A Clove Of Garlic
Feet drifted languidly forward. A little girl (she looked like a Sophie) was skipping around her mother, animatedly talking about her day.Martin listened.He wasn’t nosy,merely... interested in people. The mother’s soft undefined face reminded him of Susan. Sweet Susan. Sophie’s basket was crammed with Cadbury’s chocolate. Susan would never let him buy any; it would rot his teeth. He looked down at his shopping list, his sprawling chaotic handwriting juxtaposed with Susan’s prim and well-ordered style: she usually wrote the list. He gazed down at the batteries and looked at the price: £2.77. How absurd! He looked again at his list and felt a spasm of annoyance: he’d only wanted one clove of garlic, and yet according to the monosyllabic shop assistant he had to buy a whole bulb. He must tell Susan when he got home. Then again, she would probably know already. His thoughts were punctuated by the automated,serene command of “Cashier number three, please”. The queue trudged on; the check-out was tantalisingly close now. He looked at cashier number three. Her name tag said “ Margaret , Here To Help”, that sweet façade of service laid on by all Tesco cashiers. He remained dubious, however, that she would go beyond draining his cash. He inspected her more critically; Ms Cashier Number Three had exactly the same austere hairstyle as Susan, her russet hair wrenched off her face in a tight ponytail. The Susan-imposter was serving a haggard-looking middle-aged man. His tie hung dead round his neck. His basket contained a ready-meal and a pint of milk – the food of the hard-working bachelor. Before the collapse of Northern Rock,Martin had held a highly- important, well-respected job at Mandwick’s accountancy firm.
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