I woke in the middle of the night, consumed by anger as by a raging fire. Once already he had ruined my life, now he was set on ruining it again. What was the source of his malevolence? What had I ever done to harm him? Although, with a high wind rattling the window frame, the night was cool, I felt the sweat breaking out on my forehead, under my armpits, between my buttocks. I threw off the blanket, I groaned aloud. From the next-door room – I always leave both her and my door open, in case she needs me – I heard Noreen call out something. But when I called back: ‘Noreen! Is something the matter?’, I got the sleep-clogged answer: ‘All right. Everything all right.’
Now, as I sit in the shop expecting, as I so often do during this period of recession, a customer who never comes, I ask myself yet again: What are you waiting for? Why don’t you go and see him? Or, if you don’t go to see him, why don’t you write to him? You have his address, you know his village, it would be easy to drive from here to there and back in a single morning or a single afternoon. It would be even easier to pick up a pen.
I am afraid of something, that’s it. But of what? Of him? Or of myself?
A young girl, trailing a child, comes in. She looks at me and her pretty, open face freezes into concern – or is it alarm?
‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’ she asks.
If I were truthful, I should answer: ‘Yes, a very bad time. At the moment all times are bad.’ But I get up from my chair and advance towards her smiling. ‘No, no. I’ve all the time in the world. What can I do to help you?’
‘Well, actually – I don’t actually – I don’t actually want to buy anything. I, er, actually, want to sell something.’ She puts a hand into the pocket of her pinafore dress.
These days they all want to sell something.