Chapter Forty-Eight
Sharon comes out of her office as I saunter into the food bank and drop my shopping bags next to my workstation. Cat’s workstation, that is. But mine today. Since she’s not here to object.
‘Catherine? I didn’t think you were coming in today,’ Sharon says, staring at me like she’s never seen me before. ‘Your husband rang to say you were in hospital. That you were really sick.’
‘They let me out,’ I tell her. ‘For good behaviour.’
‘Well, that’s good news,’ she says uncertainly. ‘But you’re not down to work today, Catherine. Not on the time sheet. You’ll have to go home again.’
I look around. The place seems empty. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘It’s still Christmas holidays. We’re only open two hours today, for emergency relief.’ She’s frowning. ‘I was just about to close up, actually.’
I study Sharon thoughtfully. What an odd-looking woman she is. Like overcooked mutton. Still, no doubt some men find that look attractive. The scarlet lipstick, tan tights with everything, hair-in-a-beehive look.
‘Sorry, but what on earth are you wearing?’ Sharon looks me up and down, her mouth slightly open, a little dusting of black mascara splodges under each eye. ‘You look like a . . . a . . .’
‘Tart?’
Her eyes widen. ‘I was going to say “entertainer”.’
‘My God, what kind of parties do you go to?’
I glance down at the little black PVC skirt I found at the back of a drawer, coupled with a black leotard, plus fuck-me heels and a thigh-length black leather coat. A bit retro, perhaps. A bit Jane Fonda with her knees behind her ears. But definitely a reflection of how I feel today.
‘Don’t you like it?’ I say. ‘It needs a belt, of course, you’re right. Something thin and silver. But it was the best I could do at short notice. Don’t worry though, I’ve been shopping.’ I wink at Petra, who has appeared from a side aisle followed by a grubby-looking couple. Petra also stares at me with a shocked expression. ‘No more mushroom-coloured outfits, I promise. And all that beige.’ I shudder. ‘Why did nobody stop me?’
Sharon appears to be speechless. At least, she doesn’t say a word in response, merely gapes at me.
The black leotard is a little tight, I admit. My boobs keep escaping from it. I must have grown since I last wore it. Or rather, Cat did. The cab driver who brought me here from Harvey Nicks could barely contain his lust, staring at me in the mirror the whole way. That was where I bought the leather coat, ditching that horrid woollen thing I found in the hall. I bought a few other bits and pieces, deeply unsuitable designer dresses and skirts and see-through tops, all wildly expensive and guaranteed to annoy my aged parents.
Before hitting the shops, I dropped into The Ritz for a delicious breakfast. Smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, Cumberland sausages and caviar. And a bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne. With Dom in the name, I had to order it, didn’t I? It would have been greedy to drink the whole bottle on my own, especially at breakfast, but I did my best. The waiters didn’t bat an eye, nor did they complain when I knocked over the ice bucket on my way to the powder room.
Such darlings, and so gorgeously fit, I could have paid them all in blow jobs and not thought twice about it.
But I had the day job to think about instead. Couldn’t be late for that. Moral conscience and all. So I charged it all to dear Dad’s debit card instead, since he’d rather foolishly left his wallet on the desk in his study last night. And we all know his PIN, because whenever he runs out of brandy he sends me or Mum to the off-licence with his card. I like to think he did it deliberately. Because he’s as sick of Catherine and her beige wardrobe and sensible flatties as I am.
I don’t feel even remotely guilty, of course. Guilt is for saps like Catherine. Besides, if Daddy had not told me his PIN, it wouldn’t have been so easy for me to clean him out. So it’s entirely his own fault, not mine.
‘What’s the matter with you both?’ I look from Petra to Sharon, and laugh. ‘Here I am, come to do my very worthy volunteering job, and you don’t look at all pleased to see me. Anyone would think I had two heads.’ My laugh deepens as I realise what I’ve said. ‘Two heads. Get it?’ But they just look at me blankly. ‘Oh, forget it.’
I notice the couple behind her. There are probably happier people in the grave, I think, studying them. The woman is skinny and black, maybe about forty, her head a mass of Afro curls, and her partner – presumably, unless he’s some random stray she’s picked up – is a grey man. Grey skin, grey hair, grey eyebrows. Not a particularly healthy look. And he’s coughing, too. Every few seconds, like a nervous tic. Cough, pause, cough, cough.
‘Hello? Who have we here?’
