The trolley has a wonky wheel, but Claire doesn’t have time to swap it. She hefts it up and down the aisles using her hands and the corner of one hip, briefly pausing to grab stuff, not even attempting to keep a running total in her head. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d planned to keep this slice of Saturday all to herself, to leave the children with Ian for an hour and amble; let him settle their disputes, supervise their homework, sweep the floors and blow up balloons for the party. She knew she wasn’t going to get what she wanted the instant the telephone rang and Sister Anderson’s sugary voice asked for Bishop Bradley. She had no choice but to wake him – he has to be available to everyone, at all times of the day and night. She did say it was Jacob’s birthday though, which won’t please Ian if he finds out – she isn’t supposed to make people feel guilty for needing help, she’s supposed to make a willing sacrifice.
It’s sad that Brother Anderson has cancer and she is very sorry for him, but his prognosis is good, and Ian has already given him two priesthood blessings, both of which promised a full recovery. Ian should spend today with his family. That’s what families do, isn’t it? She has seen them at the children’s friends’ birthday parties, whole families; grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins, celebrating together, and she has felt envious and perturbed, and somehow in the wrong because the Church is all about families, even though there won’t be any extended family at Jacob’s party. If her mother were alive … if Ian’s parents weren’t missionaries in Ireland … but everyone will be together in Eternity and that’s what matters, not the fact that Ian missed Jacob’s birthday breakfast to go to the Andersons’, or that later, during the party, he’ll be at a meeting.
Claire lifts bags of sausage rolls and chicken nuggets out of chest freezers, and adds them to the trolley where they sit with the cheap lemonade, biscuits, crisps and sliced bread. All of the packaging is white – you have to pay extra for colour or the plastic windows that allow you to see exactly what you’re buying. Jacob is expecting party bags but she decides to save money by buying a roll of sandwich sacks. She isn’t sure what else to buy because she doesn’t know much about other people’s children. They are mysterious and intimidating; they ask awkward questions and keep their eyes open during mealtime prayers, they make cheeky comments about the picture of Jesus in the hall and sometimes they swear. She quietly discourages friendships with non-members, it makes things simpler, easier, but the children sometimes have other ideas. Jacob was desperate for a party. He begged and pleaded, he attacked her prevarications and he pestered and whined until she provisionally gave in: ‘As long as your dad’s home, you can have a party. I’m not doing it by myself. And we’ll have it early, from eleven ’til one, to get it over with.’
She puts a multipack of party poppers and a bag of miniature bouncy balls in the trolley. She usually enjoys the supermarket. She isn’t accountable to anyone here. She can mooch from aisle to aisle, choosing, deciding. Here, she is never wrong, always in charge, and the sound system often plays music that reminds her of her teens, allowing her to retreat into daydreams of long, post-exam summers, lazing beside the radio with friends.
‘Sister Bradley! Sister Bradley, dear.’
Claire’s shoulders stiffen. She does not want to be called Sister Bradley in Asda.
‘Sister Bradley!’
She turns to see Sister Anderson standing in the middle of the aisle waving a roll of wrapping paper.
‘Helloooo!’
‘Oh, hello. I thought –’
‘Yes, yes, don’t worry.’ Sister Anderson puts the wrapping paper in her trolley. ‘Bishop Bradley was at ours, but he isn’t there any more. He drove Paul to the hospital for me. I’m sure he’s got another infection, but he wouldn’t go, he said I was making a big fuss about nothing.’
‘Oh.’
‘I knew he’d get himself checked out properly if the Bishop told him to – so kind of him to come round like that, at the drop of a hat. He talked some sense into Paul, I knew he would, and do you know what? When I told Paul to go and get in the car, Bishop said, “You need a break, Sister Anderson. Let me take him for you.” Isn’t that lovely?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘There aren’t many men around like him.’
‘No.’
‘You’re so lucky. If I was a bit younger …’ Sister Anderson winks and nudges Claire with the cushioned crest of her elbow.
It’s difficult to know what to say next. Of course, Sister Anderson is only joking, she must be old enough to be Ian’s mother, but Claire can’t laugh at jokes about eternal polygamy. ‘He’s a keeper,’ she manages.
‘He certainly is. He even said he’ll wait with Paul at the hospital, which means I’ve got an hour or two all to myself to catch up with the shopping!’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Here.’ Sister Anderson reaches into her trolley. She rearranges milk, cereal and several cream cakes before producing a birthday card. ‘It’s a special musical one, for Jacob. Hang on.’ She pulls a pen out of her handbag, writes something in the card and drops it in Claire’s trolley. ‘Two pounds,’ she says, fishing in her purse. ‘There. You can give it to him when you get home, on his birthday, much better than having it at church tomorrow.’
Claire keeps a tight rein on her irritation as she hauls the trolley to the checkout. The girl asks if she needs any bags. She does. The girl frowns and Claire starts to explain that she usually brings bags from home, but today is her son’s birthday and she’s got so much to do. She stops explaining when she realises the girl isn’t listening.
As she manoeuvres the trolley through the car park, Claire checks the receipt. It’s hard to believe junk food and plastic toys are so expensive. She loads the shopping into the boot and, once she’s buckled into the driver’s seat, finishes her checking. When she reaches an item near the end of the list – Greetings card £2.99 – she imagines a swear word and is instantly disappointed with herself.
