Dot settled. She was so small she could hardly see through the windscreen and kept stretching her neck up like a tortoise. Mrs Hibbert cleared her throat, ashamed at having spoken so sharply and only hoped Dot understood that it really was Adam she was annoyed with. She badly wanted to say something sympathetic, or to apologise, but did neither. She would try to show Dot by her actions that she hadn’t meant to sound so angry, for after all, actions spoke louder than words (an aphorism of which she was particularly fond). She drove confidently on, feeling not quite so guilty having decided this, negotiating roundabouts with aplomb and gathering speed once the dual carriageway was reached. It was only 3 miles along it to all the big supermarkets, a hideous collection of them, all more or less next to each other. There were plenty of shops in their small town but almost everyone made a weekly trip out here because of course everything was cheaper and the variety of goods much greater. Mrs Hibbert didn’t need to save money and she had no desire for a wider choice, but she liked the outing, though she would never have admitted this – she was going for Dot’s sake, no other reason. Adam kept her very short of housekeeping money and wanted every wretched penny accounted for. He regarded his wife as disorganised, scatty, impressionable and hopeless at knowing what was value for money. Mrs Hibbert had been bound to admit that there was some truth in this. She had seen Dot forget to buy essential items like soap powder or toilet rolls and come away from the shop with a pound of grapes long past their best (‘Reduced!’) or expensive frozen chocolate eclairs which would rightly infuriate Adam. She loved cream cakes and was always ‘fancying’ them.
‘Dot,’ said Mrs Hibbert, when they were nearly there, ‘Dot, buy something for yourself today. Is there anything you want? I’d like you to. My treat, dear. Some cakes, or biscuits. What about those chocolate wafer things you like? Do they come in boxes or tins as well as packets? Choose yourself a box.’ ‘They do come in tins, Mary,’ Dot said. ‘But they’re expensive, because you’re buying the tin too, you see.’ Mrs Hibbert controlled her irritation with difficulty – good heavens, as if she needed Dot to explain that to her! It was amusing, really. ‘Never mind the cost,’ she said, ‘you get yourself a tin. You can always use it to store something in, when it’s empty, so it won’t be a waste.’ ‘I could give it to Sarah,’ said Dot, brightening up, ‘she could keep her paintbrushes in it, if she took the lid off.’ Again, Mrs Hibbert tightened her lips. If Dot wasn’t thinking of how to please Adam, she was thinking of how to please that ungrateful daughter of hers, a girl who never thought of treating her mother. She had never known Sarah give Dot anything but trouble. No doubt it was all to do with her upbringing and Dot had indeed brought Sarah up very, very foolishly. She had over-indulged her from the beginning, petted and cosseted her, been at her beck and call. Mrs Hibbert had found it painful to witness and had never been able to resist contrasting Dot’s lamentable style of mothering with how she herself would have approached the role. When she saw Dot so neglected by her only child, who must know how much in need of support her mother was, she could not help fantasising about how her daughter if she’d had one would have responded to her needs, whatever they might have been.
She parked as near as possible to the trolley bay. Dot wouldn’t have a pound coin ready for the trolley, of course, but she had one for each of them, as she always did. Sometimes, Dot forgot to return the coin and had to be reminded (laughingly, nicely). ‘Now, Dot,’ Mrs Hibbert said, ‘have you got your list?’ She knew it was Adam who made the list and that he would play hell if Dot forgot any of the items on it. Dot flourished it, beaming. ‘And your purse?’ Dot pulled it out of her bag and said, ‘All present and correct.’ They both laughed. It felt most companionable, almost jolly, going into the supermarket together. Once inside, Mrs Hibbert reminded Dot that she herself would be back in the car, her shopping done, in forty minutes precisely. She didn’t mind waiting a little longer for Dot, but no more than another ten minutes at the absolute most, was that clear? It was. They parted. Mrs Hibbert had no need of a list. Having to make lists was a sign of a weak mind and, unlike her body, her mind had shown no sign of weakening. The truth was, and she acknowledged it to herself, she didn’t need to buy anything. Need didn’t come into it. She had six oranges left (she had an orange every day, mindful of vitamin C requirements) and half a wholemeal loaf (she ate two slices each lunchtime) and plenty of cheese (2 ounces a day, with the bread), and her freezer had ample supplies of fish and chicken (she no longer ate red meat). In her fridge she had three carrots, a cauliflower, some green beans and a pound or so of tomatoes as well as a cos lettuce. A string of onions hung in her kitchen and there were potatoes in the shed. She was well provided for, but this was Friday and Dot’s shopping day, and she could not let Dot down. Dot, she was sure, had not the slightest idea that this trip was for her sake only.
