‘Isn’t that unhygienic?’ he’d ask.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ she’d say. ‘We’re family. Do you worry about hygiene when I taste what I’m cooking?’
He’d laugh. No need for a husband and wife to worry about hygiene if they’re kissing. That’s what love is all about.
The last broth was pale and thin, but a bit of MSG brought it to life. That bone taste … there was nothing like it.
4
They decided to try another supermarket.
Everything was much busier in the evening, with noise and bustle spilling out on to the pavement. The one they chose had a makeshift stage at the entrance for a singer and a raffle. A salesman stopped them as they went in.
‘Take a look at this colour TV, sir.’
My father brushed him off and walked on.
‘If you don’t look, you’ll never know if you like it. Take a look, sir, it’s HD.’
He tried to ignore him, but the salesman leaped in front of him, blocking his way.
‘What’s all this about?’ she said. ‘We don’t want one.’
‘You don’t want a good TV? Then what do you want?’
‘We’ve already got a colour TV,’ she said.
‘Of course you do,’ said the salesman. ‘I know just what kind of TV a pair of old folks like you have at home. Why don’t you trade it in for a new one?’
My father stopped and looked round at the salesman, who cheerfully started in on his sales patter. But my mother butted in: ‘We don’t want to get a new TV, we don’t need one.’
‘Nowadays people get a new one as soon as they see one they like. Look at the colours, sir, look at the flat screen … ’
The salesman grabbed at my father’s arm, but he shoved him away, hard. He never knew he was so strong. He was a painter, not a boxer, but maybe all those years of practising calligraphy had been good for something after all.
‘OK, so you don’t want it.’ The man steadied himself. ‘There’s no need to hit me.’
‘You just got in our way,’ she said.
‘This is where we lay out the goods. Right here, in front of the supermarket. We’re not in their way. So you’re better than this supermarket are you? They’ve got absolutely everything in there … ’
‘So have we,’ she said. ‘Your rotten old TVs aren’t worth looking at.’
‘These are top of the range: super-size screen, back projection,’ pointing them out to the crowd that had gathered round, ‘film projector, home cinema. An entire cinema in your home.’ The salesman raised his voice. ‘Isn’t that enough? Are none of these worth looking at?’
‘No!’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing out on. You have no idea.’
‘Of course I do. We just don’t want one.’ my father replied.
‘You mean you can’t afford one,’ the salesman sneered. ‘Nobody doesn’t want things, they just don’t have the money.’
My mother held my father back as he went scarlet with rage. Some of the bystanders started asking the salesman what business it was of his if the old couple couldn’t afford a new TV and telling my parents that they shouldn’t take any notice. Now my father wanted to buy the most expensive TV in the display, just to show the salesman that he was not a man to be messed with. But that would be admitting that the TV was worth having. And what if it was a rip-off? Then he’d really look like a fool.
Caught up by the crowd of shoppers, they stumbled into the supermarket, watched by countless eyes. What were they after? A gourd bone. There was nothing to be ashamed of.
They marched up to the butchers’ counter, but there was only a woman cleaning up and a few pre-wrapped chunks of meat.
‘Where can we get gourd bones?’ they asked.
The cleaner didn’t understand.
She re-phrased the question: ‘Where can we get bones?’
‘None left.’
‘There must be,’ he said.
The cleaner pointed to the rubbish bins behind the counter. There on top of the discarded fat and gristle were a couple of gourd bones. My mother leaned over, pulled them out, put them in a bag and placed them in her shopping basket. People were giving them strange glances, as if they were a couple of beggars.
Paying suddenly became terribly important. Once you picked up your meat from the counter, you were supposed to get it weighed and stick on a bar code. Standing in the queue they felt like real shoppers, but the girl refused to serve them.
‘That stuff’s not for sale,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, not for sale?’ They acted confused.
‘They’re not for sale,’ the girl repeated.
‘But we want to buy them,’ my father said loudly.
‘Well, you can’t.’
‘Just tell us the price, please.’ My mother was almost begging.
‘We don’t set the prices here,’ said the girl. ‘I don’t have a price for these, so I can’t tell you how much it is.’
They slunk away, muttering to each other.
‘Why do they need a bar code anyway?’ she said. ‘It’s almost as if it’s more important than the goods they’re trying to sell. They’ve got it all backwards.’
Then she had an idea. The cleaner had finished at the butchers’ counter, but there were still two pre-wrapped pieces of meat sitting there. The labels didn’t say what kind of meat it was. One was heavier than the other. More expensive. She peeled the bar code off the more expensive cut and stuck it on the bag of bones. Then she scuttled quickly away, stifling her laughter behind her hands like a little kid. She wished she was still a kid. My father wagged his finger at her and pretended to chase her, but she hadn’t done anything bad. In fact, quite the opposite. She certainly hadn’t ripped anyone off. She was making money for the supermarket.
They skipped the weighing desk and went straight to the check out. The cashier stifled a yawn, took the bag of bones and scanned it in. They almost jumped for joy as they heard the register beep. But just as the exhausted cashier was putting it into the carrier bag, the sharp end of the bone poked through and snagged on the handles. The cashier pushed it in a little then stopped, took the packet out and had a good look. How could someone so tired ever notice something like that?
‘This isn’t right,’ said the cashier.
‘Why not?’ he countered.
‘It doesn’t match the bar code.’
‘How do you know?’ my mother scoffed. ‘You can’t see what’s in the pack and there’s nothing written on the label.’
‘Of course I can see. It’s not for sale.’
‘Not for sale? But we want to buy it.’
‘Well you can’t. I can’t process the sale.’
‘Really?’ She said, giving the bar code a poke.
‘That’s not the right price,’ said the cashier.
‘So tell us how much it is,’ she said, getting out a wad of notes and putting them on the counter.
The cashier picked up the money, but she didn’t unfold the notes, she handed them straight back. My parents refused to take them, hoping the cashier would accept the money and put it in her till. But she just dropped the notes on the counter. My mother recoiled from them as if they’d given her an electric shock. My father pushed them away. They lay on the counter, useless and abandoned.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ the cashier shouted, tired and irritable.
‘We want to buy it,’ he shot back. ‘And we’ve got the money.’
‘What makes you think it’s OK just because you’ve got money?’ The cashier flared up. ‘You think money will buy you anything?’
‘That’s just the way it is nowadays.’ He was angry too. ‘If you’ve got the money, anything’s possible.’
The manager came hurrying over and looked at the packet.