Petra shoots me a warning look. ‘It’s okay,’ she says quickly, ‘I’m dealing with it. No referral.’
‘Not another one.’ Sharon shakes her head, lips pursed, then tells the woman, ‘Sorry, love. No letter of referral, no food.’
‘But he’s sick,’ the woman says, jerking her thumb at the grey man.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘He’s got lung cancer. He can’t work. And I’m his carer, see?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sharon says again, in exactly the same tone of voice. Like she hasn’t heard a word the woman said.
‘But we’ve no money for food. And his mum’s staying with us over Christmas. The social says the money’s coming but it could be another week yet.’ The woman pauses, looking unhappily from Sharon to Petra to me. ‘We don’t want much. Just a few things to tide us over.’
‘Did they give you a voucher?’ Sharon asked her.
‘Who?’
‘The staff at the job centre.’
‘No.’
‘Well, you need to go back and get one.’
‘But it’s not open now,’ the woman says. ‘It’s shut, isn’t it? For Christmas, you know. They’re all on their holidays. The sign on the door says they’re open again tomorrow.’
‘Then you’d better pay them a visit first thing tomorrow morning.’ Sharon is already shepherding the couple towards the door. ‘We can’t do anything for you here. Not without the proper paperwork.’
‘Oh, that’s not strictly true,’ I say, following them.
The woman turns to me, her face suddenly lit up. ‘You can help us out, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘No,’ Sharon says firmly.
‘Yes,’ I repeat, not looking at her but at the woman. ‘What do you need?’
‘Anything you can spare,’ the woman tells me hurriedly. ‘But tinned food would be great. And pasta and rice. And sauces.’
‘And biscuits,’ the grey man adds.
‘Yeah, and milk and teabags,’ the woman says, nodding. ‘And coffee, if you have it. And baked beans.’
‘We like baked beans,’ the grey man agrees.
Sharon is shaking her head, but I’ve already grabbed a handful of plastic bags. I shake one out, then pass the others to the grey man. ‘Open them, would you?’ Then I walk briskly down the aisles of food shelves, grabbing packets and tins off the shelves and thrusting them into the bag.
‘Tuna?’ I ask. ‘Or Spam?’
Sharon runs ahead of me and halts in my path, trying to stop me. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Catherine?’
‘Feeding these people,’ I say calmly. ‘Sorry, was that a yes or a no for canned fish?’
‘I hate fish,’ the grey man says.
‘Tuna,’ the woman tells me, raising her voice above Sharon’s, who is hysterical now.
‘Petra? Don’t just stand there! Help me stop her!’
Petra, I notice, is staying well out of it.
I bag a can of tuna, then stride towards the pasta and rice aisle.
‘Spaghetti?’ I ask.
The woman helps herself this time. Her eyes are bright and she’s grinning. The grey man tries to thank me, but goes into a paroxysm of coughing. Poor old sod. Sounds like he’s going to cough up a lung right there.
I wonder how long he’s got.
We reach the cereal shelves. Sharon is blocking my path.
‘You’re in my way,’ I say.
‘Last warning, Catherine.’
‘These people are starving. And he’s sick. Really sick.’ I hand another full plastic bag to the woman. ‘What good is a food bank if we’re never allowed to make an exception?’
‘I know it’s not a perfect system,’ Sharon says through her teeth. ‘But this is a charity, and the rules are there to stop people taking advantage. They can have food. Just not today. Not without a referral.’
I walk on. ‘Tea and coffee next.’
Sharon drags me round so hard, she nearly pulls my coat and the black leotard off my shoulder.
‘Hey!’ I say, tugging them back into position.
‘Petra,’ Sharon says angrily, ‘escort these people to the door. They can keep what they’ve got. But don’t let them take anything else.’ I try to move round her, but Sharon shoves me back against the metal shelving. The cereal packets above wobble violently. A few fall, narrowly missing us. ‘You stay right where you are, Catherine.’
‘Don’t shove me,’ I warn her. ‘Don’t ever shove me like that again.’
Her eyes flicker, then she shoves me again, quite deliberately, hard enough to hurt my back this time.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But just remember, you asked for this.’
It’s a strong punch, straight to the nose. Sharon goes down heavily, legs akimbo, grabbing at the shelves on her way, cereal packets raining on her head. Blood starts to trickle from her nose at once, satisfyingly thick and red.
I look down at her. Sharon is a very irritating woman and this is something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time. Or Cat has. I’m happy to do it for her.
What are sisters for, after all?