48

Edith lumbers out of the office into a strong wind and sleety rain toward the shopping centre. The interview belligerently replays in her mind … our policy … lost and stolen money … If you have any other problems … They must know! The shame of it sends another searing prickle of heat over her body and she’s glad to be out in the icy weather.

Her grey hair is plastered to her skull and her coat is drenched when the sliding glass doors of the shopping mall open. Inside it is hot and busy despite the weather. People move in blurs around her. Edith feels surrounded by larger, sturdier people. She doesn’t look at anyone. She cannot imagine having a conversation right now. At the entrance of the supermarket she pulls out a trolley and wheels it into the store past a yellow plastic triangle that is repeating the words ‘Caution wet floor’ in a robotic voice. Caution wet floor … our policy … lost and stolen money …

Edith sets her face in a scowl and wills herself to concentrate on food and on how she might best spend the voucher. She needs to make the most of it. She stands in the middle of the fruit and vegetable displays and stares at all the colour. What does she need? What can she afford? She takes a wedge of pumpkin and a bag of cheap carrots and places them in the bottom of the trolley. She inspects a branch of broccoli to gauge if it is fresh enough to last beyond the week.

A toddler in a trolley swings her legs back and forth and kicks the side of a wooden display stand. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

‘Stop it,’ her mother warns.

Edith cowers. She herself feels like a small child caught out at school for playing truant, or worse, for stealing somebody’s lunch. She has to stay away from those machines. She has to stay away from the club.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

‘Stop it!’ The mother raises her voice. ‘Stop it now!’

Thump, thump! Thump, thump!

Edith wheels her trolley away from the noise and tramps up and down the aisles stopping now and then to consider items. She can add up the total of a few things but the more she puts in the trolley, the more uneasy she feels. There’s too much to calculate. She hopes she has enough money to cover it all.

She picks up a bag of rice and one of pasta. She doesn’t really like either but they are cheap and will last a long time. If she can make the food last longer, she might even be able to pay off the gas bill with next fortnight’s pension. The red gas bill sends another wave of despair through her. She tosses both packets into the trolley and moves on trying not to think about overdue bills.

In the chilly air of the refrigerated section, she looks for cheese. She takes her time, making sure she has the cheapest block before placing it in the trolley. She spends the same time and consideration on mincemeat and ham.

‘Eddie!’

Edith freezes at the sound of Brenda’s voice. A small part of Edith’s brain tells her if she stays very still, Brenda might forget she is there.

‘Edith?’ Brenda grabs her arm. ‘I thought it was you,’ she says with a smile. ‘Oooo you are thin.’ She gives Edith’s arm another squeeze. ‘You’re a lucky duck. Thin as a chopstick!’

Edith turns to face Brenda. She has a red shopping basket over her arm overflowing with freezer foods and soft drink. ‘Hello there.’ She tries to sound cheerful but her words fall flat to the floor.

Brenda doesn’t notice. ‘You shopping? I’ve come to get a few bits and pieces for the boy.’

‘The boy?’

‘Yes, you know the grandson. Tyson. Tyson the Terrible.’

Something in the back of Edith’s mind knocks but she’s not sure why.

‘How’ve you been? You’re having a good shop,’ Brenda says peering into her trolley. ‘Been winning on the pokies again have we?’

Edith’s stomach churns. She doesn’t want to talk about pokies. ‘I’ve um … I’ve just come to do a little. I’m almost done. I’m in a bit of a rush.’

Brenda shifts the basket from her arm. ‘Yes, me too, I’ve got to get to an appointment after. In fact, I’ve got two. One with the hairdresser and the other with the Welfare ­psychologist.’

‘Welfare psychologist?’ Edith asks, then wishes she hadn’t. Brenda is bound to leap into a long-winded explanation.

‘Yes. That little bugger. We can’t control him. Doesn’t matter what we do. Nothing works. Not only has he cut the dog’s ear off, he’s gone and sliced the neighbour’s cat in half. Jeez the mess! Oh it was terrible. You wouldn’t believe the amount of blood.’

Edith suddenly feels the chill of the refrigerator. ‘The dog’s ear? The cat?’ she mutters.

‘Seriously, Edith, I didn’t know where to put myself. Who would have thought … my own grandson. And then today, this morning before school, I caught him making a little bonfire around the back.’

A terrible thought dawns. Tyson? It must be the same boy.

‘They want to assess him again. Hopefully they’ll start some sort of intensive psycho-treatment. God knows, he needs something. Electric shock treatment maybe. Do they still do that?’ She shakes her head. ‘Nothing short of an exorcism is going to rid him of his demons.’ She checks her watch. ‘Must fly, Eddie. Take care. See you soon.’

