Forget Her Name(81)

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.’