cheap perfumes, medicated shampoos, carbolic soap and novelty bubble bath. The merchandise hadn’t changed much in the five years Janice had been there. They’d sell a few foot spas and hair driers at Christmas, but the year-round trade was no-nonsense toiletries and the prescriptions Mr Martin dispensed from the back of the shop. Janice worked on what she called the cosmetics counter, and it did indeed sell lipstick, in three different shades normally, though they only had two at the minute, and mascara, in both brown and black. The rest of the top shelf displayed face masks, two pedicure sets, and a curling device for eyelashes. The condoms and Canesten were kept in a glass cupboard behind her. The middle shelf catered for old people: pill boxes, an electric feet-warmer, rubber sheets, and several different denture pastes. At the bottom of the counter was an array of tablets for ringworm and fleas, a lotion for liver fluke in cattle, and a gallon-jar of foot-rot spray for sheep. She’d arranged them from left to right in order of colour, darkest to lightest. Nothing had moved in the counter for some time, not since last Saturday in fact, when she’d sold one of the lipsticks to Joyce Hartley’s daughter who couldn’t be more than twelve. A Boots chemists had opened up just across the main street and even Janice now bought her own make-up in there. She’d go over at lunchtimes, telling the Martins she was just popping out to buy a sandwich, and then smuggle the make-up back in her handbag. She always thought Boots big smiley security guard (Declan someone) was going to stop her on the way out and look in her bag. She’d have to show him the receipt and explain that she worked in another chemists, a less well-stocked one. Sometimes she thought she should have applied to Boots when they’d first opened. Their cosmetics counter was amazing, like some enormous paint box: row after row of shades of concealers, lipsticks, mascaras and eye shadows. In fact they had a whole separate range of waterproof mascaras, and that special thickening kind that plumped the lashes. They even had all the metallic shades of eye shadows, and Declan was cute in his own goofy way. The shop girls in there all looked like doctors in those spick white coats, hurrying down the aisles as if they were rushing through Accident & Emergency. Compared to that, Martin’s was more like the Geriatrics ward. Both Mr and Mrs Martin were about seventy, bordering doddery, and Janice’s shop coat had turned grey over five years of washing. Five years in the same shop, standing in the same spot behind the same counter, but the Martins had been good to her, or good enough to persuade her to stay. Even when the place was turned over and everyone knew that Budgie had done it, they’d never said a word about it, or not to her anyway.
Janice didn’t like Saturdays in the shop. The view of the street–of the far side of it from O’Hagan’s Bakery on the left up to Robertson’s Bikes on the right–was blocked by a lorry selling flowers and plants. There had been a market in Ballyglass since the 1600s, when James the First had granted a Royal Charter to John Stewart, a local landowner, and the townland of Ballyglass, most of which he owned, had become a livestock fair. Now the main street was lined on both sides with stalls. They sold everything a Ballyglassian could want: fake designer T-shirts (the trademarks smudged or slightly askew), rugs embroidered with Indian tigers, plastic shoes, jewellery (home-made from baked dough), carrots still covered in soil. There were at least three burger vans. One stall sold only mobile phone covers, branded with everything from Rangers or the Union Jack to Celtic or the Tricolour.
There was an intricate balance to Ballyglass. For every Protestant business, a chemists, say, like Martin’s, there was the Roman Catholic equivalent, sometimes right next door. It was an instance of the parallel universe becoming visible, as if two separate towns existed and somehow inhabited the very same space. There were different local papers, schools, churches, pubs, clubs, bars, restaurants, shops, petrol stations, dentists, estate agents, insurance brokers, newsagents, car dealers. The odd thing was that now peace (of sorts) had come, the big businesses from across the water had started arriving. The Boots which had been causing Mr Martin sleepless nights had also caused problems for several of the good people of Ballyglass: was the chemists classed as a Protestant or Roman Catholic operation? There was talk of contacting the shareholders. The same went for the barn-like Tesco’s and Sainsbury’s supermarkets which had opened on the edge of town. The Protestant greengrocer, who’d always favoured carrots in his window display, and his Roman Catholic equivalent, who’d been fonder of cabbages and broccoli, were now closing, along with various butchers and mini-marts. It was becoming apparent to the place that peace had its own difficulties, and it was only the troubles that had kept the community structure. Now, with the Army barracks dismantled, the two concrete sangars gone from the main street, and the invasion of the multinational chains, Ballyglass was starting to look like it could be in Yorkshire or Surrey. It had turned out the threat of losing your identity hadn’t been from the foreign governments of Dublin or London after all, but instead from the money-makers, the profit margins, the businessmen.
