The Bird Which is Flightless Must Have Found its Perfect Home
by Stewart Wright
People who stabbed other people’s thumbs with shopping trolleys but did not apologise for doing so reminded Jackson that he was better than most people. If he thought he had his flaws, then at least he knew he would have the respect and courtesy to apologise for such an offence.
As it was, the lady who clipped the gentleman’s finger as they passed each other by the canned pulses merely grunted a passing acknowledgement. The man, suffering obvious pain, was similarly laconic in his retort:
“Don’t worry about it, “he said, with words chewed and subdued by gritted teeth.
Jackson watched a tumescence bleed across the man’s face which, had he been a child, would have been the precursor to him hitting the old woman. It was another reminder to Jackson that he was better than most people. If he thought he had problems, then at least he knew he would not be so troubled by something as trifling as a clash of trollies.
Jackson had been going to Booths supermarket ever since he had moved to Ilkley, and he always went to Marnie’s till. He was careful that his choice of till was on the pretext that the queue using it was the shortest. This frequently demanded that he trawl the aisles until the checkout congestion was such that he could uphold this claim if challenged.
Jackson knew that supermarket girls were keenly aware of lechery from their regular male customers – especially the ones who did their shopping on weekday afternoons, when they ought to be more gainfully occupied.
“Hello again,” Marnie said as she began passing the first of Jackson’s items through the barcode reader. “You got your own bags?”
Jackson nodded, and pretended not to be smitten with Marnie’s new spectacles; black and thick rimmed, they gave her a European look, which somehow complemented her tousled mousey hair. He figured they had been an eighteenth birthday gift. The first day she had worn them had been the first day she had not raised her hand for supervisor approval when scanning Jackson’s predominant purchase. Prior to this, Marnie’s right arm had had a lot of exercise.
Jackson paid with his American Express Platinum card. Not to be flash. How could anyone with a fifty-thousand pound credit limit have a problem?
“Do you want your receipt?” Marnie asked. Jackson liked the way she looked at him. Her glasses clarified her eyes, and gave her face a familiar air of asexuality. Marnie brought back a lot of happy memories.
“No, you can keep it,” Jackson said, his stock response.
Brochures for executive saloon cars traditionally allude to boot space using golf clubs, skis and other sporting equipment as points of reference. All Jackson knew was that the boot of his BMW was capable of harbouring thirty cases of wine or whisky bottles in comfort. This capacity had proved itself a useful accommodation: there were only so many empty bottles Jackson could store in his house before his wife’s ire would be roused.
“Is that all you’re going to do with the rest of your life,” was her common refrain.
“What do you want me to do? Buy you an even bigger house. Why not – all the more space to hide my empties.”
“Don’t talk to me about your empties. You’ve got no idea about being empty.”
“Yeah, cos having a kid would make it all so much better, wouldn’t it.”
“I want a child Jackson. Is that so much to ask for?”
And so Jackson spent more and more of his time at the bottle bank. It was a slovenly bottle bank, rarely emptied, and abused by local urchins, but it was worth risking a cut foot or a punctured tyre to avoid that conversation.
“Hello again, you brought your own bags I see,” Marnie chirped to Jackson as she began passing his produce through her till. He enjoyed the elegance of her spectacles contrasting with the frayed festival bands around her wrists: a girl who enjoyed the brace of rain and Strongbow as much as she espoused the modesty and class of Audrey Tautou.
Jackson inserted his card into the device.
“What’s that?” Marnie asked, nodding to the tattoo on Jackson’s arm. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“Didn’t know you were looking. It’s a Kiwi, I got it a few years ago.”
“Yeah, the New Zealand bird. Cool, I like it. You been there?”
“Yeah. I spent a few summers over there – our winters, but their summers.”
“God, I’d have never come back. Do you want your receipt?”
“No. You keep it.”
The Booths in Ilkley was not known to attract destitutes, but even in refined company Jackson knew he stood out. Emptying bottle after bottle into the bank, he reasoned that someone whose car ensconced them in the finest nappa silk leather could not possibly have a problem; someone with recourse to buoyant finances should not have a problem.
“You know how you always tell me to keep your receipts.”
“Jesus you frightened me!” The bottle bank was unusually empty, and Jackson had not heard Marnie’s advance over the sound of breaking glass.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to leap out at you. But I’ve been doing what you’ve told me. I’ve been keeping your receipts. They don’t make happy reading.”
Marnie handed Jackson the stack of receipts which she had been collecting over the six months he had been coming to her till. He saw she had highlighted the alcohol he had purchased; the receipts burned with fluorescence.
“I think you might have a problem,” she told him.
“I think you’re right, Marnie. Maybe I should do something about it.”
A few weeks later, Marnie received a postcard, delivered care of Booths.
The message simply read: Dear Marnie. Wish you were here. But… you sort of are, and I hug you every day.
Marnie pinned the picture of Jackson and his young shipmate above her till, noting the striking resemblance between his partner in “Jackson Cruises” and herself.
July 16th, 2010 at 10:11 pm
Yngwie is rolling over in his grave (note, not his actual grave but the one he will soon be in once he finally eats himself to death)
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