There was no harm, though, in stocking up on supplies and in keeping up with what was on offer. She wandered slowly down the aisles, leaning slightly on her trolley, comparing prices. She could have managed with a basket, but they were such awkward things and pulled on her arm even with just a few items in them. There was something pleasing about knowing she could buy anything she wanted – anything – and that she didn’t need to worry about the cost as so many of the other shoppers, Dot included, were obliged to. Harassed mothers were forever rushing past her trying to stop small children snatching goods off the shelves – to them, shopping was a burden, something to be got over as quickly as possible. She saw them looking at wristwatches and sighing, and, at the check-out, looking in purses and groaning. She felt sorry for them. If she found herself behind one of these demented beings she always offered to help unload her trolley and the offer was nearly always accepted. She tried not to be judgemental but really, the stuff these women bought! It wasn’t so much the packets of crisps and cans of Coke – she knew she must not be snobbish – but the ready-made meals that shocked her. If she had had a family and been on a tight budget, no ready-made meal would ever have found its way into her trolley.
She stopped in front of the fruit. It seemed extraordinary to her that supermarkets these days were willing to let shoppers pick their own fruit and vegetables so that anyone discerning could always be sure of perfect produce – marvellous. She selected four Granny Smith apples with the greatest care, a small melon which she tested for ripeness, and a bunch of watercress. Watercress was very nutritious. She’d read that there was more vitamin C in a sprig of watercress than in . . . she couldn’t remember what. She moved on to the next aisle and searched for the right sort of tinned sardines. The right sort had to have been canned in sunflower oil and be boneless. Sardines in spring water, or brine, were better for you but she thought them tasteless and preferred risking her health by selecting those in an acceptable sort of oil. People made themselves ill by fretting about cholesterol, whatever it was. They went on foolish diets when there was no need. Mrs Hibbert herself was proud to claim she had never been on a diet in her life. If she got fat, which in her fifties she had begun to be, she had simply eaten less. Her trolley (of the smaller type) now looked quite respectable after she’d added two boxes of All Bran to the apples and six tins of sardines. She was finished and could no longer delay making her way to the check-out.
Amazingly, Dot was already there with a great heaped trolley plus a wire basket perched on top. She looked even more nervous than she usually did, but Mrs Hibbert thought maybe she appeared so shaky because she’d been rushing in an effort to please her friend. She was touched by this and even felt a little guilty. They got into place at the check-out, Mrs Hibbert graciously indicating that Dot should go first. But Dot hesitated. She took the wire basket and held it out and said, ‘I thought I’d keep my treat separate, Mary.’ Mrs Hibbert understood at once: Dot didn’t want the treat to go on her receipt, even though Mrs Hibbert would give her the money for it afterwards, because then Adam would know about it. She wanted to hide her biscuits and enjoy them secretly. ‘Very sensible,’ Mr
s Hibbert said. ‘Put your treat in my trolley, Dot.’ Still hesitating, and seeming about to say something but thinking better of it, Dot picked a packet of biscuits and put them in the other trolley. ‘No tins?’ Mrs Hibbert said. ‘No larger boxes? I told you you could have a tin or a box, Dot, don’t you remember?’ ‘Yes,’ said Dot, ‘but the tins are twice the price of the packets and so I thought if I just got a packet . . .’ She paused, and repeating ‘just got a packet’ she lifted something else out of the basket and held it up. Mrs Hibbert stared. She felt her face flush. ‘No!’ she said. ‘No, Dot, I said I wanted to treat you, not your husband. I have no intention of treating him. I’m sorry, but I am not prepared to pay for those. If you want to treat him, that is your affair.’