Mrs Burnett spoke very softly. It was as though she was scared of being overheard. Mrs Burnett was not a well woman. She wanted a new toothbrush and looked very intently into Janice’s face just as Jan’s phone started ringing. It was set to the Mexican Jumping Bean tune–Malandra had done it–and Janice didn’t know how to change it. She led Mrs Burnett–poor Mrs Burnett who’d lost husband and son, one to cancer and the other to prison–into the middle of the shop, to the toothbrush rack, and then went back to her counter to answer her phone. ‘Geordie!’ Janice squealed it and Mrs Burnett turned slowly round. She was looking for a toothbrush with soft bristles, not the harder kind which hurt her gums.
‘Hello tiger. How you going?’ Geordie felt something unscrew a little inside him, come looser. He could see her behind her counter, examining her nails, watching the street.
‘Fine, I’m fine. But are you all right?’ Mrs Burnett was now leaning against the toothbrush rack. It seemed to be the sole means of keeping her upright. Janice edged out round the counter and over towards her.
‘I think something’s wrong. Budgie’s gone weird. He never mentioned the money at all yesterday.’ She put one hand on Mrs Burnett’s shoulder and gently eased her away from the wobbling carousel.
‘It’s all sorted out now. I met an associate of his over here and delivered it to him.’
Geordie was sitting on Danny’s sofa. The horseracing was on the telly but a sunray had successfully censored the picture. He couldn’t be bothered to get up and close the curtains.
‘Thank God for that. Does Budgie know?’
‘He should do now. Listen, Jan, can you talk? Is Martin around?’
‘He’s in the back…but I’ve a customer with me.’
Mrs Burnett, though, was not really with anyone. She had wandered over to the wooden chair by the rack of walking sticks and sat down. Some shopping spilled out of the two bags she’d dropped by her feet: a small tin of beans, a single banana. She was holding two different toothbrushes in their extravagant packets and looking at them, hard. Her perm was coming out and her hair looked greasy.
‘I can call you back later.’
‘No go ahead. It’s fine.’
‘Okay. I thought maybe…do you fancy coming here? To London?’
‘For a weekend?’ Janice’s voice was shrill with surprise.
‘For good, I mean, for as long you want. You could stay here, at Dan’s. He doesn’t mind.’
Some relationships are always going to be serious (when you decide to begin seeing, say, a devout Christian, or your best friend) and some just aren’t. Sometimes, though, one thing slips into another, the sex becomes tender, and you realize you’re enjoying your pillow talk more than you thought. Janice was silent for a few seconds. She liked Geordie more than any of the others she’d been with. He was funny, and he didn’t care about acting hard or fighting. She thought he might be clever. And he was good at sex. He
enjoyed it and wanted her to as well. With other boys it had seemed almost like fighting–being held down and tugged at–but with Geordie it was like they were playing together, like they were sharing an amazing secret. She hadn’t expected him to like her though, not like this.
‘I could come over for a while.’ She pressed at the lid of her wonky eye, something she did when she was concentrating hard. Mrs Burnett was unconsciously, and with some difficulty, demonstrating the brace position, having dropped one of the toothbrushes under her chair.
‘Good.’ Geordie stood up in Danny’s living room and yanked the curtain across. The TV screen coloured. ‘I miss you Jan. More than I thought I was going to, you know.’
‘I bet you don’t. I bet the women over there are just too snobby for you.’ She was swaying a little behind the counter.
‘Do you not miss me?’ Geordie asked, his little boy voice.
‘Course I do, you know I do. Listen, I’ll have to ask, you know, about getting some time off.’ She looked over at her lone customer, who, still in her seat, had pressed her forehead against the Quit Smoking poster. ‘We’re pretty busy at the minute here.’ Geordie felt irritated. God, she really could be slow. Here he was telling her to come live with him for good and she was talking about asking old man Martin for a holiday.
