The first time Martin went shopping with his dad, he was 6. It was a Saturday, his mum was ill, and his dad wanted to get him out of the way.
They had entered the corner shop together, Dad with an affectionate hand on Martin's shoulder even as he told the young boy sternly not to touch anything. Martin slipped out from under the guiding hand and wandered around the cramped little shop, looking at the cans of beans, containers of dried fruit, piles of day-old bread and a selection of cream-filled pastries under a piece of muslin to keep the flies off. Martin stared at them, then slunk shyly back to his father - who was haggling with the shopkeeper over the cost of a large slice of ham - and pulled on his jacket.
"Can I have a cream cake?" he whispered, his body turned away from the shopkeeper to create a safe space for him to speak.
Dad scowled down at him. "No you can't, you greedy boy. Go and wait outside."
Baffled, Martin did as he was told and leant against the cold wall. Within minutes, misty November drizzle clung to his eyelashes and made him shudder.
He should not have asked for that cream cake.
When Dad left the shop, Martin pushed off from the wall (it would not do to let his father see him slouching). Mr Crieff clipped him round the ear as he led him away.
"Don't show me up like that again," his dad said fiercely. It was not until years later that Martin understood that his dad was embarrassed. All his 6-year-old ears could hear was the anger. "We don't need people knowing we can't afford a cake."
"Sorry dad," Martin murmured dutifully.
It was not long before the corner shop gave way to the might of the supermarket. Martin would listen to his father bemoan the decline of the friendly shopkeeper, while taking full advantage of the savings the larger, impersonal stores afforded them.
Martin's mother always preferred to shop alone, but as it became more acceptable for men to do the food shopping, Martin would sometimes accompany his father. He had a vivid memory of being an adolescent, watching his father trying to decide which brand of kitchen roll was cheaper (something he always resented buying - tea towels, after all, only had to be bought once, and then they were free, but Martin's mother liked to have some on hand).
Before they left on these trips, Mr Crieff would check the food left in the kitchen, and scowl and shout if any of the fresh vegetables had been allowed to go furry, or if there were blue flecks of mould in the bread. He once found a decaying apple underneath the potatoes and refused to buy any fruit for a year, lest they allow such waste to happen again.
"Fresh food is a luxury," he used to say to the three kids. "And I'll be damned if I let you ungrateful lot waste it."
Martin leant against the wall round the side of Tesco, reminded painfully of another shopping trip, another shop. Already he could feel his heart speeding up. He so hated shopping.
He took a deep breath and pushed off from the wall, forcing himself into the brightly lit supermarket. He snagged a basket on the way in and headed to the fresh vegetable aisles. He dithered, as always, looking at four different ways of buying carrots, and leeks, onions, broccoli, green beans spinachlettucerocketsweetcorntoomuchtoomuch
Martin burst out of the aisle, gasping, the knowledge that he was blushing only making his face feel hotter. He had been catapulted into the dairy aisle, so he closed his eyes, counted to ten and picked up a pint of his usual milk (it tasted like water, but it was the cheapest).
He had tried shopping online but the guilt of spending money on something as unnecessary, wasteful as food overcame him, and every time he clicked off it empty-handed. At least in the shop he had the fear of walking out empty-handed and looking poor (or like a thief) to make him buy something.
He shuffled up to the end of the aisle, swinging the awkward basket as a distraction. Before he knew it, Martin had passed the fresh meat, the condiments, the tins. He looked up as he approached the crisps aisle (too much fat, too much choice, too much salt), passed it by and wandered down the pasta aisle. He checked for offers. He compared prices. (A much easier task than most with pasta being sold in so few different package sizes.) He bought the same every week but he had to check, had to be sure. A harried-looking woman pushed her trolley behind Martin but to him, there was only himself and this 4-foot wide section of shelving. Yes. The Tesco Value. Safe. Same.
Martin's fingers ached to pick up the tricolour tortellini next to him, but he blocked it out, and instead reached down for two bags of Tesco Value white pasta.
He raced towards the checkout and through the self-serve, desperate to get to his van before the tears fell.
I have a weird liking for Martin dithering over food shopping. So I wrote this. I know it's not the greatest but I'm sick of looking at it so here it is anyway.
