I phoned Judy on her mobile and caught her in the car, sounding distinctly weary and defensive – in exactly the right mood to be seduced by the thought of not having to cook. If I’m honest, I have to admit that when she sounds like that there’s a bit of me wishes I didn’t have to go home and face her: I sometimes indulge the fantasy that I could disappear and live quietly round the corner without her ever knowing. Still, it never lasts long. I’ve no doubt she entertains the same kinds of thoughts about me from time to time.
‘I’m going to pick up some bits of chicken and do one of my specials. I know this report’s taking it out of you and you must be exhausted. Go straight home and make yourself a cup of tea.’
‘Charlie, that sounds great. But how was your day? What sort of –’
‘Not bad at all. Not a bad day. I managed to –’
‘Pick up a decent bottle of red, will you, darling? We’ve only got disgusting plonk left and I need something a bit more cheering.’
She was there. Squeezed into the space behind her cash register as tightly as before; as large as I’d remembered. It was a bit disappointing to see she had a small queue at her checkout; not as long as the others, but still a respectable number of people. I had rather hoped to be her only customer: a lone experimenter braving the empty wastes of her conveyor belt and discovering the gem of sensitivity and wit buried under the muffling pounds of surplus fat. Kilos of fat, I should say.
I did my shopping quickly and joined the queue, uncomfortably aware that it appeared to be unchanged since I had entered the store. The same five people were lined up with their trolleys and baskets, although the shopper at the till was even now tidying her change and receipt away in her purse. The line shifted forward a little and I watched my marshmallow girl intently. She sat impassively with her hands neatly folded on the rubber surface of the belt, watching the customer slowly pick up her shopping and turn to go, then reaching forward for a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread and mechanically passing it in front of the scanner. The elderly woman she now served lifted a worn shopping bag off her arm and laid it at the end of the belt, not glancing at the girl in front of her, who appeared equally uninterested. Each seemed totally unaware of the other’s presence, as if a mutual pact had been made to get through the next few minutes with the least possible amount of human contact. Only when the small selection of goods was packed into the bag did the girl mutter a barely decipherable couple of words vaguely in the direction of her customer and money changed hands and some sort of minimal communication took place.
My original idea of trying a joke was looking more and more risky as my turn approached and I began to feel slightly nervous. My sense of humour is not altogether unappreciated in the courtroom, albeit a bit too old-fashioned and well rehearsed to be as funny as I imagine when I’m lying in bed planning it. But it generally lightens things up a little, if nothing more. It does require, though, that the recipient takes enough interest to be able to listen to several words at a time. Or, at the very least, allows a little eye contact so that the principle of one party attempting to amuse the other can be established, even if the words themselves are not appreciated or understood. It’s tricky to be even faintly funny if the audience is looking in the opposite direction wearing an expression of utter indifference and boredom. I was horribly shy as a child, and the memory of that excruciating feeling of something being expected of me that I just couldn’t produce still surfaces from time to time. Judy’s always telling me I’m like a different person in company, and she’s right: I clam up. I’m far happier in the circle I know, unless I’m dressed up in my armour of gown and wig and well prepared for what appear to be off-the-cuff remarks in court.
So, as I approached the checkout, I trimmed my sails somewhat. I abandoned any attempt at an anecdote or at telling one of the children’s cleaner jokes and decided to join her on her own ground, so to speak, and to be amusing about an aspect of her world. At the same time I thought it a good opportunity to offer a small reminder of our first meeting, perhaps to reassure her that I was up for a little unthreatening conversation, and that here was a chap who didn’t mind laughing at himself. If all that could be achieved I might just open the tiniest chink of the gate to communication, and begin the process of revealing the hidden glories behind it.
As the last customer in front of me moved away I began to unload my shopping and glanced up at her. It’s fascinating how quickly one’s parameters adjust to the unusual: although she was clearly enormously overweight, on this second viewing it no longer seemed to be her dominating characteristic. I was more aware of those pretty eyes, and the fleshiness of the girl was this time less grotesque, more – pleasantly Rubenesque.
Her gaze was still unfocused, but the head was at least facing the right direction. I picked up a packet of butter from my basket and waved it about in front of her, forcing her to pay it attention.
‘Is it a bogof?’ I smiled.
A faint frown rippled the heavy folds between her eyebrows. She stopped moving my shopping and looked directly at the yellow pack of Anchor that I was holding directly in front of her nose.
‘Only you may remember I missed a bogof when I was here the other day. You kindly pointed it out to me. And I didn’t know what you meant – do you remember? I even thought you were using some sort of offensive term, or something!’
The frown remained.
‘When you said “bogof”, I mean,’ I floundered on. ‘I thought you were – oh never mind.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Right.’
‘And I do remember,’ she went on, taking the butter from my hand and scanning it. ‘I’m not stupid, you know. I remember all the customers.’
‘Do you really?’ I asked, genuinely interested in whether this were true. It seemed unlikely that she could really recall this very ordinary man in whose direction she had hardly glanced for more than a couple of seconds at most, let alone the hundreds of others who must pass in front of her till each week. ‘How extremely clever of you.’
‘MR CHIPSTEAD!’
Her shout made me jump.
‘What? What’s the problem?’
‘Mr Chipstead’s my manager. I’m calling him, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, but –’ I had a horrible vision of being dragged by the collar from the store, accused by Mr Chipstead of overfamiliarity with the checkout girl. ‘Is there a –’
‘No bar code.’
She held the packet of chicken breasts towards me.
‘Ah, no. I see. Won’t beep, eh? I can’t remember how much they are, I’m afraid. I think they were about –’
‘Don’t matter. I need the stock code.’
‘Of course, yes. The stock code.’
‘MR CHIPSTEAD!’