|
|
|
Trolleys (Rewritten) |
| Written by Laura Valentine | |
| Sunday, 30 March 2008 | |
|
Share it:      I am a supermarket trolley attendant at the local Asda. Come rain or shine I am out there, gathering stray trolleys and dressed in a regulation green polo shirt and fluorescent yellow jacket, and feel like I’m royally sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the hoards of customers, yet they are too busy rushing back to their cars with handfuls of shopping. When it rains hard, it makes my painstakingly gelled fringe stick to my forehead and makes it look greasy, and to add insult to injury, it drenches my uniform, making me look clammy. I have been plagued with oily skin during these teenage years and the rain just makes me look ten times worse, like I have been dunked in a big vat of boiling fat. Who would look twice at a slimy, sodden trolley rat the colour of vomit green? * * *
“Hi.” “So… What are you into?” I turn my head and to my surprise I see a girl standing there, looking at me. She looked no older than sixteen years old, with long fiery red hair and a nervous smile that made me feel nervous too. Hurriedly I try and scan my mind for the right thing to say, something interesting, something casual. “Err… Airplanes… Helicopters…” Think current affairs… “… Like the F-16 the allies use in Iraq.” Maybe I should have left out the bit about Iraq. She’s either going to think I’m knowledgeable and interesting, or that I’m completely strange and tell me so. “That’s… Nice.” Instead she gives me a confused look, then smiles nervously again and turns her attention to her fingernails, furiously picking at her cuticles, as if trying to avoid any further conversation and awkwardness. I sigh, turn back around and continue staring out across the field, watching the burnt orange glow of the sun going down, along with my confidence. I officially blew it. * * * It is raining right now and already I am soaked through. These clothes will have to be washed before my shift tomorrow evening, 6 pm til 12 am, but I can't work our new washing machine and I feel awkward asking Mum. She always seems to be sick and sometimes I get worried about leaving her in the house each day, but still, she has her animals to keep her company on those long days when I am working. She has kept animals ever since I have been old enough to remember the stale smell of damp dog that lingers in the worn carpets. It mingles with the sprinklings of cigarette ash and the stink of leftover Chinese takeaway from the night before, congealing in the foil cartons. That feted scent that is home. Our family is made up of us, ten moggy cats, two ferrets, one Jack Russell, and one temperamental python. The python is the worst to feed. Containers of frozen mice contaminate our chest freezer; it is not right having rodent corpses alongside your food. * * * “Can you defrost three today, please?” As soon as she said that, I could feel a cold shiver run all the way down my spine. I do not mind mountains of washing up, or even gigantic piles of ironing, but the mice… “… And make sure you defrost them properly, I don’t want anymore choking.” I take a deep shuddering breath as I put some protective gloves on, and open the freezer. It is like a scene from a cheesy horror movie, for when I open the lid the freezer emits a mist of cold white steam, as if I had really opened an old tomb in an eerie churchyard. And really that is what our freezer is, a resting place for vermin. I pick up one tentatively by its thin and slivery tail with the very edge of my fingertips. * * * All in all, it is like having a zoo in your own home, if a bit on the cramped side. It is my sole responsibility to be chief zookeeper, and pay for their upkeep, as Mum's unable to work. Most days she will spend hours spread out on the sofa, wrapped in a duvet, watching her daily dose of television, with the painkillers on standby. “BBC News can confirm that the wreckage of a British Jaguar…” I’ll come downstairs in the mornings and see her watching the news on my way to the kitchen. The next minute I’ll hear her scrambling for the remote and then the tones of Jeremy Kyle’s voice resonating around the sitting room. On pay days, she asks, "How much did they pay you this month?" and look at me expectantly, hopefully. I would love to be able to have all of my well deserved pay packet to myself, but Mum and her pets collectively take a good bite out of it. At times I cannot help but feel resentful towards them all. But then I recall how Mum was slumped forwards in that hard plastic chair in the waiting room, her eyes almost vacant and her pale fingers absentmindedly twiddling the gold locket around her neck, the one that she always wears. That is when the guilt swarms my body and angrily gnaws away at my bitterness. At least shepherding trolleys gives me a break from the animals. All they do is pollute the air with noise when I'm in the kitchen, or in my room, my sanctuary, where I sit up and build a new Bomber, to hang up on my ceiling of peeling pale blue paint. The previous aircraft I made was a grey Tornado and it took me a good week to create, all the long hours I spent meticulously gluing it together and filling in each small detail with a fine paintbrush. But my long hours of loving labour didn't close that open window, or stop that strong gust of wind from making the Tornado fall and crash to the floor, disintegrating into unsalvageable pieces. My only souvenir is the propeller, which I keep safe and in pride of place on my bookshelf. On Saturday nights I go with the boys to the arcade or hang around in the field surrounding the community centre. * * * “So did you meet up with Lily then?” “Yeah, we ended up going to The Richmond for a drink. She’s so funny, sensitive, and oh man…” We’re in the arcade and I cannot really hear the rest of their conversation for all the screaming, exploding, gun popping noises in my ears. They are all gathered around Rob at the fruit machine, with their backs to me, laughing and talking about a girl he took out last night, while I’m standing on the outside of the circle, peering in. I’m making an effort to laugh at all the right moments and pretend that I’m enjoying myself, when really I would much rather be at home with my own company and my Airfix models. * * * What is left of my money every month, I take to the model shop on the parade, and buy a new kit. Bombers, Spitfires, Harriers... All add to the ever growing air raid above my head. One of my goals had been to buy a Jaguar plane, but my savings were setback, after a forty quid vet bill to dislodge a splintered chicken bone from the cat's throat. The rasping sound of the cat coughing and seeing near death close up was a harrowing experience for us both. The Jaguar had to take a backseat, yet I’ve still saved a gap for it on my ceiling. I never imagined myself ferrying trolleys for a living, nor did I ever envisage Mum becoming so ill after Dad’s death. I expected better than this. No, my dream growing up was to pilot real aircrafts, just like Dad did in the R.A.F. He was piloting one of four fighter jets, flying a mission during the ‘Cooperative Cope Thunder’, an international military air exercise, when he crashed in Alaska. I was only twelve. You are never prepared for something as earth shattering as the death of a parent, especially at that tender age. It is as if life is drained of all colour and you are powerless as you watch your whole world change all around you. He was buried with military honours: the rifle volley, the playing of taps, the Union Jack, folded neatly in a triangle and presented to Mum. But it seemed like those strangers in uniform were burying someone else, some celebrity from BBC News. My Dad, who still occupied such an enormous space in my life, was gone, forever. And it was a mystery how all that experience and knowledge, all that strength and honour, could suddenly vanish from the world. Copyright 2008 Laura Valentine |
|
| Last Updated ( Sunday, 30 March 2008 ) |
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
via Email
