The Moniack Mhor Writers Group, led by Cynthia Rogerson, has been meeting remotely during the Lockdown. They have been writing pieces inspired by the situation. Today’s piece is a short story by Zoe Mackenzie. Keep an eye on our blog for more contributions from the group.
Supermarket Hell
The large woman in the surgical mask and gloves had been hovering hesitantly over a stack of icing sugar for a good few minutes. Looking at the line beneath the front wheels of her trolley stipulating a 2 metres exclusion zone from the next person, Sarah was also aware of invisible hate bombs being thrown in her direction and angry eyes boring into the back of her head.
She tentatively pushed her trolley forward slightly, prompting the large woman to look up. Bracing herself for a torrent of abuse from the minute incursion into the exclusion zone, Sarah was surprised when the woman languidly gestured to the writing on the packet of sugar: “Is this the same stuff as powdered sugar?” she asked in a slow, Australian drawl.
The writing on the unfamiliar brand described the product as ready-made fondant. “Probably does the same job,” Sarah offered, smiling a little too brightly, her eyes wide as she glanced meaningfully at the growing, bunched-up queue behind her, hoping the woman would follow her gaze and take the hint.
“I’m just not sure,” the Australian woman sighed, shaking her head, oblivious to the growing obstruction and mayhem she was causing as other shoppers began to collide with the queue. She put the blue packet back, then picked it up again. “Oh!” Sarah heard a woman behind her exhale loudly and looked round to see an irate, dark-haired woman in her 40s manoeuvring her trolley with great force, out of the queue and into the next aisle.
Sarah consulted her shopping list: her daughter had specifically asked for soft, brown sugar, but apart from the stack of unfamiliar-looking icing sugar that the Australian woman was still commandeering, there was only one solitary, forlorn-looking bag of demerara sugar, slumped in a corner. She was crippled with indecision. Should she take the coarser-grained ingredient and risk the wrath and histrionics of her teenage daughter? Sarah pictured Katie flouncing out of the kitchen as her cake sagged in the middle.
Hearing another impatient sigh Sarah realised that the woman behind her had been replaced by a seething, middle-aged man. Taking a deep breath and keeping her head bowed, Sarah pushed her trolley quickly past the Australian woman – and nearly careered into the path of the irascible woman from the queue. Recognising Sarah, the woman glared at her and almost brought her trolley up on its back wheels before steering it in the opposite direction.
Suddenly a blast of music catapulted Sarah back six months to the summer holidays and she felt a lump in her throat. Other shoppers, dressed in shorts and tee-shirts, had been leisurely perusing fold-away chairs for festivals. She remembered how a sunburnt woman in flip-flops had gone out of her way to help Sarah find a tent which had been tucked out of sight. Now people averted their gaze and no-one spoke.
Keeping to the military-style arrows pointing in the appointed clockwise direction on the floor, she eventually arrived at the pet-food aisle, but scouring the shelves she could only find small pouches for chihuahua -sized dogs and pictured their own German Shepherd devouring the contents in one gulp.
As she drove home she saw a police car parked outside and her 17-year-old son remonstrating with an officer. “You’re allowed one car trip for essentials – this is your second trip today!” he admonished Calum.
Sarah tried to explain: “I had to get shopping officer and there’s no room for the dog as well and he’d probably eat it!” Her half-joke fell flat.
The officer ignored her. “If I see 2 cars from here out again on the same day you’ll be fined!” he snarled, before revving away.
Katie ran out to inspect the shopping. “Did you get the sugar, Mum?” Sarah cursed under breath and Katie threw up her arms. “Mum! I was really looking forward to making that for tea and there’s nothing else to do!” She flounced off in disgust.
Sarah’s husband David appeared in the doorway. “Fancy a cuppa?” he smiled, but instead of enveloping her in a sympathetic, warm embrace, he turned away as he exploded into a machine-gun like cough. He pointed to a steaming cup on the breakfast bar on the other side of the kitchen: “Did you get dog food?”
“Oh…” she mumbled. Even the dog looked at Sarah with a baleful eye …
Views/opinions expressed are the author’s own and do not represent those of any individual from Moniack Mhor or Moniack Mhor itself. Copyright remains with the author.