She couldn’t bear to stand behind Dot any longer and suddenly moved to the next till. She was through it in minutes, before Dot had even unloaded her trolley, and marched out to the car. Once her shopping had been deposited in it and the trolley returned, she sat herself down and switched on her tape of Beethoven’s Ninth. Not very soothing, but it was the first that came to hand. The music thundered through the car and made her feel worse, not better. She knew she had over-reacted and made herself appear mean, but she was upset out of all proportion that Dot had actually thought she might buy Adam Nicholson salted peanuts. She should have been amused. She should have laughed. Dot had pointed out, obliquely, that the packet of biscuits together with the packet of peanuts (a very large packet) came to the same price as a tin of the same biscuits would have done. The only loser was herself, deprived of more biscuits for the sake of treating Adam. And yet it was not as simple as that. Dot knew she hated Adam. Had there not been at least an element of mischief in her flaunting of those peanuts? Had it not been a deliberate test of her friend’s kindness? Mrs Hibbert sat and pondered and could come to no conclusion. She felt that her desire to be kind and helpful was always being tested. It was tested every week at the hospital whenever a patient was curt and ungrateful. It had to be endured then, she had to rise above rudeness, constantly reminding herself that virtually everyone who stepped through those hospital doors was suffering stress of one kind or another. But in the rest of her daily life she didn’t see why she should submit to such small tests without registering her resentment that they were being imposed. Dot had known what she was doing.
Still, Adam Nicholson’s peanuts were not worth getting in a state about. The silly little incident was over, and when Dot came she would be perfectly friendly, as though it had never happened. The sight of Dot when she did lurch towards the car reinforced Mrs Hibbert’s determination not to be cross with her. The poor woman could hardly wheel the trolley straight and when she started to unload the bags into the boot of the car one of them burst and there was the sound of glass breaking. Mrs Hibbert got out to help, but not in time to stop a large box of Persil slipping from Dot’s grasp and falling into a puddle. ‘Oh dear!’ Dot kept wailing, ‘the light bulbs. I’ve broken the light bulbs!’ and Mrs Hibbert found herself consoling her and then searching the boot until she’d established only one light bulb had smashed. It was all so exhausting. By the time both of them were back in the car, she felt worn out. ‘Sorry,’ Dot kept saying. ‘Sorry, Mary, sorry to have been . . .’ It was so pathetic. Mrs Hibbert closed her eyes for a moment to compose herself. ‘Don’t worry, Dot,’ she said, breaking into the still ongoing litany of apology, ‘let’s just go home.’ She lowered the volume of the music and started the car. Neither of them spoke. When they arrived at Dot’s house, Mrs Hibbert did not get out. She remained in the car while Dot ferried her six carrier bags and the soggy big box of soap powder up the steps, lining them up in front of the door. ‘You go now, Mary,’ she panted, as she took the last bag from the boot and closed it. ‘Don’t wait, you don’t need to see me in.’ Mrs Hibbert didn’t reply. She always saw Dot in. The woman was such a scatterbrain it would have been unthinkable to leave her without checking she had her key, because if she’d forgotten or lost it that lazy brute of a husband of hers could not be depended on to open the door. She watched Dot fumble for her key in pocket after pocket and then start to search her bag. She was tempted to peep her car horn vigorously in an attempt to alert Adam to his wife’s arrival home and her need of assistance, but she didn’t. Finally, Dot located her key and, stepping over the bags, opened her door. She stood and waved as Mrs Hibbert drove off at last.
