tough-looking men stood guard. One had a
frothy-mouthed, mad-eyed, barking pitbull . . . one had a shotgun.
‘We’ll go somewhere else,’ said Simon.
He grabbed my hand and started walking me out, fast. From a display of bargain stuff he snatched up a steak and kidney pie, the kind in a tin.
‘Love these,’ he said.
I never knew that.
As we walked out, past the crashed car, I pulled away from him and picked up the biggest, most expensive bunch of flowers I could see. Just like I’d never seen Simon buy a tinned pie even
though he said he loved them, my mum – who totally swooned about flowers – never bought them. Not for herself.
‘For Mum,’ I said.
Before I realised I might have done a very stupid thing, it turned out I might have done a very brilliant thing.
CHAPTER NINE
Simon stared at the bunch of flowers; water dripped from the stems.
‘You watch out for me,’ he said, swapping his shopping bags and the umbrella for the flowers.
He shoved the flowers back into some random bucket. He did the same with other stuff, shifting flowers around so’s he had a free bucket. I got it then. Without making any kind of a fuss
about it, Simon worked round the display, collecting water. Some of the flowers were dead already, sitting in empty buckets; some were wilted, with just a dribble of water left. Some looked pretty
perky and fresh. He worked really slowly and slyly; watching what was going on around him, standing back and looking around from time to time so he just looked like some dumb, confused, scared man,
wondering what on earth was going on. Thirsty people, desperate people, walked this way and that, straight past him. When he’d done with one bucket, he started on another.
And all the while I had this row going on in my head; like, how could he know that water was OK? But it must be OK, or he wouldn’t be taking it.
‘You watch out, Ru! You watch out!’ he hissed.
I was gasping to drink. Pull yourself together, I thought – in Simon’s voice.
I don’t know what made me do it. Too many films I expect; too many scenes in which people need to make a getaway, fast. Dur; we were going to have to walk for it anyway, but I backed up
and looked outside.
Our exit was as clear as it could be; all that was in our way was just people, coming and going. I took my Indiana Jones birdwatching hat off and fanned my face with it. So hot, so thirsty. And
then I looked up.
I don’t know what made me do that, either. I wish I could say I’d learned already how important it is to keep a watch on the sky, but – like using taps – it’s the
kind of thing I forget about a lot more than I should – which is basically NEVER. I looked up . . . into a sky festering with death.
It was the beginning of a storm sky: the raggedy clouds had pigged out and gotten bloated: cumulus congestus, fat with rain. Below these big guys, little sneaky fractus clouds hung about,
probably wondering which side to choose . . . and, in the distance, but already towering miles into the sky, Big Momma cumulonimbus calvus, puffing herself up to make an entrance.
She’s what I would have called a thundercloud – but actually, she hasn’t quite worked herself up enough for that. It’s when she goes into bad hair day mode (seriously
bouffant, with a streaky, icy flat-top) that you know she’s going to lose it big time. Big? By then, she’s the tallest thing on Earth: cumulonimbus capillatus, the thundery queen of all
clouds.
That’s what I know to say now; then all I saw was . . . it really looked like it was going to rain.
I went back inside. I was going to tell Simon about the clouds, but –
‘Give me the bags!’ he shouted.
Other people were shouting too; you could hear it, down where the freezers were. Sounded like a fight breaking out. The dog going beserk. Men shouting; women too. A kid screamed.
I took him the bags; he sat the buckets inside them.
‘Go careful,’ he said. ‘Stay calm.’
We picked
frothy-mouthed, mad-eyed, barking pitbull . . . one had a shotgun.
‘We’ll go somewhere else,’ said Simon.
He grabbed my hand and started walking me out, fast. From a display of bargain stuff he snatched up a steak and kidney pie, the kind in a tin.
‘Love these,’ he said.
I never knew that.
As we walked out, past the crashed car, I pulled away from him and picked up the biggest, most expensive bunch of flowers I could see. Just like I’d never seen Simon buy a tinned pie even
though he said he loved them, my mum – who totally swooned about flowers – never bought them. Not for herself.
‘For Mum,’ I said.
Before I realised I might have done a very stupid thing, it turned out I might have done a very brilliant thing.
CHAPTER NINE
Simon stared at the bunch of flowers; water dripped from the stems.
‘You watch out for me,’ he said, swapping his shopping bags and the umbrella for the flowers.
He shoved the flowers back into some random bucket. He did the same with other stuff, shifting flowers around so’s he had a free bucket. I got it then. Without making any kind of a fuss
about it, Simon worked round the display, collecting water. Some of the flowers were dead already, sitting in empty buckets; some were wilted, with just a dribble of water left. Some looked pretty
perky and fresh. He worked really slowly and slyly; watching what was going on around him, standing back and looking around from time to time so he just looked like some dumb, confused, scared man,
wondering what on earth was going on. Thirsty people, desperate people, walked this way and that, straight past him. When he’d done with one bucket, he started on another.
And all the while I had this row going on in my head; like, how could he know that water was OK? But it must be OK, or he wouldn’t be taking it.
‘You watch out, Ru! You watch out!’ he hissed.
I was gasping to drink. Pull yourself together, I thought – in Simon’s voice.
I don’t know what made me do it. Too many films I expect; too many scenes in which people need to make a getaway, fast. Dur; we were going to have to walk for it anyway, but I backed up
and looked outside.
Our exit was as clear as it could be; all that was in our way was just people, coming and going. I took my Indiana Jones birdwatching hat off and fanned my face with it. So hot, so thirsty. And
then I looked up.
I don’t know what made me do that, either. I wish I could say I’d learned already how important it is to keep a watch on the sky, but – like using taps – it’s the
kind of thing I forget about a lot more than I should – which is basically NEVER. I looked up . . . into a sky festering with death.
It was the beginning of a storm sky: the raggedy clouds had pigged out and gotten bloated: cumulus congestus, fat with rain. Below these big guys, little sneaky fractus clouds hung about,
probably wondering which side to choose . . . and, in the distance, but already towering miles into the sky, Big Momma cumulonimbus calvus, puffing herself up to make an entrance.
She’s what I would have called a thundercloud – but actually, she hasn’t quite worked herself up enough for that. It’s when she goes into bad hair day mode (seriously
bouffant, with a streaky, icy flat-top) that you know she’s going to lose it big time. Big? By then, she’s the tallest thing on Earth: cumulonimbus capillatus, the thundery queen of all
clouds.
That’s what I know to say now; then all I saw was . . . it really looked like it was going to rain.
I went back inside. I was going to tell Simon about the clouds, but –
‘Give me the bags!’ he shouted.
Other people were shouting too; you could hear it, down where the freezers were. Sounded like a fight breaking out. The dog going beserk. Men shouting; women too. A kid screamed.
I took him the bags; he sat the buckets inside them.
‘Go careful,’ he said. ‘Stay calm.’
We picked
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