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Authors: Laura Marney
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overcast when she came into the shop but maybe the weather has changed, maybe it’s sunny or raining now. She doesn’t know; she’s not in control. She’s in the queue at the cold meat counter but the man behind her is standing too close, she can’t move or she’ll lose her place but now she can’t remember what she wanted at this counter anyway.
There is a gridlock of trolleys in the personal hygiene aisle and usually when this happens she waits and lets people pass or reverses if she can, but there is a woman behind her who won’t back up. Daphne is taking big breaths, trying to slow down her breathing. Her back feels damp and she can feel sweat making rings round the leg holes of her pants. She leans over her trolley, frightened that her legs will buckle again and she’ll fall. The trolley is still empty when she parks it in the biscuit aisle and walks out of the shop.
*
Some days later, very early in the morning, when Daphne’s supplies have all but run out and she’s down to half a jar of gluey sweetcorn chutney and a parsnip, she realises she’ll have to shop elsewhere. No more Asda but there’s an all-night deli just across the park. At quarter past four on a Saturday morning Daphne is enjoying having the park to herself. It’s big and wide and densely wooded, a forest in the middle of the city, even more so at this time when there is not the usual background drone of traffic, just the wind whooshing high in the trees. A good place to get lost.
Daphne is the only customer in the all-night deli. The only member of staff is a skater boy who correctly identifies her as a low shoplifting risk. He nods as she comes in then disappears down into the basement. Every so often he climbs the stairs carrying boxes and fills the shelves.
The shelves are made of dark expensive-looking wood. These right-on, new-age places sicken Daphne. They charge a fortune for save-the-planet, wholegrain, organic, recyclable crap and then use hardwoods for their shelving.
The shop sells white asparagus, artichoke hearts, dried ham, queen-size olives and buffalo mozzarella. It doesn’t do practical stuff like Heinz beans or Tetley tea bags. But at least she won’t bump into Donnie. And the bread looks really nice.
Daphne has no appetite for anything other than bread and butter. She has spent the day snoozing and dreaming of thick slabs of crusty bread with butter so thick that a dentist could render a perfect set of dentures from the impression she leaves. Asda bread is fantastic and their butter reasonably priced but it’s become for her a no-fly zone and she quietly accepts that if she wants to eat she’ll have to settle for this mahogany emporium of pretentiousness.
*
‘Daphne, is it okay if ah keep my phone on today? Ah’m waitin fur a call fae ma lawyer,’ says Mark.
‘Och Daphne, he’s at it!’ Thomas remonstrates. ‘He tried that wan in George Simpson’s class as well.’
Daphne isn’t sure what to make of this. This class, her adult returners, are very strict about phones in the classroom. With her other classes Daphne makes her standard mobile phone speech at the start of each lesson. They listen politely, nod and pretend to switch their phones off. Daphne knows they’re on silent. Students take calls from behind and under the desks, even sometimes texting each other while sitting five yards apart. But not this class.
This class are self-policing. She doesn’t bother with the speech with them, they’ve already turned them off. The odd time a phone rings, the disapproving whistles and tuts are enough to ensure it doesn’t happen again.
‘Daphne, ah’m sorry aboot this. If it’s a problem, ah understand,’ Mark says. She can see how uncomfortable he is with this. ‘I’ll leave noo if ye waant but ah need to speak tae him when he phones.’
‘Oooooow! ah need tae speak tae him!’ echoes Billy, followed by various cynical quips.
‘He thinks he’s the President of the fucking United
There is a gridlock of trolleys in the personal hygiene aisle and usually when this happens she waits and lets people pass or reverses if she can, but there is a woman behind her who won’t back up. Daphne is taking big breaths, trying to slow down her breathing. Her back feels damp and she can feel sweat making rings round the leg holes of her pants. She leans over her trolley, frightened that her legs will buckle again and she’ll fall. The trolley is still empty when she parks it in the biscuit aisle and walks out of the shop.
*
Some days later, very early in the morning, when Daphne’s supplies have all but run out and she’s down to half a jar of gluey sweetcorn chutney and a parsnip, she realises she’ll have to shop elsewhere. No more Asda but there’s an all-night deli just across the park. At quarter past four on a Saturday morning Daphne is enjoying having the park to herself. It’s big and wide and densely wooded, a forest in the middle of the city, even more so at this time when there is not the usual background drone of traffic, just the wind whooshing high in the trees. A good place to get lost.
Daphne is the only customer in the all-night deli. The only member of staff is a skater boy who correctly identifies her as a low shoplifting risk. He nods as she comes in then disappears down into the basement. Every so often he climbs the stairs carrying boxes and fills the shelves.
The shelves are made of dark expensive-looking wood. These right-on, new-age places sicken Daphne. They charge a fortune for save-the-planet, wholegrain, organic, recyclable crap and then use hardwoods for their shelving.
The shop sells white asparagus, artichoke hearts, dried ham, queen-size olives and buffalo mozzarella. It doesn’t do practical stuff like Heinz beans or Tetley tea bags. But at least she won’t bump into Donnie. And the bread looks really nice.
Daphne has no appetite for anything other than bread and butter. She has spent the day snoozing and dreaming of thick slabs of crusty bread with butter so thick that a dentist could render a perfect set of dentures from the impression she leaves. Asda bread is fantastic and their butter reasonably priced but it’s become for her a no-fly zone and she quietly accepts that if she wants to eat she’ll have to settle for this mahogany emporium of pretentiousness.
*
‘Daphne, is it okay if ah keep my phone on today? Ah’m waitin fur a call fae ma lawyer,’ says Mark.
‘Och Daphne, he’s at it!’ Thomas remonstrates. ‘He tried that wan in George Simpson’s class as well.’
Daphne isn’t sure what to make of this. This class, her adult returners, are very strict about phones in the classroom. With her other classes Daphne makes her standard mobile phone speech at the start of each lesson. They listen politely, nod and pretend to switch their phones off. Daphne knows they’re on silent. Students take calls from behind and under the desks, even sometimes texting each other while sitting five yards apart. But not this class.
This class are self-policing. She doesn’t bother with the speech with them, they’ve already turned them off. The odd time a phone rings, the disapproving whistles and tuts are enough to ensure it doesn’t happen again.
‘Daphne, ah’m sorry aboot this. If it’s a problem, ah understand,’ Mark says. She can see how uncomfortable he is with this. ‘I’ll leave noo if ye waant but ah need to speak tae him when he phones.’
‘Oooooow! ah need tae speak tae him!’ echoes Billy, followed by various cynical quips.
‘He thinks he’s the President of the fucking United
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