Ten minutes later, taking her own shopping out of her car, Mrs Hibbert discovered a packet of bacon and a pound of sausages lying in the corner of the boot. She was always telling Dot to tie the plastic carrier bags securely together – she’d shown her how easy it was to take the two handles and knot them firmly – so that this kind of thing would not happen, but Dot always forgot. Bad-tempered now, Mrs Hibbert started the car again. It wasn’t far to Dot’s, but she was nevertheless annoyed to have to drive there again instead of being able to put her feet up and have a cup of tea. She realised, as she neared Dot’s house, that she ought to have telephoned before she left so that Dot would be waiting and could come down the steps and collect the missing items. Now, she would have to toil up them herself, unless she could make Dot hear her by sounding her horn. She resolved to try this. She gave three short blasts when she’d parked dead in front of the steps, but nobody appeared. Sighing, she got out of the car and clambered up the steps. She put her finger on the doorbell and kept it there. It was a very loud bell and she could clearly hear it blasting through the empty hall but still Dot did not appear. Furious, she plonked the bacon and sausages down and carefully began to negotiate the steps. She was just on the last one when she heard the door open behind her and a shout. It sounded like ‘Hey! You!’ She paused, stepped safely on to the pavement and turned. Adam Nicholson stood in the doorway, his clothes dishevelled, his face a livid scarlet. ‘Hey! You! Mary Hibbert! I want a word with you!’ She froze, shocked by the violence of his manner. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she managed to say, annoyed that instead of sounding icy and dignified, her voice shook. ‘You! I want a word with you, upsetting my wife. Who do you think you are, eh, with your treats? Patronising bitch! My wife doesn’t need treats, she doesn’t want anything from do-gooders like you!’ And then, as Mrs Hibbert felt for the door of her car, he threw something down the steps and went back inside, slamming the door.
The packet of chocolate wafers split as it hit the third step and half the biscuits scattered down the remainder. Mrs Hibbert was breathless, she felt she was going to faint, and clung on to the steering wheel until she had regained her composure enough to drive. A dog pattered past. She watched it sniff a biscuit which had bounced right down on to the pavement and then gobble it up. Excited, the dog mounted the steps and finished off all but the paper wrapping. So that was that. Mrs Hibbert at last felt recovered enough to start the car and drive very slowly home. She hadn’t the strength to back it into her garage, which she usually did, and left it for the moment in the driveway. Her legs felt weak as she let herself into her house and she had to sit down for several minutes before she could raise the energy to make herself some restorative tea. She sat quite still, thinking, her hands clasped in front of her. It was at times like this that being on one’s own was so very hard – no one to be comforting, no one to take one’s side, no one upon whom one could unload all the distress. It had to be contained and gradually processed, and that was horribly wearing and difficult to do.
He was a monster, that man. His behaviour had been outrageous. There was no excuse whatsoever for it. But it wasn’t Adam Nicholson’s disgraceful shouting which worried her most, it was the thought of what Dot might have said to provoke it that upset her. Had Dot said she was patronising? Had Dot complained to Adam about her? Had Dot accused her of being a do-gooder? No. She didn’t believe it. Dot couldn’t have done, wouldn’t have done. It was unbelievable. Dot and she had always been friends. She had always helped, and often indulged Dot, and Dot had always been grateful. Adam had somehow twisted whatever Dot had said. He’d probably
found the biscuits and it had come out that Dot had been treated to them. But if he thought he could ruin her friendship with his wife he was greatly mistaken. Once she got Dot on her own it would all come out, how he’d, no doubt, bullied her and resented her being given a treat. Dot would tell her the truth. Probably Dot would have heard him hurling his vulgar abuse – she could hardly have avoided hearing – and was even now sick with shame and embarrassment. Mrs Hibbert nodded her head as she came to this conclusion, and then made her tea.
Is There Anything You Want? Page 8
