Late One Evening at the Supermarket
It was late one evening at the village’s only supermarket. Irene sat behind the till, her eyes brimming with tears, worn out from exhaustion, injustice, and a gnawing loneliness. The restless night had played its part. Her neighbour, Jack known around the estate as a notorious drunkard was once again making a racket next door with his drinking mates. Even the bobbies had given up trying to quieten him down.
Irene glanced around and quickly wiped her eyes dry. A young man, dashingly dressed in the latest overcoat fashions, was making his way to her till. For a month now, this tall, dark-haired chap had stopped by her checkout to pay for his pizza and orange juice. “Likely another lonely soul,” she mused. “Someone will be lucky with a lad like that.”
The man gave a gentle smile as he handed over a fifty-pound note, but then hesitated and said, “Let me just get some change, so I dont trouble you.” He paid and left shortly after.
There was an hour left before closing. The few remaining customers wandered the aisles, pushing their trolleys without much enthusiasm. Stifling a yawn, Irene silently cursed Jack, who, as if summoned by thought, staggered in at that moment. Disheveled, face mottled with bruises, he clutched two bottles of top-shelf gin. With a lopsided grin, he plopped down a crisp fifty-pound note. “Looks like itll be a right knees-up till morning,” Irene thought, irritation flaring.
“Jack, what have you been up to this time?” she asked, eyeing her mischievous neighbour, whose battered face only made his eyes twinkle brighter. “Why, what makes you think I nicked it?” he slurred.
As was custom, Irene held the note to the light, rubbing it gently. Suddenly, something felt off. “Hold on, Jack, somethings wrong I need to check this.” She pushed the note through the machine, then muttered, “Where did you get this? This notes a forgery!”
Jack froze as if for a portrait, clutching the gin as if it might save him, lips moving in what might have been a forgotten prayer. He quickly set the bottles on the counter. “Here, check these as well,” he blurted, offering up two more fifty-pound notes, eyes wide with hope. “All of them. I have to call the police!”
“Look, Irene, I swearI found them by the shop door. Someone mustve dropped a wallet; I just grabbed the notes. Please dont turn me in,” Jack pleaded, his usual bravado replaced by panic.
Irene almost relished his terror, ready to reveal her little joke: the notes were perfectly genuine. But before she could speak, Jack, having gathered fifteen hundred pounds worth of notes, rushed to the rubbish bin, ready to rid himself of the evidence. He tore the cash with vindictive satisfaction and left the shop in a hurry.
Irene was left stunned. What had she done? But then again, perhaps he had it coming.
“Excuse me,” said a familiar voice. It was her regular customer from earlier. “Id bought a pizza from you, not long ago”
“I remember,” said Irene cautiously. “But you didnt want any change.”
“Thats not quite it I think I left my wallet getting into the car. How careless of me,” he admitted sheepishly.
“Was there much money in it?” Irene asked, her thoughts darting to Jack.
“No, its not that. I’d jotted down an important phone number on a banknote. If someone finds it, tell them to keep the cash, but please, just copy down the number for me. Heres my card,” he said, passing her his details.
“Alright,” Irene nodded.
A melancholy mood settled over her. Through the remainder of her shift, Irene mulled over how she might help the pizza-loving young man. When she finally clocked off, she snatched a bag and hurried to the bins to turn out the rubbish and hunt for the destroyed notes.
Back home, she pulled on rubber gloves and searched for the pieces of the shredded money, berating herself for such a foolish prank.
“Honestly, what a scatterbrain Its probably some ladys number,” she thought, a little envy, a little regret moistening her eyes as she pieced together parts of the lost note.
“But how am I meant to get it to him? I cant ring from my own numberwhat if he calls back? And what would I say? That the money was fake?”
She found his business card: Anthony Lawrence, with a firm and home number listed. Shed need a different phone thoughperhaps she could borrow the old neighbours mobile? But what if Anthony called her back, and she couldnt explain? Would he think shed found the wallet, kept the money, but at least shared the number?
Then it struck hershe could ask the caretaker; hed never remember her. And if he did, no matter. Donning a disguise, she headed for the staff room.
A short, round figure soon emerged from the building, swaddled in a thick coat, a faux fur wrap, two scarves, a woollen shawl and a cap. Good luck to anyone who tried to sketch a likeness of that oddity. Stepping well away from her own front door, Irene glanced about, then approached, stepping into character.
“Excuse me,” she whispered to the caretaker, “could I borrow your phone? Mine’s run out of battery.” She pressed a five-pound note into his palm. Silently, he handed her his mobile. Irene hurriedly texted Anthony the number scrawled on the torn note. Relieved, she murmured her thanks and slipped off home.
Anthony tossed and turned that night, unable to sleep. It wasnt the money that troubled him, but a face from earlier in the day: as hed been heading to the café, he heard, “Oi, Tony!” peal from an open bus door. There was Victor, his old matehadnt seen him in five years. “Ill be at the stationcall me!” Victor had called out a number. With no mobile handy (hed left it at the office), Anthony had scribbled the number on a fifty-pound note, looking forward to ringing his friend in his quiet flat that evening. Only, nothing had gone as planned.
In an attempt to distract himself, his mind wandered to Irene at the till. Hed noticed her each weekher wavy hair, bright blue eyes, and the warmth of her smile. It was probably high time they had a real conversationthe loneliness was starting to press in.
Suddenly, his mobile buzzed with a new message. Just a string of numbers showed on the screennothing else. Then it dawned: Victors number! He must ring tomorrow. If someone had found the number, perhaps theyd found the wallet, too. For now, he resolved to thank the sender.
“Hello. Thank you very much. Please, keep the money. It’s yours,” he texted back.
A mans voice, foreign and rough, called: “Keep? Me not understand. Im the caretaker.” And the line went dead.
No matter who the sender was. Tomorrow, hed speak to Irene and share the good newsshed seemed so down yesterday, she deserved a bit of cheer.
With a comforting thought of speaking to Irene, Anthony finally drifted into restful sleep, a smile playing about his lips.
Irene wept herself to sleep that night, full of self-pity and regretat the state of her life, poor old Jack, and the dreamy yet unreachable Anthony, the hopeless scatterbrain.
The following evening, Anthony, cheerful and light-footed, made his way to Irenes till. “Irene, everythings turned out well. Someone found my lost numberI could ring my old friend…” he began, then faltered mid-sentence. “But hang on How did they know my number? You were the only one I gave my card to.”
Irene went pale and fell silent, unable to voice a single word.
“It was you who found the wallet and sent the number, wasnt it?”
Without waiting for her answer, Anthony hurried toward the exit.
“Thats it! He must think I stole the money. My lifes ruined!” Irene thought, frantic, as she grabbed her bag and dashed after him.
“Anthony, wait!”
The customers in the shop watched, bemused, as the young woman caught up, speaking fast and urgent, then opening her bag and holding out her hand.
Anthony stared at two torn pieces of a red fifty, with Victors number scrawled across it.
Moments later, peals of laughter echoed along the tills where they stood.
A few weeks on, the Lawrences wedding celebration saw Irene alternately beaming and weeping tears of joy. Even Jack raised a glass with the happy crowd and joined in the cheer.
