By ELAINE GALLOGLY
LET’S SEE, let’s see. Tinned tomatoes next. Ah crap, how many do I need? What’s the point of making a list if you don’t do it properly?
Doesn’t matter. I’ll get a few extra, they’ll be used. Here we go. Skip the brand names and the glossy black labels with digitally enhanced deep red, dewy fruit. Still just a ribbed aluminium can of pulpy plum tomatoes; no more, no less. Down to the bottom shelf and the washed-out labels and curt text. Chopped or whole. No garlic and herb options, no claims of rich tomato sauce. The choice should be simple, but I haven’t had a simple choice in what feels like so very long.
I think back to the Aldi leaflet that rattled my letterbox, along with the endless bills, reminders and warnings. I studied that leaflet, I bloody did; I sat down at my kitchen table with that leaflet, a calculator and a scrawled weekly meal plan. I compiled three shopping lists, for three different supermarkets. My seven-year-old blithely asked me who had given me homework.
Come on. Think. Are they cheaper in Aldi? Picture the leaflet. Was there a special offer? Multipack?
Yup. Cents. Like a scene from the 1950s, my husband hands over grocery money and I have to work with that. No arguing. He is battling for us on so many other fronts, he doesn’t need a row on the kitchen floor too.
He looks so old. This new job is a demotion to his pay and his pride. We don’t talk about it; I reckon he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. It’s a job. Albeit, one that couldn’t put a scratch, never mind a dent, in our bills. No good, can’t remember. Never mind, never mind. Just get a few here. God, I’ve been crouched here so long my eyes are swimming.
And the kids. They’ve changed too. At 13, my eldest boy was already spoiling for fights. And we pile on the excuses. No new clothes, no social outings, no phone credit. No, no, no. My 11-year-old walks on eggshells, terrified of upsetting anyone; taking in our tension, too.
He’s mute at mealtimes. My little girl is confused and frustrated. Why don’t we have the nice ice cream on Sundays any more? I’m afraid to start thinking about her communion next year. I can already see disappointment in her eyes. And tears. What do I do?
My head is foggy. Staring at cheap tins of tomatoes and not seeing them. Somebody is probably watching me at this stage. In the aisle or on a security monitor. I must look idiotic here.
Stand up, stand up. Ugh, head rush. Now. I can’t focus on the glossy black labels. I feel sick. And dizzy. Oh no. It’s coming. I’m trembling. Wobbly all over. Now I can’t fill my lungs fast enough. Heart like a jackhammer. Jesus, weeks on the edge. And it’s here and now it happens.
Clean up on aisle three.
Send your Flash Fiction stories, of no more than 500 words, to flashfiction@irishtimes.com