‘Jan, I’m serious about this. I want you to come over and stay here. Chuck your job. I’ve arranged for Danny to pick you up tomorrow morning.’
‘Have you now? And when were you going to let me know?’
‘Well, I’m telling you this minute, aren’t I?’ He knew from her voice she was smiling.
‘You’re very full of yourself Geordie Wilson, you know that. What if I’d decided not to come?’
‘Well then he wouldn’t be picking you up. Don’t muck around Jan. I still have to sort your ticket out. You can fly back with him and Ellen tomorrow.’
‘Who’s Ellen?’
‘Girl he works with, and I think he’s seeing her now. They’re over in Belfast on business. He said he’d get you at 10 a.m. by the Esso garage on Moneyronan Corner. Do you know who he is?’
‘Of course I know who he is. He’s gorgeous. Big tall thing.’
‘Easy up.’
‘I’ll have to call you back.’ She switched the phone off. Mr Martin had come out from the back of the shop and was stooping over Mrs Burnett, his hand on her arm.
‘Janice, I think you should make Mrs Burnett a wee cup of tea. Would you like that Mrs Burnett? Warm you up.’
Mrs Burnett sniffed and swallowed heavily. Janice went into the back of the shop to boil the kettle. She could go over for a while anyway, just see what happened. Mr Martin would let her take two weeks off. She would talk to him as soon as Mrs Burnett had gone.
Geordie stood up and walked into the boxroom to get his jacket and trainers. He was going to book Janice’s ticket. By this time tomorrow they could be in here together, fucking in bed. He should wash the sheets maybe. Or just open the window for a bit.
Mrs Burnett supped at her tea carefully, like a child, as if it might burn her or spill. Mr Martin had brought Mrs Martin’s chair from round behind the prescriptions counter (she was visiting her sister in Newry hospital today) and was now seated opposite Mrs Burnett. He was such a good man, Mr Martin. Janice watched them from across the shop.
‘There now, a cup of tea never did anyone harm.’
Mrs Burnett looked up slowly. His head tilted slightly to the side with professional concern, Mr Martin continued.
‘So how are you feeling?
‘Not great Harry, not great at all. I don’t know what it is. I’m not myself…I get up and I want to go back to bed…I go to bed and I can’t sleep…I can’t do anything.’
‘How long has it been now, since Alex…?’
‘Three months, nearly three months.’
‘Well Jean, these things take time. You don’t get over something like that immediately. You’re sad now and you should be sad. Nothing wrong with feeling sad.’
‘But I can’t do anything. I can’t decide on anything. I can’t even decide on a toothbrush.’
She lifted the two toothbrushes that lay in her lap. Mr Martin had picked the dropped one up from under her seat.
‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t you take them both and then tell me which is better? We’ll call it market research.’ He eased them from her grip and put them in one of her shopping bags. She smiled at him weakly, and nodded, embarrassed at his hands touching hers.
‘Okay Harry, thanks. I’m sorry for taking your time.’ She bent down and made as if to lift the plastic bags. Mr Martin stayed her arm with his own soft hand. It was hairless and pinkly pale, something new-born.
‘Now you stay your ground. We’re not exactly busy,’ he looked up and down the aisle for effect, ‘so sit tight until you’re feeling better.’
‘I wouldn’t be saying that to me, I could be here for months…I’ll get up in a minute or two.’ She leant back in the chair and put both hands around the blue mug, warming them. Her face was almost white. Mr Martin slowly pushed the chair back up the aisle to the counter and went into the back to do his prescriptions.
The glass front door swung open and the electronic singsong went off. Mrs Burnett leant into the wall and looked up to apologize for being partly in the way, but the customer had already moved on, across to the counter where that nice Janice was. He was big and moved very fast. Janice had shrunk back against the cupboard behind her. It was Budgie. He placed his two hands on the glass top and leered across it (Janice thought of the little tented sign on the top shelf she’d scratched out in red biro years ago: Please don’t lean on the counter). His voice was full of anger.