Edith turns back to the meat and stares. Eventually she picks up a packet of smoked ham and tosses it in the trolley. She shuffles toward the cash registers with an image of a sliced cat in her head. The cat lies in a pool of blood, intestines, heart and lungs exposed. She chooses the register on the end where there are fewest people. Tyson must be the bully. How many can there be in one street? Come to think of it, he has a look of Brenda about him. He has her stocky build and the dark hair and eyes.

She parks close to the register and focuses on the shopping in her trolley. She hopes no one else recognises her. There’s a book of puzzles in a nearby stand, she picks it up and flicks through it to distract herself. She wonders if she will have enough money left over to pay for it. It’s only two dollars and it might give her something to do during the long afternoons. It might keep her away from the club.

The queue moves forward and Edith is next. She waits till there is space on the black conveyor belt and then begins to load her shopping onto it.

‘Choc’ate?’

‘No.’

Edith recognises the voice of the kicking toddler’s mother in the queue behind.

‘Choc’ate!’

‘Leave it!’

She glances at the mother and realises with horror it’s Skye and her mother from Number 13. She looks at the shopping on the belt. She wants to put it back in her trolley, take off, find another queue, an anonymous queue. But she can’t, it’s too late, the operator has started to scan it.

‘Skye! I said, leave it!’

Edith loads the rest of the shopping onto the belt and braces herself. She watches the total rise rapidly as the operator scans and packs the items. She feels herself plummet when the last item is checked through.

‘That’s fifty-three seven’y-five,’ the operator says.

‘Ah … I’ll have to put something back,’ she murmurs.

‘What?’ The operator frowns and turns her ear toward Edith.

‘I don’t have enough money.’ Edith speaks a little louder and hopes the people in the queue behind can’t hear her, especially Number 13.

The operator raises an eyebrow. ‘How much do you have?’

‘Fifty dollars.’ Edith fidgets in her bag for the voucher.

‘Okay. What do you want to put back?’

Where’s the voucher? It’s got to be in here.

‘What do you want to put back?’ the operator asks much louder.

Edith blinks. ‘Um … the ham. Put the ham back.’ She finds the voucher and hands it to the operator who is sifting through the bags for the ham.

‘It’s a welfare cheque.’

Edith wishes she wasn’t so loud. She feels every eye behind burning holes in her back.

‘You’re supposed to go to the Information Desk with welfare cheques.’

She didn’t last time. ‘I—’

‘Tell Leanne to come down to number twenny,’ the operator says into her phone.

Edith turns her attention to the cash register and focuses on calming her thudding heart.

‘Got a welfare cheque.’ The operator waves it in the air.

A dark-headed woman arrives; she takes the voucher and inspects it. ‘No worries. I’ll get the cash. Won’t be a sec.’ She touches Edith’s arm and says. ‘New system, love, bring it to the Information Desk next time.’

The compassion, the pity is too much. There won’t be a next time. There can’t be a next time.

‘You can’t buy this with a welfare cheque.’ The operator takes the crossword book out of one of the bags and holds it up.

How did that get through? She thought she’d put it back.

‘You can only buy food.’ The operator leans forward and says relatively quietly, ‘You can’t go spending tax payers’ money, my money, on just anything, you know.’

Edith feels as if she has been slapped. She grits her teeth and narrows her eyes. She would like to say that she was a taxpayer for over thirty years but she cannot speak.

The cash register blips as the book is rescanned and two dollars is deducted from the total. ‘You’re still one seveny-five over.’ She crosses her arms and stares.

The ham is worth about three dollars and Edith wonders if there is enough change in her purse to make up the deficit. She would like to keep the ham if she can. She opens her bag, pulls out her purse and looks inside at an assortment of five, ten and twenty cent pieces. She tips them into her palm.

The dark-haired woman returns with a fifty-dollar note. ‘There you go,’ she says to the operator before flitting away again.

Edith begins to count the coins in her hand but her mind won’t focus. ‘I have a little more money here.’ She hands it to the operator who counts it quickly.

‘You’re still fifty cents short.’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘Somethuns gotta go back.’

Edith tries to remember what else she bought. What’s the cheapest item? What can she do without? She feels the queue behind, breathing down her neck. She dithers. It’s too much pressure. ‘Forget the ham,’ she says out of desperation.

‘Hang on,’ a familiar voice growls. ‘Take this!’ Number 13 leans into Edith, her thin fingers hold a fifty-cent piece.

The operator snatches the money.

Edith turns and looks into Number 13’s face. She opens her mouth to say thank you but nothing comes out.

Number 13 smiles. She cocks her head at the operator, leans in and whispers to Edith, ‘What a bitch.’