She takes the coastal road home so she can drive with the windows open and breathe the blasting salty air. The town runs parallel to the concrete sea defences, long and thin, its back against the wall. The sea is out and the beach is bare, a seemingly endless expanse of dark, treacly sand. She would like to pull into one of the car parks and escape for a while, walk and walk, pound against constraint and containment with the rhythm of her feet, but there isn’t time. As she turns off the road she remembers a Relief Society lesson at church about good and bad thoughts. One of the sisters held up a toilet roll and a little basket of cotton-wool balls. Some of the cotton-wool balls had the word BAD sellotaped to them, others had GOOD. The sister pushed a BAD ball into the toilet roll. ‘Here’s a bad thought going into your head,’ she said. She held the toilet roll high, like a magician, and then picked up a GOOD cotton-wool ball. ‘This is how you get rid of bad thoughts.’ She stuffed the toilet roll with GOOD cotton-wool balls until the BAD one popped out of the other end. ‘There we are,’ she said. ‘Easy-peasy.’
Claire begins to sing a hymn as she reverses onto the drive – the good words should fire any rude, uncharitable thoughts from her head. She imagines a cotton-wool ball with SHIT written on it popping out of her ear, easy-peasy.
She keeps singing as she heaves carrier bags into the house, ‘I believe in Christ; so come what may …’
Jacob dashes down the hall and throws his arms around her. ‘Mum!’
‘Hey, stop it, I’ll drop the shopping! Hang on a minute, let go!’ The bottom of one of the bags splits and wet, frozen packets flop onto the hall floor. She puts the shopping down and squeezes the spilled items into an unbroken bag. ‘Where’s Issy? She’s not still in bed, is she?’
‘I went in,’ Jacob says as she rearranges the food, ‘and I told her to get up for my birthday. But she said she’s too tired.’
‘Zipporah! Alma! Can you come and help, please? Well, it’s only her second week; you were all shattered when you first started school. I’ll go and check on her in a minute. Zipporah! Alma! Come down and help with the shopping.’
Zipporah appears at the top of the stairs, pen in hand. ‘I’m just doing my English.’
‘You didn’t get Issy up.’
‘She said she doesn’t feel well.’
‘Hang on.’ Claire pops back through the front door and to the open car boot. She hooks her fingers around the handles of several carrier bags and sidles back into the house. ‘Does she feel hot? Go and check. Maybe she’s coming down with something. Feel her head. If she’s hot, I’ll get the Calpol. You caught all sorts in your first term. If she’s just tired, tell her to get up anyway or she’ll miss the party.’
She drags all the shopping into the kitchen. The room is chock-a-block with cheering, chiding crafts made at Relief Society meetings, each designed to point her in the right direction: ceramic tiles, decorated wood blocks, door hangers, wall hangers, collages and organisers. The best of her efforts is the With God All Things Are Possible painting; even the children recognised the long-legged, winged creature as a bird.
She opens the fridge to store the lemonade, pausing to glance at the laminated jumble of cutesy letters beside the door: No Other Success Can Compensate for Failure in the Home. She allows another imaginary cotton-wool ball to fall from her ear – BUGGER OFF – take that, failure in the home! She switches on the oven and lines frozen sausage rolls along baking sheets. As is often the case when there’s work to be done, Alma is nowhere to be seen. At least the party will be over at one o’clock and then, after the clear-up, there’ll be a few hours to relax. She puts the sausage rolls in the oven, grabs the box of Calpol from the top cupboard and hurries upstairs.
Issy is curled up like a little bug, feverish and shivering. Claire touches her arms where they peep out of her princess nightie.
‘Oh, sweetheart, you’re not well, are you?’
‘No.’ Her voice crackles.
Claire opens the Calpol box and removes the syringe. She sucks the medicine out of the bottle and squeezes it into the corner of Issy’s mouth. Her eyes remain tightly shut and she flinches as she swallows.
‘There you are. You’ll feel better soon. What a shame to come down with something on Jacob’s birthday. Shall I save you some cake?’
‘Yes.’
Claire tucks the covers back over Issy and bends to kiss her flushed cheek.
‘Love you, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘Have a nice sleep. You’ll feel much better when you wake up.’
Back in the kitchen, she grabs a pen and begins to make a list of the things she needs to do before Jacob’s friends arrive at eleven o’clock. Sausage rolls, nuggets, pizzas, cocktail sausages, party bags, pass the parcel. She isn’t sure how she will get it all done in an hour. She makes a list of games to play and divides the party into two sections, Fun and Food, which makes the two hours seem smaller and filling them a somewhat easier task. She switches the CD player on and presses play. The flute and piano introduction reveals that the children haven’t changed the CD since last Sunday. Dearest children, God is near you, watching o’er you day and night. It’s a good hymn to listen to in the circumstances. God loves children, He loves each of Jacob’s friends and she will also try to love them, even if they turn out to be a rowdy gang of hooligans. And God loves Issy too. He will watch over her during the party and make her better. The choir accompany Claire as she unwraps frozen pizzas and empties a bag of chicken nuggets onto another baking sheet: He will bless you, He will bless you. If you put your trust in Him.
Issy’s hands are cold, so are her feet. She wants Mum to come back. She wants to get up and find Mum, wants to climb into Mum’s lap and nestle in the warm wrap of her arms. But her eyelids are heavy; every time she opens them they collapse shut, forcing her back into sleep. She feels as if she is falling through the mattress, down through the ceiling into the kitchen, past the lino and down, and down.