‘Okay Jan? Having a nice day at work are we? And what the fuck is all this about you going to London? Are you still talking to Wilson?’ He was nodding his head, shouting, becoming more and more enraged. Janice shook hers slowly.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can we do this later? Mr Martin’s going to come out in a minute.’ Mr Martin was already coming out. He had walked down the far aisle and was standing beside Mrs Burnett, but looking with evident concern across the shop at the siblings.
‘Janice, everything all right?’ he asked, his hand on Mrs Burnett’s shoulder but with the two of them facing the same way, towards Janice, like in an old style marriage photo.
‘It’s fine Mr Martin. Greer’s just leaving.’
Budgie turned round.
‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’
The chemist bristled and sighed, but Mrs Burnett remained completely calm. She glanced up at Mr Martin, who was now looking away, up at the back of the shop, and then said, quite clearly, ‘This is his business Greer. Why don’t you take your problems outside?’
‘Fuck off. I’m talking to my sister and I’ll do it where I want to. All right?’
Janice came round the counter.
‘Come on Budgie, outside. Now.’ She walked to the door and went through it. There was an alley two shops down that cut through to the High Street from one of the car parks. She walked through the shoppers and turned into it, growing angrier with every step. Greer walked after her, bouncing on the balls of his feet. In the alley she turned to face him and screamed:
‘LOOK, I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOUR PROBLEM IS. IF I WANT TO GO TO LONDON THEN I’M GOING TO FUCKING GO TO LONDON AND YOU CAN’T STOP ME…Sorry, Mrs McClelland.’
Janice stepped aside for Mrs McClelland to pull her tartan shopper between her and Budgie. She scurried through. Budgie made a face at Janice: his tongue pushed over his bottom teeth to create a distended bump below his lower lip, his eyes wide. He had done the same thing, made the same face at her, for maybe twenty years.
‘You’re just so fucking stupid Jan. You’re beyond help. Geordie’s a fucking waste of space. A total fucking loser.’
Janice looked at the wall a few inches behind him. He could say what he liked. She didn’t care. He could even hit her. Someone
must have smashed a bottle off the wall here. There was a little jag of green glass on the edge of one of the bricks. She looked back at her brother’s face, its odd bulbous expression and his brown widened eyes. Calm and miles away, she breathed out loudly and said, ‘He gave the money back. To some friend of yours in London. Just leave me alone Budgie. Please. Just leave me alone.’ Then she turned and walked out of the alley back into the street.
At five twenty-seven that afternoon, Mr Martin walked up the shop to the glass front and stood looking out. He’d been fine about letting Janice have the time off. In fact he’d seemed almost pleased and told her she deserved a holiday. Janice stood watching him now, his hunched back in its white coat framed by the shop window. He sighed with the usual sad and relieved air he liked to adopt at closing time.
‘Well, we won’t be retiring tomorrow anyway.’
Always the same line, but Janice didn’t mind. Being expected, when his statement actually arrived it was also somehow surprising, like the school bell at going-home time.
‘And if you want to head on then…I have some forms to fill out before I lock up.’
‘Okay…And I’m sorry again about earlier, about Greer…he can be a bit wild.’
‘Aye well, these things happen…’ He paused by the shampoos, rearranging two bottles that were heading the wrong columns. ‘Janice, you know, if these two weeks in London…well, if they…work out, and you want to stay on, Mrs Martin and I…Mary and I, we’ll get someone in. You shouldn’t be thinking we wouldn’t cope.’
Janice felt embarrassed. She looked down at the carton of paracetamol she was halfway through pricing,
‘Oh I know. I wouldn’t think that…It’s very good of you though…thank you.’
Mr Martin had turned his back and was shuffling off. Janice hung her white coat up in the storeroom and left, shouting goodnight up the stairs at the back. Outside, she turned right and started up the High Street towards her estate. Most of the stalls were packing up. At the corner of Fountain Street Mrs MacNeill was re-wrapping her ornaments in sheets of the Newsletter. Janice managed to get past her without being noticed, and so avoided the long barmy chat that would consist mostly of pauses in which she’d try, unsuccessfully, to move off.